it’s a spell that can’t be broken (it’ll keep you up all night).
Summary: On the final straw with Rhae and her weird antics that constantly drive servants, assistants and babysitters away, Maekar Targaryen hires you to become her new babysitter. Surprisingly, she warms up to you. For you played along with her “potion making” and other antics. Perhaps that had been your first mistake.
Tags / Warnings: Modern AU, Crack-fic, Rhae is a weird kid, Reader & Aerion are in their early 20s, female Reader, Rhae scheming (she is always just rubbing her hands together evilly), Maekar is tired of Rhae’s shit, Love Potions, Plot-relevant OOC Aerion.
Notes: Just an idea I had, I might turn it into a series if anyone’s interested. Inspired by “Black Magic” by Little Mix.
Maekar had left almost immediately as soon as you had arrived, with a grumpy expression and stating he had work to attend to. And that you would be looking after his youngest child Rhae until he returned late into the evening.
“She is in her bedroom. Third floor.” He had grumbled before leaving.
The staircase was the grandest one you had seen, as you walked up to it to the third floor. It was made of marble and had rails that looked to be made of some type of expensive metal.
Trailing the long hallway of the third floor, you soon came across an open room. A little girl was sitting in the room, playing with Barbie dolls. She had the same pale hair as Maekar but unlike his, it was curly and tied into pigtails with scrunchies.
She looked up as you entered and you smiled. “Hello, you must be Rhae.”
“Yeah.” She replied then: “Can I have some of your hair?”
You blinked, taken aback. That was not something you were expecting her to say. “Pardon?” You let out a disbelieving chuckle.
Rhae gave you a blank look, standing up and abandoning her dolls as she walked over to a toy kitchen set. “I’m gonna make a potion and I need the hair of a maiden to perfect it.” She insisted, gesturing to a plastic cup filled with water on the set.
Oh. So she was this type of child. “Oh, sure.” You agreed, plucking out a single hair from your head and giving it to her, watching in amusement as she put it in and swirled the water with a Cheshire grin.
“Wait here.” She ordered before running out of the room. Minutes later, she returned with a bottle of whiskey in her small hands. Your eyes widened, reaching to take it from her. Rhae only dodged your attempt, as if she had already expected it.
“It’s my brother Aerion’s. He thinks no one knows he keeps it, but I do.” She said, twisting the cap off and pouring some of the alcohol into the cup before she grinned.
“Okay, it’s done.” She beamed, putting the lid back on. “I need to put this back. Can you swirl it?”
You smiled, deciding to just humour her as she ran out again. You swirled it until the whiskey blended in with the water. Rhae returned soon after, and grinned widely at the “potion”.
“It’s perfect..” She whispered before she looked at you. “Are you my new babysitter?”
You nodded. Rhae smiled. “Oh, well I think you’re cool, I guess.” She said bluntly, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. You laughed.
“You guess?”
Rhae hummed, grabbing your hand. “Come on. I wanna go outside!”
She all but dragged you through the hallways to a huge backyard and then down a long path to a garden. The ground was slightly muddy from rain the previous night but she didn’t seem to mind, dropping to sit criss-cross-applesauce in the mud. “Make mud potions with me.” She demanded.
“Use your manners.” You reminded as you crouched down.
“Oh,” Rhae looked up. “Please make mud potions with me, miss.” She replied. You smiled and nodded, piling some mud into your hands.
—
The house was quiet when Aerion returned from his day at university. Which was strange, usually Rhae was running to him to present whatever “potion” she had made that day. It made him suspicious. Quietness never meant anything good when it came to that brat.
Against his better judgement, he decided to go look for her.
He found her eventually in the gardens, absolutely filthy and covered in mud and giggling as she threw mud at you. He scowled.
“Who the fuck are you?” He snapped at you before turning his attention to his sister. “Rhae, you’re fucking filthy. Get inside and take a bath.”
Rhae only shook her head. “Sorry, only my babysitter can tell me what to do.” She replied defiantly, crossing her arms.
Aerion’s expression darkened.
Sensing his anger, you crouched down to Rhae’s level. “Hey, how about you go bathe and then we can do some baking, how does that sound?”
Rhae let out a long, dramatic sigh before relenting. “Fine.” She said, already walking away to the door that led into the house.
Aerion looked back at you with a hard stare, tilting his head back. “I know you. You’re little miss perfect who’s always at the library.” He sneered.
“She’s gonna chase you off by the week’s end just like the others, you know.” He added before walking away toward the house.
—
It was the fourth day of you babysitting Rhae when you arrived to chaos.
The first thing had been Rhae’s oddly sweet reaction to you arriving. “Hi, miss.” She had said in a sickly sweet voice, sounding much like she was on the verge of giggles. “My brother is very happy to see you today. Aerion I mean.”
At that moment, Aerion came skipping out of nowhere holding flowers that clearly looked to be pulled from the gardens with a wide smile. He greeted you by name, blushing as he held the flowers out to you.
“For you.” He said before averting his gaze shyly, giggling nervously. Giggling. Then he sighed dreamily, tilting his head and gazing at you with practically hearts in his eyes. “You are so beautiful, did you know?”
Tags: MDNI!!! smut, jealousy, Lyonel hates that motherfucker leo tyrell, riding, oral (fem receiving), requited unrequited love, dacryphilia by accident, hair pulling (not yours), overstimulation, pussy drunk lyonel, freaky lyonel, freaky reader, yearning, so much yearning, angst due to said yearning, you might say lyonel is ooc but I would die on the yearner lyonel hill idc, happy end, reader is from house hunt purely for the symbolism and the plot, english is not my first language, poorly beta read.
P.S. think of this as a prequel to that oneshot. feel free to give feedback, I wrote this cuz I want that stag man badly but also this was smut training for the Baelor x stark!reader one-shot and the Maekar x tully!reader series, which kept getting rewritten cuz I can't seem to decide on personalities and I want the smut to be perfect. enjoy <3333
divider by @plum98
W.C.: 2.95K
Lyonel has never wished death upon a man as much as he did now. Despite having you warm his bed all these past nights—you still haven't changed your plans. You still want to court that fucking Rose Lord.
In all honesty, he didn't know what you saw in that man. What—just because he is your liege lord and lord paramount that means he deserves you?
Was it because he is a great jouster? Surely that wasn't it. Lyonel is better, he can out-joust him. He will out-joust him, you'll see.
A headache assaulted his skull immediately when he opened his eyes. Your stirring atop his bare chest caused him to wake. A warm hand splayed itself on your back and pressed you back down when he felt your warmth threaten to leave him, the other caressing the small of your back as it wrapped around your waist, binding you close to him—he wasn't ready to let you go just yet.
His voice had fallen octaves lower, enlaced with sleep – and maybe also the lingering effects of wine – the sound reverberated through his chest. "Where do you think you're going to so soon? It's the hour of the wolf—the sun is nowhere close to risen—stay." He whispered, the order more of a plead than anything else.
Humming appreciatively at the sensation of being enveloped in his heat, you nuzzled your cheek against his shoulder and ran your fingers sleepily through the black hairs of his chest.
Rationality inevitably came around to the fronts of your mind. "You know as well as I do that I need to get back to my own tent. My brother might not care whether or not I share a bed with anyone but my father does—as does my 'loyal' company."
You sighed "Not to mention I have to be up early to wash up and get ready, Ser Leo won't court himself."
"Ser Leo can go fuck himself for all I care."Lyonel cursed, annoyance and anger flaring up. The other man's name fell heavy on his tongue and left a bad taste in his mouth.
You propped your chin atop your folded arms, that smirk fixed on your face.
"Aww! You jealous?" You pouted mockingly. On normal circumstances your taunts and teases would delight him and turn him on. Right now? Well—it still turned him on but this matter is deeply serious. His cock is buried inside you—and still, you speak to him of a man that loves and puts jousting before anything else, a dull and ungrateful man that met your sweet face with nothing but a polite smile and a neutral demeanor.
"Green is not your color, love." You sat back up – the action drawing a breathy sigh from you – and your smirk grew wider. "It's his."
Oh, it burned—those flames in his chest fanned hotter by your words and the pit in his stomach coiled itself in terribly like a cornered viper. And yet he finds himself no less aroused than before. And you noticed, if your hysterical laughter was anything to go by.
"You are a horrible—" He groans, "horrible woman." his hands grip your hips as you rise up and down his hardened cock in a slow and torturous pace. "I know you can go quicker than that." His urging bringing out another laugh out of you. "I can't go faster than this."
You halt your movements, keeping him deep inside you. "What—Why did you stop?" He questions with a whine, his hold growing tighter.
"I'm tired, Lyonel." You shrugged, looking down at him with smugness dripping from your tone and a cruel curl of your lips. He ought to kiss that smirk off your face.
It was clear what you wanted, after all these nights you spent together he's come to memorize your every sound, every expression, and every curve you had on your delightful body. It took everything in him not to leave marks all over you - you were very strict on that front. Not that he didn't understand your reasons, it's just torture having your tasteful skin exposed to him and being unable to sink his teeth into you. And he was fine with that in the beginning of whatever one would call your relationship. But he didn't adore you then as much as he did now.
He doesn't remember when it all started; when the lust gave way to reverence, when his rough grasp turned into a gentle caress. And when letting go of you and leaving you to be with that Rose Lord began to feel like surrendering to his own doom.
It did not need to be said, Lyonel got himself in deep deep shit.
In quick and fluid motion, your positions were swapped. The sight of you laid beneath him, bare and staring up at him with bright wanton eyes—he could never get bored of it.
Still deep inside you, he rolled his hips against you slowly, and leaned down until his nose brushed against yours and your breaths mingled. You let out a moan and you tried to hush behind the back of your wrist, your eyes fluttering closed when he brushed against that spot.
He tutted at your actions "No no no—why do that?" his hand gently takes your wrist away and lay it by your head, his fingers caress their way up your palm until they entangle with your fingers.
"I want to hear it all." He draws back and thrusts forward harder and faster, forcing a moan out of you, loud and unencumbered. He shudders like the sound by itself brings him pleasure, "All those moans and sighs…" He watches as you turn your head to the side. That won't do.
A hand takes ahold of your chin, turning you to face him.
"Hey," he whispers, his face close but far enough to see your whole expression, you looked so sweet like this, pupils blown wide, tears of pleasure forming in the corners of your eyes, all because of him, "look at me—eyes on me."
His hand leaves yours and goes back to your hip, you take the opportunity to wrap your arms around him and your nails dig themselves into their favorite resting place, his back looks like it was scratched up by a pack of wild cats by now, he never got to see it of course—it was on his back—but from what others' told him and the sting he felt when the adrenaline and euphoria wore off said everything. He loved it.
One of your hands found their way to the nape of his neck.
You scratched at his scalp, the feeling makes him lean his head back into your nails, "Lyonel.." you say with stuttered breaths. He almost whimpers.
In a moment his lips find yours, your noses clash into each other from the abrupt movement, the kiss wasn't unlike the most of the ones he gave you before, so full of passion and uncontainable lust, this one though, it felt like he was trying to consume you.
You grab a handful of the hair at the base of his scalp, and pull him away, far enough for you to breathe.
"Seven hells, Lyonel–" you interrupt yourself with a whine—you could swear you feel that mind-numbing vein rub against your walls, "are you trying to eat my face?"
He laughs with a hard breath, half-lidded eyes look down at you with an emotion you can't quite name, "What a tempting thought that is." Lyonel attempts to lower his head to kiss you again, but much to his delight, your faltering grip grows harder, much like his cock.
A laugh escapes him.
"Haven't I given you enough time to breathe?"
Your grip weakens and feels your walls clench around him. "Haven't I given you enough kisses already?"
You could kiss him for every second he had to endure in agony—every second he spent in in torment watching you smile and twirl your hair at that Tyrell, every second he watched you stress at the thought of that dull man finding out about your nightly activities—you could kiss the soul out of him for double that time and it could never be enough to sate him.
In the beginning he could hardly care about the need for secrecy—but now it just hurts. You were so concerned for a man that holds hardly any affection for you, when he's right here, and he loves you so much his heart could give in at any moment?
He can and would die for you, kill for you—he would fall on his sword without a single thought for you, and all you'd have to do is ask, would Longthorn do that?
"Lyonel," those pretty glistening eyes stare up into his soul, "please…" and a shudder escapes him.
His hands leave your hips, sliding them up from the bottoms of your thighs all the way up to the underside of your knees, and he adjusts his position, driving deeper into you.
Your moans and cries of his name grew louder and louder. Lyonel swears his name never sounded better than when it fell from your lips.
Oh how wished he could listen to you say it forever—but if you didn't stop he won't be able to last much longer.
"I'm sorry, I can't," one of his hands cover your mouth, making you look at him in a confused daze, "if you say my name one more time I swear I'll burst."
You arch your back into him and squirm, chasing your release, trying to move your hips to match his. Your nails dig into his back hands trying to find something to hold onto as your walls quivered from the blinding pleasure and clenched for the last time.
The slickness of your release soak his cock and drips down from your cunt. Lyonel watches your face as you regain control of your breathing and the strength of your finish, or try to.
Light feathery kisses softly plant themselves on the base of your jaw, then cheek, then at your nose and finally find haven on your lips.
Lyonel lets out a groan and drops his head onto the crook of your neck, when he feels your hand wrap around his still-hard member and stroke, the motions quick and smooth, all thanks to the mix of your juices drenching his cock.
"No." he shakes his head, hand wrapping around your wrist, stopping you mid-stroke. "Not yet."
Confusion crosses your face, but you don't say anything. He lays kisses upon kisses on your neck, down to your collarbone and stopping at your breast to roll his tongue around your nipple, you exhale in quiet pleasure, fingers running through his hair.
His kisses situate themselves lower and lower on your body, "What are you doing, Lyonel?" The answer wasn't the one you sought but you welcomed it anyway, the familiar sensation of his tongue licking a long stripe up your folds, and pressing incessantly against your clit.
"The sun is going to rise—fuck! slow down." You curse, squirming, hips lifting involuntarily, the pleasure building up fast and strong.
His palm runs along your stomach, finally gripping at your waist, then his forearm pins you down so you don't squirm away from his mouth, his other hand wraps around his cock, lost in the sweet taste of your cunt and the scent of it drives him mad.
Your thighs warm his ears as you lock them around his head, your fingers interlock with his hair and you pull, grinding on his face. If that wasn't arousing enough you moan his name over and over.
It was maddening—he thrusts furiously into his hand in a stuttering pace, moaning into your folds, the sensations drive you wild. You scream his name and his restraint shatters, cum spilling out of him in waves and sullying the furs. It doesn't take long for you to follow him, spasms rolling through your body, until you drop from the exhaustion of it all.
