Marianne/26 I love Marvel and Harry Potter ff bc fuck canon and JKR, I sometimes write fanfiction. Marvel, Supernatural, Hotd, Lotr. I paint and draw occasionally, looking for friends but I'm awkward as all hell, ask me anything!
“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.
synopsis. By some miracle, your husband wakes from near death still remembering you. But he is not the same tender man you married. Maybe it can be beneficial for the both of you—and maybe you can teach him how to love you the way he did.
warnings. SMUT, dubcon/noncon elements, mentions of pregnancy and wanting a child, slightly dark!baelor? at least near the start, reader is his second and younger wife, p in v, choking, female masturbation, fingering, squirting, not proofread whatsoever
Baelor was never cruel.
Not until his brother hit him with a blow to the head so hard his brains were nearly falling out onto the dirt below him.
If it weren’t for the maesters, your devoted husband would be dead. His body would have burned in a place foreign to him, with his entire family there to watch, with you there to stand closest to his body, to smell the burnt flesh as it turned to ash. You were in preparations to consider a new heir, as instructed by the Grand Maester, when you were told that Baelor was breathing.
Maybe they stuffed his brain back in wrong. Because your husband was no longer your husband. He was a man who you happened to be married to, someone you do not remember marrying.
He recognized you when he woke from his comatose state. You were relieved. You thought at least he wouldn’t remember you, or his family, but he did. He remembered everything. But he was wrong. It was all wrong.
His brother stood close by you when his brother roused from his bed. He immediately ordered his blood and the maesters away, but instructed you to stay.
Maekar gave the most—and only—concerning look he has ever given you, but you gave him a reassuring nod that sent him sauntering toward the door. Perhaps he could sense the danger that would begin from this moment, perhaps he worried for he and his brother’s relationship, you will never know.
When Maekar eased the entryway shut, you hadn’t even looked back to Baelor before you felt his hands on you. They grazed the small of your back before pressing down harder as he continued further below. You froze.
Your head shifted slowly to his face. Your eyes met his.
“What are you doing?” you mumbled, although not making a single move to stop him.
“Wife,” he rasped, voice hoarse from neglect. Then, he used the hand on your behind to pull you onto the bed with him.
You drew in a sharp breath as you landed alongside him. You were confused. What was he doing? Was he truly trying to initiate sex with you, just waking up from near death?
Somehow it was comforting as he lifted your dress and your smallclothes up your legs. It was like just weeks ago, the last time he touched you, the night you arrived in Ashford.
But you were not ready. You had gone from accepting his death to accepting his life in a matter of minutes and then grappling with the fact that he may not remember you when he woke up then him waking up and remembering you and trying to touch you—
You placed a hand on his chest, trying to push away. “Baelor. Stop.”
He did not stop.
He did not say a word. He just kept easing the fabric up, only stopping when the bed forced him to, keeping the cloth covering your bottom onto it.
Still, his hands moved to your cunt. You gasped once his fingers brushed over your clit, so sensitive from not being touched and practically having prepared to become celibate—because who would take another lover once they have experienced such devotion from Baelor Breakspear? The gentlest of souls, the hope of his legacy.
Always the giver, your husband. Of course, he would seek your pleasure just upon waking. It reminded you of the mornings you would spend together before coming to Ashford. Whereas other noble couples maintain separate bedchambers, he insisted on sharing one. And, oh, the bliss that came from it.
Often you would wake up with him under the covers, hands pulling down your linens down to your ankles before prodding his nose at the bundle of nerves between your legs. And he wouldn’t even ask for anything in return once you reached your peak.
Your husband, so concerned for your pleasure and yours only—so why then did he grab your hand and settle it on his covered cock?
You jolted backward, nearly falling off the bed, catching yourself by placing a hand on the nightstand beside you. You pulled your dress back down to your knees and left the mattress, not even gazing at the man on the bed as you scurried to leave the room.
Maekar stood outside. Certainly he wasn’t close enough to hear the encounter you and his brother had through the door, thank the Gods.
You paused and stared at each other for a moment, then you turned on your heel and hurried down the hall. Maekar called your name, stopping you before you got too far.
“What happened?” he breathed.
Without turning back, you spoke. “Inform the maesters. Something is wrong with him.”
The months passed, and Baelor grew more distant. He seemingly insisted on separate bedchambers, given the fact that the two of you did not sleep together since you returned to the Red Keep, and as a result you went without his touch longer than you did when he was comatose.
You still sat by him at supper, still kept face when needed, but you rarely spoke since the day he woke and forced your hand upon his groin. You wondered if he thought it more serious than you did that you decided to run off instead of initiate anything further, though you did not know for sure.
The rare interactions you truly shared were limited to passing by one another in the hallway and pausing to stare at each other before continuing to your respective destinations. Sometimes it would be you to watch as he walked off, sometimes it would be him watching as you walked off. Only once did you both look back at each other, but both of you immediately looked away once your eyes again locked.
Many moons passed without the touch of your husband. Your real husband. Not whatever being took his body when he was revived.
Nevertheless, restless nights were often spent thinking of the new man in his place. You hadn’t given him much of a chance at all. You still refuse to do so, in some hope that he would snap out of it and come back to you as the Baelor Breakspear that you married. But maybe you could.
Those nights, you wonder what more of his touch would be like. The touch that you rejected the day he came back to you. He certainly wasn’t as gentle as your husband, no. Maybe he wouldn’t be as rough with you now, given how he has had these months to recover, to think over your relationship.
Though he wasn’t your Baelor, he was still everyone else’s. Thinking impurely about him would not harm your reputation. If the man fucked you enough, maybe you would carry another heir for him. The realm would love that, wouldn’t they? Your husband never gave you a child. You always assumed his body was satisfied enough with the two sons, satisfied enough to not plant his seed entirely into you. You were always disappointed that he never tried otherwise…
Maybe that is the reason you rose one of those nights, brushing off your protector’s concern as you made your way toward Baelor’s chambers.
You greeted his protector with a smile before entering.
Baelor was wandering his chambers, as sleepless as you were, unnoticed to your entrance.
You sucked in a breath before speaking. “Do you still not wish for another babe?” you quivered.
His head shot to yours. He made his way to you, taking your elbows in his hands and bringing your arms forward to his. His eyes considered your body, from top to bottom, before meeting yours once again.
One word. “Undress.”
Certainly not your Baelor. But nobody has to know. Not even him.
You bend over to grasp the edges of your smallclothes, lifting them up with you as you rose. Baelor’s hands met the linens and he helped you remove them from around your neck, disposing of them somewhere behind you. Could he still be gentle?
The breeze from his opened window hardened your bare nipples almost immediately. It was nearly the end of spring, but the weather had likened to that of the cold season, and Baelor still had the window opened. Your husband never liked the cold. Perhaps it be the Dornish in him.
His fingers touched all up your chest, settling on the hardened buds and pinching them. Your husband never did that. Yet, the feeling still went straight to your cunt.
He must have sensed such, as one hand of his left your breast and progressed to the spot. He ran a finger through your folds, capturing the wet that almost threatened to leak onto the ground below you. Then, he removed the digit, and put it into his mouth, nearly moaning at the taste. Your husband does do that.
“You never answered my question,” you mutter, and his head raises slowly. “Will you give me a babe?”
It is silent for a moment. You think he wont move. Maybe he will send you back to your chambers like this, all bare and entirely aroused.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he grabs your shoulders and spins you around, allowing him to push you harshly onto the bed face first. It almost knocks the wind out of you. You manage to roll back over, and he is already standing above you. He grabs your ankles and pulls you forward until your ass is to the edge of the bed and he is standing in between you.
You wonder for a moment how you got into this situation. But he does not give you much time to think, or to prepare, since he pulls down his breeches and his cock bursts forth in a second.
It is certainly the same body you remember. His thick length is just as tempting. If only you could see the trail of hair from his chest to his bush—
He rips his shirt off over his head, and there it is. The same chest you have been dreaming of the last few months, thirsting over as you touched yourself in the night. The dark hair was practically covering all his torso.
You reach up to touch it. He allows it. Then he grabs your wrist, and the other one too as he brings the other down, pinning them down alongside each other just above your head.
When he leans down closer to your face, you feel desperate to kiss him. You tip your head forward, trying to meet his lips, but he pulls away.
He holds down your wrists with only one hand now, gripping his cock and looking down to guide it inside. He teases your folds once more, rubbing his length up and down, before suddenly bottoming out. The slick arousal is allows him to do so with ease.
You gasp. It hurts. Baelor never hurts you. But this is not Baelor. Not your Baelor, at least. You suppose you will have to grow to accept that, starting with this.
Surprisingly, he pauses a moment. His brows furrow and his mouth hangs open. Maybe he is giving you the time to acclimate—
He begins moving. Thrusting back and forth—the pain doesn’t stop, but at some point it meets the pleasure. Enough for you to moan instead of shriek. He just keeps thrusting, keeps grunting. You couldn’t tell if he was getting pleasure from the act, or if he was just accepting your asks for a child.
You look up at him. He is already looking down at you. The grip he has on your wrists grows stronger, almost like he is using it to relieve stress, as if he isn’t buried inside you.
Your mouths are just inches from each other. If you could just kiss him—
You lean up again, but he jerks his face away from yours. He uses his free hand to wrap it around your neck, forcing your head back down onto the sheets.
He groans. “Do you truly want a babe?” he strangles out. His thrusts remain the relentless pace.
“Yes. Yes, Baelor,” you beg.
“Husband,” he clarifies.
You nod fervently, his words going straight to your core. “Give me your child, husband.”
He speeds up his thrusts. Both of your moans just get louder and louder until he silences them with a kiss to your lips. Then, almost immediately, he cums with a loud groan reverberating down your throat.
So that’s why he doesn’t want to kiss you.
That night, after he came, he collapsed beside you. You waited until your breath caught up with you before you rose and grabbed your smallclothes, slipping them back on and rushing out of his bedchambers, ignoring the glare from his protector.
You thought you would be too tired to touch yourself once you got back to your own bed, but that was before you felt his seed seeping from your cunt the minute your back touched the mattress.
Maybe next time you could reteach him how to pleasure you. If the seed didn’t take, maybe it would help if your pleasure was sought as well. For now, it was left up to you. If he hadn’t had your wrists pinned down, you would have already gotten your release.
Just the idea of him fucking you again is enough to make your fingers sink down to your crotch. You tell yourself it is to make sure you don’t lose a drop of his cum as you pump your fingers slowly through your cunt, using your other hand to make a fist to bite down on and conceal your noises as to not concern your own protector more than you already have.
As you practically fuck yourself on your own fingers, you press your lips together to replace the hand that you bring down to rub at your clit. You are so desperate. And it is all Baelor’s fault.
Whoever that man is, he is not a giver. You wouldn’t be fucking yourself if he were. You wouldn’t be alone in bed if you were. You also wouldn’t have just been fucked. He wouldn’t have accepted your demands to be impregnated.
