CHAPT ONE: a horse walks into a bar... | Rip Wheeler x F!Reader
SUMMARY: Beth never let him talk like that. Never let him handle her like this. With Beth, it was fire or nothing, chaos with a side of claws. Rip loved her, would burn the world for her, but this - this soft, hungry, curious little thing in his lap - she let him be something else. Something warmer. Gentler. Present.
CW: age gap, explicit sex. NO CHEATING
WORD COUNT: 7,647
A/N: OKAY this has been on the brain for like, a year. @griefscam has been trying to get me to finish yellowstone bc im SO CLOSE (i have 5 eps left) but instead i spent like 3 days writing this. AO3 link
The bar was loud in a way that would’ve made most people’s teeth ache - but it was nothing Rip hadn’t handled before. The smell of stale beer mixed with cigarette smoke hung heavy, but Rip was used to that too - the usual backdrop to late-night distractions when the ranch felt like a cage and Beth was too far away; both emotionally and physically. The frost outside made the warmth inside a small comfort, but Rip didn’t care for comfort tonight. He just wanted out.
He slung off his jacket and scanned the crowd with that practiced, half-bored glance. He was expecting the usual - some barrel racer or rodeo girl, a quick drink, a quick fuck in a trailer, no strings, no follow-up. But then, out of the corner of his eye, something stopped him.
You were sitting alone at the end of the bar, not pretending to be anywhere else, just there. And damn if you weren't the kind of pretty that made him forget how to talk. A face that felt like it belonged in a museum - the kind of thing ancient Greeks would’ve carved into marble and gone to war over. Soft, gentle features framed by this soft curl he didn’t think existed outside of film, catching the light just right. Your eyes were big and curious, not like you were sizing him up but like you were quietly wondering something just out of reach. A complexion that glowed even under the dull bar lights, chubby in a way that made you look warm and real. Jeans hugged wide hips, a simple henley stretched just enough to make Rip’s head go a little fuzzy.
Rip’s mouth went dry. Weird.
He walked over, boots clicking softly on the worn floorboards. He leaned on the bar next to you, careful not to crowd. He was a big guy and he knew it - if you crowded a colt too quickly, it would bolt.
“Hey,” he said easy, voice rough around the edges. “Mind if I join you?”
You blinked, cheeks tinting pink like a sunrise. Your lips parted, but no words came. It was like your brain was already running ten steps ahead of what your mouth wanted to say. Then finally, you caught yourself.
“Uh, no, go ahead,” you managed, voice soft but clear, no hint of any Midwestern drawl - definitely East Coast, maybe New York or Boston, something with bite and quick rhythm.
Rip smiled, noticing the way you tucked a curl behind your ear, fingers fidgeting with the ring on your thumb as if you weren’t used to being talked to by guys like him.
“What brings you to this corner of the world?” he asked, trying to keep it casual but knowing it was a stupid question - people didn’t come to the middle of Montana without a story.
“Visiting,” eyes flickering to the door. Nervous - but not avoidant. Ease up, Wheeler. “Family.”
Rip nodded, took a sip of his drink, then shrugged. “That’s as good an answer as any.”
You laughed then - quiet, a little breathy, and it made Rip’s chest tighten. He wasn’t sure if it was hope or just loneliness, but maybe tonight was worth a chance. He didn’t press. Some things were better left unsaid. For now, this was enough - a moment where two strangers met in a bar in a small town, far from the noise of everything else.
Most women around here knew the game. Played it, too - leaned in when they wanted something, leaned out when they were bored. But this girl flushed pink every time he did something simple, like buy her a drink or hold her gaze a second too long.
“A Coors Lite, please,” you told the bartender when Rip offered. Not some fancy city drink. Smart. Knew enough not to stick out too much, even if you already did just by existing.
Rip didn’t ask questions he didn’t want answers to. But he asked some, because hell, you were interesting.
“So what brings you to Bozeman?” he asked again, gently more specific this time, like he wasn’t trying to peel you open but just wanted to know what pages you kept on the surface.
You fiddled with your can, running your fingers along the cold metal before answering. “I’m technically here for legal stuff. Some land thing. My dad was supposed to come, but he’s… not great with travel anymore. So I got nominated.”
Rip raised a brow. “You a lawyer?”
You snorted, then immediately looked horrified by your own noise. “God, no. I have no idea what’s going on. I just have to hand people some paperwork, nod, and pretend I’m smarter than I am.”
“You don’t seem dumb,” Rip said simply, truthfully, sipping his whiskey. “You do seem nervous as hell, though.”
That earned a little laugh, shy and surprised. You tucked a lock of that soft hair - curling just enough to tempt his fingers - behind your ear again. That fringe danced across your brow every time you moved, like it was its own thing entirely. Like distant tall grass that moved like water when a breeze blew through. He liked watching you talk, he decided, even if you tripped over your own thoughts more often than not.
“You’re not from around here,” he said next, more observation than question.
“Is it that obvious?”
Rip shrugged. “Accent gives you away. You talk fast like the world’s ending. But you look like you’re trying real hard not to.”
You smiled, glancing down at your drink. “Yeah. I’m from Philly.”
So he was right, then. East Coast toughness under all that sweet awkwardness. You were like a deer wearing leather - soft and watchful, but maybe not the kind to run if you got close the right way.
He didn’t touch you much, but when he did - his hand brushing your elbow when he leaned in to say something over the music, his knuckles grazing yours when you went to reach for your drink - he made sure it was firm but easy to escape. You never pulled away.
When you offered your name, just a first, no last name, he didn’t press. Didn’t need it.
He’d known plenty of women who made sure you knew exactly who they were, loud and clear. You didn’t. And Rip didn’t care. Not because you weren't interesting - hell, you were probably the most interesting woman he’d met in months - but because he wasn’t looking for a résumé. If you came home with him tonight, it’d be because you wanted to. Not because he pressured, or lied, or pushed. Rip had done too many bad things in his life to not have some code left.
And you? You deserved to be treated like a lady.
…even if all he wanted was to see how those jeans looked on his bedroom floor.
“You want another?” he asked, nodding toward your half-empty can.
You blinked, surprised. “Sure. Yeah. Thank you.”
Rip smiled and waved the bartender over. He wasn’t in any rush. Not tonight.
Though it was about ten minutes in - maybe fifteen - when you blinked at him, your eyes wide like something had just clicked behind them. You looked at his face, then down at their drinks, then back up again. And then-
“Oh. Oh,” you said slowly, almost horrified. “You’re trying to get in my pants.”
Rip choked on his whiskey, barely managing to hold back a laugh. He hadn’t not been trying, but the way you said it - genuinely surprised, like it had just occurred to you - knocked the wind right out of him.
You looked even more flustered now, cheeks flushed to hell, mouth working soundlessly as if your brain had fired off twelve responses and rejected all of them. You lifted your drink, set it back down without sipping. Then tried again.
“I mean- I’m not mad,” you added, hands flailing slightly like you were trying to swat the air into making sense. “I just didn’t- notice, I guess? I thought you were just… like, nice. I don’t know why I thought that. You're- you. You look like you wrestle bears for fun.”
Rip tilted his head, amusement tugging the corner of his mouth. “Can still be nice.”
“Yeah, no, I see that now.” You rubbed your palms on your jeans like they were suddenly damp. “God, I’m such a fucking moron.”
“You’re not,” Rip said, honest and calm. “I’m just not in a rush. Was enjoying talking to you.”
You stared at him. Then looked down. Then up again. “You’re really hot.”
Now he blinked. “Thanks.”
You bit your lip - not sexy or whatever, god no, just contemplative - then looked toward the door, back to him, like you were waging some internal war and finally decided fuck it.
“I- uh. I drove here. If you- if you want to come back to mine?” You offered, voice tilting up at the end like a question you weren't sure how to ask. “It’s clean, I swear. Not, like, murdery. I have nice sheets. Uh- Egyptian cotton.”
Rip snorted, standing slowly and tossing some bills on the bar. He didn’t crowd you, didn’t touch. Just looked down at you with that calm, solid heat of his.
“Egyptian cotton, huh?” he said. “That’s real tempting.”
“I panic bought them when I moved,” you admitted, already rising awkwardly, grabbing your jacket like you’d forgotten how your limbs worked. “I don’t usually do this. I mean- I never do this. I’m not like- this isn’t a… thing. That I do.”
“I figured,” Rip said quietly, following you out into the frost-bitten night. “But for the record? I’m glad you’re doing it tonight.”
---
Your car was nothing flashy - some modest, newer-age sedan with a sensible paint job and a faint smell of bubblegum from an air freshener dangling from the rearview. Rip didn’t know much about makes and models unless it was a truck, but he could tell it was the kind of car someone bought with practicality in mind. No frills, no nonsense. Just like you, he was beginning to suspect.
He climbed in, the door shutting with a clean click, and blinked as the seat warmed beneath him. Heated seats. Huh. He didn’t say anything, but damn if that wasn’t a little luxury he didn’t know he liked. His spine, worn raw by years in saddles and dirt roads, eased inch by inch.
You settled behind the wheel with a kind of casual tension - shoulders loose, but hands steady. You didn’t even check if he had his seatbelt on before you started reversing like you’d been doing it a thousand times - ears clocking as his seatbelt clicked in-, hand on the back of his seat when you looked out the back window. Not aggressively, not timidly either. You drove like someone’s dad, Rip realised, trying not to smile - confident, relaxed, a little more unravelled than you should, one hand resting on the emergency brake like you were used to stick shift and had never broken the habit. It looked oddly natural.
Rip glanced sideways at your profile - the way your brow furrowed just slightly as you merged onto the road, how your mouth pressed into a line like you were in your element, even though the line of your body was relaxed. Your left thumb tapped against the wheel in a slow, unconscious rhythm.
“You always drive like that?” he asked, not mocking - just curious.
You blinked. “Like what?”
“Like you’re gonna give someone a lecture about seatbelts and road safety.”
You made a noise - half-laugh, half-sputter. “I am the seatbelt lecture. I grew up with a dad who nearly cried every time I drove without both hands on the wheel. This is the compromise.”
Rip smiled faintly, letting his head lean back against the warmed leather. “Could be worse.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Could’ve been a barrel racer in a lifted truck. You’d have hit three mailboxes by now and been half out the window yelling at a raccoon.”
You snorted, and he could see the tension bleed out of your spine just a little more. They weren’t even halfway to your place yet, but it already felt like a better night than Rip had expected. The silence between them settled easy, like they’d both agreed it didn’t need filling.
Rip kept quiet the rest of the way. Just sat there in that heated seat, watching the frost on the roadside glint under your headlights, and let himself enjoy - for a few quiet minutes - the strange, unlikely calm of being driven home by a woman who looked like art and cursed like a gambling man who’d bet on the wrong horse.
The drive didn’t take long. Your place sat just far enough out of town to feel private, tucked along a winding dirt road flanked by open land. Rip instinctively scoped it out - five, maybe ten acres, easy, with no back fence he could spot. Big enough to be running cattle, or keeping horses. But there wasn’t any sign of livestock. No fencing. No barn. Just empty space, the kind of stillness that spoke of possibilities never taken.
He didn’t ask. Wasn’t here to talk land or business.
The house was a mid-century rancher - low-slung roof, long porch, warm yellow light spilling from the front windows. It had the kind of bones that whispered someone cared once, and the way you’d decorated kept that feeling alive. Inside was more of the same; soft lighting, cozy mismatched furniture, warm earth tones and worn-in textures. No sterile surfaces, no showy bullshit. It smelled like cinnamon and a hint of something herbal. Homey.
Rip stepped inside and automatically slipped his boots off, out of habit more than manners. You had already shrugged off your jacket, tossing it on a hook by the door. There was still that flush to your cheeks, but you didn’t seem nervous anymore. Just a little wired - like this was uncharted territory you were committed to walking anyway.
“You want a drink or something?” You offered as you moved into the kitchen, padding across the hardwood like you knew every creaky board by heart. “I’ve got whiskey, wine, or some real tragic grocery store beer.”
Rip leaned on the doorway, eyes tracking your movements. “Whiskey’s fine.”
“Help yourself,” you said, waving toward a shelf with a few bottles and clean glasses, like you weren't trying to impress him with labels. You disappeared briefly into the back hall, calling over your shoulder, “Make yourself at home.”
He poured two fingers, neat, and settled onto the arm of the couch, taking in the room. The decorations were eclectic but intentional - books piled in corners, plants by the window, an old record player in the corner with a stack of vinyl beside it. It felt lived-in. Real. It made his place back at the foreman’s cabin feel cold by comparison.
You came back a moment later, looking a little more focused. No nerves, just steady intention in your eyes. You stood in front of him, twisting your fingers together for half a second before speaking.
“Okay, so. Real talk? I’m clean. Last tested two months ago. And I’m on birth control.”
You said it clearly, no stuttering now. Thought it through, made a choice. He wonders for a moment if you’d recited it in a whispered tone when you were in the back room for that split second.
“If you’re clean - and can prove it - I'm okay skipping condoms. But I’m not guessing. No offense.”
Rip blinked, then let out a quiet grunt of appreciation. You weren't messing around.
“No offense taken,” he said, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. He flipped it open and produced a laminated card - something he only had because Beth made him get tested regularly ‘just in case’ and bullied him into actually keeping the paper. “Six weeks ago.”
You took it, read it, and handed it back. “Cool. Thanks.”
Rip set the wallet aside and stood, slow, giving you space to change your mind if you wanted.
“You always this direct?” he asked, more curious than anything.
“Only when I’m trying not to talk myself out of doing something I really want,” you admitted, then cleared your throat. “And also, I had half a beer and if I don’t say it out loud, I’ll spiral into overthinking.”
He stepped closer, carefully, and placed his hand on your hip—firm, but not demanding. You didn’t pull away.
He murmurs your name, voice low and steady. “You sure about this?”
You looked up at him, eyes wide and dark and steady. “Yeah. I really am.”
You were curious, that much was clear within the first few kisses. You weren’t inexperienced exactly, but you weren't practiced either; your footing a little unsure, the rhythm of your hands unsteady. Like you were still figuring out how to ask for what you wanted without words. But there was no hesitation in the way you leaned into him, in the heat behind your kisses, in the way your fingers curled into the front of his shirt like you didn’t want him going anywhere.
Rip let you take your time.
He hadn't been with someone this young in a while - not in years, not since he was closer to your age himself. And it wasn’t the age that gave him pause; it was the energy. The difference in how you moved, how you let yourself be surprised by sensation. It was new. Not a one-night stand you’d done a hundred times. This was something you chose tonight, not something you defaulted to.
So he slowed down.
He let you crawl into his lap on the couch when you hesitated halfway into another kiss, like you weren't sure where to go but didn’t want distance. His hands stayed firm on your hips, anchoring you without demanding anything more, mouth wet and warm on his. You kissed him like you were testing flavors, every touch of your mouth a new exploration, your hands moving from his chest to his neck to the edge of his beard with cautious, fascinated fingers.
“Can I…?” you murmured once, already tracing the line of his jaw.
“Go ahead,” Rip said, voice low and warm, like he might say yes, ma’am to a different kind of order.
Your fingers slid through his hair, tugging lightly, thumb brushing the short strands at his temple. Your other hand brushed his beard, tentative, like you half expected it to bite back. You laughed under your breath, delighted at the feel of it, and kissed him again - off rhythm, breathless, slightly off-center.
It made something fond stir in Rip’s chest. Hell, he hadn’t felt fond in a long time.
“You’re quiet,” you murmured against his mouth.
“I’m letting you explore,” he said simply, cupping the back of your neck, large calloused hand gentle against the soft skin there. “You’re doing just fine.”
You flushed again, but didn’t back down. Emboldened, maybe. You shifted your hips in his lap and gasped quietly at what you felt - realizing just how much he was holding himself back.
Rip smoothed one hand up your back, the other resting solid on your thigh. “Easy, sweetheart,” he said, low and quiet, like you were a spooked horse. “We got time.”
You looked down at him, eyes shining with something sweet and open and a little wild. And Rip, who’d only come into town to fuck the noise out of his head, felt himself settle like an old horse recognizing a steady pasture.
This wasn’t going to be quick. And that was just fine.
Rip caught on fast; You might’ve been unsteady on your feet - figuratively, at least - but you responded like a goddamn live wire the second he started putting intention behind every move. A firm hand braced on your waist instead of hip, fingers digging in just enough to hold you still? That made you gasp and melt against him. Sweet words murmured low against your ear as he mouthed up the side of your neck - that’s it, sweetheart… you’re doin’ real good - and you damn near shivered in his lap.
Beth never let him talk like that. Never let him handle her like this. With Beth, it was fire or nothing, chaos with a side of claws. Rip loved her, would burn the world for her, but this - this soft, hungry, curious little thing in his lap - she let him be something else. Something warmer. Gentler. Present.
You clung to his shirt like it was keeping you tethered, lips swollen and slick from kissing, panting between pulls of air like you didn’t know what your body was doing anymore. Rip tilted his head, brushed your hair away from your face, watched the flush creep from your chest to your cheeks.Your hips were moving on their own now - little rocking motions, not even aware of themselves. Not trying to get off, not yet. Just chasing friction because you needed it.
He cupped your jaw with one hand, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and kissed you slow, deep, until you whimpered into his mouth. Then he pulled back, still steady, still warm. You blinked down at him, dazed and kiss-drunk and more than ready.
His voice was like warm honey when he murmured your name, low but not rough. “You wanna keep going, sweetheart?”
You swallowed, lips parting like you had to remind yourself how to speak. Then you nodded. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Yeah, I really do.”
Rip’s smile was small, but real. He shifted under you, hands sliding down to your thighs. “Alright, then.”
You took his hand.
It wasn’t anything big - just your fingers curling shyly around his like you weren't sure if it was allowed, if it meant something (which it didn’t) - but Rip let you. Didn’t mock, didn’t tease. Just let you lead him toward the back hall with your small, warm hand in his, like you were guiding something sacred.
The bedroom was clearly the master. Rip’s sharp eye clocked it all in an instant; the en suite door cracked open with the glow of a soft bathroom light spilling out, a vanity cluttered with jewelry and hair ties, and a shelf of well-loved books on the far wall. The bed was large - king-sized, he figured - but only one side looked used. Even made up neat as it was, the faint imprint in the pillows, the tucked-in charger cord, the glass of water on the nightstand… told a quiet story.
You lived alone. Or at the very least, slept like you did.
You paused by the bed, suddenly unsure again, chewing at your bottom lip like maybe you’d made a mistake inviting a rough ranch hand into your safe little den. Rip didn’t rush. He stepped up slow, fingers brushing the hem of your henley.
“Still sure?” he asked, low.
You nodded, eyes dark and wide. “Yeah.”
“Alright, then.”
He started at the bottom. Kneeled down, knees clicking as he settled in front of you. You made a little embarrassed noise and grabbed his shoulder.
“You don’t have to-” you started, flustered.
“‘course I don’t,” he said calmly, already undoing the laces. “But I want to.”
Your boots came off slow, careful. You wobbled a bit and muttered something about how dumb this was, how weird it felt having someone do this for you, but Rip just hummed, patient and steady. When he peeled off your socks, he paused - chuffing a soft laugh.
“Pink cats?” he murmured.
“Shut up,” you groaned, covering your face. “They were clean and I didn’t think anyone was gonna see them.”
Rip grinned, tucking them aside. “Ain’t teasing. I think they’re cute.”
That seemed to short-circuit you for a second. Then you looked down at him - really looked - and the air changed again.
He stood, fingers skimming up your legs, over your hips, dragging your henley with them. You raised your arms without being asked, the soft fabric sliding up and over your head. No bra beneath it - just warm skin and the weight of your breasts held in by a simple bralette, modest and pale. That, too, he peeled away, gentle and unhurried, watching every shift of your body with the kind of attention most women forgot how to receive.
“You’re beautiful,” he told you, voice gone soft. Honest.
You flushed from chest to hairline.
“Jesus,” you whispered, breath catching. “Are you always like this?”
Rip shook his head, brushing a knuckle across your cheek. “No, ma’am,” he said. “Most times I ain’t allowed to be.”
And then he bent, kissed the slope of your shoulder like he had all the time in the world, and made you feel like this - your socks, your nerves, your pink - was something worth worshipping.
On the other hand - you stripped him like you couldn’t quite believe you were allowed to.
There was no smooth seduction to it - just this bright, wide-eyed eagerness that Rip found unexpectedly charming. You tugged his button down loose, fingertips brushing against his stomach as you helped him out of the undershirt, your breath hitching a little when your hand grazed the trail of coarse hair leading downward. You made a little pleased sound, like a hum trapped behind your teeth.
