Thinking about Lucifer that asked you to make him a cup of coffee and when you enter into his office, he would pulled your thighs and slides your pantie to the side. He sat you down on his length and asked you to c*ckwarm him until he finished his works. If you're being a good girl, he will fuck you until you will cum so hard. If you're being a bad girl (by moving a lot), he will edges you and won't let you cum.
Thinking about Mammon who will put a vibrator inside your wet hole every dinner time so that he could see your flustered face. If he is being nice, he will keeps the vibrations constant. But if he is not, he will make sure the vibrations go high just to see if you can hold your moans and cum during dinner. After dinner, he will drag you to his room balcony, take out the vibrator and fuck you outside until he dumps a lot of cum in your womb while enjoying the night view.
Thinking about Leviathan that will fingers you when you're sleeping next to him because of his kink. He will rubs your clit and your folds with his pretty long fingers. If he is in too much heat, he will spread open your legs and lick your wet hole until you didn't realize you're squirting because of his tongue.
Thinking about Satan who would watch you're touching yourself while he is touching himself. He is so into voyeurism and when he is about to cum, he will cum inside you. If his brothers annoy him on a certain day, make sure you are ready because he deep throat you with his c*ck until he is satisfied. Don't worry, he has your safe word.
Thinking about Asmodeus that will help you to scrub your body during shower time until his naughty fingers slipped inside your hole. He will finger it with his fingers and he pushed you to the shower wall and fuck you mercilessly. He even loves to make love to you in the bathtub because it helps him to release all the stress he is facing. He would grope your breasts and leaves a lot of sweet hickeys on them.
Thinking about Beelzebub that will put small chocolates on your naked body and eat them one by one until it reached your sweet hole. He will licks it and make sure you're getting the sweetest session. He also would love to fuck you in the kitchen at night while both of you are searching for snacks. He also loves to see you swallow his cum and he loves to devour your sweet little cunt.
Thinking about Belphie who will make you hump his thigh and cum on his thighs. If he is not satisfied, he will ask you to ride the dildo infront of the mirror until your cunt becomes puffy. He also loves to see you dominate him by riding but if you're way too slow, he will pull down your waist and he will push his waist up just to hear the slapping sound.
Thinking about Diavolo who is into your breasts that he will suck them every night. He is so into 69 position because both of you can taste eachother well. Sometimes he would love to invite Lucifer to have a threesome with you and both of them will insert their cocks into both of your holes.
Thinking about Barbatos gives you a lust tea during your personal tea party session with him and lust started to take over your body. You were wearing Leviathan's shirt and a mini skirt that made his c*ck hardened so much. He would bent you down and shove himself into you, thrusting in and out roughly without mercy. All he could think about is you full with his cum and dumbfuck by him.
Thinking about Solomon who requested for your nudes every single time. He even comes to your room and try new magic that he learns by making it sensual. He also loves to spank your ass with his wand and makes sure you know that he is your dom. He even buys you a lot of lingeries so that you wear them everytime he meets you personally. He loves your cunt so much that he always wanted you to sit on his face. He would love to die under you.
Includes: Duncan the Tall, Daeron Targaryen, Aerion Targaryen, Valarr Targaryen x f!reader
Summary: How the AKOTSK’s finest bachelors would react to breaking the bed with you under them
A/N: Is it obvious I have a favorite👀
Dunk realistically can’t afford a bed (no shade), and is more likely sleeping with you tucked away with him on a pallet but if he could, he’d lose his mind over breaking it with you under him. Forget the bed, he’d be pulling out, much to your dismay, in 0.2 seconds, asking whether or not you were alright, berating himself for being a fool, checking all over you for injuries. He would feel so bad, especially if it had been your bed he was breaking. There’s absolutely no way he’d keep fucking you, unless you begged really hard, and even then he’d still be overly gentle, probably only eat you out and it’d take more than a week to get him inside you again. You’d have to pick a day when he’s especially tired from working and pliant enough to do whatever you say. Unfortunately for him, this would definitely happen more than once just because of how unaccommodatingly large he is. It would get to the point where he would make a new bed for the two of you instead of bothering to haggle with some traveling tradesman, and you best believe all this bed breaking has to stop when he gets you pregnant. The first time, that is.
Daeron wouldn’t notice until you pulled him gently by the hair away from between your legs, and even then, he wouldn’t care as much as Duncan would. As soon as it was clear neither of you were hurt, he’d go back to licking and sucking and occasionally biting, doing anything and everything to make you cum. Getting pussy drunk was more healthy than getting wine drunk, you see. He’s 100 percent a certified eater, sloppy and hungry and needy (quick everyone act surprised!!) In all seriousness, Daeron is a sweet boy, really! But he’d definitely leave the bed like that for a day or two to get on your nerves and tease you any time you saw it, but it had a stronger effect on him. Every time he walked into your shared quarters, he couldn’t fend off the boner just from seeing how wrecked the bed was, memories flooding his mind of the sounds you made, the faces you made, etc. His plan backfired completely. He has to drag you away from your ladies-in-waiting as politely as he can, claiming an emergency when he knows damn well he just wants to fuck you. You’d be annoyed at first, but when he says it’s the dreams that have been plaguing him and he needs a distraction, you can’t help but give in. In truth, he hasn’t had any memorable dreams ever since he started fucking you. You will also be walking away from this encounter pregnant, if you walk away at all.
Aerion is a dragon you guys. Dragon-adjacent at the least. He’s a beast in and out of bed, so a little wear and tear is not to be feared, but expected. He does care about breaking the bed, but he’s a little more focused on pumping as many heirs as possible into his pretty wife. You’d push a few times at his broad shoulders, too breathless to communicate properly, and he’d shush you. “I see it, wife. Relax. If you continue to clench like that, you’ll cut off the cock you so dearly admire.” You would feel your face getting hot, but a smile also threatening to curl at your lips. Aerion was jesting. Not only was he teasing you, he thought it was funny that he’d destroyed the bed. Aerion is brimming with energy almost all the time, he has to be to be the excellent swordsman that he is. He’s trained himself to not get tired at the most taxing of tasks, so you’d go for a few more rounds in the cracked bed despite your protests that one of you could get hurt. They were hardly protests, though, just softly mumbled words mixed in with sharp whines and moans as Aerion all but jackhammered you until you saw the gods. You’d be so out of it by the time it was over you’d hardly register him carrying you, fully nude, to lay on the plush carpet with a blanket around the both of you, your head in his chest and your thighs coated in an intimate mixture of your cum and his. You’d awaken to a new bed already set up, clothes set out for you, and no Aerion, which could be perceived as insulting, but this was an act of intense kindness from him. Third time is not the charm, and one again, you are crawling away pregnant.
Valarr my perfect prince who deserves the world. This would be his first time having sex and he’s finally getting into the rhythm, letting out little pathetic whimpers into the crook of your neck, his thrusts speeding up, and then crack! He would be so fucking embarrassed but he can’t show it, he’s the prince! So, logically, the only way to not show it is to keep his face hidden from you while you stroked his hair, mumbling praises. It would take you saying “It’s alright, husband,” a million times before he would continue. I have seen very dominant depictions of Valarr, but with all the pressure that must be on him mixed in with his father, one of the few adult figures he could turn to, getting absolutely brained he has to have developed some form of a praise kink stemming from the need to be comforted. Whether it be subtle or obvious, he needs constant reassurance inside the bedroom. He might cry, not the first time you have sex, but a few incidences later, once he’s a lot more intimately familiar with you. He would move the both of you into a new room for the night while servants fixed up the bed or brought in a new one, and his cheeks would flushed at the few side-eyes the maids give you two. Lucky you, you will walk away from this unscathed, no pregnancy. I cannot guarantee your safety in the future, though. Valarr has a breeding kink, FOR SURE, also enforced by the pressure and expectations he has had thrust upon him his whole life. It’s not as bad as Aerion’s breeding kink, but it’s not far away from that level, either.
Plagued by dreams of death and war, you distance yourself from your husband, and Gwayne does everything he can to make sure you don’t stray away from him any further. (2.5k words) (requested)
Gwayne Hightower x wife!reader
Content: MDI, 18+, smut, p in v, oral (f reciving), angst, hurt/comfort. Nightmares and talks of death. not proofread.
All of Westeros had seen the signs. The threats, the conspiracies. From the day Prince Aegon was born, the realm readied itself for war. The realm knew Rhaenyra would not back down, not surrender what was hers by right. And so alliances were made, talks of war and preparations for what was to come.
But despite all that preparation, House Targaryen still seemed blind to it. Still acted as if war had not been on the horizon for two decades. A blindness House Hightower lacked. They knew how to prepare, how to make alliances that solidified their house and battlements more so than they should in what was so-called peacetime.
You had been a part of those alliances. Wed for your family’s soldiers and gold, wed to Ser Gwayne Hightower, the queen's brother and a man you slowly began to love. But love did not protect you from the arising war. Nor did it protect you from the truth of what was to come. Of the fact that your husband would fight and most likely die for a cause he did not believe in but duty bound him to.
It was those very things that plague your dreams. Nightmares of death, of fire and war replaced dreams that once calmed you. Dreams full of your husband and the life you wished to have. Dreams that plagued you even as the night faded to morning. Dreams that even the comfort of your husband's arms could not ease.
And as time went by and the inevitable war drew closer, the small comfort of your husband faded as his face, of his life fading before your eyes, became the nightmare that haunted you the most.
Soon his dying face was all you could picture, and him dead was all you saw whenever you looked at him.
You distanced yourself. Not all at once, just slowly. Avoiding dinners and lunches where you could. Going to bed either before or after Gwayne, for fear of seeing his face and his death replaying over and over in your mind. Avoiding sitting in the gardens where you once spent every moment you could, knowing that that’s where Gwayne would always run into you.
But no matter how much you avoided your husband and your feelings and fears, the nightmares never stopped, the death and fear haunted you day and night. Haunted your every word and every step to the point where your avoidance of your husband and the thought of his demise led you to move chambers and to mend your schedule to avoid his every move. Fear of what would come, fear that he would die, led you to distance yourself.
Fear that the love you bore him was too deep that you mourned his death before the war you feared would cause it even began.
You had always struggled with your emotions. Always feared confronting them and instead chose to keep them bottled up. You avoided everything, a bad habit you had developed over the years. And Gwayne, who had never been at the receiving end of your avoidance, had always strived to make you comfortable and loved to the point where you hadn’t bottled anything up since the day you had wed. Not once had you avoided your husband, but this sudden change, avoiding his every move to the point you moved from the chambers you had shared since the day you had married him, not once spending the night apart. And that change, that decision to separate yourself from your husband entirely, it destroyed you both.
It took two weeks for Gwayne to snap.
He had tried to give you space, it was what you craved, even if you did not tell him. He did not know why you needed space, let alone from him. But he had known you were suffering. Had seen the signs, had watched you closely even when you tried to change your entire day to avoid him. And he had let you, much to his chagrin. But his cousin Ormund had said it was what was best, that the woman needed it from time to time. Though Ormund's opinions were hardly worth listening to, especially when it came to you.
But he had listened, at least at first, had allowed Ormund's words to guide him, for hope that space was what you needed.
But two weeks of space, two weeks of not seeing you, of not holding you in his arms, of kissing your sweet lips. It damn near drove Gwayne mad.
He went to your chambers that evening, determined to speak to you, to see you, to spend time in your company even if you refused to speak.
He had waited until after dinner, waited until your maids were dismissed before he wandered over. His feet moved swiftly through the halls of the tower, eager to see his wife, even if just for a moment.
“Wife,” he greeted, startling you slightly as he stepped into your chambers. He had readied himself for bed and had forced a look of determination on his face, eager to solve whatever issues haunted you and stopped him from giving you the love and affection he craved.
“Gwayne, I-” Your eyes darted to him, a panicked look on your face. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see you,” he stated, walking towards you, a kind smile on his face, but a look of determination in his eyes.
“Why?” You asked, stepping away from Gwayne, hoping the distance would stop the flashes of his dying face from appearing.
“I have missed you, and I no longer wish to be parted from you.” Gwayne breathed, following after your evasive movements, “I know not what has caused you to distance yourself from me. If I have done anything wrong i do apoligise, i did not mean it, and I shall repent I-”
“You have done nothing,” you breathed, your hand reaching his cheek, caressing it softly as he now stood before you, unshed tears in both your eyes. “I promise you, my love, this…distance is not because of your actions i- i just need space i… You need to leave, please, leave”
“No,” Gwayne shook his head, his heaving moving to rest on your shoulder, his arms wrapping tightly around you, “I'm not leaving, not until we talk…please, whatever it is, let me help you.”
“No,” you shook your head, your hands on Gwayne's shoulders as if to push him off you, but you couldn’t. You needed him; you wanted him and loved every second of his comfort, and the short respite it gave you from the nightmares that haunted you.” I need you to leave, please…I can’t…I can’t-”
Gwayne's grip on you tightened, holding you to him as tears began to fall through your body. “Please, Gwayne, I can’t. Let me go.” A sigh fell from his lips, but he did so, kissing the tears away from your cheeks as his arms fell to his side.
“I'm not leaving you, you need me just as I need you, whether you are ready to admit it or not.”
“No, I-”
“I will follow you if you leave, I am not parting from you. I cannot bear it,” he breathed, cradling your face and wiping the stray tears that remained
“Fine,” you nodded, leading Gwayne to bed, both of you knowing you would not talk tonight. But for Gwayne, it was the start of you trusting him with whatever was wrong, hoping that a night's sleep by his side would help whatever troubled you. But for you, you feared this night would only make matters worse.
You awoke with a scream on your lips.
You had tried to stay awake, thought every urge to settle intoy our husbands arm, to sleep beside him in hope his company may offer the respite you had prayed space would give you. But instead, after hours of watching the rise and fall of your husband's chest, watching as he nuzzled into you, grasping any part of his body that he could reach, you had surrendered to the realm of sleep and were once again haunted by fire, dragons and the screams and slaughter of thousands.
“My love,” soft arms wrapped around your body, your name and sweet nothings whispered into your ears, soothing and pulling you out of the hellscape of your dreams.
“Gwyane,” you cried, turning to bury yourself into his chest as sobbs once again wracked through your body. He shushed you, rocking you gently until your cries eased and the breath you hadn't realised you lacked returned to your body and your breathing returned to normal. “Gwayne,” you breathed into him, settling yourself in his lap as he patiently waited for you to speak. “I- I'm scared.”
“Scared? My love, whatever for? Whatever has happened?” he asks, pressing a soft kiss to your brow, then down to your cheeks.
“I-” the words were on the tip of your tongue, but the words refused to leave you, even as Gwayne pressed soft kisses across your skin.
“Tell me, my love, what plagues you?”
You cleared your throat, willing yourself to look at Gwayne. “I fear…I fear war and death,” a tear fell from your cheeks as you spoke, only to be kissed away by Gwayne, “your death…I see it every time I close my eyes, even when I open them, but most of all when I look at you, I see death, your face being swallowed by fire.”
“My love,” Gwyane began, gripping your chin towards him, a soft kiss pressed to your lips, “there is no war-”
“But there will be; we've all seen the signs. The talks.”Your breath stuttered, “You will be dragged into it, and I shall lose you.”
“My darling,” Gwayne's hands caressed your cheek, kissing you softly once more, “you cannot fear what may never come, it shall destroy you” Gwayne's own breath stuttered as he took in your stress, the fear of war, of his death and what had become of you. “My love, my sweet girl, I assure you, if war is to come…then not even the gods could keep me away from you. Yes, I may have to do my duty and fight, but I shall return from every battle with your favour in hand, protecting me from the swords of villainous men.” Gwayne soothed, the truth and promise of his words clear to you both, “i will not let you loose me, not before i am old and grey, passing in my slumber with you by my side,” gwayne kissed your lips, “i promise,”
You closed your eyes, letting the words sink in. “You do? You promise it?”
He nodded, tugging you impossibly close to him. “I promise you, I am here, with you now, and I am going nowhere,” he breathed, his arms untangling from you and laying you softly on the bed. “Let me show you the meaning of my words.”
You smiled, your hands reaching from him, pulling him over you, letting his lips meet yours in a soft kiss. The kiss was slow and soft, full of his love and devotion, as they moved against you. Your hands reached for his hair, tugging on the hair at the nape of his neck as he moved to place soft kisses across your jaw, his hands reaching for the straps of your nightgown, letting the straps fall from your arms as his mouth descended from your jaw to your neck, soft, hated kisses pressed into your skin.
Reaching your breasts, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, and his hand toyed with the other, before letting go of your breasts with a soft pop, a groan falling from your lips as he crawled down your body, pulling the rest of your slip off, leaving you bare before him.
“Will you let me taste you?” he pleaded, his head level with your cunt, his breath hot against it, your cunt slick with need. A soft moan fell from your lips as he spoke against you, the pleading in his eyes making you let out a wanton moan.
“Please, touch me, husband, please.”
Gwayne needed little more before his lips descended onto your cunt, feasting on you like a man starved. His thumb circled your clit in soft circles as his tongue swiped through your folds.
“Gwayne,” you moaned in pleasure as he placed another lick down your slit. “Oh gods,” you moaned, as his fingers reached to spread your folds, groaning at the sight of how wet you were. His tongue placed another long lick across the length of your folds. His thumb still circling your clit as his tongue began to feast on you, lapping at your cunt as he feasted on you. Loud moans tore through you, as his tongue moved to your whole, fucking into yo. The coil in your stomach tightened as pleasure rocketed through you. Your hands flying to Gwyanes hair, tugging him as he feasted on you. His own groans vibrated through you, the feeling of your peak washing over you, causing your back to arch off the bed, as you came with a scream.
Gwayne broke away from your cunt hesitantly, rising up your body, his eyes darkened with lust but no less filled with the love and reassurance he craved to give you.
“I need you, Gwayne, please,” you pleaded, face flush from pleasure as your hand reached to ride him off his own clothes, craving the feeling of his skin against yours. His lisp met yours once more, the kiss heated, as his chest met yours, both of you wanting to be as close to each other as possible, as his cock lined up with your entrance, pushing into you with a whimper against your lips.
His hands gripped your waist as he pressed into you, holding you close to him as your bodies moved as one. Pleasure filled your bodies, your lips never once breaking apart. Your moans swallowed by his whimpers as he pressed into you. Filling you perfectly as he thrusted into you softly.
You came quickly, the feeling of him, after denying yourself the love of your husband for too long, the feeling of him loving you, filling you with his cock and reassurance of his love, causing you to peak.
Your lips broke away from him as you peaked, cuming with a loud moan, as Gwyans lips moved to your neck, sucking softly on your skin as he felt your cunt flutter around him, his hands moving to grip your waist as he worked on his own peak, coming with a whimper, mumbled by the softness of your skin.
He collapsed onto you, his body settling onto o yours as he pressed kisses across every inch of skin he could reach. “ I love you,” he repeated like a mantra, holding you close as you faded off to sleep. Watching you and hoping no more nightmares came.
