hi! you can call me j (she/her). basically i write fics that there are generally no demand for, and do so on complete whims. i hope you enjoy!
psa: its safe to assume that all my fics are NSFW, meaning this blog is 18+. if you're a minor i will find you and you are not welcome to stay. i don't do taglists
I bore Viserys three Targaryens. But with the last, my last... I wanted him to be a Hightower. In truth, I'm glad I waged that battle, seeing now what came of our other sons. Perhaps sending Daeron away was my truest act of motherhood.
with how much i hear both sides complain about team green bias or team black bias from the writers im starting to think maybe theres no bias and everyone is just mad
summary: you're a fieldside medic for a rugby league team and you care a bit too deeply for one of the players. he cares right back
cw: NSFW, f!reader, medical inaccuracies, oral (m receiving), oral (f receiving), johnny's face is covered in blood, medical malpractice too probably, semi-public sex, johnny is lowkey concussed so dubcon just to be sure (but he wants this trust)
special thanks to @kitkatscabinet for helping this come to be!
read on ao3, divider by saradika
“Ye come here often?”
It takes everything in you not to laugh at Johnny’s obvious attempt at flirting. Not because he’s misguided or the advances are unwanted– truly, you wouldn't mind at all in any other circumstance. Only right now, you’re trying to assess him for a concussion. That, and he’s still got his mouthguard in so paired with the blood dribbling from his nose, his words are a garbled slur.
“Stop moving, Johnny,” you tell him, handing him another cloth to press to his bleeding nose– broken again, you’d wager. You’ll get to that in a moment.
“‘Am no,” he mumbles, lifting his head when you tilt up his chin and giving you a charming grin. Even with the mouthguard and a twisted nose, he’s still the most handsome man on the team. Which, given your own penchant for beefy rugby-type men, is saying something. “Just askin’.”
“It's not helping your case, then,” you say, gripping his jaw tighter when he tries to move again. “Because you know good and well I come here often. I’m your medic.”
“ Mine ?” Johnny echoes with a somewhat-delirious chuckle. “Och, I’m lucky then, have ye all to maself.”
You want to correct him, to tell him that you're technically the whole team’s medic, but you don't. You let him be, and instead reach to grab a light to check his pupils. He does manage to hold still as you shine it into his eyes, though he’s helped along by your firm grip on his jaw. His pupils react normally, but you’re still concerned.
“How are you feeling?” You ask, taking a seat across from him as he finally spits out his mouthguard and presses the cloth to his nose. “Head pounding?”
“Aye,” he says, and you frown as you watch the cloth steadily soak with blood. “But it has just been knocked off my shoulders. ‘Am not seeing two of you, if that's what you mean. Wouldn't be complainin’ if I were, mind you.”
You hum in response, seeming dubious. You suppose that's good, all things considered. Flirting aside, if he is concussed, it's not deeply serious. Still, you’re concerned. But you know Johnny. He loves to play, loves the game. And he’s one of the best players in the club. You glance behind you at the screen that's playing footage of the game, biting your lip. You can see how desperately Johnny wants to get back out there, he’s practically buzzing in his seat. So somehow, you’re going to have to break it to him that you’re keeping him off the pitch for at least the remainder of this half. Naturally, he’ll be a nuisance about it. Whine, complain, probably beg you to reconsider. Part of you doesn't want to deal with the guilty feeling those puppy dog eyes envokes.
So, you stall.
“And the nose?”
“Fuckin’ kills,” he confirms, lowering the rag and grunting in satisfaction when no more blood drips free. “Broken.”
“Again,” you sigh, moving to stand up again. The fact his nose has stopped actively bleeding does loosen the vice-like grip of worry that’s wrapped around your ribcage. He’s breathing okay too, which loosens it again. Still, though, it’s suffocating.
(You shouldn't worry so much about Johnny. He’s been knocked around far more than you could ever handle and played through much worse. But you’re a bit selfish when it comes to Johnny… you care about him more than you ought to as a professional.)
“Cannae complain when it means I get to see ye,” Johnny says with a cheeky grin as you put your fingers to his nose. “I like it when ye dote on me.”
“You won't like me in a second,” you say. He laughs shortly, and you suppose that he assumes you’re talking about setting his nose. In a way, you are. But that's not why he’ll actually be miffed with you. He’d probably never be miffed about setting his nose anyway, he knows it's a necessary pain.
You give him a smile, gently prodding at his twisted nose to get your hands in the right position, and you don't bother giving him a countdown. Instead, you break the news to him as quickly as you can manage as you snap the bone back into place, “I’m keeping you off.”
“ Fuck ! Yer what?!” Johnny rears back in his seat with the combined impact of the pain and the sudden information. You step back, wringing your hands together as he blinks harshly. You’re sure there’s dots in his vision from the pain, and once his head clears enough he’ll process what you’ve said.
“Bonnie,” he says slowly after a moment. The sweet name makes your stomach twist in a strange anxious delight. “Tell me yer joking.”
You give him a sheepish smile, unmoving– and he knows you won't budge. He also knows how much his coach trusts you, and if you say he’s out, he’s out. His coach won’t put him back in if you say not to. But you know he’ll argue anyway. “Until the next half, at least. I need to keep an eye on you.”
Johnny groans deeply, sinking down in the chair. He growls your name, and you’re a tad ashamed to say it goes right to your core.
“We’re only 20 minutes in, I’ll miss half the game! You cannae-”
“You’re staying off, Johnny,” you say firmly. When you’d started on as the Eels’ medic, you’d been a bit shier. But you’d learned quickly that these men were hardheaded in more ways than one, and being shy and timid would get you nowhere in enforcing their safety. So you took note from their coach and got tough with them. It earned you the respect you needed, and also the trust from their coach in knowing that you could handle them. “And you know I won’t be changing my mind. Now if you want to go back on at all, you’ll behave.”
