My friends call me Soso or Luna. I'm your host for tonight. polyglot, black, queer, they/them, 20+. Currently obsessed with AKOTSK and Baelor Targaryen. MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY. Header by @diana-foggymaster
i am a busy beetle in her late 20s, and a certified old man enjoyer!!!! (looks at Bertie Carvel)
currently obsessed with AKOTSK and anything-ASOIAF related and Baelor Targaryen. ⚔️
certified otaku/game/anime fan
i am black, french, queer, polyglot, i use she/her and they/them pronouns. i speak french, english, spanish, portuguese and a lil japanese.
my fics (18+ | minors DNI)
There's 18+ content in all of my fics so far, please MDNI.
no titles in this room. (Baelor Targaryen x f!Dornish!Reader)
Summary: Baelor Targaryen was many things — but he was after all just a simple man, and men get exhausted under pressure. Thank the Seven you're there for him.
Tags: dornish wife, comfort, fingering, taking care of this exhausted man, praise kink, stretch marks (yours), creampie, fluff.
what the Gods carved.(Baelor Targaryen x f!Dornish!Reader)
Summary: In the middle of it, you get a small panic attack, but Baelor wants to make sure you remember how gorgeous you are.
Tags: no use of y/n, fluff, depression, dornish!reader, anxiety, spanking, reader feels anxious and insecure, homesick, switching (mdom to msub), fingering, nipple sucking, creampie, loud orgasm, handjob
where the light comes in. (Maekar Targaryen x Servant!Reader)
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 (coming soon)
Summary: After his brother's accidental death (that he caused, remember?), a depressed Maekar returns to King's Landing for a few weeks of grieving. He has not let light into his chambers in seven days. You come in, and change that. What else will change for you, and for him?
Tags: no use of y/n, servant!reader, fluff, depression, slow burn, younger woman x older man, class difference, letting the light in his room and his life again
What I wouldn't give to have this old man look at me with the most disgusted expression on his face and read me to absolute filth. He would degrade me so badly (perfectly).
where the light comes in | CHAPTER 2 — maekar targaryen x servant!reader
Summary: After his brother's accidental death (that he caused, remember?), a depressed Maekar returns to King's Landing for a few weeks of grieving. He has not let light into his chambers in seven days. You come in, and change that. What else will change for you, and for him?
Tags: no use of y/n, servant!reader, fluff, depression, depression recovery, slow burn, younger woman x older man, class difference, letting the light in his room and his life again
Notes: finally it's here! not unlike Maekar, my life has been shaken by a series of fortunate (and some less so) happenings, and i needed to take some time off. here we are!
Taglist: @ghostlybfgf @michiruze @amphib0e @alexjacobsgoodnight @shady-knight @eowyns-fantasy @vulturehearted
read chapter 1
read on ao3
A pile of charred bones. The smell of burnt flesh rising up in the air.
The Prince of Dragonstone, the Heir to the Throne. His body in flames, laying on a pyre. In the middle of no fucking where. A nameless field next to Ashford Castle. In the middle of no fucking where.
Maekar's throat was knotted, burning with rage. And he hated that rage, his dragon, because it was that same that had driven him to wave a mace into his brother's skull during the Trial, less than two weeks ago. He didn't remember the exact moment, the precise hit that killed his older brother, Baelor — and that's precisely what drove him insane.
Ever since he had returned from Ashford, he was having the same nightmare, over and over. In it, he was a young boy of one-and-ten again. "Maekar." He heard his mother's voice. How soft it sounded, like the flap of a thousand birds flying in the sunset. "Maekar, my love." Calm, always poised. Just like Baelor's. "The dragon." He was holding a stick way too heavy for his scrawny arms. In front of him, the silhouette of another boy, sobbing in the mud, his pale face covered in cuts and bruises.
Was that faceless boy Aerys? Or the horse groomer's son, perhaps? After all, he had made fun of Maekar that day, after Maekar had fallen from his horse during training. Myriah stood behind him, delicately placing her hand on his shoulders. "You have to learn how to tame the dragon, Maekar."
"Mother, I…" he called, but when he turned around, she was gone. So was the stick. It had suddenly been replaced by the cold steel of a mace covered from top to handle in warm blood. "Mother!" It was dripping down his childlike hands, red, sticky; staining his fingers, seeping into his nail beds. Maekar started panicking. He wanted to drop the mace, but his arms were frozen in place. He tried to move, but his legs wouldn't hear it.
The sudden clank of iron-clad steps cut through the darkness. "Brother," rose Baelor's voice. It wasn't his kind, serene tone. No. It sounded distorted, full of pain. Of regret. Of vengeance. "The realm. Valarr… Matarys…" The Prince's tall frame was moving towards him, clad in Valarr's armor, just as he had during the Trial, but without his usual soft assurance. He was like a puppet, stiff and stilted, a sword raised above his head. "Baelor," Maekar cried, tears falling down his face. The shadowy figure wearing his brother's appearance didn't even flinch when Maekar fell to his knees. "They needed me."
When the blade slashed towards his neck, Maekar didn't even try to run away.
"I am… I am sorry… Baelor. I—"
When he woke up, his mouth was wide open, but no sound came out of it.
Day after day, night after night, Maekar refused to leave his bed. He made the mattress his sole refuge, only letting in servants for food. And wine. Lots of it. He didn't even drink that much, but he was starting to understand why his son Daeron drowned himself in drinking. The headaches following the hangovers felt like meager punishment for his crime.
He refused to see anyone, and it wasn't like anyone wanted to see him. The privilege of being the last born: no one came looking for him.
This was unknown to most, including his father and the Red Keep's servants, but when Dyanna had passed away, the grief nearly killed him. He hadn't left his chambers in Summerhall for nearly two weeks. He wished the Gods had taken him, too. But at the time, his children needed him. The thought of never seeing Aerion proudly showing off another carp he caught, or hearing Aegon's loud singing voice shook him out of his melancholy.
But this time… this time, Aerion was in Lys, Aegon was wandering who knows where with that hedge knight of his, Aemon was studying at the Citadel, and his daughters stayed at Summerhall. Daeron was probably drinking himself to death in a ditch somewhere, surrounded by Myrish whores.
There was no reason for him to leave that room. At all.
Worse, he knew what would wait for him outside that room. The whispers. The gazes. He knew. That the entire Seven Kingdoms saw him as the worst kind of man to be remembered in history. A kinslayer.
They said he meant it.
And maybe a part of him actually did.
Baelor was a force to be reckoned with. If Maekar's rage, if expressed, was loud, blunt, and brutal, Baelor's was cold, calculated and piercing. He remembered how during their play fights as children, his older brother never rose his voice above what was necessary. Even wounded, he rarely moaned in pain. Even at the Redgrass Field battle, where swarms of soldiers surrounded them both, Baelor never lost composure. And Maekar knew why. His brother didn't have the purple eyes and white hair of their father. Baelor had to be twice as excellent in order to have the right to be considered worthy of the throne that should have been his by right. They had the same Dornish mother. Yet, the Gods had decided that Myriah would give all of her resemblance to him and none to his little brother. It didn't make Baelor's life easier — on the opposite. But the First Prince seemed to come out of every challenge life threw at him unscathed.
For that, and much more, Maekar admired him. Envied him.
So you did kill him. You wanted him dead, whispered the voice in his head as he emerged from another night. Or was it the day? He didn't know any more. The heavy curtains hid him from the rest of the world. Sometimes, when he wasn't lost in his broken sleep, he would hear the rain hammering against the stone walls. The skies, too, had turned against Maekar.
He almost didn't hear the knock at first. Probably because he was still lost in the stupor of his nightmare. This was the worst moment to be disturbed, less so to be seen, and surely he didn't remember having asked for a servant. But nonetheless, he let her in, the sound of his own loud voice surprising him after days of silence.
She entered, meek and shy. Maekar couldn't remember if he had seen her before. To him, the servants at his father's castle all look the same. Unlike his brother, he was sure. Baelor would've even remembered their names."Sheets," she whispered. The wine and grease stains stood out on the white linen. They clearly needed replacing. The Maekar from before only swore by clean, jasmine-scented sheets. But murderers only deserved to live in filthiness.
Turning to the girl, Maekar noticed her expression, her nose slightly frowned and her gaze hiding from his own sight. A ping of guilt struck his chest, but she had come for a reason, hadn't she? “These sheets are not going to change themselves, lass.”
He felt the discomfort in his bones as he rose, as his body had been horizontal for too long. His lungs woke up too, punishing him with a fit of coughing. Despite the female presence in his chambers, he didn't bother with decorum or a semblance of shame, his cock and balls swinging between his tired legs. His feet found the cold floor, and his knees locked straight for the first time in a long time.
Just like her, he had a slight pause in his movements. She was slow out of embarrassment — he was slow out of grief. The words that slipped his tongue — "What, you've never seen an old man naked?" — were more to fill the large gap left by both their discomforts. Maekar wanted her to keep moving. He refused to be seen, observed like an animal in a cage. The kinslayer grieving.
He moved to the wall. Leaned there, arm raised overhead, facing the stone while she worked. Slowly, he forgot about her. His clouded mind had replaced his awareness of her with images of Baelor's funeral pyre. He didn't remember if Valarr had even wept that day, or if he had stood the way his father would have stood — rigid, jaw set, grief immediately shifted into composure.