Lyonel lays on his side, facing you—sweet, glowing, beautiful you.
You turn to face him, fighting the tremors and ache between your legs—you find him staring at you with a look that was far too gentle, so much unlike the gaze of the laughing, mischievous man you met a fortnight ago.
"What?" you giggle with a raised brow. He blinks at you, a small smile gracing his face. "What do you mean what?"
"Why are you looking at me like that?" his brow raises to match yours, "We've just finished fucking and you can't handle me staring at you?"
You laugh heartily, pressing your face to the pillow, when you look back at him he's still staring at you, eyes distant and intense.
"Lyonel?" You call, concerned at the unexpected loss of his smile.
His eyes find yours with sudden fervor, "Marry me."
The whiplash of his words and the way you sat and stood up made you dizzy, your eyes flit around the tent as if you can find the explanation to the unexpected turn of events.
"You said this was casual, that it was just for fun."
When you turned, you found he was already behind you, his hands hovering as if he doesn't know if he was allowed to touch you or not.
"I know—I know." he stammers while slowly laying a hand on your waist, as if you would bolt from him if he moved any faster. When you did nothing of the sort, he wraps it around you and presses you close. His other hand holding yours, thumb rubbing at the back of it soothingly.
"You said marriage was the last thing on your list, that it hindered you from having all that you want."
"You're all I want." Lyonel says with all the conviction he has, he presses your palm against his thudding heart, "You're all I could ever want or need, nothing else matter more."
Your silence scares him, "I've never felt more happy or content than when I am with you," his heart beats so hard against his ribs he could swear it was trying to claw its way out into your hand. "but at the same time I've never felt so weak, I feel much like that stag on your banners, tied up and helpless."
"Lyonel–" you whisper, he suddenly lets go of you, then removes one of his rings off his finger. He presses the ring into your palm with shaking hands and folds your fingers over it, his own palm laying over your fingers as if stopping you from protesting and giving it back.
"You don't have to say anything now," Lyonel's voice waver despite himself, "I'll ask for you favor tomorrow, If you wear it I'll see that as a yes," he proposes, hoping that you at least consider his words.
His voice dies in his throat when you pull your hand away, rolling the ring between your thumb and forefinger with an unreadable expression, and he holds his breath, waiting for your reaction.
You slide the antlered ring on your thumb and throw yourself into his arms. It takes his brain a moment to process what just happened, and even longer for his body to follow. His hands hanging stupidly at his sides.
When it finally registers to him that yes you agreed—you want to marry him, despite what your family wants, despite what you were leaving behind—the grin that spreads on his face was bigger than any he'd had recently, much less in his whole life, his arms wrap around you so tightly you'd think he was worried you'd disappear if his embrace was any weaker.
He buries his nose in your hair and breathes in, eyes closed.
"Nothing—no one, will ever harm you—not while I can help it," Lyonel promises into your hair, " and if ever should you feel that Storm's End is too dreary or bleak to live in, tell me and I'll take you somewhere sunnier."
You pull away to stare into his eyes.
"Lyonel, I'd live with you in the ruins of Old Valyria if you asked."
Oh. Okay. So it wasn't just him.
"Yeah?" he smirks and turns you around, walking you backwards towards the bed. You hum and return the look he's giving you.
The back of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you're back to where you started, with him caging you in with his hands on either side of you.
"Well if you had greyscale on your lips I'd kiss you anyway." he counters like it's a competition. You arch your brow, "Really?"
"Yes really."
"How would you kiss me?"
He grins, giving you what you want. Starting with several pecks and ending with a long ardent kiss that poured all that he felt for you and left the both of you breathless.
When the fuzziness left your mind, you realized the way he was looking at you. The familiar haze of desire and craving oozing from his eyes.
His hungry gaze locked onto your throat and neck, "Is it okay to bite you now?"
The question stuns you into a laugh, you answer him with a finger tapped at your collarbone. "Nowhere higher than this point until we are officially betrothed."
It was as you wished, this was Lyonel's rule going forward. His teeth eagerly sink into the exact place you pointed to, despite you not specifying that it had to be there. He had you now he was never going to lose you, not even to himself.
TUMBLR'S RECENT UPDATE IS AWFUL AND WE SHOULD COMPLAIN LOUDER AGAINST IT.
Hey so, I thought maybe we should participate in a blackout day to protest against the new tumblr update.
Let's try March 19. So that people have time to see this and plan for it.
Do not log in or use tumblr for 24 hours on this day.
Reblog this and make a tag chain to maximise visbility—the more people aware of this awful update, the better.
Circle the date on your calendar, or set a reminder on your phone. As a bonus it will be a good break from social media. Spend the day doing things you like—start that book you've been waiting to read, go outside, watch a good movie... just do anything except open tumblr.
I think we should show tumblr that we are not happy with this update in every possible way we can.
File support tickets with feedback (SEE BELOW ON HOW TO SEND FEEDBACK), post about how this update makes you feel, reblog other's posts about this update, offer as detailed and honest feedback as possible to tumblr—WE DO NOT WANT THIS UPDATE!!
Remember that WE are the end consumers.
WE build their platform, WE fill it with posts, WE are the reason they generate revenue, WE are the reason this platform has power, and for these reasons WE should feel satisfied with the service they provide. ESPECIALLY if you pay for tumblr premium, you are entitled to make a complaint about the platform you are PAYING.
I used to like tumblr and I'd like to cling to it, but this update is just horrible. It makes me not want to continue posting at all. It is utterly demotovating as-is with my being mature labelled, but this update is just intolerable. I do not know how I will feel motivated to post at all in the future if this update is not rolled back.
I know I don't have much reach, especially with a label on, but I hope this reaches at least a few people.
Please participate if you care. Please reblog and tag people you know. Send every bit of feedback to tumblr that you possibly can.
I really don't want to see my once favorite site ruined beyond repair. I really want to continue enjoying this site. I have a community of people here which I have built over years, a community which I deeply love and appreciate and cherish interacting with. My blog thrives on being able to see feedback in reblogs on my post. The whole point of posting is that people see it and engage with it. This update is at best nonsensical and at worst, going to shred off many creators from the platform and rip apart any last bits of fun we have using it.
SEE BELOW for more information on the update & how to send a support ticket to give feedback.
HOW TO SEND FEEDBACK THROUGH SUPPORT TICKETS
Go to tumblr support
Select the category "feedback"
Write in formal, polite tone—try not to sound rude, but constructive and earnest about how dissatisfied you feel about the update and its effects
EXAMPLE: I am writing regarding tumblr's recent update. I am not happy with this feature and do not see myself enjoying the platform with this being implemented. Please rollback this update.
IMPORTANT LINKS
Comment your feedback on tumblr's twitter
Here is the original tumblr post stating the update change
This post by @thatlittleegyptologist explains the effects of the update
Dear tumblr please listen to our feedback and rollback this update.
WE build their platform, WE fill it with posts, WE are the reason they generate revenue, WE are the reason this platform has power, and for these reasons WE should feel satisfied with the service they provide. ESPECIALLY if you pay for tumblr premium, you are entitled to make a complaint about the platform you are PAYING."
Couldn't have said it better myself
Tagging everyone I know to hop on this bandwagon because holy shit folks need to stop making updates to their websites and apps no one asked for that only make their consumers more miserable and less likely to want to engage with their platforms
Daeron with a wife who is so sweet, kind, and widely known to be far too good for a drunken wreck of a prince like him. Daeron’s wife who tends to him, rides with the guards to bring him back from the taverns, and never lets the maids bathe him - instead, she chooses to tenderly bathe him, washing his hair and soothing his worries. She’s revered by the court, though somewhat pitied, but many refer to her as a saint, untouched by the madness that seems to affect all who surround the Targaryens.
Daeron’s same wife who sobers her husband up, only to ride him until she’s crying out in pleasure. Taking all she can from him until her cunt clenches around his cock, letting herself slump into his larger frame as she spasms, letting her orgasm rush over her. Daeron’s a willing participant, praising her as she grinds down on him, sending his head back in a jolt of pleasure. He lets his hands roam her body, squeezing her breasts and rolling her nipples between his pointer finger and thumb, watching as she squirms with every press. Daeron’s lazy - that’s well known - but he does his best to direct a hand down to her clit and rub small circles around the bud when he can tell she’s close, making sure she feels good, even when he’s failed at his duties to be a commanding and dominant husband.
Daeron's come to enjoy their dynamic greatly, nuzzling into her neck, hair, and chest once they return to lie horizontally in their marital bed. He revels in the feeling of her curling into his side, letting her head rest on his chest, staring up at him softly. A tender kiss shared between the husband and wife. It only makes his heart warm in his chest.
He doesn’t need to drink, or at least drink as much, when he’s with his wife. In her presence, he finds the thoughts quieter, and he’s able to think more clearly. He can focus. He can be himself - unburdened by the future and his inability to prevent any of it. She soothes him when he has his dreams, tenderly holding him as he shakes and cries.
Daeron and his wife who wander the halls of Summerhall arm-in-arm, or with Daeron’s arm around her waist, sharing small murmurs as they go about their day. The pair ignore the looks pointed their way, and instead enjoy each others company, visiting the gardens and laying in the sun, feeding each other sweet fruits and laughing at jokes. She plays with his hair, brushing it through her fingers as she crafts small braids to pass the time. Daeron sneaks small kisses on her fingers when they near his mouth, only to be rewarded with a soft peck on his lips in return.
Maekar’s daughters are young, but he feels the same way towards them as he feels towards Daeron’s wife - protective, caring, nurturing. She had been part of their family for many years now. She’s too good for Daeron, and yet Maekar could never fathom her leaving his son’s side. He doesn’t think he could let her even if she wanted to – Daeron would throw himself from a turret, hopeless and lost without her. He’s thankful she herself seems content, never straying too far from Daeron of her own accord.
Maekar spoils her; she's always wearing beautiful gowns and the finest jewellery. There aren't any other older women in the family, so he supposes putting all his coin towards her is a fine trade if Daeron is kept happy. Daeron loves it too, telling his wife how pretty her dresses are as he nuzzles into her neck. The family start to know when she's nearby as they hear the clinking of expensive gold bracelets from down the hall, a dopey smile appearing on Daeron's face. His wife is coming :)
Tags • angst & smut, sub Daeron, soft dom wife, mild bdsm, free use, somnophilia, sex as a coping mechanism, oral sex (female receiving), mild voyeurism (he kneels for you in front of your ladies), p. in v. sex
Wordcount • 3,315
Newly married to Prince Daeron, you discover that your husband is plagued with nightmares. To avoid him turning to the bottle, you take charge and make yourself available to him whenever his visions overwhelm him.
AKOTSK Masterlist
Wakefulness came to you in waves. First, it was the ruffle of the sheets next to you and the dip of the mattress, then the absence of heat, and the sound of frantic footsteps on the stone floor.
The hearth gave a gentle crack, soft yellow flames still burning the wood, and then a whimper broke the air, making your heart jump in your throat.
“Daeron?” you called. Only another whimper answered you. “Daeron? Husband, what is it?”
Any remnant of sleep was shaken from your eyes as you finally noticed your husband’s frame in a corner of the room, standing behind a settee, gripping the backrest. Slipping out of bed and pulling on a robe over your nightgown, you walked to him slowly.
The young prince looked as though he was lost in the throes of panic, sweat pearling at his forehead, his eyes were wide and dark, rimmed with red. “—night,” he stammered.
“Yes, it is night, come back to bed,” you encouraged him, reaching for his shoulder.
Daeron startled and finally turned to you, but his eyes were almost empty, as though they were gazing right through you. “No, there is a knight!” he cried out.
Incomprehension gripped your heart and you looked frantically around your chambers. “There’s no one in the room,” you tried to placate, but he would not hear it.
“The dragon died,” he lamented, digging the heel of his palm into his eye. Then, a sharp hit to his own forehead. “The dragon is dead!”
“Alright, I hear you, but please do not hurt yourself,” you pleaded, gripping his wrists and pulling them away from his face. “It is only a nightmare, please wake up! Come back to me.”
“The dragon is dead,” he wailed anew, his handsome face contorted in anguish.
With trembling hands, you reached under his shirt to find his back, pressing your palms to it, holding him too tightly.
“Come back to me, I beseech you!” you cried, pressing desperate kisses to his hair, his face.
Finally, he fell to his knees, and you followed him to the floor, collapsing with his face buried between your breasts. His forehead was hot against your throat, his wails shaking your very bones as you held him tightly, resorting to rake your nails across his back gently, attempting to ground him.
You understood now, why he was so adamant on never sharing your bed at night, insisting on returning to his own chambers after sharing a moment with you. Since your wedding a few months prior, Daeron had kept you at arm’s length, never quite allowing you to see you below the surface. While aware that he was troubled, and drank more than was reasonable, you had never understood what ailed him.
Every evening he spent in your chambers always ended in the same way, with him gathering his clothes despite your pleas, and nothing could convince him to stay, not even the promise of more intimacy later on in the night. He insisted that he slept alone, with a sort of resigned sadness that had made you wonder if it was not hiding anything. Now you suspected you knew.
Daeron could eventually be convinced to return to your bed, and fell into an agitated slumber, much as you did after watching over him for as long as you could stay awake, your hands carding through his hair while pondering the situation.
Dawn brought sun in through the curtains, and with it the shame of what had occurred in the night.
Much as he remembered his nightmares vividly, Daeron recalled exactly how he had broken down in your arms, sobbing into your chest like a child in their mother’s arms. That his own wife had to see him in such a state made bile rise in his throat, embarrassment and self-loathing burning sharply behind his breastbone.
However, there was no trace of any sort of emotion on your face, save for a gentle smile and honest eyes, and the easy acceptance you displayed made him want to fold into you again. He swallowed the urge down.
Instead he sat up in bed, kicking the sheets from his legs and rehearsing an apology in his head, but you spoke before he could. “These nightmares, do they happen often?” you asked, but it seemed you already knew the answer.
“Enough to plague me,” he still replied.
No one had ever seen him in such a state save the servants and his father once or twice, when he had been called by a panicked maid. This always resulted in him calling for the Maester. The man thought him unstable and recommended frequent leeches.
After a while, wishing to be forgotten about, he had pretended the cure had worked. Now he drank enough to put himself into a stupor. The dreams were hazier this way and faded quicker.
“It did seem frightening,” you said softly, running your hand down his spine, the warmth of your palm seeping through his shirt. Daeron swallowed, shameful tears rising to his eyes. He closed them, hanging his head between his shoulders, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
You made a gentle, soothing sound and leaned against him, your head on his shoulder. “At first I thought I would not be able to bring you out of it,” you remarked.