This earns you another groan, but the growly tone of it says something entirely different than the last one. You feel your cheeks warm, and hope to god he doesn't notice.
“Talkin’ dirty won’t make me forgive you, you ken,” Johnny says, knuckles pressed against his closed eyes. “Ye really won’t budge?”
“You know me better than that.”
“Aye, I do,” he sighs, dropping his hands and lowering his lidded gaze to you. “Lucky yer sweet talking me, lass. Wouldn't be so forgiving otherwise.”
It's not a threat meant to be taken seriously, you know. It's a threat that does something else entirely, but you hurriedly stand and clear your throat. Professionalism, you tell yourself. It's the backbone of your career. To be surrounded by hot, burly, virile men all day and not do anything about it is a god damn superpower.
“Price will be as disappointed as you are, but he’ll let you watch from the bench-”
“‘Am no going out there,” he says, standing up with less hurry and far more care. Despite his protests, he is heeding your warnings and taking care with his head. “Can watch the game from in here. Got another way for us to pass the time.”
You stop as you’re turning toward the door, glancing back at him while he inches closer to you. “Johnny…”
You know exactly where he’s hoping to go with this. And as much as you want to – god, you want to – you truly can’t. You’d lose your job. Probably lose your licence if the powers that be were feeling extra annoyed by it, and absolutely shatter your reputation in the process.
But then… that’s only if you get caught. There’s no security cameras in the locker rooms– there isn’t allowed to be. There’s 20 minutes left of the half, no one’s going to come in here until then. You could. You could do it, and be done with it before anyone notices.
(You’re obviously being intentionally naive in thinking you’d ever be satisfied with just one taste of Johnny, but for now it’s the only way you can rationalise it.)
“C’mon, bonnie.”
You turn back round to face him, bouncing a bit on your toes. “We’ll need to be quick.”
Johnny’s bloody and bruised face lights up with a toothy grin and he nods dutifully as he closes the distance between you both. He lifts his hand to place it on your cheek, his palm warm and rough against your skin. “Cannae tell ye how much I’ve thought about this.”
You laugh a bit, staring up at him. You don’t mind so much that he’s still a bit covered in his own blood. “This is so unprofessional.”
“Aye, it is.”
He doesn’t waste another second before he’s putting his mouth on yours, teeth clacking against yours with the desperation and intensity of his kiss. You hear yourself make a soft noise of surprise, or something akin to that. It’s hard to say, hard to organise your emotions when your brain only wants to focus on Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.
He’s intoxicating. If being around him and simply being flirted with by him was as addictive as it was, actually kissing him, touching him beyond just treating his injuries, is heroin. He’s backing you up toward the lockers before you realise it, moving his hands from your cheeks down to your body. His hands explore you with no inhibitions, his rough hands squeezing at your tits. He groans into your mouth, pulling his lips away from yours to look down.
His forehead presses to yours as he takes in the sight of your body. Of course, you’re fully clothed and it’s nothing he’s never seen before, but it’s the fact that for this moment it’s his.
(Johnny is well aware that half his team wants you. Maybe more than half, but half of them had openly expressed it. While you’re gone, while they’re winding down in the locker room. But none of them could pull it off. None of them had seeped through the cracks in your professionalism and found their way into your pants. But Johnny had. He had barely even started with you, and he's already thinking about how he might gloat about it.)
“Fuckin’ gorgeous, bonnie,” he mumbles, pressing a short kiss to your lips. “Would love to take my time with ye.”
“Me too,” you breathe, arching into his touch as he gropes at your tits. “But we can’t.”
“Aye,” he says, a scowl creasing his bloodied face. “Bloody tragic. S’alright, lass, next time.”
Part of you wants to say there probably shouldn’t be a next time, which is true, but your brain is already surpassing its ability to form sentences– and the idea of denying yourself of more Johnny sounds like a nightmare right now. You can’t even entertain the thought, not while Johnny is pressing his bulge to your leg, groaning as he shamelessly ruts against your clothed thigh.
“What d’you want, bonnie?” He asks, voice breathy, almost growling in your ear. “Tell me. I’ll give it to ye.”
You have to bite your tongue to prevent yourself from asking him to fuck you outright. You’re not entirely sure why you don’t say that, actually. Maybe it’s the time constraints, or maybe it’s his cock pressing against your thigh, but fuck, you want to taste it.
“Let me suck you off,” you demand unceremoniously. Johnny chuckles, likely at your commanding tone, but nods as he presses a kiss, then another, to your neck.
“Christ,” he says between heated kisses. He seems almost disappointed to let you sink to your knees, leaving his mouth unoccupied. He almost starts panting as he sees you stare up at him from your knees, reaching for the waistband of his shorts. “Yer fuckin’ perfect. Goan then, lass, then I’ll give that pretty pussy of yours the treatment it deserves after, yeah?”
Nodding along to his ramblings, you tug his shorts down and find yourself disappointed as you come face to face not with his cock, but with his compression shorts. The both of you groan, and Johnny almost tears them off in his desperation to remove them, cursing the shorts under his breath– you bite back the urge to remind him of the medical benefits of wearing them; besides, any thought you have is cut off by the sight of his cock, hard and leaky, springing free.
It's beautiful, which is a strange thing to say about a cock, you know, but there's little else to describe such a pretty thing. You wrap your hand around the base, licking an appreciative stripe along the underside of it.
“ Fuuuuck ,” Johnny groans, hand falling gently on the back of your head. Not pushing, but just resting there. “Good fucking girl.”