And for the first time in weeks, you slept soundly in a dreamless sleep.
pairing: ormund hightower x targaryen-niece!reader (reader is alicent's daughter but no major descriptions given except hair)
warnings: dead dove do not eat. dark fic. non con. dub con. incest. (they're second cousins as reader is alicent's daughter) aged up characters. reader is twenty. faux incest. (reader was raised by ormund) . heavy manipulation. coercion. psychological abuse. alluding to grooming? (more so reader is brought up to think her targaryen heritage is shameful and also to follow the faith of the seven - no implication of him wanting reader as a child). drugging with aphrodisiacs. dacraphylia. choking kink (kinda). smut. virginty checking. murder and blood at the start. more book canon rhaenyra taking king's landing. reader thinks team black is evil but is brainwashed into believing so. 18+ MDNI
a/n: if you read the warnings and go ewww, no. leave and block me. if you read this, and go eww but yes pls, come and show me some love. this is almost 7k words guys but please enjoy. barely proofread im sorry guys it was so long and im tired.
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
It is quite the thing to never truly know one's father.
There was a time, you believe, when your wide eyes knew him, the white hair and the violet eyes. Days when you were a babe and the comfort of a voice you heard in the womb carried, and you felt a familiarity to him, a warmth when he held you.
But these are all assumptions you make.
You’ve never truly known Viserys Targaryen. You know the stories told to you by your governess, and on the odd occasion your grandsire tended to you in the years he resided in Oldtown, you heard of his greatness from him too.
Even sitting here, under the dim candlelight of the tavern, listening to the sweet melody the bard strums on his lute, you try to paint a picture of him.
Generous. Oh, kind.
These words have been shared by many, and even as the man sings them, as if speaking them into existence, you can’t picture the man he sings of. The man who sired you. The man that sent you away when you couldn’t even crawl out of your own cradle.
A man you only saw twice when you were brought back to King’s Landing. A man that only left the confinement of his chambers once in the three years you’d been at court. Only on the return of his eldest daughter, only to protect her claim to the Iron Throne. A man you barely recognised, grey strings of hair coming out in patches on his head, blackened teeth and a face eaten by disease. He looked like a man already dead, clinging to the last grips of life, decaying before everyone’s eyes.
For a second, you tried to picture him younger, you as a babe in his arms and your tiny hand wrapped around one of his fingers. Even then, sitting across from you, the picture could not come to mind. The mere mutter of the word father brings a different image, a man with short mahogany hair, loose curls and deep blue eyes. A statue cloaked in green, a sharp jawline and lips pressed together in a thin line.
Ormund Hightower, a man you haven’t seen for five long years, is the man you’ve pictured for as long as you can remember. The shape of him, standing over you, so vivid in your mind you’re sure you could picture him sitting across from you now.
You wonder how he’s changed.
Have the grey strands taken root in his hair? Have the lines on his face drawn deeper over time? Would he look at you the same? Would he remember the girl that clung to his leg as a child, or the teenager that revelled in his approval of curt nods and brief words? Would he see the woman you have grown into?
You never thought you’d see him again; the night before you left him, he told you so. You’ve thought about it often, the fat tears stinging your eyes and falling across your cheek. The sobs you desperately tried to fight back as you gritted your teeth, ones that broke through your chest and left you quivering as you threw yourself at him behind the closed doors of his studies.
Unbecoming of a woman, you knew that, especially one that was well versed in your faith. You thought he might disapprove of the way you acted, shake his head and tell you so. Yet he didn’t; he let your hands find his shoulders, nails dig into the tunic, piercing into the skin underneath with no complaint. His arms wrapped around you, one hand placed firmly at your back, rubbing soothing circles into the small of your back.
We always knew this day was coming; he reminded you before pulling you away, placing his hands on your cheeks to hold you from him. This is your duty, where mine is here.
You wish you had told him how you wanted to say— wish that in that moment you begged him to let you reside here if just for a few more years. But you have always been destined to return to court, to marry into a noble family and draw new alliances for your family.
Yet in your five years away from home, away from the only family you’ve ever really known, a marriage never came to fruition. Offers came, many were discussed, and one proposal sat over your head for a year, but then came the death of the King, Viserys, and the placement of your eldest brother on the Iron Throne, and House of Arynn decidedly didn’t want to align themselves with usurpers. You’d never say it out loud, but you’d been happy, even if it was only prolonging the inevitable.
Wars bring bountiful amounts of marriages. But wars also bring death, and while you always knew that, you’d never been privy to the sight of it. Not until over a fortnight ago, when you’d been yanked from your bed in the night, forced to leave the confines of the Redkeep with one trusted guardsman with you.
Blood paved your way through the streets of King’s Landing, the Goldcloaks turning on the King’s Guard, shoving their swords deep into their backs. Even at the dead of the night, and on the brink of winter, it had been awfully hot, sweat beading on your head, and at every glance in a different direction you could see why: the glow of a fire bright from above, around almost every corner. The streets of flea-bottom had been a battle to get through, and if it hadn’t been for Ser Ronard protecting you with his very life, it may have been your body bleeding out on the cobblestones.
You dread what they could have done to you. Stripped you, beaten you, and molested your dead body.
They are animals, Ormund’s voice rang in your head and even now as you remember, you feel the ghost of his fingers as they brush your hair behind your ear. Nothing like our common folk.
Don’t they even deserve the mercy of the Gods? You’d asked him.
That is for the Gods to decide.
Ser Ronard clears his throat from beside you, pushing the bowl of stew towards you.
“Eat,” he commands.
You don’t look up, shaking your head.
“My Lord will have my head on a stick if I bring you to him thin as bones,” he grunts out, fingers reaching out for your chin but you flinch out of reach. He points to the bowl once more. “Eat.”
Your hand reaches out for the spoon, stirring the slodge in the bowl. It doesn’t smell right but the last few days you’ve managed to stomach worse just to fill the pit in your stomach.
“It’s not so—” Ser Ronnard twists his head to the window, eyes pinching as if to concentrate.
You don’t hear it at first but the hooves trotting against the ground come quickly. Fast and many.
“Up.” Ser Ronnard is yanking you up by your elbow before you can think, pulling you towards him and charging through the tables towards the back of the tavern.
But the way becomes easily blocked, the townspeople turning against you within an instant, and then you feel it, the hood of your cloak being torn down and your thick locks being lifted for all to see.
“It’s her,” someone points, shouting from beside you. “They are after her.”
These rats are fast but Ser Ronnard is faster, unsheathing his sword within a moment, the sliding of metal being heard like a ringing in your ears and then a slice, the man’s hand falls from your head and onto the wooden floorboard.
“Go.” He tells you, shoving you away and placing his body between you and them.
Them. Vermin. Traitors to the crown. Supporters of Rhaenyra the cruel.
The thoughts are all you can think as you run into the open night, ducking out of the way of light from torches and taking for the trees.
Days and nights spent dressed in beaten-down cloaks and hopping between one town to the other just to keep yourself hidden could all be for nothing. Rhaenyra’s men had been at every town, every tavern, every nook and cranny you had come across. You’d been glad for your dark rouge hair, the thickness of it making it easy to hide the tuft of silver. Easier to blend in with the common people, the rats that swarm these towns.
They support her. You’re not safe with any of them. Ormund had taught you that, had reminded you of the enemy in his many letters. She who shares your blood and your father’s face is not to be trusted.
There’s an evilness in your eldest sister, and your uncle, a taint in the blood. It runs in you as well, but lucky for you, Ormund has been there to protect you from it.
But he’s not here now. He’s nowhere to be seen in the dead of the night as you hide between the bushes. Nowhere to be heard as Rhaenyra’s men surround you and whistle for you to come out. Nowhere to be felt as one of them drags you by your ankle to get you out.
All you feel is the damp ground underneath you, mud taking its root under the your fingernails as you desperately try to scramble away and the man’s hands as they fight against your kicking legs.
He had been right, they’re all savages, every single last one of them. All awful beasts that do not care for the likeness of your blood, not the ones that bow to the false Queen Rhaenyra.
“You wretched—” You try to scream, but his foot catches your ankle, throwing you over onto your front without so much as a struggle.
You kick back, and with your nails digging into the soil you try to crawl forward. But he doesn’t let you, and you feel your feeble attempt be stopped as you feel his hands now on your back.
He’s on top of you, weight pressing you down into muck and you hear it, the tearing of your clothes from behind you, loud as he fumbles with his trousers to release himself.
“No,” you plead, tears lodged at the back of your throat. Your hand falls out in front again, dragging your heavy body slightly before you’re pulled back again. “No, please.”
Savages. Worse than you could have ever imagined.
He groans, not out of pleasure and for a second you’re not sure why, as he becomes still behind you. But then you feel it, blood dripping onto your back, and the weight of him being pulled off before his lifeless body is dropped by your side.
“Up.”
The voice doesn’t quite register; it takes a second before it is piercing through the ringing in your ear, and even then your body can’t quite familiarise itself with it. But your body recognises those hands pulling you up, and the feel of the wide shoulders as they encase you. You don’t relax; you can’t, but your arms fall around him, gripping him with a tightness that borders on suffocating.
“I’m here,” his voice soothes you, lips caressing the shell of your ear, his warmth breath against your skin making you shiver. “I’ve got you, my love.”
In your years growing up in Oldtown, you rarely went a fortnight without seeing Ormund. As the years passed and you grew older, he became a prominent figure in your life. The man raised you, alongside your uncle Gwayne, so it’s no surprise the man was always present in your day-to-day life.
But since your arrival at Tumbleton, Ormund has not visited you once.
You hear him, though- the echoes of his voice travelling through the empty halls, and his footsteps in the dead of the night when he paces outside your room. You know the stress he’s under; while you may never quite understand the strategies of war, you can understand the position he’s in. Daeron only holds a small dragon, barely grown, and you yourself have never bonded with a dragon. His final hope resides in your brother, but since his abrupt departure in King’s Landing, you don’t know where he resides or where he will go next.
Ormund and his men are alone.
It’s something you come to make clarity with as the maids tend to you in the bath. This luxury is not promised; tomorrow it could be taken from underneath you.
You hiss when one of the maids’ hands drags the cloth against your bruised hip, twisting your head to look at her. Plain clothes and face, no striking features that remind you of the maids back home. She could be a traitor, you think. A pretender.
You snatch the cloth from her hands but your hand stops for a second, eyes flickering between the other maids that surround you.
You go to bark but swallow, cowering like a beaten dog. “I can tend to myself,” you tell them in a meek voice.
“Of course, my princess.” They all mutter, bowing before clearing out of the room at once.
They stop before the door, bowing once again before scuttering out.
Ormund.
You notice him, dressed in dark green breeches and a pale white tunic, so thin you can see the defined muscles of his chest, all the way to the dark trail of hairs that travel down—
You twist your head away, eyes closing as shame takes over your body.
“My Lord, I—”
“Did he touch you?” Ormund questions, and when you turn around, he’s stood over you.
“My Lord—” you shake your head, shifting forward in the water as if bracing to get out. “I—I don’t—”
“ —Did he touch you?” Ormund’s hands are clenched by his side, fists drawn so tight that they are white. He bends down, falling to his knees and hands coming to grab onto the wooden tub. “That—“ he clenches his jaw, and spits out the next words through gritted teeth. “Did that beast touch you?”
“He didn’t—“ your words get lodged into your throat and you can feel the sob stuck in the back of your throat, clawing to make its way out as you bite it down. “I swear it.”
His eyes darken, the blue irises almost fading to black as you look at them. It brings you back.
Memories of the man before you making you bow before the Maiden for forgiveness, to the Mother for mercy on your own soul.
It’s not your fault, he’d tell you, but you need to pray for mercy to not end up like your savage ancestors.
You’d weep, knees digging into the stone floor of the sept, his hand pressed against your shoulder to keep you down.
The words try to break free from your throat now, to explain but tears flood your vision and panic takes over. He didn’t touch me, I swear it, you wish to scream but your voice makes no sound.
“Keep still.”
You do exactly that as his eyes keep you transfixed to the spot, his cold gaze not allowing you to move an inch as his hand reaches underneath the water. You feel it, his soft hand against your knee, slow at first as they part your legs before making their way up between your thighs.
Like a good girl, you take it, biting on the inside of your cheek and keeping your cries to sniffles. His fingertips feel larger than they look, running along your inner thigh as they make their way up and up—
You gasp, and his hand stop against you, cupping your mound with his palm against the top and fingers reaching against your hole. Even with how much you want to, you keep your legs open, fighting against the urge to close your thighs against his hand.
“This is where he would have touched you,” he tells you, through a heavy breath. His finger reaches down and the tip aligns itself with your hole as he continues, “This is where that savage would have taken—“ His eyes fall close, and he lets out a strangled breath, a moment, before the tip of his finger breaches your hole, forcing it open.
You try to keep still but your hips fall back, hands bracing against the sides of the tub as if to escape. But his hand comes against your shoulder, pressing firmly down to hold you in place.
“I need to be sure.” His finger deepens then moves side to side while you hiss and cry at the feel.
“It hurts,” you whimper, scrunching your eyes closed. “Please, he didn’t—“
His finger pulls back, sliding out of your walls as he hushes you, “It’s okay.”
It doesn’t feel okay. His hand rests against your thigh once more, and you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together, trying to force him out.
“You did good.”
—And yet you’re trembling in the warm water, unable to open your wet eyes. Your hands grip onto the edge of the tub still, not sure whether to jump out or to force yourself back under the water.
“Look at me,” he commands, and you feel his wet fingers grip your chin.
You do.
“You did so good.” He smiles, a small proud grin as he wipes the tears that fall against your cheek. “You understand why I had to do that?”
You nod. Unlike your ancestors, you will not be ruined by your own savage tendencies.
“I missed you,” he whispers, face inches from yours, breath fanning against your face.
So close you could kiss him.
Your body goes rigid at the thought.
It’s your blood, you remind yourself, you can control it.
“Didn’t you miss me?” His eyebrows draw together, and his lips twist into a frown.
“Yes,” you let out on a choked sob. “I missed you. I missed home.”
“And home is?” He asks, voice soft and melodic.
“Home is Oldtown. Home is with you,” you tell him.
His hand shifts, cupping your cheek and his forehead falls to rest against yours. He’s close, so close, you hear him as he inhales deeply, breathing in your scent. “That’s my girl.”
A fortnight has passed and still no word from Aemond, and no sight of Aegon.
Disappointments, you hear Ormund scream from the other side of the hall. Idiots, all of them.
You’re not making it any better, not that you can help it. But for the last few nights you’d fallen with a strange fever, sweats pulling you from your sleep and your body burning for no reason at all. Sometimes you have an appetite, and other times none at all. None of the maesters can be sure of the reasoning for it, prescribing you tea at every hour and hoping it will pass. The tea does nothing, and another brew sits cold on your bedside.
They’ve pleaded with Ormund to keep his distance. Told him they don’t want whatever ailment has taken over you to pass to him. Not in the midst of a war. Not when your lives are on the line.
Yet he visits often, not trusting the maids that tend to your bedside or the maesters that have been appointed by his own deceased father. Not to look after you.
Ormund sits now, slouched against his wooden chair, legs spread wide with you perched by his feet, a cushion underneath you for comfort. Rage radiates off him; you can feel it in the way his thighs tighten underneath your head, and you try your best to stop from moving around. But you are restless, mind fogged and skin littered with bumps across your body. You can’t help it, lulling your head to the side to look up at him again.
He sighs, a large breath through his nose and his thighs tighten once again.
“I thought you were trying to sleep?”
You look up at him through wet lashes, fluttering as if to keep them open. You want to sleep, your mind clouded with a tiredness you’ve never felt before but your body is restless and you shift against him to find some sort of comfort.
“Hmm?”
You whine, head rolling around again till your forehead is pressed against the inside of his thigh. “I can’t.”
“I should ask the maesters to brew some tea.” One of his hands falls to the back of your head, fingers combing through the strands, and the feel of the tips of his fingers scratching against your scalp causes you to shiver.
“No more tea,” you mumble against his breeches.
“You barely drank the last.”
You hear a scuffle on the other side of the room, maids following his command you imagine.
You lift your head again, and it takes a second for your vision to clear and for you to fully see him.
“Please,” You whine, but he doesn’t listen— he doesn’t look down.
You want his attention— no, you need his attention. You need him to look down at you, to acknowledge your pleads.
Your hands drag themselves up from his knees, fingers running along his thick muscles before wrapping around the tops of his thighs. His muscles tighten, harder than before and he finally looks down at you, nostrils flared and jaw clenched.
“Amused?”
Your hands slide down, releasing your grip and you lean back slightly, dropping your head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what took over me. I—”
His face relaxes and his head lulls back as he takes another languid breath. “You can’t help it.”
You hum, tilting your head to the side.
“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”
You jump at the sound of the maid placing the tea pot down beside you, eyes falling to her as she pours a cup.
Ormund takes it from her, placing it out in front of you.
“Drink,” he commands, and the second you hesitate he presses the cup to your lips. “Drink.” The firm tone of his voice willing you to his command.
The heat of the tea is bearable, but still a tad too hot as it floods your mouth with its bitter taste. You imagine this is what dirt tastes like, but there's a hint of citrus that helps you swallow it down. You don’t want it, but he pours it into your mouth anyway, eyes glued to yours, eyebrows pinched together, telling you without words to obey him. You do, willing as much liquid as you can down before it comes too much, hot liquid burning your skin as it spills from the confines of your mouth.
He takes the cup away when you start to cough, pushing the cup back into the maid’s hand before giving her a curt nod to leave.
You try to push off him, giving yourself space as you choke on the last bits of liquid that have become trapped in your throat, but his hands come around your arms, keeping you locked in place.
“Breathe.”
You try, letting out a shaky breath, willing the tickle in your throat to dissipate. Eventually it does and you blink back the tears that have swarmed your waterline.
“Good girl,” he whispers, hands pulling you towards him. “Come.”
“I shouldn’t,” you tell him, but your body betrays you, crawling upwards until your head is resting against his shoulder and your legs are perched over his. “The maesters—” the words become muffled as you bury your head in the crevice of his neck. “ —you’ll get sick.”
“That’s my burden to bear.” His voice is soft, and his hand gentle as it falls against your thigh. “You are my burden.”
“Yes,” you answer him, not out of your own volition but a certain pull deep inside of you that speaks to him— that heeds his call.
His hand moves, trailing up your thigh and back down again, the material of your cotton gown following his slow movements. You hum, unbeknownst to you and another sound follows, a low rumble from the back of your throat you can’t place, but you know isn’t right.
“I’m sorry— I—” the next noise is louder, a desperate whimper and you feel a wave of heat flush over your body, dampening your skin.
Everything feels strange so suddenly. The material of your gown feels uncomfortable, almost scratching your skin every time you shift about. His hand— You’ve become deeply aware of Ormund’s hand pressed against you, heavier than before and almost soothing as it glides up the back of your thigh.
You want more, that you’re sure of, but you’re not sure of yourself or the words to ask for it.
What is it you want? These clothes off your body. His hand higher. His hand against your bare skin. Your thighs clamp together at that thought and you feel slick oozing from you as you rub your legs together.
He grasps the back of your hair, detaching you from his neck and forcing you to look up at him. His brows furrow together, but his expression is kinder than before. But it changes, eyes hardening and his muscles becoming stiff underneath you as his eyes trail down your body. Your chest rising and falling, your nipples pebbled underneath your gown, the way the material becomes almost transparent from your wet skin.
