zoologist (specialization in ichthyology), traditional artist
mild Star Wars fan
---
We are just advanced breed of monkeys on a minor planet of a very average star. But we can understand the Universe. That makes us something special. (Stephen Hawking)
do you ever find yourself bedeviled by writing ideas that are the equivalent of finding a single carrot in your fridge. your brain goes "we should write a pirate story" or "we should write a parisian thief caper" and you ask, "all right, what do we cook with that, then?" and it says "no other ingredients (:"
yknow how some museums will have replicas of artifacts for you to touch? they should do that but with things i can put in my mouth. like little candies shaped like roman coins or potsherds or bits of egyptian glass or what have you. let me eat the artifacts. let me in. let me innnnnnn
My dear fellow Krennic enthusiasts, I've taken my sweet time with adding a third chapter to Maltheen Divide. But it's finally publicly available, so come get your corn! A steamy moment on a chair and a little bit of flashback to Genian, another planet that we might explore in the future. Who wouldn't want those large hands in leather on their throat, amirite?
Chapter 3: Tee-Muss Leather
Director of Advanced Weapons Research series on AO3
If you like my writing, let's have a ko-fi.
The hairbrush clinked against the desk when you set it down, grabbing the stylus, ready to scribble down the latest ideas that were brewing in your brain. You were oblivious to the fact that Orson was watching you from his position on the bed, dressed down in loungewear, his own datapad in hand as he had been reading reports for the better half of the last hour. You could see him in the mirror if you glanced up, but you didnβt.
You didnβt hear the soft rustle of bedsheets when he decided to move, either.
His light touch at the nape of your neck sent shivers down your spine, your handwriting getting sloppy with the distraction impersonated. And he observed it over your shoulder, amusement twinkling in his mischievous gaze, one hand kneading your tense muscles while the other remained hidden behind his back.
He recognised the latest project from Kuat, the one he had interrupted by storming in and demanding your immediate assistance. But he could barely read what you were writing there. βIβm impressed that the things produced by KDY can fly, especially if someone gets to read this,β he chuckled. βYou write like shit, itβs undecipherable.β
βI donβt,β you frowned at his unsolicited opinion.
βThen whatβs this?β he pointed at seemingly random line on the screen.
ββAdd alluvial dampers, move by four degreesβ,β you traced each word with the inactivated stylus, so you wouldnβt erase them accidentally. βIf we do it, I believe the superstructure can withstand more thrust without damage.β
βTo class 2 hyperdrive? What do you want to achieve by that? Class 1.8?β
βNo, the starting pointΒ isΒ 1.8 Nubian,β you offered him a smile.
βThisΒ bokbok-scratch? Oh, waitβ¦ Are you trying to reverse-engineerΒ Carrion Spike? Tarkinβs ship?β he grinned.
βWhat IβmΒ tryingΒ to do, Orson, is to scale the engine up and slap it onto a Star Destroyer. At least thatβs what KDY asked me to do. On hypothetical basis. Whether someone ever manufactures that is another question entirely.β While you were explaining the situation to him, his hand followed down your arm, taking the stylus from you gently and putting it down. Before you could react, it cradled your chin, delivering a nip just below your ear. You gulped, breath hitching in your throat that he caressed next, his fingers splaying over your warm skin possessively.
βEnough talk for today, wife,β he murmured, following your lower jaw with his lips.
That βcomment on your a03 workβ email hits like a line of cocaine every time. unmatched dopamine increase. shoutout to everyone who leaves a comment on fics. you deserve the world
From a production POV, I know Garsa's lekku and headpiece are designed to work as a single, hat-like unit, probably meant to avoid prosthetic application. The weight therefore needs to be balanced higher to avoid slipping off the back of Jennifer Beals's head. However, I can't help interpreting the very structural appearance of her headpiece as anything but an in-universe push-up bra for lekku. Garsa's would definitely dangle very differently without it. The morphology of lekku throughout SW canon demonstrates the diversity of growth and origin on the skull, and it wouldn't necessarily surprise me if there was, perhaps, a preference for 'lifted' lekku in certain cultures -- or certain lines of work.
Creating characters is fun until they start making decisions without your permission. You sit down to write a quiet breakfast scene and suddenly theyβre confessing childhood trauma, or worse, falling in love with the wrong person. Youβre supposed to be the god of this story, but really youβre just the exhausted babysitter of a bunch of fictional anarchists.