You take the head of him into your mouth, gazing up at him as you begin to take him deeper, bobbing your head along the length of him. Johnny’s head hits the wall as he moans freely, seemingly unashamed of the idea of being caught. He’s lost in the warmth of your mouth, and you can't much blame him, because you’re lost in the weight of his heavy cock on your tongue.
Johnny’s eyes are lidded as he turns his gaze down to watch you, and you feel his thumb rub gently over the back of your head as you take him deeper, stopping about halfway down his length, and just stroking what you haven't fit.
“S’alright, bonnie girl,” Johnny mumbles, voice low. “Dinnae have to take me all today, we’ll work at it, aye?”
His muttered promises make you moan, and that makes him moan. You go back to bobbing your head, the locker room filled with the lewd noises of your mouth.
It doesn't take Johnny an exceptionally long time to start reaching his end, his hips twitching as he holds back on the urge to fuck right into your mouth. He has the self control to care for your comfort at least.
“Gonna- fuck , lass, can I come in your mouth?”
Were it anyone else, or any other situation, you’d probably say no. But it's Johnny ; and right now the two of you can't exactly afford to deal with a mess. You hum your affirmative, and apparently the slight vibration of it is enough to have him coming. You see the muscles of his lower abdomen tense before you feel his hot release spill onto your tongue. You take every drop, even when it begins to feel a bit much. When his body relaxes and he leans back against the wall, you pull away and swallow, making Johnny groan lowly.
“Perfect,” he praises, gently guiding you to stand before kissing you again. He licks into your mouth, tongue laving over your teeth like he’s trying to taste himself. Only as you lean to return the favour, he’s flipping the both of you around so your back is against the wall and he’s kneeling before you.
“Promise is a promise,” he mumbles, tugging eagerly at your leggings. You can tell he’d love nothing more than to rip them from your body, but he exercises enough self control to just drag them down to your calves, your panties going along with them.
The position isn't ideal, but Johnny’s enthusiasm isn't hindered. He spreads your legs as far as the leggings will allow, one thumb tugging your lips aside. He groans, leaning forward and inhaling deeply. His nose brushes against your clit and you whine, cheeks warming at the lewd gesture.
“Johnny,” you urge, threading your fingers through his mohawk and tugging gently. Johnny moans. Then, he shuffles forward on his knees and presses his face between your thighs, dragging his tongue over your dripping pussy.
One of his hands grabs at your thigh as he licks you, slurping desperately at your slickened cunt. Another tug at his mohawk draws his focus to your clit, which he sucks into his mouth with an appreciative groan. Even when he can't talk, Johnny is incredibly loud; there would be no hiding this from anyone listening outside the door.
He sucks at your clit, hand moving from your thigh to slip a finger into your cunt, making you moan before you slap a hand over your mouth. Johnny’s eyes open, and his eyebrows furrow.
He pulls away, despite your whined protest, and takes a short breath. “Lemme hear ye, lass,” he encourages. “Don't hide from me.”
“Johnny,” you begin to protest, cutting yourself off with a gasp when he eases another finger into you and curls them right against a spot that has a loud moan falling from your parted lips.
“That’s my girl,” he praises, ducking right down to graze his teeth over your clit.
His mouth combined with his rough fingers is driving you mad, making you squirm in place as pleasure begins to sear the ends of your nerves.
“ Johnny !” You cry, head banging against the wall as your orgasm hits you without warning or much buildup at all. It feels as though it's been punched out of you, making your body tense and tremble for a few good seconds, mind floating miles above your body.
When you return to earth, Johnny has pulled his fingers from your pussy and has them in your mouth, his nose pressed against your clit as he ruts his hips against his hand. You're entranced watching him rub himself through the overstimulation, fingers in his mouth and bruising nose in your pussy. It's only a few more moments before Johnny spills into his fist, a guttural groan muffled by your cunt.
He sighs, pressing a loving kiss to your pussy. Then, he pulls back, face shiny with your slick, and looks up at you, grinning lopsidedly. “Alright, bonnie?” He asks, like he hasn't just jerked himself to a second orgasm on his own.
“Yeah,” you breathe, words like laughter. “Are you?”
He nods, shuffling awkwardly to his feet and looking at the mess on his hands. Pants still around his knees, he shuffles over to your medical supplies and gets himself a tissue, wiping his hand off before tugging up his shorts.
He returns to you, who’s struggling to stand, and gently tugs your pants up for you. He kisses you, softer and sweeter than before, and smiles against your lips. “Ye were perfect, bonnie.”
You hum, shifting your legs so that your underwear doesn't press wrong against your oversensitive cunt.
The door opens before you can respond, and the first person inside is Johnny’s coach, John Price. The two of you must have somehow missed the siren in the heat of your joint pleasure. The bearded man takes in the scene of the two of you standing so close, and the slick on Johnny’s flushed face, and a heavy sigh leaves his lungs.
everyone's favourite sheep-stealing plucky dragonrider, the wonderful nettles, by the even more wonderful @ellemnopie!!! she's gone from our screens but not from our hearts <3
Today is the third episode of House of the Dragon, so for fun I thought I’d do a post of the dragon names for all the dragons we’ve seen thus far in High Valyrian (both in the orthography and in the romanization). In the writing itself there are many ways to spell names, so the spellings you see here are just those that I decided on for this post; they’re not the only possible spellings for each dragon.
First is Arrax (Arraks) whose name is built off the glyph used in arrigon, which means “to show” or “to display”. Arrax’s (Arraks’) name doesn’t necessarily derive from this word, but it’s close enough that it can be spelled with that glyph. The last glyph is a special glyph for names that end in -x (-ks).