Then came the jeans.
You were kneeling by then - and Christ, ain’t that a pretty sight, Rip thought - still flushed and laughing softly as you fumbled with the button. “This would be a lot sexier if I had any idea what I was doing,” you muttered.
“You’re doin’ just fine,” Rip said, amused, watching you fumble his zipper with all the focus of someone defusing a bomb.
“I swear I’ve undressed a man before-”
“Didn’t say you hadn’t.” His voice was low, steady, a little raspy now. “I’m enjoyin’ the view, that’s all.”
You finally got the zipper down with a triumphant huff and pushed his jeans off his hips. He stepped out of them easily, leaving him in nothing but his boxers.
And then you just… stared.
Your mouth parted, breath catching. Your eyes tracked over every inch of him like you were trying to memorise the shape of him in case you woke up and this had all been a dream.
He wasn’t some glossy magazine centerfold - he was a working man, all heavy muscle and solid bulk, thick around the middle but broad enough that it barely mattered. His body was marked by years of real labor;scars across his chest and arms, a tan that refused to fade even in winter. He had hair - a lot of it in thick dark whorls - on his chest, his arms, the soft trail disappearing under his waistband. No six-pack, just thick pectorals and strong shoulders and thighs that looked like they could break steel.
You made a noise - tiny, barely audible - like someone biting back a prayer. Your hand hovered, like you wanted to touch but weren’t sure if you should.
Rip raised a brow, gently amused. “You look like you’re thinkin’ about climbin’ me like a tree.”
You blinked. Swallowed. “I am.”
That earned a low laugh out of him, slow and appreciative. He cupped your jaw again, thumb brushing your cheek.
“You go ahead, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You can touch all you want.”
And you did - hands trembling just a little as you ran them up his chest when he helped you to your feet, through the wiry hair, over the curve of his belly, up to his shoulders. You pressed your mouth to a patch of skin near his sternum and sighed like he tasted like something you hadn’t realised you needed. You did want to lick him, and from the way your eyes flicked up, dazed and greedy, Rip had the feeling you might ask permission real soon. Rip was patient with you, nonetheless. Patient in a way that wasn’t performative, not a show - just steady, measured, like he’d done this a hundred times and still wanted this time to matter.
Eventually, when your thighs started shifting restlessly, when your breath caught more than it steadied, he leaned in and kissed your temple, murmuring, “Lay back for me, sweetheart.”
You did - still a little flustered, a little shaky, but pliant beneath his hands. He pressed another kiss to your hip, then murmured something about being right back. You blinked, a little dazed, watching him go.
He came back with a small, neatly folded towel he’d found in your en suite - soft and clean, smelling faintly of your lavender detergent - and wordlessly slid it beneath your hips. Practical. Gentle. Kind. The way his hands handled you like you were something worth taking his time with made you feel stupidly close to tears.
Then he spread you open.
Rip settled between your thighs like he belonged there, large hands dragging your legs apart slowly, firmly. And he saw you - really saw you. Thick, soft thighs he could sink his fingers into, warm skin dappled with stretch marks and the faintest tremble of nerves. He hummed low in his chest, appreciation humming off of him like heat from a sun-warmed fence post.
“Good lord,” he muttered, almost to himself, like he wasn’t expecting you to be this pretty. “You got no idea how sweet you look laid out like this, do you?”
You flushed deeper, skin pinking from neck to cheeks. You started to move your hands to cover your face - embarrassed, shy, trying to disappear.
And then-
“I, uh,” you stammered, voice small. “I didn’t shave. I meant to, but I forgot, because I didn’t exactly plan this and I just- sorry-”
Rip paused, blinked once, and then gave a quiet huff of disbelief. Not angry. Just… bemused.
He brushed a hand gently over your inner thigh, calloused fingers warm, reverent.
“You apologisin’ for havin’ a grown woman’s pussy?” he asked softly, voice still carrying that lazy drawl. “Sweetheart, darlin’, you got nothin’ to be sorry for.”
You peeked at him between your fingers, shame starting to crumble under the weight of his calm, hungry gaze.
Beth had always stripped herself bare - cold wax, no softness, no give. It had always felt clinical, clean, impersonal. Like she was preparing a stage, not sharing something of herself.
But this? This was different.
Your hair was soft, not neatly trimmed but not unkempt like you’d had forgotten about it only recently, small whorls that framed your pussy lips like ivy growing around something sacred. Rip reached out and thumbed gently along the mound, marveling at how damn pretty you were.
“Truth be told,” he murmured, leaning in close enough you could feel his breath, “I like it. Like that you didn’t bother dressing it up for anyone.”
You let out a shaky breath, hands slowly lowering from your face. Your eyes found his again, wide and wanting.
“You sure?” You asked, still fragile.
Rip kissed the inside of your thigh, lips dragging slow and warm over the soft flesh there. He can feel you tense - in the good way, body instinctively reacting.
“I’m damn sure.”
You tried so hard not to make noise.
Rip noticed it almost immediately - the way you bit down on your lip, how your throat worked like you were swallowing sounds, your fingers fisted tight in the sheets as if to anchor yourself against the tide rolling up your spine.
You trembled, not with fear, but with the kind of restraint that came from inexperience - like no one had ever given you a reason to believe your pleasure was meant to be heard. Like someone had taught you to be quiet even when you were shaking apart.
Rip didn’t rush. He didn’t tease or delay, didn’t make a show of dragging things out. He just leaned in and got to work, one broad hand splayed low across your belly to keep you still, the other gently spreading your lips with fingers careful but sure.
And then he found your clit.
Soft. Swollen. Hidden under that neat little hood but not hard to find if you knew what you were doing - and Rip did. The moment he dragged his thumb slow and precise over that chubby, pretty pearl, you broke.
The noise you made - choked and shocked, high in the back of your throat like something had been yanked loose - wasn’t rehearsed or performative. It was real. Pure. Like you’d never been touched right before. Like no one had ever taken the time to learn you.
“Oh God-” you gasped, hips jolting, legs twitching around his shoulders.
Rip didn’t let up. Just smiled a little to himself and said, low and warm, “That’s it, sweetheart… don’t hold back on me.”
You were already leaking, slick glistening across the towel he’d tucked under your arse. The scent of you filled the room - good, clean, musky and earthy and raw. The smell of a woman wanting, not afraid of it. Your pussy glistened with every movement, every roll of his tongue and press of his lips.
He buried himself there - tongue curling just right, pressure constant but gentle, circling that clit while his nose nudged against the sweet soft mound of you. Your thighs clamped around his head for a moment, then flinched back like you didn’t know what to do with the pleasure.
“Rip-” you gasped again, voice cracking like you weren't used to saying names like that mid-moan. He looked up, mouth slick with you, beard damp with your arousal, and grinned.
“You keep sayin’ it like that,” he said, voice deep and proud, “I’m gonna think you mean it.”
You whimpered - loud, unguarded - and Rip smiled against you, pleased as hell. You wouldn’t stay quiet for long. Not once he was done with you. You came fast - so fast it caught you off guard. Your face flushed deep red, eyes wide with embarrassment as a choked strained noise shot its way out of your mouth. You tried to pull back, to tuck your hands into the sheets, to quiet the little whimpers and gasps that slipped out anyway, but Rip just held you steady, his voice much the same, low, like a lifeline.
“Thaaaat’s it, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re doin’ real good. Ain’t nothin’ to be shy about.”
The more he praises you, the harder and harder it becomes for you to keep that tight grip on any semblance of control - whimpering and whining softly, those low moans bubbling up from your throat like some secret song only he got to hear. Your fingers tangled in his hair, hesitant at first, pulling a little like you were testing him, but mostly just carding through the short curls, grounding yourself in the moment.
Rip leaned into your touch, sort of like a very large cat, you think deliriously.
He didn’t give you much of a breather - once your first wave passed, he slid his fingers in - slow, gentle, teasing at first, then deeper, searching. Your hips jerked, your back arched, and suddenly there was no chance of quiet - needy open mouthed sounds flooding the room, urgent and unrestrained.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned softly, “you sound real pretty when you come undone.”
When you finally coaxed him up - after three slow, deep orgasms that left you trembling and stretched open, utterly spent - your breathing was ragged, eyes shining with a mix of awe and need.
“Please,” you whispered, voice trembling, fingers clutching at his shoulders like you might unravel without his strength.
Rip didn’t need any more convincing than that. How could he say no to someone who actually said please?
He peeled off his boxers, slow and deliberate, giving you a moment to take it in. You were no blushing virgin but jesus fucking christ - your eyes went wide, lips parted in surprise. His cock was big — definitely in proportion to the rest of him, thick and long, bobbing under the weight of itself. You swallowed hard and looked up at him, searching.
“How do you want me?”
Rip smiled - a slow, warm grin that held both promise and patience.
He crawled on top of you, careful not to rush, and gently folded your legs up against your chest. His rough hands slid under your thighs, steady and sure, pulling you close - the heat of him making sweat prickle behind your knees.
“Just like this,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Easy, slow. You’re my whole world tonight.”
It took a minute to get in - slow, careful, like sliding a rawhide rope through a tight knot. Rip’s glad for a moment that he has a firm grip on his self control, or he’d drive straight into the squelch of your tight flexing cunt. Your breath hitched sharply as he eased inside, body soft and welcoming, folding around him until he was seated full and firm.
“Y’alright?” He murmurs, strained. Waiting. He watches your face - and when you nod he presses the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth before pulling his hips back.
The moment he started moving in earnest, you squealed - high-pitched and surprised, like a wild thing caught off guard but not wanting to be freed. Your eyes were wide, shining like stars caught in a black sky, every moan and gasp spilling from your lips in ragged bursts as he found every right spot, every secret in that wet pussy that made you arch and shudder. Your legs draped over his shoulder, trembling, muscles taut and gripping. The air filled with the scent of you - musky, real - the natural heat of a woman alive and aching, mingled with the sharp tang of sweat and the faint warmth of the wool blanket bunched beneath them.
Rip’s own breath came in slow, rough bursts, every grunt and low growl a promise, an affirmation. He could feel you pulse against his chest, the way your nails dug lightly into his back, and the desperate shivers that ran from your neck down to the tips of your toes. It wasn’t even intentional, but you looked at him like he was the only thing that mattered - eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed with a raw, burning need. Vulnerable but fierce, fragile but unrelenting. Like you were both surrendering and claiming everything all at once.
Rip swallowed thick and the flicker of a thought comes and goes - Goddamn, this might just be the best fuck of my life - before it’s gone, drowning in the gumminess of your plush cunt, brain almost whiting out when you cum again - tight and fluttering around him, voice gone breathless and wrecked - Rip didn’t let you go. Didn’t chase his own high, didn’t pick up the pace like most men would.
Instead, he shifted.
Gently.
He gathered you close, kissed the underside of your knee, and eased you onto your stomach like you were precious cargo. Your body was still trembling, slick and pink and overheated, but you didn’t protest - just gasped quietly as he settled in behind you.
Not to fuck you like an animal.
To hold you. To be close. To give you the weight of him - not crushing, but grounding. The solid wall of his chest pressed to your back, the heat of his belly flush to your ass, one hand slipping under your belly to tilt your hips just so.
Then he started to move again.
Slow. Deep.
He rutted into you with that long, thick drag that had you whining into the mattress, hands gripping the bedspread like you were hanging on for dear life. The angle let him push deep, so deep you could barely breathe, every inch making you shake. Every stroke pushed a sound out of you - choked, high, helpless.
“You’re doin’ so good for me,” he rasped against your ear, voice low and hoarse. “So sweet… fuck, you feel perfect.”
He pressed kisses along your shoulder - wet, reverent, lazy as his hips rolled into you over and over. You shuddered beneath him, breath stuttering, body loose and overstimulated but still clenching down every time he bottomed out.
Your hair stuck to her cheek in damp strands. Your fingers curled tight in the sheets. Your thighs were shaking.
Rip kept going.
“Good girl… such a good girl,” he whispered, burying his face against the curve of your neck. “Let me in like this… takin’ me so well. Goddamn, baby.”
You made a wrecked little sound - half sob, half moan - and he kissed the back of your neck, lips soft as his thrusts stayed firm and steady, deep enough to make your whole body jolt with every pass.
It was heaven, he realized - this - the heat of her, the way you gripped him, the way you gave herself. Not just the best sex he’d had in years. The best he’d ever had.
He made you come twice more before he even thought about letting go - your poor body trembling, twitching, barely able to handle it, and still, you begged for more with nothing but broken little whines.
You sounded like a puppy, soft and needy and helpless, those high breathy sounds spilling from your throat like you couldn’t stop them even if you tried. Your fingers clutched the blankets like it was your last tether to reality, legs spread and shaking beneath him, body slick with sweat and pleasure and the weight of his praise.
The second orgasm hit with a sharp gasp, your whole body locking up, and the third followed not long after - closer to a sob than a moan, wrecked and wild, hips twitching with every deep, slow thrust. Your cunt clamped down on him like you couldn’t bear to let him go.
Rip didn’t stop whispering to you. Didn’t stop kissing your shoulders, your neck, your hair.
“Thaaat’s it, baby, you’re doin’ so good, fuck, I got you- I got you, just let it happen-”
Only then, when you were spent and still panting beneath him, boneless and soft and pliant, did Rip finally let himself go.
He shifted just enough to slide one arm under your chest, anchoring you against him as he picked up the pace - still deep, still slow, but with a purpose now. Each thrust dragged a soft moan out of your throat, even in your haze, even as you blinked through the aftershocks.
Rip bit down gently on your shoulder, hips stuttering, his voice a ragged growl in your ear as the tight, wet heat of you finally dragged him under.
“Fuck- Fuck, baby- goddamn-”
He spilled deep inside you, groaning low, hips jerking once, twice, before stilling entirely. The weight of his body dropped over you, but his arm stayed where it was, trying his best not to crush you. You sighed, shaky and soft, and reached back to curl your fingers into his hair.
Still whining. Still glowing.
And Rip? Rip had never felt so full.
---
You stirred after a little while - still soft, spent, and sore, but trying to gather yourself, limbs trembling as you shifted on top of the sheets. Rip felt you move, the way your body tensed like you were about to do something, and lifted his head just enough to look at you.
“I should- clean up,” you murmured, blinking heavy-lidded and dazed. “You’re the guest. I-”
“No,” Rip said simply, voice low and final.
You blinked, surprised by the sharpness of it, but he was already sitting up beside you, reaching for the towel and that half-finished bottle of water on your nightstand.
“You’re not gettin’ out of this bed, darlin’. Not after what I just did to you.”
“I’m- fine,” you say, smiling tiredly, but your legs twitched like a newborn foal trying to stand. It was cute. It was pitiful. And it made something in Rip’s chest twist in a strange, fond way.
“Seven,” he muttered, gently blotting between your thighs, careful with the towel and even gentler with his hands. “You came seven times. That’s damn near a medical event.”
You flushed a deep pink, curling your fingers into the sheets as he worked. “That sounds fake.”
Rip leaned in, kissed your shoulder. “It ain’t. I counted.”
He got you cleaned up with the same patience he’d shown you all night - no rush, no fuss, just quiet care. He pressed the bottle of water to your lips and grunted until you drank, then helped you sit upright long enough to lead you - carry you, really - toward the bathroom. Your legs wobbled under you like cooked noodles, and you grumbled under your breath the whole time.
“I can walk,” you whine, clinging to his arm.
“I know,” Rip replied, steady. “Don’t mean I’m lettin’ you.”
You peed, grumbled, peed again, and then let him guide you back to the bed. You were quiet as he pulled the blankets over you, tucking you in with the kind of gentle efficiency he used when calming a skittish horse.
You stared at the ceiling for a second, biting your lip, then turned to look at him - tentative, small, something uncertain hiding behind your eyes.
“…Will you stay?”
Rip hesitated, just a breath. Every instinct told him to leave. It wasn’t smart. Wasn’t safe. He didn’t know you. Beth would-
But fuck, he was tired. His body was loose and warm and clean in a way he hadn’t felt in years. And your voice - so soft, so shy when you asked - landed somewhere deep in his chest.
“…Yeah,” he said finally, exhaling like it hurt. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”
You looked at him like he’d given you something precious.
He slid in beside you, and Jesus Christ - your mattress was good. Firm in all the right places, warm from the lingering heat of your body. He sank into it like it was made to hold him. His arms slid around you easily, and you curled into him like you’d been doing it for years.
Rip lay there, staring at the ceiling, you breathing slow and deep against his chest, and thought:
Pairing:: Rip Wheeler x Reader
Warnings:: smut. it's all smut
Gif not mine, credit to the owner
Rip walked into the bedroom and found you kneeling on the bed. You had his hat on and a pair of his chaps with nothing else. You smiled over at him as he cleared his throat and smirked.
"What's all this?" he asked, walking over towards you. You stood up from the bed and met him halfway. It was then that he realized you didn't have any panties on, giving him a clear view.
"A surprise," you smiled, running your hands over his chest. "It's been a long day and you need to relax." You cupped his cheek, noting the dirt still stuck on his skin.
"Are you gonna help me relax?" he asked. You nodded, pulling him down into a kiss.
"On the bed," you ordered, pushing him back a little.
"Yes, ma'am," he smirked. He sat down on the edge of the bed and you stepped between his legs. "Now what?" You put your hands on his shoulders, pushing him onto his back.
You leaned down, laying on top of him. Kissing him heavily, you ground your pelvis against him. He groaned quietly as you felt him get harder in his jeans. He wrapped his arm around your back so he could slide up farther on the mattress.
You unbuckled his jeans and pushed them down. Kissing his neck and exposed chest, you reached down and grabbed his hard-on. He groaned, wishing he was in you already. When you pulled away from him, he knew his wish was coming true.
Sliding over him until he bottomed out, you moaned quietly, sounding more like a whine. You started riding him, running your hand over his chest and gripping his shirt. Having two fistfuls of his black button-up and his hands on your waist for support, you went faster.
Your legs were burning as you could feel your stomach begin to tighten. Wanting to close your eyes, you stared down at the state of Rip. He was watching you. Not your hips rolling against him or your breasts as they bounced. He was watching your face and the way your mouth hung open and your moans were falling out. He was watching your hair, with his hat still on your head, sway as you moved.
You were thrown off the edge, gripping the tufts of shirt tighter. His name slipped off your tongue like you were begging as your eyes fell shut lazily as your coiled snapped and you came around him. He rolled you over so you were on your back.
He took the hat off your head and tossed it onto the floor so you could lay flat. His lips crashed into yours as he lifted your chap-covered legs around his waist. He wanted to pull another one out of you. It was your surprise to him, but he wanted to make it up to you.
Wrapping your arms around his back, you grabbed two more fistfuls of his shirt from that side. He kept snapping his hips into you, making you want to scream out, but he swallowed all of your moans.
His thrusts were hard and fast, dragging you closer to the edge. He pulled his lips off of yours and smiled down at you. He loved seeing you so enraptured. Kissing your neck, he listened to the guttural moans you let out. It was the best sound in the world as far as he was concerned.
You fell over the edge, screaming his name as your legs shook on his waist. He followed after you, finishing deep inside you. As you panted for air, he leaned down, kissing your chest gently.
He hovered over you, kissing your chest and neck and jaw until you could breathe again. Then he connected with your lips.
"That was the best surprise I could have," he smiled down at you, pushing your hair off your sweaty face.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," you giggled, pecking at his lips. "Where'd your hat go?"
"I don't care about it, honey," he chuckled. He laid back and pulled you into his chest. "I should get you a pair of these," he smirked, running his hand over the black leather. "You need to wear them all the time."
The sound of an unfamiliar yet haunting dragon call woke you from your nap.
You sat up quickly, bringing a hand to your forehead to try to calm that ache that had been there since this morning.
Ormund had worried you were growing ill, but you only told him it was the heat and long days.
A woman, he believed, was not meant to travel with a host to battle.
Your husband didn't believe such a thing either. But Gwayne was ever the gentleman about it. He wanted you safe in Oldtown, hence why he left you there all those months ago.
But now, every dragon was needed, including yours and your half brother, Daeron's.
Ormund reluctantly brought you with the Hightower army.
You had been an utter nuisance, for Gwayne had made a spoiled wife of you. You were a princess, and such things were to be expected.
It's too hot, the men leer too much, the ground is muddy, the food is bland—
Now, it didn't matter.
For the Rouge Prince had found your camp.
You left the tent, squinting up at the bright sun. Three dragons.
Vermithor was easy to spot. The beast was wide and formidable.
Caraxes was unique.
The third took you a moment to register as Silverwing.
Two of these dragons were supposed to be unclaimed.
Without thinking, you began to run through the camp to your dragon.
