summary: the hammer and the anvil behind closed doors (2.2k)
tags: fluff, domesticity, 18+, somnophilia, brief injury
Baelor Targaryen | The Hammer
Baelor is a man of routine, forged through years of rising early for campaigns and requiring discipline through his duties. Even in marriage, there is an unspoken and silent rhythm that you two fall in. If he is the first one to retire, he will always send for you. Marriage has ensured he’s forgotten how to sleep alone, no matter how tired he is.
Undressing. Likes to send your servants and handmaids alone to do it himself. Views it as this intimate act. After a long day of being apart, of being pulled to duty and responsibility and reluctantly stamping out every need to be with his wife, he likes to savor the quiet moments. His hands deftly pulling the strings of your corset loose, layer by layer falling to the floor and pooling at your feet until you’re left in nothing. If he’s feeling particularly sweet, he will leave behind a trail of kisses at the slowly exposed skin. You lean back into him, sighing into his sickly sweet touch. Most of the time you will end up pushed into the nearest surface, propriety forgotten.
Talks in his sleep. Not the sweet, murmuring of a man half laden in dreams, but full on conversations that have you waking up abruptly and wondering if someone else is in the room. But no one is there, Baelor is talking about grains and ledgers in his sleep, full phrases and clear words. It frightens you at first, then it has you laughing and waking him.
Nightmares. Of course he has them. Redgrass Field, or simply brought upon by the stresses of the day. He doesn’t wake you, but you always end up waking when you reach out and find a cold and empty spot on your bed.
Duties. Prefers being in the same room as you but you’re doing separate things. You’re working over correspondence on the other side of the room, while he’s pouring over grain counts, four different books open in front of him. He looks up just to gaze at you for a while, as if it fuels him. He sees your concentration, smiles to himself, and goes back to the task at hand.
Unwinding. The sweet version of it is you settling into bed, taking turns reading to each other every night. The other version is more restless as you find different ways every night to satiate your husband, to steal his thoughts away from mind numbing council chamber meetings, and back in your shared chambers where the fire in the hearth burns low and comfortable and the candles are dimming by the hour and his wife, his sweet, beautiful and diligent wife works above him. She is working a pace and he does not know where to look—at the way you work your hips over him, taking him over and over again, or at your teats, a golden sheen of sweat perspiring on the planes of her chest, her body, or should it be at her face, eyes closed in pleasure and brows knitted in reverent concentration. He chokes on his breath and moans multiple times, which only seems to spur you on further, a hand on his chest as you move impossibly quicker, and he has to close his eyes, to settle his thoughts because if he looks at you above him he’s not sure he will last.
“Baelor,” a treacherous siren call.
“Yes, my sweet?” He hums, hands sliding up and down your thighs as your movements slow.
You lean in close, the sweet scent of your oils enveloping him, and he can hear you catching your breath. A warm hand splays at your back. “I believe it is your turn to tire yourself.” He laughs at that, but indulges you, letting you settle back into the pillows as you allow him to take over.
It is a cheap trick, but after your coupling, he is sure to not think of anything else, keeping you close and intertwining your breaths as he lets sleep come for him. This is the most relaxed he’s been all day.
Somnophilia. He will usually come in later, after you. Some nights you wait up for him, and he’ll be considerate enough to let you know when not to, when the call of duty lasts well into the night. He is quiet in the corner of the room, lethargic even as he peels off layers of clothing, gaze already fixed onto your sleeping form, so peaceful and sweet and beautiful. Your hair is splayed onto the pillow, and he can see the slow rise and fall of your form underneath the sheets.
It starts with a kiss, innocent enough, pressed softly into your cheek and he has to fight back a groan as he remembers he is a man, after a long day. A man who has found his wife asleep in their shared chambers, in the dark. You let out a happy hum in your sleep, turning around to greet him with a kiss, chaste and quick, but he finds himself deepening it. You return it in earnest, despite your surprise.
“Aren’t you tired?” You rasp, voice laden with sleep and it does something to him he cannot name.
“I’ve missed you.” He noses the line of your jaw, pressing little kisses there.
“I’ve missed you, too.” You mumble, just as his hands trail treacherously lower.
“Baelor,” you laugh.
“Would you like me to stop?”
“No.” You confess. “But I’m falling asleep.”
He suppresses a groan against your shoulder, and it tells you just how much he’s unraveled himself already. You did not even have to do anything.
“You do not have to wake, just—” He is gentle as ever, but you can sense a growing urgency in his movement, in the way he moves above you, hands bunching your shift up your thighs. The realization dawns on you and your interest is piqued.
“Rest, sweet girl. I’ll take care of you.” And of course you trust your lord husband so you let him work over you, as you drift in the space between sleep and waking. You wake and his head is in between your legs, doing something sinful with his mouth that has you arching off the bed, a broken moan on your lips before you’re drifting asleep again, chest heaving. You wake and he’s halfway inside you, and you shudder, letting him maneuver you as he pleases. My heart, he says against your lips as you drift off. The next time you wake you’re being brought to completion.
Thank you, he murmurs, gathering you in his arms and pressing a sweet kiss against your temple.
Maekar Targaryen | The Anvil
As a prince of the realm, he has routines of his own. Beyond that it’s a personal preference to keep busy and not be idle. He’s already fourth and spare, nothing is expected of him, and sometimes that seems to turn more into a curse than a blessing. So he trains in the yard in the mornings, does correspondence, attends to his princely duties. He dines with his wife and sees his children, watching over their studies.
He is glad that there is always something to do, for this is how he appreciates when the day finally slows to a stop, when he enters your shared chambers and he feels as though he leaves everything on the stoop of the door. The fire burns in the hearth, a satisfying crackle and the room is a comfortable temperature. He finds you sitting by your vanity, elbows up and undoing your hair.