He wondered if his own face had done the same thing, or if his face had done nothing at all. Maekar thought of Aegon, too, of when he had dropped the knife to both his feet instead of planting it in Aerion's throat. You should have said something. He didn't find the words, that time, but he rarely did. He never did. That tall, stupid-looking hedge knight his brother had died for… couldn't even read, but he could find the words to appease little Aegon's heart. You're a failure of a brother. You're a failure of a father. You're a failure of a son, Maekar.
The sound of sheets being smoothed flat pulled him back into the room. Efficient little thing. No unnecessary movement. She was doing the work, simply.
"Your Grace, I am done."
He was looking at the floor, throat knotted, as her footsteps began to draw away.
"One moment." He needed something else. "Open that window, please." The curtain rings scraped softly against the rod. Light followed. Not aggressive, just present. The rain-grey afternoon entering the room, cautious, just like that servant girl.
Almost immediately, Maekar felt his body turning to face the light, hands on his hips, mouth slightly open. Sunflowers, he remembered, were Dyanna's favorites. The air that came in was cold, clean and smelled of wet stone. He breathed it in slowly, his eyes closed. A part of him had been craving that intrusion of aliveness inside that dark room. His chest eased into that feeling. Just slightly. Just enough for him to feel something other than grief.
He didn't know how long he stood there. Long enough to forget the smell of the pyre, long enough to reminisce a sound he hadn't heard in a long time. Aegon's unguarded laughter.
What brought him back to the room was the sound of the servant's loud exhale. Spontaneous, almost endearing. The sound of someone who has momentarily forgotten they are not alone. When he turned to her, she was smiling at the rain, and he didn't quite understand why, but he couldn't help but smile back. Maybe she felt it, too. Her gaze met his, and for a second, none of them looked away.
Startled, she darted out of the chambers, carrying the basket full of his mistakes.
When the door clicked shut behind her, it's as if the the room felt more exposed. Maekar couldn't face away from the obvious contrast between his greasy, smelly old man body and the pristine white sheets. There was no mirror in the room — he had thrown it away in a fit of rage a week prior — but he didn't need one to know he looked unfit to be seen at court. He stared at his hands.
Could they do something else than kill? Could they do something else than hold countless wine cups? The same hands that had faced the wall while that girl, half his age, changed his filthy bedding without complaint, without cruelty, without even looking away when she should have. Maekar didn't even remember what she looked like, except, somehow, her eyes.
The water of the basin next to the bed was cold. He didn't know if it had been changed. Regardless, he cupped it in both hands and pressed it to his face. Once. Twice. He stood there, dripping, looking at nothing, water droplets running down his wrinkles and filling them with… vitality.
Then he found his breeches, hiding under the bed. A shirt. His boots, exactly where he had left them before Ashford, before the Trial, before all of it.
He dressed slowly. Without ceremony. His hand reached for the cold iron of the door handle. He didn't know why he should even leave the room. The dragon voice in his head, sneering, exhorted him to stay. They'll look at you with pity and hatred. But another one, his own, told him it had been a while since he had looked at the sunflowers outside.
The swapping of pov to his is just beautiful, my heart aches for him this was so heartbreaking but amazingly written.. your talent is beyond knowledge babe 💗😫
where the light comes in | CHAPTER 2 — maekar targaryen x servant!reader
Summary: After his brother's accidental death (that he caused, remember?), a depressed Maekar returns to King's Landing for a few weeks of grieving. He has not let light into his chambers in seven days. You come in, and change that. What else will change for you, and for him?
Tags: no use of y/n, servant!reader, fluff, depression, depression recovery, slow burn, younger woman x older man, class difference, letting the light in his room and his life again
Notes: finally it's here! not unlike Maekar, my life has been shaken by a series of fortunate (and some less so) happenings, and i needed to take some time off. here we are!
Taglist: @ghostlybfgf @michiruze @amphib0e @alexjacobsgoodnight @shady-knight @eowyns-fantasy @vulturehearted
read chapter 1
read on ao3
A pile of charred bones. The smell of burnt flesh rising up in the air.
The Prince of Dragonstone, the Heir to the Throne. His body in flames, laying on a pyre. In the middle of no fucking where. A nameless field next to Ashford Castle. In the middle of no fucking where.
Maekar's throat was knotted, burning with rage. And he hated that rage, his dragon, because it was that same that had driven him to wave a mace into his brother's skull during the Trial, less than two weeks ago. He didn't remember the exact moment, the precise hit that killed his older brother, Baelor — and that's precisely what drove him insane.
Ever since he had returned from Ashford, he was having the same nightmare, over and over. In it, he was a young boy of one-and-ten again. "Maekar." He heard his mother's voice. How soft it sounded, like the flap of a thousand birds flying in the sunset. "Maekar, my love." Calm, always poised. Just like Baelor's. "The dragon." He was holding a stick way too heavy for his scrawny arms. In front of him, the silhouette of another boy, sobbing in the mud, his pale face covered in cuts and bruises.
Was that faceless boy Aerys? Or the horse groomer's son, perhaps? After all, he had made fun of Maekar that day, after Maekar had fallen from his horse during training. Myriah stood behind him, delicately placing her hand on his shoulders. "You have to learn how to tame the dragon, Maekar."
"Mother, I…" he called, but when he turned around, she was gone. So was the stick. It had suddenly been replaced by the cold steel of a mace covered from top to handle in warm blood. "Mother!" It was dripping down his childlike hands, red, sticky; staining his fingers, seeping into his nail beds. Maekar started panicking. He wanted to drop the mace, but his arms were frozen in place. He tried to move, but his legs wouldn't hear it.
The sudden clank of iron-clad steps cut through the darkness. "Brother," rose Baelor's voice. It wasn't his kind, serene tone. No. It sounded distorted, full of pain. Of regret. Of vengeance. "The realm. Valarr… Matarys…" The Prince's tall frame was moving towards him, clad in Valarr's armor, just as he had during the Trial, but without his usual soft assurance. He was like a puppet, stiff and stilted, a sword raised above his head. "Baelor," Maekar cried, tears falling down his face. The shadowy figure wearing his brother's appearance didn't even flinch when Maekar fell to his knees. "They needed me."
When the blade slashed towards his neck, Maekar didn't even try to run away.
"I am… I am sorry… Baelor. I—"
When he woke up, his mouth was wide open, but no sound came out of it.
Day after day, night after night, Maekar refused to leave his bed. He made the mattress his sole refuge, only letting in servants for food. And wine. Lots of it. He didn't even drink that much, but he was starting to understand why his son Daeron drowned himself in drinking. The headaches following the hangovers felt like meager punishment for his crime.
He refused to see anyone, and it wasn't like anyone wanted to see him. The privilege of being the last born: no one came looking for him.
This was unknown to most, including his father and the Red Keep's servants, but when Dyanna had passed away, the grief nearly killed him. He hadn't left his chambers in Summerhall for nearly two weeks. He wished the Gods had taken him, too. But at the time, his children needed him. The thought of never seeing Aerion proudly showing off another carp he caught, or hearing Aegon's loud singing voice shook him out of his melancholy.
But this time… this time, Aerion was in Lys, Aegon was wandering who knows where with that hedge knight of his, Aemon was studying at the Citadel, and his daughters stayed at Summerhall. Daeron was probably drinking himself to death in a ditch somewhere, surrounded by Myrish whores.
There was no reason for him to leave that room. At all.
Worse, he knew what would wait for him outside that room. The whispers. The gazes. He knew. That the entire Seven Kingdoms saw him as the worst kind of man to be remembered in history. A kinslayer.
They said he meant it.
And maybe a part of him actually did.
Baelor was a force to be reckoned with. If Maekar's rage, if expressed, was loud, blunt, and brutal, Baelor's was cold, calculated and piercing. He remembered how during their play fights as children, his older brother never rose his voice above what was necessary. Even wounded, he rarely moaned in pain. Even at the Redgrass Field battle, where swarms of soldiers surrounded them both, Baelor never lost composure. And Maekar knew why. His brother didn't have the purple eyes and white hair of their father. Baelor had to be twice as excellent in order to have the right to be considered worthy of the throne that should have been his by right. They had the same Dornish mother. Yet, the Gods had decided that Myriah would give all of her resemblance to him and none to his little brother. It didn't make Baelor's life easier — on the opposite. But the First Prince seemed to come out of every challenge life threw at him unscathed.
For that, and much more, Maekar admired him. Envied him.
So you did kill him. You wanted him dead, whispered the voice in his head as he emerged from another night. Or was it the day? He didn't know any more. The heavy curtains hid him from the rest of the world. Sometimes, when he wasn't lost in his broken sleep, he would hear the rain hammering against the stone walls. The skies, too, had turned against Maekar.
He almost didn't hear the knock at first. Probably because he was still lost in the stupor of his nightmare. This was the worst moment to be disturbed, less so to be seen, and surely he didn't remember having asked for a servant. But nonetheless, he let her in, the sound of his own loud voice surprising him after days of silence.
She entered, meek and shy. Maekar couldn't remember if he had seen her before. To him, the servants at his father's castle all look the same. Unlike his brother, he was sure. Baelor would've even remembered their names."Sheets," she whispered. The wine and grease stains stood out on the white linen. They clearly needed replacing. The Maekar from before only swore by clean, jasmine-scented sheets. But murderers only deserved to live in filthiness.