Tessarion, Daeron's own, was quick and agile. She was a good beast.
But she was not anything like your Cannibal.
You had claimed him not long before your wedding to Gwayne as a younger girl.
More so… the Cannibal had claimed you.
You had visited Dragonstone with your elder sister, Rhaenyra. The Cannibal had to nearly knock you from Syrax to make you realize he was claiming you.
He was protective and fierce. You loved him deeply.
"Rȳbagon se gīda, cannibal. Se qrinuntys iksis va (Listen and calm, Cannibal. The enemy is near.)" You yelled as you neared, but one of the soldiers caught you by the arm.
Cannibal growls lowly.
The soldier pulled you close. "Lord Ormund wishes to make peace. The War is to be over."
You fought against him. "My husband still fights. Until I am reunited with him, I will not falter."
"You would rather die in the attempt?"
That made you still.
Gwayne would never forgive you for such a thing.
You sigh. "Then what would Ormund have me do?"
…
You stand next to Daeron, surrounded by Hightower soldiers.
Ormund goes to Daemon, and all hold their breath.
You place a steady hand on your half-brother's shoulder. "All will be well, Daeron. Both are stubborn, but Ormund would not throw us into danger."
You see Ormund pull out his sword and kneel.
He was really pledging his fealty so easily. Over rumors.
You only hope that Gwayne would too if it came to it.
"Tessarion must be glad she will not have to fight," you try to ease.
Daeron barely looks at you. He is becoming ever the soldier Ormund wanted.
You and Gwayne had hoped to raise him. You had yet to bear children, and Gwayne would have loved to be like a father to his nephew. But Ormund won out over the two of you.
You run a hand over his current red hair. "All will be well, I hope. We'll go back to Oldtown, and Gwayne will meet us there."
But you hear Daemon's laugh as Ormund walks back to the army.
And suddenly, you're being pulled through the crowd. You fight it and squirm until you're pulled into the clearing.
Walking in front of you is a younger blonde boy.
You look around confused until you catch Ormund's eyes.
That sneaky little shit.
He would offer you up on a platter because he knew Daemon would know you.
But Daeron? This is a random child.
You huff as you move past him to the Rouge Prince. "Must you always make such an entrance?"
He smiles. "I have missed you, niece."
"I wish I could say the same. Where is my husband?"
He shrugs. "Seems we are both wondering that. It is odd to have you here in a war camp without your husband. Don't you think?"
"Who claimed those dragons?"
His brow raises. "Oh, those? Dragonseeds, you see. Loyal to the Queen. Odd, hm? That there are bastards more loyal to your sister than you are."
"I am loyal to Rhaenyra."
He gives you a puzzled look. "Then why do all this?"
"Sometimes you must put aside your beliefs for the ones you love, uncle."
He gives a hearty laugh. "And that is what you believe you are doing."
You push your shoulders back to feign confidence. "Gwayne will defend his father and sister. And I will defend my husband. You would do so for your wife."
"Ah, and I do." He rested his hands on the pommel of his sword. "Otto Hightower, however, needs no loyalty anymore."
"He…" You frown. "What?"
Ormund brings this false Daeron forward as he pretends to be pained by it.
The boy won't even meet your eye. But you won't deny that Ormund did well dyeing his hair a Targaryen silver.
"Well met, nephew," Daemon taunts.
The false Daeron follows him without fuss. You, however, have to be pulled along. You are grateful your dragon is far enough to not see this.
"Stop! What of my dragon?" You spit.
His patience grows thin. "He will be brought to the dragon pit in King's Landing. As will— what's her name— Tessarion?"
"He will hate it there. You cannot control a dragon like him."
"I will take my chances."
Daeron is taken to Caraxes.
"Hugh will be kind to you… hopefully." And you're tossed his way.
Hugh the Hammer, the rider of Vermithor, is a truly gentle man. In other circumstances, you would enjoy his company. That day was not today.
He helped you up, even as you grumbled and complained. Ever the spoiled thing.
But as you left, you saw the look in Ormund's eyes. He smirked up at you.
He always had a plan, but you had no idea if this one included your wellbeing.
Gwayne, you hoped, would be wise enough to find you in King's Landing.
…
Rhaenyra visits you as soon as she knows you're there.
You're held in your old room. Your things are untouched from childhood. It hurts to look upon.
You were a much different girl the last time you were here.
You pick up the small wooden horse on your nightstand. Your father had carved it for you. He had loved you much.
The door opens suddenly, and you drop the poor toy to the ground.
"Rhaenyra."
She's quiet for a long time, as if unbelieving that you were even there. She looks over you. She notes the dirt on your cheek, the dark bags under your eyes, and the tangles in your usually carefully cared for hair.
"Is my husband safe?" You have no fight. No words to strike her with. You've given in.
Her lips tighten to a firm line. "We are in the process of obtaining their surrender."
"Do not hurt Gwayne on account of Criston Cole's foolishness. If my husband knew I was here, he—"
"I am doing what I can," she sighs. "Things are in such disarray."
"And Daeron? What will you do with him?" You don't want an innocent boy harmed on behalf of your half-brother.
"Daemon believes I should kill him." She sees the shock fill your eyes. "I don't believe I shall. He's just a boy. He is a danger to my claim, but perhaps sending him to the Wall will do him well."
"Perhaps…" You are careful with your words. "Perhaps Alicent may say her goodbyes?" You would not directly say the truth of it, but you would help her discover it. That, and you wanted to see Ormund suffer some.
She squints at you. "That is certainly a thought I will consider. You, however, should wash up. The road seems to have been unkind to you."
You shrug. "I spent weeks in a war camp. It damages even the highest spirits. What will you be doing with me, sister?"
"What ever do you mean?" She scoffs. "You are my sister. We grew up together. You will swear your loyalty and that is that."
"Do I not pose a threat myself? My future children?"
She stands in the doorway. "Forgive me, sister, but I do not see a world where you have children. It had been years with your lord husband and still your womb is bare."
Her words sting a deep insecurity inside of you. Only because you know she is right.
"I will have a bath drawn for you. Wash up."
The door shuts behind her, leaving you in silence.
…
A rider hurries through the camp as they begin to pack up this particular morning. They are not far from Harrenhal now.
The rider throws himself from his horse and rushes to Criston Cole.
He seems surprised to get the letter. When he sees the red dragon sigil on the wax seal, he hurriedly opens it.
His dark eyes roam over each word, then reads it once more. He rises slowly.
"The Hightower army has surrendered."
The camp stops.
Gwayne's blood runs cold. He is the only one to move, rushing to the commander. "Surrendered? Casualties? Men lost?"
"There was no battle," he explains, fury beginning to brew under his brows. "They just surrendered to the Prince Daemon and his dragon riding pretenders."
The camp falls into hushed whispers, but Gwayne is far from satisfied.
He gets closer, something akin to terror in his green eyes. "What of my family? My wife, my nephew, my cousin?"
The Commander hesitates, running a hand over the lower half of his face. "The Targaryens have been taken. Held hostage in the castle."
He has to move to a tree to stabilize himself. "She will not let them live. They will be made examples. Dragon riders are… they are dangerous. Our host is down, the Keep taken. We must surrender when they come."
But Cole is already on the move. "Pack faster! We must make Harrenhal by sunset. The King Consort awaits us there."
Gwayne Hightower is left watching the world move around him while his has entirely froze.
He has many choices to make and his wife's life revolves around all of them.
⭑do you know what an orgasm is? rip wheeler x dutton!reader +18
summary: when the youngest Dutton crosses a line she didn't mean to, Rip Wheeler becomes the one man who sees the truth she’s afraid to face—and shows her exactly what she’s been missing.
warnings: mature content ahead — 18+ only, minors do not interact. age gap, fingering, swearing, masturbation, if i'm missing something lmk.
author's note: i'm a sucker for dutton!reader so expect a lot more of that from me. i'm currently writing a ryan x dutton!reader shot lmk if you want to read that too ;)
english is not my first language
The ranch never truly slept.
That was something you’d learned growing up as John Dutton’s youngest daughter—wind in the grass, horses shifting their weight, the low creak of old wood breathing with the night. You’d always loved it. Tonight, though, the silence felt heavier. Too loud.
Rip had been doing his usual night round before heading to bed, boots crunching softly against gravel, the brim of his hat low over his eyes. He wasn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary. The Yellowstone had a way of lulling you into routine—until it didn’t.
That’s when he heard it.
Soft, broken breaths. A sound that didn’t belong to the wind or the animals.
He stopped mid-step.
The stable doors were cracked open, warm light spilling out into the dark. Rip frowned, instincts sharpening as he approached. Then he heard it again—closer this time. A shaky exhale that curled low in his gut before he could stop it.
When he pushed the door open, the sight hit him like a punch to the chest.
You were there.
Leaning against one of the stalls, skirt bunched up around your hips, one hand buried between your thighs. Your forehead glistened with sweat, cheeks flushed a deep raspberry, lips parted like you were caught mid-prayer. Your eyes were closed—so lost in whatever you were chasing that you didn’t notice him at first.
You would never admit—wouldn’t dare—that this had been your intention when you walked into the stable. But earlier, passing by the bunkhouse, you'd overheard the cowboys laughing, joking, talking too freely about women and release and things a lady didn’t usually let herself think about for long.
Frustration had a way of steering you by the hand.
And somehow, without even realizing it, you’d ended up here—hand under your skirt, panties pushed aside, trying to quiet a heat you didn’t fully understand yet.
It took you a few seconds to realize you weren’t alone.
Rip was sure his throat closed up entirely, because when the words finally came out, he didn’t remember deciding to say them.
“I—sorry. I didn’t know.”
His rough voice startled a sound out of you, sharp and breathless. You yanked your hand away from yourself faster than a rooster at dawn.
“Rip! Oh God— I’m sorry, I—” You stumbled over the words, heat rushing to your face as panic set in.
Rip had already turned his back to you, jaw clenched, trying like hell to scrub the image of you touching yourself from his mind before his body betrayed him inside his jeans.
“I shouldn’t stay” he muttered. “It’s alright. I’ll pretend this never happened. You don’t need to be embarrassed.”
He stayed facing away from you, shoulders tense beneath his black shirt, muscles tight like he was bracing for impact.
“Don’t go. Please, wait.”
“I really don’t think I should,” he said quietly.
“Rip, wait. I need to ask you something. It’s important.”
He swallowed hard. “You’re gonna kill me... or get me killed” he muttered, unsure if he meant it for you or for himself.
When he finally turned around, his breath caught. Your cheeks were still flushed, eyes wide now, lips swollen. The image from moments ago replayed in his head whether he wanted it to or not.
“Can’t you ask someone else?” he asked, voice strained.
“Absolutely not. I can’t ask my brothers, and I definitely don’t want to ask my sister.” You hesitated, then just said it. “Do you actually know what an orgasm is?”
The word landed between you like a live wire.
“Not a fake one,” you added quickly. “A real one. Do you know how to tell the difference?”
Rip wanted to turn around and walk straight to his bed—he just didn’t know if it would be to sleep or to deal with the hard knot forming in his pants. He swallowed thickly, trying to figure out if you were serious or pulling some cruel joke.
You’d always been curious. Honest to a fault. But he’d never imagined standing in front of you while you asked him what the hell an orgasm was, cheeks still hot, fingers probably still slick with your own want.
You were definitely trying to kill him.
“What?” was all he managed.
“I’ve only been with one man,” you admitted softly. “And I never felt that rush everyone talks about.”
You squared your shoulders, drawing courage from somewhere deep inside you. You trusted Rip—maybe too much. He was a cowboy through and through. If anyone would know, it would be him.
“And you don’t feel it when you touch yourself?” he asked, voice lower now.
“It feels better than when someone else does,” you said honestly. “But I still don’t get there. I get so close, and then… nothing.”
“I see…” Rip murmured.
Without fully realizing it, he took a step closer. At this point, he was far too interested to pretend otherwise.
“Maybe I can’t,” you whispered. “Maybe she is broken.”
He shook his head immediately. “Sweetheart, I don’t think she's broken. I think no one’s ever known how to take care of her.”
Your breath hitched.
“And what if you tried?” you asked, eyes locked on his. “You don’t have to use your dick. You could use your fingers. Looks like you’ve got very capable hands, cowboy.”
Rip’s hand tightened at his side. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, only looked at you—the way the light caught the edge of your face, the way vulnerability softened your words.
“Don’t say things like that,” he murmured eventually, voice low but steady. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
You didn’t move, didn’t back away. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me,” you said quietly. “That’s why I asked you.”
Something in Rip’s expression shifted—an echo of pain, maybe, or restraint. He stepped closer, slow enough that the air between you seemed to stretch thin. His presence filled the small space like heat.
“I’m not the man you ask for something like that,” he said. “You think I’ve got control, but it’s not the kind you’re asking for. If I touch you now, I won’t be able to stop.”
“I trust you,” you whispered.
Rip was so close now that your breaths tangled between you. He smelled like pine, masculine cologne, and old wood—just that was enough to make a slick warmth gather between your thighs.
All you had to do was look up at him through your lashes, and something inside him snapped.
His gaze darkened, jaw tightening as his rough hands dug into your hips, gripping hard enough that you were sure his fingerprints would bloom there later, bruised and unmistakable.
“Rip… please.”
“You’re so damn pretty,” he muttered, voice low and dangerous, “already begging for something you don’t even know if you can handle. You’re gonna have to hold onto my shoulders so you don’t fall apart, ‘cause nobody’s ever made your legs shake before.”
His hand slid from your hip to the space between your thighs, forcing them apart with a practiced motion. He found your heat easily—too easily. You were ready for him, like you’d given yourself over before he even touched you. Panties soaked and shoved aside, your center wet and pulsing, aching for his attention.
He pushed one finger in, slow and deliberate, just to confirm what he already knew.
When he pulled it back out, a breath tore from your chest—you didn’t want him to leave you empty. What he did instead was almost worse. He lifted his hand, holding his finger up between you, glistening with your arousal.
“Look at you,” he said quietly. “Definitely not broken.”
Before you could answer, he brought his fingers to his mouth, lips closing around them with a low hum. “Mmm… and so sweet, too.”
“Please,” you breathed. “Give it to me.”
“What is it you want?” he asked, eyes locked on yours. “You wanna know what an orgasm feels like? Ask for it, sweetheart. It’s yours.”
“I want you to make me cum, Rip,” you said without flinching. “So hard you ruin my pussy for any other man.”
He let out a dark chuckle. “You kiss your daddy with that mouth?”
“Fuck, Rip.”
He didn’t need any more instructions.
His hand dragged slowly along your slit, teasing until your whole body trembled. Then, when you were shaking and sensitive, he pushed his fingers back inside you. One at first—and when your moans turned desperate, he added a second without warning.
Rip had been right.
No one had ever known how to take care of you before.
What he was doing with his fingers—no one had ever made you feel anything like it. Not even your stupid ex boyfriend with his sad excuse for a cock. Rip was a real man, and if he could do this to you with just his hands, you couldn’t even imagine what he’d do if he fucked you right there.
“Oh my God,” you gasped. “What are you doing to me?”
“Giving you the attention you deserve, princess.”
There were no words for what built inside you. All you could do was grab onto his thick arms and moan his name against his ear.
And then it happened.
The feeling tore through you from head to toe—electric, overwhelming—coiling hot and tight in your lower belly. As if that wasn’t enough, the hand that had claimed your throat joined the other, his fingers never slowing inside you while his thumb found your swollen clit, pressing and circling until you cried out and stars burst behind your eyes.
“Fuck, Rip!”
“Now that,” he said, voice steady and sure, “is an orgasm, sweetheart.”
It hadn’t been romantic—not really—but all you could do was cup his face and pull him down into a kiss, gratitude pouring into it. His fingers were still inside you, and you weren’t sure you wanted them gone, not while your legs still shook like paper.
When he finally pulled them free, he brought them to both your mouths, making you taste yourself along with him, tongues brushing and tangling as you shared it.
For all sakes. Rip Wheeler really did know how to please a woman.
Am I greedy if I ask for that squirting Maekar blurb....? Yes I am I apologize
the way i knew someone would request a continuation *rubs hands with delight* and the way i RAN to write it. not exactly within the grateful prompt list requests, but directly connected to this one work from it, so i highly recommend reading it first
"Why wait for a next time when we have all night?"
You laughed, startled, the sound catching somewhere between disbelief and the specific thrill of watching this man pivot from sleepy and sated to fully focused in under three seconds.
"Maekar, I was joking—"
"Didn't sound like a joke," he said, already moving, already settling between your thighs with the same focused intent he brought to a stuck engine or a stubborn spreadsheet. "Sounded like a dare."
"It's the middle of the night."
"I've got time," he said, and the certainty in it — the same flat, unbothered certainty sent a fresh pulse of want through you even as your thoroughly used body tried, half-heartedly, to protest.
"You're insufferable when you've got a project between hands."
"I'd have this particular project between hands for the rest of my living days," he said, without an ounce of remorse and without thinking of the effect it had on you, and kissed the inside of your knee, working steadily upward with no apparent urgency at all. "Lie back."
He started slow.
That was the thing about Maekar that people who only knew the blunt, four-word version of him never expected — when he decided something was worth doing properly, the patience he brought to it was almost unsettling.
His fingers traced light, exploratory patterns first, reacquainting himself with what was already sensitive and swollen from everything that had come before, watching your face with a particular kind of intensity.
"Still with me?" he asked, teasing.
"Cocky," you managed.
"Confident," he corrected, and pushed two fingers inside you, slow and deliberate, curling them immediately to find the spot he already knew — had mapped, over months, with the same thoroughness he applied to everything — and the sound that left you was immediate and unguarded.
"There," he said. Satisfied. Filing the reaction away.
He worked you with steady, unhurried pressure, his fingers curling against that spot with a consistency that built fast — not rushing toward the goal but building a foundation, the engineer in him understanding that this required structure before results. His thumb found your clit, circling slow, and the doubled sensation had you gasping within minutes, your hips already rocking against his hand.
"Maekar—"
"Not yet," he said. "Just getting started."
He kept the pressure inside you constant, his fingers never quite leaving that spot, the rhythm steady and relentless in a way that built something different from his usual overstimulation — not the scattered, overwhelming chaos of being pushed past one orgasm into another, but something concentrated, specific, building in one precise location with increasing pressure.
"You feel that?" he said, low, watching your face. "Building right here."
"Yes—"
"Good," he said, and didn't change anything. Just kept going. Steady. Relentless. The same focused patience he brought to anything that presented as stubborn, knowing the solution existed and was simply a matter of sustained, correct application.
Your thighs began to shake. The sensation building inside you was different from anything you'd felt before — fuller, more specific, a pressure that felt like it needed somewhere to go and didn't have anywhere yet, building and building without quite tipping over.
"I don't—" you gasped, grabbing his forearm with both of your hands, hard, not to remove him, but to ground yourself. "I don't think I can—"
"You can," he said, with total certainty. "Stop fighting it."
"I'm not—"
"You are," he said. "I can feel you holding back. Stop." His fingers curled harder, the pressure increasing, his thumb never leaving your clit. "Let go. I've got you."
Something about the absolute certainty in his voice — the same certainty he used for everything. The certainty that had driven you mad with desire since the first time you met him and that had made you go feral ever since and said yes to a hundred things you wouldn't have done for anyone else. That certainty now made something in you finally, fully release.
"Oh—" The sound that left you was nothing like your usual ones, higher and more startled, your whole body tensing around his hand. "Maekar—"
"There it is," he said, low and intent, not stopping, not slowing, his fingers maintaining the exact pressure and rhythm that had gotten you here. "Don't hold it. Let go."
The pressure built past the point you thought you could contain it, your back arching off the bed, your hands gripping his forearm as a vice, and when it finally broke it broke completely — a rush of sensation entirely unlike your usual orgasms, your whole body shaking, a cry torn out of you that had no composure left in it whatsoever, and you felt yourself release around his hand with a force that startled you as much as it apparently delighted him.
He made a sound low in his throat — pure satisfaction, pure male pride, the sound of a hypothesis spectacularly confirmed.
"Fuck," he said, watching, his fingers still moving, gentler now but not stopping, working you through every aftershock with the same focused attention he'd applied to building toward it. "Look at that."
"Maekar—" Your voice was wrecked, barely yours.
"Yeah," he said, low and pleased, easing his fingers slower as the waves subsided, watching your whole body shake through the last of it with an expression of deep, almost reverent satisfaction. "That's what I thought."
He didn't withdraw his hand immediately — kept it there, gentle pressure, watching you come down from something that had clearly rewritten several of your previous assumptions about your own body.
"You're insufferable," you managed, when you could speak again.