Just wait till you witness them bickering over the bowl of cereals with blue milk. Suddenly, the bowl launches to the lower orbit of whatever planet those two idiots are hiding at.
The thing is that sex scenes actually are incredible ways to explore character. People are at their most vulnerable during sex! The way they have sex says a lot of very interesting things about their desires, obviously, but also their psychology, their vulnerabilities, their hopes and fears, etc. It is completely insane to me to think that sex scenes have no value other than to sexually excite the audience. And even if their only value is to sexual excite the audience - SO WHAT?? A movie is supposed to excite and entertain you! Grow up!!!
first you gotta do the build up and then the actual fucking and the fucking is pretty easy but you never know how long the fucking should last, and eventually you're like "okay I'm tired of this" so the characters cum, but you're not done yet because you can't just end it at "he fucking nutted everywhere" you gotta keep going, and the characters have to chat a little or cry or think about how horrible they are or something and then you kinda don't know when to end that either so now you're 2k words in and you might have put too much self hatred and not enough sucking dick. so you wrap it up, and think well it's done now.
or sometimes you have it all perfect in your mind and you knock the whole thing out in 2 to 3 hours.
What the fuck. I opened an email from my boss, and there is an AI overview of the thread?! What the actual kark is that bullshit? How do I turn it off???! Shove it down somebody else's throat, you faggots!
Progress report: I can't fit all three canvases comfortably on my easel, so I'm working on the painting section by section. So far, I finished most of the bottom part (with a few animals left). Now waiting for the layers to dry, I've been tackling the coral reef in front of the Sebastes norvegicus that is standing out weirdly. Need to tone down the fish.
Unfriendly reminder that if you're displeased with a piece of fanfiction your courses of action are:
Read something else
Bitch PRIVATELY to friends
Write your own take on the premise (strongly recommend!)
All of the above
Under no circumstances should you try to "politely" critique the author who put the story up as a hobby. For free. Especially if the story in question is multiple years old. Ao3 is not Goodreads
You don't buy books you don't want to read. You don't buy art you hate. You don't trash authors for them being them.
Even if AO3 was Goodreads, bitching about hating the story to the author is still a you-problem, not a problem of someone who has absolutely no profit from it, did it for free, and (with 99,9999% probability) wrote it as a self-indulgent story.
As we prepare to roll out the next round, weβd like to share some observations!
The Pamular brothers would like to thank everyone who voted for the biggest ragebaiter. However, Dewi isnβt too interested in regabaiting. βThe Holonet, haye? Catch themselves they wonβt, the squigglies,β he said when asked for his opinion. Arvel Skeen makes it to the second round. As the old Holonet adage goes, the troll forgets, the trolled remember.Β
General Draven makes it to the second round with a message he wishes to send to the Empire. βFor the troop morale,β he told us. Saw Gerrera, however, is convinced that his message to the Empire will be louder and more convincing.
Speaking of messages. Perrin Fertha has mastered the subtle art of manipulating the opinions of the Core high society by sharing strategically selected holos of the Chandrilan embassy life on social media. It must run in the family, as his daughter takes after him. After venturing into her motherβs walk-in closet during yet another SpaceTok holotour of the house, Leida was grounded for a month.
While certain opinions of Senator Mothmaβs might technically be considered rage-baiting by certain members of the Imperial Senate and ISB officers, she has a reputation to protect and an intern to manage her socials. So Supervisor Heert β a man of unique opinions and uncalibrated enthusiasm β wins this round.Β
In fact, Supervisor Heertβs opinions have become so unique and his enthusiasm so uncalibrated that Major Partagaz banned him from appearing at official events without Supervisor Jung. This measure was followed by a ban on βposting anything on the Holonet, anything, Avril,β which we found a bit excessive. After all, it is impossible to verify the authorship of those memes about Supervisor Meero shared on the /ImperialServiceCircleJerk message board. As well as the detailed account of an affair with a married co-worker, titled βI Made Your Husband a Bottom,β that was shared on a relationship holoboard by a user named KaliCoolerBitch666.
As for Supervisor Jung, we havenβt found any traces of his social media presence. At the same time, we noticed that one antiquarian from Coruscantβs upper levels seems remarkably well-informed about the ISB Board supervisorsβ lives.