Turning to the girl, Maekar noticed her expression, her nose slightly frowned and her gaze hiding from his own sight. A ping of guilt struck his chest, but she had come for a reason, hadn't she? “These sheets are not going to change themselves, lass.”
He felt the discomfort in his bones as he rose, as his body had been horizontal for too long. His lungs woke up too, punishing him with a fit of coughing. Despite the female presence in his chambers, he didn't bother with decorum or a semblance of shame, his cock and balls swinging between his tired legs. His feet found the cold floor, and his knees locked straight for the first time in a long time.
Just like her, he had a slight pause in his movements. She was slow out of embarrassment — he was slow out of grief. The words that slipped his tongue — "What, you've never seen an old man naked?" — were more to fill the large gap left by both their discomforts. Maekar wanted her to keep moving. He refused to be seen, observed like an animal in a cage. The kinslayer grieving.
He moved to the wall. Leaned there, arm raised overhead, facing the stone while she worked. Slowly, he forgot about her. His clouded mind had replaced his awareness of her with images of Baelor's funeral pyre. He didn't remember if Valarr had even wept that day, or if he had stood the way his father would have stood — rigid, jaw set, grief immediately shifted into composure.
He wondered if his own face had done the same thing, or if his face had done nothing at all. Maekar thought of Aegon, too, of when he had dropped the knife to both his feet instead of planting it in Aerion's throat. You should have said something. He didn't find the words, that time, but he rarely did. He never did. That tall, stupid-looking hedge knight his brother had died for… couldn't even read, but he could find the words to appease little Aegon's heart. You're a failure of a brother. You're a failure of a father. You're a failure of a son, Maekar.
The sound of sheets being smoothed flat pulled him back into the room. Efficient little thing. No unnecessary movement. She was doing the work, simply.
"Your Grace, I am done."
He was looking at the floor, throat knotted, as her footsteps began to draw away.
"One moment." He needed something else. "Open that window, please." The curtain rings scraped softly against the rod. Light followed. Not aggressive, just present. The rain-grey afternoon entering the room, cautious, just like that servant girl.
Almost immediately, Maekar felt his body turning to face the light, hands on his hips, mouth slightly open. Sunflowers, he remembered, were Dyanna's favorites. The air that came in was cold, clean and smelled of wet stone. He breathed it in slowly, his eyes closed. A part of him had been craving that intrusion of aliveness inside that dark room. His chest eased into that feeling. Just slightly. Just enough for him to feel something other than grief.
He didn't know how long he stood there. Long enough to forget the smell of the pyre, long enough to reminisce a sound he hadn't heard in a long time. Aegon's unguarded laughter.
What brought him back to the room was the sound of the servant's loud exhale. Spontaneous, almost endearing. The sound of someone who has momentarily forgotten they are not alone. When he turned to her, she was smiling at the rain, and he didn't quite understand why, but he couldn't help but smile back. Maybe she felt it, too. Her gaze met his, and for a second, none of them looked away.
Startled, she darted out of the chambers, carrying the basket full of his mistakes.
When the door clicked shut behind her, it's as if the the room felt more exposed. Maekar couldn't face away from the obvious contrast between his greasy, smelly old man body and the pristine white sheets. There was no mirror in the room — he had thrown it away in a fit of rage a week prior — but he didn't need one to know he looked unfit to be seen at court. He stared at his hands.
Could they do something else than kill? Could they do something else than hold countless wine cups? The same hands that had faced the wall while that girl, half his age, changed his filthy bedding without complaint, without cruelty, without even looking away when she should have. Maekar didn't even remember what she looked like, except, somehow, her eyes.
The water of the basin next to the bed was cold. He didn't know if it had been changed. Regardless, he cupped it in both hands and pressed it to his face. Once. Twice. He stood there, dripping, looking at nothing, water droplets running down his wrinkles and filling them with… vitality.
Then he found his breeches, hiding under the bed. A shirt. His boots, exactly where he had left them before Ashford, before the Trial, before all of it.
He dressed slowly. Without ceremony. His hand reached for the cold iron of the door handle. He didn't know why he should even leave the room. The dragon voice in his head, sneering, exhorted him to stay. They'll look at you with pity and hatred. But another one, his own, told him it had been a while since he had looked at the sunflowers outside.
How would the akotsk men react to get hit and heavy with you lots of grinding making out and they accidentally finish pls include lyoenl 😩
ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴇᴀʀʟʏ | ᴀᴋᴏᴛꜱᴋ ᴍᴇɴ
.─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x reader, Baelor Targaryen x reader, Aerion Targaryen x reader, Daeron Targaryen x reader, Valarr Targaryen x reader, Lyonel Baratheon x reader
─ word count: 5k
─ content: 18+ MDNI | filthy smut | no plot | oral female receiving | blindfolding | slight fem dom | edging | first time
─ a/n: I've missed doing headcanons, I think I will bring them back in earnest. Thank you as always for reading. My inbox is open
For three days, the silence between you had been a heavy, suffocating thing that sat in the center of your chambers like a piece of furniture you couldn't move. There had been three days of gifts left outside your door, expensive trinkets, jewellery that glittered with a cold fire, silks that felt too smooth against your skin. Three days of him appearing at meals, sitting next to you with his posture stiff, his silver hair catching the light as he stared at you with those violet eyes full of a torment that might have been genuine contrition if it were anyone other than Aerion. He watched you, offering apologies that came out sideways, wrapped in justifications and half-formed arguments until you simply looked at him a certain way, tilted your head, narrowed your eyes, and he stopped talking, his jaw snapping shut with an audible click.
Today, the knock on your chamber door was proper. Respectful. It lacked the usual imperious pound of his fist against the wood. That alone told you something.
You opened the door and stepped back. He walked in, his movements stiff, his usual predatory grace subdued. He stood in the middle of the room, carrying the weight of the effort of what he was about to do.
"What do you want," he asked, his voice low but steady. "Tell me what I must do."
You looked at him, letting the silence stretch until you saw the tension in his shoulders rise. You walked over to the chaise lounge and sat down, arranging your skirts with deliberate slowness before you met his gaze again.
"Beg," you said simply.
Something flickered across his face. He hesitated, his pride warring with his desperation, and then he spoke. The words came out stiff and graceless at first, recitations of wrongs done and regrets felt, but then they shifted, becoming rawer. He apologised for his cruelty, for his sharp tongue.
"On your knees," you said when he finally ran out of breath. "Crawl."
He held your gaze, his violet eyes searching yours for any sign of a bluff, any sign that he could refuse and still win. He found none.
Then he sank to the floor. It was a surrender. He went down on his hands and knees, the stone floor unforgiving beneath his palms. He crossed the room to where you sat, the movement slow and deliberate, his head bowed. He stopped at your feet and knelt upright, his eyes fixed on the floor.
"I am sorry," he said quietly. "I am truly sorry."
You looked down at him, taking in the curve of his spine, and then you looked a little lower, past the broad shoulders and the tight line of his back, to the front of his breeches. You raised one eyebrow.
His breeches were very obviously not cooperating. The fabric was strained tight over his crotch, outlining a hard length that pressed insistently against the cloth. There was no hiding it, no way to mistake the state he was in.
"Aerion," you asked, your voice teasing. "Are you aroused right now?"
The sound he made was not quite a moan and not quite a word, a choked, strangled noise that caught in the back of his throat. He didn't look up.
"You are! You are getting off on this. On being told what to do. On being on your knees."
He said nothing. A faint flush was spreading across the back of his neck, betraying his embarrassment even as his body betrayed his lust.
You had already decided to forgive him earlier in the day after watching him sulk in the library. But this was simply too interesting to let go of just yet. The power dynamic had shifted and you wanted to see how far it would go.
You stood slowly and reached up to unlace your gown, your fingers working the knots with deliberate ease. You let the gown fall open, then slide down your arms to pool on the floor around your feet.
"You can look at me," you said.
He looked up. His eyes dragged over your skin, tracing the lines of your collarbones, the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips. When you finally stood before him entirely unclothed, his breathing had gone ragged, his chest heaving with the effort of drawing air. His hands were white-knuckled fists now, pressing hard against his legs as if to stop himself from reaching out. You were close enough that he could see everything, including the dampness gathering between your thighs.
"I shouldn't even let you touch me."
"Please!" The word came out rough and immediate, tearing from his throat. "Let me… let me taste you."
He was trembling, his composure cracking completely. Then you reached down and took a slow, firm grip of his hair at the roots. You pulled him, jerking his head back so he had to look up at you, his neck bared.
"You may finish," you told him, your voice hard, "when I do."
He didn't hesitate. He surged forward, burying his face between your thighs, his hands coming up to grip your backside, pulling you hard against his mouth. He licked you with a desperate, sloppy enthusiasm, his tongue delving deep into your pussy, circling your clit with a pressure that made your knees weak. He groaned against you, the vibration traveling straight through your flesh, and you felt his hips jerk, his body grinding against the empty air.
He lasted approximately four seconds.