"You dared me," he said, finally withdrawing his hand and looking at it, and then at you, and moving his hand to his mouth to lick at your release from his fingers with the specific satisfaction of a man surveying completed work.
"I was half asleep."
"Doesn't count," he said, smiling after releasing his digits. "A dare's a dare. And I never lose."
You laughed, breathless and still shaking slightly, and he settled beside you, pulling you against his chest with an arm that had gone notably gentler than five minutes ago.
"How do you feel," he said.
"Destroyed," you said honestly.
"Good destroyed?"
"There's a difference?"
"There is with me," he said, with total confidence, and you laughed again, weaker this time, and felt him press a kiss to the top of your head with something that was almost tender underneath all the smugness.
"You're going to be impossible about this," you said, into his chest.
"Yeah," he agreed. "I'm going to need to confirm it wasn't contextual."
"Maekar, I genuinely cannot—"
"Not tonight," he said, and you felt the almost-smile against your hair. "Give it a minute. We've got all the time in the world."
↪︎want more modern!BFF's dad!Maekar? check out this masterlist!
PRINCESS READER AND CREGAN INFIDELITY PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Like what would Ormund think or how would he react when his innocent little wife is getting dicked down 24/7 and she’s a willing participant. Let alone she got fucked by a northener lol
The Letter
Ormund Hightower X Targ!Reader
The war had been grinding on for eight months, but Ormund Hightower had not slept in four.
Not since the night she disappeared. She had taken Aethan—his son, his blood—and vanished into the darkness like a ghost, like a traitor, like the ungrateful little whore he had always known she could become if he did not keep her close enough.
He had torn the reach apart searching for her. He had sent riders in every direction, had questioned every guard and servant and spy who might have seen something. Nothing. She had simply… gone. As if she had never existed at all. As if the months of marriage, the nights in his bed, the child she had borne him meant nothing. As if he had not shaped her, taught her, owned her.
He had not been the same since. His men whispered about it behind his back. Lord Hightower had grown erratic. Lord Hightower had stopped eating. Lord Hightower's eyes had taken on a wild, feverish light that made even his most seasoned commanders uneasy. He still led them into battle—he was too good a soldier to abandon the war entirely—but his mind was somewhere else. Always somewhere else. Always chasing the ghost of a silver-haired girl who had slipped through his fingers like smoke, taking his son with her.
And now this. The letter had arrived an hour ago, delivered by a rider who had nearly killed his horse getting there. The man had stumbled into camp, half-frozen and wild-eyed, clutching a scroll sealed with the mark of Ormund's own spy network—the network he had deployed across half of Westeros with one purpose and one purpose only: find her.
The tent was crowded with commanders when the rider was ushered in. Ser Brynden stood at Ormund's right hand, as he always did, Ser Gwayne, and half a dozen other knights and lords who had pledged their swords to the Green cause. They had been in the middle of a strategy session, poring over maps and troop movements, planning the next offensive.
Ormund took the scroll without a word. He broke the seal. He read.
His face went pale first. Bone-white, as if all the blood had been drained from his body in a single instant. Then the color rushed back, flooding his cheeks with a dark, dangerous red that spread down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his tunic. His hands began to tremble, just slightly at first, then violently, the parchment shaking in his grip like a leaf in a storm.
"My lord?" Brynden stepped forward, concern etched into his weathered features. "What news?"
Ormund did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the letter, reading and re-reading the words as if repetition might change them. His lips moved silently, forming syllables that no one else could hear. The trembling in his hands spread to his arms, his shoulders, his entire body.
And then he began to scream.
"CREGAN STARK!"
The sound was not human. It was the roar of a wounded animal, a beast caught in a trap, a man whose last thread of sanity had just snapped like a bowstring pulled too tight. The commanders scrambled backward, knocking over chairs and sending maps flying, but Ormund did not seem to see them. He was already moving, already reaching for the sword that rested against the campaign chest in the corner.
"CREGAN FUCKING STARK! I WILL KILL HIM! I WILL TEAR HIS HEART OUT WITH MY BARE HANDS!"
The first blow took the map table in half. Wood splintered and cracked, and the maps that had been spread across it fluttered to the ground like dying birds. Ormund ripped his sword free and swung again, and this time the blade carved a great, jagged slash through the canvas wall of the tent, letting in a shaft of cold grey daylight.
"MY LORD, PLEASE—" Ser Gwayne started forward, but a wild swing of the sword sent him reeling backward, his hands raised in surrender.
"SHE IS MINE!" Ormund brought the sword down on a chair, and the chair exploded. "SHE HAS ALWAYS BEEN MINE! AND HE—THAT NORTHERN SAVAGE—HE HAS TOUCHED HER! HE HAS PUT HIS HANDS ON WHAT BELONGS TO ME!"
She was there. She had been there for weeks. Living openly in Cregan Stark's tent, sleeping in his bed, wearing his colors, warming his furs like some Northern whore. Everyone in the camp knew. Everyone could hear them—the sounds she made, the way she cried out his name, the way she begged for more. His wife. His Aethan's mother. Screaming for another man like a common camp follower. A public affair, the letter said. A very public affair. As if she wanted everyone to know. As if she wanted him to know.
And the child. His son. Living under Stark's protection, being held by Stark's hands, perhaps already learning to call another man father. The thought made something behind his eyes go red and hot and blinding.
"DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY ARE DOING RIGHT NOW?" He rounded on his commanders, and they shrank back from the madness in his eyes. "RIGHT NOW, WHILE WE STAND HERE DISCUSSING STRATEGY AND SUPPLY LINES? HE IS TOUCHING HER! HE IS INSIDE HER! HE IS MAKING HER MOAN—THOSE MOANS BELONG TO ME!"
He threw the letter aside and grabbed another chair, hurling it against the central support pole with enough force to shatter it into kindling.
"I taught her everything," he snarled, his voice cracking. "Everything she knows about pleasure, everything she knows about her own body—I taught her that. I was the first. I was the only. And now she—she is using what I taught her with HIM—"
He could see it. That was the worst part. He could see it so clearly in his mind, as if he were standing in the corner of Stark's tent watching. Her silver hair spread across Stark's furs. Her body arching beneath another man's hands. Her lips parting on another man's name. The sounds she made, the expressions that crossed her face, the way she clung and gasped and pleaded—all of it, all of it, was his. He had discovered it. He had cultivated it. He had spent months learning every secret her body held, every spot that made her gasp, every rhythm that made her shatter.
And now Stark was reaping the harvest. Stark was enjoying the fruits of Ormund's labor. Stark was touching what Ormund had claimed, had trained, had owned.
The thought made him want to kill someone. Everyone.
"GET ME A MAP!" he bellowed, driving his sword into the floorboards. "A MAP OF THE NORTH! I WANT TO SEE THE FASTEST ROUTE TO WINTERFELL!"
Ser Brynden stepped forward, his old bones creaking, his weathered face set in lines of grim determination. "My lord, you cannot—"
"I CAN AND I WILL!" Ormund rounded on him, and for a terrible moment, the sword came up. But Brynden did not flinch. He stood his ground, steady as an oak, and met his lord's wild gaze without blinking.
"Strike me if you must," Brynden said quietly. "I have served your house for forty years. I served your father, and his father before him. And I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself."
"Destroy myself? DESTROY MYSELF?" Ormund laughed, and the sound was utterly unhinged. "I am already destroyed! Do you not see that? She destroyed me the moment she spread her legs for another man!"
"Then let her destruction mean something." Brynden's voice was steady, measured, the voice of a man talking a jumper down from a ledge. "Win the war, my lord. Win the war, and you can have everything. Everything."
Ormund's grip on the sword tightened. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that if you ride north now, you die. You take men into the snow, into Stark territory, and you die. Cregan Stark will put your head on a spike, and your wife will watch, and she will not shed a single tear. Is that what you want? To give him the satisfaction? To give her the satisfaction?"
The words hit Ormund like a physical blow. He staggered, his free hand coming up to press against his temple.
"No," he said, his voice raw. "No. She is mine. She belongs to me."
"Then win the war first." Brynden stepped closer, close enough to lay a hand on Ormund's arm. The touch was gentle, almost paternal. "Win the war, and you win everything. The Iron Throne will owe you a debt that can never be repaid. You can demand Stark's head. You can demand your wife's return. You can have her back in your bed, back where she belongs, and you can make Stark watch while you remind her exactly who she answers to. But only if you win."
The tent was silent. The other commanders held their breath. Somewhere outside, a horse whinnied, and the wind snapped against the torn canvas walls.
Ormund stood perfectly still, his chest heaving, his eyes wild, his sword still clutched in his white-knuckled grip. The letter lay crumpled on the floor at his feet, the words still burning in his mind—words about her, about him, about the sounds she made and the way she cried his name. Stark's name. Not his. Never his, not anymore.
"Stark's head," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "On a spike. Outside my gates."
"Yes," Brynden agreed. "Stark's head on a spike."
"And my wife. Back in my bed. Back where she belongs. In chains if necessary."
Brynden hesitated. "Yes."
"And my son. Back in my house."
"Yes."
Ormund closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the wild, feverish light had not disappeared, but it had banked. Transforming from an inferno into something colder, something infinitely more dangerous.
"Then we win this war," he said. He pulled his sword from the floorboards and slid it back into its sheath with a soft, deadly hiss. "We win this war, and we take King's Landing, and we put Daeron on the throne. And when it is done—when the dragons are dead and the pretender queen is ash and there is no one left to stand against us—I will march north with a full army at my back. And I will tear Winterfell apart stone by stone until I find her."
He turned to face his commanders, and the smile that spread across his face made every man in the tent take an involuntary step backward.
"And when I do," he said, "I am going to make her watch while I kill him. I am going to make her watch every single moment of it. I am going to make her see what happens to men who touch what belongs to me. And then—" He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting them all imagine it. "Then she is coming home. And she is never leaving again.
Cregan Stark was a dead man. He just did not know it yet. Every battle Ormund fought, every victory he won, every strategic decision he made, all of it was in service of that single, burning goal. Win the war. Claim the throne. Take back what was his.
The war would end, and Cregan Stark would die, and Ormund Hightower would have his family back—by any means necessary. By fire and blood, if that was what it took.
He had been patient once before, he could be patient again. He could wait. He could plan. He could let the rage simmer and build and concentrate into something lethal.
--
Every night, the same ritual. Ormund Hightower would sit alone in his tent, a flagon of wine at his elbow, the crumpled spy's letter spread before him on the table, and he would lose his mind all over again.
He tried not to. He tried to focus on strategy, on supply lines, on the thousand logistical details that came with commanding an army. But the moment the silence descended, the moment he was alone with his thoughts, the images would come creeping back. Vivid. Detailed. Unbearable.
Her. With him. Cregan Stark was younger than Ormund. That was the first thing that ate at him, gnawing at his pride like a rat at a corpse. Stark was her age—only a few years older than her, if that. A young man in his prime, not a grizzled lord of forty with grey threading his temples and lines deepening around his eyes. Stark was tall and broad-shouldered and hard-muscled from a lifetime of swinging a greatsword in the Northern wilderness. Stark had a full head of dark hair and a strong jaw and the kind of rugged, wolfish handsomeness that maidens swooned over in the songs.
Ormund had seen him once, years ago, at some tourney or council. He remembered thinking the boy was arrogant. Northern savages, all of them. But now—now he could not stop picturing that arrogance in his bed. In his wife.
He would pour another cup of wine and drink it down in one burning swallow, but the images only grew sharper.
Stark's hands on her hips. Stark's mouth on her throat. Stark's body—younger, harder, stronger—pressing her into the furs. The furs. Northern furs, rough and barbaric, not the fine silk sheets of the Hightower. And she was moaning for him. Making those sounds—those sounds that Ormund had discovered, had cultivated, had taught her to make—for another man.
A younger man.
A man her own age.
"FUCK!"
The goblet flew across the tent and clanged against the central pole, spraying wine across the canvas. Ormund was on his feet, pacing, his hands tearing through his hair.
He was not just any man. That was the second thing. That was what made it so much worse. Cregan Stark was the Lord of Winterfell. The Warden of the North. A Great Lord in his own right, who ruled a territory larger than all the other Kingdoms combined. His titles were ancient and unimpeachable. His bloodline stretched back eight thousand years to the First Men, to the Kings of Winter. The Starks had been royalty when the Hightowers were still lighting signal fires and calling it civilization.
Ormund was a powerful man. He knew that. He was the Lord of Oldtown, the Beacon of the South, the head of one of the oldest and wealthiest houses in the Reach. But he was not a Great House. He was not a Warden. He was a vassal to the Tyrells, technically, however much he might disdain them. He did not have a crown in his history. He did not have the blood of kings.
But Stark did.
She was a princess of the blood. A Targaryen. A dragonrider. And now she was spreading her legs for a man who could call himself her equal—or near enough. A man whose titles could almost match her own. A man who could give her a castle that had stood for thousands of years, a kingdom that bowed to no one, a name that commanded respect across the entire continent.
What could Ormund give her that Stark could not match or exceed?
The thought made him want to kill someone. "HE IS NO BETTER THAN ME!" he roared at the empty tent. "HE IS A SAVAGE IN FURS! HE KNOWS NOTHING OF HER! HE DOES NOT KNOW HER THE WAY I DO!"
But the cruel voice in the back of his mind whispered: He knows her now. He's learning her. Every night, he's learning her.
He hurled the wine flagon against the tent pole, and it shattered, spraying dark red liquid across the maps and the bedroll and the crumpled letter. He picked up a chair and smashed it against the ground. He drove his fist into the tent pole, once, twice, three times, until his knuckles were bloody and the pain cut through the red haze for a few blessed seconds.
"She was MINE!" he screamed at no one. "She was MINE before she was his! She will be MINE after he is dead!"
But the voice whispered: She chose him. She ran from you and chose him.
He staggered to his cot and collapsed onto it, his bloody hand pressed to his face, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The images would not stop. They never stopped. Every night, the same torture.
Her on her back, her hair fanned out across Stark's furs, her eyes hazy with pleasure. Her legs wrapped around his waist—his young, hard waist, not the softening middle of a man twenty years her senior. Her nails raking down his back. Her lips forming his name. Stark. Cregan. Not Ormund. Never Ormund.
Did she think of him at all? When Stark was inside her, when she was crying out for him, when she was shattering around him—did she remember the man who had taught her what pleasure was? Did she remember her husband?
Or had she forgotten him entirely?
"Ungrateful little WHORE," he snarled, but the word felt hollow. Because she was not a whore, was she? A whore took coin. A whore spread her legs for anyone. She had spread her legs for one man—one other man—and that made it so much worse. That made it a choice. She had chosen Stark. She wanted Stark. She was with Stark not out of duty or desperation but because she preferred him.
Because he was younger. Because he was her age. Because he was a Great Lord, a Warden, a man whose power matched her own.
Because he was not Ormund.
"I GAVE HER EVERYTHING!" The cry was torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "I gave her a home, a name, a son! I protected her! I loved her! And she—she threw it all away for—for a Northern savage who—"
Who could give her a kingdom. Who could give her a castle that made the Hightower look like a merchant's counting house. Who could give her the blood of the First Men, the loyalty of the North, a place at the side of a man who answered to no one but himself.
Ormund had spent his entire life climbing. Clawing his way up the ladder of power, building alliances, accumulating influence. He had married a Targaryen princess—a feat that should have been the crowning achievement of his house. And now she was in another man's bed, and that man outranked him, and there was nothing—nothing—he could do about it except win this damned war and take her back by force.
"I will kill him," he whispered into the darkness. "I will kill him slowly. I will make it last for days. I will make her watch every moment of it. And when he is dead—when she has seen what happens to men who touch what is MINE—she will beg for my forgiveness. She will crawl back to me on her knees. And I will decide whether to give it to her."
He lay back on the cot, staring at the canvas ceiling, his bloody hand cradled against his chest. Outside, the camp was quiet. The sentries walked their posts. The horses stamped in the picket lines. The army slept.
But Ormund Hightower did not sleep. He never slept anymore. He just lay there in the darkness, listening to the sound of his own ragged breathing, and pictured his wife in another man's arms.
Younger. Stronger. Higher-born.
It did not matter. None of it mattered. Because when this war was over, Cregan Stark would be dead, and YN would be back in his bed where she belonged, and he would spend the rest of his life reminding her exactly who owned her.
That was the thought he clung to. That was the thought that got him through the night.
That, and the image of Stark's head on a spike outside the gates of Oldtown, his sightless eyes staring at nothing, his blood dripping down the stone walls.
summary : one last night together before the dragons called your husband to war
warnings : smut, breeding kink, oral, religious imagery and other things I probably forgot MINOR DNI!!!
words : + 4,5k
a/n : wrote this instead of studying… 😭 there is a serious lack of ormund and gwayne fics in this fandom, and frankly, someone has to do something about it…. i guess that someone is me 🫦
ORMUND HAD ALWAYS LIKED THINGS SWEET SMELLING.
Like you, he would murmur on those rare evenings when the two of you shared a bath, the steam curling about you both.
You had known that since the day you wed him. He could not abide foul odors, nor the people who carried them. A man who stank of sweat and horses, a servant with dirty hands, a fisherman fresh from the docks —Ormund would wrinkle his nose at them all. It was a lordly failing, though hardly one unique to him.
A Hightower through and through, your husband was: pious, dutiful, ever respectful of the Faith. Septons were as common at his table as salt and bread, forever discoursing on the Seven, morality, and the duties of men. You had listened to such talks all your life. Being the daughter of a lesser lord, you had been raised in the Faith no less than he.
You had been his second wife. Not a marriage forged solely for duty or advantage, but one in which affection had found room to grow. You loved him. Of that much you were certain. And he had loved you too, in his own quiet way.
The Hightowers stood close to the Iron Throne in those days. Not as close as they once had, perhaps, yet close enough. Ormund's cousin had been queen, and now sat as the Dowager Queen Mother. Many a noble house would have counted such kinship a blessing beyond measure. Even you, as a girl, might once have thought so. What daughter of a minor lord would not have dreamed of wedding into so illustrious a line?
Today, you cursed it.
Cursed the dragons and their fucking crown. Cursed the blood ties that forever seemed to drag good men into wars that were not theirs.
For it was those same ties that had called Ormund to battle once again.
And not only Ormund.... Daeron as well. Kind and ever dutiful Daeron. Your husband's cousin's son, though Ormund had always cherished the boy as if he were his own. He spoke of him with pride, worried over him, laughed at his jests. A second son in all but name.
Now both rode toward war, and you remained behind, left to pray that the gods would prove kinder than kings.
The master bedchambers smelled of tallow wax and the crushed lavender you pressed into the linens each morning, the one Ormund loved so much.
Outside, the campfires of the Reach's host flickered against the city walls like a ring of captured stars. Ten thousand men. A dragon.... and your husband at the head of it all.
You sat at the edge of the bed, fingers worrying at a loose thread on your shift. The lilac silk slipped cool against your skin. Ormund had gifted it to you for your nameday. You had been accustomed to plain cotton shifts all your life, but this one had come all the way from Lys, or so he had proudly told you.
The seven-pointed star hanging from a delicate gold chain rested against your chest, emeralds glimmering in the candlelight. Another gift. Ormund was fond of gifts.
You took the pendant between your fingers before raising it to your lips, worrying the gold gently between your teeth.
Somewhere below, deep within the Hightower's vast foundations, a smith's hammer rang against steel.
Clang.
The sound traveled through stone and timber alike. You felt the faint vibration through the gold pendant, against your teeth and jaw.
Clang.
The forge never truly slept. Not in Oldtown. Not in the shadow of the Hightower.
You let the pendant fall back against your breast and listened, wondering how many swords were being hammered into shape for a war you wished had never come.
Ormund stood at the window, still in his green expensive leathers. The candlelight carved deep hollows under his cheekbones. He'd been standing there for nearly an hour, watching his army, one hand braced against the stone like he was already holding the realm's weight.
"I could still ask the Dowager Queen to appoint another commander."
Ormund turned toward you. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
"Do not be ridiculous, my love. I would refuse. This is a matter of family. My cousin has need of me." He paused. "And I must set an example for Daeron."
Of course he would.
You knew it as surely as you knew the silver seven-pointed star he wore beneath his tunic would find its way to his lips before dawn, before he mounted his horse and rode to war. You knew he had already sent letters to the Citadel, to the Starry Sept, and to half the septons in Oldtown besides, asking for prayers. Prayers for victory. Prayers for protection. Prayers for his soul.
Ormund Hightower trusted in steel, but he trusted in the Seven more.
"And what of Daeron?" you asked, folding your arms across your chest. "Isn't it dangerous for him?"