“Whatever you did, it helped,” Daeron admitted. He could still remember your hands on his face, your voice pulling him out of his stupor, anchoring him. Suddenly the words were at his lips and he could not stop them despite his better judgement. “They are not simple dreams. They come true.”
For a moment he feared you would laugh, call him insane, but your hand remained a solid press at his back, grounding him as you had done in the night. “Whatever is it you mean?” you asked without a trace of judgment.
Daeron shook his head, regretting he had spoken, but you did not allow him to escape the conversation. Instead, your hand slid from his back to the nape of his neck and pulled him to the side.
He let himself be tipped into you, making a surprised sound when it became obvious you meant for him to rest his head on your lap. You shifted, pushing the sheets aside until he was laying between your parted knees, his temple resting on the inside of your thigh.
The intimacy of the embrace made him close his eyes against rising tears, but your gentle hand carding through his long hair settled him and more words came pouring out. “I dreamed of my mother’s death, before it came to pass. I dreamed of a sea of blood, of her floating on top of it,” he confessed.
It was commonly known that Lady Dyanna had died in childbirth, giving birth to her last daughter, but the image spoken in such a way by Daeron made your blood run cold. “Sometimes our fears do come true,” you offered, and Daeron shook his head again.
“It is not that. It is a curse,” he whispered. “Ancient Valyria called them dragon dreams.”
The hand in his hair stopped while you pondered what he had just said. “Oh,” you answered, but you were not as surprised as you could have been.
You knew of Daenys, whom they called the Dreamer, and how she had predicted the doom of Valyria. Something cold curled around your heart, and you thought it a curse indeed, to dream of the downfall of others. “We will find a way to take this burden from you, together. Do you trust me?”
Eventually the two of you rose, and you noticed how easily, akin to second nature, Daeron reached for the pitcher of wine that was left on the table in your supper area, but you immediately came to his side and put a hand flat on the goblet he was about to pour in.
“No,” you said, such a simple word, but your tone left no room for protesting. Daeron froze, his eyes wide, waiting for what you would say next—he expected a lecture, as he had heard many times before, but instead your eyes were gentle.
For a long moment you were silent, the two of you still as stone, waiting for the other. In your mind, images for the night before conjured an idea, one that you could hardly put into words—you remembered the way his body had fallen into yours, his face hidden in your breasts, his terrible vision subsiding until he was able to fall back into a peaceful slumber.
“I will not allow you to drink yourself into an early death,” you explained, and the look on your face was serious but not harsh, and he shivered. You took the cup away and then the pitcher, slowly but firmly, and for some reason, Daeron let you, watching your every move with bated breath.
“I need it to stay sane,” he pleaded.
The next words out of your mouth made his stomach plummet to the depth of his body, hard and heavy with excruciating longing. “I will keep you sane,” you asserted. “From now on, whenever the urge to drink arises, you will come to me. Whenever a vision plagues you, you will come to me, and I shall give you whatever you require.”
Daeron shivered as the true meaning of your words registered. No one had ever cared about him in the way you did, without judgement or anger, and it made him want to surrender the entire world to your mercy. “It might be several times a day,” he protested weakly.
“Then I shall deal with it. I am your wife, and your burdens are my own,” you promised him.
Weeks went on and Daeron kept his promise most of the time. There rarely went a day when he did not seek you out in one way or another. When the urge to drink was sharp and biting, he buried his frustration into your body, taking you in quick, short thrusts that no doubt left you unsatisfied, but you never seemed to mind.
When the urge was a dull ache that spread to his whole body, tormenting his mind and making it spin, he would kneel before you and bury his face between your thighs, bringing you pleasure on his tongue.
When echoes of his nightmares came back to him in powerful flashes, he came to you and submitted to whatever you seemed fit for him, and surrendering his desires to you felt right. He rested easy in the acceptance you had shown him, in the assurance that you would be available at all times, day or night, and it never failed to make his mind blissfully quiet.
Whenever he would cave and turn to wine for relief, you did not respond with any sort of anger. Instead you reminded him of your offer with gentle firmness and guided him to a private chamber, either his or yours, and reasserted your hold over him.
One afternoon, a few weeks after that fateful night where he had revealed his burdens, he came to you while you were entertaining company in your solar. A semi-circle of a few ladies of the court were present, sharing tea and gossip, but Daeron did not hesitate to join you.
Without a word or even a glance towards your guests, he gracefully kneeled onto the carpet between your knees and buried his face into your inner thigh, hiding his face in the fabric of your gown. The only acknowledgment he received was your hand coming to find its rightful place at the top of his head.
A shudder ran through him, coursing between the familiar hardness of the floor under his knees and the slight sting at his scalp, and he settled into the position with ease.
The first few times he had sought you out while you had company, you had dismissed your ladies, until one day when you had gestured for them to stay, unwilling to interrupt whatever conversation had been going on. Instead, you had put your teacup down and levelled them with a determined stare.
“If you speak a word of what you are about to see, you will be dismissed from court, and I shall make sure your reputations are tainted with scandal,” you had said in a mild, almost pleasant tone. “Keep your tongue and you will be handsomely rewarded.”
Once your ladies had all confirmed their compliance, you had reached for Daeron, and with a patient smile, guided him to take his place at your feet. Despite the way the back of his neck had been prickling in humiliation, he had obeyed.
None of your ladies had said a word or made a sound, but he could feel their eyes on him, caught between his embarrassment and his visceral need, his mind had started spinning much like it did when he was drunk, and the familiarity had settled him quicker than before.
There was an odd pride in kneeling for you, surrendering to your wish, and the public display of your affection for him felt more precious than any verbal declaration.
However this particular afternoon, Daeron could not settle.
He sat there, his face in your thigh and your hand in his hair, carding through his sandy strands. He floated through the gentle click of the porcelain teacups, grounded into the floor by the occasional pulls on his roots, yet a current of unrest still coursed under his skin. It seemed that this time, it would not suffice.
“Leave us, ladies, I’m afraid my husband requires my attention,” you said, easily noticing how he trembled under your hand, occasionally shifting his knees.
As soon as your ladies had left and the doors to your chambers were closed, Daeron fell apart, his hands scrambling up to find your knees, a broken whine escaping from his throat. “What do you need, my sweet man?” you asked, pushing his hair away from his face.
Without a word he ground his face into your thigh, his mouth falling open slightly. From where he was you could only see his profile, one eye looking up at you pleadingly. “Please,” he breathed, you leaned forward, craning your neck to see him.
“Show me,” you commanded, and he obeyed, parting his own knees and pushing his doublet aside to reveal his arousal, obvious under the thinner material of his trousers. One of his hands came down to press its heel there, relieving the pressure.
A shiver went through you at the display, and you leaned back against the back rest of your armchair, pulling up your gown as you went until your bare thighs were revealed. Daeron’s hand came down harder between his own legs, ragged breaths coming from his mouth.
His eyes fluttered close when you reached for his face, your thumb pressing down on his lower lip, and your touch followed him when he bent forward, kissing the inside of your knee, then upwards towards the apex of your thighs.
“Daeron,” you sighed, your back arching, when his mouth settled over your cunt, his tongue licking a broad stripe over it. The call of his name incensed him and he slowly prodded at your core, curling his tongue in a way that made your hand tighten at the back of his head, holding him in place.
Moans fell from his lips at his own touch, his hips grounding into the heel of his hand, while your own hips were rocking steadily against his face. He was caught in a loop that made his mind spin, between the pressure of his hand and the softness of your core against his mouth, or perhaps it was the fact that he could hardly catch his breath.
None of it mattered, the rush of blood in his ears flushing away all remaining worries and thoughts. Now he only existed for the chase of your peak, his tongue licking small, precise strokes over your nub, his free hand curled around your thigh, keeping himself as close as he could. Pleasure mounted in your belly, carried along with Daeron’s desperate panting, until it became unbearable and you fell over the age, Daeron sobbing against you.
In the end, his own pleasure did not matter, and while his cock was aching between his legs, his mind was blissfully quiet. As long as he was simply yours, submitting to your will, the world faded away, and the visions with it.
Daeron felt himself go into free fall, but before he could catch himself, the bed was at his back again, the sheets tangled in his legs, his nightmare lingering around the edges of his mind like a fog. For a moment he stared at the ceiling, nausea rising in his throat, terror shaking his limbs.
He refused to blink, knowing it would drag him back into the horrifying vision he had just seen, and instead his left hand reached out—there you were, sleeping peacefully at his side, and a familiar desperation coiled in his belly.
Daeron kicked the sheets aside and for a quick second marvelled at the expanse of your bare skin in the dark, highlighted by the soft glow of the dying fire. His breath still coming out in pants, he pushed himself up and dragged himself over you, pushing your thighs apart with his knees. Between his own legs, his hand was moving, tugging at his cock in practiced strokes. “My love,” he whispered against the crook of your neck, and you barely
Your body was loose and pliant, your limbs heavy with slumber, open and trusting. The shadows of his nightmare were still creeping up on him, like a monster at his back, ready to pounce, but as soon as he pressed the head of his cock between your folds, the dark receded, surpassed by the desire to bury himself to the hilt.
The first thrust into you made his head spin, and he felt the moment you came back to consciousness, your cunt clenching around him, your hips shifting under his. “It won’t be long,” he whined against your neck, and you answered with a soft, low hum.
Eyes still closed, you burrowed your face into your pillow, one of your hands sliding blindly up his arm until it reached the nape of his neck, curling into the soft hair there and pulling sharply. “Take what you need,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep, and he sobbed his pleasure into the crook of your shoulder.
The stretch of him inside of you burned in the most delicious way, and you quickly fell back into the suspended state between wakefulness and slumber, distantly enjoying his desperate moans and whimpers.
It was shameful, in a twisted way, to use your body for his own selfish pleasure while you were halfway to the land of dreams, but Daeron knew it pleased you to have him turn to you in his times of need, reduced to pleading whimpers. His thrusts grew harsher but still you did not mind, humming softly while the bed creaked and groaned.
Soo Daeron couldn’t swallow his cries anymore and they pierced the quiet of the night, the headboard slamming into the wall a few times before suddenly falling silent again, Daeron biting the pillow over your shoulder to muffle his broken scream. His cock pulsed inside of you, a molten heat pulled from deep within him in hot bursts.
Underneath him, you stretched your body, your hand keeping him close, and hooked one of your legs behind his knee. “Do you believe you can rest, now?” you whispered, and his only answer was a hot kiss to your neck, tasting your skin—inside of you, his cock throbbed.
In the darkness, you smiled, your mind heavy with sleep. “Try not to wake me again, shall you?”
Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Thank you @pacificheights for your help with this fic!
his favourite position is you riding him. he gets to be lazy and have a show. in return you get to use him however you want to make yourself feel good. he’ll take whatever you give - he’ll get clingy and squirming if you tease him, but he’s too much of a sub to try to take control back from you when you’re on top.
he wants to stay buried in your tits. doesn’t matter if your’s are big or small - large breasts he can suffocate in, smaller ones he can nuzzle and listen to your heartbeat. he has a bad night and he wants to stumble into your room and pull down your dress far enough he can hide his face against your breasts until he falls asleep. he also wants his face in them while you ride him.
he is CLINGY and holding you but in a way that is absolutely subservient and desperate
he is LOUD. L O U D. man does not shut up and he can’t be sneaky or quiet about it. mostly noise or unintelligible begging rather than words. lots of pants and whines and moans. little ‘uh uh uh’s. and fuck, he whimpers.
call him a good boy and watch him cum about it
he gets pussy drunk. will eat you out and whine if you pull away after cumming, trying to pull you back on to his face. begs you to keep riding him even after he’s cum and is overly sensitive.
in line with the above point, if he’s on top he’s basically just flat over you and humping. sometimes doesn’t even have his cock inside you or it slips out and he just keeps humping.
contents. fluff, grumpy!valarr x sunshine!reader, wife!reader, possessive!valar, he is smitten your honour
notes. this can be read as a continuation of this valarr fic! (but can be read alone). consider it snapshots throughout the day of our favorite couple’s marriage.
You have bewitched him.
Slipped something subtle into his wine.
Performed some quiet, twisted Valyrian sorcery beneath the sept’s candles while the High Septon spoke the vows.
There was no other explanation that satisfied him.
Valarr had always considered himself a man of orderly thought. His tutors had praised the discipline of his mind long before they praised the steadiness of his sword-arm. A prince who allowed sentiment to crowd his judgment was a prince who endangered the realm, and so he had spent years cultivating the rare ability to set aside distraction with efficiency. It had served him well.
Until you.
Now his thoughts wandered with embarrassing frequency. If he was not recalling some past exchange—your laughter in the solar, the precise moment you had turned that cyvasse victory into scandalous triumph—then he was inventing entirely new ones. Conversations that had never occurred. Remarks he imagined you making with that infuriating confidence that had undone him since the beginning.
He caught himself doing it during council. During training. Once, mortifyingly, while listening to his father speak about trade levies.
It was terribly intolerable.
And yet, seated beside you at supper in the smaller hall reserved for the royal household, Valarr discovered that his attention had wandered once again.
The table glowed with the warm reflection of candlelight. Servants moved quietly between courses, setting down platters of roasted quail and bowls of stewed apples. Conversation flowed easily along the length of the table—his father discussing the day’s petitions, a cousin recounting some minor absurdity from the city below.
Valarr heard none of it.
He was thinking about the way your hand felt inside his.
Your fingers rested in his grasp beneath the tablecloth, warm and soft against his palm. He had taken your hand absentmindedly at the beginning of the meal, intending nothing more than idle affection, yet some quiet instinct had tightened his hold and refused to release it.
You shifted slightly beside him.
“Husband,” you murmured pleasantly, “as much as I enjoy the touch of your hand, I should also like to enjoy my dinner.”
Your fingers wiggled in a patient attempt to loosen his grip.
Valarr blinked, drawn abruptly back to the present.
“Ah—sorry,” he said at once.
The apology was sincere.
His hand did not move.
You glanced sideways at him, brows lifting in amused disbelief. “Your words and your actions appear to disagree.”
He cleared his throat, finally loosening his hold by perhaps half an inch. “I did not realize I was holding so tightly.”
“You have imprisoned my hand for the better part of a course.”
“I was distracted.”
“So I have gathered.” The corner of your mouth curved as you reached for your spoon with your free hand, attempting to resume your meal. The attempt lasted all of three seconds before Valarr, still watching you with quiet concentration, lifted his own spoon instead.