He let out a muffled, humiliating cry against your cunt, his fingers digging bruisingly into your hips as he shuddered. You felt the wet spot spreading against the front of your leg where his breeches pressed against you, the hot spill of his spend soaking through the fabric as he lost all control. He shook, his whole body betraying him completely, ruining himself before you had even felt a spark of real pleasure.
You looked down at him, your grip in his hair loosening but not letting go. He was panting, his face buried in your wetness, his shoulders heaving.
"You never listen," you said softly.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to speak, his voice wrecked, thick with shame and lingering arousal. "I know," he said immediately. "I know, I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you please, I beg you."
He looked up at you, his violet eyes swimming with unshed tears. He looked wrecked, utterly undone, and the sight of him on his knees, begging for a second chance, sent a fresh wave of heat through your veins.
"Alright. You may."
The silk ribbons felt cool and slippery between your fingers, a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. It had not been difficult to convince him to let you try something you had read in an erotic book one of your maids had given you, a dog-eared volume filled with illustrations that had made your breath hitch and your thighs press together. That was the first surprise. You had approached Baelor holding the lengths of crimson silk from your dressing table. You explained, in the most reasonable possible terms, what you had in mind. You wanted to restrain him. Baelor, always up to try something adventurous with you, had agreed with that easy, confident grace of his.
He was less amused now, or perhaps he was simply more affected than he cared to admit.
He lay back against the mountain of pillows. His wrists were bound loosely to the intricately carved wooden headboard with the silk. You knew he was strong enough to rip through the fabric in a heartbeat if he chose to. He had not chosen to break free. He was shirtless, the dark hair on his chest tapering down into the waistband of his breeches, his breathing already slightly elevated. You wore only a thin shift of white linen, the fabric nearly transparent in the golden light, clinging to the curves of your breasts and hips.
Then you had reached for an additional ribbon to tie it around his eyes.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Trust me." You placed it gently over his eyes, knotting it securely at the back of his head.
The darkness for him was immediate and total.
"Can you see me?"
"No," he replied, his tone tentative, testing the boundaries of this new game. "Is this part of it?"
"Yes, this is perfect."
He heard the shift of the mattress as you moved, the rustle of the sheets, and then he felt the warmth of you settling over him. You straddled his hips, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thighs. The position was bold, dominant, a stark reversal of the usual dynamic between the prince and his lady. You leaned down and pressed your lips to his. The kiss was soft and unhurried, a slow exploration that deepened as his lips parted beneath yours.
Then your lips grazed the column of his throat. You felt the vibration of his groan against your lips before you heard it. You moved to the curve of his shoulder, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark, feeling the muscles in his arms bunch as his hands pulled instinctively against the silk restraints.
He felt everything with extraordinary clarity. The fabric of your shift sliding against his bare skin was a maddening friction. The warmth of your breath against the damp tracks of your bites sent shivers racing down his spine. The slow, deliberate weight of you settling against him was intoxicating. You began to move your hips in a long, rolling grind against his still-clothed erection.
You could feel him thickening beneath you, the length of him pressing insistently against your clothed slit. You moaned, the sound raw and uninhibited, and leaned close to his ear.
"Look at you," you whispered, your voice dropping to a filthy murmur. "So hard already. I can feel how big you are, Baelor. You're throbbing against me."
He let out a sharp breath, his head falling back against the pillows.
"I can't wait," you continued, your words tumbling out in a rush of desire. "I can't wait to feel that thick cock inside me. I want you to split me open. I want to ride you until I can't walk, until you fill me up with your seed."
He was embarrassingly aware of how close he already was. Who knew your sweet lips, usually curved in polite smiles or soft laughter, were capable of uttering such debauchery? The contrast between your usual demeanour and this raw, dominant sexuality was his undoing. His control, usually iron-clad, was fracturing under the weight of your voice and the relentless movement of your hips.
You leaned in harder against him, crushing your soft breasts against his hard chest. The friction of your nipples through the linen against his skin made you gasp. You moaned again against his ear, a low, needy sound, and nipped at the sensitive skin underneath his earlobe.
That was the final straw.
Baelor came, hard. His hips snapped up involuntarily, seeking more friction, more pressure, driving you up slightly as his body seized. His hands pulled tight against the ribbons, the silk straining as his fists clenched. You felt the wet heat spreading through the front of his breeches, soaking into the fabric of your shift where you pressed against him. The pulsing of his cock was rhythmic and intense, a testament to how thoroughly you had undone him.
It was over before it had properly begun, pleasure crashing through him with the force of a tidal wave, leaving him breathless and trembling in its wake.
Silence descended on the room, broken only by the heavy sound of your breathing and the crackle of the fire. You sat back on your heels, watching him. His chest heaved, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin.
Slowly, you reached up and lifted the blindfold from his eyes.
The light returned to him in a rush. His eyes blinked open, hazy with aftershocks, and they immediately locked onto yours. There was a flush on his high cheekbones, a vulnerability in his gaze that he quickly tried to mask. He looked at the mess he had made, the dark stain on his breeches, and then back up at your face.
You reached for the knot at his left wrist, intending to free him, but he spoke.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice raspy but holding an edge of command.
"I just thought—" you started, your hand hovering over the silk.
"Take off my clothes," he said, cutting you off. His tone left no room for argument, though it was quiet. "And give me a moment."
You paused, your hand dropping to your lap as you looked at him. His eyes were darkening again with something that looked suspiciously like renewed hunger.
"Then put the blindfold back on," he added.
The corners of your mouth twitched with a smile that was impossible to suppress. "Baelor—"
"It is impolite to gloat."
You were deeply, peacefully asleep, lost in a dreamless drift. It wasn't a sound that woke you, but a sensation; the warm, solid weight of a body pressing against your back, the slow, deliberate movement of hips shifting the mattress, and the firm grip of hands settling on your hips.
Daeron.
You knew the feel of him immediately. He was radiating heat, a furnace against your spine, and he felt a little wine-soft. He had clearly come to you with a specific purpose in mind and had not entirely thought through the part where you were asleep. His breath was hot and uneven against the sensitive skin of your neck, ghosting over your pulse point in ragged exhales that smelled of rich red vintage.
He didn't speak. Instead, his mouth began to move, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the curve of your neck, drifting downward to the exposed slope of your chest. He was trying to wake you, his touch growing more insistent, fingers kneading the flesh of your hip with a desperate edge. He needed you, the urgency in his caresses screaming it louder than any words could.
You stirred, a low hum building in your throat as consciousness slowly dragged you up from the depths. The feeling of his lips on your skin sent a spark of heat through your veins, banishing the last of the sleep. He felt you wake, your body shifting against his, and his mouth found yours in the dimness.
He kissed you properly, needy and warm. There was no finesse in it, just a raw, overwhelming hunger that made your head spin. You kissed him back, your hands coming up to tangle in his sandy hair, pulling him closer. You turned toward him and spread your thighs, creating a space for him. He settled between your legs immediately and began kissing you again, swallowing your gasps as his hips began to roll against you. The rhythm was instinctual, a slow, grinding drag that pressed the seam of his breeches against the thin material of your sleep shift. The friction built steadily, a coil of heat tightening low in your belly, and you were just beginning to properly wake up, your mind clearing enough to think about how much you wanted him, how good the heavy weight of his body felt pinning you to the mattress.
Then, he went rigid against you.
The movement stopped abruptly. A sound that was half-groan, half-apology tore out of his throat, muffled against your lips. Then, silence. He pulled back, breaking the kiss, and in the faint moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains, you could see his face. He looked stricken, his violet eyes wide and filled with horror.
"I am sorry," he said immediately, his voice cracking. He started to scramble back, putting distance between your bodies. "I don't know how that—"
"Daeron," you said, your voice husky with sleep and arousal. You reached out, your fingers brushing his arm, but he flinched slightly, caught in the spiral of his own guilt.
"I just—"
"Daeron."
There was no need for his apologies. You shifted your legs, letting them fall open wider in invitation, the heat between your thighs throbbing in time with your heartbeat.
"Take off your clothes, and fuck me."
He stared at you for a moment, his mouth slightly open, the words processing slowly through the haze of wine and panic. Then, the stricken expression dissolved, the tension draining from his shoulders. A slow, crooked smile spread across his face, something much more like himself, wicked, warm, and utterly relieved.
"Yes," he breathed, his hands already moving to the laces of his breeches.
You sat beside Lyonel, the heavy velvet of your gown pooling around your legs, a perfect picture of courtly decorum. But beneath the table, hidden in the shadows of the long linen cloth, your hand had rested on his knee.
At first, it was innocent enough. Just a touch of grounding. Then, your fingers had crept higher, tracing the inseam of his breeches with a deliberate, maddening slowness. You felt the muscle jump beneath your palm, a reflex he couldn't quite suppress. You leaned in close, your breath ghosting over the shell of his ear, whispering about the wine or something someone had said to you, words that meant nothing compared to the press of your thumb against the growing bulge in his lap.
He had lasted longer than you expected. Lyonel possessed a will of iron, but you knew his tells, the tightening of his jaw, the sharp intake of breath whenever your nails grazed his inner thigh. You played him like a lute, pulling back whenever he leaned into your touch, leaving him hovering on the precipice of frustration.
Finally, just as the servers brought out the spiced pears, he had turned to you. His eyes were dark, burning with a heat.
"We are leaving, now."