A part of you grasps, his darkened gaze and the way his mouth parts as you try to steady your rapid breathing.
Sinful girl, he must think, poisoned by your own blood.
“It’s exactly as I thought,” he states, eyes dragging themselves back up to your face.
“It’s my blood, isn’t it?” Just like your sister. Your elder brothers. Your ancestors. Ormund had been right all along. “Am I going to die?”
He pauses, his hand on your lower thigh tugs your skirts up, allowing the chill of the night air to touch your skin. It feels good, a sort of relief, but only temporary.
Your body freezes when the material reaches higher, lifting over your ankles, shins and then towards the middle of your thighs.
“I think I know a way to help you.” He swallows, and you watch as the bulge in his throat protrudes. “But—” his hand falls against your sweat-covered skin and you let out a small gasp, your skin burning under his touch. “—you need to understand.”
“Please,” you let out between a broken cry. “Please. Please. Please.” You repeat until the words jumble together.
The tip of his fingers slides beneath the material of your gown, and your hand darts out towards it. To stop it, or to push it away, you’re not entirely sure.
The air has shifted; you sense it completely now as you look up at Ormund. The man that raised you, that took care of you as his own, is touching you— his fingers drifting up to a place the septas taught you was for only your husband.
“Your blood craves its own,” he tells you, and you can’t quite understand what he speaks of “But if I’m right—” he bites down on his words, the tips of his fingers hovering up your thighs and over your stomach. “If I’m right, I can help you.”
How? You think to question him but the word doesn’t reach your lips. “Please,” is all you have him, the single word taking over your senses and your mind.
“Your blood…” his eyes widen, and his brows raise as he speaks. “…it wants its own.”
Your mind reels and his teachings ring in your head.
Incestuous savages.
It makes sense. Your body’s call for kin. Your brother and your sister married. Your elder sister and uncle. Even your father married his cousin.
Blood magic and curses, your ancestors have forsaken you.
Your eyes flutter up at him, tears flooding your vision at the thoughts. You can feel it, that very affliction that runs through your veins. Your senses are heightened and your body is burning for a touch of another.
“I may not have Targaryen blood,” he whispers, and his hand drops, landing on your breast, fingers splayed over it. “But you and I share the same blood. I think it could work.”
Your body freezes, his eyes falling to his finger as it moves flicking over your hardened nipple.
The man who raised you. A man you see is more akin to you than your own father, own mother, own brothers and sisters.
“You’re married,” you grit out through clenched teeth. Like that would make it any worse.
His hand shifts from your hair, wrapping around your neck before pulling you dangerously close. You could kiss him, or he could kiss you. As if sensing your thoughts his grip tightens and you find yourself wheezing for breath.
“Or—“ you gasp, hand reaching for his.
He looks down at you, lips frowning and jaw clenching once again into an almost pained expression. “I’d do this for you. Forsake my honour, for you.”
Fat tears slide down your cheeks in sheer horror but your body reacts in a different way, thighs clenching when his finger flicks over your nipple again.
“I could save you.”
He’s right. Every part of you reacts to him like some bitch in heat, craving his touch. Even if your teachings from the seven tell you different. They don’t understand this, they couldn’t possibly grasp the idea of this. Neither could you. It’s only here seeing the way your body trembles and bucks into his touch do you see how right he is.
You don’t want to die.
“Please save me,” you ask him only loud enough for him to hear.
“My girl.”
The words travel through you and you can’t help but shiver against him.
You close your eyes, bracing for the impact of his lips against yours at any moment but it doesn’t come. Only when your eyes open, do you feel his nose against your throat, inhaling your scent like he’s gasping for it.
His lips come after, grazing against your neck, just under your chin where his hand doesn’t cover and then upwards till they finally meet your lips.
It’s not at all how you expect it —but then again you never had much time to imagine much —he’s tender at first, his lips caressing yours, taking his time as he moves against your mouth. Open-mouthed pecks to the corner of your lips, and then your bottom lip until his lips meld into yours and you forget to breathe.
He pulls away, his hand sliding from your throat and his thumb finding your bottom lip, pulling it apart from the top.
“Let me help you.”
He dives forward this time, not so kind as his lips find yours for a second time. Your lips move, not with his but almost against him, intending to push him away. It doesn’t work and your lips part as you feel his teeth nipping at your skin— to speak, only for his tongue to shove against yours, forcing your words into a whine.
What would you have said anyway? No, don’t do this. A part of you still screams, your hand falling against his own as he gropes your breast. But then your thighs shift and you find yourself melting into his body.
Wouldn’t it be easier to forget. Wouldn’t it be safer to let him take care of you?
Ormund’s arm comes underneath you, hoisting you up and himself with you, never once allowing his lips to leave your own. It feels good— dangerously good as his saliva drips into your mouth and his tongue slides against yours. Is this how your ancestors felt the first time they lay with their own blood?
Your back hits silk sheets and cushions as Ormund places you down, breaking apart from you. You lift yourself, hazy eyes searching to find him, only to freeze when you see him undressing himself at the end of your bed.
You fall backwards, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment.
Better to not look. Better not to think.
You feel the weight of the bed dip by your feet, and your body moves on autopilot, heels digging in to push yourself further up the sheets. You’re stopped though, one hand finding your ankle yanking you right back down.
He tuts, and you feel the weight of him over you, crawling till he’s hovering directly above you. His hand lifts your skirt, throwing the material up until it’s bunched around your waist.
“Do you think I want to do this?” He questions, and you feel his breath against your face. “Hmm?”
You shake your head.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” his voice stern as his forehead presses against your own. “Look at me.”
Your eyes open to a blackened gaze peering down at yours.
“Do you think I want to do this?”
“No,” you answer, tears clawing at the back of your throat. “You don’t want to do this.”
“I’m doing this to help you,” he whispers, lips pressing against yours again. “I’m doing this to save you.”
He lowers himself against you, and you realise how bare he is as you feel his harness against your inner thigh. You’re not sure how you pictured it, but the length of it against your thigh brings fear to your mind.
“Let’s get this off.”
You feel the gown being torn from your skin, and you find yourself lifting your body off the bed for him to pull it off your shoulders.
You don’t even have time to think before you’re being shoved down, lips finding your own and thighs being pried open. His body falls between your legs, hips pressing down against yours and you feel him there. Hard, thick and leaking.
But you also feel yourself. Slick covered thighs that fall around his hips and a drenched cunt that oozes with the feel of him sliding against it.
He was right, he’s always right.
Your hips buck up to him, and you can’t help the way your body reacts, your hole clenching around nothing as the tip of him catches your entrance. Your body wants this, it’s leaking all over him and when he pulls away, you let out a pathetic whimper.
“Hush,” he whispers against you, breaking his lips away from your own. “You’ll get what you desire.”
Then you feel it, his tip sliding against your folds with precision, slowly and then even slower over your sensitive nub. Your body reacts literally, mouth falling open into a whine or a moan, you’re not certain you can separate the two but it makes him smile. You feel it, lips widening against your cheek and it leaves you confused, opening your eyes to be sure it’s true.
Your lips fall open to speak, to question him but the words die on your tongue as he lines himself up against you before sliding in with one full thrust.
His lips fall open on yours, a sigh escaping him while a cry escapes you.
It hurts. Your walls feel like they’ve been forced open and the wetness does nothing to prepare you for him. Tears kiss your cheeks and your teeth grind against each other, forcing the sobs down.
He moves, dragging his dick out your walls before he’s shoving himself in.
“It hurts,” you let out through a choked sob, your whole body freezing underneath him. Your hands find his shoulders, pushing him back but his torso is like a stone wall that won’t let up —except from his hips that roll as he slowly slides in and out of you.
“Shhh.” His lips press into your cheek, then the corner of your parted lips. “It’ll feel better soon. I swear it.”
—So, you try to keep quiet, sucking in harsh breaths and letting out shaky sobs that have your body frozen against him. It hurts, and you feel like your walls are being torn open from the inside and he keeps going.
In. Out.
In and then out.
Your breathing steadies and your chest begins to settle. The pain is still there, but it’s faded and when his cock drags against your walls, you feel yourself tighten around him.
“See,” you hear his voice in your ear, and his lips follow, settling below and kissing the delicate skin there.
“It feels—”
“I know,” he replies, his voice different— grittier. “Told you didn’t I?” —and you hear it again, caught in a groan, coming from the back of his throat. “Making you feel better?”
You nod, a sick moan spilling from your lips is the only answer you can give. Slick is pouring out of you again, and you forget that it was ever painful to begin with and you also realise when he speaks once again, it does something to you, nipples becoming oddly more sensitive and cunt squeezing him.
It does something to him too, you feel it in the way he changes his pace, and his hands fall down to your hips to keep you glued to the bed. He’s only doing this for your own good, you remind yourself but the way his thrusts become faster has you thinking differently.
“Please,” you plead with him, legs falling around his hips, hooking behind them. “My Lord, plea—”
“Sire,” he snaps, teeth pressing against your skin. “Please, sire.”
His hand comes around your throat, and he presses his forehead against yours, lips parting.
“Please, what?”
“Please—” your words get caught as he delivers a nasty thrust against you.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Please, sire.”
You let the words out between a gasp, before he’s shoving your thighs down further, his cock reaching a point so deep inside you that you swear you can feel him in your stomach.
“Please,” you beg between strangled sobs. “Please, sire. Please. Please…”
“My good girl.”
Your walls tighten and you’re sure if your body could have its way it’d keep him there, his shaft stuck inside you, every ridge and vein imprinted into your very walls. You should feel ashamed at the thoughts, and maybe when you recover from your sickness you will, but right now all you want is to break underneath him.
—And some part of you does, a tension in your stomach snapping and a body-numbing feeling taking over you. Blood rushes to your head, and your vision becomes cloudy as you look up at him. You think you’re saying something, lips open and tongue moving. Maybe not even words, maybe a string of sounds that blur into one.
Then relief.
A relief washing over you that you haven't felt in days, all while his cock continues to rut into you with a vigour that borders on cruel.
It’s him giving you this relief, his cock spilling inside of you, letting out steady ropes of his seed until you’re full of him. It feels good and your restless body relaxes underneath him, taking everything he has to offer you. Every bit of him until your moans turn to gentle sighs and there’s nothing left for him to give.
“You feel better, don’t you.”
He doesn’t ask, he states it like he already knows like he can read the expression on your face. You wonder what you look like right now, hair tangled and face covered in a mix of dried tears and sweat.
You nod, and your eyes close for a second.
“Yes,” you answer him. “Better.”
And you think that’s it, the end of it.
But as the seconds pass you become acutely aware of how he’s still buried inside of you and how hips, even though they turned into an almost slow drag, haven't stopped moving for even a moment.
“We should keep going then,” he says, and his weight becomes heavier, more relaxed as it falls on top of you, trapping you completely underneath him. “Keep going till you’re cured.”
You open your mouth to speak, to protest—
“ —Till we are certain.” His hips shove into yours, rougher than before and you feel his seed drip out your walls and over his cock. “We want to be certain, don’t we?”
Your lips close, words you were about to say becoming a distant memory as you nod in agreement.
Because Ormund is right. He’s always right and your walls leaking out all over him proves it.
Better to be certain, then to wake up craving more.
Hi! Can you write anything involving HammerAnvil + Niece!Reader?
girllll yes — i know you love those two, let me cook let me cook. (first time writing something like this I apologize !!) ⋆ baelor targaryen x niece!reader x maekar targaryen.
ᵎᵎ warnings. afab!reader, +18, targcest, dubcon?, smut, piv, threesome, implied age gap, rough sex, creampie, power imbalance, overstimulation, mean!maekar, praising.
Two large hands gripped your hips from either side, the cold metal of his rings sending shivers racing up your spine as they brushed against your bare skin. The sensation made you twist and writhe against the ruined sheets, but Baelor was strong — his hold firm yet never cruel. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of your belly, leaving two shallow indentations.
“Do not fear, sweet niece,” Baelor murmured tenderly, gazing down at your flushed face. “If pain overwhelms you, I will be here to comfort you. Just keep your body still and relaxed for us... can you do that?”
You nodded softly, holding his gaze with wide, glistening eyes. Gods... How had you ended up in bed between your two uncles? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to think about it. The only thought circling desperately in your mind was that Maekar did not look like a gentle man.
Baelor knelt on the bed near your head, while Maekar positioned himself between your spread thighs. You felt as though you might combust — naked and vulnerable between two powerful older men who could, and would, do whatever they wished with your body.
Maekar growled low in his throat. Your gaze snapped to him as he took his thick cock in hand, stroking it once, twice, before aligning the blunt head with your dripping entrance. The sight of how utterly undone you were for them ignited a dark satisfaction in both men, though Maekar made no effort to hide his.
The first tentative press of his cock against your folds made you instinctively try to shift your hips, but Baelor’s fingers tightened in warning.
“Be gentle,” Baelor cautioned his younger brother, his voice carrying a quiet expectation. “You do not want to make a poor impression on her first time with you.”
Maekar merely grunted, shooting Baelor an offended look before turning his gaze back to you. “As if it matters. She will have plenty of chances to learn to love it, I’m sure.” His voice was rough as he pushed forward another inch, deliberately slow. “Won’t you? You’ll let Baelor fuck you right after, like a good girl?”
You nodded without hesitation. The motion earned a sneer from Maekar, who promptly drove forward in one powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Your back arched sharply as a cry tore from your throat, pleasure and pain crashing through every muscle in a dizzying wave.
Baelor hushed you gently, his palm smoothing over your belly with surprising tenderness, as though searching for the outline of his brother’s cock beneath your skin. The rough, cool press of his rings against your heated flesh slowly eased you, your slick walls fluttering and stretching to accommodate Maekar’s length with shocking ease.
“That’s it,” Baelor praised in a low murmur, stroking that same spot as Maekar began to move inside you. “Keep that rhythm.”
“Don’t tell me how to fuck,” Maekar snapped. Baelor only answered with a tired, knowing smile.
With every thrust, Maekar’s heavy balls slapped against the curve of your ass, the lewd sound mingling with your breathless moans and gasps. One of Baelor’s hands slid down between your thighs. You bit your lip hard as his fingers found your swollen clit, rubbing quick, precise circles that made your cunt clench greedily around Maekar’s cock. The younger brother let out a deep, guttural groan and tightened his grip on your thighs.
His pace grew more erratic the longer his brother touched you, each thrust deeper, harder, more desperate.
Your whole body trembled between them, caught in the relentless rhythm of Maekar’s hips and the expert torment of Baelor’s fingers. The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, winding like a spring until you could barely breathe.
“Look at her,” Baelor whispered, voice thick with arousal as he watched your face. “She’s close. So beautifully close.”
Maekar’s only response was a feral growl. He leaned forward, bracing his weight on one arm as he drove into you with punishing strokes, the wet sounds of your coupling filling the room. Baelor’s fingers never faltered, pressing and circling your clit with devastating precision until the coil inside you finally snapped.
You came with a shattered cry, back bowing off the bed as your walls pulsed and fluttered violently around Maekar’s cock. The orgasm tore through you in blinding waves, leaving you shaking and gasping.
The tight, rhythmic squeeze of your climax pushed Maekar over the edge. With a rough, broken groan, he buried himself deep and spilled inside you, hot pulses of his release flooding your fluttering cunt. His hips jerked erratically as he rode it out, grinding against you until every drop was spent.
Baelor watched with hungry eyes, still stroking your oversensitive clit in slow, soothing circles as you whimpered through the aftershocks. Only when Maekar finally pulled out with a satisfied grunt did Baelor move.
He shifted smoothly, taking his brother’s place between your trembling thighs. His cock —long, and already achingly hard— nudged against your slick, cum-filled entrance.
“My turn, dearest,” he breathed, leaning down to brush a surprisingly gentle kiss against your temple. “Let me show you how well I can take care of you.”
With that, he slid into your soaked heat in one smooth glide, Maekar’s release easing the way. A soft, broken moan escaped your lips as Baelor began to move — deep, rolling thrusts that felt entirely different from his brother’s roughness. Where Maekar had been raw and demanding, Baelor was sensual, almost worshipful, drawing out every spark of lingering pleasure until you were whimpering beneath him once more.
He would not be rushed. Not until he had wrung every last trembling climax from your exhausted body.
toji fucking you for so long that your poor pussy is a fucking mess. folds puffy, clit swollen, a combination of your juices and his sliding down between your thighs and onto the towel he has under you. you can’t even bring yourself to hold onto him anymore because all of your limbs are numb.
your head’s a fucking mess too; your five senses have been dulled down to nothing but the feel of his fat cock sliding in and out of you with wet, sloppy plaps.
you’d think that he’d at least have the decency to try and orient you or hold your hands, but he’s a mess too. pussydrunk. he’s watching the way your pussy swallows him up with each thrust, your folds wrapping around his length and sucking him in deeper. little sprays of fluid come out of you when he drives inside too fast, and if he goes too slow, your pussy flutters around him so pretty. he can’t decide which he likes better.
“you like that dick?” he grunts thoughtlessly, moving one hand off your thigh in between your legs instead so he can rub harsh circles onto your clit. “you like that dick baby? i think she likes it.”
“mngh…w-who?” you babble, bucking your hips into his hand while also fucking yourself onto him, chasing your fast approaching orgasm.
“your pussy. fuck, she loves it. look how well she’s taking me.”
you cry out and hook your legs around his waist, knowing that you’re almost there and that you want him to empty his load into you. nowhere else is satisfactory. “to-jiiiii” you slur, eyes rolling back into your head when he curves his body inward to drive impossibly deeper inside you, angling his cock to hit that sweet spot on your frontal wall. “ ‘m cumming!”
toji’s face scrunches up. he resorts to that fast pace that he was stuck on earlier, and pounds into you hard and fast, his curved length battering your soft insides with each wet thrust. he slams his hips into yours one more time, pushing his thumb against your bundle of nerves while your pussy hugs his cock, milking the cum straight out of him while you squirt on his dick.
the two of you let out the most vulgar of moans as he cums with you, emptying his heavy, thick load deep into your womb. his body collapses on top of yours while he keeps rocking his cock into you, making sure no part of your pretty pussy goes untouched by his cum.
Hey! I think my original request may have gotten cut off somehow when I sent it, so I just wanted to resend it. I don't write directly in Tumblr's message box since English isn't my native language, so I usually draft and carefully revise my messages before copying and pasting them. I think part of it got lost, so it probably didn't make much sense.
I was reading your compilation of sinful dialogue prompts, and when I got to prompt #2, "Look at me. I want to see the exact moment you realize you aren't leaving this room," it immediately gave me an idea. I imagined a Baelor x Reader story where they're already married, but their marriage is distant and cold—they sleep in separate chambers and barely interact outside of their duties. Then one day, the Reader waits for Baelor in his room to give him a locket before he leaves to fight the Blackfyre insurgents.
I imagined the locket as something deeply personal, like a family heirloom meant to protect him or one holding a tiny portrait of her. More than the locket itself, I love the idea that her waiting for him in his chambers and giving it to him is what finally breaks Baelor's self-control. Her small act of affection is what finally makes him stop pretending to be indifferent to her and act on the deep love he's been hiding all along.