Next Balerion, the Black Dread. The bal- portion of the name comes from the glyph for soil balon. Next is the glyph for repetition commonly used in participles. This word isn’t necessarily a participle, but that glyph is used when there’s a -Vr extender in a name (cf. Daenerys, Jaehaerys, etc.). The last glyph is the glyph for iron āegion, which is used for the -ion ending. Both the glyphs for soil and iron imply darkness, chosen in part due to Balerion’s black scales.
Sheepstealer’s name you will have heard several times this season. The name is a direct translation, with the first glyph for bianor “sheep”, and the second two glyphs being laodio, an older word for “thief” (the more common word is laodikio). To form a compound, bianor reduces to its second stem, biādr-, which then assimilates to the following l, giving us biāllaodio.
Seasmoke’s (Embrōrbar’s) name is a standard compound. The first glyph is embar “sea” and the second ōrbar “smoke”. To combine the two, embar changes to its genitive embro, and then it merges with ōrbar. The name is literally “smoke of the sea”.
Silverwing’s (Gēliotīkun’s) name is also a direct translation of the common. Gēlio is the genitive of gēlion “silver”, and tīkun is the word for “wing”. The first two glyphs give us gēlio and the second two tīkun. It’s literally “wing of silver”.
Another Common Tongue name is Moondancer (Hūrlilio). This is less obvious in High Valyrian, as the root for moon hūra is used smashed onto the word for dancer lilio. The first glyph is the glyph of the moon; the second the glyph for dancing; and the last a glyph that gives us -io, Valyrian equivalent of -er.
The name of the great Caraxes (Karakses) derives from the Valyrian word for great kara. Following that initial glyph is the special x (ks) glyph seen in Arrax (Arraks). The last glyph is the dragon glyph which gives us the -es ending.
Meleys (Meles) is a much simpler name. The name derives from mele “red”, which uses the same glyph as the glyph for a rose. The last glyph is the dragon glyph which gives us -es.
Syrax (Sȳraks) is Rhaenyra’s yellow dragon, and its name derives from sȳz “good”. In its modified forms, the root of sȳz is sȳr-, and so when it combines with the -x (-ks) glyph it’s Sȳraks, not Sȳzaks.
The old god Vhagar (Vagar) lends its name to this dragon. As an old god, the name has many spellings, and its old pronunciation has been lost. This time I spelled it with the consonantal glyphs V, H, and G with the blood glyph giving us the -ar ending. Whatever the V and H were supposed to represent has been lost to time, but the H will stick around in the spelling as a vestige of the old god’s name.
The name Vermax (Vermaks) is a combination of the glyph used in vermagon “to warn” and the -x (-ks) terminal glyph.
Vermithor (Vermitor) is another old name which has many spellings. In this instance, I used the same glyph as with Vermax (Vermaks), added a consonantal T, and used the shadow glyph to give us the -or ending.
Finally we have the Common Tongue name Sunfyre (Vēsperzys). This is a simple compound, with the sun glyph vēzos being sandwiched onto the front of perzys “fire”, similar to the moon glyph in Moondancer (Hūrlilio). The z of vēzos assimilates to the following p of perzys, devoicing to s.
Obviously, there are more dragon names than this in A Song of Ice and Fire (and more that have been mentioned in House of the Dragon), but these are the ones we have pictures of (or skulls, at least). I have to say, GRRM doesn't disappoint when it comes to the quantity of dragons. If dragons are supposed to be a big thing in the series, there better be a lot of them, and there are, so hats off to him for that!
Maekar Targaryen had no intention of invading your privacy, but one singular sentence caught his attention and he could not stop from turning page after page, his own hunger taking shape in a manner he never thought that you, his sweet innocent wife, would ever crave from him. You did not want gentleness, nor did you want softness—and what husband would he be if he did not indulge his wife's fantasies.
WARNING; explicit sexual content, maekar unintentionally finds your diary and one sentence hooks him, rough sex, cum play, hair pulling, back shots, intense sexual content, explicit detail, maekar goes down on you, and yes, he does taste his own cum, so don't read if that makes you angsty, minors dni.
The afternoon sun fell through the high lancet window in a blade of gold, catching the dust motes that hung suspended in the bedchamber's still air.
Maekar Targaryen knelt beside the bed, his weight settled back on his heels, the leather-bound diary open in his hands like a prayer book he had never been taught to read.
His thumb pressed to a page where the ink was still fresh, you had written this sometime in the night, after he'd fallen asleep, after he'd held you against his chest and kissed your hair and told you that you were his whole world in that quiet, reverent way he had.
The afternoon light caught the silver in his hair as he read the line again. I want him to take me without asking. I want him to pin my wrists and make me feel his strength. I want him to stop being so careful, stop treating me like glass, stop holding back the part of himself he thinks I can't handle.
His breath had stopped somewhere in his chest. He read it a third time, and a fourth, tracing each curve of your handwriting with his eyes, feeling the shape of the words settle into his bones like a truth he had always known but never dared to name.
You wanted him rough.
You wanted him to stop being gentle.
“Gods, the fucking cheek of this woman,” Maekar had murmured into the silence, because now he could not stop thinking about how you had been lying beside him every night, burning with a hunger you were too afraid to speak aloud, while he gave you tenderness you had never asked for.
The diary lay open across his palms, the leather warm from his grip. He could smell you on the pages, a faint trace of the lavender oil you rubbed into your wrists each evening, and something else, something that was just you, that he had memorized in the long months of your marriage.
He closed the book slowly, the leather creaking under his fingers, and when he looked toward the door where you would walk in any moment, there was a new stillness in his shoulders, a decision already settling behind his violet eyes.
He did not put the diary back.
He held it, feeling its weight, feeling the confession it contained as if it were a live thing pressed against his palm. You had written other things too, pages and pages of them, fantasies you had never whispered, desires you had blushed to even think.