Just the thought of carrying his child is enough to make you cum. The thought of your fluids mixing together inside you would be enough to have you returning to his room to force him to pleasure you, but you are too exhausted to even lift the sheets onto your body.
It had been weeks since you and Baelor had sexually reconciled. Still, there was no sign that his seed took. Your breasts were not tender. The sunrise did not bring nausea. Your blood eventually stained your sheets. And you and he continued to sleep separately.
Your experiment, that mutual pleasure would bring about better results, would occur tonight. It would occur now, in fact, as you stand outside his bedchambers.
Baelor opens the door before you can knock.
You enter without permission. “I am not with child.”
He closes the door. “Then we try again.” He meets you further into the room. You do not face him.
“No.” Your reply is immediate.
His confusion is as well. “No?” he mumbles.
“Not like that. Not with me having to retreat to my own chambers to seek my own pleasure after.” You turn to meet his gaze. “Perhaps you don’t remember, but I do. You used to indulge me—”
“Do I no longer pleasure you?” he interrupts.
Maybe the injury did have some effect on him. If he thinks he is still pleasuring you the same way he did, you should probably inform the maesters. Well—maybe you shouldn’t tell the maesters that your husband no longer pleasures you.
“No,” you confirm.
He is silent after that.
You take a shaky breath. “Undress,” you command.
His eyes narrow. You think you see the corners of his lips curl up—he obeys regardless.
The tunic he wore was the first to go. You don’t notice where it goes, as your full attention is on his chest, always as enticing as the first time you ever saw it.
He doesn’t give much time before he is removing his breeches as well. He has no sense of patience in his actions, seemingly having lost that along with his sexual prowess. That is ok. You can teach him of both, and more.
He sits his bare self onto the edge of his bed, the same spot he pushed you onto just weeks prior. What a sight the man is. His Dornish side truly comes out when he is naked.
You follow his steps, pulling off your linens and letting them drop to the floor below you. You step out of the pool under your feet, taking slow, careful steps toward Baelor. He reaches out and almost manages to grab your wrist, but you jerk away from his grasp and step back.
“Patience. You must learn it again.”
Baelor takes a deep breath, lying backward on his forearms.
You inhale and let your hands run over your breasts. The window is closed, and the room is warm for once, so it takes your own stimulation to harden your nipples.
The man takes his bottom lip between his teeth at the sight. It’s good, restraint.
Your hands delve down to your groin. Good, you are already wet, you account as you run two fingers through your folds. Finally, you release them from your cunt and step closer to him.
He uses his forearms to push himself back up. You stand between his legs and slip your dampened digits past his lips. He sucks down on them, grabbing your wrist to guide the fingers further in.
With his free hand, he cups your cunt, curling one finger up inside of you. “Like this?” he queries, curious.
You moan breathily at that, letting your head loll back once you nod sluggishly. “Keep going.”
He continues, now pumping the finger in and out, delighting in the bliss you experience at his hand. It must be coming back to him now, what it is like to truly pleasure his lady wife.
“Another,” you instruct, and he obeys, letting another finger slip into your walls. “Faster.” He obeys.
You wanted to speak, encourage him, but then he began curling his fingers inside of you, brushing against your g-spot. And you moan. Loudly. His protector will definitely be glaring at you later tonight.
Each breath you take is shakier and more unstable than the last, forcing you to place your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself. You feel a pressure building in your lower stomach. It isn’t a surprise it’s happened so quick. He hasn’t touched you this way in months.
“Stop,” you command. But he does not. Instead, he just pumps them faster.
He curls his free arm around your back, swiftly maneuvering you to lay back on the bed, fingers still pumping harshly inside you.
The pressure coiling in your core feels a bit unfamiliar. Nothing foreign to you, but something you haven’t felt in a long while, even before the Ashford incident. Your moans build and build and so does the pressure and you’re squirming in his arms and it shocks you how quickly you’ve lost control of the situation, but you’re okay with it.
You stutter a moan as you gushed watery fluid all over his hand. Your release squirted all over the sheets, and him, and you both groaned at the sight, your head falling back onto the bed.
Out of breath, you manage to push him back onto the bed, straddling his hips. Evidently he is hard, evidently you are aroused—both make it easy for you to line his length up with your entrance, wasting no time sinking down onto his cock. You both let out strangled moans.
You grab his hand and guide his thumb to your clit. It takes you rubbing it for him a few times for him to understand—but he’s a quick learner, and quickly continues where you left off. You grind on him as he stimulates the pearl, every sense between the both of you entirely heightened.
“Now, do you understand?” you begin. “How to please—” you grind on his cock, “your wife—” you interrupt yourself with a loud moan.
He nods ardently, head digging into the mattress below him.
“Do it again—” you mutter. He manages to meet your gaze to try and decipher what it is that you want. “Strangle me.”
His free hand glides up your body, squeezing a breast on his way up, and he wraps his hand around your neck and squeezes.
He must sense your exhaustion—or maybe he is simply seeking pleasure himself—because he begins fucking up into you. You’re nearly yelling with each thrust, the amount of force he drills you with, the sheer amount of bliss you feel.
You never would have expected to feel such a way with such roughness. Yes, you think. Most certainly not the husband you remember. But that is just what you both needed.
Your cunt clenches around him, sucking him in, and forcing him to lessen the assault just a little—he feels it too. His hips have begun stuttering. You feel the familiar coil building fast in your stomach, unlike how it was just minutes ago.
So you lean down, one of his hands still on your throat as the other continues stroking your clit, kissing up his neck until finally you meet his lips in a sloppy kiss. That is what does it.
You both cum at the same time with that same loud groan. His seed spills inside of you once again, this time surely to take, as your release dripping down his cock and onto his groin once you sink to his hips one last time.
Sure, your husband may not fully return to you. But you can help him try. This was only the beginning—you try not to imagine what advancements you will make in a month from now, because you may try and sit on Baelor’s face once you catch your breath.
Four weeks later, you miss your period.
Nine months later, you give Baelor his first daughter.
I love the contrast between their body language. How still Peter is yet how it’s not really a quite stillness it’s more like he’s coiled up and ready to pounce very animalistic and intense. Stiles is in full research/mod full of movement, knowledge and excitement it’s just a beautifully shot scene.
I also love how Stiles is leaning in towards Peter with his arm touching (or almost touching) Peter’s and Peter’s intense pure focus on Stiles. Ugh so HOT.
I would love to have gotten to see them team up like this more. To really become a team and work together play off of each other fully the way we see a glimpse of in this scene.
Hiiya, I really loved this request! It took me a little longer to write it out, but I had a lot of fun writing it! Let me know what you think, lovelies 💖
Pairing: Mike Webster x fem!reader
Summary: You’re one of the coaches of a youth football league, but Mike, one of the kids’ fathers, keeps berating you for your style of teaching. But when his son invites you to his seventh birthday party, things get heated.
Word count: 3.2k
Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, smut, explicit, no physical description of the reader except hair, mentions of female genitalia, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns used, some yearning/angst, enemies to lovers (kinda), p in v, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral (f receiving), creampie, first draft yolo, no beta
Notes: My picker wheel decided that Mike Webster is the first character to write for from requests, so you’re getting some more Mikey right now. We’ll let fate decide for the next one ;)
You were pinching the bridge of your nose, too tired to deal with this nonsense. Of course, Mike Webster had to come to you with notes, again, in the middle of the practice, and of course, your discussion got heated again. When it started, you felt quite embarrassed in front of other parents, and maybe even a little intimidated.
Mike towered over you, both with his frame and his experience, and you weren’t actually a real soccer coach either; you were just there to make sure a bunch of six-year-olds were having fun and not hurting themselves during the warm-up, and sometimes when they played as well. You were great with kids, and they loved you as much as you loved them, this particular group especially, but the parents… And especially Mike, started to make it hard for you to come to your second job with the enthusiasm you knew the kids needed.
“Off the field, Mike,” you looked him right into his deep blue eyes, his glasses glued to his forehead. “Now!” you shouted, noticing his hesitation, but not before you grabbed that paper with notes off him.
Turning away, you spotted a tiny bundle of equally blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair staring at you.
“Webster junior,” you sighed, “not you too?”
“Nah,” Tommy responded in an adorably serious tone. “But you know he likes you?”
“Oh, no, baby, he really doesn’t,” you couldn’t help but chuckle, resetting his laces.
“No, no,” his sweet voice interrupted you before you could even offer an explanation, “he talks about you all the time. In a normal voice,” Tommy whispered, nodding the whole time.
You were literally speechless, but sure as hell wouldn’t be explaining to the little lad how much his dad despised you and your practices and your way of teaching, which he made sure to let you know immediately after practice.
“You’re babying him, you’re babying them all! They can lace up their cleats! You are too gentle, too nice!” Mike followed you around the parking lot after handing over Tommy to his mother. Although they had split custody, Mike insisted on attending all practices and all games, so much so that just a sight of him would make your head throb in most unpleasant ways.
“They are kids, Mike. I just warm them up, run a couple of drills, and help with the games. I am not doing any of the strategy, don’t teach them any of the techniques, and yet, you won’t get off my back!” you hoped your little outburst would finally make him see how ridiculous he was being, constantly bothering you but not raising the same hell with other coaches.
“Because you’re too soft! You need to drill them harder, meaner!” Mike waved his arms around, a red flush creeping up his neck, his stupid baby bangs sweatily glued to his forehead.
“Maybe your son needs softness, Mike, ever think of that?!” It was too far and too mean, and you knew it, but it just slipped. Your head was throbbing already, that disgusting pulsating pain spreading towards your eye, and you just wanted to get your meds and get home.
“Don’t you dare tell me what my son does and doesn’t need,” his voice dropped dangerously low, something dark rising in his glance.
“I’m not, Mike! I’m just trying to get you to shut the fuck up!” your voice broke under the exhaustion and the pain, and you could feel the stream of hot tears rolling down your flushed cheeks. “For months now you pick on me, and for what? Train them yourself then, Mike, because I can’t anymore, okay?” you scrambled to open your pillbox, but your hands were trembling too hard, and you couldn’t quite grip it.
Mike didn’t say anything, just stepped closer and calmly opened it for you, swallowing hard. He had no idea of the hurt he had caused you, staring at you, completely dumbfounded. He was just trying to help. Surely you must understand that?
But as he watched you struggle to swallow a couple of sips of water, your whole body a shivering mess, Mike realised he had let his temper get the best of him.
He felt his heart speed up, a terrifying realisation spreading through him: you despised him. You truly, deeply despised him.
Mike never dated after a divorce, never even liked someone enough to look their way twice, until he saw you smiling in the field, surrounded by two dozen five-year-olds who were excitedly kicking the ball and trying to pass it to each other.
And now you were crying in front of him. Because of him.
“Wait,” he muttered, the sound of you opening your car boot bringing him back to reality.
“Just leave me alone, Mike!” you cried out, slamming the door and driving away.
Mike had no idea how long he had been standing there, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He couldn’t sleep that night, constantly replaying the events of the evening.