"It is war. There is danger in that by its very nature."
The answer did not soothe you.
"He'll be disguised," Ormund continued hands behind his back. "His hair will be dyed, and he will serve as my squire. No man beyond those who need know will recognize him."
"A prince playing at being a squire."
"A future king learning what war truly is." There was no hesitation in his voice. "The boy has spent his life hearing songs of battle. It is time he learned the difference between songs and reality."
You looked away.
Daeron was scarcely more than a boy, no matter what crowns and prophecies awaited him, but then again, wars had never cared much for the age of the boys they swallowed.
"And your own children?" you asked quietly. "What of them?"
Ormund's gaze softened.
For all his piety, all his duty, there were few things he loved more fiercely than his children.
"They will remain here, where they belong."
"In Oldtown?"
"In Oldtown," he agreed. "Beneath the Hightower's protection. Surrounded by kin, and by men I trust."
Would they understand why their father had gone? Would they forgive him if he did not return?
"The younger ones will miss you." A shadow crossed his face. "As I will miss them." It was the closest he had come all evening to admitting fear.
Neither of you spoke then. The wind rattled softly against the shutters.
"Have you told them?" you asked, playing with your necklace.
"Not all of it."
A sad smile touched his lips, and you looked down, shaking your head.
"I dreamed of fire," you said quietly. "Three nights running. I wake with my hands aching, and I think — "
"I know what you think, my love." He crossed the room, his boots heavy on the flagstones. His hand cupped your jaw, rough and warm, and he tilted your face up. The lavender on your skin rose to meet him. "I have thought it too. Every hour of every day," His thumb traced your lower lip. "But all will be well."
"You cannot promise that."
"I can." He bent, pressed his forehead to yours. "I am promising you. I will burn this war down to cinders if it means I come home to you."
The words should have terrified you. Instead they settled somewhere deep in your chest, hot and alive.
His other hand found yours, brought your palm to his mouth. He kissed the center of it, then another kiss, and another, his lips lingering.
"I will miss you dearly," he said roughly. Like it cost him. "Every sunrise I do not wake to your hair tangled across my pillow, every night I do not hear you breathe beside me. I will think of you when I am wading through mud and blood and fire. You will be the thing that keeps me walking forward."
Your throat closed, but you nodded, because speech felt impossible.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, then he stood up. The candlelight caught the hard line of his jaw, you thought as you looked up at him. High Lord of Oldtown. Commander of the largest army left in Westeros. A man who had outlived a wife, buried a father, and inherited a war.... and he was looking at you like you were the only altar he had ever knelt at.
"One night," he said. "Give me one night of forgetting the fire."
You slowly stood up and reached for the laces of his tunic. Your fingers knew this work — had done it a hundred times, a thousand. But tonight every brush of knuckle against his chest felt like a prayer.
"You think too much," he murmured against your hair.
"One of us must."
He chuckled, and the sound of it sent heat pooling between your thighs. His hands found your waist through the silk, gripped, pulled you in your toes. The shift pooled against your body, and he followed the line of it down with his eyes.
"This scent." His voice dropped. Rough. Almost reverent. "Lavender and honey and something I cannot name. Something that is only you." He bent his head to the curve of your neck, inhaled. "I could drown in it. Drink it until I forget every other thing the world has to offer."
Your hands found his hair — thick, dark, threaded with silver at the temples. You tugged, just enough to pull his face to yours.
"Then drown."
His mouth crashed against yours. No gentleness now, no, this was hunger, the kind a man carries when he does not know when he will taste his wife again. His teeth scraped your lower lip, and you opened for him, let him in, let him take.
His hands found the ties of your shift. He pulled, and the silk whispered down your shoulders, caught at your breasts, fell to pool at your feet. The air hit your skin, cold and alive.
He broke the kiss to look at you.
Ormund Hightower had seen you bare a hundred times. He had mapped every freckle, every scar, every curve. But tonight he looked at you like he was memorizing the geography of you for a journey he might not return from.
"You are beautiful," he said. And then, quieter: "You are the only thing I have ever been certain of."
He lowered himself.
First to his knees. The commander of armies. The head of House Hightower. On his knees before you in the candlelight, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth pressing a line of kisses down your stomach.
"Ormund — "
"Hush." His voice against your skin. "Let me pray my way."
He guided you backward until your knees hit the bed, until you sank onto the furs. He stayed on the floor, pulling you to the edge, your legs falling open around his shoulders.
The first touch of his mouth made you gasp.
He didn't rush. Ormund had never rushed with you. He pressed open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh, slow, deliberate, his shaved skin scratching the sensitive skin. Lower and closer. His breath hot and damp against you.
"Tell me what you want."
You knew what he wanted to hear. "Your mouth."
"My mouth where?"
You reached down, fisted your hand in his hair. "Between my legs. Now... " He didn't move, "... please."
He smiled against your skin. "There. That was not so difficult."
And then his tongue found you.
You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper. His hands had your thighs spread wide, his grip firm enough to bruise. He licked you like a man dying of thirst — broad strokes of his tongue through your wetness, then tighter, circling the place that made your hips buck.
"Ormund—"
"Quiet. Let me taste you."
He buried his face deeper, and the sound he made — a low, guttural groan, something feral and hungry — rumbled through your whole body, through your bones, through the slick heat of where his mouth was. His nose ground against your clit, hard, while his tongue pushed inside you, fucking into your hole, and your hands tangled in his hair, in the furs, in anything you could claw at to keep yourself from dissolving.
His thumbs spread your folds wide, pinning you open, and he licked the full flat of his tongue from your entrance all the way up to the swollen bud, then circled it, once, twice, before sucking it between his lips. Your back arched off the furs. You yanked his hair. He only hummed — that vibration drove straight through your clit, down your spine, wet and deep into your cunt. He did it again, harder, just to feel you clench around nothing.
He pulled back for a breath. His chin was soaked. His lips were slick with you.
"Your cunt tastes like fucking honey, my love." His voice was rough, wrecked.
"The Septon," you gasped, and he bit your clit — sharp, not gentle — a warning and a promise pressed between his teeth, "would not approve of such — fuck — such blasphemy from his most faithful lord."
Ormund lifted his head. Just enough. His chin glistened, strands of your wetness hanging in a thin thread from his lower lip. His eyes were black, pupils blown wide, no whites showing around the edges.
"The Septon is not the one who will make you scream my name tonight."
He drove two fingers into you without warning — no tease, no circling, just the thick stretch of them filling you to the knuckle, cold steel of his rings pressing against your entrance, against your stretched rim. You cried out, a broken sound, and he crooked them, found that rough spot inside you that made your vision splinter, and set a rhythm (hard, deep, relentless) that had you grinding against his palm, riding his fingers, your slick running down his wrist.
"Filthy," you managed. "The things you say."
"Filthy things." He curled his fingers again. "About how your cunt grips me. About how I want to fill you so full of my seed that you carry another Hightower in your belly when I ride to war. About how every man in my camp will look at my swelling wife and know that I have claimed her. That I marked her and that she is mine."
The words, low and rough and spoken against your wet flesh, pushed you to the edge. You felt it building : a coil in your gut, tightening, burning.
"Let go," he murmured. "Let go for me, I want to taste it."
His mouth closed over your clit, and he sucked, and the world finally shattered.
You came with a cry that you barely recognized, your back arching, your thighs clamping around his head. He did not stop. He licked and fingered you through it, slow and patient, drawing out every pulse, every shudder, until you collapsed against the furs, gasping.
He rose over you, still in his leathers, his chin wet, his pupils blown wide. He pulled his fingers out slow, dragged them up through your slick, painted it across your stomach in a lazy smear.
"Now," he said, and his voice was barely human, "I am going to fuck you."
He stripped with rough efficiency — leather hitting the floor, belt buckle clattering against stone.
When he was bare, the candlelight caught the scars on his body: a pale line across his ribs from some forgotten skirmish, a circle of mottled skin on his shoulder from a burn.
He climbed onto the bed, his weight pressing you into the furs. His cock slid through your wetness, not entering, just… there, hard and hot against your thigh.
"You have no idea," he said, his voice a low rasp against your lips, "what it does to me. Knowing you are mine. Knowing I am the only man who has ever been inside you." He pushed the head in just enough to stretch you, just the tip, and held there. "The only man who ever will be."
Your hand wrapped around his shaft. He was hot, pulsing against your palm, and you spread his pre-cum from the slick tip down the length of him, fisting him slow, feeling every thick inch of his vein press against your fingers.
"Then prove it." Your voice came out wrecked already, and you hadn't even taken him yet. You squeezed, dragged your thumb over the head, and he ground his hips forward, buried his face in your neck, nipped at the skin there hard enough to bruise. "Prove it to me," you breathed.
He caught your hand, pinned it above your head, fingers laced through yours against the furs. And then he pushed in.
Slow and torturous. Inch by inch you felt every ridge of him, every vein dragging against your walls, stretching you open from the inside. Your body yielded for him, gripped him, your cunt clenching around the invasion, trying to pull him deeper even as he fed himself into you. Your mouth fell open and he was there — swallowing the sound, kissing you deep, messy, his tongue pushing past your lips the same way his cock pushed into your cunt, both of you full of each other.
When he bottomed out, he broke the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged.
"Fuck," he said. Just that. Like the word had been punched out of him.
He stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting you feel the weight of him, the fullness, the way your body kept spasming around him in small, desperate clenches.
Then he pulled back (almost all the way out) and drove back in. Hard. The sound of it wet and deep, your body taking him, your nails raking down his back.
When he was fully seated, he stopped.
He rested his forehead against yours, taking your jaw, making you look at him. His breath came ragged. "Look at me."
So you did.
"I love you," he said. "If I do not come home — "
"You will."
"If I do not come home, I want you to know that I loved you. Every day. Every hour. Every breath."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulled him deeper.
"Show me." You whispered, not wanting to say something that may make you weep.
He did.
He fucked you like a man possessed. Hard and deep. His hips slammed into yours, the bed groaning beneath you, the headboard knocking against the stone wall. He grabbed your wrists, pinned them above your head, and drove into you with the same focus he brought to a war council.
"You feel that?" His voice was wrecked. "Feel how deep I am? That is where I will live. Inside you, even when I am a thousand leagues away."
He let go of your wrists, and your nails raked down his back. He hissed, bit your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.
"I want to leave bruises on you," he growled. "I want you to look at your body in the morning and see evidence of me. Every mark, bite, and drop of my seed."
He drove deeper. The angle shifted, and suddenly he was hitting somewhere new, somewhere that made stars burst behind your eyes.
"Yes — there — "
"I know." His voice a broken laugh. "I know your body better than I know my own prayers."
He dropped his hand between your bodies. His thumb found your puffy clit, rubbed tight circles in time with his thrusts. The double sensation (his cock filling you, and fingers working you) dragged you back toward that edge.
"Come for me," he said. "Come on my cock... let me feel you."
You shattered again, harder this time, your inner walls clenching around him. He groaned, low and long, and kept fucking you through it, chasing his own end.
"I am going to fill you." His voice broke. "I am going to pour every drop into you, and you are going to take it. All of it."
His rhythm faltered. His hips stuttered. He sank deep, buried to the hilt, and you felt it — hot and thick, pulsing inside you, wave after wave. He cried out, a sound caught somewhere between a prayer and a curse, his body shuddering against yours.
The two of you lay together in the darkness, the warmth of his body a comfort against the chill creeping in from the sea.
After a time, you shifted, pressing a hand against him and gently urging him onto his back.
Ormund let out a low sound of amusement but offered no resistance. He settled against the pillows, looking up at you with a weary smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
His hand found your hip, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"There she is," he murmured, his voice rough with fatigue.
You smiled back at him — lazy, wrecked, your hair plastered to your forehead in dark sweaty strands. You pushed them behind your ears, lifted yourself off his hips, and the first thing you felt was it: his seed, hot and thick, sliding out of you, dripping from your puffy, overstimulated folds down the inside of your thigh.
His eyes caught it immediately. The way it glistened, the way your cunt was still clenching around nothing, trying to hold onto what he'd left in you.
He didn't say a word. He just reached down, two fingers sliding through the mess, gathering it — white and warm and slippery — and pushed them back into your hole. Pumped them once, twice, forcing his own cum deeper into you, plugging you with it.
You bucked against his hand, grinding down, chasing the pressure, but he pulled his fingers out and brought them to your lips instead.
"Suck."
You opened your mouth. Took them. Tasted yourself on his skin — salt and slick and the bitter-thick taste of him, the taste of what he'd filled you with. You sucked clean every drop, your tongue working between his fingers, your eyes on his.
He watched you. Jaw tight. Breathing shallow.
And while you sucked, your other hand found his cock. Still hard and thick and wet with the both of you. You wrapped your palm around the shaft and pushed yourself down, positioned yourself over him, and sank down in one motion.
Both of you groaned, the sound of him filling you again, the stretch of it, the way your walls were already so sensitive they gripped him like a fist.
His fingers slipped from your mouth with a wet pop. A string of spit connected your lower lip to his knuckle, then broke.
You didn't waste a second.
You rode him, hips circling, grinding, taking him deeper with every roll of your pelvis. Your walls clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, milking him, and he moaned through clenched teeth, his hands finding your bare back, nails dragging down your spine.
The bed frame groaned beneath you both, a wooden rhythm that matched the wet sound of your bodies slapping together. His hand slid to your ass, squeezed the flesh hard enough to leave prints, and used the grip to guide your pace : faster, harder, deeper.
The sept burned around you, or maybe that was just the fever in your blood. The chamber you'd made into a shrine — the carved rosewood bed, the seven-branched candlestick flickering on the table, the crystal in the window that scattered the moonlight into a thousand fractured rainbows across the sheets.... and the two of you, tangled in them, sweat-slick and sinning.
Around your throat, the seven-pointed star he'd put there — gold, heavy, warm against your skin, rising and falling with every labored breath. It swung forward each time you rose, caught the light each time you fell, its points pressed into the hollow of your throat like a brand.
On his chest, the silver star. Resting in the thatch of dark hair, rising and falling, the metal warm from his skin, glinting in the candlelight like a wet eye watching.
You braced yourself on him first — palms flat against the muscle of his chest, fingers splaying in the hair there, feeling the slick of sweat between your skin and his, feeling the seven pointed star's cool edges press into your left hand. Then you found the headboard : rosewood.
Up.
The length of him dragged against the inside of you — every ridge, every vein, every inch of him a promise and a threat. The air caught in your throat.
Down.
You took him to the hilt, felt him bottom out, felt the pleasure-pain of being filled to bursting. The star settled back against your throat. His breath punched out of him — a sound that was half a groan, half a prayer to gods who had long since stopped listening.
Up again.
Your breasts swung forward, the nipples dark and peaked and aching. Sweat ran between them, down your belly, slick on your thighs where they gripped his hips. The golden star danced at your throat.
To Ormund's eyes, you might have been the Mother herself, or the Maiden descended from the heavens. It made no matter which. No holy image painted upon a sept wall could ever compare to the sight of you above him, your hair spilling over your shoulders like a silken veil.
A sin, the septons would say. Perhaps it was.
Ormund had spent half his life listening to septons speak of duty, virtue, and temptation. Yet in that moment, with your hands upon him and the candlelight dancing across your skin, he found he cared very little for their judgments.
Let the gods condemn him if they must, so long as it was you.
Down again, and you watched him watching you — watched his eyes trace the path of the gold bouncing against your skin, watched the hunger settle into his face like a man starved who'd just been told there was more.
His hands found your hips. Found the curve where waist flared into thigh. His fingers bit in, hard enough to bruise, and he guided you — set the rhythm — made you take him deeper, and deeper still, until you couldn't tell where his body ended and yours began.
The silver star on his chest rose and fell. Rose and fell. You reached for it (for the chain, for the pendant, for the symbol of everything you were supposed to be sorry for) and wrapped your fingers around it. The metal bit into your palm. You pulled yourself down onto him using it, and he came up to meet you, drove himself deeper, and the sound you made was animal.
His mouth found yours. Tongues first — wet and searching, tasting yourself on his lips, tasting him on yours, then teeth. You bit his lower lip, drew blood, swallowed his groan. His hand fisted in your hair, yanked your head back, bared your throat to the moonlight and the rainbows from the crystal.
He kissed down. Over your jaw. Down the column of your throat. Tongue tracing the line of the golden chain, following it to where the star rested in the hollow below your throat. He breathed there — hot breath on the metal, on your flushed skin, and then his mouth closed over the star itself, his tongue pressing it against your thumping pulse.
Lower. Between your breasts, his light beard rough against the tender skin, his tongue leaving a wet trail down your sternum. He took his time; licked the sweat from the underside of your left breast. Traced a circle around the hard peak of your nipple without touching it, once, twice, until you were arching your back, pushing yourself toward his mouth, desperate.
He gave it to you. Closed his lips over your left nipple and sucked — hard, pulling it deep into the heat of his mouth, his tongue working the stiff peak, his teeth grazing, the sensation sharp and bright and holy all at once. You moaned, and the sound bounced off the walls, off the crystal, off the seven-pointed star at your throat.
And then his hand found your right breast. Squeezed, palmed the weight of it, felt how it filled his hand. Then his thumb and forefinger found the nipple there, found it hard and aching, and he pinched. Hard. Rolled it between his fingers like a man testing a ripe berry, feeling its texture, feeling the way it peaked and tightened further under his touch, feeling the way your whole body shuddered when he pulled.
Humming. The sound vibrated through his mouth into your left nipple, through his fingers into your right. Humming like a septon at prayer, like this was worship.
Then he broke away. Licked a wet path up your chest — tasted the salt and sweat pooled in your skin, dragged his tongue over your chest, over the jut of your collarbone.
You threw your head back, arched your throat, offered him the soft vulnerable hollow of it, and he took what was offered. His teeth grazed your pulse. His tongue pressed against the tendon. The golden star at your throat got tangled in his hair for a moment, and you felt the weight of it pull, felt the chain dig into the back of your neck, and you didn't care.
His lips found your ear. His breath came ragged and hot — a hunter's breath, the breath of a man who'd run you down and meant to devour.
"I would make a religion of you," he said, the words scraping out of some wounded place inside him. "Your scent.... The smell of your skin. The taste of your cunt, sweet and slick on my tongue. I would wear it like a holy oil. I would breathe it in until I forgot the names of every god who ever watched us sin. I would fuck you in every sept from the Wall to the Summer Sea and call that prayer enough."
You heard him. Felt the words land in your belly like stones dropped into still water. Felt them ripple through you, through the place where he was still buried inside you, through the golden star pressing against your throat.
You took his face in your hands. Felt the silver star dig into your palm where his chest pressed against yours. Felt the gold one warm against both of you.
And then you kissed him : open-mouthed and hungry, teeth and tongue, the taste of blood and sweat and something that might have been salvation — and you rode him like a storm, like a prayer, like a woman who had found her god and meant to keep him.
You cried out, rode him, up and down, up and down, circling him, then up and down again, arching into his touch, back bowing, your rhythm faltering, then you felt it : the burn in your thighs, the ache in your hips, your body begging you to slow down.
He saw it, no, felt it in the way your pace stuttered.
And then he had you flipped. You didn't even see it coming, just the world spinning, the furs catching your fall, his body heavy on your back, one hand yanking your hips up into the air. He hooked your leg over his shoulder, spread you open, and drove back into you without a pause.
The angle was different. He hit something that made your vision white out, your mouth open in a soundless scream against the furs. He didn't stop, didn't even slow. Just fucked into you with that same relentless rhythm, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other tangled in your hair, pulling your head back.
And when you finally came (when your body seized around him, your cunt pulsing and milking and begging) he followed. Buried to the hilt, his hips stuttering, his groan low and broken in your ear, his release flooding you, hot and endless, mixing with everything he'd already put inside you.
He stayed there. Breathing hard. Sweat dripping from his forehead onto your neck. Neither of you moved for a long moment. Just the sound of ragged breath and the slick, wet evidence of what you'd done.
He stayed inside you, weight pressed you into the furs, his breath hot against your neck.
"Stay," he whispered. "Let me stay inside you.... just a little longer."
You ran your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. "I am not going anywhere."
He lifted his head, his eyes, surprisingly, were wet.
"Marry again," he said. "If I fall. Find someone who — "
"No."
"Listen to me — "
"No." You pulled his face to yours. "I will not marry again. I will not lie beneath another man. I will be your widow, Ormund Hightower, and I will wear black until I die, and I will salt my pillows with tears for you, and I will not give any man what is yours."
He stared at you. Something in his chest broke open — you saw it happen, the crack in his composure.
"I do not deserve you."
You chuckled. "Then spend the rest of your life earning me."