The moment the heavy doors clicked shut, the pretence of nobility vanished.
You fell onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and urgent hands. The room was cold, but his skin was a furnace against yours. This was the game you played, the long, agonising torture. He was maddeningly skilled at it, his large hands knew exactly how to map the topography of your body. He had you pinned to the mattress, his fingers working between your thighs with a precision that made your toes curl. He would bring you to the brink, your hips bucking off the furs, desperate for that final friction, and then he would stop.
Now, the air in the chamber was heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. You moved to straddle him, positioning your knees on either side of his head. The furs beneath you were soft, but the only thing that mattered was the man beneath you. Lyonel looked up at you, his features softened by an expression of utter devotion. He grinned, that warm, delighted expression that always made your stomach flip, but this time it was darker, hungrier.
You lowered yourself onto his waiting mouth.
The first touch of his tongue was electric. He licked a broad, flat stripe up your slit, parting your folds, groaning as he tasted you. The sound vibrated against your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure straight up your spine.
"Fuck, Lyonel," you gasped, your hands finding purchase in the headboard.
His hands came up to grip your thighs, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you open for him. He was relentless. He sucked your clit into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bundle of nerves with a rhythm that threatened to shatter you completely. You rolled your hips against his face, grinding down, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him.
He was lost in it. You could feel it in the way he moved, the way his breathing hitched through his nose.
The wet sounds were obscene, a sloppy, squelching rhythm that filled the room. You looked down the line of your body, past the heave of your breasts, to see his eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was so absorbed in the taste of you, in the quivering of your thighs against his palms, that he was completely unaware of his own body's betrayal.
You felt the tension coiling low in your belly, a tight, hot knot that demanded release. You were close, so close, riding the edge of the precipice. His tongue was magic, firm and insistent, pushing you higher and higher.
"Gods, yes, don't stop, right there—" you cried out, your voice breaking.
He moaned against your cunt, the sound deep and guttural, vibrating through your core. He gripped your thighs harder, his fingers bruising, anchoring himself as he drove into you with renewed vigour. He was chasing your climax, desperate to feel you fall apart around him.
But then, something changed.
His rhythm faltered. The steady, torturous movements of his tongue grew erratic, jerky. A high-pitched whine escaped his throat, muffled by your flesh. His body went rigid beneath you, the muscles of his abdomen locking up hard.
You froze, hovering over him, your own pleasure momentarily forgotten in confusion.
Beneath you, Lyonel let out a long, muffled groan that sounded almost pained. His hips lifted off the bed, jerking involuntarily, seeking friction that wasn't there. His hands on your thighs spasmed as a full-body tremor racked him from his shoulders to his toes, completely untouched.
The realisation hit you, followed immediately by a surge of dark, triumphant arousal. You watched him ride it out, his breath hitching in ragged gasps against your wetness, his face flushed a deep, mortified red.
You lifted your hips slightly, breaking the connection, and looked down at him. He looked as though he wasn't entirely sure what planet he was on, let alone how he had just lost control so spectacularly. You raised a single eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth despite the throbbing need still pulsing between your own legs.
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. A slow, sheepish grin spread across his face, though the redness in his cheeks didn't fade. He let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head slightly against the pillow.
"It seems," he rasped, his voice wrecked and husky, "you win this time."
It had been a good week and a half of coming to your chambers after a long night, the candles burning low, and finding Rhae curled against your side. Her pale hair was always spread across your pillow like a spill of moonlight, her small fist tucked under her chin as she breathed in the deep, rhythmic pattern of the truly exhausted. She was incredibly fond of you and had learned early that you would always let her in. You never had the heart to wake her, never the desire to send her away.
Maekar would look at the two of you, his daughter and his wife, and the sight of it always softened the hard lines of his face. But he would complain to you, of course. You had listened patiently, nodding at his grumbled frustrations about lack of intimacy and stolen moments, and then you had simply let her in again the next night.
Tonight was different.
Tonight, he had come to you before she could migrate from her own room. He had shut the door firmly, the heavy wood thudding into the frame with a finality that made your heart rate pick up. Tonight, he had said, she stays in her own chambers. No arguments, no soft pleading looks.
You were still fully dressed, the fabric of your sleeping gown bunching slightly at your waist as you straddled his lap. Maekar was leaning back against the headboard, the pillows piled high behind his broad shoulders. He looked up at you, his large hands spanned your waist, the heat of them seeping through the layers of your clothes, grounding you. Your fingers were buried in his hair, the platinum strands slipping through your grip like silk.
You could feel the tension in him as he kissed you. The coiled want of too many nights with Rhae asleep between you, of mornings interrupted by childish giggles and the demands of the day. He was starving for it, for the feel of you without barriers.
His hands moved from your waist, sliding down to grip your hips, then around to the curve of your backside, pulling you flush against him. The contact was electric. You could feel the hard ridge of his cock beneath his breeches, pressing insistently against your core through the barrier of your skirts. It was a tangible reminder of exactly how much he had missed this, how much he needed you.
You began to move in a slow, deliberate roll of your hips against his lap, testing the friction. You felt him twitch beneath you, hardening further as you ground down. The sensation sent a jolt of heat straight through your belly, your pussy clenching around nothing in anticipation. You kissed him back hungrily, desperately, your pace against him quickening as the heat built between you. You ground down on him harder, wanting to feel every inch of that thick length against you.
His hands weren't idle. They kneaded your breasts through the fabric of your bodice, his palms rough and warm, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebbled into tight, aching points. Then they moved across your hips, grabbing your behind, squeezing the flesh hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth. His mouth traveled down your throat, his beard scratching deliciously against your sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He nipped at the pulse point where your neck met your shoulder, and you arched into him, a moan spilling from your lips.
Then he let out a groan that you were very familiar with, a low, rumbling sound of pleasure and frustration that vibrated against your chest. His grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he thrust up against you, seeking more of that sweet, torturous friction. And then he went still.
You felt the sudden dampness seeping through the layers of fabric between you, the hot, wet proof of his release soaking into your skirts and his breeches.
Silence descended on the room, broken only by the ragged sound of your breathing.
You leaned back to look at him, your hands resting on his shoulders. You felt the smile pulling at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it, a mix of amusement and affection and undeniable arousal. He looked wrecked, his pupils blown wide, his lips swollen from your kisses, a flush of color high on his pale cheekbones.
"Do not," he said. His voice was very controlled, a tight leash on his composure. He was not looking at you, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. "Say a word."
You pressed your lips together, trying to suppress the laughter bubbling in your throat.
"It has been," he said after a moment, still not looking at you, his jaw tight enough to crack, "a considerable amount of time."
"It really has," you agreed, and your voice was perfectly even, though your eyes were dancing with mischief.
He looked at you then. The expression on his face, a mixture of chagrin, lingering lust, and a dark promise, made you bite the inside of your cheek hard.
"You will have to clean up the mess you've made," he told you against your lips, his voice rough and low, sending a fresh wave of heat through your veins. "Then we will begin again."
Neither of you had ever done this before. Valarr had asked Daeron for advice earlier that day. In retrospect, this had been an error in judgment. But Daeron was his cousin and Daeron was experienced; there was no polite way around it, and Valarr had needed guidance from somewhere. The alternative was asking his father, which was not something he was willing to do under these circumstances.
Go slow, Daeron had said. Keep doing what feels good. Women like being kissed under the jaw, and bitten.
Bitten, Valarr had repeated, his voice rising slightly.
The shoulder, Daeron had clarified. Not the face.
So here he was. Valarr turned from the fire, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. He crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under his boots, and stopped just in front of you.
"We don't have to..." you started, your voice barely a whisper, but the words died in your throat as he reached for you.
He pulled you into his arms, the movement sudden but careful. You were still mostly dressed, the layers of fabric between you feeling like a wall you didn't know how to breach. He could feel you nervous against him, the slight tremor in your hands as they rested on his chest, and the knowledge that you were nervous made him feel slightly better about how nervous he was.
You kissed gently, learning the shape of each other. His lips were dry at first, pressing against yours with hesitant pressure. You moved your mouth against his, experimenting, and he responded with a soft exhale, his breath warm against your cheek. He was aware of his own heartbeat in a way he usually was not, a drumbeat in his ears that drowned out the rest of the world.
He pulled back slightly, turning you both and pulling you onto his lap. His gaze dropped to your neck. Following Daeron's instruction, he kissed under your jaw. The spot was sensitive; Daeron had been right about that. You made a small sound, a hum that vibrated against his lips, and pressed closer, your body moulding against the hard lines of his.
Encouraged, Valarr's hands moved from your waist to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. He leaned in again, his lips trailing down the column of your throat. He found the curve where your neck met your shoulder, the fabric of your gown pushed aside just enough to expose the skin. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then bit down, carefully.
The sensation was sharp, a flash of pain that melted instantly into heat. You gasped, your head falling back, and your hips shifted instinctively against him. The friction of your bodies grinding together through the layers of clothes sent a jolt through you. Valarr stiffened, his breath hitching in his throat. The feeling of you moving against him, warm and willing, was overwhelming.
You were moving against him now, slow and tentative, both of you figuring something out together. You could feel the hardness of him through his breeches, a distinct pressure that made your stomach clench with anticipation. His hands on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into the fabric of your dress, and he pulled you closer, eliminating what little space remained.
