SUPPERTIME ⋆·˚ ༘ *
or PUSSY EATING with BAELOR, VALARR, AERION, DAERON, MAEKAR & LYONEL (2.2K)
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀‧₊˚ ⋅ warning(s) smut, noncon, dark (for aerion's bit), language, fem!reader, cunnilingus, face riding, bush mention, bodily fluids, finger in mouth/light gagging, voyeurism, outdoor/public sex, drinking/drunk sex, age gap, power imbalance, overstim, edging, high valyrian. +18/mdni .ᐟ
★ a/n first off, thank you x 1000 for all the love for the last fic like this i posted !i love freaking out about these fake people with you all. i hope you enjoy this one just as much and there is more on the wayyy. baelor's section includes a tiny, italicized excerpt from "fire and blood" by george r.r. martin translated into high valyrian that i do not claim as any of my own work or writing. i will also go ahead and spoil that aerion's bit is more of a lead up and there's no explicit oral since it was getting a bit long. as always, all mistakes are a result of my own doing. mwah! ★
MASTERLIST(S) | MODERN!BAELOR AU | MAIDEN!READER | SLEEPING BEAUTIES ˎˊ˗
𓆰 BAELOR TARGARYEN of HOUSE TARGARYEN
To keep it simple, Baelor likes you on top. Not hovering but sitting on top of him, even when you're reading. Especially when you're reading books in High Valyrian.
The position he has you would be odd if he hadn't had you in it before; sat on his face, your own hands holding you up to brace against the bed. An aged book between your splayed palms, while Baelor nudges at your clit.
"Keep going, dearest."
The gentle command from Baelor sounds beneath you, encircling your thighs to guide you into an easy grind. The swiping of his tongue along your slit makes the stroke of ink on old pages even harder to read.
"Rȳbas se aegon dārysion ikso aōhi by vēzos se ñuhor ziry… liberysion? Daorys Conqueror drējī iiii… iderēptan ondor ōregon issa rȳbas ziry ikso pāletilla–oh–s-se brōstan se Starry Sept se Oldtown ondoso High Septon se Vēdosorys–fuck, right there."
Some of the words could be smoother in their pronunciation, prettier off the roll of your tongue, but your reciting is rather impressive. You're learning fast, which only strengthens the suck of Baelor's lips around the clit. A non-verbal, spit-bathed action of admiration from the Hand, whose cock leaks stringy dribbles onto his stomach… twitching each time you squeak and groan.
Baelor makes you read until you can't anymore, until his face is coated in you and you're crying for him to let you come. He only obliges after making you ask in his mother tongue.
"Epagon nyke hae bisa, ñuha jorrāelagon," he mumbles wetly, pecking light kisses against your folds.
(Ask me like this, my love.)
It takes you a moment to sound it out. The once foreign, now familiar sounds slowly register.
"…k-kostilus, kostagon nyke–nyke māzigon? Kostagon ao mazverdagon nyke m-māzigon?"
(Please, can I come? Can you make me come?)
A proud smile spreads against your pussy, followed by a pat of your ass.
"Sȳrī gaomagon…"
(Well done...)
𓆰 VALARR TARGARYEN of HOUSE TARGARYEN
It is official. You are now wed to Valarr Targaryen, linked to the Prince of Dragonstone until the end of either of your times… and Gods, if he wasn't going to make sure you enjoy the first several suns of being his wife.
You've come too many times to care how uncomfortable the two members of the Kingsguard are. Valarr, caring even less, is stuffed under the covers and up against your cunt, savoring away as he has been all morning.
"…My Lord–"
"I'm a bit busy with my new wife. Your new Princess, who I'm sure would much rather hear nothing than the drone of your unimportant questions."
They can barely hear the muted words over the little groans you release whenever Valarr curls his lips around the swell of your clit. He gives you one last suckle before kissing up your belly and emerging from the blankets with a full exhale of air. The man licks at your neck, then pecks up to your mouth before shuffling on his side with an arm wrapped around your front. His movements slip the covers down just enough to reveal your breasts to the men, who nearly choke as they rescind their stares.