Now to Davo Sculdun! As if owning a media empire wasnβt enough, the banking mogul has taken to making bold statements about his competitors during his interviews. His wife Runai told us that he enjoys reading the ensuing holonet discussions βperhaps a bit too muchβ. The only thing he enjoys more is reading the excerpts from a tell-all memoir that Tay Kolma occasionally publishes on SpaceBook. Some sources say that the working title is βMothma Dearestβ.Β
Director Krennic, of course, has a lot to say about both the memoir and Davo Sculdunβs three-hour account of his path to success. But that debate is limited to the Core forums. The Outer Rim holonet boards are more interested in the political theorist Karis Nemikβs feud with the βbotsβ criticizing his manifesto βTrail of Political Consciousnessβ. All 3,000 comments were revealed to have been made by a reprogrammed KX-unit that was simply βtrying to provide proofreading helpβ. βHumans are so sensitive,β he added.Β
The situation in the Outer Rim holonet circles remains heated in general. The comment section of an innocuous holovid tutorial on how to wipe your droidβs memory banks, posted on a channel called Bix Can Fix It, has become a war zone. Users silent_killer and LetItRunWildXxxx has been put on the ISB watchlist: the latter for calling for the secession of Ferrix, the former for sending vague death threats to Imperial servicemen. The discussion was analyzed by another HoloTuber, SyrilAtYourService, in seven four-hour videos he shared from what appears to be his childhood bedroom.Β
But even seemingly non-political themes like cooking can become inflammatory. Eedy Karn, a housewife from Coruscant, has spent the last two decades debating the only correct way to make blurrg soup. βNo beans,β she explained to us when we asked to share her recipe. βMy son always asks for them, but weβre not in the Outer Rim, are we? What are we, savages?β
βI donβt see the point of blurrg soup with no beans,β commented user KassaKenari. "But never mind."
And what do you think?
The only correct way to make blurrg soup?
No beans. We are not in the Outer Rim, and neither are we savages.
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 softnessβand 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.
βGods, the fucking cheek of this woman,β 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 himβwhat 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 husbandβnot even with Dyanna and most certainly not with youβthat 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.
βMaekar.β 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. βYouββ
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.
βI found it beneath the sheets,β he said, his voice lower than usual, carrying a weight that made your breath catch. βI did not mean to read it. I meant to put it back, to pretend I had never seen it.β He took a step toward you. βBut I read one line. And then I could not stop.β
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.
βYou want me to stop being gentle.β He said it plainly, without accusation, but the words landed like stones in the silence between you. βYou want me to pin your wrists. To take you without asking. To make you feel my strength.β
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.
βTell me,β he said, and his voice dropped lower still, rough at the edges, carrying the first hint of the fire you had written about. βTell me if it is true.β
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.
βSay it,β he said. βI need to hear you say it.β
Your lips moved, but no sound came. You wet them, tried again, and your voice emerged as a whisper, fragile and raw. βYes. It's true. I wantββ You stopped, your breath hitching. βI want you to stop being careful with me. I want you to take what you want. I wantββ
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.
βDo you know what you have done, woman?β he asked, his voice barely above a murmur, vibrating with something that made your knees weaken. βDo you know what you have unleashed by writing those words?β
You shook your head, a tiny, trembling motion against his grip.
He lowered his mouth to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. βYou 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?β
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.
βAnswer me,β he said, his teeth grazing your earlobe. βDo you need softness?β
βNo,β you breathed. βNo, I don'tβI needββ
βWhat do you need?β
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes dark and wet, your lips parted, your breath coming in uneven gasps. βI need you. The real you. The one you hide.β
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.
βFrom now on,β he said, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, βyou 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?β
You nodded, your throat moving against his hand.
βAnd if you do not say it,β he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that was almost a growl, βI 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.β
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. βYes.β
He kissed you, not the soft, reverent kisses he had given you every night for monthsβno, 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.
βTake off your dress,β 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.
βOn the bed,β he said. βOn your knees. Face down.β
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. βFuck me, woman.β
You said nothing, but he groaned at the unmistakable shake of your shoulders as you muffled the small giggle that tumbled from your lips, βI do not find this amusing, wife. You have undone me.β
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. βI am going to fucking ruin you.β
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, βYou have been wanting this,β he said, his voice low, his palm pressing down until you arched deeper. βYou have been lying beside me, night after night, wanting me to do this.β
βYes,β you whispered into the pillow.