“Allow me,” he said.
You stared at him.
“What?”
“You said you wished to eat,” he replied, as though the matter were self-evident. “If your hand is otherwise occupied, it seems proper that I assist.”
His logic was delivered in perfect seriousness.
You looked from the spoon to Valarr’s utterly composed expression, clearly attempting to determine whether he was teasing.
He was not.
“Valarr,” you said carefully, “I am quite capable of feeding myself.”
“Ordinarily, yes,” Valarr agreed.
“And also presently.”
“You are presently missing one hand,” he tuts.
“Because you refuse to release it!”
“Oh, but that does not negate the inconvenience.”
You stared at him for another moment before a soft laugh escaped you despite your efforts.
“You cannot be serious.”
He raised the spoon slightly closer to your mouth.
“You will grow hungry otherwise.”
A faint murmur of poorly concealed amusement rippled along the table. Valarr ignored it with princely indifference, his attention fixed entirely upon you as though this exchange were the most reasonable arrangement in the world.
Your eyes narrowed with playful suspicion.
“I do not like how much you are enjoying this.”
Your husband looks at you innocently, “I am merely solving a problem.”
“You created the problem.”
“And so I am addressing it efficiently.”
The spoon remained suspended patiently between you.
For a moment you seemed inclined to refuse on principle. Then your gaze flicked toward the observing relatives who had suddenly developed a deep interest in their goblets.
Your shoulders lifted in a small, conceding sigh.
“Very well,” you said.
Valarr’s expression did not change, but the faintest flicker of satisfaction touched his eyes as you leaned forward and accepted the offered bite.
“There,” he said calmly. “Problem solved.”
You chewed thoughtfully.
“Have you considered,” you said after swallowing, “that you might simply release my hand?”
He looked down at your fingers still resting securely within his.
“The thought has yet to cross my mind.”
The answer arrived without hesitation.
“And why not?”
Valarr regarded you with mild surprise, as though the reason were obvious.
“Because I prefer it where it is.”
The simplicity of the admission caught you off guard. A faint warmth crept into your expression, though you quickly disguised it by reaching for your goblet.
Across the table, Baelor finally gave up any pretense of ignoring the exchange.
“Valarr,” his father said dryly, “your wife does possess two perfectly functional hands.”
“Yes,” Valarr agreed.
He offered you another spoonful.
“She is choosing not to use one of them.”
You covered your face briefly with your free hand, laughter escaping despite your best efforts.
“Your Highness,” you said between breaths, “I fear I may have married a madman.”
Valarr tilted his head slightly, considering.
“If that were true,” he said, lowering his voice just enough that the others could not easily hear, “you would not look quite so pleased about it.”
You turned toward him again then, meeting his gaze directly, and for a brief moment the playful noise of the hall faded around you.
His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around yours beneath the table. Nothing else explained why something as simple as holding your hand across a supper table felt more satisfying than any victory he had ever claimed in the yard.
Valarr lifted the spoon once more.
“Another bite,” he said.
You studied him for a moment, amusement lingering in your eyes.
Then you leaned forward obediently.
The court that morning had assembled in the long audience chamber where tall windows admitted pale light, spreading across the polished stone floor in long bands of gold. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon stirred faintly in the draft from the galleries above, and the chamber hummed with the low murmur of noble voices.
The formal petitions had concluded not long before, leaving the court in that softer hour where conversation replaced ceremony and the true work of politics continued.
Valarr stood among them with the patience expected of a prince who had been raised within such rooms all his life. His posture remained relaxed, his expression attentive, though he had long ago learned to hear the direction of a conversation before it first began.
The lord presently speaking to him possessed the unfortunate confidence of a man who believed himself very clever.
Lord Harwyn was not an important man, though he behaved as though he might become one if he spoke often enough in the right company. His beard had gone mostly silver, and he held his wine cup with the thoughtful air of someone preparing to deliver an observation of significance.
“Your Grace,” he said warmly, inclining his head. “It seems scarcely a moment since the realm celebrated your wedding. Time passes more quickly every year, does it not?”
Valarr acknowledged the remark with a polite inclination of his own.
“So I am told.”
“Two moons already, I believe?” the lord continued. “Perhaps three?”
“Two,” Valarr said.
“Ah.” Lord Harwyn nodded, swirling the wine in his goblet. “A young marriage still, then. The realm, of course, watches such unions with great hope.”
Several courtiers within earshot grew subtly attentive.
Valarr recognized the turn of the conversation at once. It was not an unfamiliar path.
“Hope,” the lord repeated thoughtfully, “for the continuation of so distinguished a line. Naturally one understands these things take time. Still, one cannot help but wonder when the gods might see fit to bless the union with… news.”
The remark hovered politely in the air.
It was delivered as sympathy.
It carried the unmistakable shape of a provocation.
Valarr regarded Lord Harwyn for a moment with mild consideration, as though the man had asked an unexpectedly practical question about taxation.
“You are quite right,” he said calmly. “The realm is very interested in such matters.”
The lord smiled, satisfied that his point had landed.
Valarr lifted his goblet and took an unhurried sip of wine before continuing.
“I can assure you, however,” he said, “that there is no lack of enthusiasm in the royal apartments.”
The silence that followed arrived with impressive speed.
Lord Harwyn blinked.
“I—Your Grace?”
Valarr seemed faintly surprised by the confusion.
“You appeared concerned that the marriage lacked… progress,” he explained with perfect courtesy. “I wished to reassure you that my wife and I are very diligent.”
Several listeners abruptly found the far wall fascinating.
The lord attempted a laugh that emerged somewhat thinner than intended. “Oh, I would never presume—”
“Quite right,” Valarr agreed pleasantly.
He tilted his head slightly, as though recalling something important.
“Although,” he added, with the faintest suggestion of amusement touching the corner of his mouth, “I should mention that two moons is hardly an extended campaign. Even the most determined efforts require a reasonable span of time.”
Lord Harwyn’s goblet hovered halfway to his mouth, forgotten entirely.
“I see,” he said weakly.
Valarr regarded him with polite interest.
“Do you require further clarification, my lord?”
“No!” the man said quickly. “None whatsoever.”
“Good.”
Valarr inclined his head once more, entirely satisfied that the matter had been addressed.
Across the chamber, several courtiers exchanged looks that balanced precariously between admiration and disbelief.
Because the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, ordinarily the most composed man in any room, had just spoken of his marriage with scandalous candor.
The murmurs began almost immediately after he excused himself and crossed the chamber.
A lady from the Stormlands leaned toward her companion with quiet amusement.
“Well,” she whispered, “one cannot accuse the prince of neglecting his duties.”
Her companion’s smile was thoughtful.
“Indeed not.”
She glanced toward the far side of the hall, where you stood speaking with one of the ladies of the court, sunlight catching the pale silk at your shoulders.
“It seems,” she added softly, “that the princess has discovered how to coax a very disciplined man into honesty.”
Across the chamber, Valarr approached you with his usual composed stride.
You glanced up at him as he reached your side, your expression brightening immediately.
“My husband,” you said lightly, “why does Lord Harwyn looking at us as though he has swallowed a lemon?”
Valarr followed your gaze briefly before returning his attention to you.
“I believe,” he said mildly, “that he asked a question and received a thorough answer.”
You studied him for a moment.
The faint, suspicious curve of your smile suggested you did not entirely believe that explanation.
Nevertheless, your hand slipped easily through his arm, and as you leaned closer to murmur something that drew a rare, quiet laugh from him, several observers arrived at the same conclusion at once.
Whatever enchantment lay upon the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdom was not subtle.
And he did not appear to mind it in the least.
The chamber reserved for your afternoon preparations overlooked one of the inner gardens of the Red Keep, where roses climbed the stone walls and the early light filtered softly through tall lattice windows. Within the room, however, the atmosphere remained pleasantly unhurried.
Your handmaiden stood behind you, drawing a brush through your hair while you examined your reflection in the tall mirror set beside the dressing table. A tray of pins and ribbons lay neatly arranged nearby, and the gown selected for the evening. It is something dark and elegant, appropriate for court—waiting across the room where it had been carefully laid out.
For the moment, however, you remained comfortably seated in a simple shift of soft linen, your hair half-brushed and loose about your shoulders.
“Your Grace,” your handmaiden said after a moment, her tone careful.
The brush slowed slightly as though she were debating whether to continue.
“Yes?”
She hesitated, watching your reflection through the mirror as though deciding whether the question might cost her position.
“I do not mean to overstep my post,” she said finally, “but I have wondered something for some time.”
You lifted one brow with polite curiosity, tilting your head just enough that a loose strand of hair slid across your shoulder.
“Oh?”
“I was wondering,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “what charms you used on Prince Valarr.”
You blinked, the surprise entirely genuine.
“What?”
“He is just so…” She searched for a word. “…enamored.”
Your smile appeared almost immediately, slow and amused.
“Is he?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said with the earnest of someone who had spent weeks observing the evidence. “Everyone sees it.”
You leaned back slightly in the chair, the linen of your shift rustling softly as you shifted.
“Everyone?”
The brush paused briefly in your hair.
“You always know how to parry with him,” she continued. “In words, I mean. And he looks at you as though he has just remembered something important.”
You laughed softly, the sound light in the quiet room.
“That sounds awfully dramatic.”
“It is true,” the girl insisted. “You could wear a sack and he would still want to jump your—”
The door opened.
Your handmaiden stopped speaking so abruptly the brush nearly slipped from her hand.
Valarr entered mid-stride, clearly intending to finish whatever thought had occupied him before crossing the threshold.
“I wanted to speak with you about the arrangements for the evening audience because I believe the steward has misunderstood my—”
He stopped.
Entirely.
The remainder of the sentence dissolved somewhere between his mind and his mouth.
You turned slightly in your chair, the movement causing the loose fabric of your shift to shift along your shoulder.
“Good afternoon, husband.”
Valarr did not answer at once.
His gaze had fixed upon you with the kind of stunned look that suggested whatever he had come to say had completely abandoned him the moment he saw you.
Your shift, light and unadorned, slipped loosely over your shoulders, the linen catching the afternoon sun where it gathered at your collarbone. Your hair, only half-brushed, fell freely down your back in waves that had not yet been arranged into the composed elegance usually seen at court.
It was, by all reasonable standards, a perfectly innocent sight. However, your husband looked as though he had been struck by something invisible.
Your handmaiden, sensing with sudden clarity that she had wandered into dangerous territory, lowered her eyes and very quietly pretended to rearrange the ribbons on the dressing table.
Valarr cleared his throat.
“You cannot wear that.”
You stared at him through the mirror.
“I beg your pardon?”
“That,” he repeated, gesturing vaguely in your direction as though the concept required no further elaboration.
You looked down at the shift, pinching the linen lightly between your fingers.
Then back at him.
“It is a linen shift,” you said patiently.
“Yes.”
“You are aware that it is worn beneath clothing.”
“I am very aware,” Valarr said stiffly.
“And I am presently getting dressed.”
“Yes.”
“Then why,” you asked sweetly, “is my undergarment suddenly a matter of royal concern?”
Valarr opened his mouth. Closed it, gaze flickering briefly toward your handmaiden before returning to you with visible restraint.
“Because,” he said carefully, “the door was open.”
“And?”
“And anyone could walk in.”
Your handmaiden coughed softly, still facing the table, her shoulders rising slightly as she tried to remain invisible.
You tilted your head, studying him with growing amusement.
“Anyone did walk in.”
Valarr’s jaw tightened slightly.
“That is precisely the issue.”
You studied him for a moment before your smile widened with unmistakable mischief.
“Husband,” you said, “are you jealous of my shift?”
“I am not jealous of a piece of garment.”
“Then what has got you so worked up?”
Valarr did not answer immediately. Instead, he stepped farther into the room and shut the door, the latch settling firmly into place.
Your handmaiden froze where she stood.
Valarr returned his attention to you.
“I am objecting,” he said calmly, “to the possibility that anyone else might see what I am presently seeing.”
Your brows lifted.
“Which is?”
He gestured again.
“You!”
You spread your hands lightly, the gesture causing the loose sleeves of the shift to fall farther along your arms.
“I should hope so.”
“In that,” he continued dryly, “there lies the problem.”
You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room.
“Valarr, if you wish me to remain unseen by the world, you will find court life very inconvenient.”
“Believe me, I am already finding it inconvenient,” he mutters angrily.
Your handmaiden’s shoulders trembled slightly as she attempted to remain silent.
You caught the movement in the mirror and raised one brow.
“Am I amusing you?”
“No, Your Grace,” she said quickly.
Valarr folded his arms.
“You encourage this.”
“Encourage what?”
“The habit of speaking freely in your presence.”
“Would you prefer I frighten the servants?”
“That might simplify matters.”
You turned in your chair to face him fully now, your eyes bright with teasing.
“My prince,” you said, “I am really having a hard time imagining how you survived before marrying me.”
“I was calmer,” he said at once. “And lonelier.” He paused.
Your handmaiden watched the exchange with growing fascination.
Because what she had said earlier was true: you did parry with him, effortlessly, and the Crown Prince—who intimidated half the court into respectful silence—appeared strangely content to be challenged.
Valarr exhaled quietly.
“You should at least have closed the door.”
“Might I remind you that you were the one who opened it.”
“Well, you should have anticipated that.”
“You are suggesting I should predict your movements now?”
“Precisely.”
You tilted your head thoughtfully, one finger absently tracing the edge of the mirror frame.
“That seems like a great deal of responsibility.”
“It would spare me unnecessary distress.”
“Distress?” you echoed, delighted. “Over a shift?”
“Yes,” your husband affirms, exasperated.
You leaned forward slightly.
“Husband,” you said softly, “if this distresses you, I dread to think what will happen when I put the gown on.”
Valarr looked genuinely uncertain.
Your handmaiden’s eyes widened slightly at the exact moment the formidable Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms realized he had walked into a battle he might not win.
“You do this deliberately,” he said.
“Of course.”
“Why?”
Your smile softened just a fraction.
“Because you look very handsome when you lose your composure.”
He stared at you.
Your handmaiden stared at both of you.
And slowly Valarr’s expression shifted. “Well,” he said quietly, “that is an unfortunate habit.”
Valarr stopped beside your chair, looking down at you with an intensity that made your handmaiden suddenly very interested in the arrangement of hairpins again.
“Then,” he said softly, “you should take care.”
“Why?”
His mouth curved very slightly.
“Because I will return the favor.”
You studied him for a moment. Then your smile returned, brighter than before.
“I look forward to the attempt.”