He wanted you badly, and he managed to colossally fuck it all up. Mike knew, somewhere deep down, that he didn’t really have a chance with you. You were younger, and although perhaps not controversially so, you still had so much more to experience in life instead of being dragged down by a grumpy old man. Still, being the sole cause of your tears was eating away at him.
If he could, Mike would do it differently; he wouldn’t be yelling, and he wouldn’t interrupt your practice. And even if we were, he’d console you afterwards. He’d apologise and hug you, hold you close, tight.
Right. Apologise. Easy enough thing to do, right?
Well, you didn’t show up for any of the practices that week, other coaches excusing your absences, telling Mike you were sick. He grew restless, anxious.
So when he lingered in the parking lot after practice one time to take a call and saw you, all smiles and in a good mood, not fucking sick at all, he knew.
It wasn’t that you were laughing at a probably lame joke said by that other coach, a fucking moron, and it wasn’t even how you stopped dead in your tracks when you saw Mike staring at you. No, it was the realisation you were avoiding him, and avoiding him made you feel happy.
“What do you want?” you dragged yourself to him, watching as Mike’s eyes went wide, that famous flush creeping up his neck again.
Except he looked so defeated, leaning against his car, his hands behind his back.
“I thought you were sick,” he mumbled, avoiding looking at you. He knew he wouldn’t be able to take it, that newly disconnected, bored gaze you were sporting.
Sick of you, you thought, but bit your tongue.
“Mhm,” you muttered instead, your eyes burning a metaphorical hole in his forehead.
Mike was aware that this was his last chance, but his mind was blank. He watched you roll your eyes and let out an annoyed groan before turning away from him.
“Please come back,” he blurted out, like a schoolboy with his first crush.
You turned around, shocked. You opened your mouth, then promptly closed it again.
“For my son,” Mike added in a panic. “He keeps asking about you all the time. Look,” he reached for something in the car, rummaging through his glove compartment. He quickly pushed a piece of paper into your hand, a handmade “get better soon” card, with a drawing of you and Tommy holding hands; Mike was drawn with angry eyebrows in the background, holding a ball.
You nodded, drowning a sniffle.
—
“Miss Coach, Miss Coach,” Tommy’s excited voice carried all the way to you just as the practice was ending, “can you please come to my birthday party this Saturday?”
He gave you a tiny invite card adorned with a bunch of footballs, smiling ear to ear.
“Dad says it’s okay! Mum too! My little sister will be there as well!”
You looked at Mike, who curtly nodded, then continued to stare at his phone.
“I’d love to come, honey,” you smiled back at Tommy, watching him beam as he hugged you.
Saturday couldn’t come fast enough for Mike. He changed his shirt three times and control-freaked around even after kids and their parents arrived. He wanted Tommy to have the best time, but he also wanted to impress you, despite you not really confirming you’d come. Surely, you wouldn’t think he used Tommy as a ploy? It wasn’t even his idea; he only said yes after Tommy already convinced his ex-wife to agree as well.
And then he saw you, in a lovely pastel yellow sundress, already standing in his garden, sipping some pink lemonade. You smiled at him, a polite smile but a smile nonetheless, and Mike felt that hot flush creeping up his neck again.
He stared for a beat too long, taking in your figure, mesmerised.
You stayed after, helped him tidy up a bit. Although the birthday party was held at his house, he didn’t have Tommy for the weekend, who went home with his adorable little sister, carrying her little plush llama around when she’d drop it.
“You really didn’t have to do this,” Mike mumbled, pouring you another glass of Sauvignon Blanc; you refused the red because it was giving you migraines.
“It’s no bother,” you replied, flashing another faint smile, leaning on the kitchen island opposite him. He looked nice, you thought, in dark slacks and a tight, unbuttoned polo. It was nice seeing him in something other than football kits and exercise clothes, and you had to bite your lips to remind yourself not to ogle.
Mike had no idea how to act, feeling guilty that you were treating him so nicely. He wanted to kiss you so badly, splay his hands around your waist, and pull you close, play with your hair and bury his face in the crook of your neck. So instead, he swallowed and looked away again.
“Do you want to watch something?” he finally asked, feeling the tips of his ears burning.
He felt stupid the moment he said it, wondering what you were thinking of his clumsiness.
“I’d love to, but it’s already quite late,” you replied somewhat disappointedly.
Mike perked up.
“You can stay the night, it’s not an issue,” he blurted out again, suddenly realising how it sounded.
“Oh, is that how it’s gonna be?” you teased back, chuckling, sipping some more wine.
“No, no, no, I just meant,” Mike swallowed hard again, clenching his jaw, “that, that if you want to watch something, we could, and obviously, I have a guest room and a guest bathroom too, completely virginal as well…” he trailed off, staring off into nothing, his whole face a shade of a strawberry. He took a deep breath, glancing at your amused face, ignoring your continued chuckle.
“What I meant, is that I have a guest room that has never been used before, and that you’re welcome to it. Yeah.”
“How much did you have to drink, exactly?” you couldn’t help but tease him some more.
“I wish I could use that excuse,” Mike forced a laugh, “but this is only my second glass.”
“No worries Mike, I was just pulling your leg. You’re being awfully nice, but I know how you really feel about me. Thanks for trying, though,” you flashed that smile again, bigger than before, and Mike could swear he felt lightheaded.
And then you closed the distance, pressing a quick peck to his cheek.
“Goodnight, Mike. See you Monday.”
He walked you to the door, just nodding along. Your lip gloss left a little of a sticky residue on his skin, and Mike wanted to taste it, to taste you.
“You should open the door now,” you laughed out after a couple of moments of you and Mike just standing there.
“No,” Mike said slowly.
“No?”
“No, you don’t know how I really feel about you.”
“Okay? So you hate me more than I thought?” you tried to play it off, but your face noticeably dropped. You hoped that your coming here would help straighten your relationship out, not to something friendly, but at least tolerable, and Mike telling you off so seriously made you feel so sad. More sad than you would ever admit to anyone but yourself.
“I don’t hate you.”
You rolled your eyes now, irritated to the bone. You had a crush on Mike once, or Tommy’s handsome father, as you called him, which went away as quickly as the first time he yelled at you. Sure, he was hot when he yelled, and you were entertained for the first two or three times, but when it continued, you pushed that attraction somewhere deep and locked it away.
Mike closed the distance this time, gently stepping into you, his lips finding yours with a striker’s precision.
He slid his hands around your waist, pulling you into him, tasting the cherry of your lip gloss. The kiss was exploratory, gauging, so when Mike pulled back a little, you followed that little string of spit between you two, leaning in, he finally exhaled the breath he was holding in for the whole day.
The second kiss was much more passionate, Mike’s hand finding your neck, his long fingers gently coiling around it as he pressed his lips harder, nudging you to open your mouth, his tongue slowly exploring around yours.
You could feel butterflies in your stomach spreading through your whole body, your hands finding their way to Mike’s buffed chest, sliding upwards to his neck and further, tangling in his hair. His kiss was deliciously sloppy, and you pressed yourself against Mike, feeling how hard he was already.
It drove him wild in an instant, his head dropping to your neck to press a hot, wet kiss there, sending heat directly to your pussy. Mike had to control himself not to start fucking moaning, tasting your skin, his fingers playing with the bow of your shoulder strap, the other hand sliding to the curve of your ass.
A tiny moan escaped your lips, and Mike grabbed your ass with both hands, picking you up with ease; you wrapped your legs around his waist, a new wave of heat and want spreading through you.
“Fuck me,” he murmured, carrying you towards the couch.
“That’s the general idea,” you kept kissing him, licking his neck, pulling off his shirt when he finally sat down, you perched on top of his lap.
Mike didn’t respond, completely lost in you and your kisses and your scent; he untied both of your straps, pulling your dress down, burying his head between your tits, his huge hands playing with them, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucked on the other one, drawing another long moan out of you.
You rolled your hips, feeling his hard cock through the fabric, watching as his whole body tensed up in anticipation. You were so wet and so horny, unzipping his pants and pushing your hand inside, feeling his fat cockhead under your thumb, leaking and red. Mike unzipped your dress, clumsily pulling it over your head, immediately regretting the loss of your touch, even if it was only for a couple of seconds.
You got up to help him get the rest of his clothes off, but Mike knelt in front of you, slowly pulling down your panties. He kissed you just above your clit, and then licked a long strip between your folds.
“Fuck, Mike,” you moaned, trying to hold steady by tangling your hands in his hair, pulling a bit hard.
Mike continued, licking and sucking, introducing a teasing finger that only rubbed at your opening as he sucked at your clit, his tongue flicking across it, sending more jolts of pleasure through you. You couldn’t stop your moans anymore, your hips rolling at his mouth, Mike’s fingers slowly pushing their way into your wet, aroused pussy.
You pulled harder on his hair, and Mike chuckled against your skin, his hot breath sending more pleasure through you. You were close, desperately so, to come on Mike’s tongue and fuck him already, feel his big cock spread you as you fuck yourself onto it.
The thought was enough to unravel you, your body shaking as Mike held you steady, still lapping at your clit. He looked up when you released his hair, licking at his lips and wiping his chin, greedily licking his fingers too. He sat back, guiding you to sit on top of him, lining up his cock, stroking it just a little.
Your mouth salivated at the sight of it, and you eagerly tried to take it all in in one move, but it was impossible, the stretch too big, too painful.
“Shhh, slow down baby,” Mike cooed, his hand on your waist, the other tangled in your hair just above your neck. He watched as your pussy impatiently took half of him, squeezing him, trying to drain him already, and kept sinking, trying to swallow his whole cock. “Breathe, baby,” he instructed just as you leaned your hands on his chest, arching your back in pleasure.
Mike couldn’t resist, sucking at your nipple again, mindful of the gush of wetness his tongue caused your pussy, and you finally sank down the whole way, feeling how hard his cock was, throbbing inside you.
Impatiently, you started rolling your hips, finally drawing loud, unrestrained moans out of Mike, whose hands immediately braced your hips, helping you fuck him. But it wasn’t enough, just sliding your pussy that way, no, you decided you really wanted to bounce on it, to feel the fatness and the length of it.
“I can’t do this for long,” you moaned out, listening to the joint squelches and skin slaps your bodies produced, “but I don’t want it to stop.”
Tears of pleasure formed in the corners of your eyes as you clawed at Mike’s chest.
Music to his ears, your words and your moans, and Mike gripped harder at your hips, meeting your movements, thrusting harder into your now still body, fucking your pussy in a way he had been imagining for the past year.
“Please, Mike, don’t stop,” you spurred him on with those pretty words and even prettier moans, your head falling back.
“I can’t do this for long either,” Mike managed between his moans, already trying not to come for the past couple of minutes. He was gripping your hips with a bruising intensity, but you didn’t complain, and he really didn’t want to let go.
“Don’t,” you moaned, “just fill me up. Fill me up and then fuck me again, Mike. Please.”