At first, he leaves you to your own devices, but you’re on his periphery as he undresses, his doublet, his riding gear, the weapons he keeps tucked on his person.
A sigh. His gaze snaps to you as your arms fall to your sides in defeat, halfway through undoing whatever hairdo your maids have concocted.
Silently, he crosses the room and takes over. You smile at him through the mirror, a wordless thanks. He’s thorough, and gentle as he can be. He takes the pins, unravels piece by piece. This is one of the ways he takes care of you. He loves your hair, loves playing with it. He will take it down, untangling it when he strips you down, considering it a part of undressing you. You ask him about his day then, and a back and forth begins, punctuated by comfortable silence.
Doesn’t like servants in the room, and you’ve known by now to excuse your handmaidens early on. Undressing you takes longer because he gets distracted and complains about how many layers you have on. An inconvenience, he calls it.
Maekar is a gossip in your shared chambers. You’ve once compared him to rival even the best of your ladies in this area. You’re busying yourself with correspondence when he enters the room, carelessly throwing his coat to a chair and kicking off his boots. Lord Peake is in a disarray today. That old bat. This is why his wife prefers separate chambers. That gets your attention, head snapping up at him, letters forgotten. Go on.
Upkeep. He’s taught you how to shave after he’s caught you staring at him through the mirror. More often, you find yourself sitting on his lap, or standing over him. More than once he uses this as an opportunity to get handsy. More than once you’ve threatened to shave him clean off. You know he grows it out to cover the pox marks on his skin, a memory of a childhood sickness. He finds your serious concentration amusing, and he loves the ritual of it, a certainty that he’d have you close for a few minutes.
You’ve nicked him once and he never lets you forget. A thin line on his cheekbone. He hisses, quite dramatically for someone you’ve seen knocked to the ground in the training yard that same day. You apologize, pressing a warm cloth there. Easy, woman. My neck is within your reach too. You roll your eyes. I would never, you say, pressing a kiss where the offense is, and pulling back with a slight shine of blood on your lips. He grabs your wrist holding the knife, maneuvering it away from the both of you as he closes the distance between you in a searing kiss. You taste the blood then and wonder if he does too. When you part, he has a wild look in his eyes, and all he says is, Bed. Now.
A light sleeper. He sits upright, thinking he’s somewhere else. You give him space, waiting until he reaches for you, breathing shakily against your skin, and that is when you comfort him, a hand on his chest, feeling the drum of his heart.
In the beginning of your marriage, he was afraid of frightening you, or worse. He knows how he can jolt awake at the slightest disturbance. A cat had once gone into your chambers and knocked a candlestick onto the floor, and you’ve never witnessed a man go from sleeping to waking in a matter of seconds, feet on the floor and a sharp intake of breath as though he means to lunge at somebody. So he suggests separate quarters, even though he does not want it. It was a great relief when you refused, quite adamantly.
Snores. Annoyingly loud snores that makes you wonder if he’s putting on a show and fucking with you. At first, you wake him kindly, poking him and he mumbles something close to an apology before gathering you in his arms. But then it just gets annoying and you find yourself slamming a pillow into his face to wake him, and it is more effective to get him to stop than anything else you’ve tried. You still won’t go to a separate chamber, though it seriously makes you consider.
Post-training yard. He’s sweaty and heaving, sunkissed. You find you like him like this, especially when he’s on top of you. You kissed him in the training yard once, hair falling in his face. The next moment you’re being swept away to your chambers and he’s kicking off his boots, ripping off whatever garb and armor he has on before he’s on you. Damn your attire, he curses. Worse than bloody armor. Secretly he likes it, likes taking his time peeling it off of you, slowly revealing more skin and seeing what you have underneath.
Will wake you up for a fuck. You’ve woken up on numerous occasions, a familiar head of white hair in between your legs. He’s impatient and just doesn’t care whether you’re waking or not, he will get what he wants. He also finds it amusing how long he can get away from doing something before you’re gasping awake, shaking and clutching at him. He’s not ashamed of this, he will rouse you for it, kissing your neck, your shoulder. You’ll wake up, and he’s already in the process of undressing, of slipping your shift down your shoulder, if he isn’t already impatiently ripping it at the seams.
“I’m sleeping,” you mumble. You’ll protest for show, attempting to retreat to another corner of the bed before you’re inevitably pulled flush against him.
“I don’t care. Turn over.”
“No.” You respond petulantly, even as your hips subconsciously wriggle into him and you crane your neck to give him better access.
“Wife.” His tone is sharp and you feel the point of his canines sink into your skin, deliciously taunting. “You know better than to tease.”
how ironic that during the first trial of seven maegor was hit in the head and considered dead until his mother took off his helmet and during the second trial baelor was hit in the head and considered alive until they took off his helmet. i hate you martin
cw: 18+(mdni!!), monsterfucking!!, breeding, riding your dragon!!, rut, prone bone, mating press, mounting, p in v, oral (f!receiving), tail riding, tail humping, biting, scenting, fluff, a lot of aftercare, very slight anal play, manhandling, praise, slight degradation, squirting, overstimulation, spanking.
a/n: for the anons that asked how hybrid dragon!maekar acts when he's in rut! i let my freak loose for this one. enjoy my loves!
⤷ dragon hybrid!maekar's cock is thick and girthy. stretches you out like a dream and makes you feel filled to the brim. it looks normal, except for the cluster of scales at the base of his cock. they feel rough in the most delicious way, rubbing along your gummy walls, every time he bottoms out inside of your cunt. you refuse to do anything but swivel your hips in circles for a while, just feeling the way your folds feel rubbing against those scaly plates, doing your best to drag your clit over them, too. it feels like heaven; a little pain and more pleasure weaving in the pit of your stomach, the more you grind down.