"I intend to."
He pulled out gently, you gasped at the loss, and he rolled to his side, pulled you against his chest, tracing feathering touches to your back. The fire had burned low.
He pressed a kiss to your hair.
"One more thing," he said.
"Mmh?"
"Turn around."
You did slowly, and he pulled you close, spooned against him. His arm wrapped around your waist, hand splayed across your belly.
"I want to sleep like this," he said. "With my hand on where my seed rests. So that when I dream, I dream of you growing round with my child."
Your hand found his, smiling, fingers lacing together over your stomach.
"You are a wicked man, Lord Hightower."
"I am a man who loves his wife," he said. "The Seven can judge me for it in the afterlife."
You felt his lips press against the back of your neck. Felt his body relax against yours, the tension draining slowly.
"I will come home," he murmured, already half-asleep. "I swear it by the Father's justice and the Mother's mercy. I will come home to you."
You closed your eyes.
You did not sleep.... but you held his hand against your belly, and you let yourself believe.
a/n : ( i also have a gwayne draft… if anyone is interested lol) sorry if he seemed OOC … we’re still on ep 1 and we don’t know much abt him unfortunately ;)
Can someone please save me from my thoughts, because here are some of the delicious thoughts of our DILF and how he doesn't say I love you, but has every intention of showing it.
Smuttish thoughts, sinful desires, and one very hot man who fucks you like you were made for him. Minors dni.
𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 is the kind of man who would sooner throw himself before a charging bull than confess that his greatest weakness wears your smile.
In court, he is all iron edges and clipped commands, a prince carved from stone. His gaze is stern, his words measured, and no lord or lady would ever dare accuse him of being sentimental. If anyone suggested he was hopelessly devoted to his wife, he would fix them with such a withering stare that the room would fall silent.
But behind the heavy oak doors of your chambers?
The armor falls away. He is not a man that would declare his love for you in words, but when he does, it's a kiss against the curve of your neck, his beard scratching against your skin, “Fuck, you have ruined me, woman.”
He is forever finding excuses to touch you. A hand settling at the small of your back as you pass. Fingers brushing over yours beneath the supper table. Pressing absent-minded kisses into your temple while discussing the day's affairs, as though it is the most natural thing in the world.
He calls you "my sweet wife" with such quiet certainty that it sounds less like a pet name and more like a solemn vow.
You become the only place where the weight of crowns, wars, and expectations cannot follow.
Maekar has no need to prove himself before you. He lets you smooth the lines from his brow, rests his forehead against yours after particularly difficult days, and allows himself the rare luxury of silence because your presence alone is enough.
He will grumble when you tease him for being affectionate.
“I am not.”
Meanwhile, one broad hand remains firmly wrapped around yours. He will insist he is merely making certain you do not wander off. You both know he is the one who cannot bear to let go.
The court may know Prince Maekar Targaryen as unyielding steel.
Only you know he is all gentleness beneath it—and that every ounce of it belongs to you, unless he's balls deep in your clenching cunt, whispering filth into your ear as he fucks into you from behind.
The world sees Maekar as a monster, a man carved from ice and iron who leaves ruins in his wake. They see the coldness in his eyes and the blood on his hands, and they tremble. But as he pushes you down onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, that ruthlessness transforms into something far more dangerous: a focused, obsessive devotion.
He doesn't start with brutality. Instead, his touch is agonizingly slow. His large, calloused hand cups your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip with a tenderness that would shock anyone who knows his reputation. He kisses you deeply, tasting of wine and hunger, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, possessive rhythm that claims every inch of your mouth.
“You're the only thing in this world I won't break,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, vibrating rumble.
Then, the shift happens. The gentleness remains in the way he holds you, but the ruthlessness takes over the way he wants you. He flips you over with a sudden, firm movement, pressing your chest flat against the sheets. He grips your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, anchoring you as he positions himself.
He doesn't tease. He drives his thick, pulsing cock straight into your clenching cunt in one heavy, unrelenting thrust. You gasp, your back arching as he fills you completely, stretching your walls to their limit. He is balls deep, the impact of his pelvis slamming against your ass with a wet, heavy thud.
As he begins to fuck you from behind, the rhythm is punishing. He hammers into you, each stroke deep and deliberate, driving himself into your womb. While his body is a weapon, his mouth is a sanctuary of filth. He leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine.
“Look at how you take it,” he whispers, his voice dripping with a dark, erotic hunger. “Such a tight, greedy little cunt, squeezing my cock like you're afraid I'll ever leave. You were made to be fucked by me, weren't you? To have me stretch you open and fill you with my cum until you can't think of anything but the way I'm ruining you.”
He reaches around, his hand sliding forward to grip your breast, squeezing the nipple hard even as he continues to drive into you. The contrast is intoxicating, the brutal, rhythmic slamming of his hips and the filthy promises whispered in your ear, all while he holds you as if you are the most precious thing he has ever owned.
"Tell me you're mine," he growls, his pace accelerating, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. “Tell me you love it when I fuck you like a slut.”
He doesn't wait for the answer; he can feel it in the way your cunt clamps around him, milking him with every desperate twitch. He lets out a low, guttural groan, his grip on your hips tightening until it leaves bruises, and with one final, devastatingly deep thrust, he pours his hot cum deep inside you, filling you to the brim while he holds you tight, refusing to let go.
Maekar lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you toward the steaming hot tub. The air is thick with vapor, blurring the edges of the room, but his grip on you is solid and unwavering. As he steps into the churning water, the heat hits your skin, but it's nothing compared to the fire radiating from his body.
He doesn't let you slide in slowly. With a possessive grunt, he positions you over him, his thick, rigid cock pulsing and ready. He lowers you down with a slow, agonizing precision, letting the head of his shaft stretch your opening before he drives forward. You let out a sharp cry that echoes off the tiled walls as he sinks deep into you, the water sloshing violently over the edge of the tub from the force of the impact.
The sensation is overwhelming, the searing heat of the water enveloping your bodies and the feeling of him filling every millimeter of your clenching cunt.
He doesn't give you a moment to adjust.
Maekar’s hand slides up to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back, exposing the sensitive line of your throat. He sinks his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder, marking you with a sharp, bruising bite that makes you moan into the steam.
As he begins to move, the water creates a slick, rhythmic friction, making every slide of his cock inside you feel fluid and heavy. He grips your thighs, hoisting you higher so he can drive upward, his pelvis slamming against yours with a wet, splashing thud.
He leans in, his lips grazing your ear, his voice a dark, guttural rasp that cuts through the sound of the bubbling water.
“Look at you, soaking wet and shaking on my cock,” he whispers, the filth in his tone contrasting with the way he supports your weight. “I can feel your walls twitching around me, trying to suck every drop of cum out of me before I've even started. You're such a needy little slut for me, aren't you? Just a hole for me to use and fill whenever I want.”
He shifts his angle, grinding his hips in a circular motion that rubs his cock against your g-spot, sending jolts of electricity through your spine. He bites your earlobe, his breath hot and demanding.
“I'm going to fuck you until you're breathless, until the only thing you can feel is me stretching you open in this water. I want you to feel exactly how much I own you, how deep I can go inside you before I paint your insides white.”
He accelerates the pace, the water churning around you as he hammers into you with ruthless efficiency. Each thrust is a claim, a violent reminder of his dominance, while his arms hold you close, ensuring you don't slip, treating you like a prized possession he intends to ruin completely.
𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 does not say I love you.
He has never been a man for effortless declarations or honeyed poetry. The words catch somewhere behind pride, duty, and a lifetime spent believing affection should be proven rather than spoken.
Instead, he rises before dawn to ensure the fire is stoked before you wake. He notices when your goblet is empty before you do.
He remembers the flowers you once paused to admire months ago, and somehow they always find their way to your chambers.
His hand seeks yours without thought. His eyes search every room until they settle upon you. His shoulders only truly relax when you are safely within arm's reach.
If you shiver, his cloak is around your shoulders before you've had the chance to complain.
If someone speaks to you with less respect than you deserve, they soon discover why Maekar Targaryen has earned such a fearsome reputation.
He never says, “I love you.”
He asks if you have eaten.
He waits until you fall asleep before allowing himself to rest.
He remembers every small preference you've ever mentioned, no matter how insignificant it seemed at the time.
He loves in quiet gestures, in unwavering loyalty, in the certainty that you will never have to wonder whether someone stands beside you.
And that is why no one questions it.
Not the servants.
Not the lords.
Not the ladies whispering behind jeweled fans.
They have seen the way his expression softens the instant you enter a room. They have watched a prince forged from iron become impossibly gentle with only one person in all the realm.
He does not say the words.
He lives them.
Everyone knows that Prince Maekar Targaryen burns for his wife.
He simply believes that a lifetime of devotion speaks louder than three little words ever could.
pairing(s): baelor “breakspear” targaryen x wife!reader
summary: You wear Baelor's shirt to bed. He is very normal about it.
words: 2.4k
cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering, somnophilia, (mild), prone bone, headlock, biting, possessive behavior, reader called 'girl’, yearning, this is quite simply just baelor jumping our bones, i love arm, mildly edited, not beta read
a/n: this is not officially a sequel to my other baelor fic but it can be read like that since i characterized him the same. i rly just want that old man to fuck me in his shirt idk
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI. I BLOCK AGELESS BLOGS.
Baelor has been standing at the foot of your bed for… much longer than he intended to. There's a tilt to his head, seventy-six degrees and counting, and a rise and fall to his chest that seems to be getting slightly faster with each passing exhale.
You do not see it. You are, as it is, asleep.
You're wearing his shirt. This is what has him still as stone, drawing his eyes over you in slow drags that he just can't seem to put an end to.
It's not an elaborate shirt. It's not even one of his best ones— the royal seamstresses have laden him with shirts of silk and fine woven cotton, embellished with hours of needlework or, in some horrifying cases, even beading. He has shirts of every color and shade, shirts of damask and velvet, shirts for summer and shirts for winter. Tunics from Dorne. Doublets from the Reach. Myrish robes. Qartheen samite vests.
You have chosen none of those. The one you have chosen is as simple a garment as he would choose on any given day, to wear against his skin beneath his doublet. White linen gauze, unembellished, unadorned. Its sleeves almost as billowing as its body, coming to plain rectangular cuffs. A simple collar, a sturdy yoke across the shoulders, double-stitched to keep it from unraveling. It is, in a word, efficient. Standard.
He knows, without having to ask you, that you chose to wear this shirt specifically because it is standard. Because it is one that he wears often. The cuffs have gone slightly soft with the wear, the neckline just a bit stretched along the bias. The felled seams are coming undone just a touch at the hem, a fact that he always sees but hasn't brought to the attention of his attendant, because it would mean a week of waiting to have it repaired. It is unfussy. But it is his.
And you are curled up in it like a kitten, asleep in his bed, your leg thrown over a pillow that you had moved toward his side of the bed in his absence. He has spent too long at his work, he knows. You spent too long waiting for him— long enough that you removed your nightgown and donned one of his shirts, and you fell asleep like that. Alone. In the bed you are meant to share with him.
Baelor feels a tightness in his chest that is ringed with fondness, an aching longing for you that hadn't stopped after your wedding, and doesn't seem like it will any time soon. He is too taken with you, too in love and consumed by it for that intrinsic sense of need for you to fade. It is a tender thing, tied around his heart in an intricate knot, with a tail that you hold the end of. You twirl it around your little finger and he buckles like a man who has never seen combat, who doesn't know what it is to stand his ground.
Baelor sighs as he undresses, but he keeps one eye on you all the while, as though you may disappear if he moves too far away. But you don't move. You don't even stir, when his belt hits the stone floor, or when his breeches follow. You are caught up in a world of dreams, unaware of what the sight of your sleeping form is doing to your husband, bringing him to the brink of something he has never quite been able to put a name to.
You do not stir when his hand presses into the mattress.
You do not stir when his weight dips the bedding and he moves slowly, purposefully, over you.
You do, however, stir just the smallest bit when his fingers dance over the curve of your hip through the fabric, feeling its drape over the soft plush of your skin. The meat of your ass, the swell of your thigh. Baelor feels, smoothing and caressing with a languid stroke that is not intended to rouse you, although he knows very well that it might and he does it anyway. Your fingers flex on the pillow that you clutch instead of him.
He finds himself, at that moment, inordinately envious of a pillow. A lump of fabric and feathers in your hands, between your thighs.
His hand grows bolder, a broad stroke over the small of your back, into the dip of your waist. You make a small noise in your throat, twitching the slightest bit as he passes over a particularly sensitive area.
"Shh, my sweet girl," Baelor whispers quietly, a lulling murmur in the darkness. Everything about you is soft— your skin, the fabric of his shirt as it lays over you, your hair, the expression on your face, the candle light on your sleeping body. It overwhelms him. It turns him into something that he's not normally, unless he is with you: a man. Not a Prince, and not the Hand of the King or heir to the throne. Not a warrior and not a subject of songs and poetry, myths and stories. With you, in this bed, he is simply a man in love with his wife, devoted beyond measure.
By the time his hand reaches your nape, your eyes are fluttering open the barest amount. Your face is still pressed slightly into the pillow, but you shift, a perking of your head as awareness returns to you. "Baelor?"
"It's me," he tells you, his voice low enough to not even constitute words.
"Mm. Waited for you," you mumble, confirming what he already knew.
His eyes crease at the corners, his smile overly tender. "I know. I'm here now."
Even as he says it, his hand is finding the hem of his shirt draped over your thigh, its frayed edge tickling against the smoothness of your skin. You hum quietly, dropping your eyelids against the feeling of his warm hand, burrowing between pillow and fabric and skin to find you, bare and wet and waiting for him.
"Oh," you sigh when his fingertip draws a slow circle around your clit.
"I know," he reassures you again, pressing a chaste, sweet kiss to the back of your neck. "I know, my love."
You turn your head further into the pillow beneath you, letting out a small whine at the feeling, your hips arching into his touch. He responds in kind, laying his weight flush to your back, his hand pinned between you and the pillow below.
"You're wearing my shirt," he remarks, his fingers finding your entrance and sliding in, stretching you open quick enough to make you keen softly. He gives you a few shallow strokes, feeling you grind back into the press of his cock against your tailbone. "My beautiful wife, wearing my clothes."
"W-Wanted to— to feel you— mm." Your voice is still slightly slurred with sleep, the heat of his body and the slowness of his movements doing nothing to rouse you more. You are still somewhere between awake and dreaming, pleasantly lulled, drowsy in your responses to him. Still, you moan at the curving of his fingers. "Wanted you… close to me…"
"Then let me be close," Baelor whispers, dragging the wilting fabric of his shirt up over your hips. He puffs a sigh through his nose, the ghost of it breezing against your neck. "What am I to do with you, hm?"
You make a pathetic noise when he moves your thighs apart to fit himself between them, his chest pressed to the curve of your spine, the thin fabric of his shirt separating you. He kisses you beneath the ear.
"You can sleep, darling," he tells you quietly, a whisper into your ear as his cock settles heavy between your thighs, the head sliding hotly against your cunt. Even though his voice is low, it booms through you like a thunderclap. "You need rest."
"I need you," you retort, but your own voice is far off, dipping towards the fogginess of sleep already.
Your eyes flutter shut, a gentle sigh of relief leaving you when he enters you slowly, stretching you open around him. Pressure on your back, pressure between your legs, pressure where his hand is pinned and lifting your hips from the front, angling them back towards him. Baelor's arm comes up to brace beside your head, and the scent of him surrounds you— the same scent that always drives you crazy, juniper and peppercorn, and something slightly like the salt of a raging sea.
You breathe in deep, exhale on a contented, fulfilled hum. Your entire world is Baelor, your mind and body consumed by him completely. His body spanning the length of you, bone to bone, naked skin to thin, ineffectual fabric.
You clench around him, and Baelor makes a noise as though you've punched him. So close to your ear, the headiness of it is echoed tenfold. Then he shifts his weight, dropping his hips ever-so-slightly, and then just grinds into you. His cock nestles into the deepest part of you and you groan, your mouth dropping open and face turning towards the breadth of his arm beside you.
"Baelor," you whimper, soft and broken, slurred from the recesses of sleep. Your hand finds his bicep, drawn taut from the muscle holding him up, keeping him from crushing you completely. Your fingers dig in, pull. A silent plea, a command that he follows like a dog on a leash.
Baelor fits his forearm under your head and lifts, letting you rest your chin there against the crook of his elbow, getting you into a loose headlock. Your hand wraps loosely around his upper arm, your body lax, letting him rut his hips shallowly into yours.
"My beautiful girl," he breathes into your ear, and you feel his teeth, bared with intent. His nose pressed to the shell, his beard scraping rough against your cheek. "My heart. My soul."
His arm tightens. Just a tad, but just enough. You mewl like a wounded animal, stretching your limbs so that he can move closer in, can fit his mouth to the curve of your throat, while he throbs somewhere deep in you that makes your head spin and your breath stick in your chest. His weight on you turns full, crushing, an all-over press that pins you flat to the bed, the pillow tucked beneath your stomach.
You are no longer asleep.
"Say it," he tells you, a primal rasp to his voice that wasn't there before. Low, smoky. A dragon. It's dragged from the pit of him, from some hell that lurks deep inside his body. His groan slinks down your spine and pools as raw energy right above where his cock hollows out and reaches the end of you. "Say that you're mine."
"M'yours," you murmur into his arm, breathing in the hot air that radiates from him. "Baelor. M-My heart. My soul—"
A guttural sound leaves you, your open mouth muffled by the bite you take of his bicep when he pulls his hips back and ruts into you hard, hard enough to shake the bed. Baelor's breath in your ear is shaky, stilted with the desperation of his movements, the purpose for which he collects himself.
"Gods above," he groans, his face turned into your neck just as yours is turned into his arm. With great effort, he loosens his hold on you. He presses an apologetic kiss to the curve of your shoulder. "I'm sorry. So sorry, my love."
You make a short noise, shake your head once. "Do it again."
Baelor does as you tell him. He pulls back slowly, letting his cock drag through your walls just before rushing back in with a jolt up the bed. Soft hair grinds against the plush of your ass, his mouth open and heaving with gasps against your shoulder, covered in the fabric of his shirt.
You can taste his need in the salt on his skin, beads of sweat forming in the crook of his elbow, fiery heat pressed flush to your back. "I need to— to wear your clothes more often."
"Yes." The word is hungry. It leaves no room for defiance. "You will."
The hand pinned between you and the pillow moves, snakes down to find your clit again. You are blinded with white light behind your eyelids, your breath gone still in your chest. Then, you pant like your air has no place to go, your hand tightening on his bicep, his arm tightening around your throat.
"Mm. There." The sound of his voice in your ear, while he fingers at your clit and his cock makes you so full that you can barely think, undoes you. Tremors take over your body, and you feel him smile as he continues to work at you. "That's what you get. I want you shaking."
"Baelor." You cum around him, with his full weight holding you down with nowhere to go. You are held hostage to it, to the slow, seductive movements of his hips, the lazy strokes of his finger against your clit.
"That's it. My good girl," Baelor purrs into your ear, and you sob as you clench around him. "My good, sweet, beautiful—"
He runs his tongue lightly across the nape of your neck and groans, ducking his head as he cums. His moans are muffled by his shirt on your back, his body curled over yours like fog. He presses his hips hard against yours, as though he can become a part of you if he gets close enough, deep enough.
"Oh, my love." His whisper falls upon your ears like a dream, like you may wake up and not remember it. But he's real, and he's there on top of you with his heart pounding against your back, and his fist in the fabric of his shirt, the one that started all of this.
He stays there for a breath, and then two. His hips are still flush to yours, but he's stopped moving, stopped the slow grind and the desperate, cloying attempt to get as far inside of you as he possibly could. He simply holds there, with his arm still around your throat, but not pressing in anymore. Just holding. Just cradling.
"I don't know if you noticed," Baelor says after a moment, his voice tremulous and padded by a wad of fabric between his teeth, at the nape of your neck. He releases it. "But I quite like it when you wear my clothes."
You huff a laugh, and press a kiss to the inside of his elbow. "If you do that every time, I may never get any sleep."
Baelor hums. "The chances are very slim, indeed."
Even so, you wear the same shirt the next night. And the one after that.
pairing(s): baelor “breakspear” targaryen x wife!reader
summary: You wear Baelor's shirt to bed. He is very normal about it.
words: 2.4k
cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering, somnophilia, (mild), prone bone, headlock, biting, possessive behavior, reader called 'girl’, yearning, this is quite simply just baelor jumping our bones, i love arm, mildly edited, not beta read
a/n: this is not officially a sequel to my other baelor fic but it can be read like that since i characterized him the same. i rly just want that old man to fuck me in his shirt idk
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI. I BLOCK AGELESS BLOGS.