Your movements on his lap quickened as the urgency between you built. You weren't sure what you were doing, guided only by instinct and the growing ache between your legs. You rocked your hips, the friction sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. Valarr groaned low in his throat. He placed kisses on your chest, open-mouthed against the swell of your breasts. He tugged at the laces of your bodice, his fingers clumsy but determined. When the fabric loosened, he pushed it down, exposing one breast to the cool air. He didn't wait, didn't ask. He leaned in and took one of your nipples into his mouth.
The wet heat of his tongue was a shock. He licked and sucked, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, holding him to you. The sensation was too much and not enough all at once. Your hips bucked against him, seeking more pressure, more contact.
Then, white. Absolute white.
It happened without warning. Valarr heard himself make a sound he had never made before, a ragged, desperate shout that he muffled against your skin. His whole body shuddered, pleasure rolling through him in waves, completely beyond his control. His hips jerked against you, once, twice, and then he went rigid, his grip on you almost bruising. You felt the heat of him through his clothes, a dampness spreading that marked his release.
You were stunned, your body still humming with unspent energy, the heat between your thighs throbbing in time with your pulse.
You waited, unsure of what to do. Valarr didn't move. He seemed frozen, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
"Do we..." you said carefully after a few moments, your voice trembling slightly. "Do we keep going?"
Valarr lifted his head slowly, his eyes meeting yours. The embarrassment was there, but the need to be close to you, to finish what you had started, was stronger.
How have we not linked the Targaryens and the Aryan race? like remove targ and its right there. the aryan race used more modern day is linked to white supremacy. like yall walking into the point and still missing it.
anyway love your work! amazing writing <3
and if anything, the targaryens are also written as a deconstruction of that idea. they often see themselves as these almost mythical beings above everyone else, but on the page they’re portrayed as extremely human : greedy, petty, vain, egotistical, sometimes brilliant but just as often deeply flawed. they believe their blood makes them superior, yet the narrative repeatedly shows how fragile that belief actually is.
it almost pokes at that whole nietzschean “superman” fantasy by showing that these supposedly exceptional ppl are just as messy and destructive as anyone else
so yh, in that sense, they actually function as a kind of commentary on those ideologies [especially ideas tied to racial superiority and purity.] the story constantly shows that the myth of the “superior bloodline” is unstable, destructive and ultimately self-defeating. so pointing out those themes isn’t saying people can’t enjoy the story …. it’s just acknowledging the historical and literary ideas the trope is engaging with ;)
( thank you again for the kind words about my writing, that really means a lot <3 )
I also love how black-haired/Brown Targaryens enter into this racial parallel? My obsession with Baelor Breakspear Targaryen made me realize that how all the discourse around him not being a real Targaryen because of his Dornish heritage and appearance is absolutely a PoC experience.
writing is easy! first you must explain something you do not understand, you must express the turmoil within a person using dots and lines, you must craft a living world using hands that were never made to. and then you die
Would you be okay writing something smutty with Adam Dalgliesh and a top male reader?
Sorry if it is not something you'd do, love ur writing ❤️
YESYESYESYES !!!! Adam deserves to be topped- by who it DOES NOT MATTER!!! THANK YOU FOR THE ASKKKK!! gonna have some fun with thisss !!
cw: MLM, male! reader, top! reader, bottom! adam, pwp, porn with some plot, open ending, adam is lowkey whipped for reader but that’s just me, p in a, adam gets fucked so good bro goes blank lmao, GIVE THIS MAN A LOVING PARTNER ASAP OR I’LL CRY
word count: 2.7k
Adam was stressed- to the breaking point. A few drinks could ease his stress sure, but you..you could do so much more than alcohol could provide.
The remnants of whiskey burned as it traveled down Adam’s throat, the sweet, smoky liquor leaving a delicious burn that was meant to settle easily in his stomach. Yet it sat there heavy, a consistent warmth spreading throughout his body as he leaned into the deep green padding of the booth behind him.
His blue gaze raked across the room, watching as Daniel rounded the corner of the pool table, waiting for your next move. You stood with a concentrated brow, eyes set on the solid colored billiards, your pool cue resting comfortably in your calloused hands.
Adam’s gaze followed as you leaned forward against the pool table, blue eyes glassy with the effect of the alcohol in his system, watching earnestly as your large build guided itself in a lower position, before striking true to the solid black 8 ball, thus ending the less than exciting game.
Daniel let out a hefty sigh before clasping his hand with yours, shaking it in fair sportsmanship before turning towards the conversation that picked up near the back of the bar, where other investigators from The Yard were gathered in an intense game of poker.
You stood your ground at the pool table, setting it up for the next group to use before returning to your post nearby, hand grasping the perspiring glass of beer. Adam gulped subconsciously as you brought it to your lips, taking a few hefty swallows of the sour liquid, licking the foam from your top lip, unoccupied eyes scanning the room before locking onto his own, a satisfied smirk set itself on your face.
“Something caught your eye, Chief Inspector?”
A shocked gasp escaped his lips, now sitting up a bit straighter, one leg tossed over the other in a well calculated yet casual manner. He had been caught admiring- admiring someone he had not wanted to know about his hidden desires.
He knew in this day and age many people explored their sexuality, yet he felt entirely too old to take part in it. He was far past the age range to find love anyways, to settle down, so out of his element and thrown to the wolves as they say.
“No.. no, nothing at all. Just observing your win.”
“A good one, wasn’t it. I thought I could feel your gaze on my back each time I took my turn. Quite interesting, is it not?”
You chuckled, feet moving lazily to cross the space between your table to where he sat, hip leaning against the side of the table, beer long forgotten and left to warm on behind you. You leaned over just a bit, chest slightly on display from the undone buttons of your fine pressed button up top, a sliver of the gold chain that rested along your collar bones poking out and immediately locked away in
Adam’s mind.
What he wouldn’t do to run his fingers down it- hell, he’d even take it between his teeth if that meant he could get underneath you.
His cheeks flooded a dark red, very obvious that it was not the alcohol’s fault but his own mind thinking ten times faster than he would have liked it to, and it was all him to blame- not you, not the look you gave him, not the gleam in your eyes when you looked over his current position- sat lazily in the booth, suit jacket thrown across the empty space beside him, hair a bit more disheveled than it was from this morning while the crew was elbow deep in papers and evidence over the case that was finally wrapped up this morning.
His gaze fell to the others just behind you, all preoccupied within each other’s company and conversation, none the wiser to the growing tension between their Chief Inspector and the still newly hired DS. He felt your pointer finger slid right under his chin, turning his face to yours with a single fluid motion, your bottom lip sitting comfortably between your teeth. A soft chuckle escaped through your nose as you felt him heavily underneath your touch.
“Distracted, Mr. Dalgliesh?”
“No, not at all. Simply observing my surroundings.”
“And what are your surroundings currently?”
“A handsome, young Detective Sargent. Though, I do appreciate this view much more than the company of this bar.”
And that was all you needed. Collecting your jackets, saying quick farewells under the guise of ‘guiding the older Chief Inspector to his car, seems he had too much to drink’, and no was any the wiser to question either of you. The chilled night air turned into the warm embrace of two bodies pressed against the leather of the backseat in Adam’s sleek Jaguar. Huffs, pants, and the sound of lips dressed against each other were the sole sounds that echoed in the safe space created by you both.
Your hand rested gently against Adam’s chest, right above his collarbone and just below the base of his neck. Adam’s hands were gripping the back bench of his car, its small frame causing both your bodies to crowd against each other, the heat radiating off of your forms causing a soft film of steam to attach itself to the windows. You had elbowed your jacket off before Adam parked the car and shut the engine off, before you both crawled your way into the back seat, sharing a heated gaze before your tongues began to battle against one another (yours obviously seizing dominance over your superior).
Adam whined deep in his throat, his hands gripping the front of your already disheveled shirt, searching for something- anything- that could ground him in this moment. His lips followed after yours as you pulled away, tucking your head against his pulse point to leave an ill-mannered bite against it, causing his hips to stutter up against your own- both of your trousers growing tighter with each touch of sin that coursed through your entire beings.
“You’re wearing far too many layers.”
“I could say the same about yourself, Mr. Dalgliesh.”
“Adam. Just Adam.”
“Adam. Suits you.”
Adam smirked up at you, his pronounced canines flashing under the pale glow of moonlight that danced its way through the gradually darkening windows. His calloused hands reached to the open buttons of your shirt, skin to skin contact causing your face to flush as you pushed against his hold, leaning down to capture his lips with yours in another kiss as your hips grinded down against his own, guttural groans breaking out between the two of you as the tents in your pants brushed against one another- his sat solid against his right thigh, twitching and eager to please, a prominent shadow casting an erotic image you made sure to store in your mind for later use.
Your hands rested heavily against his hips, thumbs ghosting under the hem of his pants, hooking into the underside of his underwear as your mouth closed in along his neck. His hands made quick work of removing his vest, discarding it on the ground of the car before they became preoccupied with unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. The heat between your bodies caused a light sheen of sweat to cover his skin, allowing your tongue to taste the headiness of him with each swipe against his throat.
Your shirt was tossed down with his, Adam’s hands exploring the taut expanse of your back before dipping down into the hem of your pants, caressing the globes of your ass through the material of your boxers, causing your hips to cant forward against his, a shared groan floating into the charged air that was shared between you both.