He had read enough.
He had read the part that mattered.
The part that changed everything, the part that had awakened something within him he had no intention of ever showing you. Dyanna had never been this brazen, she had never hidden her desire for him—what she wanted, she had received tenfold, so what the fuck had possessed you to hide this from him?
The room was still, velvet hung motionless around the bed, the air thick with the memory of your bodies from the night before.
He could still feel the ghost of you against his skin, the way you had curled into him, the soft sound you made when he touched you and now he understood that sound differently.
It was not contentment, but rather that it was hunger, banked and patient, waiting for him to finally see it.
He rose from his knees, the diary still in his hand, and crossed to the carved oak table where you kept your hairbrush, your silver ring, the Targaryen pendant you never removed.
He set the diary down beside them, deliberately, as if placing an offering.
Then he turned and faced door.
The moment stretched as he could hear the distant sounds of the keep, a servant's footsteps in the corridor, the murmur of conversation from the courtyard below. None of it reached him.
He was suspended in the space between who he had been and who he was about to become.
He had been gentle because he thought you needed gentle. He had held you like you were precious, like you might break, because the idea of causing you even a moment's pain had been unbearable, the mere thought that you had wanted that part of him unleashed made his cock stir within the confinement of his breeches.
He had learned to be soft from a lifetime of watching what unchecked Targaryen passion could do to those caught in its path and the last thing he wanted was to frighten you.
He had sworn to himself that he would never be that kind of husband—not even with Dyanna and most certainly not with you—that he would love you with patience and care and the steady warmth of a hearth fire rather than the consuming blaze of dragonflame.
But you had not wanted a hearth fire. You had wanted the blaze. You had wanted the part of him he had locked away, the part that watched you with something darker, something that stirred when you bit your lip or looked at him from beneath your lashes.
You had wanted him to take, not to ask and he had been too afraid to see it.
The door opened.
You stepped into the room, your hair catching the afternoon light, your eyes lifting from the floor to find him standing there and you stopped.
Your hand still on the latch, your body half-turned as if you might step back out, as if you had sensed something in the air that did not belong.
“Maekar.” Your voice was soft, uncertain. Your gaze flicked past him to the table, to the diary lying open beside your brush, and your face went pale. “You—”
You did not finish.
He watched you process it. Watched the color drain from your cheeks, then rush back in a flush of heat that spread down your throat.
You knew.
You knew what he had found, what he had read. Your diary. Your secrets. The hunger you had never dared to show him.
“I found it beneath the sheets,” he said, his voice lower than usual, carrying a weight that made your breath catch. “I did not mean to read it. I meant to put it back, to pretend I had never seen it.” He took a step toward you. “But I read one line. And then I could not stop.”
Your lips parted but you said nothing, your hand came away from the latch and pressed against your throat, that nervous habit he had always found endearing, and watched your fingers curl against your collarbone as if you could feel his gaze there, as if the air between you had thickened with something you did not yet trust.
“You want me to stop being gentle.” He said it plainly, without accusation, but the words landed like stones in the silence between you. “You want me to pin your wrists. To take you without asking. To make you feel my strength.”
You flinched, a small, almost invisible movement, but he saw it, saw it in the way your eyes dropped, the way your throat worked as you swallowed, the way your hand pressed harder against your skin as if you were trying to hold yourself steady.
“Tell me,” he said, and his voice dropped lower still, rough at the edges, carrying the first hint of the fire you had written about. “Tell me if it is true.”
You looked up and met his eyes and in that look he saw everything, the fear, the shame, the desperate wanting that you had hidden behind shy glances and soft sighs.
You nodded. A single, small movement of head.
“Say it,” he said. “I need to hear you say it.”
Your lips moved, but no sound came. You wet them, tried again, and your voice emerged as a whisper, fragile and raw. “Yes. It's true. I want—” You stopped, your breath hitching. “I want you to stop being careful with me. I want you to take what you want. I want—”
He crossed the room in three strides.
His hand found your waist, not gentle, not hesitant, and pulled you against him so hard you gasped. His other hand came up to your jaw, fingers pressing into the soft flesh beneath your ear, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.
“Do you know what you have done, woman?” he asked, his voice barely above a murmur, vibrating with something that made your knees weaken. “Do you know what you have unleashed by writing those words?”
You shook your head, a tiny, trembling motion against his grip.
He lowered his mouth to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You have given me permission to be the husband I have always wanted to be. The one I locked away because I thought you needed softness. But you do not need softness, do you?”
You made a sound, a small, desperate sound that was almost a sob, almost a moan and your hands came up to clutch at his doublet, your fingers curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself against the current you had set in motion.
“Answer me,” he said, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “Do you need softness?”
“No,” you breathed. “No, I don't—I need—”
“What do you need?”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes dark and wet, your lips parted, your breath coming in uneven gasps. “I need you. The real you. The one you hide.”
The words hit him like a blow.
He stared at you, at the woman who had been sleeping beside him for months, who had smiled at him over breakfast and blushed when he caught you staring, who had written your darkest desires in a leather-bound book because you had been too afraid to speak them aloud and in that moment, he saw you clearly for the first time.
He released your jaw.
His hand slid down to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse hammer against his palm, you did not flinch and you did not pull away, but rather you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed, your lips parting on a soft exhale.
“From now on,” he said, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, “you will tell me what you want. You will not hide it in a book. You will not bury it beneath your pillow and hope I do not find it. If you want something, you will say it. Do you understand?”
You nodded, your throat moving against his hand.
“And if you do not say it,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that was almost a growl, “I will find out anyway. I will learn every corner of your desire. I will take it from you, piece by piece, until there is nothing left you have not given me.”