⤷ maekar knows his scales feel good. he meticulously takes care of them, having servants oil and lightly scrape them down so they're not too rough on your skin. especially his tail. long and scaly and powerful, and one of your favorite things to hump when you're needy and seek pleasure. your dragon husband enjoys lounging back and offering his tail to you, curling it languidly onto the bed or the side of his armchair, jutting his chin towards it, coaxing you to take what you want, what you seek. his slitted pupils dilate as soon as he sees you hike up your skirts and straddle the scaly muscle, having a front row view to the way your damp folds part against it, puffy clit protruding, already throbbing. he even assists you, pressing his tail firmly against you, moving it back and forth against your slick heat, creating toe-curling friction that has your thighs shake and your moans ring into the royal chambers. "that's it, sweet wife," he will say, tone a low, satisfied growl, mouth twitching into a lazy smirk as he watches you unravel yourself on his tail, getting the scales wet and glistening. "feels good, doesn't it? better than my cock, hm?" and the rumble in his chest only grows more animal at the shake of your head, at how eager you are to deny that claim.
⤷ he rewards you every time for your eagerness. the tip of his tail is ever moving. brushing against your hips, flicking your clit, tapping against it in soft spanks that make you twitch. and sometimes, when he feels particularly wicked, he dips between your ass cheeks and presses against your hole, feeling the puckered rim flutter and will to close on instinct. "shh, shh, i'm just feeling, my love," he'll croon at you, waiting patiently until your hips falter and the pace turns clumsy and fevered to ever so slightly dip the tip of his tail into the puckered rim. the reaction is instantaneous and visceral. you clench so hard around him, and you cum all over his tail, dirtying his scales and having slick drip onto the floor or bed underneath. "that's a good girl," your dragon will croon again, leaning close to nuzzle your cheek and press soft kisses to your temple, chest vibrating with delight. "you did so well, wife."
⤷ dragon hybrid!maekar's rut cycles are never spontaneous. he knows to be prepared for a week of letting the beast prowling in his chest claw its way out twice a year: the first week of spring and the last week of autumn. makes sure all his affairs are in order, and he and his wife can lock themselves up in the highest tower of the palace and be together for as long as it takes for it to subside. it rarely takes a full week, but maekar loves spending the last one or two days—mellowed out and sated—holding his wife close and making sure his rough handling during his rut had not affected you too greatly. bathing you himself every morning and night, washing your skin and hair with careful strokes, crooning softly in your ear, praises pouring out like honeysuckle, making you feel cherished and pampered. maekar knows your body needs a lot of rest after being thoroughly mounted and fucked for multiple days consecutively, taking it upon himself to carry you around, not letting your toes touch the ground—not even once, his tail steady and firm around your waist as he moves you from the bath to the bed to dry you and dress you himself, murmuring in low, tender tones how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you allowed him to spend his rut with you, how beautiful you looked full of his cum and writhing beneath him.
⤷ maekar's ruts are very intense. he was honest with you from the start, even before he married you, that when he is in a rut, he is more beast than man. even with all his iron-clad restraint and discipline, he becomes nothing but a slave to his primal instinct when the rut hits. the blood in his veins feels molten, his eyes glitter with a predatory glint that makes you weak in the knees; his cock is hard as steel just from the sight of you. it's not like you need to bend backward to make your husband want you, not at all. maekar always wants you, has never denied you an ounce of pleasure. but when he is in rut, there is no end to his whims, no end to the beast lurking at the edges of his mind telling him to take, mark, fuck, mount. he directs all of it at you. only ever you. a whiff of your scent, a glimpse of your skirts fluttering, a tilt of your neck that bares your throat? he is on you faster than you can blink, rutting his cock against your thighs, ass, back; anything, and growling in your ear, forked tongue laving at any patch of skin he can reach, dull claws ripping your clothes from your body.
⤷ it's how he knows his rut has started. when the only thing on his mind is your cunt and your tits and your ass and your face and you, you, you. he manhandles you towards the tower room with clumsy efficiency, barely holding back from tearing your skirts at the crotch and rutting his cock into your pussy in broad daylight, where anyone can see. but he won't. no one can see you like that. no one can know how your skin warms under his attention, how your cunt sounds when it's being pounded by his cock, how your moans drip from your lips like honey in his ear. only him. uses his wings to cover you, wrapping his tail around your waist to drag you into him and keep you pressed close, nosing at your neck and cleavage all the way to the tower. his tongue never stops tasting, his hand never stops wandering, the purr in his chest never ceases.
⤷ you're on the bed as soon as the door clicks closed, a full weight of man and dragon and beast pressing you into the mattress as he digs his claws into your gown and rips down the middle, leaving you bare to his frantic eyes, slitted pupils dilated, the purple of his eyes barely noticeable anymore. his tail moves you to his mouth, dragging your cunt over his face lewdly, his mouth already open wide to receive your folds and clit under his tongue, lapping at you loudly, slurping and growling into the slick heat with a satisfaction bordering on devotion. maekar always delves headfirst into your pussy when he is in rut. it smears your scent on him, leaving his every breath and inhale smelling like you, his beard, nose, and fringe all glistening with your slick. his forked tongue curls and flicks your clit, delves deep into your soppy hole, and even laves at the puckered rim between the globes of your ass. your husband is relentless in giving you pleasure, wings twitching and flaring out in delight when your first orgasm washes over you and you squirt all over his chin, cheeks and tongue. it makes him dizzy with the need for more, the need to have you do it again, but on his cock this time.