You chuckled briefly between hot breaths, leaning down to seize his lips between your own, your tongue reaching out to intertwine with his- spit and teeth rubbing against one another as your hands lowered to his trousers, unbuttoning them in a precise execution before reaching underneath the deep navy fabric, cupping the outline of his erection that pressed against the front of his boxers.
Adam hissed out a breath, rocking his hips against your palm as he propped himself up on his elbows, chasing after your kiss-swollen lips that pulled away to nip and suck at the forming bruises against his throat. Trousers were discarded, left in your respected briefs as each of you rocked gently against one another, tents bumped against a thigh or each other causing hot breaths to seep into the electric air.
You threaded your fingers through the hemline of his briefs, tugging them down his exposed legs before casting them aside to join the rest of the offending pieces of fabric gathered in a pile below you both, One hand wrapped around his cock, jerking your wrist just slightly only to be blessed with the faintest of whimpers that spilled from the back of his throat, his hips rocking against the fist that gently held his manhood. Your other hand traveled down to the space between, leaning down to spit gently against his winking hole before carefully thrusting just the beginning of your forefinger inside. Adam hissed out, his brow furrowing before it began to relax at the lack of movement- your finger a constant weight against his inner walls, allowing the stretch to settle in his bones before you started to move it in the same pace as your fist that still caressed his cock as it throbbed against your fingers.
“Good boy, Adam. Just like that- need to stretch you before we can start the real fun.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before.. I’m quite out of my element here.”
“I’ve got you, sweetheart. Just trust me.”
One finger became two as they scissored inside of his welcoming entrance, Adam’s chest growing heavier with ever labored breath as his hips rocked down against your digits- his cock twitching with each thrust against that delicious spot that caused his ever racing mind to blank. Your fist jerked against his cock a bit more, teetering him just at the edge of release before slowing down once more, tightening your grip on him just a bit before letting go. Your fingers left his entrance, gaping and winking back at you before moving to push your briefs down just below your balls, cock bobbing heavily between your legs.
Adam’s eyes widened a fraction, saliva invading his mouth at the sight, willing himself to gulp it back down as your finger tilted his head back.
“Eyes on me. I’ve got you. I’ll be honest with you- it’s going to hurt. But we go at your pace, okay?”
Adam nodded, receiving a sharp slap against his thigh, causing a pained groan to jolt out of him- his cock disagreeing with his pain receptors as it throbbed against his stomach.
“Words, Adam. Use them for me. We go at your pace, okay?”
“Okay..yes. Please just..please..fuck me..”
You aligned yourself with his entrance, the head of your cock bumping against the resistant skin there, spit dribbling from your lips to serve as self lubricant before rubbing it against the veined skin. You pushed once more, feeling the head slowly sink into him as a shared groan tumbled from the both of you. Adam felt the sharp ache that followed, his fingers digging deep half-moons into your shoulders as your lips met his, molded together in a heated dance as you continued to sink into him inch by inch- taking it slow and steady to allow his body to adjust to the sudden intrusion. His heavy breath escaped through his nose, fanning against your cheek from where his head was positioned in the kiss, his eyes screwed shut as a tear escaped, the tear mixing beautifully with the sweat that stuck to his skin.
You gave an experimental thrust after you had fully seated your thighs against the back of his ass, feeling his walls flutter against your cock as he fully accepted you, a chuckle following as you watched the way his back arched up into you. His back lifting off the leather, sticky and restrained against the material that clung to him, his cock bobbing on its own with each course of pleasure that now racked his entire being. One hand stationed at his hip, the other gripping the back of the seat as you began to set a steady pace- in, out, in, out- deep enough to throw the breath out of his lungs with each snap of your hips, His head fell back against the window, the humidity causing them to fog further as each thrust picked up in pace after the other, his jaw slack as whines and whimpers escaped. He hadn’t felt this amount of pleasure in a long time, his mind clouded with how good it felt, how full he felt, how much he wanted this- wanted you.
Your hand fell from the seat to wrap around his cock once more, jerking your wrist in time with each thrust, if not a bit faster as your eyes stayed trained on where your cock disappeared inside of him, throbbing inside of him causing his thighs to twitch against your hips at the sensation. His hands had left scratches down your back, angry red lines that stopped just above the curve of your ass where his hands now held residence, squeezing and digging his fingernails into them, as if to push you further into him. Adam wanted to be fully consumed by you, wanted to get lost in this sea of pleasure with no oar in sight. Just you and him, and that’s all he could ask for at this moment.
Your thrusts began to increase in pace, your peak just at its cusp, your hand furthering its speed as you leaned down to capture his lips with yours once more. You could feel he was close- the way his walls gripped your cock in a pillowed grasp as his hips moved down to meet yours in broken strokes. After one more delicious stroke to his member, he felt the ropes of his release coat your fingers, shooting up across his stomach, one even landing square in the middle of his chest, mixing lightly with the coarse hair that sat there- a stuttered groan of your name mixed with a high pitched whine as his walls clamped down harder around you. Your hips falter once, twice, before releasing inside of him, the feeling of your cock thrumming against his insides as you painted the walls with your release. Your forehead rested against his collarbone, hair a mess of sweat and tangles resting there as jolts of pleasure and exhaustion rode through every muscle.
Adam’s weathered hands ran along your back, gripping your shoulders softly before moving his head to rest atop yours, a kiss pressed to the crown of your head as you remained seated inside of him. Your body fell ungracefully against his, uncaring of the sticky texture that was now sandwiched between your bare stomach and his, his cock softening against the side of his thigh, yours softening in strides as it finally slid from him. The empty feeling now felt foreign to him, a hiss sliding between his teeth before he settled back into the comfort of your embrace. Your lips sat against his in a gentle kiss, laughing softly at the euphoric feeling that followed post-orgasm.
“You did so well for me, Adam. So good.”
“I could say the same for you, yet it seems you did the majority of the work.”
“I wanted to make sure you were satisfied, I hope I didn’t disappoint.”
“You? Never. You are nothing but thorough with your work.”
“Maybe now would be the appropriate time to ask you out for dinner then? Maybe breakfast- if you’ll have me?”
A full bellied laugh trickled from Adam then, his head thrown back as the red flush to his cheeks continued to deepen, his hands moving up to hold your face in their calloused grasp before he calmed, moving back to look at your eyes- eyes that bore nothing but affection and infatuation.
“Yes…Yes I think now could be an appropriate time. However, I would have said yes even if you had asked back at the bar.”
tag list: @ghostlybfgf @vulturehearted @lunaetferox @hannibalsbaby
How easy I think it is to pull Bertie Carvel's characters
Bertie nation, Carveliers, I need your help because I haven't watched Jonathan Strange, nor the Crown, nor the rest of Bertie's fantastic filmography...
You do not care much for dancing in public. But sometimes, beneath watchful eyes, a single dance is enough to make the body remember — and enough for him to ask for it again in private.
Characters: Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, Duncan the Tall, Daeron the Drunken Targaryen, Valarr Targaryen, Lyonel Baratheon, Raymun Fossoway.
English isn’t my first language, so thank you for reading.
Baelor
Before the Court
The noise of music and voices crashes over you, making you squint. Your fingers tighten around the Crown Prince’s forearm, and his gaze drops to meet yours. Your brows are knit, your lips pressed thin. You catch his silent question and nod. A ghost of a smile.
A step into the center of the hall. Your chest feels tight. His hand rests between your shoulder blades — firm, calm, holding your posture. His thumb barely shifts, no pressure. The Prince’s hand changes position; his lips whisper low, forcing you to strain your ears. A slow beginning. There is soft support beneath your hand; his body does not swallow you. His chest, close to yours, rises. You breathe in response.
The fabric of your robes swirls in time, masking your trembling legs — a moment of leaning away. The man’s hands guide you, drawing you out of others' sight. Your feet lift from the floor, your hem brushing against his legs. A sense of solid ground at your back, where his fingers still hold you. His steps fall in sync with yours. Eye to eye.
After the Court
The last document slips from the Hand’s fingers, settling on the table. His gaze snags on you. You stare out the window, your back to him. Shoulders level, spine straight. Breathing slow. The scrape of wood behind you; you turn your head, watching as he comes toward you.
A smile on the man’s lips; his hand slowly settles on your shoulder. His lips touch your hair, making your eyelids flutter shut as a faint sigh escapes you. Your hands rise, resting against his chest. Warm – an even rhythm. He leans back slightly, and you find yourself having to lean in closer to him.
A rough palm slides from your shoulders to your waist, pulling you deeper into the room and slowly turning you. His fingers tap lightly along your spine. The man’s lips curl. Your breath falters. A shiver runs through your body, and you cling to his shoulders as your feet leave the floor for another turn. His eyes seek yours as he dips you in the dance, holding you steady.
Maekar
Under the Gaze
A bead of sweat trickled down your neck, and your throat felt parched. Maekar loomed beside you, his hands clasped behind his back. Close. You straightened your spine, inhaling slowly as the others gathered in the center of the Great Hall. The music echoed in your ears. A first dance, a second — and still, you both stand. You do not look.