Behind you, your handmaiden finally understood. It was not charms that bewitched the prince. It was the simple truth that you spoke to the Crown Prince as though he were merely a man. And Valarr seemed to adore you for it.
That midnight, the heavy curtains around the bed stirred faintly with the breeze from the open window, carrying with it the cool salt smell of Blackwater Bay.
You had been asleep. Very soundly, in fact.
Until you woke with the distinct and increasingly urgent realization that you were terribly thirsty.
For a moment, you lay still beneath the blankets, blinking into the dimness as you gathered your senses, your mind slow with sleep. Your throat felt dry, and somewhere on the small table across the chamber sat the pitcher of water that suddenly seemed impossibly far away.
You sighed softly.
It would only take a moment.
Carefully you attempted to sit up.
You did not get far.
An arm tightened around your waist with immediate precision, dragging you firmly back against the warm solid weight behind you before you had even lifted your head from the pillow.
Valarr.
His bare chest was pressed along your back beneath the blankets, warm and solid, his skin still heated from sleep, and his face was buried somewhere near the curve of your neck, his breath slow and warm against your skin. One arm was wrapped so securely around your middle that it felt less like an embrace and more like a restraint devised by a particularly affectionate gaoler, his hand splayed across the soft fabric of your shift as though even in sleep he required the reassurance that you were still there.
You attempted again, gently shifting your weight.
The arm tightened further, his body instinctively following yours so that your back pressed even more firmly into him.
You sighed again, though this time it came out quieter, more resigned.
“Valarr,” you murmured softly.
No response.
You nudged his forearm where it lay across your stomach.
“Valarr.”
Still nothing.
He made a vague sound that might have been a hum or a protest and pulled you a fraction closer, if such a thing were even possible, his face pressing more firmly against the warm hollow beneath your ear.
You stared at the canopy above the bed.
This was going to be difficult.
You reached back, patting lightly at his arm.
“My prince,” you tried again, your voice barely louder than a whisper.
A long moment passed.
Then, at last, he stirred—only enough that his brow shifted against your shoulder and his grip tightened once more, subconsciously ensuring that something precious had not wandered off in the night. His fingers flexed faintly against your waist, brushing the fabric of your shift as though seeking skin beneath it.
“Mm.”
You waited for his reply, but nothing else followed.
“Valarr,” you said again, a little more insistently now, though still quiet enough not to shatter the fragile peace of the room.
He inhaled slowly, the breath warm against the back of your neck, and muttered something into your skin that was decidedly not a word.
“I need to get up.”
Another pause.
His hand slid lazily over your waist as though attempting to soothe you back into stillness, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded line along your side.
“No,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
You blinked.
“Stay.”
You turned your head slightly, peering back at him over your shoulder.
His eyes were still closed, lashes resting against his cheeks, his hair a dark and thoroughly disordered halo against the pillow. For a prince who spent his waking hours composed and precise to the point of severity, he looked thoroughly rumpled now—bare-chested beneath the blankets, hair mussed, his arm stubbornly locked around you like a man who had no intention of surrendering his hold.
And entirely unmovable.
“Valarr,” you said patiently, “I cannot stay.”
A faint frown appeared between his brows, though his eyes remained stubbornly shut.
“Why.”
“I am thirsty.”
Another long pause followed as your husband processed this grievous piece of information.
Then his arm tightened again, pulling you back against the steady heat of him.
“There is water,” he said vaguely.
“Yes,” you replied, glancing toward the table across the room. “Over there.”
Silence.
Then, very slowly, his eyes opened.
He stared at the dark canopy above the bed for several seconds as if deeply reconsidering the existence of thirst itself, before his gaze drifted downward toward you, lingering with slow reluctance.
You waited.
He blinked once, heavily.
“Drink it in the morning.”
You let out a quiet laugh.
“I would if I could survive that long.”
Valarr made a soft, dissatisfied sound and buried his face back into the hollow of your neck, his nose brushing the sensitive skin there as though the argument might simply end if he held you closer.
“No.”
“Valarr.”
“No.”
“Valarr,” you repeated, this time gently prying at his arm. “I truly must go.”
He groaned softly, the sound low and entirely put-upon, but after a moment his hold loosened just enough for you to slip free, though his hand lingered stubbornly at your waist as though reluctant to let you escape entirely.
You barely managed to sit up before a hand closed lazily around your wrist.
You turned.
Valarr was watching you now, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused with sleep, his expression the particular kind of weary irritation reserved for inconveniences occurring in the middle of the night.
“Where,” he asked slowly, “do you think you are going.”
You gestured toward the table.
“Water.”
His gaze followed your hand.
He squinted at the distant pitcher as though it had personally offended him.
Then he sighed—long and dramatic—and pushed himself up onto one elbow, the blankets sliding slightly down his torso.
“Wait.”
“I am already halfway there.”
“Wait.”
Before you could argue further, he dragged a hand through his already unruly hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed, still blinking like a man who had been dragged unwillingly from the deepest sleep.
You blinked.
“Valarr, you do not need to—”
“I am coming with you.”
You stared at him.
“To fetch water?”
He gave you a look that suggested this was an extraordinarily foolish question.
“You are wandering across the chamber in the middle of the night,” he said hoarsely. “I am not letting you do it alone.”
You could not help the smile that tugged at your mouth.
“It is merely three steps.”
“It is still across the room.”
“Goodness, you are being absurd.”
“And you are terribly demanding for someone who woke me,” he muttered, pushing himself fully to his feet and immediately reaching for you again.
You laughed quietly as he guided you toward the table with a hand resting at the small of your back, his palm warm even through the thin fabric of your shift, his movements slow with lingering sleep.
The floor was cool beneath your feet, the chamber peaceful in the dim glow of the dying fire.
He poured the water himself, blinking down into the cup like a man performing a complex diplomatic task.
Then he handed it to you.
You drank gratefully, the cool water easing the dryness in your throat.
Valarr watched you the entire time, his expression softening slightly as the last of your sleepiness faded, his gaze lingering with quiet attentiveness as though ensuring the crisis had truly passed.
When you finished, he took the cup from your hand and set it back beside the pitcher.
“Well?” he asked quietly.
“Well what?”
“Better?”
You nodded.
“Much.”
He seemed satisfied with this answer.
Without another word, he took your hand again and guided you back to the bed, pulling the blankets aside with sleepy determination.
The moment you settled beneath them, Valarr followed immediately, drawing you back against him with quiet urgency as though reclaiming something temporarily misplaced.
This time he pulled you closer still, one arm sliding firmly around your waist while the other slipped beneath the blanket to rest against the bare skin of your side, clearly dissatisfied with the barrier of fabric. His palm settled there, warm and possessive, his chest pressed along your back once more as he tucked you securely against him.
You smiled faintly into the pillow.
“You realize,” you murmured, “I could have fetched the water myself.”
Valarr’s voice came low and drowsy beside your ear.
“I am aware.” His grip tightened slightly, his fingers brushing slowly along your skin now that they had found it, the touch absentminded and deeply content.
“But,” he said after a moment, his voice softening with that rare warmth he saved only for you, “if you are awake, I would rather be awake with you.”
You felt the faint press of his lips against your temple before his face settled once more into the curve of your neck, his breathing gradually slowing again as sleep reclaimed him.
And though the pitcher now sat only a few steps away, you found that you no longer minded being held quite so tightly by the same man who, in the daylight, unhorsed knights before roaring crowds yet seemed entirely incapable of sleeping without his wife firmly within reach.
thank you for reading <3 reblogs and comments are always appreciated!
masturbation, caught in the act, oral sex (f!receiving), outdoor sex, size difference, praise kink (good girl), double entendre (thanks Egg), mutual pining
word count: 7.3 k
Ser Duncan the Tall is a knight of spotless honor, sworn to chivalry and restraint. Unfortunately for both of you, he also has eyes. And when he finds you beneath his favorite elm, skirts rucked up, fingers buried deep, his name spilling from your mouth like a shameless little prayer — the knightly composure cracks in half.
Caught red-handed, you expect shame. Judgment. Maybe a lecture about propriety. Instead you get the man behind the armor: big, breathless, and suddenly starving. Dunk doesn’t just want to protect you anymore; he wants to drag every needy sound from your throat, bend you over the moss and prove exactly what happens when a loyal warhorse finally snaps his reins.
And really, the Maester did say a good, hard ride was the only cure.
A/N: i’m usually my own toughest critic, but i have to say, i especially enjoyed writing this one. as a side info, i’m working on yer requests and a few other fics so i’ll keep you well-fed in the following days and weeks. love you all 🩷
The wind rustled through the leaves of the old elm, the same one Dunk favored for his quiet moments. You leaned your back against its rough bark, the texture a grounding sensation against the thin fabric of your gown. The afternoon sun slanted through the branches, dappling the ground in shifting patterns of light and shadow. It was here, in this quiet solitude, that your mind began to wander, unbidden, toward him.
A familiar heat bloomed in your belly, a slow, insistent flush that had nothing to do with the sun's warmth. You squeezed your thighs together, a futile attempt to quell the sudden, sharp ache that had taken root there. You shouldn't be thinking of him like this, not here, not now. The thought was a spark of shame, but it was quickly smothered by a wave of need.
You pictured him, fresh from the practice yard, his linen shirt plastered to the broad expanse of his chest, dark with sweat. You imagined the way the muscles in his back would ripple as he swung that massive sword of his, a fluid, deadly dance that never failed to steal your breath. But it was the thought of him after a real fight, blood-splattered and panting, that truly undid your composure. His blue eyes, dark with something more than just exhaustion, pinning you in place as if you were the only person in a crowded tourney ground.
"Gods," you whispered, the word barely a puff of air in the rustling leaves.
Your corset suddenly felt impossibly tight, the laces digging into your ribs, constricting your lungs. Each breath was a struggle, a shallow gasp that did little to ease the frantic beating of your heart. You needed more air, more space, more him.
Your hands, acting on their own volition, rose to your breasts. They were heavy and tender beneath your palms, the peaks already pebbling into tight nubs that strained against the layers of your clothing. You cupped their weight, your thumbs brushing over the sensitive tips, a faint, frustrating pressure through the fabric. A soft whimper escaped your lips.
"Gods, Dunk, Seven fucks," you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut. "I need you."
The image in your mind sharpened: him, striding towards you, on his face untamed desire. You imagined the texture of his rough hands on your skin, the heat of his body pressing you against this very tree. You pictured his mouth, that rare, genuine smile replaced by something that promised pleasure and pain in equal measure. You could almost feel the weight of him, the solid, grounding presence that aroused you and scared you in equal measure.
You squeezed your breasts again, harder this time, your fingers digging into the soft flesh. The ache between your legs intensified, a throbbing, relentless pulse that demanded attention. You felt shameless, lost in a fantasy of your own making.
The wind picked up, whipping your hair across your face, cool against your flushed cheeks. You were exposed, vulnerable, and yet utterly, completely alive. So lost in your fantasy, so consumed by the fire you'd stoked within yourself.
Your hands moved with a desperate urgency now, one still cupping your breast, the other sliding down, past the constriction of your corset, over the curve of your belly. You lifted the velvet of your skirts, the fabric bunching in your fist as you sought the heat between your thighs. The air was cool against your bare skin, in contrast to the fever that raged within you.
Your fingers found the slick folds of your cunt, and you gasped, a needy sound that was swallowed by the wind. You were so wet, so ready for him — because of him. You dipped a finger inside, then another, the stretch such a sweet pleasure. Your thumb found your clit, a tight, aching pearl of nerves, and you began to circle it, the rhythm frantic.
Your moans grew louder, uninhibited, raw cries that echoed in the quiet of the grove. You were no longer aware of the world around you, of the tree at your back or the sun on your skin. There was only this, this feverish chase for release.
And in your mind's eye, he was there, not blood-splattered and fierce, but naked and glorious, standing in the river, the water sluicing over the hard planes of his chest and abdomen. You'd seen him a few days ago, a stolen glimpse that had haunted your dreams ever since.
"Dunk," you cried out, his name a prayer on your lips. "Oh, gods, Dunk."
You imagined the water beading on his skin, tracing the path of the dark hair that tapered from his navel to... You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers working faster, deeper. The image was so vivid, so intoxicating. You pictured the thickness of his cock, the way it would feel inside you, filling you completely.
A wave of shame washed over you, hot and suffocating. But the shame was fleeting, drowned out by the rising tide of your desire. You didn't care. You would burn in all seven hells for this, for the thought of him, for the memory of his body glistening in the sunlight.
Your thumb pressed harder against your clit, your fingers curling inside you, seeking that secret spot that would send you over the edge. You were so close, so painfully close. You could feel the tension in your lower belly, the muscles in your thighs trembling with the effort of holding yourself up. Your breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps.
"Mmmm Dunk," you sobbed, the sound broken and desperate. "P-please... gods... please."
It was a cruel, wicked thing, this fantasy, this stolen pleasure. He had no idea, no inkling of the thoughts that plagued you, the desires that consumed you. You pictured him, so earnest, so honorable, completely unaware of the depraved fantasies you spun around him. The thought made you ache, made you burn. You were a sinner, a seductress in your own mind, and you loved every second of it.
Your fingers worked faster, the slick sounds of your pleasure mingling with your cries. You were a mess, your mind a whirlwind of erotic images. Him, above you, inside you, his name a constant chant on your lips. You were lost, completely and utterly lost, to the sensations that consumed you.
The world around you had faded to a blur of green and gold, the wind a mere whisper against your fevered skin. You were deaf to everything but the frantic beating of your own heart, the rush of blood in your ears, the pants of your breath.
You didn't hear the snap of a twig, didn't register the heavy footfalls that crunched on the fallen leaves.
You were so close, so agonizingly close. The pressure was building and building. You threw your head back, your neck arching, your body taut as a bowstring. Just a little more, just a little...
But in a second he was there, a silent, towering presence behind you. His shadow fell over you, a sudden darkness in the dappled sunlight. You froze as a low, rumbling growl of your name cut through the haze of your pleasure.
"What in the seven hells..."
Your fingers buried deep inside you, your body locked in a state of suspended animation. The voice, gravelly and warm, was unmistakable. Ser Duncan. It was a dream, a hallucination brought on by your feverish mind. It had to be.
You didn't dare turn around. You couldn't. The shame that had threatened to consume you earlier now washed over you in a crippling, all-consuming wave. You were caught. Red-handed, flush-cheeked, and utterly, completely compromised.
A large, calloused hand came to rest on the trunk of the elm, right beside your head, caging you in. The sheer size of it, the sheer presence of him, was overwhelming. You could feel the heat radiating from his body.