⤷ and you do, drenching the scales at the base of his cock and his navel with your juices after he's folded you in half and rutted inside your cunt with the fervor of an animal, the tip of his cock kissing your womb with every thrust, dragging along your gummy walls deliciously, nudging his knot as deep as it could go, stretching your hole to its limit. your knees are almost touching your shoulders, one broad palm wrapped around one thigh, his tail coiled on the other, tugging aside, opening you up for him as far as you'll go without discomfort. "such a wet cunt, wife," he growls, the sounds of your coupling so loud and filthy in the silence of the room, squelching noises reverberating off the walls. "drenchin' me so much. you sure you're not the one in heat, my love? could have fooled me with how filthy this pussy is for me. taking my knot so fucking good."
⤷ he moves you around after every round, too restless, the beast under his skin unsated and hungry for more. he rolls you onto your stomach, tail pushing your hips back onto his cock as he blankets you fully, one of his biceps curled around your neck as he pounds into you again and again, sweat slicked chest along your back, skin on skin sliding hotly. your moans and whimpers only make the dragon in the marrow of his bones need more, keeping you flush to him, mounting you like a mindless beast, the jut of his hips snapping against the fat of your ass loud and merciless, punching out more sweet sounds from your throat. "shh, i know, i know," he croons against your ear, placating but smug, forked tongue licking along the cartilage, a smirk on his lips. "feels too good? gonna give me another one, wife?" and you do, soaking the mattress and him as you squirt again, cunt fluttering around him, willing his orgasm to follow as he bites down onto your shoulder to muffle his loud growl, barely hard enough to draw blood. marking you.
⤷ when he feels like you're becoming lax and lazy, overwhelmed, he lets you take the reins. his palm pats your thigh, urging you to straddle him and ride his cock as he sits back against the headboard, clawed fingers pawing at your tits, the tips flicking your pebbled nipples as he rumbles, eyes laser focused on you. "c'mon," coaxes, hips grinding against your ass. "ride your dragon, sweet wife," and his lips curl into that self-assured tilt only you get to see as he pats your thigh again, putting more pressure, spanking the fat there. "i want to see your tits bounce while you do," he continues crudely, forked tongue licking at his lips like a predator wetting his chops before sinking its teeth into prey. not long after, you follow his demand, palms pressed to his slick chest as you bounce onto his cock, moaning and mewling as you feel the tip going so much deeper like this, hitting spots that make your eyes roll to the back of your head. your tits move along with your grinding, and maekar shamelessly presses his face against them, growling, licking, and suckling every patch of skin he can find, curling his long tongue around pebbled nipples and squeezing, leaving behind saliva and slobbering all over your breasts. "that's it, that's it, sweetling," he growls against a mountful of your tit, his tail moving to assist your grinding as he feels you faltering, your thighs twitching and shaking, coiling around your waist to move you himself as you rut onto his cock.
⤷ dragon hybrid!maekar always cums in you during ruts. filling you with so much of his spend that it overflows, dripping from your wet pussy along his cock, staining the sheets and dirtying his navel and thighs. you feel so obscenely full of him, even more so when he plugs his knot into your cunt and keeps it there, growling against your neck as he bites marks into the skin. "so full of me, wife," he croons, so satisfied, almost a purr resounding from his throat. "your belly's already rounder with my clutch," maekar's scenting your skin, almost rubbing it raw with his cheek and nose, too pleasure drunk, the rut addling his mind. "my sweet, pretty wife giving me hatchlings by winter come," he murmurs, and you can feel his cock twitch inside you. "gods, i love you so much," your dragon mouths at your skin, tail swishing behind him languidly, coiling and unfurling lazily, so, so pleased. "my sweet treasure. all mine."
Bobby's been a shit boyfriend for months. When you disappear through a wall in the basement of Clark's furniture store, you wake up in the Backrooms, where a better version of Bobby is waiting. One who actually shows up, one who loves you, one who never, ever wants to let you go.
‽ part one / concept.
‽ part two.
‽ part three.
⸘ interlude: entity 0
‽ part four.
extras:
Ꮺ୧ making out w/ better bobby.
Ꮺ୧ better you!
Ꮺ୧ "baby."
Ꮺ୧ "open your mouth."
Ꮺ୧ pillow fort.
Ꮺ୧ in the beginning.
Ꮺ୧ my, what long tongue you have.
Ꮺ୧ sunlight.
Ꮺ୧ slow dancing.
cw: 18+(mdni), monsterfucking!!, fluff fluff fluff, possessiveness!!, scenting, gentle manhandling, breeding, cock-warming, tail humping, knotting, a touch of sub!valarr if you squint.
a/n: for the anons that asked for dragon hybrid!valarr, here he is! i hope i did him justice! enjoy our devoted dragon husband! mwah!
✧ LOOKS
⤷ in a rather humorous twist of fate, all of valarr's targaryen silver went to his draconic features instead of his human ones, save for a streak in his hair. the rest? his wings, his tail, the slight protruding horns on the side of his head? all covered in silver greyish scales that glitter in the moonlight.
⤷ dragon hybrid!valarr's tail is thick, long, and sturdy, with a membrane going along the sides, littered with pointy spikes. the end of it, however, is flat but heavy; non-threatening. couldn't hurt anyone with it, unless he flicked his tail fast enough for it to whip and crack against someone's skin, which he never plans to do. has close to full control over it, unless he is deeply flustered by you, or overly anxious about the weight on his shoulders; the looming promise of crown and realm is a heavy burden after all. valarr mostly uses his tail for utility. grabbing things for you, coiling it around your wrist to keep you steady and close, or giving his horse a soft tap on the flank as a sign to gallop at jousts.