Mike didn’t manage more than one more thrust before he did just that, spilt his hot cum deep inside your fluttering pussy, with a lot of groans and fucks spilling from his lips as well.
“Fuck you’re perfect,” he finally muttered, trying to catch his breath. “Fuck, baby.”
You laughed, giving him a long kiss, still tasting yourself on him.
“So, about that movie…” you teased, drawing an honest laugh out of Mike, who playfully slapped your ass.
“I have a TV in my room, so…"
If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`♡´-
Can you do prompt #6 ("I’ve spent hours imagining exactly how you’d look pinned beneath me, and you’re even more beautiful in person.") and/or #17 ("I didn't give you permission to close your eyes. Watch me.") with Maekar x Reader?I'd love it to be set on their wedding night, with a very shy - timid Reader and a Maekar who has spent their entire courtship suppressing his naturally rough, intimidating nature so he wouldn't frighten her.
𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐕𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐄 | 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: explicit sexual content, possessive behaviour, first time, gentle sex, rough sex, maekar calls you his good little slut, minors dni.
Your breath is a small, trapped thing within your chest, fluttering like a bird that has forgotten how to fly.
The door clicks shut.
You flinch at the sound, eyes wide and lips parted as he crosses the room, not in the three strides you'd braced for, but slowly, each footfall deliberate on the stone floor, as if giving you time to bolt.
The silver-gold of his hair catches the moonlight streaming through the narrow window, and for a moment he looks like something carved from a dream you aren't clever enough to have.
Then his hand finds your chin, his thumb and forefinger cradling your jaw with the same careful precision he might use to lift a fallen nestling, tilting your face upward until the shadows fall away and his pale lilac eyes are the only thing you can see.
“I didn't give you permission to close your eyes.”
His voice is a low rumble, rough at the edges, and you feel it in your chest before your mind catches up with the words. Your lashes flutter, a reflex, a cowardice, but you force them wide again, staring up into his face as if looking away might cost you something you haven't yet learned to name. “Maekar…”
His other hand finds your spine, the laces of your gown, a tight seam of silk ribbon running from the nape of your neck to the small of your back, come alive under his fingers.
He does not pull, nor does he tug, but simply that he holds the first knot between his calloused thumb and forefinger, waiting, watching your face. “May I?”
The question is so soft, so utterly at odds with the hard lines of his jaw and the fire banked behind his pale eyes, that you nearly laugh.
Instead you nod, a tiny motion that sends a tremble through your whole body, and hear the first lace give with a whisper of silk.
“I've spent hours imagining exactly how you'd look pinned beneath me,” he says, and his thumb drags across your lower lip as he speaks, slow, deliberate, the rough pad of his finger tracing the curve as if memorizing its shape. “And you're even more beautiful in person.”
Your lip trembles under his touch but you do not look away.
The second lace comes undone and then the third. He works with a patience that feels almost cruel, each small release a fresh wave of exposure, the bodice of your gown loosening by fractions, the cool air of the bedchamber finding new places to kiss your skin.
“Do you know what I imagined most?” he asks, his voice dropping lower, rougher, until it is barely more than a vibration you feel in your bones.
You shake your head. The motion presses your chin deeper into the cradle of his fingers.
“Your eyes.” His own gaze holds yours, unblinking, and there is something raw in them now, something that has been leashed too long and is beginning to strain against its bonds. “I imagined how they would look when I finally had you beneath me. Not afraid, though I know you are. Not pleading, though I half-hoped for that too.” His thumb traces your lip again, slower this time. “I imagined them open. Watching me. Knowing exactly who was inside you.”
A sound escapes you, a small, breathless thing, half gasp and half whimper, and you feel the heat climb up your neck and bloom across your cheeks. “You're blushing,” he observes, and there is something like wonder in his voice. “After all the nights I've lain awake wanting you, you're still capable of blushing at my words. Gods, not even Dyanna had turned that shade of red before.”
The last lace gives way. Your gown loosens around your shoulders, the bodice slipping forward a finger's width, and you feel the cool air kiss the tops of your breasts. Your hands fly up instinctively to catch the fabric, but he catches your wrists first, not hard, but firm, his fingers circling the delicate bones with a grip that says no without bruising.
“Let me see you,” he says, and from the tone in his voice, it was not a request.
Your hands fall to your sides. The gown follows, sliding down your arms, catching on your hips, pooling in a whisper of cream silk around your feet.
You stand before him in only your thin shift, the linen nearly transparent in the moonlight, your nipples peaked against the fabric, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts that make your chest rise and fall like a panicked bird's.
He looks at you, for a long, aching moment, he simply looks, his gaze traveling from your face to your throat to the shadow between your breasts and lower still, tracing every curve and hollow as if memorizing a sacred text. “Beautiful,” he breathes, and the word is so soft it might have been prayer.
Then his hands find your waist, and he lifts you.
You gasp, a sharp, startled sound, as your feet leave the floor and he carries you the three steps to the bed, laying you down on the dark velvet coverlet as if you were something precious.
The canopy above you sways with the motion, shadows dancing across the embroidered fabric, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a physical pressure as he straightens and looks down at you.
“You're trembling,” he says.
You are, your whole body is a fine, continuous shiver, as if you stand naked in a winter wind rather than in a warm bedchamber with a fire crackling in the hearth.
“I—,” Your voice catches, and you swallow. “I'm not—”
“I know.” He lowers himself onto the bed beside you, one knee sinking into the mattress, then the other, until he is braced above you on his palms, his silver-gold hair disheveled. “You're not afraid of me. You're afraid of what you want.”
Your eyes widen, a betrayal, a confession, and you feel the truth of his words settle into your bones like heat from a forge.
He is right.
You have been afraid since the moment you first saw him, months ago, standing in your father's hall with his pale eyes and his calloused hands and the coiled, dangerous grace of a man who has never learned to be gentle. Afraid of the way your body responded when he looked at you.
Afraid of the dreams that come unbidden in the dark, dreams of those hands on your skin, that low voice in your ear, that barely leashed violence turned toward you like a blade you desperately want to feel.
And now he is here. Now you are beneath him. Now his mouth is descending toward yours with the slow, certain inevitability of a wave breaking against the shore.
His lips meet yours.
The kiss is not gentle. It is not the soft, tentative brush you had expected from a man who has spent months treating you like glass.
It is a claiming, firm, deliberate, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger that sends a jolt of heat straight through you, pooling low in your belly, making you gasp against his lips.
He takes the gasp into himself, deepening the kiss, and you feel his tongue trace the seam of your lips before you open for him, a surrender, an invitation and his taste floods your senses. Something dark and warm, like wine and smoke and the faint salt of sweat from a long day's training, something that tastes like him.
His hand slides from the mattress to your hip, his thumb pressing into the curve of your waist, and you arch beneath him without meaning to, an instinct, a plea, your body speaking a language your mind has not yet learned.
He breaks the kiss.
His forehead presses against yours, his breath coming hard and fast, and when he speaks, his voice is rougher than you have ever heard it.
“I have wanted you since the moment I saw you across your father's hall. Every night since, I have lain awake and imagined this, having you beneath me, feeling you tremble, hearing the sounds you make when I touch you.” His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, pushing the linen of your shift upward, baring your skin to the cool air. “I have held myself back. I have been gentle. I have been patient. And it has nearly destroyed me.”
You stare up at him, your breath catching, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard you are certain he can feel it.
“I don't want you to be gentle,” you whisper, and the words come out before you can stop them, raw and honest and terrifying.
His eyes flare.
Something dark and hungry flickers behind the lilac, and his hand tightens on your thigh—not enough to hurt, but enough to feel. Enough to know he has heard you.
“Say that again.”
You swallow. Your throat is dry, your lips tingling from his kiss, your whole body a taut wire of anticipation.
“I don't want you to be gentle.” Louder this time, steadier. “I have spent months being afraid of you. But I have spent longer wanting you to stop treating me like something fragile.”
A sound rumbles in his chest, something between a growl and a laugh and he lowers his mouth to your throat, pressing a kiss to the hollow where your pulse flutters like a trapped moth.
“Good,” he murmurs against your skin. “Because I don't think I could be gentle tonight if I tried.”
His mouth travels lower, tracing the column of your throat, the delicate curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts above the thin linen shift.
His teeth graze your skin, a hint of pressure, a promise of something darker and you gasp, your back arching, your fingers finding his shoulders and gripping the heavy fabric of his tunic.
“Maekar—”
His name on your lips stops him. He pulls back, his eyes dark, his pupils blown wide, and looks at you with an expression that makes your breath catch all over again.
“Say it again.”
“Maekar.”
His jaw tightens. His hand slides from your thigh to the hem of your shift, bunching the fabric in his fist, and he pulls it upward with a slow, deliberate motion that makes every second feel like an eternity. The linen slides over your hips, your belly, your breasts, baring you to the moonlight and the heat of his gaze.
You are naked beneath him.
The shift pools at your wrists, tangled, and you lie exposed in the silvery light, your skin glowing like marble, your nipples peaked and aching, the shadow between your thighs dark and waiting.
He looks at you for a long, aching moment, he simply looks, his gaze tracing every line and curve, every trembling inch of you, and you feel seen in a way you have never felt before.
“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever beheld,” he says, and his voice is thick with something that sounds like reverence. “And I am going to spend the rest of my life learning every inch of you.”
Then his mouth is on your breast, and you forget how to think.
His lips close around your nipple, warm and wet, and his tongue traces a slow, deliberate circle that sends a bolt of pleasure straight through you, arcing down your spine, pooling between your thighs. You gasp, your hands flying to his hair, your fingers tangling in the silver-gold strands as he suckles you, soft at first, then harder, drawing a moan from your throat that you barely recognize as your own.
His hand finds your other breast, his thumb circling the nipple with the same maddening slowness, and you writhe beneath him, your hips rising off the mattress, seeking something you don't yet know how to ask for.
He releases your breast with a wet sound, his lips trailing lower, across your ribs, your belly, the soft curve of your hip. He kisses every inch of you as if he has all the time in the world, as if you were a text he has waited his whole life to read, and you tremble beneath him, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps that fill the quiet chamber.
“Maekar—please—”
The word slips out before you can stop it. Please. You don't know what you are asking for, only that you need something, that the tension coiling in your belly is becoming unbearable, that you would die if he stopped now.
He lifts his head. His pale eyes meet yours, dark and hungry, and there is a question in them that he doesn't need to speak aloud.
“Please,” you say again, and your voice is a whisper, broken and desperate. “I need—I don't know how to say it, but I need—”
“I know.” His hand slides down your belly, over the nest of curls between your thighs, and you gasp as his fingers find your center, warm, wet, aching for him. “You need me to touch you here.”
You nod, breathless, your hips pressing into his hand, seeking more pressure, more contact, more something.
He complies.
His finger traces your folds, parting them, sliding through the wet heat, and you cry out, a sharp, broken sound as he finds the small nub at your center and circles it with agonizing slowness.