"Y-your uncle has... requested your presence in the main hall," one of the guardsmen stutters out. Valarr continues his kisses, humming with the content of a million and one men when your hand reaches to cup his jaw. He deepens the pecks into a long snog, only interrupted by the few words your husband can remember to get out.
"Men, my father has instructed me to spend whatever necessary time it will take to make my woman comfortable in her new home," he begins, mismatched pupils trained onto you as he lowers himself back under the covers with a grin that makes you giggle. There's a pause of quiet, and then a squeal from you, who reaches a grab at the nearest pillow with a dropped jaw and arching back.
More nipples. The guards look away, this time toward each other. Completely helpless and willing away the blood rushing to their own cocks.
How beautiful their new princess is.
"Therefore," Valarr breathes in, "I advise you return at a later time. Perhaps sometime next week? Possibly next summer…"
𓆰 AERION TARGARYEN of HOUSE TARGARYEN
"You."
The cut of his voice startles you well before the echo is finished ringing throughout the corridor. Your steps pause, and you tighten your grip on the bedsheets in your hand.
Turning, you see him. The prince, with his hair like ash and violet eyes stuck in a hard stare. There's something else there, too, just behind all that mean. It tries to suffocate your lungs as Aerion struts toward you, only pausing when he's close enough for your throat to bob with a thick gulp. Silently, he keeps watching you, eyes settled upon your chest as you bow before him.
"My prince. You are usually not awake at this hour. Is everything alright?"
Aerion just blinks at you, thinking.
"Fine. Just feeling a bit hungry."
"Oh. I can stop by the kitchens and retrieve a platter for you, if you wish. I am sure they wouldn't mind, so long as I explain who it is for."
The wobble in your voice is small, but there. Quivering with already uneven breaths, you opt to focus on the loose of his sleeping tunic while you speak. Boring and beige it is, yet, somehow, he wears it with an air that only he is capable of.
"No, girl. I'm hungry. Starved."
Brow furrow, you still don't understand. What kind of appetite can a plate of summer fruits not fill?
Your question is answered by a long walk to his room and a surprisingly gentle touch he uses to guide you toward his bed.
At first, he just talks.
Asks you how in seven hells you'd been assigned to working for the ruling family. Wondered why such a pretty thing like you would be relegated to changing bedsheets and fetching bathwater. There's a bit of impatience to his voice, but he keeps himself together long enough to get your shoulders to relax and wrap a hand to unstring the back of your dress.
He quickly stops you from covering yourself when the fabric pools to the floor, leaving you completely bare before him. Tracing a touch around your nipple, Aerion talks with a bowed chin.
"As I said, I'm rather famished… and I've had an eye on you for quite some time, gevie."
The word, strange sounding to you, slips a shiver down your spine. Aerion drags his middle finger lower, across your stomach, through the hair of your mound, and dips it inside your slit. You gasp and reach to clutch at his arm, moaning in surprise at the way the digit strokes your clit before he yanks it away.
Gazing straight at you, Aerion stuffs the finger inside his mouth. Groaning at the taste, he wipes all over his tongue before tugging it free with a pop.
The man commands you with a silent ah, dropping his jaw and waiting for you to do the same. Between your parted lips slips the same finger that reaches to press so far against the back of your tongue that you gag.
Aerion smirks at the sound, grabbing your cheeks with the rest of his hand so you can't look anywhere but him.
"Yes… you'll do quite nicely."
𓆰 DAERON TARGARYEN of HOUSE TARGARYEN
He's drunk, nearly-crying, and balls deep inside you.
"Fuck me," Daeron groans, eyes rolling as his hips smack into yours. You clutch him and the damp of his skin closer, tugging on the wild head of hair when he cries out once more with an ache to fill you for the second time this night. "Milk me, dove. Take my seed."
His words are slurred and breathless, choking away into nothing as his cock pumps you full with another thick load of cum. Your name slurs out of the man as a prayer, eyes glazed with alcohol and tears. "Ah–ah. Yesyesyesyes."
Daeron pulls out before either of you is ready, but only to use his tongue to catch when his cum leaks from your slit. His impatience and hazy mind get the best of the eldest son, who resorts to slicking his tongue inside you to scoop out the mess. Eating himself from you, he makes certain not to forget your clit, thumb coming to pull back the hood to swipe his nose at it.