⤷ he keeps his talons trimmed. valarr does not want to add to his mental strain by worrying about hurting someone unknowingly with his sharp claws. he knows they could come in handy, as weapons and other things, but he would rather use his sword or dagger for that, as any knight would. the blessing of his ancient strength and features is pleasing, but he would be betraying himself if he relied on them too heavily. he wants to prove his own as fairly as he can. being feared for his distinguished features but not his prowess in battle leaves a sour taste in his mouth that he would rather do without.
⤷ scales look different depending on the lighting. greyish and darker when the moon is in full bloom, and glittering, sometimes molding to the color of the sun when valarr walks through the gardens or lounges with you on a chaise by the window in the morning light. he is proud of them. shows them off sometimes when he feels particularly peacockish. they resemble a map onto his body, from the nape of his neck, slowly littering the arch of his spine, sprouting into that powerful tail. down his temples and a bit haphazardly along his hairline, making his eyes pop. a generous amount frames the broadness of his shoulders, emphasizing his sturdiness. the ones only you get to see, drizzle along his navel and the V of his hips, as if emphasizing where the jut of them protrudes.
⤷ dragon hybrid!valarr has horns, but they are more of a cluster than a singular one. instead, smaller, harder membranes sit along the sides of his head, slightly obstructed by his hair. their tips are hard but not spiked; thus, they do not hurt when touched. (for reference, i am referring to how seasmoke's scales are positioned atop his head! very similar to that, but solely two rows.)
⤷ valarr's wings are mostly tucked against his back. he sees no use in them if it's not to protect you or shelter you from someone's view. in case they do make an appearance, they're rather large but with a thinner membrane; grey like his scales. in his mind, they are more an inconvenience than a blessing, since they can be in the way, especially when he jousts. remembering to keep them tucked tightly against his back so they do not slow down the gallop of his horse by dragging his backward is one more thing he has to worry about.
⤷ his eyes are slitted. they thin when he's irritated, but grown so, so big when he looks at you. the slim black iris enlarges to its full capacity, almost eclipsing the violet of his eyes for a moment, looking more man than beast. it's so easy to know when he's enamored; it's as clear as day.
⤷ keeps his tongue in his mouth unless he's in the privacy of your royal chambers. he's not necessarily ashamed of it, but he wants only you to know how it looks, feels, and tastes. it's slippery, long, and forked. sounds like a soft rattling when he's overjoyed or pleased.
✧ BEHAVIOUR
⤷ instilled in himself from a very young age that he cannot lose control of the ancient, primal instincts that lie just beneath his skin. he is a knight. he will one day be king. valarr cannot and will not let the feral beast prowling the depths of his mind and the cavity of his chest rule his judgment or feelings. he needs to be stronger than the primal instincts surfacing whenever his emotions are heightened. he can be stronger.
⤷ dragon hybrid!valarr's only true weakness, aside from his family, is you. will only ever be you. years of carefully constructed resolve and leash onto his impulses, tighten hard enough to snap whenever you are involved. he loves you most ardently, and all the warmth in his chest and heat in his veins are never quiet in your presence. if you are near, his senses sharpen—that overprotective instinct to always protect you—but they also melt like drizzled honey, leaving behind glimpses of the beast within, letting it claw its way out.
⤷ it always worsens when you are brazen enough to offer him your affection in public. your fingers tightening just so where they rest in the crook of his elbow, a few words whispered against the shell of his ear, low and syrupy, or a gentle hand brushing through the soft hairs at the nape of his neck, nails catching skin and scales. whatever it may be, it undoes him completely without fail, without preamble. makes his tail swish behind him, his wings twitch, the thin off his irises blow wide as his lips part enough for a peek of forked tongue to show through. it's delectable for you and a never-ending battle for him.
⤷ sometimes, he gives in to the urge; the constant animal instinct to be closer, to touch, to possess, even if surrounded by sycophants at a feast, seated at the high table next to you, all pretty and radiant. his tail sneaks under the table, slithering until it brushes against your silken-clad ankle, slowly coiling around it and just holding for a while. tightening his grip from time to time to remind you that he's there and he loves you; wants you, still, even surrounded by all these people. squeeze—squeeze—squeeze. three times. i love you. wordless but meaningful.
⤷ if some nameless lord dares to ask for a dance or stands too close to you, valarr's tail always slithers higher, making sure to caress the inside of your knee and the silken skin of your inner thigh, the rough scales doing more than just tickle. he knows what he's doing; knows he shouldn't do it, but the possesive beast prowling his chest and dictating his actions cannot stand watching anyone come near you like this, moreover with an audience. you are his mate. your place is at his side, not dancing with some old decrepit lord who barely knows where his feet are placed. his tail presses against where you are hottest, between your thighs, and stays there like a brand, like a statement, unmoving until the end of the night. flush against your small clothes, covering the entirety of your clothed pussy, lips twitching just so when he feels you squeeze the tip of his tail between silken skin and humping your hips against it. his lovely mate, so easily wound up. if scales turn wet and slick by the end of the feast, he will only have to bring them to his lips and lick them clean as he watches you.
⤷ dragon hybrid!valarr is territorial. watches, circles, prowls. around you, around people who think they can be close to you, around the places you frequent. if you are not under his sight, he will make sure that changes are made as rapidly as possible so you two can be in each other's line of sight again. even when he trains, attends council, or jousts, his mind is still on you. doesn't have to insist that you sit in the stands as he trades blows with other knights and unhorses them with precision and tact. valarr knows you love watching him joust. his armor on, your favor around his arm, and the warmth of your parting kiss still tingling on his lips.