Baelor has been standing at the foot of your bed for… much longer than he intended to. There's a tilt to his head, seventy-six degrees and counting, and a rise and fall to his chest that seems to be getting slightly faster with each passing exhale.
You do not see it. You are, as it is, asleep.
You're wearing his shirt. This is what has him still as stone, drawing his eyes over you in slow drags that he just can't seem to put an end to.
It's not an elaborate shirt. It's not even one of his best ones— the royal seamstresses have laden him with shirts of silk and fine woven cotton, embellished with hours of needlework or, in some horrifying cases, even beading. He has shirts of every color and shade, shirts of damask and velvet, shirts for summer and shirts for winter. Tunics from Dorne. Doublets from the Reach. Myrish robes. Qartheen samite vests.
You have chosen none of those. The one you have chosen is as simple a garment as he would choose on any given day, to wear against his skin beneath his doublet. White linen gauze, unembellished, unadorned. Its sleeves almost as billowing as its body, coming to plain rectangular cuffs. A simple collar, a sturdy yoke across the shoulders, double-stitched to keep it from unraveling. It is, in a word, efficient. Standard.
He knows, without having to ask you, that you chose to wear this shirt specifically because it is standard. Because it is one that he wears often. The cuffs have gone slightly soft with the wear, the neckline just a bit stretched along the bias. The felled seams are coming undone just a touch at the hem, a fact that he always sees but hasn't brought to the attention of his attendant, because it would mean a week of waiting to have it repaired. It is unfussy. But it is his.
And you are curled up in it like a kitten, asleep in his bed, your leg thrown over a pillow that you had moved toward his side of the bed in his absence. He has spent too long at his work, he knows. You spent too long waiting for him— long enough that you removed your nightgown and donned one of his shirts, and you fell asleep like that. Alone. In the bed you are meant to share with him.
Baelor feels a tightness in his chest that is ringed with fondness, an aching longing for you that hadn't stopped after your wedding, and doesn't seem like it will any time soon. He is too taken with you, too in love and consumed by it for that intrinsic sense of need for you to fade. It is a tender thing, tied around his heart in an intricate knot, with a tail that you hold the end of. You twirl it around your little finger and he buckles like a man who has never seen combat, who doesn't know what it is to stand his ground.
Baelor sighs as he undresses, but he keeps one eye on you all the while, as though you may disappear if he moves too far away. But you don't move. You don't even stir, when his belt hits the stone floor, or when his breeches follow. You are caught up in a world of dreams, unaware of what the sight of your sleeping form is doing to your husband, bringing him to the brink of something he has never quite been able to put a name to.
You do not stir when his hand presses into the mattress.
You do not stir when his weight dips the bedding and he moves slowly, purposefully, over you.
You do, however, stir just the smallest bit when his fingers dance over the curve of your hip through the fabric, feeling its drape over the soft plush of your skin. The meat of your ass, the swell of your thigh. Baelor feels, smoothing and caressing with a languid stroke that is not intended to rouse you, although he knows very well that it might and he does it anyway. Your fingers flex on the pillow that you clutch instead of him.
He finds himself, at that moment, inordinately envious of a pillow. A lump of fabric and feathers in your hands, between your thighs.
His hand grows bolder, a broad stroke over the small of your back, into the dip of your waist. You make a small noise in your throat, twitching the slightest bit as he passes over a particularly sensitive area.
"Shh, my sweet girl," Baelor whispers quietly, a lulling murmur in the darkness. Everything about you is soft— your skin, the fabric of his shirt as it lays over you, your hair, the expression on your face, the candle light on your sleeping body. It overwhelms him. It turns him into something that he's not normally, unless he is with you: a man. Not a Prince, and not the Hand of the King or heir to the throne. Not a warrior and not a subject of songs and poetry, myths and stories. With you, in this bed, he is simply a man in love with his wife, devoted beyond measure.
By the time his hand reaches your nape, your eyes are fluttering open the barest amount. Your face is still pressed slightly into the pillow, but you shift, a perking of your head as awareness returns to you. "Baelor?"
"It's me," he tells you, his voice low enough to not even constitute words.
"Mm. Waited for you," you mumble, confirming what he already knew.
His eyes crease at the corners, his smile overly tender. "I know. I'm here now."
Even as he says it, his hand is finding the hem of his shirt draped over your thigh, its frayed edge tickling against the smoothness of your skin. You hum quietly, dropping your eyelids against the feeling of his warm hand, burrowing between pillow and fabric and skin to find you, bare and wet and waiting for him.
"Oh," you sigh when his fingertip draws a slow circle around your clit.
"I know," he reassures you again, pressing a chaste, sweet kiss to the back of your neck. "I know, my love."
You turn your head further into the pillow beneath you, letting out a small whine at the feeling, your hips arching into his touch. He responds in kind, laying his weight flush to your back, his hand pinned between you and the pillow below.
"You're wearing my shirt," he remarks, his fingers finding your entrance and sliding in, stretching you open quick enough to make you keen softly. He gives you a few shallow strokes, feeling you grind back into the press of his cock against your tailbone. "My beautiful wife, wearing my clothes."
"W-Wanted to— to feel you— mm." Your voice is still slightly slurred with sleep, the heat of his body and the slowness of his movements doing nothing to rouse you more. You are still somewhere between awake and dreaming, pleasantly lulled, drowsy in your responses to him. Still, you moan at the curving of his fingers. "Wanted you… close to me…"
"Then let me be close," Baelor whispers, dragging the wilting fabric of his shirt up over your hips. He puffs a sigh through his nose, the ghost of it breezing against your neck. "What am I to do with you, hm?"
You make a pathetic noise when he moves your thighs apart to fit himself between them, his chest pressed to the curve of your spine, the thin fabric of his shirt separating you. He kisses you beneath the ear.
"You can sleep, darling," he tells you quietly, a whisper into your ear as his cock settles heavy between your thighs, the head sliding hotly against your cunt. Even though his voice is low, it booms through you like a thunderclap. "You need rest."
"I need you," you retort, but your own voice is far off, dipping towards the fogginess of sleep already.
Your eyes flutter shut, a gentle sigh of relief leaving you when he enters you slowly, stretching you open around him. Pressure on your back, pressure between your legs, pressure where his hand is pinned and lifting your hips from the front, angling them back towards him. Baelor's arm comes up to brace beside your head, and the scent of him surrounds you— the same scent that always drives you crazy, juniper and peppercorn, and something slightly like the salt of a raging sea.
You breathe in deep, exhale on a contented, fulfilled hum. Your entire world is Baelor, your mind and body consumed by him completely. His body spanning the length of you, bone to bone, naked skin to thin, ineffectual fabric.
You clench around him, and Baelor makes a noise as though you've punched him. So close to your ear, the headiness of it is echoed tenfold. Then he shifts his weight, dropping his hips ever-so-slightly, and then just grinds into you. His cock nestles into the deepest part of you and you groan, your mouth dropping open and face turning towards the breadth of his arm beside you.
"Baelor," you whimper, soft and broken, slurred from the recesses of sleep. Your hand finds his bicep, drawn taut from the muscle holding him up, keeping him from crushing you completely. Your fingers dig in, pull. A silent plea, a command that he follows like a dog on a leash.
Baelor fits his forearm under your head and lifts, letting you rest your chin there against the crook of his elbow, getting you into a loose headlock. Your hand wraps loosely around his upper arm, your body lax, letting him rut his hips shallowly into yours.
"My beautiful girl," he breathes into your ear, and you feel his teeth, bared with intent. His nose pressed to the shell, his beard scraping rough against your cheek. "My heart. My soul."
His arm tightens. Just a tad, but just enough. You mewl like a wounded animal, stretching your limbs so that he can move closer in, can fit his mouth to the curve of your throat, while he throbs somewhere deep in you that makes your head spin and your breath stick in your chest. His weight on you turns full, crushing, an all-over press that pins you flat to the bed, the pillow tucked beneath your stomach.
You are no longer asleep.
"Say it," he tells you, a primal rasp to his voice that wasn't there before. Low, smoky. A dragon. It's dragged from the pit of him, from some hell that lurks deep inside his body. His groan slinks down your spine and pools as raw energy right above where his cock hollows out and reaches the end of you. "Say that you're mine."
"M'yours," you murmur into his arm, breathing in the hot air that radiates from him. "Baelor. M-My heart. My soul—"
A guttural sound leaves you, your open mouth muffled by the bite you take of his bicep when he pulls his hips back and ruts into you hard, hard enough to shake the bed. Baelor's breath in your ear is shaky, stilted with the desperation of his movements, the purpose for which he collects himself.
"Gods above," he groans, his face turned into your neck just as yours is turned into his arm. With great effort, he loosens his hold on you. He presses an apologetic kiss to the curve of your shoulder. "I'm sorry. So sorry, my love."
You make a short noise, shake your head once. "Do it again."
Baelor does as you tell him. He pulls back slowly, letting his cock drag through your walls just before rushing back in with a jolt up the bed. Soft hair grinds against the plush of your ass, his mouth open and heaving with gasps against your shoulder, covered in the fabric of his shirt.
You can taste his need in the salt on his skin, beads of sweat forming in the crook of his elbow, fiery heat pressed flush to your back. "I need to— to wear your clothes more often."
"Yes." The word is hungry. It leaves no room for defiance. "You will."
The hand pinned between you and the pillow moves, snakes down to find your clit again. You are blinded with white light behind your eyelids, your breath gone still in your chest. Then, you pant like your air has no place to go, your hand tightening on his bicep, his arm tightening around your throat.
"Mm. There." The sound of his voice in your ear, while he fingers at your clit and his cock makes you so full that you can barely think, undoes you. Tremors take over your body, and you feel him smile as he continues to work at you. "That's what you get. I want you shaking."
"Baelor." You cum around him, with his full weight holding you down with nowhere to go. You are held hostage to it, to the slow, seductive movements of his hips, the lazy strokes of his finger against your clit.
"That's it. My good girl," Baelor purrs into your ear, and you sob as you clench around him. "My good, sweet, beautiful—"
He runs his tongue lightly across the nape of your neck and groans, ducking his head as he cums. His moans are muffled by his shirt on your back, his body curled over yours like fog. He presses his hips hard against yours, as though he can become a part of you if he gets close enough, deep enough.
"Oh, my love." His whisper falls upon your ears like a dream, like you may wake up and not remember it. But he's real, and he's there on top of you with his heart pounding against your back, and his fist in the fabric of his shirt, the one that started all of this.
He stays there for a breath, and then two. His hips are still flush to yours, but he's stopped moving, stopped the slow grind and the desperate, cloying attempt to get as far inside of you as he possibly could. He simply holds there, with his arm still around your throat, but not pressing in anymore. Just holding. Just cradling.
"I don't know if you noticed," Baelor says after a moment, his voice tremulous and padded by a wad of fabric between his teeth, at the nape of your neck. He releases it. "But I quite like it when you wear my clothes."
You huff a laugh, and press a kiss to the inside of his elbow. "If you do that every time, I may never get any sleep."
Baelor hums. "The chances are very slim, indeed."
Even so, you wear the same shirt the next night. And the one after that.
Summary: Tensions arise during a Targaryen family vacation, which prompts Daemon to step up as a husband and agree to relocating. Warnings: family drama, humor, angst, fluff, smut.
a/n: In honor of Daemon's comeback in ep2. He's so maniacal but he made me laugh so many times.
The first time you mentioned divorce, Daemon had laughed. Not a cruel laugh, more like the sound someone makes when a child insists they’re running away to join the circus. Dismissive. Almost fond. He’d kissed your forehead and told you to spend the weekend at the spa, his treat, and the next day a black card arrived by courier with a note in his sharp, slashing handwriting: For whatever you need. —D
That had been four months ago. The card was still in your wallet. You’d used it exactly once, to pay the retainer for a divorce attorney.
Now you stood on the balcony of the hotel suite in Pentos, watching the Narrow Sea churn itself into a gray-green froth as a storm rolled in from the west. Behind you, through the open doors, you could hear the muffled sounds of your sons arguing over a video game and the lower, smoother cadence of Daemon’s voice as he settled whatever dispute had arisen. Aegon, at six, was already developing his father’s talent for theatrical indignation. Viserys, barely four, just wanted to be included.
The Targaryen family vacation. Two weeks in a luxury resort that Daemon’s brother Viserys, the elder Viserys, had booked for the entire clan. A chance to “reconnect,” Viserys had said in that ponderous way of his, as if family bonds were something you could schedule into a Google Calendar and tick off like a board meeting.
You’d tried to get out of it. You’d tried to tell Daemon that going on a family holiday while you were actively meeting with lawyers was absurd, farcical, the kind of thing that would make you the villain in a made-for-TV movie. He’d listened with that infuriating half-smile of his, the one that said you’re adorable when you’re worked up, and then he’d informed you that the flights were booked, the boys were excited, and he’d already told Viserys you’d be there.
“I’m not discussing this with you,” you’d said, standing in the kitchen of your King's Landing townhouse, hands braced against the marble island. “I’m telling you. I’m filing for divorce.”
“You’re not.”
“Daemon...”
“You’re not filing for anything.” He’d crossed the kitchen with that predatory grace he’d never lost, even in a cashmere sweater and trousers. His hands had settled on your hips, his thumbs pressing into the small of your back in a way that made your body betray you with a shiver. “You’re tired. You’re stressed. You’ve been dealing with my brother’s wife and her...” He’d paused, searching for a word that wouldn’t quite cross the line into outright insult. “Her ambitions. Let me handle it.”
“You can’t handle this, Daemon. You can’t throw money at me until I forget I’m unhappy.”
Something had flickered in his eyes then, a flash of genuine confusion, perhaps even hurt, before it was swallowed by that practiced Targaryen hauteur. “Unhappy,” he’d repeated, as if tasting a foreign word. “I’ve given you everything.”
“You’ve given me things. There’s a difference.”
He hadn’t answered. Instead, he’d done what he always did when a conversation veered into territory he didn’t want to explore: he’d withdrawn, not physically but emotionally, the drawbridge coming up behind his eyes. “We’ll talk about this later. The boys need to be put to bed.”
And that had been that. The next morning, suitcases had appeared in the foyer, and Daemon had been all brisk efficiency and paternal warmth, directing the children, consulting with the nanny, and you’d found yourself swept along in the current of his will, as you always did, as you had been since the day you met him at an event ten years ago.
The storm was moving faster now. Lightning split the sky to the west, a jagged white scar that illuminated the darkening sea. You started counting automatically, a habit from childhood: one, two, three, four, five, and the thunder rolled across the water, a deep, bone-rattling growl. Five seconds. About a mile away.
“Storm’s getting closer.”
You didn’t turn. You’d felt him before you’d heard him, that particular awareness you’d never been able to shake, the way your body seemed to know when Daemon Targaryen was in a room. He stepped onto the balcony beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, and you saw that he was holding two glasses of wine.
“Red,” he said, offering one. “The Pentosi varietal the sommelier recommended. Viserys ordered twenty cases for the cellars.”
“Of course he did.”
Daemon’s mouth twitched. “He’s planning a gala for the autumn. Apparently, Alicent has been nagging him about entertaining more. Networking.” He pronounced the word with a particular disdain, the way another man might say vermin.
You took the wine, mostly because you needed something to do with your hands. “Alicent’s networking is called ‘securing her position.’ She’s smart.”
“She’s a social climber with a spreadsheet and a prayer book.”
“Daemon.”
“What? It’s true. You know it’s true. Even Rhaenyra knows it’s true, and Rhaenyra is pathologically incapable of thinking ill of anyone her father deigns to marry.” He took a long drink of his wine, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “I still don’t know what Viserys was thinking. Otto Hightower’s daughter. It’s like bringing a fox into the henhouse and handing it a napkin.”
You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but you were too tired. Three days of enforced proximity to Alicent’s brittle smiles and Viserys’ oblivious paternalism and Rhaenyra’s increasingly desperate attempts to play peacemaker had worn you down to a nub.
Rhaenyra was the only one of Daemon’s family you genuinely liked, she was fierce and funny and surprisingly self-aware for a woman who’d been raised to believe she was the center of the universe, but even she had been grating on you today. She’d cornered you at breakfast to ask if everything was “okay” between you and Daemon, her violet eyes too knowing, too sympathetic. You’d deflected, but barely.
It was Daemon’s fault. All of it. If he hadn’t insisted on moving the family back into the Targaryen ancestral pile, if he hadn’t dragged you into his obsessive crusade against Alicent’s influence, if he hadn’t treated your unhappiness like a software glitch that could be patched with shopping and sex and those devastating smiles he deployed like weapons...
“You’re thinking very loudly,” Daemon observed.
“I’m thinking about divorce.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “The storm’s getting worse. We should go inside.”
“Daemon.”
“The boys are waiting for dinner. Viserys wants to eat at eight, which means Alicent wants to eat at seven-thirty, which means if we’re not in the dining room by...oh, the look on her face.” He grinned, sharp and wicked. “It might almost be worth being late.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Her face goes all pinched, like she’s sucked a lemon. Rhaenyra and I used to have a drinking game around it.”
“Daemon, I want a divorce.”
This time, he did react. A tightening around his jaw, barely perceptible. The way his fingers flexed against his wine glass. But his voice, when he spoke, was perfectly even. “We’re not having this conversation on a balcony in Pentos while our children are inside.”
“We’re not having this conversation anywhere. That’s the problem. You refuse to engage with it. You act like if you ignore it long enough, I’ll forget.”
“Will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Forget.” He turned to face you, and there it was again, that flicker of something raw beneath the arrogance, gone so fast you might have imagined it. “Will you forget that you love me? That we have a life together? That we have two sons who adore you and a home and a history and...” He stopped himself, jaw working. “No. You’re right. We’re not doing this here.”
He drained his wine and walked back inside, leaving you alone with the storm.
Dinner was excruciating.
The dining room was all white tablecloths and soft candlelight and sweeping views of the coastline, the storm pressing against the windows. Viserys sat at the head of the table, beaming benevolently at his assembled family as if he’d personally arranged the weather for their entertainment. Alicent was at his right hand, her auburn hair pulled back in an elegant twist, her expression one of careful serenity that you knew from experience masked a constant, low-grade anxiety.
Rhaenyra and her husband Laenor were visiting from their place in Spain, their three boys seated between them in various states of restlessness. And then there was your family: you, Daemon, and the two small boys who were currently attempting to build a fort out of bread rolls.
“Aegon, stop that,” you said quietly, removing the roll from his hand before it could be added to the precarious structure. “We don’t play with food.”
“Uncle Laenor said the Pentosi build forts to keep the sea monsters away,” Aegon protested.
“Did he.”
“It’s true,” Laenor said, his expression perfectly solemn. “Ancient maritime tradition. Very sacred.”
Aegon turned to you with the triumphant expression of a child who had just been validated by an adult, and you made a mental note to have a word with Laenor later. Probably with a heavy object.
“How are you finding the resort?” Alicent asked, her gaze fixed on you with an intensity that suggested she was already composing a report for some internal database. “The spa here is supposed to be excellent. I booked a hot stone massage for tomorrow morning, if you’d care to join.”
“That’s kind of you,” you said, “but I think I’ll pass.”
“Oh, you should go,” Rhaenyra said, leaning forward. “I went yesterday. There’s a sauna and everything. Very relaxing.” She caught your eye and added, with just a hint of emphasis, “Good for stress.”
You smiled tightly. “I’m sure it is.”
Daemon, seated beside you, had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meal. He’d exchanged a few barbed pleasantries with Alicent, agreed with Viserys about the superiority of Westerosi wine, and otherwise devoted his attention to his plate with the air of a man who was planning something. You knew that look. You’d seen it before board meetings, before confrontations with business rivals, before the night he’d decided to move your family into Dragonstone Manor without consulting you. It was the look of Daemon Targaryen marshaling his forces.
It made you nervous.
“I heard the most interesting thing today,” Alicent said, and something in her tone made the entire table go quiet. “About the Ashford deal.”
Viserys looked up from his lamb. “My dear, perhaps business at the dinner table...”
“It’s just that I understood we weren’t pursuing Ashford anymore. The board voted on it, I thought. And yet I received a rather curious email from our legal team this afternoon suggesting that Daemon had reopened negotiations.” Her smile didn’t waver. “On his own authority.”
Daemon set down his fork very carefully. “The board voted to table the discussion, not to abandon the acquisition entirely. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“There is to anyone who actually understands corporate governance.”
“Daemon,” Viserys said, a warning note in his voice.