“Is this what you needed?” His voice is low, rough, his breath hot against your skin. “Tell me.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, please, yes—”
He pushes a finger inside you, and your back arches off the mattress, a moan tearing from your throat as he fills you. His finger is thick, calloused, and it moves inside you with a rhythm that is already making you see stars.
“So tight,” he murmurs, adding a second finger. “So wet. Have you been wanting this, little wife? Have you been lying awake at night thinking of my hands on you?”
You can't answer.
You can only gasp and writhe and cling to his shoulders as his fingers work you, stretching you, preparing you for something you both crave and fear.
“I asked you a question.” His voice is harder now, a command wrapped in velvet. “Answer me.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “Every night. I—I dreamed of you. Of this.”
A growl rumbles in his chest, and he withdraws his fingers—slowly, deliberately, leaving you aching and empty and desperate. He sits up, pulling his tunic over his head, and you watch him bare himself to the moonlight, your breath catching at the sight of him.
His chest is broad, sculpted, a map of scars and sinew and the hard planes of a warrior's body. His shoulders are wide, his arms thick with muscle, his stomach ridged and taut. He is beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with softness, all sharp edges and coiled power, the beauty of a blade honed to its finest edge.
He reaches for the laces of his trousers, and you watch, transfixed, as he frees himself. His cock is thick, heavy, the tip glistening in the moonlight, and you feel a fresh pulse of wetness between your thighs at the sight of it.
“Look at me,” he commands, and you drag your gaze from his body to his eyes. “I want you to see exactly what I do to you. I want you to watch as I take you. I want you to remember every moment of this night for the rest of your life.”
You nod, your throat too tight for words.
He positions himself between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and you feel the heat of him, the promise of him, the weight of the moment settling over you like a cloak.
“Tell me you want this,” he says, his voice rough, strained. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you.” Your voice is barely a whisper, but it is steady. “I want this. I want you.”
He pushes inside you.
The stretch is a shock, a burning, aching fullness that steals your breath and makes you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders as he fills you inch by inch. He is bigger than you expected, thicker, and you feel yourself clench around him, struggling to accommodate his size.
He stops, his jaw tight, his forehead pressed against yours. “Breathe,” he says, his voice strained. “Breathe through it, sweet wife. The pain will pass.”
You obey, forcing air into your lungs, and as you exhale, you feel the tension in your body ease, feel him slide deeper, feel the burning edge of the stretch soften into something that is almost pleasure.
He moves, a slow, shallow thrust, and you gasp at the sensation, the drag of him inside you, the fullness, the way he seems to reach a place you hadn't known you possessed. Another thrust, deeper, and you moan, your hips rising to meet him, your body learning the rhythm faster than your mind can follow.
“That's it,” he groans, his voice ragged. “Take all of me. You feel—you feel incredible.”
He begins to move in earnest, his thrusts growing deeper, harder, the bed creaking beneath you as he takes you. His hand finds your knee, pushing your leg higher, opening you wider, and you cry out as he sinks into you to the hilt, filling you completely, stretching you until you can feel him in your throat.
“Look at me.”
Your eyes, which had fluttered closed, snap open at the command. He is watching you, his pale gaze burning with a hunger that makes you shiver, and you hold his eyes as he drives into you again and again, each thrust a claim, a brand, a vow.
“I am going to fill you,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I am going to put a child in your belly, and you are going to bear my name and my children and everything I have to give you. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, Maekar—”
His hand slides between your bodies, finding your center, and you gasp as his thumb presses against the aching nub at your core.
The pleasure spikes, sharp and bright, and you feel yourself climbing toward something you have never experienced, a peak that looms above you like a wave about to break.
“Come for me,” he commands, his voice a growl against your ear. “Let me feel you.”
You shatter. Your back arches, your cry filling the chamber, your body clenching around him as the pleasure crashes through you in wave after wave, stealing your breath, your thoughts, your very sense of self. You are nothing but sensation, nothing but the feeling of him inside you, his hand on you, his voice in your ear telling you how beautiful you are as you come apart beneath him.
He follows you over the edge. His thrusts grow erratic, his groan a deep, guttural sound that seems to come from somewhere primal, and you feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, filling you with his seed.
He collapses against you, his weight a warm, heavy blanket, his breath ragged against your neck. You wrap your arms around him, your legs still tangled with his, and hold him as he trembles above you.
The moonlight creeps across the floor, the sea crashes against the cliffs below, and you lie still, your heart hammering, your body aching, your mind a whirlwind of sensation and emotion you don't yet have words for.
He lifts his head, his pale eyes finding yours in the darkness. His thumb traces your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn't realized you'd shed.
“You are mine now,” he says, his voice soft but absolute. “And I am yours. Tonight. Tomorrow. Forever.”
You smile and press a kiss to his palm. “I know.”
He moves before you can draw another breath, a single, rolling motion that reverses your positions with the fluid power of a man who has spent his life mastering his body. You gasp, your hands flying to his chest as the world tilts, and then you are atop him, straddling his hips, your thighs spread wide around his waist.
His hands find your waist. The calloused pads of his fingers press into the soft flesh just above your hip bones, steadying you, grounding you, and you feel the heat of his gaze like a brand as he looks up at you from the pillow.
The moonlight catches the silver in his hair, the sharp planes of his face, the hunger in his pale eyes. He looks at you as if you are something he conjured from a dream, something he has wanted so long and so fiercely that he still can't quite believe you are real.
You are still trembling, still sensitive and still achingly aware of the place where your bodies meet, where his cock rests against your thigh, soft and slick from your joining.
“Look at you,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Look at how beautiful you are like this.”
Your cheeks burn. You duck your head, your hair falling forward to curtain your face, but his hand leaves your waist and catches your chin, tilting it back up.
“No,” he says. “No hiding. I want to see your eyes.”
You meet his gaze and then you smile, a trembling, watery thing and press your forehead to his. “We have the rest of our lives.”
“Yes.” His arm tightens around you, pulling you close. “We do.”
The fire crackles and the morning light grows stronger and as you lie in the arms of your dragon, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, and let yourself believe that this is only the beginning, or so you thought.
The tenderness of the moment shatters in an instant, replaced by a sudden, violent surge of lust. Maekar’s grip on your waist tightens, his fingers digging deep into your skin as he shifts his weight. He doesn't just want you; he wants to possess you, to claim every inch of you with a primal intensity that leaves no room for softness.
He hooks his hands under your thighs, hauling you upward and then slamming you down onto his cock. You scream into the quiet of the room as he buries himself deep inside you in one brutal thrust, his thick shaft stretching your pussy to its absolute limit. The impact jars your entire body, your breasts bouncing wildly as you gasp for air, your internal walls clamping tight around him.
Maekar doesn't give you a second to adjust. He grips your hips with bruising force, his knuckles white, and begins to drive upward. He fucks you with a rhythmic, punishing power, his hips snapping up to meet your descent with bone-jarring force. Each thrust is a collision, the sound of his pelvis slapping against your ass echoing through the room, drowning out the crackle of the fire.
“Ride me,” he growls, his voice no longer a whisper but a command. “Take it all.”
You are tossed about on him, your head lolling back as he dictates the pace. He isn't guiding you anymore; he is dominating you. He reaches up, grabbing your hair and pulling your head back to expose your throat, his pale eyes wide and blown out with lust. He watches your face distort with pleasure and pain, his expression one of raw, unchecked hunger.
He shifts his angle, tilting your pelvis so he can hit your innermost crevices and delicious spots with every savage lunge. You begin to sob, your fingers clawing at his chest, leaving red streaks across his pale skin.
The friction is intense, the slickness of your combined fluids creating a wet, slapping sound that fills the air. He is fucking you brutally, his cock hammering into your cervix, pushing you further back than you've ever been.
“You're mine,” he hisses, his breath hot against your ear. “Every fucking inch of you.”
He lets go of your hair only to wrap his arms around your waist, locking you against him so he can drive himself even deeper. He begins to pump faster, his movements becoming frantic and desperate. You can feel the tension building in his thighs, the muscles of his abdomen rippling beneath you.
The pleasure becomes an overwhelming tide, a white-hot pressure that builds in your core. As you reach your peak, your pussy pulsing violently around him, Maekar lets out a guttural roar. He delivers one final, devastating thrust, pinning you flat against his chest as he erupts inside you. You feel the hot, thick jets of his cum flooding your womb, filling you to the brim as he shudders beneath you, his entire body locking up in the throes of a powerful, consuming orgasm.
As the echoes of his roar fade and the violent tremors of his orgasm subside, Maekar doesn't immediately pull away. He keeps you pinned to his chest, his breathing heavy and ragged, the scent of sex and musk clinging to both of you.
Slowly, the brutality vanishes, replaced by a sudden, aching tenderness. He shifts his grip, his large hands sliding up from your waist to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears of pleasure from your cheeks.
He leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that is slow, deep, and heartbreakingly soft. It is a stark contrast to the savage fucking of moments ago, a silent apology and a promise all in one. He tastes of salt and heat, his tongue swirling against yours with a gentle longing that makes your heart ache.
He pulls back just an inch, his pale eyes searching yours, clouded with a lingering haze of lust but softened by affection. “Do you want more?” he whispers, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates through your chest.
You can barely find your voice, your body still humming from the intensity of his release, but you nod eagerly, your eyes locked on his. You want him again; you want to feel every inch of him stretching you open.
A dark, predatory smirk touches his lips. Without a word, he shifts, his movements fluid and powerful. He rolls you over, pressing your face down into the pillows and forcing you onto your hands and knees. The position leaves your ass arched high in the air, your pussy gaping and dripping with his fresh cum, glistening in the morning light.
Maekar kneels behind you, his presence a looming weight. He doesn't waste time with foreplay, he is already hard again, his cock throbbing and thick as it presses against your wet heat. He reaches forward, grabbing your hips and pulling you back against him, the tip of his head probing the entrance of your pussy.
With one sudden, powerful surge, he slams back into you.
You let out a sharp cry as he buries himself deep inside you from behind, the angle allowing him to penetrate even further than before. He bottoms out against your cervix, the force of the impact pushing your chest flat against the bed.
“God, you're so tight,” he groans, his voice thick with desire.
He begins to fuck you with a relentless, driving pace. Each thrust is a heavy, wet thud, his pelvis slapping hard against your ass. He grips your hips so tightly that his fingers leave marks, using you as an anchor as he hammers into you. The sound of the friction, the wet, slapping noise of his cock sliding in and out of your soaked pussy fills the room.
He reaches around, one hand sliding forward to squeeze your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple raw, while the other hand stays locked on your hip, steering you. He is driving into you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity, his cock hitting all the right angles with every single lunge. “Fucking take it, woman.”
You are shaking, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps as the pleasure builds rapidly. Maekar’s breathing is a series of guttural grunts, his body tensing with every thrust. He accelerates, his movements becoming a blur of friction and heat, fucking you with a desperate hunger that suggests he could never get enough of you.