⤷ but what he looks forward to is the moment when you two are alone after a joust. he's sweaty, dirty, and grimy. breathing hard still, full of adrenaline from trading blows and the praise from the crowd. but all of that pales in comparison when you straddle his lap and coo your own homage to his strength and performance. his pupils dilate, and his tail curls around your thigh, your waist, any part of you it reaches first, to press you closer and keep you there. your fingers run up his armored shoulders, skitter the sides of his neck, only to burrow into his hair and pet it tenderly, as one would do to a dog. his breath catches, tail coiling tigther, wings twitching behind him, willing to open. the moment you touch his horns and let your nails scrape against them as you whisper praises in his ear, he melts against the mattress like molten steel, putty under you. moans and whines and twitches, flushed and dizzy, hips twitching under you helplessly. when your tongue licks a slow stripe up one horn, he swears he almost soils his breeches like a green boy.
⤷ needs to have his scent on you. craves to smell it on you, even after you've been parted from each other for a while. of course, the most effective way to make sure his scent sticks is to leave his spend on and in you. he's always sweet about it, lovely in the way the action is not. makes sure to rut in deep and flood your womb with his cum, not pulling out until his knot subsides, whispering sweet nothings as you cock-warm him. afterward, his fingers are careful to scoop up the spend that slowly leaks out of your puffy hole and smear it against your skin. the inside of your wrist, the crook of your neck, between the valley of your breasts, anywhere visible. valarr always nuzzles the places he's marked, a growled, low purr vibrating in his chest, sated and pleased to have you reeking of him.
⤷ does not sleep well without you by his side. needs to be wrapped around you, from the tangle of your ankles to the way his chin hooks against your shoulder to press against the dewy skin of your throat. his long tail coils around your torso and keeps you close, the flat end of it slowly rubbing where you happen to ache that day: your stomach, the small of your back, the meat of your calves. he's careful and tender. nosing at your neck while murmuring how much he loves you, how much his dragon loves you. how he never wants to let you go, for you are his most prized treasure and he cannot help but hoard you to himself with every opportunity.
⤷ dragon hybrid!valarr likes to knot you in the mornings the most. presses your back to his chest as his hands roam sleep warm skin, his cock sliding between your folds until they part and welcome him inside your wet pussy. relishes the way his knot catches against your hole before nudging in, keeping you so full of him. knows you're going to feel the stretch and ache of him all day, until he can have you again before slumber takes you in the evening, ready to remind you what your sweet dragon can do to pleasure you. the thought of you walking the gardens, embroidering in the library, or reading in the solar, all the while feeling the ache of him, of his cock, of his knot between your legs makes him purr in satisfaction. even when he is away, he wants a part of him to be with you, no matter in what way.
⤷ hoards every single favour you have ever given him at jousts. they are tokens of your love for him. proof that you believed in him enough to bestow him with a piece of you. valarr keeps them all neatly in a wooden chest in his solar. when he misses you, which is frequently, he opens it and brushes his fingers through them, bringing the latest one to his nose to breathe in any lingering of your scent still on the fabric. his most prized possessions, after you.
taglist: @mademoisellepetite @ghostlybfgf @breakspearz @pinkdoeweirdo @0nlybitt3r4may (i don't have a set taglist for the dragon hybrid!series, but i will make a post about it soon!)
Obsessive Aerion got the most votes on my recent poll, so here it is:)
Word Count: 2.1K
Summary: You have loved Aerion for as long as you can remember, and he has been completely and utterly obsessed with you for as long as he can remember.
I haven't proof read again, sorry!
Warning: Mentions of violence, violence, obsessive love
Reblogs, comments and likes are very appreciated :)
Masterlist
My requests are open.
The day that you married Aerion had felt like a dream. You had known him for the majority of your life, for your fathers were good friends. Aerion was known for being cruel and wicked. Rude and arrogant. Yet, he had never been cruel to you.
Rude and arrogant, yes- but never was he cruel nor wicked to you. Quite the opposite, actually.
You had fallen in love with Aerion long, long ago, when you were a child. He was always doing things to try and impress you, whether it be going the extra mile in his sparring lessons because you watched, punching a young boy when he tripped you over and called you a name- one that you could not remember now. Or when he made a small, rather crooked bench for you to sit upon when you wanted to watch the sunset.
As you grew older, his light hearted fondness towards you turned deeper, and his heart began to burn for you wholly, He found himself threatening, and or hurting anyone whom even looked at you for too long.
When you were both ten and six, a boy proclaimed his love for you, publicly, having consumed a few cups of wine. You, of course, were horrified. As was Aerion, who with darkened eyes and a clenched jaw threw his dagger across the table. It span within the air as it flew, hurdling towards the drunk boy, resulting in the blade tearing through his chest before anyone could act.
He lived, luckily. The maester said that it had been a few inches from the heart. Aerion was glad, because if the boy had died his father never would have shut up about it. The punishment for that would have been horrific.
On your ten and eighth name day, your father threw a spectacular tourney in celebration. Another young boy, one that you couldn’t name, with a handsome face and kind eyes attempted to ask you for your favour.
An army of butterflies had erupted in your stomach in that moment. Part of you felt flattered as no men had spoken to you unnecessarily for a very long time due to the known reaction that it would evoke from Aerion. You had two choices, which were both inevitable to end badly.
“My lady, it would be a blessing from the seven themselves.” He called, a sweet smile upon his lips.
A smile that made Aerion feel sick.
You could accept, but of course Aerion would be livid and possibly- most definitely, kill the man. Or you could deny, and risk the awkwardness of such an encounter. You dreaded the crowds reaction to that. The small folk didn’t take too kindly to mild forms of disrespect.
Although his position was down on the ground and away from you, you felt Aerion’s eyes burning a hole into your head. You had searched for him desperately, your face finally stopping when you saw the magnificence of his helm and the sharp, beautiful features on his face within it.