The man turns his head, meeting the King’s gaze, and frowns. Maekar’s hand rose, palm up. You notice, and slowly lift your own hand — barely trembling — placing your palm into his. His fingers tighten. The Prince’s back is straight, his jaw clenched.
In the center of the hall, you stand face to face, beginning the movement. Every step you take is a tremor; your legs are unsteady. Every turn strikes the air from your lungs; your chest is tight. He does not let go. A breath is lost beneath your ribs, and your head bows. Maekar himself lifts you, himself guides you. Even while his own body is like a wire.
Behind the Door
The rhythmic drumming of rain against the window. The quiet swaying of branches. Your hand rests on the shelf while your foot braces against a chair to reach for a book. Too high. The wood creaks under your weight. The man watches you, and the rustle of his robes sounds from behind your back.
Hands grip your waist firmly, lowering you but not letting go. You lift your head, looking into the face of the man who frowns. You do not let him speak. You place a hand on his shoulder, and it tenses. His frame looms over you. You lean back. He holds. He follows. Your step back is his step forward. A turn in time with the sound of glass.
Fingers tighten against your back as you try to pull away. Your palm settles onto his chest. The man’s jaw twitches, and his shoulders drop. Your eyes meet. A thud in your chest. His cheek brushes your temple. You swallow, lids closing. A rough sound vibrates beneath your palm. Goosebumps prickle your skin, and a soft exhale follows. You continue your steps.
Duncan
Under the Open Sky
The sound of full cups. The thud of boots in rhythm. The merry music of common folk. You sit apart, sipping your drink, your back to the dancers. A small hand clasps yours. It pulls. Young Egg, grinning, drags you along, skipping with every step. Your lips part, but no words come out.
In the center towers Dunk, dancing awkwardly, elbows tucked tight to his ribs. You smirk. He’s drawing closer. You maneuver through the crowd, shoulders hunched. A shove. A couple clips you with an elbow, sending you reeling back to collide with something solid.
Large, familiar hands grip your shoulders as eyes sweep over you from head to toe. Dunk’s gaze meets yours. You shake your head, pulling away, but a small hand seizes both your arm and Dunk’s. You both flush, finally spinning in circles, led along by Egg.
Among the Trees
The low hiss of the campfire and the shifting of horses. A child’s voice. You stood apart, shaking out damp clothes, the moisture settling at your feet. Your head tilted back toward the stars. A quiet call. You startle, feet slipping, and someone catches you, hoisting you clean off the ground.
The damp fabric thudded into the grass. The hedge knight’s two wide pale eyes froze before your face. His breath hitched, but his hands held you fast. You both blinked. A small laugh escaped your lips, and Dunk dipped his head, feeling the heat rush to his face. He set you down. Your feet came to rest atop his.
He took a step – you moved with him. The man’s shoulders tensed, but you only smiled. An exhale broke from his lips, and he repeated the steps. Together you swayed on his feet, his hands steady at your waist. Right until he slipped himself, and you both tumbled into the grass. Together still.
Daeron
Where There Is Noise
Loud laughter and the heat of voices. Your temples throb. Your body is turned half away from the center. Daeron has already raised his glass, but stills when he catches his father’s frown across the room. His fingers tense. Strands of hair cling lightly to his temples. He exhales and sets the glass aside.
You turn your head when his hand finds yours and follow the small tilt of it. You nod to Daeron and place your hand in his. His back is straight, but his shoulders slope forward, as if against himself. His head leans slightly to one side. Too many eyes. Your jaw tightens.
The first figure. A measured distance of a palm’s width between your bodies. His fingers tremble. A nail catches lightly against your skin. You adjust your hand. The prince’s head is bent toward you, but turned aside. An uneven shift, and a quiet sound slips from your lips. Your face tightens. Daeron’s shoulders jolt, and his eyes lift to your face. You shake your head and move a little closer. An attempt at one rhythm.
Where There Is Silence
The faint chime of crystal by the half-open window. Night air and the rustle of leaves. The goblet stands full, untouched. You sit by the hearth, reading, until the scent of mint folds around you. A faint sound. An uneven touch at your shoulder.
He draws you up without pulling away from you, and you yield. Space remains between you, but your fingers are laced together. His head is bowed. His brows are knit. A long pause, and then he starts to move. To the side — and you follow. He watches. You step — and he follows you. Again. A shiver. Again. A soft breath.
Your foot catches the edge of the rug, but his hand is suddenly there beneath your ribs, catching you. The grip tightens. A faint laugh, a sharp little joke, and you roll your eyes. Chest to chest. Your hands settle lightly at his neck. His hands rest on you; his fingers go still, then slowly tighten. Silence gathers around you as your silhouettes sway from side to side.
Valarr
Under the Gaze of the Court
His hands are tucked into the folds of his garments, concealing interlaced fingers. The Prince’s back is straight, yet his eyes flit from one dancing couple to another. You do not look; you give a slight tug to the side. He leans toward you, tilting his head just so, yet he avoids your gaze as he gently draws you out onto the floor. His breathing slows.
The young man’s hands slowly settle into the proper position. All too proper. You keep your eyes on the floor as he leads. A missed step. Your toe catches against his. A faint tremor courses through him as he rights your course, maneuvering you both through the throng of other couples.
His mismatched irises sweep across your face, and his lips thin. Now, it is his hand that falters. You lift your head, offering a faint smile before the turn, and let out a breath. His movements steady. The corners of his mouth twitch. His grip on your fingers tightens.
In Shared Breath
Your silhouette moves in the mirror. The sputtering of candles and the faint rustle of pages fill the room, while the air is heavy with the scent of an approaching storm. The Prince looks up from his book, his gaze lingering upon you. You hear a soft footfall and see him in the reflection. His hands circle your waist, his breath warming your shoulder. The shape of a smile touches your skin. A pale lock of his hair catches the light.
Your feet tangle as you turn, and you lurch, but his grip is steadfast. No movement, no breath. A quiet laugh escapes you, and once more you sway toward him. He flinches, recoiling for a heartbeat, only to draw you close again. One of his hands rests at the small of your back, the other clasps yours. The young man’s lips brush your knuckles as his feet step back. He is pulling you in.
The crackle of logs in the hearth. A quiet whisper. Your bodies sway to the rhythm of the waves crashing against the cliffs of Dragonstone. Forward. Backward. He tilts the both of you until your foreheads touch. Your breaths mingle, and your lips brush the bridge of his nose. The Prince’s cheeks redden, and though his hand trembles, he does not let go.
Lyonel
Under Rolling Laughter
You moved through the crowd toward the far corner. One last effort. Laughter broke behind you. A strong arm pulls you against a broad chest, circling your waist. A sharp pivot. Your jaw tightens at the sight of the man smiling, tipping his head toward the dancing couples. A pause, and you breathe out.
His steps are wide, and your feet barely touch the ground. His hands keep hold of you as you move, and your body nearly hangs on him. Your eyes stay on the floor. The music rises again. He bends over you. The first step. A sharp turn. Your skirts stream around you. Again. Again.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, and he only laughs. His cloak flares with every turn, shielding part of you from the others. Warm breath brushes the top of your head. A chuckle, and your noses meet. Your jaw loosens.
Alone With a Smile
Warm candlelight filled the bedroom, while the hum of the man’s eager voice blurred into white noise. You sat, pulling off your shoes and rubbing your trembling feet. A light cramp. Your face tightened, and you leaned back in the chair with an exhale. Silence hung.
You flinch and open your eyes at the touch of warm hands on your ankle. The man’s large hands ease your legs straight. Your breath hitches. Your legs loosen. His fingers crept higher. You shake your head with a faint smile, hearing his laughter answer yours. The world tilts.
Your feet no longer touch the ground, and your hands brace against Lyonel’s shoulders. You look down at him. The room spins. The man’s strong arms close around your thighs. The beat of his heart in his chest. A turn. A sway. A smile spreads across your lips, and laughter breaks from your chest like a storm.
Raymun
Where He Builds
You stood together at the edge of the dance floor while people spun around you. You leaned back, watching Raymun’s profile as he leaned toward the dancers. A smile spread across his face, and he nodded, starting toward the others. Then he stopped short.
Your hand was in his, but you did not step with him. You leaned back again when your eyes met. Your lips pressed thin. He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the dancers over his shoulder before looking back at you. Your chest tightened. He did not let go of your hand, but he stopped trying to pull you forward.
A moment passes. Then you step — and his hand is at your waist. You freeze, lifting your head. He smiles, shaking his head as he draws you farther from the dancing. You blink, and your heart stumbles.
Where You Built Together
You were helping him gather his things. He watched you while your hands carefully closed the chest. He leaned closer. You turned, taking the sword from his hands and carrying it to the new armor, bowing slightly as you set it down. He swallowed.
When you straightened, Raymun was already there, holding out his hand. His fingers trembled slightly. A steady look, a faint smile. His hand gives another small jerk when you place your palm in his. He pulls you in and turns you with him, but you falter, and he goes still.
Your hand slides to his hair, and the young man looks at you again. The movement slows. Fingers at the small of your back trace slow circles, sending a faint shiver through you. You press your cheek to his chest, and his arms close around you. Soft breath at your forehead. Your steps slow until the two of you nearly go still.
Thanks for reading!
A couple of days ago I was forced to dance (I hate it) and I’m still pissed.