Your breath caught.
Your hands tightened on his doublet and when you spoke, your voice was barely audible, trembling with a mixture of fear and want that made his blood run hot. “Yes.”
He kissed you, not the soft, reverent kisses he had given you every night for months—no, no, this was a claiming, a taking, his mouth hard on yours, his hand pressing against your throat, his body crowding you back until you hit the doorframe with a soft thud.
You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting the shock and the surrender and the relief you could no longer hide.
When he broke the kiss, you were both breathing hard, your lips were swollen, your eyes dazed, your fingers still clutching at him as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly tilted off its axis.
“Take off your dress,” he said.
You stared at him as your hands trembled as they went to the laces at your shoulder. You fumbled, your fingers clumsy with nerves and want, and he watched you struggle without helping, without offering any of the gentleness he had always given you before.
The dress slipped. It pooled at your feet in a whisper of fabric. You stood before him in your shift, the thin linen doing nothing to hide the shape of you, the rise and fall of your breathing, the way your nipples had hardened beneath the cloth.
He looked at you, slowly, intensity burning and letting you feel the weight of his gaze, the heat of it, the hunger he had finally stopped hiding.
“On the bed,” he said. “On your knees. Face down.”
You moved without hesitation, no questions, no fear as you crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, the velvet rustling beneath your weight, and you arranged yourself as he had commanded, knees apart, face pressed into the pillows, your spine curving into an arch that made his mouth go dry. “Fuck me, woman.”
You said nothing, but he groaned at the unmistakable shake of your shoulders as you muffled the small giggle that tumbled from your lips, “I do not find this amusing, wife. You have undone me.”
The afternoon light fell across your back, across the curve of your hips, across the thin linen that separated you from his hands.
He stood at the foot of the bed and watched you, letting the image burn itself into his memory, his wife, the woman he had held so carefully, now offered to him with a trust that made his chest ache.
He removed his doublet, the leather slid from his shoulders, and the fine linen shirt beneath it followed, falling to the floor beside your dress. “I am going to fucking ruin you.”
He walked around the bed slowly, letting you hear his footsteps, letting you wonder what he would do next, letting the anticipation build until he could see your fingers grip the velvet covers.
When he climbed onto the bed behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight, you made a small sound, a breathless anticipation that tightened his jaw and hardened the cock already pressing against his trousers.
He settled behind you, one knee on either side of your legs, and let his hand rest on the small of your back, “You have been wanting this,” he said, his voice low, his palm pressing down until you arched deeper. “You have been lying beside me, night after night, wanting me to do this.”
“Yes,” you whispered into the pillow.
“Say it again.”
“Yes.” Your voice was stronger this time, carrying a note of desperate relief. “Yes, I have been wanting this. I have been wanting you.”
His hand slid down, over the curve of your hip, over the thin linen of the shift, until his fingers pressed between your legs.
You were wet, so fucking wet that the dampness of your desire soaked through the fabric, and he groaned at the feel of you, at the proof of your desire that you had hidden from him for so long. “You are soaked,” he said, his thumb pressing against you through the linen, making you gasp. “How long have you been this wet for me?”
“Months,” you breathed. “Since—since our wedding night. Since you held me so gently that I almost cried, because I knew—I knew you were holding back, and I wanted—”
“What did you want?” He pressed harder, circling, felt your hips push back against his hand.
“I wanted you to take me. I wanted you to fuck me like you meant it, like you needed it, like—” Your voice broke on a moan as he pinched you through the fabric. “Like I was yours to take.”
He pulled his hand away, and you whimpered at the loss. He grabbed the hem of your shift and pulled it up over your hips, baring you completely, the curve of your ass, the wet heat between your thighs, the glistening proof of your hunger.
He stared at you, his breath coming hard, his hands aching with the need to touch you. “You are mine,” he said, and his voice was not gentle. It was rough, possessive, dark with a fire he had never let you see.
“You have always been mine. But now—” He leaned over you, his mouth close to your ear, his cock pressing against you through the fabric of his trousers. “Now you are going to know what that means.”
You trembled beneath him, a full-body shudder that ran from your shoulders to your thighs. You did not speak as you did not need to, your body told him everything, the arch of your spine, the spread of your knees, the way you pressed back against him as if you could not get close enough.
He reached down and freed his cock from his trousers, the head already slick with need, and guided it to your entrance. He did not push inside. He held it there, pressing just at the opening, letting you feel the pressure, the promise, the heat of him ready to fill you.
“Look at me,” he said.
You turned your head, your hair spilling across the pillows, your eyes finding his. They were wet, dark, full of a wanting that mirrored his own. He held your gaze as he pushed inside you, slow and steady, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.
You gasped. “Fuck, woman. How the fuck—,” his jaw clenched as the words tumbled from him, “are you still so tight?”
Your eyes fluttered, but you did not look away, your body gripped him, hot and tight, and he felt the tremor run through you as you adjusted to the fullness of him.
He stayed still, letting you feel it, letting the moment stretch until you were breathing in short, shallow gasps that told him you were ready.
He began to move, not gentle and most fucking certainly not slow.
He fucked you with a rhythm that was hard and deep, his hips driving into yours, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. You made sounds he had never heard from you, raw, desperate, broken sounds that drove him harder, that told him this was what you had needed.
He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth at your ear. “Is this what you wanted?”
You could barely speak. Your voice came out in fragments, broken by each thrust. “Yes—yes—Maekar—”
“Tell me. Say the words.”
“I wanted you—to fuck me—like this—I wanted you—to not hold back—”
He reached around and found your clit with his fingers, pressing hard circles that made you cry out. Your body clenched around him, your muscles tightening as you neared the edge, and he drove into you deeper, faster, chasing the release that was building in both of you.