He was a sight of beauty then, just as he was now.
You saw the fume in his expression; he looked as though he could have fought one thousand men alone in that moment.
“My apologies, sir,” you had stuttered awkwardly, your fingertips fiddling with the emerald jewels within your satin dress, “I must deny for I belong to another.”
You were in fact not sworn to Aerion, not politically. But your heart belonged to him fully, the same way that his belonged to you.
Despite the fire that burned within him at the sheer audacity of the man, a soar of hope shot through him when he witnessed your denial and proclaim that you belonged to him.
Belonged.
You remembered how the man’s face softened, and his brows furrowed in embarrassment. Aerion had commanded his steed to move closer, and a satisfied smirk sat proudly upon his face.
“Firstly, you attempt to receive the favour of my woman, which fails. Next, you will try and beat me- you will fail.” Aerion’s mocking words tore through the arena, earning some laughs, and some boos from the small folk within the crowd.
“Are you brave or stupid?” The question was of course, rhetorical.
Stupid, of course. What was supposed to be a light hearted joust in the sprits of celebration, turned into a bloody mess. Aerion, of course, beat the man. Very violently. Bending the rules of ethics in order to incite his revenge.
The crowd booed, but Aerion was certainly pleased with himself. As soon as he was declared the winner, he threw off his heavy helm and rode towards you. You, of course, gave him your favour and let out a yelp of surprise when Aerion climbed up the pole, picked you up and brought you down. He kissed you there and then for everyone to see- tenderly, lovingly. Not only a message for everyone whom saw, but a message to you- to prove his seriousness and dedication.
Your families watched in horror- they knew the love you shared, of course. They knew very well of the obsession that Aerion held for you. Yet, politically, you were not to marry. Such a public proclamation meant that suitors from all the realm would be scared off.
Aerion didn’t care, and did not understand why your fathers had not arranged your marriage sooner- he could have put two babes in you by now. The Targaryen prince never worried that you would marry another- no. He had done just fine thus far scaring off possibilities. And worst case, he had already bedded you many times- if there were to be a day where another arrangement would be announced, he would have no problem revealing that awfully kept secret.
After the tourney, Aerion had requested an audience in front of both his father, and yours, as well as his uncle and the king himself. It was there that he demanded that you marry. Aerion knew no embarrassment, and made witnesses sit for a whole hour while he recounted every memory that he had of you. The ones that he deemed appropriate, anyway.
You remembered the giggle that left you when he had started with, “it began when we were five years old.” And proceeded to tell the tale of how you fell and scraped your knee, and how he had helped you up and dusted the dirt from your bloodied knee.
Aerion’s obsession manifested itself in many ways; he knew every single thing that you liked, loved, disliked and loathed. He read every book that you mentioned, he had men travel the world in search of jewels and gowns that you had read of, he sometimes even travelled himself to acquire the finest flowers from the free cities, just to see the delight in your face when you inhaled the scent.
There was no fibre of your being that had the heart to tell him to calm down, even if sometimes you really wanted too. Every human on the earth needed their alone time, and he could not comprehend that. His alone time included you- it had too.
“I do not understand why we must host such delinquent people.” Your husband’s voice exclaimed from beside you, echoing throughout the hall and bouncing from the large stone walls. The sudden noise snapped your attentions back to the table that you sat at, a roasted duck still rested upon your plate.
During your dinner, Prince Baelor had announced that in the coming days, they should be welcoming the arrival Maron Martell, Prince of Dorne, and his eldest son.
Baelor laughed, hesitantly lifting a silver goblet to his lips, “Delinquents?” The heir took a large swig of wine before playing the cup back upon the table.
Aerion did not understand the humour within his words, and started as his uncle awaiting a valid response. Despite the stare, his eyes flickered to you once or twice.
“It’s your fucking great aunt’s husband and child, what problem could you possibly have?” Aerion’s father, Maekar, questioned impatiently.
You already knew the problem, yet were not sure if Aerion would admit it.
You see, Aerion knew very well that his Maron Martell’s eldest son was in fact around the same age as you both- described by all in the seven kingdoms to be the most handsome man of Dorne. He was said to have a thick head of dark curls, and a chiseled jaw. He was said to be tall, with sun kissed skin and an unforgivingly beautiful face. He was also said to be charming, and funny.
Naturally, Aerion did not want him anywhere near you. You should have known better than to question whether he would admit it.
“My problem is that I will not have that man whore set eyes upon my wife!”
Maekar shook his head in pure disbelief, and decided to allow someone else on the table to handle his son.
You, amused by the situation, placed your hand on his thigh gently, your fingers brushing the fabric of his hose.
It was fair to say that the people of Dorne did things differently; they are known to be very open with their doings, very confident and free.
“My love, that will not be a problem.” You said simply, peering at him with a blank expression.
Aerion couldn’t help the small tut that escaped him. Placing his hand on top of your own which rested on his thigh, he looked at you, leaning his face closer to yours. “Of course it will be a problem.”
“No, it won’t.” Daeron called from across the table. “Brother, you must be less…”
Daeron’s hands raised, and he gestured unknowingly as he thought of how to articulate his thoughts. “Less territorial.” He finalised his words with a small burp.
“And you, brother, must drink less. You are making my stomach turn.” Your husband shot back, his eyes darkening as they scanned Daeron.
And with that, your husband stood abruptly, grabbing the flowing, emerald sleeve of your gown as he stood- a forceful signal that he wanted to leave and intended to take you with him.
Two days later, your guests had arrived, and in turn, a flurry of guests dined in your husband’s family halls. You sat beside your husband, as usual. Your hand firmly clasped in his, laughing at the ridiculousness he spoke into your ear. Both of you loathed family gatherings, and so had always passed the time by making jokes of those who surrounded you. That, or you would spend the time whispering all of the things that you would rather be doing to one another.