Your fight or flight instinct screamed at you to run, to bolt into the woods and never show your face again. You tried to yank your hand from beneath your skirts, to smooth down your dress and pretend none of this had ever happened, but his other hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist with a gentleness that belied its strength.
"Hold now," he rumbled, his voice still close, still impossibly deep. "None of that."
You struggled against his grip, a pathetic, frantic attempt at escape. "Let me go," you choked out, your voice thick with unshed tears. "Please, just let me go."
"Easy," he murmured, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin on the inside of your wrist. "Easy now. It's... it's alright."
"It's not alright!" you sobbed, the tears finally breaking free, hot tracks on your cold cheeks. "It's not... I wasn't... Oh, gods." You couldn't form a coherent sentence, your mind a jumble of humiliation and shame.
You buried your face in your free hand, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs. How much had he seen? How much had he heard? The thought was a fresh agony, a new wave of mortification that left you gasping for air.
He didn't say anything for a long moment, just held you, his presence an unwavering force at your back. Then, he spoke..
"Look at me," he said, his tone gentle but firm.
You shook your head, refusing to turn, to face the judgment you were sure to see in his eyes.
“I can't."
"Yes, you can." He shifted, moving to stand in front of you, blocking your path. He still held your wrist, but his grip was loose, a suggestion rather than a command. He used his other hand to gently tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.
His face wasn't a mask of disgust or anger. It was... complicated. There was a faint blush high on his cheekbones, a telltale sign of his own discomfort, but his eyes were soft. So soft. They held a mixture of concern, and something else, something you couldn't quite name.
"It's not a big deal," he said, his words slow, as if he was choosing them with care.
"It is!" you cried, trying to wrench your chin away. "It's a huge deal! It's... it's indecent!"
A faint smile touched his lips, a wry, self-deprecating thing. "Aye, maybe. But it's also... human." He paused, his thumb brushing away a tear. "And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't flattered."
You stared at him, your tears momentarily forgotten. "Flattered?"
He nodded, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes. "Aye. Flattered." He took a step closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the warmth of his breath on your face. "To hear you say my name like that..." He trailed off, a muscle working in his jaw.
Then he leans in, his deep blue eyes darkening with emotion. He was so close, so unbearably close. You could see the faint lines around his eyes, you could smell him, a heady mix of sweat, leather, and something that was deliciously him.
You tried to pull away again, a fresh wave of mortification washing over you as you remembered the slick heat on your fingers. But he held you fast, his grip gentle but unyielding. "Don't," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Don't be ashamed. Not with me."
You shook your head, a fresh sob catching in your throat. "But I... you heard... I was..."
"Moaning my name?" he finished for you, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Aye, I heard."
You could have died. Right there, under that old elm, you could have simply expired from sheer humiliation. "I'm so sorry," you whispered, your eyes squeezed shut.
"Don't be," he said, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "Don't you dare be sorry." He brought your hand to his lips, but instead of kissing your knuckles, as you expected, he turned it over, exposing your palm. Your fingers were still glistening, the evidence of your desire obvious in the afternoon light.
Your eyes flew open, a gasp of protest dying on your lips as you watched, mesmerized, as he brought your slick-coated fingers to his mouth.
"Dunk... no," you breathed, but it was a half-hearted plea, your body already betraying you, a fresh wave of heat gathering in your belly at the shocking intimacy of the gesture.
He ignored you, his gaze never leaving yours as he slowly took your middle finger into his mouth. His tongue swirled around it, a slow, sensual exploration that made your knees weak. He tasted you, tasted your desire, and the look in his eyes, that unbridled hunger stole the air from your lungs.
"Mmm," he hummed. "Sweet as a summer berry."
He released your finger, but he wasn't done. He leaned in, his face so close to yours that you could count the individual whiskers on his jaw. He kissed the tear tracks on your cheeks, his tongue lapping at the salty moisture, a tender, cleansing gesture.
"There now," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "No more tears. Not for this."
You were trembling, a fine, uncontrollable shudder that wracked your entire body. You were a mass of conflicting emotions, a tangled knot of shame, desire, and a bone-deep awe at the masculinity of the man in front of you. He wasn't Ser Duncan the Tall, the gallant hedge knight, the embodiment of all that was good and honorable. He was just Dunk, a man of earth and muscle and need, and he was looking at you as if you were the only woman in the world.
"Please," you whispered. "Don't."
"Don't what?" he rumbled, his thumb stroking your tear-damp cheek. "Don't taste you? Don't want you?"
"I'm... I'm a mess," you sobbed, the words a pathetic excuse.
"Aye," he agreed, a small smile playing on his lips. "A beautiful, desirable mess." He brought your hand to his face again, burying his nose in your palm, inhaling deeply. "And you smell like heaven."
You tried to pull away again, but it was a token resistance, a half-hearted struggle that you both knew was futile. "It's indecent," you whispered, the words a last, desperate attempt to cling to your crumbling decorum.
"It's natural," he corrected. "It's what happens when a woman wants a man. And you," he paused, his gaze dropping to your lips, "you want me.
The world tilted, the green leaves blurring into a dizzying whirl of color. You felt a strange, floating sensation, as if your feet had left the ground. Your knees buckled, and you would have fallen if not for the solid arm that shot out to wrap around your waist, pulling you against him.
"Easy now," his breath felt warm against your hair. "I've got you."
And you did. You had all of him. The hard planes of his chest pressed against your soft breasts, the solid muscle of his thighs cradling your own, and, most undeniable of all, the heavy, rigid length of his cock, straining against the fabric of his breeches, pressing into your belly. He was hard. So hard. For you.
The last vestiges of your shame burned away, consumed by a fire so hot it was a wonder you didn't go up in flames. You looked up at him, truly looked at him, and what you saw made your heart hammer against your ribs. He was flushed, a deep, dusky red that stained his neck and crept up to the tips of his ears.
"Gods," you breathed, the word a reverent whisper. "Dunk."
A smile spread across his face.
"Aye.” His gaze dropped to the place where your body pressed against his, to the proof of his desire. "Apologies," he murmured, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "Didn't mean to... interrupt you. But I heard every sweet, filthy word." He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath a moist caress. "And I'd be a cad and a fool to stop a lady from her pleasure."
He shifted, his thigh pressing firmly between yours, a delicious, tantalizing pressure. "But since I'm here," he continued, "perhaps you'd allow a humble knight to... assist?"
Before you could answer, he swooped down, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. Your feet left the ground, and you gasped, your arms wrapping around his neck. He held you against him, your body flush with his, your skirts bunched around your thighs. He was so strong, so solid, a mountain of a man who held you as if you were the most precious thing in the world.
Then he kissed you. It was a wet, messy, utterly filthy kiss that stole the breath from your lungs and made your toes curl. His lips, warm and firm, slanted over yours, a perfect, intoxicating fit. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, possessing you in a way that felt overwhelming yet right. You could taste yourself on him, a sweet, musky flavor. The act sent a fresh gush of heat between your legs, a wet warmth that soaked your smallclothes and made you moan into his mouth.
You kissed him back, a desperate thing, your hands tangling in his thick hair, your body arching against him. You wanted to crawl inside him, to merge with him until there was no telling where you ended and he began.
He broke the kiss as he set you back on your feet. His hands, those wonderful big hands, went to the laces of your corset, his fingers fumbling with the intricate knots with a surprising dexterity. "Easy, girl," he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek. "Let me have you."
The laces gave way with a soft sigh, the tight constriction around your ribs loosening. He wasted no time, his hands slipping inside the loosened garment, cupping the weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the already-peaked nipples.
"So beautiful," he groaned, his voice thick with desire. "Gods, you're so beautiful."
He leaned down, taking a nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it. You cried out, your head falling back, your hands fisting in his hair.
But even as you lost yourself to the pleasure, a small, nagging voice of reason intruded. "Dunk," you gasped, your hands pushing weakly at his shoulders. "Someone might come."
He grunted, a reluctant sound of agreement. "Aye. Egg might come looking for me." He straightened up, his eyes dark with frustration. "Or worse, some squire with more eyes than sense."
He looked around, a considering gleam in his eye. Then, with a decisive nod, he scooped you up again, this time settling you on a broad, moss-covered branch of the old elm, just out of sight of the main path. He stood between your parted legs, his hands braced on the branch on either side of you, caging you in.
"This'll have to be quick," he said. "And quiet. Can you be quiet for me?"
You nodded, your eyes wide with anticipation, your body thrumming with a need that bordered on pain. You could try to be quiet. You could try to be very, very quiet.
He smiled. "Good girl."
He knelt before you and his hands, rough and warm, slowly gathered the fabric of your skirts, pushing them up, over your knees, past your thighs, until the cool air kissed the heated skin of your core. He then looked up at you.
"Dunk," you breathed, his name a prayer on your lips.
He didn't answer, not with words. Instead, he leaned in, inhaling deeply, a low, guttural groan rumbling in his chest. "Gods above," he murmured, his breath a warm, moist puff against your aching cunt.
His breath was a physical caress. You were so wet, so ready, you could feel it dripping down your inner thighs.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your smallclothes, the fine silk a fragile barrier between you and the pleasure he promised. He pulled them down, slowly, the fabric whispering against your skin. As he drew them away, a gossamer thread of your arousal clung to the silk, a shining, shameless testament to your need.
You wanted to die. You wanted to disappear into the tree, to be swallowed whole by the earth. But you also wanted to spread your legs wider, to offer yourself up to him, to let him do whatever he wanted, however he wanted.
He held the damp fabric up to the light, a small, wicked smile playing on his lips. "Soaked through.” His gaze dropped back to your glistening cunt. "A right little mess you've made, girl."
You whimpered, a pathetic, pleading sound. "Dunk, please... I... I won't last. I feel like I'm going to burst."
"I know," he said, his voice a soothing murmur. "I can see it. I can feel it." He leaned in, his nose nuzzling the damp curls at the apex of your thighs. "And I want you to."
Before you could process his words, before you could even draw a breath, his mouth was on you. His tongue, broad and wet, swept through your folds, a slow exploration. He lapped at your entrance, gathering your slickness, before moving up to circle your clit.
A white-hot explosion of pleasure ripped through you, a wave so intense, so all-consuming, that it stole the very air from your lungs. You cried out, a sharp, unrestrained cry. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the thick, dark strands, holding him to you as if your life depended on it.
He didn't stop. He growled, a low, possessive sound. His lips closed around your clit, suckling greedily, his tongue flicking against the sensitive nub in a maddening rhythm."Dunk!" you gasped, your hips bucking against his face. "Gods! Oh, gods!"
You were coming, and you couldn't stop. The pleasure, a force that crashed over you again again, left you breathless. You flooded his mouth, a gush of hot, slick fluid that he drank down with a guttural groan of satisfaction. He rode out your orgasm, his tongue and lips working you through, until you were a trembling, whimpering mess until your body remained pliant against the rough bark of the tree.
When he finally pulled back, his face was glistening, a self-satisfied, utterly male smile on his lips. "Told you," he murmured, his voice a husky rasp. "Told you I wanted you to finish in my mouth."
You could only moan in response, your head lolling against the tree, your eyes fluttering shut. You were completely spent. But as he stood, his hands going to the laces of his breeches, you felt a familiar stirring, a renewed ache deep in your belly.
"My turn," he said, his eyes dark with a hunger that was far from sated.
He freed himself, his cock springing forth, heavy and thick and impossibly hard. He wrapped a hand around his length, stroking himself slowly, his gaze locked on yours.
Your breath hitched, a strangled gasp at the sheer, overwhelming sight of him. He was massive, a monument of flesh and desire, and for a dizzying moment, you wondered how in the seven hells he would ever fit inside you. A primal, instinctual fear warred with an equally primal, instinctual need. You wanted him. You wanted all of him.
As if sensing your trepidation, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and demanding. It was a kiss that said, "I know," and "Trust me," and "I'm going to fuck you." He tasted of you, of your pleasure, of your surrender, and the intimacy of it was dizzying.
"You took my fingers so well," he murmured against your lips. "You'll take my cock just as good."
He shifted, the broad head of his cock nudging against your entrance, a tantalizing, maddening pressure that made you whimper. He was there, right at the threshold, and you were ready, your body willing...
"Look at me," he commanded.
You obeyed, your eyes locking with his. He held your gaze as he pushed forward, a slow invasion that stretched you to your limits. It was a burning, pleasurable ache, a fullness that was both agonizing and exquisite. You bit your lip, trying to stifle a cry, your hands flying to his back, your nails digging into the hard muscle through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was so big, so impossibly big, and the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, was almost too much to bear.
"Fuck," he rasped, his forehead resting against yours. "You feel... so good. Better than I ever... ever imagined."
He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm. Each thrust felt measured, a slow, delicious torture that built the pressure in your belly, coiling the tension tighter and tighter.
"Quiet now," he grunted, his hips snapping forward, a little harder this time. "Remember? Quiet."
But it was impossible. The sounds were torn from your throat, a litany of whimpers and moans that you couldn't contain. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your teeth sinking into the salty skin, a desperate attempt to muffle the cries of pleasure that he was wringing from your body.
He couldn't stay quiet either. His breath was ragged in your ear, a series of harsh, guttural grunts and low, desperate whispers. "Wanted you," he breathed, his voice a raw, broken thing. "Wanted this for so long. So many nights... thinking of you... touching myself... pretending it was your hand... your mouth... this sweet, tight cunt."
His words were a dirty, intimate confession, a glimpse into a fantasy you never knew he had. They fueled the fire in your belly, the need for him, the need for this, a desperate, all-consuming thing.
"Wanted to bend you over every table we've ever sat at," he growled, his thrusts becoming faster, more erratic. "Wanted to lift your skirts and have you right there, in front of the gods and everyone. Wanted to hear you scream my name as I filled you."
He was losing control, the solid, steady rhythm of his hips devolving into a frantic, desperate pounding. His grip on your hips tightened, the bruises he was leaving a sweet, satisfying ache.
"Gods, I might die for it now," he panted, his forehead still pressed against yours. "If Egg walks up that path... if anyone sees... I swear, I don't think I could stop."
Your nails raked down his back, the thin linen of his shirt no protection against the sharp points of your need. "Then don't," you gasped. "Don't stop, Dunk. I don't care if the entire tourney ground watches. Fill me. I want to feel you so deep I can taste you. Let me die with you inside me."
He buried his face in your neck, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin. "You say such wicked things," he growled, his hips slamming into yours, the tree groaning in protest. "Such sweet, wicked, perfect things."