I know requests like these usually don't come with this much context, but I couldn't stop thinking about this scenario after reading prompt #2. No pressure at all, of course—I just wanted to explain what I had in mind. ❤️
𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 | 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 .
In the three years you have been married to Prince Baelor Targaryen, you had believed that his distance meant the inability to love you, as you were no more than his second wife, yet unable to let things go on as they do, Baelor surprises you with his burning desire in the quiet hours before he leaves for war.
I am so sorry this took so long. Hope this is what you wanted.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒; age gap, smut, explicit sexual content, minors dni.
The fire in Baelor’s chambers had burned down to glowing embers, casting long shadows across the stone walls and the massive canopied bed.
You waited in only your thin silk nightrobe, the golden locket clutched tightly in your palm. It was your mother’s heirloom, delicate Valyrian gold etched with protective runes, now holding a tiny, secret miniature portrait of your face inside. A desperate token before he rode out at dawn against the Blackfyre insurgents.
Doubt had consumed you while you waited. He does not love me.
After Jena’s death in childbed bringing Matarys into the world, how could he? You were the second wife, a political necessity, a pale shadow of the woman he had chosen and lost. Separate chambers, courteous distance, endless nights wondering if his heart remained locked away with her. You had steeled yourself to the chill. Until the terror of him never returning made silence unbearable.
The door opened. Baelor stepped in, tall and imposing in his riding leathers. He froze at the sight of you.
“My lady,” he said, voice carefully controlled. “What are you doing here?”
You approached, heart hammering, and lifted the locket. “For you. Before you leave. It carries my likeness… and whatever protection I can give.” Rising onto your toes, you slipped the chain over his head. The pendant settled against the warm, strong column of his throat. You let your hand linger, then cupped his cheek, thumb brushing his stubble in one final, aching caress.
“Thank you for everything,” you whispered, voice cracking as tears spilled. “Come back alive, my prince.”
You turned to leave.
A powerful hand caught your wrist, pulling you back. “Don’t.”
Baelor turned you to face him. His free hand cupped your chin, thumb tenderly brushing away your tears.
“Do not weep,” he murmured, violet eyes raw. “After Jena died bringing Matarys into the world, I swore I would never take another wife. I kept you at arm’s length because I feared I would break you the same way. I buried my heart so deeply I nearly killed it. But you… your quiet strength, your grace, the way you have endured my silence, you slipped past every defense. I love you. Fiercely. Completely.”
He kissed you then, slow and reverent at first, then hungry. The locket pressed between your bodies.
“Look at me.”
His voice had dropped to a dark, velvet command. You met his burning gaze.
“I want to see the exact moment you realize you aren’t leaving this room.”
The words sent liquid heat pooling low in your belly. His mouth claimed yours again, fierce and possessive. Your nightrobe whispered to the floor. Baelor lifted you onto the bed, shedding his leathers to reveal his battle-hardened body, broad chest, scarred muscle, and his thick cock already hard and flushed.
He covered you, mouth devouring yours while his hands explored. He palmed your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebbled. Then his lips followed, sucking one peak deep into his mouth, tongue flicking mercilessly while his fingers pinched and rolled the other. You arched with a moan, heat flooding your core.
Lower still, he kissed down your stomach, parted your thighs, and buried his face between them. His tongue licked broad stripes through your folds, then circled your clit with devastating precision. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling against that sweet spot as he sucked gently on your pearl. You came hard, thighs trembling around his head, crying out his name.
Baelor rose over you, eyes dark with need. “You are mine,” he growled, positioning the thick head of his cock at your entrance. “Feel how much I love you.”
He thrust in deep, stretching you open in one powerful stroke. The fullness made you gasp. He stilled, letting you adjust, then began to move, slow, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive nerve. His hand found yours, fingers lacing tightly as he drove deeper.
“I love you,” he rasped, punctuating each thrust. “Not duty. Not politics. You.”
He shifted, hooking one of your legs over his hip for a deeper angle. The new position made you see stars; his cock dragged perfectly against that spot inside you with every stroke. Skin slapped against skin. The heavy bed creaked. You came again, clenching around him, soaking his length.
Baelor groaned, pulling out only to flip you onto your hands and knees. He re-entered you from behind in one smooth thrust, hand reaching around to rub tight circles on your clit while the other gripped your hip. His pace turned punishing, deep, claiming strokes that made your breasts sway and your moans fill the chamber.
“Again,” he commanded, voice rough. “Come for me again, my love.”
You shattered a third time, vision whiting out. He followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling hot and deep inside you with a guttural groan of your name.
Afterward, he collapsed beside you and pulled you into his arms, the locket warm between your sweat-slicked bodies. He pressed soft kisses to your temple, your cheeks, your lips, one hand lazily stroking between your thighs to soothe the ache.
“No more separate chambers,” he whispered, voice husky with satisfaction and promise. “When I return from this war, I will have you like this every night, slow and sweet, or hard and desperate, until you never doubt my love again.”
You nestled against his chest, heart full, tears long dried. In his arms, filled with his seed and wrapped in his love, you realized you truly weren’t leaving this room. And you had never wanted anything more.
has a tendency of sleeping for over 18 hours at a time on his weekends off and proceeds to grumble every single time when he finds out you’ve deep cleaned the house in that time, cooked dinner, meal prepped for the upcoming week and gone shopping without him. You should be relaxing with him! So why on earth are you doing all the work? A deep massage and many kisses is the only way he’ll forgive you.
bear!hybrid nanami who always raids the kitchen of any berries, nuts and fish you have. You’ll catch him in the middle of the night, fridge light illuminating his shirtless form, shoving handfuls of raspberries in his mouth at once. His ears twitch shamefully when he sees you watching him, embarrassment filling his entire body after eating all the food for the week again.
“It’s okay, ken. We can just go shopping and buy some more. It’s no trouble, really,” you reassure as he buries his face in your neck and mumbles strings of heartfelt apologies.
bear!hybrid nanami who hates when you don’t live in sync with your own menstrual cycle. Seeing you wake up early during your luteal phase and do intense workouts during your menstruation makes him cringe, and if he’s nearby he’ll drag you back to bed with him with the most offended expression you could possibly imagine. He knows how terrible he feels when he doesn’t stick to his own hibernation cycles, so he can only imagine how thrown off your body feels when you start demanding too much of it.
bear!hybrid nanami who has the biggest breeding kink ever. During his rut, all he can think of is filling you up with his cum and making you carry his babies. Just the thought of his own cum dripping out of your pulsing hole has him rutting against the mattress early in the morning. Nanami can barely keep his hands off you in the evenings, fingering you over the kitchen counter, eating you out on the couch, fucking you senseless in the bedroom.
bear!hybrid nanami who starts slow and controlled, not wanting to hurt you, but as soon as he bottoms out inside your warm, welcoming pussy, he snaps. His hips slam against your ass, lewd moans and grunts filling the room as he keeps you pinned against the mattress, chest to your back as an attempt to cage you in.
“Ken- kenny! Hmm, you’re sososoo big,” you squeak beneath him, face buried in the pillow as his bulbous cock head kisses your cervix with every thrust, just light enough to be noticed but not painful. Nanami only finishes after you’ve finished, the feeling of your walls tightening around him and the sound of your sweet, delicate moans immediately sending him over the edge. His hips falter as he tries to thrust just a few more times before collapsing on top of you.
bear!hybrid nanami who keeps his cock nestled inside of you for the next few minutes before starting aftercare, wanting to make sure that every sperm cell has a chance to do its job. Even after he pulls out and cum dribbles from your hole, you still feel extremely bloated and full, one hand resting on your stomach as he tends to you with warm towels, hot drinks, and bucketfuls of affection.
[shitty baby daddy!aerion] 18+ mdni | mentions of sex | mentions of smoking/sobriety
read fishing knots, featuring baby maegor here
shitty baby daddy!aerion who waits until the diner is five minutes from closing before pulling into the parking lot, acting as though he isn’t three hours late and asking your son if he wants to go get ice cream.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who left because you were "too demanding," only to spend the next three years unable to look at another woman without comparing her to you.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who insists the two of you aren't together anymore, then gets into a fistfight because another man smiled at you while you were working.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who remembers every single allergy, every doctor's appointment, every favorite cartoon, yet somehow still forgets to return the diaper bag.
shitty baby daddy!aerion whose truck is held together with duct tape, cigarette ash, and pure stubbornness, but somehow always has your son's favorite stuffed dragon tucked behind the passenger seat.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who says you let your son "get away with murder" only to immediately buy him whatever toy he points at, not mentioning it was the last bit of money he had to spare.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who absolutely refuses to admit he’s jealous of the daycare teacher because his son talks about him too much.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who still has your birthday memorized, still knows exactly how you take your coffee, and still can't understand why none of that was enough to keep you.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who acts like every custody exchange is a business transaction until your son hugs you goodbye. suddenly he's finding excuses to stand around for another ten minutes.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who tells everyone you were impossible to love, then spends most weekends trying to convince you to give him one more chance.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who has a misdemeanor record longer than most grocery receipts but has somehow never missed one of his son's birthday parties.
shitty baby daddy!aerion whose father still tells people you're "the one that got away," loud enough for him to hear every thanksgiving.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who spends days arguing over child support money, saying it should've gone toward fixing his truck, then drops twice that amount trying to impress your son at the county fair.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who still tries to let himself into your place like he lives there, only for your son to remind him, "daddy, mommy changed the locks."
shitty baby daddy!aerion who leaves cigarettes untouched in his truck now instead of smoking them with the windows down because your son started coughing once.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who absolutely loses his mind when someone else picks up your son from school because he said he’d be there.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who constantly swears he's over you, right up until the moment he catches you crying because your sink is leaking again, and he's the one under the cabinet, cussing up a storm.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who doesn't know how to fix what's broken between you but would die trying to keep your son from feeling it.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who still has your number saved as "baby" on his phone and has never bothered to change it.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who asks, every few months, if you've thought about trying again, because he can't tell if you're done or if you're just waiting for him to get his shit together.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who sometimes fucks you over your kitchen table after your son's asleep, holding your face like he used to, whispering things you never hear when he’s sober.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who drives away every time afterward, pissed at himself, smoking until his hands stop shaking, wondering why he can't ever seem to stay when it matters.
shitty baby daddy!aerion who will never admit that the only reason he keeps his old flannel shirts is because one of them still smells like you.
“Tell me, does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife, does he lose control when he fucks her, or does that sweet blushing bride of yours recieve the same dreary restraint the realm so adores you for?”
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: explicit sexual content, BDSM themes, rough sex, consent is given, this is some dark shit, oral (female and male receiving), minors dni.
Please be aware that I normally don't write stuff as dark as this, but for the love of fuck I couldn't keep this out of my head. Remember to take care of your mental health.
In this AU, Prince Oberyn Martell is the youngest brother to Prince Moran Martell and Queen Myriah Martell. Because I couldn't help myself.
𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 was not a man 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 appreciated being near you, his sweet, innocent wife, who couldn't tell whether a man was being kind with his words, or tempting the wrath of a dragon, which from Baelor's perspective, the youngest brother of his mother, greatly delighted invoking.
Prince Baelor Targaryen had never been a suspicious man by nature. He trusted you, completely, but he knew the kind of man Prince Oberyn was, from his countless paramours, to the many bastards he had sired throughout Dorne, the Red Viper, was not a man Baelor admired, something he had more often than not expressed to his mother when she had informed him that he'd be visiting her.
“Then do me the kindness of keeping that man away from my wife,” Baelor loved his mother dearly, but even now as he stood before her, arms folded behind him, he could not contain the disdain in his voice, “she does not know him as well as I.”
“I cannot recall a single moment where you had been this fierce over Lady Jena Dondarrion. I know who and what Oberyn is. I did not think after Jena died you'd love another.”
Baelor did not answer immediately.
The silence stretched between mother and son, heavy as castle stone.
His jaw tightened, mismatched eyes drifting toward the open balcony where the sea glittered beyond the walls of the Red Keep. For a fleeting moment, he looked less the celebrated prince who had broken rebel lines and more the weary man who had buried his first wife beneath cold earth.
“When Jena died,” he said at last, his voice low enough that only his mother could hear, “I believed that part of me had gone with her.”
His mother watched him quietly.
Baelor's shoulders tensed for a moment. “I never intended to wed again.”
“I know.”
“I certainly never intended…” He paused, almost sounding irritated with himself. “...to love again.”
Queen Myriah's expression softened, “And yet you have.”
Baelor gave a short, humorless breath. “I have.”
There was no shame in the admission. Only resignation, as though he had lost a battle he had never agreed to fight.
“You speak of Jena.” His gaze settled upon his mother once more. “I honoured her. I respected her. I cared for her deeply.” His brow furrowed. “But what I feel for my wife now…” He shook his head once. “...it is a far more dangerous thing.”
“Dangerous?”
“I think of her before councils. Before battles.” His mouth became a hard line. “I look for her whenever I enter a room.”
His mother smiled knowingly.
“If she smiles…” he continued quietly, “...the day becomes easier.”
“And if she cries?”
Baelor's eyes darkened, “I would burn kingdoms to discover who caused it.”
The Queen reached forward, resting a hand upon his arm. “You are your father's son.”
“I pray not.”
“You love with frightening devotion, Baelor.” Myriah murmured as she watched Baelor.
“I know.”
“And Oberyn?” For the first time, genuine irritation flashed across the prince's face.
“Oberyn flirts because it amuses him.”
“Likely.”
“He enjoys seeing men lose their composure.”
“Also likely.”
“But he will not use my wife for sport.” His words carried no heat, “I trust her with my life.” His gaze sharpened. “It is him I do not trust.”
His mother regarded him for a long moment before speaking again. “You are aware that Oberyn is nearly twice her age.”
“I am painfully aware. He has lived a life of indulgence. He has charmed noblewomen, common women, widows, wives, and maidens alike.” There was no admiration in his voice, only fact. “He knows precisely which words to use, which smiles to offer.”
Baelor's expression hardened further. “And she," he said quietly, “has not spent her life learning to defend herself against men like him.”
“No.”
“She is young. She sees kindness where others hide intention.” A faint crease appeared between his brows. “She would sooner believe a compliment sincere than wonder what lies beneath it.”
“That is why you fear this.”
“I do not fear that she would betray me.” His answer was immediate. “I fear that she would not even realise she was being pursued until someone less honourable believed he had been encouraged.”
His mother's eyes softened. “You have never doubted her.”
“Never.”
“But you doubt Oberyn.”
“I doubt any man who finds amusement in testing another husband's restraint.”
Baelor had no intention of allowing that dance to begin. “If your brother so much as corners her alone,” Baelor said with unsettling calm as he turned toward the door, “he will discover that I inherited more from the blood of the dragon than a name.”
It was the fierce protectiveness of a husband who knew his wife was young enough to believe the world kinder than it truly was, and who knew Prince Oberyn Martell was more than old enough to exploit that innocence if it entertained him.
His mother watched him leave, shaking her head with the smallest smile. “Gods help Oberyn,” she murmured, “for my son certainly will not.”
The feast had begun as such celebrations always did.
Music drifted through the great hall beneath painted rafters where dragons and heroes watched from faded frescoes overhead. Hundreds of candles burned in polished chandeliers, casting warm light across crimson banners and cloth-of-gold hangings until the Red Keep itself seemed wreathed in flame.
Silver goblets were lifted in endless toasts, servants threaded gracefully between crowded tables bearing roasted boar, lemon cakes, river trout, and sweet Arbor wines, while laughter rose and fell like waves against the vaulted ceiling.
King Daeron II had spared little expense in honour of Prince Oberyn Martell's arrival from Dorne.
The occasion pleased more than the court. At the king's right hand sat Queen Myriah, once Princess Myriah Martell, whose composed expression had softened into a smile warmer than many had seen in years. Her youngest brother had finally come to King's Landing.
He simply had not come on time.
The lateness itself scarcely occupied your thoughts. Your attention had been claimed by your husband long before the feast began.
Prince Baelor Targaryen was not a man inclined toward grand declarations of affection. His love revealed itself in subtler ways, in the quiet certainty of familiar gestures.
A steady hand resting against the small of your back as the two of you crossed a room. Fingers brushing yours beneath the table whenever conversation grew tedious.
A brief glance cast your way to ensure your cup remained full and that you had eaten enough before he thought to touch his own plate.
It was the sort of devotion few people ever noticed. You always did. Tonight, however, there was nothing subtle about it.
From the moment you had entered the great hall, Baelor had scarcely allowed more than an arm's length between you.
Whenever another lord lingered overlong in conversation, his hand settled naturally around your waist. Whenever you moved through the hall, he guided you with effortless gentleness, never hurried, never rough, yet always unmistakably present beside you.
No one remarked upon it.
Very few men possessed the courage to question the heir to the Iron Throne.
Still, something felt... different.
You leaned closer until your shoulder brushed his sleeve, lowering your voice so only he could hear.
“Is something troubling you, my love?” you asked softly.
Baelor did not immediately answer as his mismatched eyes remained fixed upon the great doors at the far end of the hall. “No,” he replied at last, the answer came too quickly, too smoothly.
You followed his gaze toward the entrance before looking back at him. “You are waiting for Prince Oberyn.”
“I am,” Baelor admitted.
You studied his face for another heartbeat before asking carefully, “You do not sound pleased.”
For the briefest instant, a muscle tightened along his jaw. “I am not.” His voice remained perfectly calm.
Somehow that unsettled you more than anger would have. You tilted your head. “Has he offended you?”
“Not yet.” Baelor turned his head towards you, leaning forward to place a tender kiss against your brow, “But I suspect he might.”
The evening stretched onward.
Musicians exchanged lively dances for softer melodies. Servants cleared one course only to replace it with another. Lords drifted from table to table, exchanging gossip while cups were emptied and filled again.
Even King Daeron's patience began to show signs of strain.
He checked the entrance more than once.
So did Queen Myriah.
Then, at last, the towering doors to the great hall swung open, conversation faltered and Prince Oberyn Martell strode inside wearing the unmistakable smile of a man entirely satisfied with himself.
His embroidered tunic remained immaculate by most standards, though his dark curls had been left pleasantly disordered by hurried fingers. His collar sat ever so slightly crooked, and lingering beneath the perfumes of feast and court clung another scent entirely.
Sweet perfume.
Heavy perfume.
The unmistakable fragrance of a King's Landing brothel.
Queen Myriah closed her eyes for the briefest moment before pinching the bridge of her nose.
Across the table, several Dornish retainers developed an intense fascination with their wine cups.
King Daeron tipped his head back, staring toward the painted ceiling as though appealing silently to the Seven for patience.
Baelor did not sigh, yet beside you, every muscle beneath his embroidered doublet hardened until he seemed carved from stone.
His hand, still loosely holding yours beneath the table, tightened almost imperceptibly, never enough to hurt—not that you would have minded the pain— only enough for you to notice.
Prince Oberyn crossed the length of the hall with effortless confidence, seemingly oblivious to every disapproving stare fixed upon him, or perhaps he simply enjoyed them.