“Come for me,” he said, his voice a growl against your ear. “Come for me, and I will give you everything you have ever wanted.”
You shattered as your body arched, your cry muffled by the pillow, your cunt clenching around him in waves that pulled him over the edge with you. He came hard, his hips pressing deep, his fingers digging into your hips as he emptied himself into you, his breath ragged against your skin.
The room was silent except for your breathing, the ragged gasps slowly settling into steadier rhythms. He stayed inside you, not wanting to leave, not wanting the moment to end, and he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, soft, reverent, the ghost of his old gentleness.
But when he pulled out and you turned to face him, when you curled into his chest with your eyes still wet and your lips still parted, he knew. He knew that the gentle husband was not gone, that he was only one part of who Maekar Targaryen could be.
And now you knew it too.
He held you, his hand tracing slow circles on your back, and he looked at the diary still lying open on the table, at the words that had changed everything.
“No more secrets,” he said softly. “No more hiding what you want from me. I will be the husband you need, all of him. The gentle and the rough. The fire and the hearth. But you must promise me the same.”
You looked up at him, your dark eyes meeting his violet ones, and you nodded. “No more secrets.”
He kissed your forehead, a benediction and a promise. And in the quiet of the afternoon, with the diary still open on the table and your body warm against his, he began to understand what it meant to be the husband you had always wanted and to want it for himself.
The warmth of your body against his chest was still settling when he felt it, a twitch, a pressure, the slow resurgence of blood moving south. You must have felt it too, because your breath caught, and your fingers, which had been tracing idle patterns on his ribs, went still.
“Maekar.” His name on your lips was not a question. It was an acknowledgment, but rather a sudden flash of heat that had built beneath you once more.
He did not answer with words.
He rolled, taking you with him, pinning you beneath his weight before you could draw another breath, his hand found your throat, not the gentle resting touch from before, but a grip that pressed your head back into the pillows, that made your eyes go wide and your lips part on a sharp inhale.
He watched your pupils dilate, watched the rush of color stain your cheeks, watched the way your hands flew up to grip his wrist, not to push him away but to hold on. “I am not done with you,” he said, his voice low, rough, carrying an edge that had not been there the first time. “I barely started.”
You swallowed against his palm, your throat working, and the movement sent a pulse through his fingers that he felt all the way down his spine.
Maekar pulled his hand away just long enough to grab your hip and flip you onto your stomach and you gasped, the sound muffled by the pillows, and he dragged you up onto your knees, your ass pressing back against his thighs before he had even settled behind you.
He grabbed a fist of your hair and pulled, forcing your spine into a deeper arch, until your cheek was pressed flat against the mattress. “You said you wanted to know the real me,” he muttered, guiding his cock through the slick mess he had already left inside you. “The part I locked away. Look at me, and tell me you still want it.”
You turned your head, your eyes finding his over your shoulder. They were wet, wild, dark with a hunger that made his blood roar. “Yes,” you breathed. “Yes. Give me all of it.”
He drove into you in one, brutal thrust, no slow easing this time, no steady inch-by-inch. “You fucking wanted this, now take it.”
He buried himself to the hilt in a single motion that punched the air from your lungs and made your fingers claw at the sheets. He did not give you time to adjust. He pulled back and drove in again, harder, the slap of skin against skin sharp in the quiet room, the sound of his breathing ragged and harsh above you.
You made a sound that was almost a sob. Almost a plea. He did not slow down. He fucked you with a rhythm that was punishing, deep, each thrust driving your body forward until your knees slid against the velvet, until you were braced against the headboard, until the only sounds in the room were the wet slide of him inside you and the broken moans you could not contain.
His hand stayed in your hair, pulling your head back, keeping you arched and exposed. His other hand found your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave crescents. He wanted to mark you. He wanted you to feel this tomorrow, to walk through the keep with bruises blooming on your skin that no one else would see, to know that every ache in your body came from him.
“You like this,” he said, not a question. “You like being taken like this.”
You could barely speak, your voice breaking on each thrust. “Yes—yes, Maekar—please—”
“Please what?” He slowed, just enough to make you feel the difference, to make you desperate. “Tell me what you want.”
“Don't stop,” you gasped. “Don't—please—I—”
He drove into you again, hard, and you cried out, your body clenching around him, your thighs trembling. He could feel you approaching the edge, could feel the way your muscles tightened and fluttered, could feel the heat of your rising to meet his.
He pulled out.
You whimpered at the loss, a desperate, broken sound that nearly undid him as he grabbed your hips and flipped you onto your back, spreading your legs wide, positioning himself between before you could catch your breath.
He did not enter you.
He leaned over you, his weight on one arm, his other hand wrapping around his cock and sliding the head through the wet mess he had made of you, teasing your entrance, letting you feel the pressure without the relief.
“Look at me,” he said. “Do not fucking move an inch,” and then he left you, his presence an absence that made you mewl in protest.
You did not move, your eyes were glassy, your lips swollen, your chest heaving. You looked wrecked, and beautiful, and utterly his.
He retrieved the diary from the table. He did not close it. He held it out to you, the pages facing you, and said, “Read to me. The entry you wrote last night. The one about my mouth.”
Your cheeks flamed and your hands trembled as you took the diary, your fingers brushing against his.
You looked down at the page, your lips moving silently as you found the passage. And then you began to read, your voice low and shaky, the words spilling into the space between you like a confession you had never meant to speak aloud.
He watched you and listened as you read, about his tongue, about the way you imagined him tasting you, about the shame and the hunger, he felt something settle in his chest, a hunger of his own.
The chapter was not over. It had only just begun.