“Look at you,” he hisses, leaning over your back, his chest pressing against your spine. “Taking it all like a good little slut.”
The words trigger a fresh wave of arousal, and your pussy clamps down on him in tight, rhythmic pulses. You are riding the edge of another climax, your vision blurring. Maekar feels it too; he lets out a low growl and delivers a series of fast, shallow thrusts that send you spiraling over the edge.
As you scream into the pillows, your internal walls convulsing around him, Maekar gives one final, devastating shove. He pins you down, his body locking up as he erupts deep inside you once more, filling your aching pussy with another hot, thick load of cum that overflows and drips down your thighs.
“Maekar...”
“Hmm...?”
“I don't think I will be able to walk.”
He grins, “Good,” his cock is weeping when he pulls out of you, gathering you in his arms as he settles you against his chest, “because I have no intention of letting you leave this bed.”
Maekar Targaryen did not make promises lightly. Once spoken, they became as unyielding as stone, and he intended to spend every remaining day proving those words true.
Summary: After you mouth off to Coach Mike one too many times, he decides to properly punish you.
Word count: 1.9k
Warnings: DARK CONTENT, MDNI, minors and ageless do not interact, NSFW, explicit, rape/NON-CON, non-consent, dead dove do not eat, no physical description of the reader, mentions of female genitalia, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns used, degrading language, mocking, dacriphilia, p in v, unprotected, creampie, sorta cheating (reader has a boyfriend), abuse, first draft, no beta, not proofread
DO NOT READ IF UNCOMFORTABLE WITH WARNINGS
I will delete/block all hate comments and tags. If you don't like the content, don't read it and feel free to block me. I am not responsible for the content you consume.
Notes: This is not a normal relationship. This is dark content.
“What the fuck did I tell you?” Coach Mike screamed at you, his voice going high in his everlasting irritation.
“Yeah, yeah,” you dismissed him, rolling your eyes, causing that smug giggle in your teammates. Not that any of them would ever dare to disobey him or any other coaches.
“Stop being such a fucking bitch,” he said through his teeth, his face grimacing, jaw clenching impossibly tight. He was holding his glasses in his fist so tight you were sure he had already broken them.
“Takes one to know one, Michael,” you spat back, a vicious sneer lighting your face.
“How many fucking times,” he got in your face, tensions growing so high your teammates were already stepping in, “did I tell you to stop calling me that?”
Your lips formed in an exaggerated pout, mocking Coach Mike, as your teammates dragged you away, still amused, but asking you to dial it down a couple of notches.
You were a topic often discussed between the staff, your sharp tongue and aversion to authority becoming almost mythical. Your personality quite entertained most, but Mike had taken a particular dislike to your attitude, and although he initially tried to resist, he started to take it quite personally when your hurled insults reached him.
So much so, in fact, that he decided to teach you some manners.
You could swear you heard a faint sound of your hotel door opening, but surely, it was just your imagination playing tricks on you, that treacherous in-between feeling before completely falling asleep deceiving you. Except when you felt a warm body slide in next to you, sleep already having taken you so deep you were unable to move, you knew you weren’t imagining it.
Your heart rate spiked in seconds, then calmed somewhat when a familiar scent reached you, then spiked again, confused why Coach Mike would enter your room in such a manner.
He pressed himself against you, his hand resting snug against your mouth; all sound, if you made one, would come out muffled, but at least you were jerked fully awake.
“Not so mouthy now, are we?” you could hear his smug, sanctimonious sneer as his hips ground against your ass in shallow thrusts. He was already hard, so hard you wondered if anyone had ever been so hard just getting in bed with you.
“You smell so fucking delicious,” he whispered against your ear, “I should have done this sooner.”
Alarms started to go off in your head immediately, and you tried to move, but Mike leveraged his whole body to quickly get on top of you, pressing you hard into the mattress, his hand still glued against your mouth.
“This will be the last time I tell you, hm,” he muttered, his lips finding your neck, pressing hot kisses that gave you goosebumps, “stop mouthing off, and stop fucking calling me Michael.”
His hand gave way a little, just enough so you could speak.
“Do you get paid to assault the players, Michael, or is it just a hobby?” you couldn’t help yourself, bitterly spitting out the first thing that went through your mind, still desperately trying to get him off yourself, jerking and thrashing your whole body, trying to move.
He groaned, pressing his forehead to the back of your head, pushing you even deeper into the mattress, his chest pressing against your back.
“What the fuck,” he said through gritted teeth, “did I just tell you, hm, angel?”
His hips continued their little thrusts, his hand snaking its way around your throat, putting you in a tight headlock. His voice and that mocking nickname he used rang in your ears.
“From now on, it’s yes, Coach, and no, Coach, got it?” As he was saying it, he flexed his muscles, effectively tightening his grip around your throat.
You strained to breathe, gulping for air, tiny tears forming in the corners of your eyes.
“Yes, Coach,” you whimpered, defeated and deflated.
Mike immediately relaxed his arm, leaning closer.
“I’m just teaching you a lesson, you annoying spoiled fucking brat. And you are the only one that needs to be taught, because everyone else knows how to behave.”
“Yes, Coach,” you whimpered again, your throat nestled in the crook of his elbow.
Leaning slightly on his side, his legs still enveloping yours, he pushed his other hand under your shirt, groping your tits and rolling your nipples under his fingers.
“Do you like that, hm?” his mouth continued leaving wet marks all over your neck and shoulder, his sneer filling your ears.
“No, Coach,” you whispered out, unsure if Mike was even listening to you.
“No? Are you sure, angel?” his hand slid down into your wet panties; he moaned loudly into your ear, pleased with what he found there.
“No, Coach,” escaped your lips as you closed your eyes.
Mike finally kissed you, claiming your mouth in a sloppy, aggressive, almost bruising kiss as his fingers explored your pussy; one of his long fingers gently penetrated you, his thumb rubbing circles over your sensitive clit.
“You’re so tight,” he groaned, “how the fuck will it fit, hm? Do you think I’m too big for you?” Mike continued to ignore your rigid body under him, thin fabric doing nothing to stop the sliding of his cock between your ass cheeks.
“Yes, Coach,” you whispered, barely audible.
“You are dripping. Are you that desperate to be fucked, angel?” he continued talking, biting at your lips, pushing his tongue in and out of your mouth, his spit spreading all over your cheek. He pushed another finger into you, slowly massaging your tight walls, preparing you for his throbbing cock.
A lone whimper escaped your lips.
“Fuck, angel,” Mike breathed out, fevershily pulling his cock out of its confines. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it, warm, heavy, and leaking against your bare ass. Mike quickly pushed your panties aside and snapped his hips, sheathing himself all the way in.
The stretch burned, sending a quick bolt of pain through your pussy, and you yelled out, causing Mike to extend and push a couple of his fingers into your mouth. They lay heavy on your tongue, and you bit down, cautiously first but harder after, in one last, desperate try to fight back.
Unfazed, Mike simply tightened his arm around your throat without a warning, causing you to desperately open your mouth seeking more air.
He kept thrusting, splitting you on his cock, moaning your name, still holding you in a headlock. His cock spread you so deliciously, and it felt so agonisingly good to be punished by Mike in this way, even if you were feeling so guilty about it.
“Does your boyfriend fuck you like this, angel?” he taunted, capturing your surprised exhale with his mouth. He continued to fuck you hard, slowing down from time to time to drag his cock halfway out before pushing all the way back in, almost like he was rubbing it in, the fact that you were obviously enjoying him so much.
“No, Coach,” you finally admitted, more tears flooding your face, “he doesn’t really fuck me at all.”
Your voice was hoarse, but at least you felt a little better, admitting something that was weighing so heavily on you for so long, even if that admission was to Coach fucking Mike, who was currently fucking you under his full weight, his arm around your neck making you feel deliciously dizzy.
“Oh, angel,” he pressed a quick kiss to your temple, “you should have come to me sooner.”
You couldn’t tell anymore if he was making fun of you or not, his cock making you feel so insanely, devastatingly good. You wondered how he was pounding into you for so long and so hard, not losing an ounce of his strength or determination.
“Coach?” you whined, biting at his flexed bicep. You couldn’t think at all anymore; your mind was lost, floating, and your body palatably overwhelmed.
“Yes, angel?” Mike laughed, his hand groping at your tits again, pushing your tank top up.
He was still in his official team kit; hell, he didn’t even bother to take off his shoes, so consumed by trying to, in his own words, teach you a lesson. He did mean what he said - he should have done it sooner. He wished he had done it sooner, not to teach a brat like you manners. No, Mike regretted not enjoying your tight little cunt earlier, listening to those obscene wet sounds it was making under the constant assault of his fat cock.
“No one ever fucked me like this before,” you immediately buried your face away from him, pressing it against his arm, your cheeks burning.
“Poor baby,” he cooed, sweat from his head and neck dripping all over you, “poor, poor baby angel. Do you want me to stop?”
“No!” you yelled immediately, before biting your tongue. “No, Coach,” you tried to play it off, but Mike was already chuckling in your ear.
“You look so good under me, angel,” Mike was babbling now, his hand pulling both of your wrists, pressing them together against the pillow. “Every night, angel, I promise you. I want to feel you come around my cock, pretty girl, I want to hear all those little pleas from those pretty lips,” he kissed you again, moaning at the same time, looking at your fucked out, cock-drunk face.
You didn’t want it to stop, the heat in your cunt giving you one of the best feelings you’ve ever experienced, topping even some mediocre orgasms you had. You now moaned and whimpered freely, your teeth grazing at Mike’s lips and chin, your tongue darting out trying to find his. Unable to form any words anymore, you’d only let out tiny sounds that seemed to encourage Mike to be even rougher, snapping his hips at you, burying you further into the mattress.
“I’m coming, angel,” he muttered into your ear, biting at your earlobe, pressing his nose there. “I’m coming, and I’m coming in deep.” His breath was hot, his deep voice thundering through you as Mike chased his final pleasure, his final claim.
Mike started cuming into you, but still thrusted shallowly, trying to enjoy everything your pussy would give him. His groans filled the room as he stilled on top of you, his sticky seed spilling deep inside your battered walls, and then leaking out around his cock.
He stayed on top of you for a while, relaxing, listening to you trying to breathe, and then, with a long groan, lay down next to you, his arm still wedged under your neck.
“You can tell that loser of yours to fuck off,” he muttered, his voice falling into that angry growl, “because I’m not giving up on that cunt.”
He pulled you closer, observing your red eyes and puffy lips with great attention, tangling his fingers into your hair. He wasn’t frowning, but you knew he was completely serious. What his deluded mind initially envisioned as a punishment unleashed something in him, and you knew that when Mike wanted something, he’d always get it.
And what if deep down, you wanted it as well? What if you too wanted to feel your panties soaked with his cum night after night, Mike on top of you fucking you into the mattress until the only thing on your mind was his cock? What then?
You bit your bruised lip, your mind scrambling like crazy. Are you really going to put your pleasure, yourself, first? For a crazy fuck like Coach Mike?