Stopping before the king's table, he placed one hand over his heart and inclined his head with exaggerated courtesy.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” Oberyn said cheerfully. “King's Landing insisted upon delaying me.”
King Daeron regarded him with patient disbelief. “I somehow doubt King's Landing itself bears the blame.”
“It is a city overflowing with distractions.”
“It possesses brothels,” the king observed dryly.
“It does.”
“I imagine one detained you.”
Oberyn's grin widened. “I would hardly describe the experience as detention.” Laughter rolled through the hall, even a few members of the Kingsguard struggled to hide their amusement.
Only one man remained entirely unmoved, Baelor watched him without so much as the flicker of a smile.
The heir's gaze never wavered, steady enough to make lesser men reconsider every decision that had brought them into his presence.
Oberyn noticed immediately and the smile lingering upon his lips sharpened. “Baelor,” he greeted warmly, eyes filled with hidden amusement as he shifted his stance, curious eyes falling briefly towards you.
“Oberyn,” Baelor answered with equal politeness.
“You look well.”
“I was about to return the compliment.” Baelor straightened quietly, head cooking to the side.
Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “You changed your mind?”
“I remembered where you had been.”
Silence settled between them, you felt yourself frown quietly, shifting as Baelor's mismatched eyes briefly flickered towards you.
Then Oberyn laughed, the rich, unrestrained sound echoed easily through the hall. “It would seem rumours travel faster than I do.”
“They needn't travel,” Baelor replied evenly. “You were thoughtful enough to bring the evidence with you.”
Curious, Oberyn glanced down at himself before discovering the faint crimson imprint staining the edge of his collar.
His laughter only deepened. “So I did.”
You looked from one prince to the other, sensing a tension unlike ordinary dislike.
It was something infinitely more dangerous.
Two men who recognised capability when they saw it and men who respected one another's intelligence and who trusted the other's judgement about as far as either could throw the Red Keep itself.
Without drawing attention to the gesture, Baelor's arm settled securely around your waist.
The movement was slow enough to appear entirely natural.
He drew you just a little closer until your shoulder rested comfortably against his side.
Not for the benefit of the watching court.
Not to parade possession before curious eyes.
He had never needed such displays.
It was for one man alone.
For Prince Oberyn Martell.
A quiet, unmistakable reminder that the young woman standing beside the heir to the Iron Throne was not merely under his protection.
You were his wife.
And Baelor intended that, from the instant the Red Viper entered the hall until the feast's final candle guttered into darkness, there would not be a single moment in which Oberyn Martell could forget it.
Only after the laughter had faded did Oberyn's attention finally drift from Baelor.
It settled upon you.
The shift was subtle, yet every instinct in the room seemed to sharpen alongside it.
Prince Maekar Targaryen, seated further down the royal table, noticed it at once. Unlike his elder brother, Maekar's displeasure rarely concealed itself behind measured courtesy. His pale violet eyes moved from Oberyn to Baelor, studying the heir with quiet vigilance.
Baelor had not moved, not so much as an inch, yet Maekar knew his brother too well.
The rigid line of his shoulders. The almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. The hand still resting at your waist, steady enough to appear relaxed, though Maekar knew the strength contained within it.
Oberyn smiled as though the silence belonged entirely to him. “So,” he said, turning fully towards you, “this is the lady who has stolen the heart of the Dragon Prince.”
His dark eyes lingered only long enough to admire, never straying into outright impropriety, though there was an unmistakable warmth behind them.
“My sister neglected to mention that her gooddaughter possesses such remarkable beauty.”
Before you could think to respond, Oberyn reached gently for your hand, the movement was graceful, almost courtly. His fingers barely enclosed yours as he bowed his head, pressing a light kiss against your knuckles. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Princess.”
Heat blossomed across your cheeks almost instantly, as no man save your husband had ever greeted you with such effortless confidence.
Flustered, you offered a timid smile before instinctively drawing your hand back towards yourself, your fingers curling against your skirts as though uncertain what to do with the attention.
“Th... thank you, my prince,” you murmured, your voice scarcely louder than the music surrounding the feast.
Oberyn's smile softened. “Shy,” he observed lightly. “How refreshing.”
Before another word could leave his lips, Baelor spoke. “My wife blushes easily.”
Oberyn noticed that innocence almost immediately and Baelor Targaryen noticed the lingering amusement that remained in his uncle's eyes as they followed you like a viper scenting something delicious to sink it's fangs within.
Yet beneath those few words rested an unmistakable message.
Oberyn met Baelor's gaze again and for a heartbeat, neither man spoke and then, with the faintest hint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes, the Dornish prince released the matter entirely, lifting his goblet instead.
“As you say, Baelor.”
Across the table, Maekar exhaled quietly through his nose. The storm had not broken.
But it had certainly announced its arrival, and Maekar suspected that this visit would only awaken something in his brother he was not comfortable naming.
The conversation lingered only a little longer before the weariness of the evening finally settled upon your shoulders.
You turned towards your husband, your expression softening as his attention immediately shifted from the gathering back to you.
“My love,” you murmured quietly.
Baelor inclined his head, lowering it enough that only you might be heard. “Yes?”
“I believe I have had enough of feasts for one evening.”
The corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. “I feared as much.”
You smiled in return, leaning close enough to press a gentle kiss against his cheek. It was a fleeting gesture, tender and entirely unselfconscious. “I should like to retire.”
His hand instinctively tightened at your waist. “I shall accompany you.”
“There is no need,” you assured him softly, laying your hand over his. “Remain a little longer. Your father will expect the heir beside him, especially now that Prince Oberyn has finally decided to grace us with his presence.”
Baelor frowned.
“I would rather see you safely to our chambers.”
“I know,” you whispered. “But I am hardly embarking upon a perilous journey. The Red Keep is full of guards, and I know the halls better than most.”
For a long moment he simply looked at you.
There was reluctance in his eyes, protectiveness and then, with visible effort, he relented. “If anything delays you…”
“I shall send for you.”
“If anyone troubles you…”
“I shall send for you.”
“And if Oberyn wanders the corridors…”
A quiet laugh escaped you. “I shall most certainly send for you.”
That, at last, earned the faintest smile from him. “You have my leave to retire, then.”
“As though I required it,” you teased gently. His answering look was one of fond exasperation.
You squeezed his hand once before offering respectful farewells to the king and queen. With your ladies trailing behind, you slipped from the warmth and noise of the great hall, the heavy doors closing behind you until the music became little more than a distant murmur.
Your absence did not go unnoticed.
Oberyn watched the doors for a thoughtful moment before lazily swirling the wine within his goblet and only when several heartbeats had passed did he glance back toward Baelor.
A slow, knowing smile spread across the Dornish prince's face. “I confess,” Oberyn said conversationally, as though remarking upon the quality of the wine, “I had expected you to follow her.”
Baelor met his gaze without expression, “My wife wished to retire.”
“And you obeyed.”
“I respected her wishes.”
“Hm.” Oberyn took an unhurried sip of wine before resting his elbow upon the table, “Tell me something.”
No one missed the change in his tone.
Prince Maekar's attention sharpened immediately.
Queen Myriah closed her eyes for the briefest instant.
King Daeron sighed quietly into his cup as Oberyn's dark eyes never left Baelor.
“Does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife?” he asked with infuriating casualness. “Or does the knowledge of having such a young woman at his side temper even your legendary stamina? I must admit, I thought your blushing wife would be older. Not such a spirited little thing.”
The hall fell utterly silent.
A goblet stopped halfway to a lord's lips.
Somewhere near the musicians, a serving girl froze where she stood. Maekar slowly set his cup upon the table with a deliberate clink.
His stare fixed upon Oberyn with open disbelief. “...Have you truly decided,” Maekar said at last, his voice low and edged with warning, “that provoking my brother in the king's own hall is a sensible use of your evening?”
Baelor did not answer immediately.
He remained perfectly still, one hand resting upon the arm of his chair, his expression composed enough to be mistaken for indifference by anyone who did not know him.
Those who did knew better.
His silence was rarely empty.
It was the silence of a man deciding precisely how much restraint the moment deserved. “You speak boldly of another man's wife,” Baelor finally admitted, setting down his own goblet, “especially mine.”
Oberyn's gaze sharpened, intrigued. “I wonder if you fuck her like you used to fight,” he said, voice dropping lower. “All that raw power unleashed without mercy.”
Baelor bristled, jaw tightening, fingers curling against the armrest.
Oberyn muttered, almost to himself but loud enough for the table to hear, “A young thing like her should know the beast beneath his skin.”
Oberyn leaned in closer, the glint in his eyes sharp as a dagger. “You think she fears your wrath, Baelor? Or is it the quiet storm you carry that unsettles her?” His voice was silk and steel, designed to wound and provoke.p
Before Baelor could respond, Queen Myriah Martell’s voice cut through the charged air, firm and commanding. “Enough, Oberyn. Your words serve only to inflame what peace we have left. Do not tempt the dragon further.”
Oberyn’s smirk flickered, a shadow of respect crossing his features as he glanced at his sister, but the fire in his gaze didn’t dim.
Baelor rose abruptly, his chair scraping back sharply against the floor, a storm brewing in his eyes. His hands clenched into fists at his sides—every muscle taut with barely contained fury.
But before he could move, Maekar stepped forward with calm authority, placing a steadying hand on Baelor’s arm. “This is not the moment, Baelor. Temper your fire, or you risk burning those you care for most.” His voice was a grounded force, steadying the tempest ready to break loose.
Baelor’s breath hitched, the tension coiling within him fought down by Maekar’s timely intervention. Slowly, he sank back into his seat, eyes locked on Oberyn with a dangerous promise lingering in their depths.
The room exhaled collectively, the fragile balance restored for now, yet the undercurrents of rivalry and restraint thrummed just beneath the surface.
Baelor’s voice dropped low, hard as steel. “Silence your tongue, Oberyn, lest I cut it from your mouth.” His eyes burned with a fierce intensity, a clear warning that his patience was threadbare.
Oberyn laughed, a rich, dark sound that filled the room with defiance. He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “Tell me, Baelor,” he murmured, voice almost a whisper yet carrying venom, “have you ever truly lost control… in fucking her?”
The question hung in the air, dripping with insinuation, daring Baelor to confront the chaos beneath his carefully maintained restraint.
Baelor’s breath hitched, the room suddenly tighter, heavier, as silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken truths and raw challenge.
Baelor’s chair flew backward with a harsh scrape against the floor, the sudden movement shattering the tense quiet. For a brief, electrifying moment, his mismatched eyes, one piercing blue, the other a deep, restless brown, darkened, shadows flickering across their depths like storms brewing beneath calm seas.
“I pray that you take this moment and reflect on how close you were to losing that tongue of yours, for one more fucking words and I shall deprave your whores from singing songs of it.”
A low growl rumbled from deep within him, raw and guttural, barely held in check. Without another word, Baelor turned sharply and strode from the room, his departure leaving a charged silence hanging in the air, words left unsaid, emotions unleashed in his absence.
The tension lingered palpably, a fragile calm on the edge of eruption.
Baelor’s steps slowed as he made his way through the corridors, Oberyn’s mocking words echoing relentlessly in his mind. The sharpness of the insult cut deeper than he cared to admit, stirring a storm of anger, doubt, and something darker, an uneasy introspection he wasn’t prepared to face.
When he reached the shared chambers, Baelor hesitated at the threshold, the weight of his own turmoil pressing down on him. Then, as if drawn by some silent need, he stepped inside, the world narrowing until it was only you and the churning emotions he could no longer keep at bay.
The chamber door clicked shut behind him, the iron latch settling into its cradle with a sound that felt louder than a war horn. Baelor stood with his back to the oak, his knuckles still white from the grip he'd kept on his sword hilt all the way from the hall, from the moment Oberyn's smirk had curled around those words and slid them into his chest like a Viper's fang.
“Does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife? Or does the knowledge of having a young woman at his side temper his sexual stamina? Do you ever lose control in fucking her?”
The question had been poison wrapped in silk, delivered with that Dornish lilt that made everything sound like a joke at someone else's expense.
His hand was still shaking. He could feel the tremor climbing from his fingers into his wrist, the residue of a rage that had no battlefield to spend itself on.
Across the chamber, the window seat caught the last light of dusk. You sat there, your hair spilling over your shoulder in a loose braid, the red of your gown pooling around you like a promise. “Baelor? You are shaking.”
You were reading, or had been. The small leather-bound volume rested open on your knee, your finger marking the page, but your eyes were already on him. They were always already on him, as if you sensed the exact moment he crossed the threshold, as if some invisible thread between them tugged at your attention whenever he drew near.
You rose without a word. “Do not,” Baelor murmured quietly, mismatched eyes ablaze with unrestrained fury, “do not come any closer.”
The movement was unhurried, unafraid as your bare feet found the cold stone floor, and you crossed to him through the amber glow of the fire, your gown whispering against your ankles, “What has made you so upset?”
The candle on the sill guttered and steadied. The room smelled of beeswax and the faint lavender you kept in a sachet beneath your pillow, the scent that had become, in the two years of their marriage, the scent of home. Of safety and the one place in this court of knives where he did not have to be the Breakspear or the Hammer.
Your palm settled flat against the leather over his heart, “Is it Prince Oberyn? Has he said something?”
Through the boiled hide, through the wool beneath, you must have felt the thrum of his pulse, still too fast, still hunting for an enemy that was not here.
Your voice was quiet, not a whisper, you never whispered, not even in the godswood, but pitched for his ears alone, a current that flowed under the noise of the world and found him every time. You said it without accusation, without concern. Just a fact, laid out between them like a piece on a cyvasse board, waiting to see what he would do with it.
He caught your wrist, “I despise that man. He is my mother's brother, but he does not think when he provokes me.” The grip was firm enough to hold you there, to stop your hand from moving, but he could feel the delicate bones beneath his fingers, the flutter of your own pulse against his callused palm.
He had never touched you with those hands the way he wanted to. He had been so careful. Two years of gentleness, of holding you like you were made of glass, of pulling every blow before it landed. Every night they shared, he had kept himself leashed, had loved you with a tenderness that left him aching and unfinished, had fallen asleep with his hands fisted in the sheets to stop them from gripping you too hard.
You had never complained. You had only ever looked at him with those warm eyes and said I am here, and he had wanted to tell you that was the problem, that he had killed men who looked at him the way you had looked at him, that the hunger you woke in him was the same hunger he fed on battlefields, and he did not know how to separate the two.
But he had never said it. He had only held you gently, night after night, and felt the leash grow thinner.
Tonight, Oberyn had snapped it.
You did not pull your wrist free, nor did you flinch when you held his gaze, your gaze calm steady and unmoved, “What did he say to you?”
“He wanted to know whether I fuck you like I fight? If I know how to make you scream,” Baelor's breath hitched when you reached up and unlaced the throat of your gown, the fabric parting to reveal the column of your throat, leaving the skin bare and visible, the pulsing beat of your heart vulnerable, “if I hammer into you like a dragon given flesh.”
You took his hand, the one he had wrapped around your wrist and lifted it.
His fingers splayed across your throat. He could feel the weight of your head in his palm, the fragile architecture of your spine, the flutter of your pulse against the calluses of his sword hand. Your skin was warm, impossibly soft, and his hand covered almost the entire breadth of your neck.
He could close his hand. He could squeeze. He could —
“I am not afraid of you,” you said. “Husband.”
The word cracked something in his chest. The leash he had held for two years snapped in a single breath, and the hunger that had been pacing behind it, patient and starved, surged forward.
He bent and took your mouth like a man starved.
There was nothing gentle about it. His free hand fisted in your hair and he yanked your head back, opening your throat to his mouth. “Gods,” you gasped against his lips, a sound that was not quite a surprise, and he swallowed it, licked into your mouth, took everything you offered and demanded more, “Baelor.”
You gave it.
Your hands came up, not to push him away, but to grip the leather of his doublet, to hold him closer. Your nails scraped against the stitching, and the small sound you made, low, hungry, wanting, sent a bolt of heat straight to his cock, “Please, tell me to stop. Tell me now.”
He walked you backward, each step a claim as his body pressed against yours, the solid bulk of him driving you across the room until your spine met the carved oak of the bedpost and you had nowhere left to go, “I have been afraid. I have been afraid of breaking you, of wanting to fuck you without the gentleness.”
The post dug into your shoulder blades, and he pinned you there, his hips grinding against yours, letting you feel exactly how hard he was, how long he had been hard for you, how much of that hunger he had been hiding.
His hand was still on your throat, he did not squeeze, “That man has sunk his fangs into me, poured poison into my veins and I cannot stop thinking about proving that I am capable of not being the man the realm adores, I want to show you I can pleasure you in ways I never have before.” Baelor felt the shape of it beneath his palm, the temptation of it, the way your pulse beat against his fingers like a small animal trusting him not to close his hand.
“Is that what you want, my sweet husband? Do you wish to fuck me?”
The question hit him like a blade between the ribs.
He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell you that he had kept you separate, had protected you from the part of him that broke across the battlefield. But the truth was there, raw and undeniable, and you were looking at him with those eyes like you already knew the answer and were waiting for him to find the courage to speak it.
He pressed his thumb against the hollow of your throat, felt you swallow against the pressure. “Yes,” he said, and the word came out like a confession. “I should not, but the thought of what he had said, what he had made me feel, it unlocked something in me and I cannot,” he shook his head, kissed you once more, grinding against you, because this was not who he was, this was not the Baelor you had come to love and cherish. “I will frighten you.”
You reached up and covered his hand with yours, your fingers threading through his, pressing his palm harder against your neck. “You won't.”
Something in him wanted to argue, but you were looking at him, steady and unbroken, and your grip on his hand was not a plea, it was a dare.
He took it.
His other hand found the lacings of your gown, and he pulled. The fabric gave way with a sound of parting seams, sliding from your shoulders to puddle at your feet. You wore nothing beneath it, you never did, not when it was only him and the firelight painted your skin in gold and shadow, the soft curves of your body laid bare for him.
He stepped back just long enough to tear at his own clothes. The leather doublet hit the floor, then the linen tunic beneath, then the laces of his breeches. He was already hard, his cock curving up against his stomach, and the sight of you, naked, flushed, wanting, made him ache in a way that was almost painful.
He pushed you back against the bedpost, one hand bracing against the wood beside your head, the other finding your hip and he dug his fingers into the soft flesh, squeezing harder than he ever had, and you moaned.
Not a whimper.
A groan, low and hungry, that vibrated through your chest and into his.
He dropped to his knees, the shift was sudden, and you looked down at him with wide eyes, the question forming on your lips. But he did not wait for it. He hooked your leg over his shoulder, the skin of your thigh warm against his ear, and he pressed his mouth to the curls between your legs.
You gasped.
He had done this before, of course he had, every time they coupled he had knelt between your thighs and worshipped you until you shook, but never like this.
Never with teeth.
Never with the edge of hunger that made his hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. He licked into you, broad strokes of his tongue that parted your folds and found the bud of your clit, and you cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, holding him there.
He did not need the encouragement.