He pulled back, just enough to look at you. "And what kind of knight am I?" A bitter, self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. "What manner of chivalrous fool is so lost to a woman's heat that he'd tup her against a tree like a common dog? I'd fuck you anywhere, anytime you asked. On a throne, in a stable, in the mud. I have no honor when it comes to you. None at all."
The words were a confession and they broke something open inside you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, taking all of him, every last inch.
You seized the moment. With a strength born of desperation and a fury of need, you pushed against his chest. He stumbled back, caught off guard, and you went with him. You landed on top of him, the mossy ground a soft, welcoming cushion beneath you.
For a heartbeat, you stared at each other, both panting, both wild-eyed. He was beneath you, this mountain of a man, this knight who had faced down foes in the tourney ground without a flicker of fear, and he was looking at you as if you were the most wonderful woman he had ever seen.
"Your turn to be quiet, ser," you panted, a wicked, triumphant grin spreading across your face.
You didn't wait for a response. You rose up, positioning yourself over his magnificent cock, and then you slammed down, taking him to the hilt in one movement.
A scream was torn from your throat. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, a solid, unyielding pressure that hit a place inside you that you never knew existed. It was pleasure so sharp, so intense, it was almost pain.
"Ahhh hells!" he roared, his hands flying to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, bruising, claiming. "You... you mad, wicked girl!"
You began to ride him, a wild, frantic rhythm that was more animal than human. Your body was moving on instinct, a desperate chase for the pleasure that only he could give. You threw your head back, your hair a wild curtain against the dappled sunlight, your breasts bouncing with each powerful downward thrust.
You were completely exposed. Anyone could stumble upon you now, could see you, this wild woman riding a knight as if he were a prize stallion. The thought was a fresh jolt of arousal, a wicked thrill.
Your words came out in a stream of half-formed blasphemies and desperate pleas. "Dunk! Gods, Dunk! Your cock... you're splitting me... it's so good... harder... make me take it..."
His control, already frayed to breaking, finally snapped. With a guttural roar, he surged up, covering your mouth with one huge, calloused hand. The other hand clamped onto your hip, a band of iron that guided your movements, forcing you to take him harder, deeper.
"Quiet," he grunted, his voice a raw, desperate command. "For the love of the seven, woman, be quiet!"
You whimpered against his palm, the sound muffled, desperate. But you didn't stop. You couldn't. The feeling was too all-consuming. You were lost in a haze of sensation, your mind a blank slate filled only with the overwhelming reality of him inside you.
In a fit of wicked inspiration, you leaned forward, smothering his face with your breasts. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you felt his other hand move from your hip to grip your ass, pulling you even tighter against him. His thighs, bunched with powerful muscle, began to piston upwards, meeting your downward strokes with a force that made you see stars.
He was fucking you now, truly fucking you, a relentless rhythm that pushed you both towards the edge.
"Faster," he panted, his words muffled by your flesh. "Gods, we have to finish. They'll be looking for me. They'll be looking for you."
You obeyed, your body moving in a frantic, desperate dance. There was no grace and no finesse, only a raw, primal need for release. The sounds were wet, sloppy, debauched. The moss beneath you was damp, the scent of earth and sweat and sex the only perfume that filled the air. You were a mess, a glorious, shameless mess, and you loved every second of it.
His hands were everywhere, one tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tightly you were sure you'd have bruises in the shape of his fingers. He was guiding you, commanding you, using you for his pleasure, and the thought, the submission, sent you towards your own release.
"I'm close," he grunted, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. "Gods, girl, I'm so close."
His fingers tightened in your hair, a sharp, insistent pull that forced your head back, your back arching. He used his other hand to push at your hip, trying to lift you off him.
"Get off," he panted, his voice a raw, desperate command. "Get off now. I'm going to... ah, gods... I'm going to spend."
But you didn't move. You stayed there, a stubborn, unyielding weight, taking him deeper, forcing him to the very brink.
"Girl," he growled, a warning in his tone. "I'm warning you. Get off."
You just shook your head, a wild, reckless grin on your face. "Then I'll have your babe, ser knight," you gasped, your words a breathless, wicked challenge. "I'll have a part of you inside me always."
He pulled you off him then, a rough almost violent movement. Then he immediately came, a deep, guttural groan tearing from his throat. It was a primal, possessive sound, and it made your skin crawl, a delicious, tingling sensation that shot straight to your cunt.
You felt the hot, wet gush of his release on your inner thighs. He spilled onto the mossy ground, a pearly, life-giving fluid that seemed to soak into the very earth beneath you.
You were not one to let such a thing go to waste. Before he could even catch his breath, you reached down, your hand closing around his still-hard, still-sensitive cock. He flinched, a sharp intake of breath, a look of pain and pleasure warring on his face.
"Easy, girl," he grunted, his hands flying to your wrist. "Easy now. That's... that's enough."
But you didn't let go. You squeezed him, your thumb stroking the sensitive head, milking him for every last drop. You watched, fascinated, as another pearly bead of fluid welled up at the tip.
"Ahhh," he breathed, his head falling back, his eyes squeezed shut. "You're trying to kill me. I swear it.”
"I'm just collecting my due, ser," you purred. "A knight shouldn't waste such a fine offering."
He laughed, a weak, breathless sound. He watched you, his eyes soft, a small, fond smile playing on his lips as you released him, bringing your slick-coated fingers to your lips.
"Sweet," you murmured, tasting him.
"Aye," he agreed, a flush creeping up his neck. "So you've said."
You leaned down, your breasts brushing against his chest, and kissed him. It was a slow, lingering kiss, a taste of shared pleasure and unspoken promises. When you finally pulled back, he was looking at you, his expression unreadable.
"Come here," he said. He shifted, pulling you into the circle of his arms, your head resting on the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat, a slow, steady rhythm, was a comforting sound beneath your ear.
Then you helped each other dress, a slow, unhurried process sprinkled with soft kisses. His hands lingered on your hips as he tied the laces of your gown, and you couldn't resist the urge to run your fingers through his hair, now hopelessly disheveled.
"You look like you've been tumbled in a haystack," he rumbled, his thumb brushing away a smudge of dirt from your cheek.
"And you look like a well-satisfied stallion, ser knight," you retorted, a wicked glint in your eye. "Or a dog who's had his way with a willing bitch."
He laughed, a deep, hearty sound. "Only with you," he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur. "Only ever with you."
You were still leaning against him, your head on his chest, when you heard it. A distant call, a young, clear voice cutting through the quiet of the grove.
"Ser Duncan! Ser Duncan, where are you?"
You froze, your eyes flying to his. He looked like a deer caught in a hunter's trap, his face a mask of comical horror.
"Egg," he breathed, his voice a panicked whisper. "Gods be good, he's looking for me."
You scrambled to your feet, smoothing down your skirts and trying to tame your wild hair. You were a mess, a glorious, well-fucked mess, and there was no hiding it. The flush on your cheeks, the swollen state of your lips, the twigs in your hair... it was all a blatant advertisement of your recent activities.
Dunk was no better. His tunic was askew, his hair a tangled mess, and he had a very distinct, very suspicious grass stain on the knee of his breeches.
"What do we do?" you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"Act natural," he said, his expression so comically serious that you had to bite back a laugh.
"Ser Duncan!"
The voice was closer now, accompanied by the crunch of leaves underfoot. A moment later, Egg himself appeared, a small, squire-like figure with a thatch of blond hair and a perpetually puzzled expression. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening as he took in the scene before him. You, leaning against the tree, looking thoroughly ravished. Dunk, standing beside you, looking like he'd been wrestling a bear and lost.
"Ser Duncan," Egg said, his voice laced with a concern that was so genuine it was almost painful. "I was worried. You've been gone a while. And... your horse."
Dunk blinked, a slow, confused look on his face. "My horse?"
"Aye," Egg said, nodding earnestly. "I went to the stables to check on Thunder, and he's... well, he's very worked up. And sweaty. I thought he might have colic, but Maester says it's... something else."
Dunk stared at the boy, a slow, dawning horror creeping across his face. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head, the connection being made between the sweaty horse and the... activities... that had just transpired.
"He's been... restless," Dunk managed, his voice a strangled croak. "Pacing in his stall."
"I know!" Egg exclaimed, relief washing over his features. "That's what I said! But Maester said he just needed to... ah... 'run off some excess energy.' He said it's natural for a young, virile stallion. Said a good, hard ride will do him a world of good."
Dunk's blush, which had just started to recede, returned with a vengeance, a deep, fiery red that crept from his neck to the tips of his ears. He looked like he might actually spontaneously combust.
"A good, hard ride," Egg repeated, nodding sagely. "That's what the Maester said. So I came to find you. Thought you might want to... ah... take him out again. Before dinner."
You pressed your lips together, a desperate, futile attempt to stifle the giggle that was bubbling up inside you. You failed. A small, undignified snort escaped.
Dunk shot you a look, a mixture of panic and mortification. You just shrugged, a picture of innocence, a small, wicked smile playing on your lips.
"I... uh..." Dunk stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think... I think Thunder's had enough... exertion... for one day."
Egg frowned, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Are you sure, ser? He seemed... quite eager. Very... spirited."
That was it. The dam broke. A great, whooping laugh escaped your lips, a loud, unladylike sound that echoed through the quiet grove. Dunk, after a moment of stunned silence, joined in, his deep laughter mingling with yours, a chaotic, joyous symphony. You clutched your sides, tears streaming down your face, the absurdity of the situation washing over you in waves.
Egg just stood there, looking from one of you to the other, a look of complete and utter bewilderment on his young face. "I... I don't understand," he said, his voice small. "What's so funny?"
"We're... we're just..." you gasped, trying to get the words out between fits of laughter. "We're just... appreciating the... the wisdom of the Maester."
Dunk, wiping tears from his eyes, managed to straighten up, a wide, goofy grin still plastered on his face. "Aye. Very... insightful."
Egg shrugged, clearly deciding that the antics of adults were a mystery best left unsolved. "Well, if you'll excuse me, ser, my lady," he said, with a bow that was surprisingly graceful for a boy his age. "I promised young Lord Ashford I'd show him how to skip stones by the river."
He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at you. He gave you a small, shy smile, a flicker of understanding, or perhaps something else, in his bright violet eyes.
"My lady," he said, his tone serious and sincere. "You look very beautiful today. No wonder Ser Duncan gets all... spirited... around you. Just like his horse."
And with that, he turned and scampered away, leaving you and Dunk staring after him, the silence of the grove suddenly feeling very, very loud.
Dunk was the first to break it. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated mortification, and buried his face in his hands. "Oh, gods," he mumbled, his voice muffled by his palms. "The boy knows. The gods be good, he knows everything."
You just laughed, a soft, tinkling sound that was full of affection and a wicked sort of glee. You reached up, pulling his hands away from his face. "He's a clever boy, our Egg," you said, your fingers intertwining with his. "And he's right."
"Right about what?" Dunk grumbled, though a small, reluctant smile was already tugging at the corners of his lips.
"About me being beautiful," you said, leaning in to kiss him. "And about you being... spirited."
He kissed you back, a slow, lingering thing that was full of unspoken promises. "Aye," he murmured against your lips. "Spirited. That's one word for it."
He pulled back, his gaze serious, his eyes soft with an emotion that made your breath catch. "But you have to know one thing.”
"What's that?" you asked.
"You," he said, his thumb stroking your cheek. "You were out here, needing me, and you had to... take matters into your own hands." He paused, a look of genuine remorse on his face. "That should never have happened."
Your blush, which had just started to fade, returned with a vengeance, a deep, fiery red that crept from your neck to the tips of your ears. You felt a fresh wave of shame, a hot, suffocating wave that threatened to pull you under.
"I... I was..." you stammered, your eyes downcast, unable to meet his gaze.
"Hey," he said, his voice gentle but firm. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him. "No. None of that. It's not you I'm angry with. It's me. I'm your knight. I'm supposed to be here for you. To take care of you. In all ways."
A smile full of heat and promise spread across his face. "So, listen to me, and listen good. You'll never have to do that again. You'll never have to be alone with a need like that. You'll come find me. In the training yard, in the stables, in the gods-damned privy if you have to. You'll find me, and I'll take care of you. Do you understand?"
You could only nod, your heart hammering against your ribs, your body thrumming with a renewed need.
"Good," he said, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Because, you wicked, beautiful girl, I'll be wanting you to."
He leaned in, capturing your lips in a final, searing kiss. As you pulled away, your lips still tingling, a thought struck you, a wicked, mischievous glint in your eye.
"And what if you're busy, ser knight?" you asked, your voice a low, teasing purr. "What if you're in a council with lords, or polishing your armor for a tourney? What if you can't just... drop everything?"
He blinked, a slow, considering look on his face. "Then I'll make an excuse. I'll say I've seen a ghost. I'll say the seven hells have frozen over and the dead are walking. I'll say whatever I have to say to get away."
A shiver ran down your spine, a delicious, tingling sensation. You were lost, completely and utterly lost, to this man, to his words, to the promise of his touch.
He leaned down one last time, his forehead pressing against yours in a moment of quiet, heavy intimacy, those deep blue eyes burning with clarity.
“Let them have their songs of chivalry and blood," he breathed, his voice a honest vow against your lips. "I’d trade every scrap of my honor just to see that look in your eyes again, and to hear you scream my name against the trees until the sun goes down."
You've been purposefully provoking your husband in the hopes he'd have his way with you, but he doesn't necessarily fulfil your fantasy. Still, mission failed successfully.
Baelor Targaryen x Reader | 2k+ | cw: fem!reader, wife!reader, pwp babes, brat!reader, soft dom!baelor, smug!baelor, smut (light somnophilla, dacryphilia, piv, temperature play, biting, spitting, slight overstimulation, breeding kink if you squint), baelor loves aftercare, fluff, they be cheesin heavy ngl, typos, etc.
A/N: head empty only getting fuckkkkkkkked by baelor (((: this gif it to thank for this depravity. thank you gifmakers everywhere. | cross posted on ao3
It was gods-know-how-late, but it was only now Baelor was retiring from his duties as Lord Hand. To say he was exhausted was an understatement, but there was a tingling in his body he knew he would not be able to quell until...
The bed dips as he rests his knee beside your form.
"Wake up, sleepy head," he whispers, hand rubbing down your back, breath hot against your ear.
... until he had you.
You moan, searching for the blanket he had pulled down to your shins, confused as to why you were being woken up. You turn your heavy head, your belly remaining pressed down on the soft cushions. You are annoyed by the sight of him undressing.
Baelor smiles softly, partially guilty for waking you, mostly pleased by how upset you looked in this moment.
"Not very enjoyable when it's you being bothered now, pretty viper?" he kisses your neck before pulling away to rid himself of his tunic.