βSay it again.β
βYes.β Your voice was stronger this time, carrying a note of desperate relief. βYes, I have been wanting this. I have been wanting you.β
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. βYou are soaked,β he said, his thumb pressing against you through the linen, making you gasp. βHow long have you been this wet for me?β
βMonths,β you breathed. βSinceβsince our wedding night. Since you held me so gently that I almost cried, because I knewβI knew you were holding back, and I wantedββ
βWhat did you want?β He pressed harder, circling, felt your hips push back against his hand.
βI wanted you to take me. I wanted you to fuck me like you meant it, like you needed it, likeββ Your voice broke on a moan as he pinched you through the fabric. βLike I was yours to take.β
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. βYou are mine,β he said, and his voice was not gentle. It was rough, possessive, dark with a fire he had never let you see.
βYou have always been mine. But nowββ He leaned over you, his mouth close to your ear, his cock pressing against you through the fabric of his trousers. βNow you are going to know what that means.β
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.
βLook at me,β 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. βFuck, woman. How the fuckβ,β his jaw clenched as the words tumbled from him, βare you still so tight?β
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. βIs this what you wanted?β
You could barely speak. Your voice came out in fragments, broken by each thrust. βYesβyesβMaekarββ
βTell me. Say the words.β
βI wanted youβto fuck meβlike thisβI wanted youβto not hold backββ
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.
βCome for me,β he said, his voice a growl against your ear. βCome for me, and I will give you everything you have ever wanted.β
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.
βNo more secrets,β he said softly. βNo 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.β
You looked up at him, your dark eyes meeting his violet ones, and you nodded. βNo more secrets.β
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.
βMaekar.β 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. βI am not done with you,β he said, his voice low, rough, carrying an edge that had not been there the first time. βI barely started.β
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. βYou said you wanted to know the real me,β he muttered, guiding his cock through the slick mess he had already left inside you. βThe part I locked away. Look at me, and tell me you still want it.β
You turned your head, your eyes finding his over your shoulder. They were wet, wild, dark with a hunger that made his blood roar. βYes,β you breathed. βYes. Give me all of it.β
He drove into you in one, brutal thrust, no slow easing this time, no steady inch-by-inch. βYou fucking wanted this, now take it.β
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.
βYou like this,β he said, not a question. βYou like being taken like this.β
You could barely speak, your voice breaking on each thrust. βYesβyes, Maekarβpleaseββ
βPlease what?β He slowed, just enough to make you feel the difference, to make you desperate. βTell me what you want.β
βDon't stop,β you gasped. βDon'tβpleaseβIββ
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.
βLook at me,β he said. βDo not fucking move an inch,β 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, βRead to me. The entry you wrote last night. The one about my mouth.β
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.
βI imagine him on his knees,β you read, your cheeks flushing deeper, your eyes fixed on the page. βBetween my thighs. His mouthβ,β you stopped, wet your lips, and continued. βHis mouth on me like I am something he needs to survive. Not gentle. Not careful. Devouring. Like he wants to consume me.β
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.
βGo on,β he said.
You turned the page.
Your breath caught.
βI 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 wantβ,β your voice cracked. βI want to feel his beard against my thighs, his hands gripping my hips, his mouthβ,β 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. βYou wrote about my mouth,β he said against your lips. βNow you will feel it.β
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. βYou taste like us. Like everything we have done today. Like everything we are going to do.β
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. βNot yet,β he said, his voice rough, his chin slick with you. βI want you to watch me when you come this time.β
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.
βYou are everything,β he said, his voice breaking. βEverything I was afraid to be. Everything I locked away. Youββ He thrust deeper, harder, and your back arched. βYou set it free.β
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. βCome for me. Look at me and come.β
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. βThere are more entries.β
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.
βI know,β he said softly. βAnd I will read every one of them. But not tonight.β He pressed a kiss to your forehead. βTonight, 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.β
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.
βHmm.β
βMaekar?β
He grunted, something between hunger and an incredulous laugh, βI 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.β
βYou are insufferable.β
βYou words, woman, not mine.β
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.