He ate you like a man who had been starved. “Fuck!” Tongue flat and wide, pressing into you, lapping at the wet heat of you. You were already slick, your arousal spilling onto his chin, and the taste of you, salt and something darker, something that was only you drove him further.
He moaned against you, the vibration making your hips jerk, and he pressed his tongue inside you, fucking you with it while his thumb found your clit and circled hard.
“Baelor —”
Baelor didn't let you finish. He swallowed the sound of his name, his mouth clamping down on you with a feral intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. He wasn't just tasting you anymore, he was claiming you, his tongue driving deep into your soaking heat, mimicking the rhythmic thrust of a cock.
The sensation was overwhelming, the wet, sliding friction of his tongue combined with the brutal pressure of his thumb grinding against your clit. He was relentless, his movements fast and hungry, pushing you toward a ledge you hadn't even realized you were approaching. Every time your hips bucked, trying to escape the intensity or pull him closer, his grip tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, marking you as his.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” he growled, the words muffled against your pussy. He pulled back for a split second, just long enough to let the cool air hit your drenched folds, before he lunged back in.
This time, he used his teeth. He nipped at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, a sharp sting that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, and then he sank his teeth lightly into the plump flesh of your labia. You shrieked, your back arching off the surface beneath you, your fingers clawing desperately at his scalp. The pain was a thin, sharp line that only served to heighten the pleasure, turning the arousal into something jagged and desperate.
He felt you begin to tremble, the tell-tale rhythmic pulsing of an impending climax. Baelor sensed it, and he doubled his efforts. He abandoned the teasing and went for the kill, his tongue flattening out to lap at you in broad, greedy strokes while his thumb maintained a punishing, circular friction on your clit.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your skin. “Give it all to me.”
The world narrowed down to the point of contact, the heat, the wetness, and the sheer force of his hunger. You felt the tension snap. A violent shudder ripped through your body as your orgasm crashed over you in waves of blinding white heat.
Your internal muscles clamped tight around his tongue, milking him as you sobbed his name, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his face.
Baelor didn't pull away. He stayed right there, drinking in every drop of your release, his tongue continuing to flick and probe your sensitive depths even as you collapsed, shaking and spent, your breath coming in ragged, broken gasps. He looked up at you then, his face smeared with your juices, his eyes dark and predatory, showing no sign that he was finished with you.
His name on your lips, broken and desperate, and he wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear it until you screamed it.
He pulled back, his chin slick with you, his eyes dark and hungry. “More,” he said, and it was not a question. “I want more.”
You did not argue. You let him stand, let him guide you away from the bedpost and toward the bed, let him push you down onto the tangled furs face-first.
The breath left you in a huff as you landed, your hair spilling across the pillows, your ass raised in the air because that was how he had put you.
He climbed onto the bed behind you.
His hands found your hips, yanking you back toward him, and you went willingly, your knees spreading, your back arching. The sight of you, open, wet, waiting, made his cock throb, a bead of precum already leaking from the tip.
He did not make you wait.
He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your slick folds, and he pushed in without warning. The sound you made, a sharp, keening cry, was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. You were tight, so tight, your body clenching around him as he buried himself to the hilt in a single, brutal thrust.
He stilled, just for a moment, his forehead dropping to the curve of your spine. You were hot and wet and his, and the feeling of you around him, yielding but not broken, was almost too much.
The stretch was a burn that melted into pure, blinding pleasure. He felt every inch of you yield, your walls rippling, trying to accommodate his girth, then gripping him as if to pull him deeper, letting you feel the fullness, the way his cock pulsed inside you, a second heartbeat buried in your warmth.
Then he pulled back, almost all the way out, leaving only the tip nestled between your folds. You whined, your hips pushing back, chasing the friction, but he held you there, teasing. A shiver ran down his spine as he watched your pussy cling to him, glistening and desperate. He slammed back in.
This time, the sound was a wet, slapping noise that echoed in the room. Your body jolted forward onto the mattress, your fingers gripping the sheets. He followed, leaning over your back, his chest pressed to your shoulder blades, his mouth finding the curve of your neck. He bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp, and he fucked into you with a steady, punishing rhythm.
“That’s it my sweet girl, take it.”
Each stroke hit that sweet spot deep inside, the one that made your toes curl. Your moans turned into broken words please, yes, don't stop spilling from your lips like a prayer. He answered by wrapping a hand around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a possessive claim, while his other hand found your clit, slick and swollen. He circled it with his thumb in time with his thrusts, driving you higher, pulling you toward that edge.
Your body began to tremble, your walls fluttering around his cock. He felt the telltale squeeze, the way your breath hitched, and he pushed harder, faster, chasing your release as much as his own.
When you came, it was with a scream that dissolved into a sob, your cunt clenching in waves, milking him. He buried his face in your hair, groaning, and let go, pumping his cum deep into you, each pulse a hot rush that seemed to go on forever.
When he finally stilled, your bodies were slick with sweat, your breath mingling in the quiet. He stayed buried inside you, softening, unwilling to let go just yet.
But Baelor Targaryen was not done.
His hips slammed against you once more, the sound of skin on skin filling the chamber, and you took every inch of him, your body riding the force of his need. He reached around and found your clit, rubbing hard circles as he fucked into you, and you bucked against his hand, a stream of wordless sounds falling from your lips.
He pulled out and flipped you onto your back before you could gasp for breath, your legs falling open, and he settled between them, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance once more. This time, he held your gaze.
This time, his hand found your throat.
He wrapped his fingers around your neck, not squeezing, but just resting there, a reminder of the power he held, the trust you had given him.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
Your eyes locked onto his, steady, unafraid, burning with the same heat that was consuming him.
He pushed inside you.
His hand tightened on your throat as he filled you, a ring of pressure around your neck that you did not fight. Your body arched, your mouth falling open, and the sound you made, a moan that was almost a sob, was the surrender he had not known he needed.
He fucked you like that. His hand on your throat, your gaze locked on his, each thrust driving him deeper into you, deeper into the trust you had laid bare. Your hands came up to grip his wrist, not to pull him away, but to hold him there. To guide his pressure. To tell him, without words, that you were his to take, and that you wanted to be taken.
The orgasm built in him like a wave, cresting toward a shore he had kept at a distance for two years. He wanted to hold it back, to stay inside you forever, but you clenched around him, your body shuddering as you came, a sharp, broken cry of his name and the wave broke.
He emptied into you with a groan, his hips grinding against yours as his release poured into you in hot pulses. He collapsed against you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breath ragged, his body sheened with sweat.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The fire crackled, the candle guttered. His hand was still on your throat, but the pressure had gentled, his thumb stroking the hollow where your pulse beat steady and alive.
“I did not break,” you said, your voice hoarse, your lips brushing his temple.
He laughed. A broken sound, almost a sob. “No.”
“I told you.”
He lifted his head and looked down at you. The shadows from the fire carved his face into planes of light and dark, and in his mismatched eyes there was something raw, not a fear conquered, but a door left open. “I know.”
Your hand came up to cup his cheek. You felt the tremor still running through him, the aftershock of everything he had held back for so long. “Come back to me,” you had said softly. “You do not have to be gentle. But I need you here.”
He turned his head and kissed your palm. “I am here.”
He pulled out of you slowly, the loss of heat making you shiver. The sheets beneath you were damp with sweat and the evidence of your fucking, and the sight of you, marked, satisfied, whole, sent a quiet satisfaction through him that was nothing like battle.
He pulled you against his chest, your back to his front, and wrapped an arm around your waist. Your hair spilled across his arm, and you sighed, a sound of contentment that he had not earned but that you gave him anyway.
The door was still closed.
But here, in this chamber, with your pulse steady beneath his palm and your body warm against his, Baelor Breakspear Targaryen felt the leash he had worn for two years fall away — and he knew, with a certainty that settled in his bones like a second sword, that he would never pick it up again.
His thumb pressed into the hollow of your throat, not hard enough to block, hard enough to feel the slow drum of your pulse beneath the pad of his finger, steady now, no longer the rabbit-fast flutter of before, but something deeper, more settled. The rhythm of a woman who had been taken and was not sorry for it.
You lay against him, your back to his chest, as the fire had burned low, casting the chamber in a dim orange glow that made the shadows long and soft. The damp sheets clung to your skin, and the air between you was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and the lavender that lived in your pillow.
He traced the line of your throat with his thumb, following the column down to the dip at its base, then back up to the angle of your jaw. You sighed at the touch, a sound of pure contentment, and tilted your head back to give him more access. Like a cat offering its throat to a trusted hand.
The question sat at the back of his throat, heavy as a stone.
He had never asked for it. In two years of careful nights, of holding himself back, of pulling every blow before it landed, he had never once spoken the words that had paced behind his teeth like a caged animal. He had been afraid of what you would say. Afraid of what you would think of him for asking. Afraid that the asking itself would crack something between them that could not be mended.
But you had met him tonight with your throat bared and your trust unbroken, you had looked at the beast he kept leashed and had not flinched. You had told him you were not afraid and then you had proved it, taking every inch of his hunger and returning it with your own.
His thumb stilled.
He felt his own pulse in his temples, a thrum that matched the slow beat beneath his hand. The room was quiet except for the crackle of the dying fire and the sound of your breathing, soft and even. He could feel the curve of your spine against his chest, the warmth of your ass against his spent cock, the way your fingers had curled loosely around his forearm where it crossed your waist.
“Sweet girl,” your name followed and it came out rough, scraped raw by the thing he was trying to give shape to. You did not open your eyes, but you hummed, a small sound that meant I am listening.
He pressed his thumb into the hollow of your throat again, just resting there, a reminder of where his hand had been, of what you had let him do.
“There is a question I have never asked you.”
You opened your eyes then and turned your head just enough to catch his profile in the firelight, and your hand came up to cover his where it rested on your throat. Your fingers were warm, your grip gentle but present.
“Ask it now,” you had said quietly, not a command, not a plea. Just an opening, held steady for him to step into.
He looked at the shadows on the ceiling. At the canopy of the bed, dark velvet that had witnessed every night of his careful restraint. He thought of Oberyn's smirk, of the way the words had slid into his chest and found the fear he had been carrying since the day he first held you in his arms.
“Do you want me to hurt you?”
The words fell into the silence between you like stones into still water. You feel the ripple of them move through your chest, through your hand where it rests on his throat, through the air that suddenly seems too thin to fill your lungs.
You do not stiffen. You do not pull away.
You are still for a long moment, your amber eyes fixed on some point in the darkness beyond the firelight. Your hand remains over his, warm and steady. You can feel his pulse beneath your thumb, still slow, still even. You are thinking. Turning the question over, tasting it, finding the shape of your answer.
“I have thought about it,” you say, and your voice is so quiet he almost misses it. “I have wondered what it would be like. Not in fear as I have never feared you, Baelor. But I have wondered.”
His throat tightens. The air in the room feels heavier, denser, pressing against his chest from the inside.
“What did you wonder?”
You shift in his arms, turning fully to face him. The movement brings your body flush against his, your breasts pressing to his chest, your thighs sliding against his. Your hand falls from his throat to cup his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone with a tenderness that feels almost cruel after the question you just asked.
“I wondered what it would feel like,” you say, “to be marked by you. To carry proof of your wanting on my skin.”
Something in his chest cracks open. A door he has kept barred with two years of gentleness, of careful hands and measured hunger, swings wide on its hinges.
“It is not the pain I want,” you continue, your voice still soft, still steady, your eyes holding his mismatched ones in the dim light. “It is you in it. The part of you that you hide from everyone. The part that fights and kills and comes home with blood on your hands and tries to wash it off before you touch me.”
He flinches.
You had named something he had never spoken aloud, and your hand on his jaw held him there, would not let him look away.
“I want that part of you too,” you said. “I want him in our bed. I want him to take me.”
His hand found your hip, gripping it hard enough that you gasped, a small sound, not pain, not quite surprise. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, and you did not pull away. You leaned into it, your eyes darkening, your breath catching.
“He would not be gentle,” Baelor said, and his voice was not his own. It was lower, rougher, the voice he used on the training ground, the one that made squires flinch.
“I know.”
“He would leave marks.”
“Show me.”
The words hit him like a blow, but not one that hurt. One that woke something in him that had been sleeping too long. He rolled, pinning you beneath him in a single sharp movement, his weight settling over you, his thighs parting yours.
You looked up at him, your hair spilled across the pillow, your lips parted, your amber eyes bright and unafraid. The firelight painted your skin in gold and shadow, and there was no hesitation in your face.
His hand found your throat again. This time, he squeezed.
Not hard.
A test.
A question asked through his fingers. Your eyes widened, just a fraction and your mouth fell open, a soft sound escaping you, not out of distress but rather something in between, something that looked like surrender and tasted like trust.
His grip tightened, “Fuck, sweet girl. You should not allow me to do such things to you.”
The pressure was deliberate, measured, a slow closing of his hand around the column of your neck. He watched your face as he did it, watched the way your breath caught, the way your pulse beat against his palm, the way your pupils blew wide until your eyes were nearly black.
You did not fight. Your hands came up, but they did not push at his wrist. They settled on his shoulders, your fingers curling into the muscle there, holding him.
“Tell me if—” he started.
“I will.” Your voice was thinner, compressed by the pressure on your throat, but steady. “I will tell you.”
He believed you.
He held you there, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, his hand a ring of pressure around your neck. The moment stretched, taut and electric, and he could feel everything, your breath against his wrist, the flutter of your lashes, the slight tremor in your thighs where they bracketed his hips.
He bent and kissed you.
It was not gentle, his mouth hard on yours, his tongue pushing past your lips as his hand held your throat. You made a sound against his mouth, a muffled moan that vibrated through your chest and into his, and your nails scraped across his shoulders.
He released your throat. His hand slid down, over your collarbone, between your breasts, down the plane of your stomach to the thatch of curls between your legs. You were slick again, your body ready for him even after everything you had already done, and the discovery of it, that you still wanted him, that you were still open and wet and hungry sent a pulse of heat through his blood.
He pushed two fingers into you without warning.
You cried out, your back arching, your head pressing into the pillow. He watched your face as he fucked you with his fingers, watched the way your mouth fell open, the way your eyes squeezed shut, the way your hips bucked against his hand, chasing the pressure.
“Look at me,” he said.
Your eyes opened. Dark, dazed, fixed on his.
“You want me to hurt you?”
You nodded, a jerky motion.
“Then beg for it.”
The words hung between you, heavy and charged. He saw the flicker in your eyes, not fear, but something like surprise, as if you had not expected him to ask for that. As if you had expected him to simply take, to show you the beast without making you name it.
But he needed to hear it. He needed to know that this was what you wanted, not just something you were willing to endure. He needed you to speak the wanting aloud, so that he could believe it.
You swallowed. Your throat moved beneath his gaze. Your hand found his wrist, not to pull it away, but to grip it, your fingers tight on his skin.
“Please,” you said.
Your voice was small, but not weak. It was the voice of someone stepping off a ledge, trusting that they would be caught.
“Please hurt me. I want to feel you. All of you.”
He pulled his fingers out of you. You whimpered at the loss, a sound that went straight to his cock. He settled between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, slick with your wanting.
He did not push in.
He held himself there, at the threshold, his eyes locked on yours. His hand found your throat again, his fingers curling around the soft column of your neck. The trust in your gaze was absolute, terrifying, beautiful.
“Remember,” he said, his voice low, “you asked for this.”
He thrust into you in one hard, brutal motion. Your body clenched around him, a sharp cry breaking from your lips, and his hand tightened on your throat, not cutting off your air, but pressing, a constant pressure that reminded you who was taking you.
He fucked you like he meant to leave a mark.
Each thrust was deep, punishing, the angle driving him into you with a force that made the bed frame groan. His hand stayed on your throat, and he watched your face, watched the way your eyes fluttered, the way your mouth stayed open on silent gasps, the way your body surrendered to every drive of his hips.
Your nails raked down his back, leaving lines of fire in their wake. He grunted at the sting, and it only made him fuck you harder.
He released your throat and caught your wrists, pinning them above your head, one of his hands spanning both of your small bones. You were trapped beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the sight of you, spread open, marked, wanting, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“Mine,” he said, the word torn from his chest.
“Yours,” you gasped, and the word was a prayer. “Baelor, please more.”
Baelor releases his grip on your wrists, “Gods, sweet girl,” he leans down and kisses you with such fierceness, his restraint snapping, and then his fingers curl around and tighten around your throat and then his other hand grips your jaw, smushing your cheeks together. “You want me to hurt you?”
“Yes.”
Baelor didn't hesitate. The word "yes" was the only permission he needed to strip away the last remnants of his control. He slammed his hips forward, burying his cock deep inside you with a violent force that knocked the wind from your lungs. He didn't give you a second to recover before he ripped himself out and drove back in, the wet, slapping sound of his balls hitting your ass echoing through the room.
His grip on your jaw tightened, his fingers digging into your cheeks and forcing your mouth open, stretching your lips wide. He wanted to see every flicker of pain and pleasure crossing your face. He began to fuck you with a rhythmic, brutal intensity, each thrust designed to bottom out against your cervix, jarring your entire frame.
“You're a pathetic little thing, aren't you?” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Begging for it. Begging for me to break you.”
He shifted his weight, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you up even further, exposing your soaking pussy to the harsh light and his hungry gaze. The change in angle allowed him to drive even deeper, his cock stretching your walls to their absolute limit. You screamed, the sound muffled by his hand crushing your face, your eyes rolling back as the friction ignited a fire in your core.
He released your jaw only to slide his hand back down to your throat. He didn't just press this time, he squeezed, his thumb digging into the side of your neck, cutting off the air just enough to make your vision swim and your heart hammer against your ribs. “Is this what you wanted? Is this what you have craved?”
The oxygen deprivation heightened every sensation, making the feeling of his thick cock sliding in and out of you feel like electric shocks.
You thrashed beneath him, your hips bucking instinctively, trying to meet his punishing pace. He chuckled, a dark, predatory sound, and increased the speed. He was no longer just fucking you, he was conquering you. He hammered into you, his movements frantic and raw, the bed sliding across the floor with every violent shove.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release.
You forced your eyes open, locking onto his. His pupils were blown wide, his expression one of pure, unadulterated dominance. He saw the desperation in your gaze, the way you were completely undone by him, and it pushed him over the edge.
He let out a guttural roar, his hand tightening one last time around your throat as he delivered a final, devastatingly deep thrust. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, as his body shuddered with the force of his orgasm. You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum erupting deep inside you, filling you up, marking you from the inside out.
As he collapsed onto you, his heavy chest heaving against yours, he didn't let go of your throat immediately. He lingered there, feeling your pulse race under his palm, ensuring you knew exactly who owned every inch of your shaking body.
You followed a moment later, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shuddering through a climax that pulled a broken cry from your lips.
The room was warm and dark and smelled of you.
He did not pull out. He stayed inside you, softening, his weight a comfort rather than a demand.
“I did not hurt you too much,” he said. It was not a question, but it was. A plea, wrapped in a statement.
Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the dark strands, stroking with a tenderness that made his chest ache.
“You gave me exactly what I asked for,” you said. “And you were still here, the whole time.”
He lifted his head. Your skin was flushed, your lips swollen, your eyes soft and glazed with satisfaction. There were red marks on your throat where his hand had been, fingerprints blooming like dark flowers on your pale skin.