The chaotic hum of music chimed through your ears and people of all ages danced happily to the sound. Aerion nibbled at your ear and pressed kisses to your neck as you both sat- you watching the crowd, and him watching you.
Maron’s eldest son was not as pleasing as the ladies of court had painted, and he seemed rather unintelligent, if you were honest.
“Princess,” You heard an unfamiliar accent call.
You peered to your right, and Aerion paused as his lips ghosted your neck. Him too looking towards the direction of the voice.
“Pass me the wine.” He commanded you calmly, yet loudly.
Aerion’s head snapped up, and he turned his head so it fully faced the young Dornish man. He sniffed through his nose and thought carefully- your husbands violet eyes throughly scanning his face.
“You dare command my wife.” Aerion spoke in a harsh voice. The Dornish Prince’s head snapped back in disbelief.
“I just want the wine.” He shrugged.
Aerion lazily reached forwards and nudged the tall jug of wine towards his direction. “Then get it yourself.”
The Dornish Prince peered at the wine, then peered at Aerion, and then looked at you.
“Sorry, my Princess.” He spoke in an overdramatised voice, sarcasm dripping from every word.
Aerion shot up then, despite your hand that had clasped his waist in a desperate attempt to make him sit back down. Aerion could threaten and beat whomever he liked, but Maron Martell’s eldest son simply could not be one of them. Makar barked at him from the latter side of the table, most of them now gaining the attention of the ridiculous display before them.
Aerion felt your harsh hands- a brief pang struck him as a consequence- not because it hurt, but because you always touched him gently, and tenderly.
Other than when you were in bed, of course.
Aerion thought for a heartbeat, about the consequences of putting his hands on the tanned man in front of him.
Despite it all, he lunged forward and punched the Prince in the face, causing his head to jerk back and a small gasp to leave his throat.
To your surprise, however, Aerion did not continue his attack. Instead, he moved away. Placing one hand on the hilt of his sword, and the other on your sleeve, he placed a kiss on your forehead.
“Come, let us leave.” He pulled you up. “I cannot stand everyone here, being able to stare at you for much longer."
Men who take off your shoes, carefully peel your sheer tights to massage and kiss the arch of your foot before resting your legs on their shoulder and burying their face on your pussy vs. Men who toss you face down, ass up, and tear up a hole in your tights so they can eat you out from the back through it
Your splayed, oiled palms ran down the hard planes of Baelor’s back, his muscles rippling and tensing beneath your touch as you massaged the knots that had formed over the past several weeks with reverence.
You were seated atop his backside, knees pressing into the bedding below while your calves hugged the sides of his waist.
“How’s that?” you murmured, admiring the way his tan skin glistened in the candlelight.
The tops of your fingers would occasionally trace over one of the many scars that had been etched into his body; the sizes and colours of the faded lesions varied, some the length of your forearm and a lighter hue, while others were as small as a quill tip and similar in tone to the surrounding skin.
Baelor hummed in reply before a muffled, “perfect,” left his parted lips.
The right side of his face was pressed into a cushion below, providing you with the alluring image of his open mouth, flushed left cheekbone, and fluttering, dark lashes.
He made a content rumbling every time you worked out a stubborn lump, the hand he had resting around your calf tightening in appreciation of your efforts.
A raspy, dizzying moan left his throat in a long exhale when your hands kneaded at a particularly sensitive wound–one that, despite being eleven years old, would periodically still flare up and throb.
The sound made your legs constrict around him and eyelids flicker as arousal settled thickly at the base of your spine. You lingered around the edges of the aged laceration, evoking another low, unconstrained noise from deep within his chest.
Slowly, your fingers dragged upwards, leaving a trail of long, red welts that took their time to vanish, along the length of his shoulder blades.
The dark grey and silvery hair that rested around the nape of his neck and ear was sleek from a coating of oil, darkened from when you had earlier threaded through the strands in a besotted manner. They had looked enticingly cute; their naturally curled shape too tempting for you to not reach up and twirl them around a single, slick digit.
“Turn around,” you commanded once you had managed to get all of the painful nodules out of his shoulders, your hips rising to provide him with room to flip over.
Once Baelor was comfortably facing you, you sat back down over his pelvis, legs tightening around his body once more when he peered up at you with a knowing smile.
This part wasn’t for him as much as it was for you.
He had gained a thickness over his muscles as the years passed, a supple, malleable layer of meat that easily surrendered to your ministrations.
You poured more lotion over your palms, rubbing them together until the liquid was warm, and then placed them atop his torso.
The hair that was scattered over the stretch of his chest immediately darkened as the balm coated his skin; the glossy sheen that enhanced the bulkiness of his upper body caused heat to unfurl within your lower abdomen, drift up, and settle in blotchy, tingly patches over your throat and face.
Baelor’s own hands were resting over the upper part of your thighs, his new position supplying him more access to you.
His body jolted forward when one of your nails accidentally scraped his dusky nipple, eliciting a startled intake of air from the older man. You bit the inside of your cheek to refrain from remarking on how sensitive he was, despite knowing that he would never retaliate even if you were to do it again.
“Enjoying yourself?” Baelor inquired after several minutes of being thoroughly prodded, scraped, and tugged at.
His scarred brow rose in response to the engrossed, fixated look on your face.
You hadn’t noticed how drastically your breathing had changed; immersed with the way his short, coarse hairs felt when you combed through them, and how every sinewy ridge of his flesh pliantly absorbed each stroke and squeeze you delivered.
“No,” you lied, fingers following the silvery-dark trail of hair that led downwards, to the top of his linen breeches, “but I will be soon enough.”
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