You sigh, brows knitted as your barely-opened eyes close, "what time even is it?"
The left corner of his mouth quirks, "time for you to spread your legs."
You simultaneously groan and turn away. You pull the pillow over your head and reach for the blankets, pulling it up over your shoulder.
The sight amuses him, and admittedly makes his cock twitch. His difficult bride. Oh, how he loves getting you to beg in the end. He is undeterred by your disinterest, albeit how more genuine it is presently; he knows you well enough to know you still want him and he knows himself well enough to know when to stop.
He groans as his naked body is freed from the day's vestments. He sneaks beside you, under the covers, and wraps an arm over your waist.
You don't move. You don't speak. It is then he realizes how deep in sleep you must have been.
... no matter.
He pushes the pillow off your head and kisses your cheek, "you cannot truly expect no consequences to find you for what you did earlier today."
Silence.
He smiles against your skin, pushing the fabric off your sleeve, "cheeky thing ought to be bound and punished..."
You whimper when his hand rubs down your arse, his fingers slightly pushing the sheer nightgown between your thighs.
"... be glad then I am not a vengeful spirit."
Baelor grabs a fistful of skirt and pulls it up, humming in approval at the bareness of your bum. He squeezes the fullest part of your flesh before parting your legs. He doesn't wait and climbs between them, pressing his chest flush against your back.
He presses hard enough that your chest compresses. You groan in complaint.
He brushes your hair away and hums, "too heavy?" He pulls back, bringing you to your side. Soon, your nightgown is hiked over your breasts and he begins to kiss you there. He licks a stripe from your rib, up your nipple, teeth grazing you slightly along the way.
Your reaction is involuntary. Your breath hitches and your thighs squeeze.
Baelor is only encouraged. He pulls away, allowing you to fall back on your chest.
You sigh in relief, only to have your hips be lifted up until you're on your knees.
He has your weight in his arms, hands firm on your hips. You're limp and seemingly unresponsive, yet with a mere glance he can see the dampness of your cunt. He smiles, mouth falling into an open sigh. He pushes his knees beneath your slumping hips, his already half-hard cock twitching against your softness, causing him to give out an airy moan. He frees his one hand, working two fingers to smear your slick down to your clit.
He knows you too well, with just a few eager strokes, you cannot help how your toes curl.
He hums, feeling the weight of you shift, "cold, lovie?"
You don't respond.
He chuckles. He ceases the attention in your clit when his eyes catch the goblet by the nightstand. He reaches for it, dipping his sticky fingers in, humming at the feel of the cool liquid.
He keeps his fingers there until homeostasis then presses them against your clit. The sound of your squeak paired with how you grip the sheets make him moan a little louder.
"Baelor," you whine.
He leans down, peppering kisses on your spine, "well, you didn't say if you were cold."
You groan, finally opening your eyes to look at him over your shoulder, "Baelor."
He smiles at you, finding the mist in your gaze. He kisses you, "don't be upset, love."
You press your face and your elbows onto the cushions, "I'm very upset."
He sighs heavily, rubbing slow circles on your clit, "I know... and so wet too."
You moan, slowly beginning to rock your hips into him.
Baelor chuckles as he kisses your shoulder before repositioning himself. He finds a firm stance on his knees and feels his cock slap against your burning folds. He rubs your bum with one hand as the other grabs his heavy length, coating it with your slick while further stimulating you.
"Mmm, Baelor."
He watches your cunt flutter. He watches his cock glisten with your slick. He gives another heavy sigh, "you know," he pats your bum, "I really ought to put a babe in you."
You groan at the casual admission, turning your head to the side to hear his baritone more clearly.
"You have far too much time on your hands."
"Please, Baelor."
"Mmm, what's that?"
"Please fuck me."
His nostrils flare as he shakes his head, "such obscene language from such a pretty mouth."
Baelor swipes your lips with his thumb as you pant, and it is then your eyes begin to water enough for a tear to run down the bridge of your nose. You are undeniably desperate now, "please."
He leans down, covering his mouth with yours, nipping your lower lip, "hush now, darling."
One of your hands manage to find his scalp, and you desperately claw at him through a whine, "need you."
He kisses you, his fangs unable to resist the feel of your lips. By the time he is satisfied, your mouth is visibly swollen. His belly aches with something primal. He gathers some spit on his tongue and lets it drip out to you. You quickly bite your lower lip only to gather his dribble before it drops. You press your tongues together before finding a rhythm for a sloppy kiss.
"Are you ready for me, sweet girl?" he mutters between breaths.
You squeal, trying to pull him in, "beeeeeen ready."
He chuckles and straightens up, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades.
You groan when you feel him push his tip into your waiting heat.
"Have I left you in such deep want, my love?"
You whine, gasping for breath as he slowly pushes in.
Baelor groans through grit teeth as he bucks his hips— slow, deep, intent on feeling every inch of you. He screws his eyes shut for a moment, his stomach tensing when then looks and sees your curled expression.
"My poor wife," he rubs your shoulders then wipes a tear from your eye before it falls, "you needed me this badly?"
Your arm helplessly flails, not quite reaching him, "so bad, so bad."
"Forgive this fool's negligence," he grunts, pushing in deeper, more deliberately.
You barely make a sound with how winded he leaves you.
Baelor doesn't pick up the pace, but he does end up rolling you on your back and pushing your legs over his shoulders. Oh, how he loves the way you moan into his open-mouthed kisses, how he adores how wet he leaves you, all sweaty, all slobbering, all slick.
When you begin to breathe faster, he pulls back and pushes himself up on his arms, bracing himself by the sides of your head.
You selfishly seal your legs around him, so much so he hisses when he can barely move. He bites the crook of your neck in retaliation, but it only seems to make you lock your legs tighter around him and suck his cock deeper into your cunt.
He chastises you in High Valyrian, unable to contain his frustration. He kisses your jaw, "you have to let me go."
"No, please," you clutch his cheeks, weepy and delirious, both from sleepiness and his cock, a dangerous combination.
"I'm not going to leave," he rubs your thighs while trying to push them off him, "I just want to make you feel good."
"B-but I feel so good now," you whine, arms now wrapping around him in tandem.
He sighs, helplessly allowing your embrace... and then- "do you want me to force you off?"
"..."
He calls out your name.
Your cunt clenches in response.
Baelor groans, finding his answer.
So, it was. It doesn't take much of his strength to unlock your legs, but it does takes all of his remaining energy to thrust his cock in and out of you until you come undone.
His pace was only a few beats faster than when he started, as he was intent on savoring you, on driving you mad, and gods was it worth it.
By the time your orgasm built, his fingers found your clit and ensured the uncontrollable quake of your body. With a strangled moan, you reach your peak, your cunt gushing more than it already has, coating much more than his cock. Both your thighs were a mess and the sheets were an unwilling victim. He finishes in sync, his cock and stones taut as he releases all his pent-up tension and hot seed deep into your belly. He watches a creamy ring form at the base of his manhood. He is glad of it.
He wrings both your pleasures out until he physically can't bring himself to move. And yet, ever the dutiful husband, he has the mind to roll off you enough to watch his fingers rapidly rub your swollen clit and make you continue to tremor.
Your nails bite into his shoulders, hard enough to make him hiss, "B-Bael—"
"Just a bit more, sunshine," he kisses your jaw, "you can take it."
"I can't—"
"Take it."
"B-B—"
"Take it."
You whine.
"And some more."
Your nails drag down and break his skin.
His teeth clench, "jussssst—"
Your back arches off the bed.
"There," he kisses your cheek, "did so well f'me."
You gasp for breath.
He immediately clutches your cheek and mutters praises against your mouth, "such a good girl, my lover."
You whine, weepy and worn, "you hate me."
"I don't," he drags out lovingly.
"You do!" you whine some more.
He kisses you, "only enough to pull away to grab a towel to clean you up."
All hell breaks loose when Baelor does just that, and in such haste. Tears stream down your cheeks as you fail to keep him by your side. You feel the rawness of your legs as you bring them together. He only cares to clean himself because he doesn't want to get you dirty and is immediately upon you.
You have half the mind to kick him off when he tries to clean you up. You roll away from him as he wipes you down but he only meets your petulance with kisses on your skin. He is dazed and warm, unable to find fault in you after your lovemaking. He calls out your name as he cleans the evidence of him off you.
You only quit your wrangling when you accidentally elbow his jaw.
The collision makes you gasp and immediately turn to him, "Baelor."
He clutches his beard and shakes his head, "no, I deserved that."
You pout and whine, throwing your arms around him, "don't say that!"
He chucks the towel off, allowing you to pull him over you as you fall back, "but I made my sweet wife weep."
You sigh as he pulls back, only to brush your hair away from your tear-stained cheeks and swipe your still swollen lips.
"How could I ever get you to forgive me?" his forehead curls, his tone more genuine than it ought to be.
You look at your Baelor, the love of your life and shrug, "I fear you cannot."
He frowns, "but I shall perish in my guilt."
You sniffle and pout.
He matches your reaction to a tee.
You grumble and barely slap his cheek.
He manages to kiss your hand as it falls off.
"I should like an orange for breakfast," you sigh, tracing the curve of his nose.
He gives the faintest of chuckles and takes your wrist. "How many?" he mumbles against your pulse.
"Just one," you close your eyes, feeling exhaustion catch up with you.
Soon, it is, too, upon Baelor. He crumbles beside you, pressing one final kiss on your cheek, "you shall have it, my heart."
You hum, "you will feed it to me with your mouth."
STOP GASLIGHTING ME IN THE COMMENTS BRO “he has blue eyes in the comics” ?????
Nah but all seriousness I don’t ultimately care and you guys can write whatever you want and read whatever you want and have your own preferences!! And there might be a blue eyed Simon Riley comic but I didn’t do more than a google search because I don’t care! I am simply stating my dumb opinion on my dumber tumblr.
Please leave me alone 🙏
This post is a cry for help guys it was just a funny little post
When you regained consciousness, it was to a strange figure hunched over you, their large body shielding you from the rain. Mud streaked your face and hands and it took a moment for you to remember you had fallen on the path back to the village and slid down the hill. It took an even longer moment of squinting in the dark to realize who the person was: the village outcast.
The elders told frightening tales about him to the children. As the stories went, he was strong enough to uproot a tree, with fangs and claws that could rend a person in two and a horrible temper that made him thirst for blood. He lived with the old witch as a boy and stayed in that ramshackle cottage even now that she had died.
You screamed as you struggled to sit up in the soft mud, fearing for your life. He held up his hands placatingly. His skin looked discolored, twisted, and cracked like tree bark in a sudden flash of lightning.
"You're hurt," he said, pointing at your foot.
You stood and almost fell over again, throwing yourself to the side when he attempted to brace you. Without another word you struggled up the hill and fled, limping the entire way home. You felt sorry for yourself that night, especially since you had forgotten your basket in your haste. However, when you hobbled outside the next morning to feed the chickens, you found your basket on your doorstep, filled with mushrooms and nuts, damp from the early morning dew.
Dragon hybrid who is obsessed with the kingdom’s beloved princess so when he finds out she’s being married off to some old loser lord far north decides its finally time to add her to his horde (aka kidnap her but like…he’s hot so we aint complaining) and finally spoil her with his treasures (like dressing her in nothing but silk and jewels and worshipping her)
Shady, I love the picture you added yet it also by proxy makes my back hurt like ouch coin bed.
But it also kinda looks like she is dissolving into coins ngl.
-
The first time he saw you he was no more a fledgling than a dragon, budding horns and freshly unfurled wings at tried to catch every wind current, sitting on a balcony watching as the princess is shown off on her birthday. He'd fallen for you there and then, tugging on his mother tail and pointing at you as your paraded through the street in celebration, trilling and squeaking about how one day you'll be his bride, his parents laughed and tussled his hair as he turned to watch the parade again.
And make you his bride he would.
Years later, now a much bigger, stronger dragon hybrid, wings fully grown, a set of jagged coral shaped back horns grace his head as he stands on one of the high walls of the castle, taunting the guards as he sharpens his talons on the grey rock of the outer bailey. Not really watching them as he looks towards the gardens, already seeing the tea set being set out for something that he knows will be about you, flaring his wings and taking off towards the gardens, knowing the maids will scatter at the sight of him over head.
Finding a perfect place to sun himself, settling on the top of a gazebo a few metres from where the tea sets are being placed, wings spread wide as he waits, watching as you take your place, crimson eyes that are meant to beckon calamity watch as you sit with your mother, you'd only grown more and more perfect in his eyes since I first saw you.
He knows he's not the only one to hold you in his heart, letting grey smoke curl from his mouth as he huffs, watching as guards and servants alike watch you, adoration for the princess that the kingdom loves so much, but not nearly as much as he could.
The hord he'd curated was a mix of glittering baubles and smooth silks so fine that not even the royal family would be able to find fault, but recently he'd felt as if something was missing, and if he was honest it was you. You would be the crowning glory of his hord if only he could get you away from this god awful castle and these overly close bugs that hovered around you. In his moment of seething he'd missed the tea party, only catching the end as you sniffled and ran off deeper into the gardens, some old rat of a lord in the north was withholding mining industries from the kingdom on exchange for your hand, a greedy old man wanted his jewel? Trying to steal you from under him like some rat?
Not a chance.
Launching off the gazebo he hardly cares as the wood and tile under him splinters and cracks, soaring towards the place he knows your going, the back gardens where the next season's plants are being raised and readied for the change of fauna, usually he'd watch your through the green house glass, tucked into the shadow of the tree line that hid the outer walls from the gardens, bit today he'd be a little more forward.
Flicking his tail as he lands not far from where your curled up in your summer dress, the pretty gown made for this very moment, a day out in the sun with company and treats at a tea party, but here you are hiding away with autumns cultivating plants hemline dirty and the light day make-up smudged and running as you cried.
As his shadow falls across you, he watches how you curl tighter, whining that you don't want to go back yet, won't go back yet. This makes him smile as he crouches down, talons sinking into the dirt under him as he spreads his wings out and curls them around the two of you, obscuring the world as he purrs at you, telling you that if you want he can make sure you never have to see that scummy old man they want to trade you off too. Watching as your tear streaked face turns to look up at him, clawed fingers gently wiping away the few tears still clinging to your cheeks as he cups your face, smooth scales making you shiver as he coaxes you into his hold.
Keeping you pressed to his chest as he wraps his arms around you, grip tight and steady as he wastes not a single moment longer, launching himself into the air, ignoring the screems and bellowing commands of guards as the castle workers finally figured out where you had gone, too slow to stop the dreaded dragon creature from taking you away.