He touched them with his fingertips, featherlight. You did not flinch.
“I will have to cover those,” you said, and there was a smile in your voice. “The gowns I wear to court do not come high enough.”
A laugh escaped him, rough, surprised, almost a sob. He dropped his forehead to yours, your breath mingling in the space between.
“I am sorry,” he said, but you shook your head.
“Do not be sorry. I am not, perhaps Prince Oberyn will now know that the formidable Breakspear does indeed hammer his wife.”
You held his gaze, steady and certain. Your hands came up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“You are mine, Baelor. All of you. And I want all of you. Not the version you keep gentle for the court. Not the one you wash the blood off before you touch me. All of you.”
He closed his eyes. Let the words settle into his bones, into the places that had been hollow and guarded and afraid.
When he opened them again, something in him was quieter. Not tamed, never tamed but no longer fighting itself.
“And if I want to hurt you again?” he asked.
You smiled. A small, knowing curve of your lips that held no fear, only welcome.
“Then you will ask me first. And I will tell you yes. Or I will tell you no. And you will listen.”
It was not a demand. It was a promise, an agreement, forged in the space between his hunger and your trust.
“And if you say no?” he asked.
“Then you will be gentle with me, as you always have been. And I will love you in the gentleness, and wait for the next time you ask.”
The word hit him in the chest like a war hammer.
Love.
You had said it before, in quiet moments, in the dark of your bed, but never like this. Never as an anchor, holding him steady in the storm of his own wanting.
He kissed you. Soft, this time. A promise sealed with lips and breath.
The quiet settled around you like a held breath. The fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in a deep amber glow that made the shadows long and soft. He was still inside you, softening, the heat between you slowly cooling as your breathing steadied.
His hand had fallen from your throat to rest on your chest, palm flat over your heart, feeling the slow, steady rhythm beneath your skin.
You were watching him. He could feel your gaze on his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips were still parted from the force of his release. Your hand came up, not to his face this time, but to his hand on your chest, your fingers threading through his, pressing his palm harder against your heartbeat.
“There is more,” you said. Not a question. A statement, delivered with the same calm certainty you used to name the weather.
He looked at you. Your eyes were steady, unafraid, and there was something in them that had not been there before tonight, a knowledge, a hunger that had been awakened and was not yet sated.
“You are still hard,” you said, and your lips curved in that small, dangerous smile he was beginning to recognize. Not the smile of the gentle wife who greeted him at court. The smile of the woman who had asked him to hurt her.
He looked down. You were right. His cock, still half-sheathed in your warmth, was stirring again. The sight of you, the marks on your throat, the flush on your chest, the way your body had accepted everything he had given and asked for more was enough to kindle the fire that had barely banked.
“Yes,” he said. His voice was rough, still scraped raw by the confession he had made, the trust you had given.
You shifted beneath him. The movement was small, a subtle roll of your hips that made him slide deeper into you, and you gasped at the sensation.
The feeling of you, still wet, still open, still wanting sent a fresh ache through his blood.
“Then show me,” you said. Your voice was quiet, but there was iron beneath it. “Show me what else you have been holding back.”
He could have taken you again. Could have flipped you onto your stomach and driven into you with the same brutal hunger that had carried him through the last hour. But something in your voice, in the steadiness of your gaze, made him pause.
He had asked you what you wanted, and you had told him. You had begged for it. Now you were asking him for more, not with fear, not with hesitation, but with the same quiet courage you had shown every time you bared your throat to his hand.
He wanted to give you something you had never had. Something that would show you that his hunger was not only a beast to be unleashed, that it could be shaped, directed, used to carry you somewhere new.
He pulled out of you slowly. You made a small sound at the loss, a whimper that he felt in his chest. But you did not protest. You watched him, your eyes tracking his movements as he shifted away from you, as he sat back on his heels between your spread thighs.
The firelight painted you in gold and shadow. Your skin was flushed, your hair a tangled halo on the pillow, your breasts rising and falling with each breath. The marks on your throat were dark against your pale skin, fingerprints that would take days to fade. You were beautiful. You were his.
He reached for your hand. You gave it without hesitation, your small fingers wrapping around his, and he guided you, gently, turning you onto your side.
You went willingly, your body moving with his direction, your back curving as you settled onto your hip. He moved behind you, the solid wall of his chest pressing against your spine, his thighs slotting against the backs of yours. You were warm and soft and yielding, and the position was familiar, he had held you like this a hundred times in the quiet of your bed, your back to his chest, his arm around your waist.
But this time, his other hand found the nape of your neck.
He guided your head back, gently, your throat arching as you let him move you. His arm came around you, his bicep brushing against your jaw, his forearm settling across your collarbone.
It was a cage, gentle but absolute, his arm forming a ring around your head and throat that you could not easily escape.
“Baelor,” you breathed. Not fear. Curiosity. A question formed on the edge of his name.
“Trust me,” he said, his lips brushing your ear.
You did not answer in words. You relaxed into him. Your spine softened, your head settling into the crook of his arm, your body molding against his as if you had been made to fit there.
His cock was pressed against the curve of your ass, hard again, leaking a bead of moisture that smeared across your skin. He did not enter you.
He held you there, in the cage of his arm, and let you feel the weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the steady thrum of his pulse against your back. “You are safe,” he said. His voice was low, rough, but there was no edge in it. “You are always safe with me. But I want you to feel something.”
You turned your head, just enough to catch his profile. Your lips were parted, your eyes dark and searching. “What?”
“How it feels to be held by me. Not taken. Held.”
His arm tightened around you. Not enough to hurt, enough to remind you that it was there, that he could close the cage at any moment, that his strength was a constant presence around your neck and head. His hand found your hip, gripping the soft curve of flesh, and he pulled you back against him, the head of his cock pressing into the cleft of your ass.
You shivered. A full-body tremor that ran through you and into him, and he felt it in his chest, in the arm that cradled your head, in the hand that gripped your hip.
“I am going to take you like this,” he said. “Slowly. Gently. And you are going to feel every inch of me, from the inside, while my arm stays around your throat.”
Your breath caught. Your hand found his forearm, your fingers curling around the muscle there, holding him as if you were afraid he would disappear.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, please.”
He guided himself to your entrance. The angle was different, your thighs pressed together, and the head of his cock slid against your slick folds, searching for entry.
He found it, the wet heat of your opening and he pushed in, slow, steady, the pressure building as he sank into you inch by inch.
You moaned. A low, trembling sound that vibrated against his arm where it crossed your throat, and he felt it in the curve of his bicep, in the skin of his forearm. You were tight, so tight, and the angle pressed him deeper than before, the head of his cock hitting a place that made you gasp and arch against him.
He stilled when he was fully seated. His arm was still around you, his hand gripping your hip, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. You were trembling, small shivers running through your body, and your hand had tightened on his forearm until your knuckles were white.
“Breathe,” he said, his lips against your ear. “I am not going anywhere.”
You exhaled. A shaky breath that seemed to carry the tension out of you, and you softened around him, your body accepting the fullness of his presence inside you.
He began to move.
The rhythm was slow. Each thrust was measured, deep, controlled, his hips rolling against you in a steady wave that pushed him into you and pulled him back to the edge before driving forward again.
His arm stayed around your throat, not squeezing, just present, a constant reminder of where he was, of the trust you had placed in his hands.
You made small sounds with each movement. Whimpers, gasps, half-formed words that died in your throat. Your hand stayed on his forearm, gripping, releasing, gripping again, as if you were grounding yourself through the contact.
“Look at me,” he said.You turned your head. The movement brought your cheek against his bicep, your eyes meeting his mismatched ones in the dim light. The angle was awkward, intimate, your face cradled in the crook of his arm as he moved inside you.
“I want to see your face,” he said. “I want to watch you feel this.”
Your lips parted.
A soft moan escaped you, your eyes fluttering, and he saw it, the moment the pleasure crested, the moment you surrendered to the slow, steady rhythm of his body inside you.
Your eyes stayed on his, dark and dazed and full of trust.
He fucked you like that for a long time, slow, deep, kissing your brow, swallowing your moans, “You are so good for me,” he would murmur against your skin.
Gentle in a way that was not gentle at all, the gentleness was in the control, in the measured pace, in the arm that held your throat without pressing.
He was giving you the lie of safety, the pretense of softness, while his cock stretched you open, hitting depths you had not known you possessed.
Your breathing changed. Small, quick gasps that came faster and faster, your hips beginning to move against his, chasing something. Your grip on his arm tightened, your nails digging into his skin, and the small sounds you made grew higher, more urgent.
“I am close,” you gasped. “Baelor —”
His arm tightened around your throat.Not enough to cut off your air. Enough to press, enough to remind you who was in control, enough to make you freeze beneath him, your eyes flying wide.
“Not yet,” he said. His voice was low, rough, but there was no cruelty in it. “I want you to feel this longer.”
You whimpered, but you nodded, a small jerk of your head against his arm, and he felt you relax into his control. Your body was a wire drawn taut, trembling on the edge of release, and you held it, waiting for his permission.
He kept the rhythm slow, each thrust pressed him into you, the angle making you gasp, and he watched your face, watched the struggle between surrender and want, the way your lips stayed parted on silent breaths, the way your eyes stayed locked on his.
When he could feel you starting to shake, when your body was trembling so hard that he could feel it in his own, he loosened his hold on your throat.
“Now,” he said.
You came apart.
The orgasm hit you like a wave, your body clenching around him, your cry sharp and broken as you rode the release. He watched your face through it, the way your eyes squeezed shut, the way your mouth opened on a silent scream, the way your body arched and bucked against him, taking every inch of his cock as you pulsed around him.
He did not let you recover.
He pulled out of you, the sudden loss making you gasp, and he moved before you could draw breath. His hands found your hips, rolling you onto your stomach, and you went willingly, boneless and trembling, your cheek pressed to the pillow, your arms stretched above your head.
He settled behind you, his knees spreading yours, his cock pressing against your wet, waiting entrance. He did not enter you. He leaned forward, his chest covering your back, his lips brushing your ear.
“Now,” he said, his voice a low growl, ”I am going to stop being gentle, but you need to tell me, my love. You must tell me if it is too much.”
“Gods, please Baelor, fucking use me!”
He thrust into you in one hard, brutal motion.You cried out a sharp, keening sound that was not pain but the shock of fullness, the sudden stretch of him driving deep.
He did not pause. He set a rhythm that was punishing, each thrust slamming into you, the sound of skin on skin filling the chamber. “There you go, let them hear who's fucking you.”
The bed frame groaned beneath you, and you took it, your body yielding to every drive of his hips.
“Baelor!”
His hand found your hair, fisting in the strands, and he pulled your head back. Your spine arched, your throat exposed, and he drove into you from behind, the angle deeper, harder, each thrust hitting the place that made you gasp and moan and claw at the sheets.
“You are mine,” he said, the words torn from his chest. “Only mine.”
“Yours,” you gasped, the word broken by the force of his thrusts. “Yours, yours —”
He came with a groan, his release pouring into you in hot pulses, his hips grinding against yours as he emptied himself into you. You followed a moment later, your body clenching around him, your cry muffled by the pillow, your whole self shuddering through the aftershocks.
He collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his breath ragged against your shoulder. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, the crackle of the dying fire, the slow return of the world beyond the walls of your chamber.
He did not pull out. He stayed inside you, softening, his body covering yours, his lips pressed to the curve of your shoulder.
Your hand found his, your fingers threading through his, and you squeezed.
“Well,” you said, your voice hoarse, your lips curving against the pillow. “That was not gentle.”
He laughed, a rough, surprised sound that was almost a sob. “No.”
You turned your head, just enough to catch his eye. Your smile was soft, satisfied, and full of love
“I did not want gentle,” you said. “I wanted you.”
He pressed his forehead to your shoulder and let the words settle into the hollow places, filling them with something that felt like home.
You turned in his arms, the movement slow and deliberate, your body sliding against his as you rolled to face him. The firelight caught the marks on your throat, dark fingerprints blooming like petals on pale skin and he watched your eyes, looking for any flicker of regret.
There was none.
Only warmth, only wanting, only the slow curve of your lips as you pressed your palm to his chest and pushed.
He let you. He let you roll him onto his back, let you settle over his hips, your thighs straddling his, the damp heat of your skin pressing against his half-hard cock.
You were beautiful like this, hair wild, skin flushed, the marks of his hands on your throat like a claim he had not known he needed to make.
“My turn,” you said.Your voice was low, husky, the voice of someone who had been well loved and was not finished. You shifted back, sliding down his body, your lips trailing a path down his chest, over his stomach, your tongue tracing the line of muscle that led to his navel.
He watched you go.
The sight of you, your hair spilling across his thighs, your eyes dark and fixed on his cock made his breath catch. He was already hard again, the blood rising at the sight of your mouth hovering over the tip.
You took him in your hand first. Your fingers wrapped around the base, and you held him there, examining him, your thumb tracing the vein that ran along the underside.
The touch was light, almost clinical, and he felt the ache of it in his balls, in the base of his spine, in the raw need that was already building again.
“I have wanted to do this,” you said, your voice a murmur against his skin, “since the first night you held me.”
Your tongue touched the tip.
A single, deliberate stroke, flat and warm, that tasted the bead of moisture already gathering there. His hips jerked, a reflex he could not control, and you smiled, he felt the curve of your lips against him, before you opened your mouth and took him in.
The heat of your mouth was a shock every time. He had felt it before, of course, you had taken him in your mouth on your wedding night, shy and unsure, and he had let you set the pace, had held himself still while you learned the shape of him.
But this was different.
This was hunger.
This was the woman who had asked him to hurt her, who had met his beast and called it by name, now taking him deep with a confidence that made his vision blur at the edges.
Your head moved, slow and deliberate. Your tongue traced the vein, the ridge, the sensitive spot beneath the head that made his breath stutter. Your hand stayed wrapped around the base, stroking in time with your mouth, and the wet sounds you made, the small, greedy sounds of a woman who was enjoying herself, filled the chamber.
His hand found your hair, “Gods,” he did not pull. He simply rested it there, his fingers threading through the honey-brown strands, grounding himself in the reality of what was happening.
You looked up at him. Your mouth was stretched around his cock, your lips slick with spit, your eyes meeting his with a question.
He nodded. Just once.
A permission he did not need to speak.
You took him deeper.
The head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and you did not flinch and that made him throw his head back, “Oh, fuck!”
You held there, your throat working around him, your eyes still on his, and the sight of you, the perfect surrender of your body accepting him, drove a groan from his chest that was almost a sob.You pulled back, gasping, a string of spit connecting your lips to his cock.
Then you went down again. Faster this time. Harder.
Your hand moved in rhythm with your mouth, and the sounds, the wet, obscene sounds of you sucking him, of your throat taking him, of your moaning around his cock, were the most beautiful music he had ever heard.
His hand tightened in your hair. Not to force you, you did not need forcing, but to hold you there, to feel the weight of your commitment, the trust in the way you let him guide you.
He breathed your name, and it was a prayer.
“Gods, that's it, my sweet wife,” he murmured, voice thick with a mixture of longing and relief, as if your presence was the only calm in the storm raging within him.
The moment held a fragile tenderness amid the chaos, a shared sanctuary where unspoken words found their meaning in the smallest of touches.
You responded to Baelor’s urgency with a soft, involuntary moan, the sound blending with his as the intensity of the moment deepened.
When he reached his release, you swallowed it with a gentle, caring motion, a shared expression of trust and intimacy between you.
A moan of your own escaped softly, mingling with the heavy breaths that filled the room, a quiet affirmation of the bond that held you both steady amid the chaos around you.
The space between you was charged, tender, and fierce all at once, a refuge where vulnerability and strength intertwined.
Baelor gathered you into his arms, the fierce tension of moments before softening into something tender and wholly vulnerable. His touch was careful, as if afraid to break the fragile connection you both shared.
He leaned in close, his lips brushing against yours with a delicate reverence. Then, slowly, he slipped his tongue into your mouth, swallowing your moans into a quiet, intimate exchange.
The kiss was gentle, lingering, an unspoken promise of healing and devotion amid the turmoil.In his embrace, time seemed to slow, and the chaotic world outside the chambers melted away, leaving only the warmth of your shared breath and the steady beat of two hearts seeking solace in each other.
“I quite liked that side of you,” you murmured, voice low and playful, “hmm, you know what they say. Why ride a horse when you can fuck a dragon.”
For a moment, Baelor simply held your gaze, the fire in his mismatched eyes flickering with both amusement and something rawer, pride, desire, and an unspoken connection that needed no further words.
He tightened his embrace gently, a quiet affirmation that the dragon within him, fierce and untamed, was yours alone.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
Baelor's eyes linger on the bruises on your throat and he strokes your skin, “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be, you get to rub it in that slimy viper’s face when he realises you do indeed fuck like you fight.”
“Hmm.”
“Gods, Baelor! Again?!”
“I cannot help that you have awakened the dragon.”
Your laughter spills into the air as Baelor rolls over you again, kissing you, worshipping you, ensuring that despite what had just occurred, you will always be safe with him.
cw: (mdni +18), oral (f!receiving), praise, face humping, fluff fluff fluff, unplanned voyerism (cole watches them lol), dirty talk, hair pulling, sub!gwayne if you squint really hard, scent kink, pussy drunk gwayne, dry humping, (1.7kw).
synopsis: It is said Ser Gwayne knows not how to please a woman. Is it truth or lie?
Ser Criston taunts Gwayne about his supposed inexperience with women, even if he has a lady wife, betrothed to him for a few fortnights already.
Surely he doesn't know how to please you, right?
Too pious, too knightly to even know where to put his cock, most likely. Oldtown's teachings must've left him bereft of any talk about a lady's cunt or other erogenous places.
He's sure all those letters the knight keeps sending back to Oldtown are full of prayers and flowery words meant to soothe his lady, and nothing sort of salacious, like the other knights oftentimes scribble on the parchment meant for home.
A man like Gwayne has no knack for such things, Cole is sure of it.
"Your lady longs for you so much that you're sending a second letter this fortnight, Ser Gwayne?"
And the Hightower heir can sense the slight dissatisfaction beneath Ser Criston's tone, but he does not dwell upon it. Only smiles, nodding. "Yes, Ser. My lady worries, for her heart is pure and sensible. I must do what I can to quell her doubt of any mishaps that might've befallen me."
"Ah, of course. A most dutiful husband you are, Ser."
It isn't until their troops inevitably need to fall back to Oldtown two moons later that Gwayne gets to see his sweet lady wife again.
You've been waiting for this moment for so long, your heart hammering into your chest like a bird's wings as you see your husband's horse trot through the gates.
No one and nothing matters when you finally are cradled in Gwayne's arms, pressed to his steel-clad chest, sweet nothings whispered against your temple as your man peppers your warm skin with kisses of tenderness and longing.
Ser Criston looks away from the sight, scoffing. He knew the acclaimed Hightower heir was good for nothing but sweet presses of lips and warm embraces. Not even a kiss on the lips when greeting his lady wife? He should be ashamed to not bestow such gifts upon a gorgeous creature such as you.