“Yes, Coach,” you whispered, awfully close to dissociating.
Mike smiled.
“Good girl,” he whispered back.
If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`♡´-
- sworn protector!gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader
synopsis. You drink wine that someone mixed with something that makes you desire touch more than all else. Touch from someone particular. You need his touch, or you’ll die. Luckily, your sister—the queen—can be quite the matchmaker.
contents. SMUT, no war au (rhaenyra is queen), reader is a targaryen princess and rhaenyra's younger sister, gwayne is her sworn protector, reader has fem anatomy and is addressed as a princess, sex pollen/fuck or die, mentions of suicide, oral (f!recieving), loss of virginity, unprotected sex, p in v, finger sucking, slight praise kink, not proofread
Your body burns.
No, it feels more like if your body was actually truly burning in a fire, perhaps from that of your dragon, as if you’d told it to rain flames upon you. You may consider that option if it comes down to it. If someone didn’t touch you soon, you were going to explode.
Instead you were writhing and squirming on your bed in front of your own sister—the queen—and you would much rather be dead. She looks at you with that callous smirk, as if she thinks she knows something. Something you don’t want to tell the maesters.
“Is it poison?” she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.
He nods. “It seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.”
“Can’t you open a window?!” you yell with a cracking voice.
Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.
The windows are open.
“All of the windows are open, princess,” Gerardys mumbles.
“Yes, I can see that now, thank you.” Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. “Will I die tonight, Gerardys?” you question, almost joking.
“No, no, princess,” he says. “Not tonight.”
Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.
“It seems the poison was mixed with the wine,” he begins. “Therefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.”
“Not much you can do?” Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.
Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. “Not unless you would like me to find a maegi.”
She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of all—full of regret. “That wont be necessary,” she mutters. “If you’ll let me speak to my sister alone?”
“Of course, your grace.” He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.
She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.
“Tell me,” she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.
You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. “Tell you what?”
“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m referring to,”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t, Your Grace.”
She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. “Your condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.”
You look at her. She isn’t smiling. There’s no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.
And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. You’re starting to feel nauseous.
You’ll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.
You exhale a heavy breath. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I did.”
Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. “Gods, sister, what did you do?”
“I am unwed. Undesired,” you mumble. “I thought it clever to…”
“To what?” Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.
You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you don’t even hear it in your own ears.
“What did you say?” she asks softly.
“I had a potion brewed.”
Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Gods, sister—“
“You don’t understand! The Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms—you could have anyone and anything you desire!” you argue. “It isn’t the same for me. Even if it were, I don’t get to choose—”
“I’ve heard enough.” You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. “When you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?”
“No…” you mumble.
“Well.” Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. “I can presume what it is.”
You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation you’ve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.
The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.
“I know what must be done,” she says. And she leaves the room.
You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. You’d be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisoned—Rhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldn’t subject the public to the truth.
You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.
The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldn’t be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.
Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldn’t help cure your self-inflicted debilitation—he is too honorable. No—he’s too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.
The door swings open again.
Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.
The person unveils themself from the shadows.
It is your sworn shield and protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.
He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t care less now.
Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of course—and probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched you—and you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.
“I shall leave you to it.” Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.
The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.
You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.
“My princess.” He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. “I cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.”
“Help with what?” you breathe.
He remains silent.
“What exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?” you question.
Silence.
“Tell me. I command it.”
His gaze shifts to the ground. “Her Grace informed me of your condition.”
“You already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?”
He looks back up at you. “She revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.”
“Gods,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.
“How it can be cured,” he adds.
Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.
When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sister’s in a certain light.
You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.
“I want to help you.” He takes a single step closer. “I need to help you.”
Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.
“When you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?” you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.
“It would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.” His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. “In fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.” You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.
Not only is he able, he is willing.
He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the corners—it is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.
You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.
Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cun—
You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.
“Tell me what you need,” he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. “I am yours.”
You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you can’t. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?
But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.
Why must you tell him?
You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayne’s hands from your hips in the process.
He does not look away from your face. “Tell me. Please,” he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.
You stammer, and squirm once more. “I need you to touch me,” you declare.
Gwayne nods once. “As you wish.”
And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. You’ve never felt something like this before.
It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.
You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.
He releases your clit from his lips. “Tastes so good—my princess—” his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.
Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that curséd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.
An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first time—you cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.
Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.
Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.
Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.
It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.
But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.
He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.
“It isn’t enough—” you declare, your breath labored.
“What do you require?” Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.
“I need—” you paw at his clothed cock. “Your—”
“My what?” he pants.
“I need you inside,” you mutter.
Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next time—Gods you hope there is a next time—you’ll get to do exactly that.
He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.
Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. “Would you like me to take this off?” he asks.
You nod lazily.
He shimmies the linen up your body. “Sit up for a moment, sweet girl,” he instructs, and you obey.
They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.
He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. “For your comfort,” he clarifies.
His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.
You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.
Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.
Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.
His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.
Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent you’d think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.
Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Oh—fuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.
His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.
Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.
He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for him—or more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.
His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.
“I’m yours, my princess,” he murmurs, drunk-like. “I’m yours.” And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.
You’re clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you can’t quite catch, but they’re all something like that’s it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.
He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.
His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.
“Gwayne?” you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.
“Yes, my princess?” he heaves.
“Kiss me.”
As you wish, is he would have said, if it weren’t for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.
Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of you—you think you see the Stranger reaching out to you—then you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.
“Fuck—” you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitive—you jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.
It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.
You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.
“What’s wrong?” you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.
“You don’t—” he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t supposed to cum inside.”
You’re still confused. “What’s the problem?”
“That is how you get pregnant.” He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.
You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.
Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.
“Will you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?” you mumble.
He brings his other hand to hold yours. “As you wish.”
You chuckle breathily.
“Are you—are you cured?” he says, playing with your fingers.
“I suppose so.” You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.
Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wine—you thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.
In less than a minute, you’re beneath him again, his fingers pumping in and out of you.
People are always hating on Hugo Weaving's Elrond for not being atractive enough or looking too old for an elf but
He pulled off playing a younger, dashing, more physically active version of his character really well in the Hobbit while he was actually like 20 years older LMAO
People can hate on my man Hugo but he was the only one who genuinely looked younger and more handsome somehow, all the others looked visibly older, even Cate who is so beautiful and aged extremely will did look older than in LOTR but he didn't. I need some respect for him
15. w Maekar would absolutely change my brain chemistry!!
Maekar going feral is always a win, that man is a certified freak and you can't convince me otherwise
Grateful Prompt List
15. Bulge Kink | modern!BFF's dad!Maekar x f!reader
It happened by accident, the first time.
You were on your back, knees pulled toward your chest, Maekar above you with that deep angle he favoured when he wanted you to feel all of him — and he always wanted that, approached it with the same methodical thoroughness he brought to everything. His eyes had been on your face, the way they usually were, tracking every reaction with the focused attention of a man who considered your pleasure a problem worth solving precisely.
Then his gaze dropped.
You didn't notice immediately. You were occupied — his cock moving inside you with that deep, certain rhythm, your hands gripping the sheets, your whole body arranged around the singular fact of him. You noticed the rhythm change before you noticed his eyes: a fractional slowing, something shifting in the quality of his attention, the way it shifted when he encountered something unexpected and was deciding what to do about it.
You looked at his face. He was staring at your stomach.
"Maekar—"
He didn't answer. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on a point below your navel, and the expression on his face was one you hadn't seen before — not the almost-smile, not the flat certainty, not even the dark focus of him when he was close. Something rawer than any of those. Something that looked almost like disbelief giving way to hunger.
His hand left your hip. He pressed his palm flat against your lower abdomen, slow and deliberate, right below your navel — and that was when you felt it.
The shape of him. Moving. Against his own hand, against your skin, the unmistakable pressure of his cock visible from the outside with every stroke, rising and subsiding in a rhythm that matched him perfectly because it was him, because he was that deep inside you, because your body was showing it.
The sound you made was involuntary and immediate.
"Oh—"
"Yeah," he said. Low. Rough. The word scraped out of him like something had been pressed on. "Feel that, princess?"
He moved again — deliberately this time, watching his own hand, watching the subtle shift of your skin against his palm with every thrust — and the expression on his face did something that went straight through you, bypassed every rational thought you had and landed somewhere animal and immediate.
You had never seen him look like that. Had never seen anyone look like that — the flat composure entirely gone, replaced by something that was frankly feral, his eyes dark and fixed and slightly wild, like the sight of it had rewritten something fundamental in him and he was still catching up to what he'd become.
"Maekar," you breathed.
"Don't move," he said. His hand pressed down, slightly firmer, and the added pressure against the next stroke made you gasp so hard your back arched off the mattress. "Stay exactly like that."
You looked down at his hand on your stomach. Looked at the faint, unmistakable movement beneath it. Felt the full overwhelming weight of what that meant — that he was so deep inside you it showed, that your body was advertising him, that every thrust was legible from the outside — and something in you snapped sideways into want so acute it was almost unbearable.
"I can feel you filling me up," you cried, breathless.
"Yes," he said, the word rough and barely controlled.
"Feel — ah — every stroke," you grabbed his forearm.
"Every single one," he said, and the rhythm he found then had nothing measured left in it, his hips driving forward with a focused urgency, his hand staying flat and firm against your stomach, tracking himself, and you watched his face and felt entirely insane with it.
He groaned. Low and guttural, from somewhere deep in his chest. His rhythm stuttered and then drove harder.
"Look at you," he said, rough, his eyes moving between your face and his hand with the obsessive quality of a man who couldn't decide which sight was doing more damage to him. "Look at you. All pretty and so hungry for me."
"Maekar—"
"You're taking me so fucking well it shows," he growled, his voice dropping further into something that barely resembled his usual register, the flat certainty still there but stripped of everything civilized, everything managed. "Right here." His hand pressed down again on the next stroke and you cried out and he made a sound in response that you felt in your spine. "You feel that?"
"Yes—"
"Tell me," he said.
"I feel you," you gasped, "fuck— I feel you moving, I can feel the shape of you, you're so deep it—" you pressed your free hand over his, both of you feeling it together now, his cock moving against both your palms simultaneously— "gods, Maekar, you're so deep—"
"Fuck," he said, sharp and involuntary, his hips snapping forward hard enough to drive the breath out of you. "That's it — keep doing that—"
He was entirely gone. Whatever had remained of his composure — and there hadn't been much, not since his hand had pressed flat against your stomach and found what it found — left entirely. He fucked you with a focused, ravenous intensity you hadn't encountered from him before, his hand pressing down in time with every stroke, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the point of contact between his palm and your skin with an expression that was somewhere past want and into something more consuming.
"I'm going to leave a fucking imprint of my cock in you," he said, the words ground out rough and low, barely coherent. "So you never forget who you belong to."
The sound you made at that had no composure left in it at all.