Again, he's drunk. Yes, on ale and wine, but also you. Addicted, really, to filling you up then slurping at your clit until you're empty, only to fill you back up once more.
"The way we taste together…" he huffs out wet breaths across his still squirming tongue. "I could die in this, for you. Drown in it."
Daeron nuzzles his face deeper. Swirling his head and tongue in opposite directions while stretching his grip until he can grope your chest. He squeezes, humming with slow blinks and a sweaty forehead. All the while, thinking nothing of your husband-to-be.
Completely lost in you, Maekar's future (and second) wife, all the ale clouding just how fucked he will be if he is to keep this up. The unfairness of it all keeps him stupid, lapping at you like a trained mutt. Like a son who does not care of his father's wishes.
Daeron saw you first, so why doesn't he get to marry you?
𓆰 MAEKAR TARGARYEN of HOUSE TARGARYEN
He can't help but let a little of his demeanor, stern with sturdy grips, leak in at times like this. Times when he has to grip your skin to keep you from closing your legs like your body keeps trying.
It's almost too much. The fast flicks of Maekar's tongue and rough slurps of your hole, making sure to drag his teeth against your clit just to feel you jerk. You can feel the beard of white scratch at you with every sharp gesture of the man's head, prickles dragging to dampen themselves along your slit.
A gasp snatches from your lungs when Maekar pushes his tongue inside you, as deep as it'll reach. He growls, allowing you to trap his head with your thighs as he fucks his tongue in and out of you, jagged breaths blowing from his nose loudly.
"My P-Prince, I must return–agh–to my chambers…" you remind him through shaky, barely able to remember the reason for the coming evening celebrations. "…to prepare for tonight's festivities. My father is pr-probably wondering where I've gone. Ah! If we do not finish soon, I fear all the honey cakes will be gone before–"
"Fuck the cake," Maekar grumbles, silently making a note to himself to make sure you get some regardless of when he finally frees you from his grasp. "And your father is probably drunk on wine and too busy shouting songs with my guards to realize his kin is gushing about in the arms of The Anvil."
With that, he's latching back onto you, scraping the flat of his tongue on your nub in lively strokes. His chest jumps with a small victory when you whine his name, forgetting all about the party and sweets and the worry over what your father will think.
Soon enough, you won't have to concern yourself with whatever your father feels–how easy the aging prince traces his title into your dripping centre. Soon enough, you will be his pretty wife, fully his to feed cake while he sucks your tits to rid himself of the shitty days behind him.
𓆰 LYONEL BARATHEON of HOUSE BARATHEON
Of course, he is to find you at the worst possible moments. Worst being relative, as Lyonel possesses a skill of the tongue unlike any other, but still. You could be in the bath, in bed, or walking through a nearby forest, and he's pouncing. Sudden and tender, groping at your flesh through the dark, golden-detailed cloth that he'd begged you not to slip on during the earlier hours of the morn.
Deep chuckles bounce from Lyonel and against your inner thigh. After the sound, a sloppy kiss.
"Lyonel," you huff, helping to bunch up the dress of your skirt that he's already halfway buried beneath, his hands clawing at your panties with light scratches and tugs of impatience. "L-Lyonel."
The man answers with a dig of his tongue inside you, groan cutting through the buzz of the outdoors at the taste. The ground sits hard under your back, almost damp when you arch to rub harder against the measured flicks.
"We w-will be requested for dinner soon," you remind him, breathless and with a fuzzy stare at the sky of seemingly endless clouds. Lyonel remains distracted, suckling you with long licks until his mouth fills with the taste of you, promptly spitting globs of spit to slicken you even further. You can feel the warm, sticky drip down your ass as Lyonel feeds away. Unconvinced.
Finally, he answers. Bubbles of drool coat his lips and chin, the words muffle just below your belly button, when he kisses his way through an unbothered shrug.
"No matter that," Lyonel wheezes, stomach pressed against the grassy ground as he shuffles. Poking his head to catch your eye. "I will command the kitchens to prepare you something of sustenance once the trees watch me take you properly."
"And what of your meal?"
Lyonel laughs, messy curls tickling his forehead. "Oh, my sweet, sweet thing. I have all the nourishment I need right here in my palms."
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