Later, when the crowd had thinned and most knights were off to their sleeping arrangements, the Commander had to do one last search of their horses and supplies before calling it a night as well.
What Cole didn't think to find in the stables was Gwayne, on his knees, head squeezed between your thighs as he feasted on your cunt, moaning like a man starved, the sound muffled by the folds of your pussy.
The sight stopped Ser Criston dead in his tracks.
Ser Gwayne. Pious, dutiful, ever devoted to the faith, now sitting in the same position one would for prayer, but using his mouth not to plead to the Gods, but to bring his lady pleasure.
And what immense pleasure he did bring, for your hands were fisted in his auburn hair, tugging with intent, the demand for more crystal clear. You wanted more, smushing the knight into your heat, hips grinding against his face with abandon as you whined, trying to quiet the volume of your wantonness with your hand pressed to your mouth, but it was in vain. Nothing felt as good as your husband's tongue between your legs, only second to the feeling of his cock splitting you open.
"Yes, yes, my love, yes," fell from your ruddy lips, eyes glistening with unshed tears from how good Gwayne was making you feel. "I missed your mouth greatly," you lilted, fingers unrelenting as they weaved through your husband's hair, offering him respite from your rough insistence, petting him as you would an obedient hound as he continued to circle his tongue against your hole, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit. "Couldn't wait until we were together anew, husband."
All you got in return was another moan, unbashed and wet from the slick of your cunt against Gwayne's mouth, your words spurring him on, broad palms smoothing up your thighs to lift your skirts higher, bunching them at the waist, held in his fists. "My sweet wife," he babbled, flattening his tongue from hole to clit, parting your folds on the ascent. "The moons without your cunt have been dreadful," your knight says, words woven around a whine, lapping at the peeking nub between every word, kindling the heat in your lower belly. "Not being able to taste you each morrow left me wanting, even in times of battle and bloodshed."
Oh, what a debauched picture that was. Your dutiful husband, ever present when called to arms, thinking about worshipping between your legs as he swung his sword, falling enemies and stealing breath after breath from steel-clad men. The thought made you shiver, brushing auburn hair from Gwayne's temples to get a good look at those baby blues you so cherished, a dopey smile onto your lips as you whispered. "You must be cautious, my love," you chastised, albeit tenderly, running your fingers through his hair to soothe, hoping the ache for you had dwindled, if only a little. "Such thoughts might distract you, and then you might not come back to me."
Gwayne shook his head swiftly upon hearing your reprimand, leaning into your touch as a flower moves towards the sun, soaking up all its warmth down to the marrow. "Never," he protested, eyes widening, ever eager to prove his devotion to you. "I shall never fall to another man's sword, if it meant not seeing you again, sweetling," and he turns his face towards one of your palms, pressing a searing kiss upon the skin as he whispers. "That is my solemn vow."
You feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest and splatter at your husband's feet from the earnestness of his promise, weaving warmth along your body, from your head down to your toes, a full-body gratefulness at having such allegiance offered to you.
"A vow you had upheld valiantly, my love," you praise, your hand shifting to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing against the plump of his bottom lip as you slowly tug him down, back towards your cunt, to which he allows without resistance. "One for which you shall have the prize you so dreamt of, even in bloodshed."
Gwayne's tongue lolls out as you guide his head, eager to have you on his palate again, eyes fluttering shut as the sweet musk of your pussy becomes more potent. It coaxed him to dip his chin so he could press his nose in damp curls and inhale deeply, exhaling a punched-out groan, as if he had forgotten the smell of you in the mere moments that had passed since he'd been tongue deep between your thighs.
"This cunt is a gift from the Gods, sweetling," he praises, mouth open and panting against your folds, just breathing you in lungful by lungful. "I wish I could have it with me on campaign," Gwayne continues, white-knuckling the skirts bunched at your waist, as if the imagery of such a thing wounds him. "Feast on it from morrow to dawn. Allow you to have my tongue whenever you please, my love."
You cannot help but moan at such a confession, fingers returning to his auburn strands to grip and tug, eliciting a muffled whine from your husband, whose tongue dipped between your folds anew, flicking at your clit on the upstroke, knowing how much you favoured it. "You're so good to me, husband," you coo, lips curling into a loving smile, holding your knight still by his hair as your hips resume their grinding, humping against Gwayne's awaiting tongue, using him for your pleasure.
And he loves it. Gods, does he love it. Blue eyes half-lidded, heated with love and lust as he only gives you more of it, poking his tongue as far as it would go for you to rub your clit against, moaning with each movement of your hips, bringing you even closer by the grip on your skirts.
"Oh, my sweet husband," you moan, feeling the heat tingling up your spine and pooling low in your belly with each wet swipe against your clit. "I can't wait to have your cock as well." The words are the opposite of pious, not at all what a lady wife should offer her betrothed, but you are past caring. "For your mouth feels heavenly, and still, I cannot wait to feel you inside me again."
The words melt and light Gwayne in equal measure, feeling his cock strain even harder against his breeches, hips kicking, rubbing himself along the seam of his pants in anticipation of what's to come. He nods, the motion making his tongue rub in rapid succession along your clit, the stimulation so delicious it makes you cry out, wanton and unbashed. Words fail him, the only thing that matters now being making you cum so he can sheathe himself into your pussy and have you milk him for all he's worth, like a prized stallion made for breeding.
It doesn't take long for your back to arch off of the hay bale you are lounging upon, Gwayne's name on your lips, your juices flowing down his tongue and chin, which your husband laps greedily. He has to stop the grind of his hips to not cum into his breeches like an untrained squire, even if the friction of his hard cock against the material of his pants feels heavenly.
He knows your pussy surpasses that by the thousands, which is why he forces himself to still the pathetic humping of his hips. It's only moments now until he'll be inside you, letting you catch your breath, pressing sweet, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs and behind your knees as he massages the muscle there, willing you pliant and lax for what's to come. "Thank you, sweetling. Gods, so pretty for me," he whispers against warm skin, reverent and grateful, mouth still wet with your slick. "Missed you so much. Never want to be away from you again. Never, never—"
Perhaps it's safe to assume that Ser Criston Cole will not utter a word about Gwayne and his lack of prowess anytime soon, after what he witnessed tonight.
✦ maekar targaryen x niece wife! user ⋆ just a lil thought... about how vocal you are in bed — so shameless that even baelor can hear you through the walls. +18
a long, throaty moan tore from your lips. your back arched in a sinuous curve, pressing your hips back against maekar as he fucked you from behind with deep, relentless strokes.
“close your mouth,” he growled, breathless. “by the seven hells, quiet yourself.” his fingers dug into your hips, holding you firmly in place as he drove into your cunt again and again.
you had been entangled for some time now, yet you showed little inclination toward silence — or even discretion. the unfortunate knights stationed beyond the door were undoubtedly hearing every shameless sound you made. so too was your father, baelor, who was likely twisting his rings with weary resignation, eyes closed, silently praying that his brother would finish claiming his daughter and be done with it.
“I… I can’t,” you gasped, a dazed, half-witted smile curving your lips as his cock plunged in and out of you with wet, obscene sounds. you were so slick, so utterly soaked, that your body welcomed every inch of him with greedy ease.
he snarled in frustration. your body shuddered as he drew back slowly, only to slam forward in one savage thrust, striking that devastating spot deep inside you. pleasure tore through your nerves like lightning.
and you cried out... loudly.
“then bite the pillow,” he commanded. one broad hand glided down the elegant line of your spine before gripping the back of your head, pressing your face firmly into the silk.
a soft, foolish giggle escaped you, muffled against the cushion that was quickly darkening with your saliva. from that angle, you could still glimpse him sidelong — his handsome face twisted in a potent blend of ecstasy, irritation, and shame.
how would he ever face his brother again after this? the walls were thick, yet your cries seemed determined to slip through them. of that, he was certain.
“have you not heard me?” maekar hissed through clenched teeth. he seized a fistful of your hair and pinned your face harder against the damp silk. “I said bite.”
only when you finally obeyed did his voice soften with dark satisfaction. “good girl,” he exhaled, listening as your moans were deliciously stifled.
he watched from above as your body continued to move in perfect rhythm with his — arching wantonly, offering him deeper access, your eyes fluttering with bliss while drool trailed from the corner of your mouth and down your chin.
with a low curse, maekar lowered himself fully over you, pressing your body into the mattress. his thrusts grew fiercer, more demanding, his cock pulsing inside you with urgent need.
“ugh. come here,” he murmured hotly against your ear, his breath caressing your flushed cheek. “turn your face to me.” a flicker of envy for the pillow stirred in him. “I will silence those fucking sounds myself.”
the moment your teeth released the silk, his mouth claimed yours in a fierce, devouring kiss. His tongue plunged deep, swallowing every moan, every desperate whimper.
“yes… moan for me now, you wicked creature,” he rasped between kisses, his body growing taut as release approached. he drank down your cries of pleasure, feeding you his own guttural groans as your inner walls fluttered and clenched around him, milking him with desperate pulses.
a raw, ecstatic sound broke from your throat as he gave one final powerful thrust, flooding your depths with thick and hot pulses of his seed.
when the last tremors had faded and exhaustion settled over you both, he withdrew with a heavy sigh. he rose, fastening his robe, and tossed yours toward you with casual authority.
“clean yourself and go to your father,” he said. “I expect you to apologize. otherwise, I doubt I will be able to meet his eyes on the morrow.” his voice dropped, laced with both exasperation and lingering desire. “damnable woman.”
heat flooded your cheeks as reality descended like cold water. you had been so utterly lost in the feeling of him moving inside you, in the way he possessed you so completely... oh, no! what have you done?
maekar fixed you with one last stern look, yet you caught the faint, satisfied gleam in his violet eyes.
“what are you waiting for, niece?” your husband prompted. “go. perhaps this will teach you a measure of decorum next time.”
I'm so fucking sorry. my head still throbs but my soul decided to speak up 😮💨
like when you’re playing with his hair. late at night, in your chambers—
your fingers root themselves into the white, almost silver strands delicately. as if you’re afraid he’ll run if you rush into it. you wait until he completely melts on top of you to gently drag your nails over his scalp. his face presses into your chest, nestled between your breasts and nosing at your sternum like he’s been reduced to basic instincts. he seeks out more of your touch once your hand stills. he needs your nails teasing him in the softest ways, he needs your fingers twisting and tugging at his hair in a manner that comforts him. a whine crawls up his throat, raspy and unguarded. your other hand raises, just so you can swipe your thumb over where his brows furrow in the middle. his lashes flutter in response, his lips move— “why did you stop?”
or when you’re kissing him. somewhere you shouldn’t be at all—
the stone is cold against your back. aerion’s hands are traveling everywhere and anywhere he can manage. squeezing your waist beneath his palms, rubbing your hips, even daring to grab your ass through your silk and linen. you gasp quietly against his lips, eyes falling shut as you realize your prince is feeling you up in an abandoned hall. you can hear footsteps. they’re faint but present enough to coax you to turn your head as if that helps by any means. your lips are already kiss swollen, you’re already struggling to keep up. and his own remain connected to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek. they’re murmuring against your skin— “why did you stop?”
especially when you’re in his lap. in the bath, after a long day of duties and requirements—
the warm water has you hazy and aerion needy as you settle against him, sinking down until you feel complete again. you both release a broken breath, sticky foreheads pressed together and lips slick with shared saliva. his nails bite at your hips under the water, the sting is dull but there’s more than enough pressure to leave small indents behind as he urges you to rock your hips. once, and then twice, despite your trembling and the way you smush your cheek against his shoulder. you still, huffing out another breath. your hands rest on his chest for a second and he grabs them, thumbs pressing into your palms and rubbing in little circles. he hisses— “why did you stop?”
Can someone please save me from my thoughts, because here are some of the delicious thoughts of our DILF and how he doesn't say I love you, but has every intention of showing it.
Smuttish thoughts, sinful desires, and one very hot man who fucks you like you were made for him. Minors dni.
𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 is the kind of man who would sooner throw himself before a charging bull than confess that his greatest weakness wears your smile.
In court, he is all iron edges and clipped commands, a prince carved from stone. His gaze is stern, his words measured, and no lord or lady would ever dare accuse him of being sentimental. If anyone suggested he was hopelessly devoted to his wife, he would fix them with such a withering stare that the room would fall silent.
But behind the heavy oak doors of your chambers?
The armor falls away. He is not a man that would declare his love for you in words, but when he does, it's a kiss against the curve of your neck, his beard scratching against your skin, “Fuck, you have ruined me, woman.”
He is forever finding excuses to touch you. A hand settling at the small of your back as you pass. Fingers brushing over yours beneath the supper table. Pressing absent-minded kisses into your temple while discussing the day's affairs, as though it is the most natural thing in the world.
He calls you "my sweet wife" with such quiet certainty that it sounds less like a pet name and more like a solemn vow.
You become the only place where the weight of crowns, wars, and expectations cannot follow.
Maekar has no need to prove himself before you. He lets you smooth the lines from his brow, rests his forehead against yours after particularly difficult days, and allows himself the rare luxury of silence because your presence alone is enough.
He will grumble when you tease him for being affectionate.
“I am not.”
Meanwhile, one broad hand remains firmly wrapped around yours. He will insist he is merely making certain you do not wander off. You both know he is the one who cannot bear to let go.
The court may know Prince Maekar Targaryen as unyielding steel.
Only you know he is all gentleness beneath it—and that every ounce of it belongs to you, unless he's balls deep in your clenching cunt, whispering filth into your ear as he fucks into you from behind.
The world sees Maekar as a monster, a man carved from ice and iron who leaves ruins in his wake. They see the coldness in his eyes and the blood on his hands, and they tremble. But as he pushes you down onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, that ruthlessness transforms into something far more dangerous: a focused, obsessive devotion.
He doesn't start with brutality. Instead, his touch is agonizingly slow. His large, calloused hand cups your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip with a tenderness that would shock anyone who knows his reputation. He kisses you deeply, tasting of wine and hunger, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, possessive rhythm that claims every inch of your mouth.
“You're the only thing in this world I won't break,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, vibrating rumble.
Then, the shift happens. The gentleness remains in the way he holds you, but the ruthlessness takes over the way he wants you. He flips you over with a sudden, firm movement, pressing your chest flat against the sheets. He grips your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, anchoring you as he positions himself.
He doesn't tease. He drives his thick, pulsing cock straight into your clenching cunt in one heavy, unrelenting thrust. You gasp, your back arching as he fills you completely, stretching your walls to their limit. He is balls deep, the impact of his pelvis slamming against your ass with a wet, heavy thud.
As he begins to fuck you from behind, the rhythm is punishing. He hammers into you, each stroke deep and deliberate, driving himself into your womb. While his body is a weapon, his mouth is a sanctuary of filth. He leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine.
“Look at how you take it,” he whispers, his voice dripping with a dark, erotic hunger. “Such a tight, greedy little cunt, squeezing my cock like you're afraid I'll ever leave. You were made to be fucked by me, weren't you? To have me stretch you open and fill you with my cum until you can't think of anything but the way I'm ruining you.”
He reaches around, his hand sliding forward to grip your breast, squeezing the nipple hard even as he continues to drive into you. The contrast is intoxicating, the brutal, rhythmic slamming of his hips and the filthy promises whispered in your ear, all while he holds you as if you are the most precious thing he has ever owned.
"Tell me you're mine," he growls, his pace accelerating, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. “Tell me you love it when I fuck you like a slut.”
He doesn't wait for the answer; he can feel it in the way your cunt clamps around him, milking him with every desperate twitch. He lets out a low, guttural groan, his grip on your hips tightening until it leaves bruises, and with one final, devastatingly deep thrust, he pours his hot cum deep inside you, filling you to the brim while he holds you tight, refusing to let go.
Maekar lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you toward the steaming hot tub. The air is thick with vapor, blurring the edges of the room, but his grip on you is solid and unwavering. As he steps into the churning water, the heat hits your skin, but it's nothing compared to the fire radiating from his body.
He doesn't let you slide in slowly. With a possessive grunt, he positions you over him, his thick, rigid cock pulsing and ready. He lowers you down with a slow, agonizing precision, letting the head of his shaft stretch your opening before he drives forward. You let out a sharp cry that echoes off the tiled walls as he sinks deep into you, the water sloshing violently over the edge of the tub from the force of the impact.
The sensation is overwhelming, the searing heat of the water enveloping your bodies and the feeling of him filling every millimeter of your clenching cunt.
He doesn't give you a moment to adjust.
Maekar’s hand slides up to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back, exposing the sensitive line of your throat. He sinks his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder, marking you with a sharp, bruising bite that makes you moan into the steam.
As he begins to move, the water creates a slick, rhythmic friction, making every slide of his cock inside you feel fluid and heavy. He grips your thighs, hoisting you higher so he can drive upward, his pelvis slamming against yours with a wet, splashing thud.
He leans in, his lips grazing your ear, his voice a dark, guttural rasp that cuts through the sound of the bubbling water.
“Look at you, soaking wet and shaking on my cock,” he whispers, the filth in his tone contrasting with the way he supports your weight. “I can feel your walls twitching around me, trying to suck every drop of cum out of me before I've even started. You're such a needy little slut for me, aren't you? Just a hole for me to use and fill whenever I want.”
He shifts his angle, grinding his hips in a circular motion that rubs his cock against your g-spot, sending jolts of electricity through your spine. He bites your earlobe, his breath hot and demanding.
“I'm going to fuck you until you're breathless, until the only thing you can feel is me stretching you open in this water. I want you to feel exactly how much I own you, how deep I can go inside you before I paint your insides white.”
He accelerates the pace, the water churning around you as he hammers into you with ruthless efficiency. Each thrust is a claim, a violent reminder of his dominance, while his arms hold you close, ensuring you don't slip, treating you like a prized possession he intends to ruin completely.
𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 does not say I love you.
He has never been a man for effortless declarations or honeyed poetry. The words catch somewhere behind pride, duty, and a lifetime spent believing affection should be proven rather than spoken.
Instead, he rises before dawn to ensure the fire is stoked before you wake. He notices when your goblet is empty before you do.
He remembers the flowers you once paused to admire months ago, and somehow they always find their way to your chambers.
His hand seeks yours without thought. His eyes search every room until they settle upon you. His shoulders only truly relax when you are safely within arm's reach.
If you shiver, his cloak is around your shoulders before you've had the chance to complain.
If someone speaks to you with less respect than you deserve, they soon discover why Maekar Targaryen has earned such a fearsome reputation.
He never says, “I love you.”
He asks if you have eaten.
He waits until you fall asleep before allowing himself to rest.
He remembers every small preference you've ever mentioned, no matter how insignificant it seemed at the time.
He loves in quiet gestures, in unwavering loyalty, in the certainty that you will never have to wonder whether someone stands beside you.
And that is why no one questions it.
Not the servants.
Not the lords.
Not the ladies whispering behind jeweled fans.
They have seen the way his expression softens the instant you enter a room. They have watched a prince forged from iron become impossibly gentle with only one person in all the realm.
He does not say the words.
He lives them.
Everyone knows that Prince Maekar Targaryen burns for his wife.
He simply believes that a lifetime of devotion speaks louder than three little words ever could.