"Yes," you breathed. "Please—"
"Mine," said flat and absolute and breaking apart at the edges simultaneously. His free hand found your clit, pressed firm and steady, and the doubled sensation — him inside you and his palm tracking every movement and his fingers working you and that voice saying things that were rewiring your nervous system — built so fast and so total that you had no warning before it hit.
You came with both your hands pressed over his against your stomach, feeling him move through the whole of it, clenching around him hard enough that he made a sound he would not have made in any other context — high and broken and startled out of him — and then his rhythm lost every last thread of structure and he followed you, his hips pressing flush and staying there, shuddering, his hand still warm and heavy against your skin.
He didn't move it after. Not immediately. His thumb moved, slow and absent, back and forth across your lower stomach. Like he wasn't ready to let go of the sensation yet. Like he was still processing what he'd just confirmed.
After a short while, you started to chuckle with what little strength you had left. "I fucking loved what that did to you," your hand moved across his chest, covered in sweat from the exertion.
Maekar laughed with you, a low sound resonating deep within his chest cavity. He kissed your ankle, which was still at his eye level. "Thought I was a goner for a minute," he lowered your leg and crashed into the mattress by your side with a groan.
"How do they call it," you asked yourself aloud while repositioning yourself against his chest, "la petite mort?"
Maekar laughed and pulled you closer to him, his arms heavy against your frame. "Keep pulling tricks like that and you'll soon be fucking a corpse indeed, princess."
"I'd be making love to a very handsome corpse," you corrected, your hand pressing teasingly against his sternum. "Great ass, that corpse would have."
His hand came to your own ass, squeezing its meaty roundness. "I think it would be far more enjoyable for both of us if I stayed in the realm of the living, don't you think?"
A moment of silence in which you feigned deep thinking. Maekar slapped your asscheek playfully to draw your attention back, earning a heartfelt laugh from you.
"I wouldn't actually mind dying while you fucked me," you joked. "Imagine the epitaph."
Maekar laughed again and the hand that sat at your ass came to your back again, pressing your body even more to him. Sometimes you thought that he intended to fuse you into him.
"I'd like to spare my brother from having to write that," he chuckled and kissed your temple. "And I think he'd like to be spared too."
A very comfortable silence swept over the bedroom. You were both actually on the verge of falling asleep when a very particular thought came to you accompanied by a devious smile.
"Next time," you mumbled against his side, "we can check if you could make me squirt."
Maekar's breath hitched, you noticed it. His body went rigid for a moment, and after that he turned on top of you again, his own kind of teasing smile adorning his face.
"Why wait for a next time when we have all night?"
↪︎want more modern!BFF's dad!Maekar? check out this masterlist!
First of all congratulations on having 650 followers, You deserve more, Can't wait for you to reach the 1000 followers milestone.
I don't know if requests are still open but for Baelor I am gonna be greedy -The things that man does to us- as I have two requests with multiple prompts
Request 1:Prompts39,14,15
Request 2:Prompts49,34,40
Ps:You don't have to do both the request or all the prompts, Do whatever you like as I know you said you are a PHD student which means you run on really short time, good luck btw.
first of all, thank YOU for having such wonderful brain cells, because these are some of the most detailed requests i've had. literally, the stories write automatically. The one that really piqued my interest was request 2 (i thought of traumatizing poor sweet Valarr, but we all know Baelor would never forgive himself lol). i honestly loved both of them, so i will probably come back and write the first one because ugh, bulge kink is so freaky i'm gonna die.
Grateful Prompt List
49 + 34 + 40. Loud Sex/Knowing Someone Can Hear/Exhibitionism/Getting Caught | modern!BFF's dad!Baelor x f!reader
You had not planned this.
That felt important to establish, at least to yourself, standing in the third row of the conference hall watching Baelor at the podium — because you had attended academic conferences before, and you had never once ended up in this particular situation as a result.
The situation being: desperately, unreasonably, almost inconveniently turned on.
It wasn't one thing. It was the accumulation — the easy authority of someone who had spent years knowing exactly what he was talking about, the precise vocabulary, the moments where he paused to let something land and the room paused with him. The reading glasses. The specific way he gestured when he found a point genuinely interesting, a slight opening of the hand, like he was offering something. The moment he'd said the Procopian sources are unreliable here, as I think we all know, but unreliability has its own evidentiary value and half the room had laughed and you had felt it in places that had nothing to do with Byzantine historiography.
You shifted in your seat. He caught your eye from the podium, briefly — the slight acknowledgment of it, not enough for anyone else to read — and looked away again, and you thought, with great clarity: I am not going to make it to tonight.
The break between sessions was forty-five minutes.
You found Baelor coming off the stage with colleagues already converging, the specific post-paper scrum of people who wanted to discuss his sources, and you caught his eye and tilted your head toward the corridor.
He extracted himself with impressive efficiency.
"Did you enjoy it?" he asked with the general post-lecture high, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "The Procopius section needed—"
"Baelor, I need you to come with me right now."
He looked at you. Read your face with the thoroughness he brought to primary sources.
"Oh."
"I need you to remind me just how good your paper was," you said already taking his hand in yours.
Something shifted in his expression — and underneath the composure, something that had clearly been there since the podium, waiting to be acknowledged. "The bathrooms on this floor," he said, with the measured tone of a man making a logistical observation, "are reportedly very well appointed."
The bathroom was, in fact, highly convenient — dark tile, brass fixtures, the kind of silence that suggested good soundproofing, an assessment that would prove optimistic.
He had you against the wall inside of two minutes, your hands flat against the cool tile and his mouth at your neck and his hands working with the unhurried efficiency of a man who knew exactly what he was doing even when theoretically in a hurry. The conference lanyard was still around his neck. He had not taken the glasses off. You had decided this was fine, actually, was more than fine, was contributing to the overall problem significantly.
"You were so brilliant—" you started, breathless, as his hand moved between your thighs.
"Later," he said against your throat.
"It was genuinely—"
"You can tell me later," he insisted, "when I haven't got my fingers—"
"Baelor—"
"—in you," he finished, precisely, and demonstrated the point with two of his fingers inside your pussy. You made a sound that bounced off the tile walls with a clarity that suggested the soundproofing had been overstated.
He worked you open with the patience he brought to everything — thorough, attentive, his eyes on the side of your face that wasn't pressed to the tiles and his free hand flat on the wall beside your head. By the time he undid the zip of his suit trousers and got his cock inside you, you had made enough noise to establish that your initial consideration on the bathroom isolation had been optimistic at best.
"You're going to get us caught," he said chuckling low, against your ear.
"Your fault entirely," you managed.
"Yes, yes," he laughed properly, and moved, and the sound you made was immediate and entirely ungoverned.
He made sounds of his own — the low uncontained ones that lived underneath the composure, the ones that only came out when that composure was occupied elsewhere — and the bathroom amplified everything, your voices and the sounds of him moving inside you and the brass fixtures and the tile and the whole well-appointed room conspiring to make the situation extremely audible.
"Say it again," he said, low, against your ear, moving with a hurried pace of his hips. "That it was good. The paper."
"Baelor—"
"I want to hear it," a deeper thrust, "while I'm inside you," and the sheer audacity of the request, delivered in that same composed academic register he used for everything, pulled a sound out of you that answered the question for him.
"It was good," you moaned mid-sentence. "It was — gods — it was so good, you were so—"
"You sound so beautiful when you moan," his thrusting became somewhat erratic at your words.
He found a rhythm that had clearly been waiting all morning to be used, deep and certain, and the low sounds he made against your ear had a different quality than usual — pleased with himself, almost preening, a man who had just discovered a previously unknown effect of his own competence and intended to enjoy it thoroughly.
A few moments after, however, you heard the door opening.
Baelor went briefly, completely still — you felt it, the full-body pause, his hand tightening on the wall beside your head — and over your shoulder you were peripherally aware of the door having opened and a man standing in it, someone in a conference lanyard, someone whose expression cycled from neutral to startled to a very specific variety of mortified in approximately one second.
You recognised him, distantly, as a colleague of Baelor's from the museum. McKinnon. Something McKinnon. He had given a paper on Justinian that morning.
There was a moment of complete silence from the three of you, way less managed on your part because of the throbbing sensation of your pussy clenching around Baelor's cock who, still inside you, still pressed against your back, said with a composure that should not have been physically achievable under the circumstances, "Knock next time, please."
And closed the door directly in McKinnon's face. The click of the latch was very loud in the quiet of the bathroom. You turned your head to look at Baelor over your shoulder.
"Be loud," he said along a deep roll oh his hips that had you seeing white at the edges. "I want him to hear exactly how good my paper was."
"Baelor—"
"I still have thirty eight-minutes to hear more of those pretty whimpers coming from your mouth," he grabbed both your shoulders and rammed into you. "So be a good girl and don't argue with an acclaimed speaker."
You laughed at his cocky tone, and the laugh dissolved instantly as he adjusted the angle, the smugness in his voice deepening alongside the rhythm, every low pleased thing he said landing directly on top of how good it felt.
You were loud. He too was louder than he'd usually be, satisfaction running underneath every sound, and the tile took it all without complaint while somewhere on the other side of the now locked door the conference carried on without two of its more productively engaged attendees.
You came with his his mouth at your ear telling you, with great and obvious self-satisfaction, exactly what your sounds were doing to him. He followed shortly after, his composure gone entirely for the length of it before reassembling itself with suspicious speed the moment it was over.
"Thirty-one minutes," he informed you after a moment of brief silence in which you two caught your breath, with the calm demeanour he usually displayed at academic and professional events. "We have time for coffee," he smiled and briefly knelt to clean you with a towel.
"Are you going to explain what just happened?"
"You wrote me a good review, I simply had to thank you," he said, already up and fixing his trousers, entirely unbothered.
"People write messages on Academia Edu to do that," your mouth was half-open and brows furrowed. The nerve of this man.
"Yeah, well," he fixed his suit jacket and smiled at you directly. "I think direct engagement is more satisfactory for both the writer and the reviewer," he kissed you tenderly. "Also, fuck Academia Edu."
You gave a short, high laugh at that. He held the door while smiling.
McKinnon was nowhere near the coffee station. He was found, instead, studying the fire exit sign at the far end of the corridor with great concentration.
Baelor collected two coffees and handed you one. "The acoustics in this building," he said, perfectly audibly, "are remarkable."
"Please," you nearly snorted.
"Victorian. They built things properly then." He glanced at you over his cup, over the glasses, with the specific expression of a man extremely satisfied with his own morning. "I expect you'll be paying close attention to my next papers as well."
"Baelor—" you could feel your cheeks burning.
"For academic reasons," he said as matter-of-factly.
Down the corridor, McKinnon turned a page of the fire safety information he had been reading for six minutes.
since i am traveling to Portugal for my own conference this wednesday, i wanted to leave you with two academic-esque works (this one's the light one, tehehe)
↪︎want more modern!BFF's dad!Maekar? check out this masterlist!
bisexual disaster @marianne-zemo - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
gummygunk
dailybridgerton
2087
titsay
izzy806
stormborns
gracieabrams
snowghoul