Your voice trembled through the first sentence, then steadied as you found your rhythm. The words you had written in the dark, when you thought no one would ever read them, now filled the space between you like smoke, intimate, unavoidable, burning.
“I imagine him on his knees,” you read, your cheeks flushing deeper, your eyes fixed on the page. “Between my thighs. His mouth—,” you stopped, wet your lips, and continued. “His mouth on me like I am something he needs to survive. Not gentle. Not careful. Devouring. Like he wants to consume me.”
He watched your throat move as you swallowed, watched your fingers tighten on the leather binding, in the way your thighs pressed together, as if the words themselves were enough to make you ache.
“Go on,” he said.
You turned the page.
Your breath caught.
“I want him to hold me down and taste me until I forget my own name. Until I can't think, can't speak, can't do anything but feel his tongue inside me. I want—,” your voice cracked. “I want to feel his beard against my thighs, his hands gripping my hips, his mouth—,” you stopped, your eyes squeezed shut, the diary trembling in your hands.
He took it from you gently, set it aside on the bed beside you and then he took your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the heat in your cheeks, and he kissed you.
Soft, reverent, the ghost of his old gentleness. “You wrote about my mouth,” he said against your lips. “Now you will feel it.”
He pushed you back onto the bed, your hair spreading across the pillows, your legs falling open without hesitation. He settled between them, his shoulders fitting into the cradle of your thighs, his breath warm against the slick heat he had already filled twice that afternoon.
You were still wet with him. His seed leaked from you, mixed with your own desire, and he pressed his mouth to you without hesitation, tasting you both, tasting the evidence of what you had done. You gasped, your hips bucking, your hands flying to his hair.
He did not start slowly.
He devoured you, just as you had written, his tongue flat against your clit, his mouth open and hungry, his fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks. You cried out, your back arching, your fingers twisting in his silver hair, and he felt the vibration of your moan through his lips.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his mouth still against you. “You taste like us. Like everything we have done today. Like everything we are going to do.”
You made a sound that was not quite a word, your hips pressing against his face, and he gave you what you wanted, his tongue sliding inside you, tasting the depth of you, feeling you clench around nothing as he worked you open with his mouth.
He stayed there for a long time, not rushing and not holding back either as he licked and sucked and pressed until your thighs were trembling against his ears, until your breath came in ragged sobs, until you were so close he could feel it in the way your body tensed, in the way your fingers tightened in his hair, in the way you whispered his name like a prayer.
He pulled his mouth away.
You whimpered, your hips chasing him, and he pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then the other, working his way up your body slowly, deliberately, letting you feel the absence of his mouth where you needed it most. “Not yet,” he said, his voice rough, his chin slick with you. “I want you to watch me when you come this time.”
He positioned himself above you, his cock pressing against your entrance, and held your gaze as he pushed inside. The angle was different like this, deeper, fuller, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he filled you completely. You gasped, your hands finding his shoulders, your eyes never leaving his.
He fucked you slow at first, deep, grinding thrusts that let you feel every inch of him, that made your breath catch on each withdrawal and rush out on each plunge.
He watched your face, watched the way your lips parted, the way your eyes glazed, the way your hands slid from his shoulders to his chest to his face, tracing the lines of him as if you were memorizing him by touch.
“You are everything,” he said, his voice breaking. “Everything I was afraid to be. Everything I locked away. You—” He thrust deeper, harder, and your back arched. “You set it free.”
You pulled his mouth to his, kissing him hard, your tongue sliding against his, tasting yourself on his lips. He groaned into your mouth, his rhythm faltering as the heat built, as your legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him deeper, as your cunt clenched around him in waves that told him you were close.
He broke the kiss, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged. “Come for me. Look at me and come.”
Your eyes locked onto his. Your body tensed, your mouth open on a silent cry, and you shattered beneath him, your cunt milking him with a force that sent him over the edge with you. He drove deep, pressing you into the mattress, and let go, filling you again, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
He collapsed beside you, pulling you with him, his arm wrapped around your waist, his face buried in your hair. The room was darkening, the afternoon light fading to the amber glow of early evening, and the diary lay open on the bed beside you, its pages catching the last of the sun.
You turned in his arms, your hand finding his chest, your voice barely a whisper. “There are more entries.”
He looked at you, at the flush still staining your cheeks, at the trust in your eyes, at the woman who had hidden your desires in a leather-bound book and now lay naked and spent in his arms, your secrets laid bare.
“I know,” he said softly. “And I will read every one of them. But not tonight.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Tonight, I want to hold you. Tonight, I want to feel you sleeping against my chest, knowing that you are mine, all of you. The gentle parts and the hungry parts. The parts you showed me and the parts you are still afraid to speak.”
Your eyes glistened as you nodded, curling into him, your cheek pressed to his heart. The diary lay open beside you, a witness to the change that had passed between you, a record of the hunger that had finally been fed.
He reached over and closed it. The leather creaked under his fingers, and he set it on the table beside the bed, beside your hairbrush and your ring and your pendant.
“Hmm.”
“Maekar?”
He grunted, something between hunger and an incredulous laugh, “I am particularly interested in how the fuck you want me to fuck you on the Iron Throne, but I suppose the vivid imagination you had bled into that fucking book will give me an idea.”
“You are insufferable.”
“You words, woman, not mine.”
Do not fret, for I intend to write this scenario for Valarr, Daeron, Aerion and Baelor. I just needed to get this off my chest first.
@sikudastoner tagged me in this literal months ago and its been sitting in my drafts as long. i meant to do my tyrell cousins too but only managed to nail down flora. heres ben and jeyne + flora tyrell, the iconic trio of course
jeyne blackwood: dark hair, gentle, reserved, light eyes
ben bracken: spirited, red hair, well read, freckles