But Daemon was already leaning forward, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. “The Ashford portfolio is worth forty million pounds. Their logistics network alone would give us a foothold in three new markets. I wasn’t about to let it slip away because the board is too risk-averse to see past next quarter’s earnings report.”
“The board is risk-averse because we’re still recovering from the Dornish expansion,” Alicent said, her voice cool. “Which you also championed. And which went significantly over budget.”
“It went over budget because we were sabotaged by incompetents you personally recommended for the project.”
“I recommended no one. I suggested a shortlist of candidates, which Viserys approved.”
“After you’d spent three months whispering in his ear about how essential they were.”
“That’s enough,” Viserys said, and for a moment he sounded like the patriarch he was supposed to be, his voice carrying the weight of decades of authority. “We’re not discussing this here. We’re on holiday. There are children present.”
Everyone looked at the children. Aegon had abandoned his bread fort and was now trying to teach Viserys the younger how to balance a spoon on his nose. Neither of them had appeared to notice the adult tension crackling around them.
“I’m just saying,” Alicent said, her tone now one of wounded reasonableness, “that it might be wise to keep the family informed of major business decisions. For the sake of transparency.”
“Transparency,” Daemon repeated. “Rich, coming from someone whose father just happened to acquire a significant stake in the shipping company we use for all our Narrow routes. Purely coincidental, I’m sure.”
Alicent’s face went stone cold. “My father’s investments are his own business.”
“Are they? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks an awful lot like a conflict of interest. Or would, if anyone were looking.”
“Daemon.” This time it was Viserys, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We talked about this. Otto’s investment was vetted by our ethics committee. There’s no conflict.”
“The ethics committee that reports to you. And that you appointed. After Alicent suggested the members.”
The silence that followed was the kind that made you want to crawl under the table. Rhaenyra was studying her wine glass with intense fascination. Laenor had developed a sudden interest in the storm outside. Even the children seemed to sense something was wrong; little Viserys had stopped his spoon-balancing attempts and was looking at his father with wide, uncertain eyes.
You reached for your wine and took a very long drink.
“I think,” you said, into the silence, “that we should perhaps change the subject.”
Alicent’s gaze snapped to you, and for a moment you saw something ugly there: resentment, perhaps, or suspicion. It was no secret that she considered you an extension of Daemon, his ally in whatever Valyrian power struggle was currently consuming the Targaryen family. The fact that you’d spent the last several months trying to extricate yourself from precisely that role was not something you could exactly explain over lamb and roasted vegetables.
“You’re right, of course,” Alicent said, her smile returning like a curtain falling back into place. “I apologize. This was entirely inappropriate dinner conversation.” She touched Viserys’s arm with practiced tenderness. “I’m sorry, darling. I let my concerns get the better of me.”
Viserys patted her hand. “No harm done. Daemon, we’ll discuss the Ashford matter tomorrow. Privately.”
“Can’t wait,” Daemon said, in a tone that suggested he would rather have oral surgery.
The rest of dinner passed in a haze of forced small talk and barely concealed hostility. By the time dessert arrived, some elaborate chocolate confection that you ate without savoring the taste, you had a headache building behind your eyes and a desperate longing to be anywhere else. Alone. Away from Targaryens and their endless, exhausting drama.
You caught Rhaenyra’s eye across the table, and she gave you a small, sympathetic smile. She, at least, understood. She’d grown up in this family. She knew what it was like to be caught in the crossfire.
But even Rhaenyra’s sympathy couldn’t pierce the cold knot of resentment that had settled in your chest. Because this, this dinner, this family, this entire suffocating situation, was exactly why you wanted out. Not because Daemon was a bad man. Not because he didn’t love you, in his way. But because being married to Daemon Targaryen meant being constantly, endlessly embroiled in Targaryen affairs.
The feuds, the power plays, the ancient grudges dressed up as business disagreements. Alicent’s machinations. Viserys’s willful blindness. The way the entire family seemed to orbit around some invisible sun of their own making, pulling everyone else into their gravitational field.
And Daemon, for all his talk of protecting you from it, was the worst of them all. He didn’t just participate in the drama, he was the drama. He generated it, cultivated it, fed on it like some kind of chaos vampire. And now he’d dragged you back to the family estate, back into the heart of the storm, and expected you to just…endure it.
You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.
After dinner, you put the boys to bed in the adjoining room of the suite. Aegon went down with minimal protest, exhausted from a day of swimming and running and terrorizing his cousins with a water pistol. Viserys was fussier, clinging to you with sticky fingers and demanding a third bedtime story, but eventually even he succumbed to sleep, his small face slackening into that angelic expression that always made your heart clench.
You stood in the doorway between the children’s room and the master bedroom, watching them sleep. Aegon had kicked off his blankets already, sprawling across his bed like a starfish. Viserys was curled around the stuffed dragon he refused to sleep without, the one Daemon had bought him when he was born, its silver wings worn soft from years of clutching.
They were the reason you’d stayed this long. The reason you’d tried so hard. Every time you’d been ready to walk out the door, you’d looked at their faces and thought: I can endure a little longer. For them.
But you were starting to wonder if enduring was actually doing them any favors. If growing up in a house with parents who were slowly, silently falling apart was any better than growing up in two houses with parents who were, at least, honest about what they were.
Behind you, the door to the suite opened and closed. You didn’t turn.
“They’re asleep,” you said.
“Good.” Daemon’s voice was quiet, stripped of its usual sardonic edge. “I’m sorry about dinner. Alicent has a talent for getting under my skin.”
You turned then, leaning against the doorframe. He was standing in the middle of the room, his jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos that snaked up his forearms, dragons, of course, and something in High Valyrian that he’d gotten in his twenties. His silver-gold hair was disheveled from running his hands through it, a nervous habit he’d never been able to break.
“She gets under your skin because you let her,” you said. “You seek her out. You look for fights.”
“Someone has to. Viserys won’t.”
“It’s not your job to protect your brother from his own wife.”
“It’s not about protecting Viserys. It’s about protecting the family. The company. Everything our forefathers built.” He moved closer, and you caught the scent of his cologne, woody and dark and infuriatingly familiar. “Alicent and her father are parasites. They’ve been trying to sink their hooks into Targaryen holdings for years, and Viserys is too besotted to see it.”
“And what does that have to do with us? With our marriage?”
He stopped. “Everything. You’re part of this family. What affects us affects you.”
“I don’t want to be part of this family.” The words came out harder than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. “That’s the point, Daemon. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching you wage war against your sister-in-law over business deals. I don’t want to raise our sons in the middle of a battlefield. I want a normal life.”
“Normal.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What does that even mean? A house in the suburbs? A nine-to-five job? Bake sales and PTA meetings? That’s not who we are. It’s never been who we are.”
“Maybe it’s who I want to be.”
“No.” He was close now, close enough to touch, his eyes burning into yours with that intensity that had first drawn you to him all those years ago. “You think you want that, but you’d be bored within a month. You’d miss this. You’d miss me.”
“You arrogant...”
“I’m not being arrogant. I’m being honest. You married me knowing exactly who I was. You knew what my family was like. You knew what you were getting into.” His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “You’re just tired. It’s been a long year. Let me take care of you.”
“I don’t need you to take care of me. I need you to listen to me.”
“I am listening.”
“No, you’re not. You’re waiting for me to stop talking so you can tell me why I’m wrong.” You pulled away from his touch, stepping back into the children’s room and pulling the door partially closed behind you. “I’ve been trying to tell you for months. I’m done, Daemon. I want a divorce.”
His expression shifted. The mask slipped, just for a moment, and you saw what lay beneath. Fear. Then it was gone, and he was the Daemon Targaryen everyone saw, the charming rogue, the untouchable prince.
“We’re not discussing this tonight,” he said. “The boys are right there.”
“They’re asleep.”
“I said, we’re not discussing this.” And then, softer, almost a plea: “Not tonight. Please.”
You had never heard Daemon Targaryen say please before. Not like that. Not as if the word had been dragged out of him against his will.
The storm was directly overhead now. Lightning flashed outside the window, bright enough to cast the room in stark white relief, and you started counting instinctively, one, two, and the thunder cracked so loud and so close that the windows rattled in their frames. Two seconds. Right on top of you.
In the children’s room, Viserys whimpered in his sleep. You slipped back inside to soothe him, stroking his silver-blond hair until he settled, your heart pounding from more than just the thunder.
When you returned to the master bedroom, Daemon was standing by the window, watching the storm with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t turn when you approached.
“Do you remember our honeymoon?” he asked quietly. “The villa in Myr. There was a storm like this on the third night. You said you’d never seen lightning so beautiful.”
You remembered. You remembered everything, the way the rain had hammered against the shutters, the way the candles had flickered every time the thunder rolled, the way Daemon had pulled you onto the bed and made love to you until the storm passed and the sky cleared and the stars came out like scattered diamonds. You’d thought, lying in his arms afterward, that you’d never be happier than you were in that moment.
You’d been right.
“That was a long time ago,” you said.
“It was eight years. That’s not so long.”
“It feels like a lifetime.”
He turned then, and the look on his face made your breath catch. He looked older, suddenly. Tired. The weight of all those years pressing down on him, on both of you.
“I know I’m difficult,” he said. “I know I’m not…easy. To be married to. I know I drive you up the wall.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”
“Daemon...”
“Let me finish. Please.” He took a breath. “I know I’ve been…distracted. The situation with Alicent, with the company, it’s consumed more of my attention than it should have. More than you deserved. I can see that now.”
“It’s not just the company. It’s everything. The way you handle things. The way you handle me.”
“I know.”
“You throw money at problems and expect them to go away. You treat my concerns like they’re inconveniences to be managed. You make decisions that affect our entire family without consulting me.” The words were pouring out now, a dam finally breaking. “You moved us to Dragonstone Manor without even asking me. You just...announced it. Like it was a done deal. Like my opinion didn’t matter.”
“I was trying to protect you. All of you. Viserys was already changing, Alicent was already getting her hooks in, and I needed to be closer. I needed to be able to watch what was happening.”
“And what about what I needed? What about what our children needed? Aegon had just started at his school. He had friends. I had a life in London. And you ripped it all away because of your paranoia about your brother’s wife.”
“It wasn’t paranoia. Everything I suspected has turned out to be true.”
“That’s not the point!” You were almost shouting now, and you forced yourself to lower your voice, acutely aware of the children sleeping in the next room. “The point is that you didn’t talk to me. You never talk to me. You just…act. You decide what’s best and you do it, and I’m supposed to just fall in line.”
Daemon was silent for a long moment. The storm was moving past, the thunder growing more distant, the lightning flickering further away. Rain drummed steadily against the windows.
“You’re right,” he said finally.
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re right. I should have talked to you. About Dragonstone. About everything.” He ran his hand through his hair again, and this time the gesture seemed less nervous than helpless.
“I’m not asking you to stop being who you are. I’m asking you to include me in it. To treat me like an equal instead of an accessory.”
“I know.” He moved toward you, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. “I know. And I’ll try. I swear to you, I’ll try.” He stopped in front of you, close enough to touch but not reaching out. “You want to leave Dragonstone? Fine. We’ll leave. We’ll move back to London, or anywhere else you want to go. You want me to step back from the family business? I’ll step back. Viserys can handle his own mess. You want me to stop antagonizing Alicent at every family dinner?” A wry smile. “That one might take some practice. But I’ll try.”
You wanted to believe him. You wanted it so badly it was a physical ache in your chest.
“I’ve already spoken to a lawyer,” you whispered.
Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t look away. “I know.”
“You...how?”
“The retainer on the new black card. I’m not an idiot. You think I don’t check the statements?” He shook his head. “I’ve known for months. I’ve just been…hoping you’d change your mind.”
“Daemon…”
“I’m not going to make this easy for you.” His voice was steady but hollow. “I’m not going to sign papers and smile and pretend this is what I want. It’s not. I want you. I want our family. I want to grow old with you and watch our sons become men. I want all of it. Every messy, frustrating, complicated part of it.”
“Then why didn’t you say that? Instead of just...ignoring me and hoping I’d give up?”
“Because I’m a coward.” He laughed shortly. “I was terrified. Terrified that if I actually talked about it, if I actually acknowledged what was happening, it would become real. And I couldn’t bear that.”
Another flash of lightning, further away now. This time you didn’t count the seconds.
“I’m not saying I’ll withdraw the petition,” you said. “I’m not saying everything is fixed. There’s too much damage for one conversation to repair.”
“I know.”
“But I’ll…think about it. About whether there’s something left worth saving.”
His eyes lit up. “That’s all I’m asking.”
The storm was dying now, the thunder reduced to a distant grumble, the rain softening to a gentle patter against the glass. The room felt different than it had an hour ago. As if the lightning had cleared something in the air.
Daemon reached for you, and this time you let him. His arms came around you, pulling you against his chest, and you felt the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. He was warm and solid and so familiar it made your eyes sting.
“Come to bed,” he murmured against your hair. “We don’t have to sort out everything tonight. Just…come to bed.”
You should have said no. You should have slept in the children’s room, or on the sofa, or anywhere that wasn’t wrapped in Daemon’s arms. But you were tired, and you were sad, and despite everything, you still loved him. You had never stopped loving him. That was the problem.
“Fine,” you said. “But I’m still angry with you.”
“I know. You should be.”
“And I’m still thinking about divorce.”
“I know that too.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Let me try to change your mind.”
The hotel bed was vast and soft, dressed in linen that smelled faintly of lavender. Daemon undressed with his usual careless grace, tossing his clothes onto a chair in a way that would have annoyed you if you hadn’t been so tired. You changed into your nightgown in the bathroom, taking longer than necessary, staring at your reflection in the mirror and trying to decide if you were making a terrible mistake.
Your reflection stared back, offering no answers.
When you emerged, the room was lit only by the intermittent flashes of lightning and a single lamp on Daemon’s side of the bed. He was already under the covers, propped against the pillows, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.
“Get in,” he said. “You’re letting the cold in.”
You climbed into bed beside him, keeping a careful distance between you. The sheets were cool against your skin. Outside, the storm was circling back, the thunder growing louder again, the lightning more frequent.
“Remember how we used to count?” Daemon asked quietly. “Between the lightning and the thunder. When we were first married.”
“I still do it,” you admitted. “I can’t help it. It’s automatic.”
“Me too.” He turned onto his side, facing you. “What do you think? How far away is this one?”
As if on cue, lightning split the sky, illuminating the room in stark white. You counted, one, two, three, and the thunder rolled, a low, grumbling bass note that vibrated through the windows.
“Three seconds,” you said. “About more than half a mile.”
“I think it’s closer. Two seconds at most.”
“You’re wrong.”
“We’ll see.” Another flash, brighter this time. One, two, and the crack was immediate, sharp and loud. Daemon smiled. “Two seconds.”
“That one doesn’t count. It was a different bolt.”
“Lightning moves. It’s getting closer.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You love me anyway.”
You didn’t answer that. You couldn’t. Because he was right, and you both knew it.
The next flash came almost immediately, and this time the thunder followed so fast it was nearly simultaneous, a tremendous crash that made you jump despite yourself. Daemon’s arm came around you, pulling you closer, and you didn’t resist.
“Right on top of us,” he murmured. “The hotel probably has lightning rods.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
His hand was moving on your back now, slow circles that were probably meant to be soothing but were doing something else entirely. You could feel the heat of him through your nightgown, the familiar geography of his body, the way you fit against him.
“Daemon.”
“Hmm?”
“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”
“I know.” His lips brushed your forehead. “This doesn’t mean anything. We’re just two people in a bed, waiting out a storm.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“For now.”
His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your spine, and you shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. You knew what he was doing. You’d always known. Daemon Targaryen had many weapons in his arsenal, and seduction was one of his favorites.
You should have stopped him. You should have pulled away and reinforced your boundaries and reminded him that nothing was resolved, that you were still furious, that sex wasn’t going to paper over the cracks in your marriage.
But his hand was on your hip now, his thumb pressing into the hollow there with expert precision, and you were tired of fighting. Tired of being angry. Tired of the endless, exhausting distance between what you wanted and what you had.
“Come here,” he said, and it wasn’t a command but a plea, raw and honest in a way Daemon rarely allowed himself to be.
You went.
His mouth found yours in the darkness, and it was like coming home after a long, lonely journey. Familiar and strange all at once, the taste of him, the way his hand cradled the back of your head. You’d kissed him thousands of times, millions, maybe, but this kiss felt different. Desperate. As if he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips.
“I love you,” he breathed against your mouth.
“Daemon...”
“Let me finish. Please.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes dark in the dim light. “I know I’ve failed you. I know I’ve been selfish and arrogant and dismissive. I know you have every right to walk out that door and never look back. But I’m asking you, begging you, to give me a chance. Not because of the children. Not because of the family. Because of us. Because what we have is worth fighting for.”
Thunder crashed outside, shaking the windows, but neither of you flinched.
“I’m so tired of fighting,” you whispered.
“Then stop. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting this.” His hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized you’d shed. “Let me take care of you. Let me love you. Let me prove to you that we can be better than we’ve been.”
“And if we can’t? If we try and it’s still not enough?”
“Then I’ll let you go.” The words seemed to cost him a lot. “If we try, really try, and you’re still unhappy, I won’t fight the divorce. I’ll sign whatever you put in front of me. Just please, let's strike a truce for now.”
Part 2: coming soon...
a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist. Also, I lowkey hate the title of this fic, so if anyone has a better idea, let me know.
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Maekar Targaryen had no intention of invading your privacy, but one singular sentence caught his attention and he could not stop from turning page after page, his own hunger taking shape in a manner he never thought that you, his sweet innocent wife, would ever crave from him. You did not want gentleness, nor did you want softness—and what husband would he be if he did not indulge his wife's fantasies.
WARNING; explicit sexual content, maekar unintentionally finds your diary and one sentence hooks him, rough sex, cum play, hair pulling, back shots, intense sexual content, explicit detail, maekar goes down on you, and yes, he does taste his own cum, so don't read if that makes you angsty, minors dni.
The afternoon sun fell through the high lancet window in a blade of gold, catching the dust motes that hung suspended in the bedchamber's still air.
Maekar Targaryen knelt beside the bed, his weight settled back on his heels, the leather-bound diary open in his hands like a prayer book he had never been taught to read.
His thumb pressed to a page where the ink was still fresh, you had written this sometime in the night, after he'd fallen asleep, after he'd held you against his chest and kissed your hair and told you that you were his whole world in that quiet, reverent way he had.
The afternoon light caught the silver in his hair as he read the line again. I want him to take me without asking. I want him to pin my wrists and make me feel his strength. I want him to stop being so careful, stop treating me like glass, stop holding back the part of himself he thinks I can't handle.
His breath had stopped somewhere in his chest. He read it a third time, and a fourth, tracing each curve of your handwriting with his eyes, feeling the shape of the words settle into his bones like a truth he had always known but never dared to name.
You wanted him rough.
You wanted him to stop being gentle.
“Gods, the fucking cheek of this woman,” Maekar had murmured into the silence, because now he could not stop thinking about how you had been lying beside him every night, burning with a hunger you were too afraid to speak aloud, while he gave you tenderness you had never asked for.
The diary lay open across his palms, the leather warm from his grip. He could smell you on the pages, a faint trace of the lavender oil you rubbed into your wrists each evening, and something else, something that was just you, that he had memorized in the long months of your marriage.
He closed the book slowly, the leather creaking under his fingers, and when he looked toward the door where you would walk in any moment, there was a new stillness in his shoulders, a decision already settling behind his violet eyes.
He did not put the diary back.
He held it, feeling its weight, feeling the confession it contained as if it were a live thing pressed against his palm. You had written other things too, pages and pages of them, fantasies you had never whispered, desires you had blushed to even think.
He had read enough.
He had read the part that mattered.
The part that changed everything, the part that had awakened something within him he had no intention of ever showing you. Dyanna had never been this brazen, she had never hidden her desire for him—what she wanted, she had received tenfold, so what the fuck had possessed you to hide this from him?
The room was still, velvet hung motionless around the bed, the air thick with the memory of your bodies from the night before.
He could still feel the ghost of you against his skin, the way you had curled into him, the soft sound you made when he touched you and now he understood that sound differently.
It was not contentment, but rather that it was hunger, banked and patient, waiting for him to finally see it.
He rose from his knees, the diary still in his hand, and crossed to the carved oak table where you kept your hairbrush, your silver ring, the Targaryen pendant you never removed.
He set the diary down beside them, deliberately, as if placing an offering.
Then he turned and faced door.
The moment stretched as he could hear the distant sounds of the keep, a servant's footsteps in the corridor, the murmur of conversation from the courtyard below. None of it reached him.
He was suspended in the space between who he had been and who he was about to become.
He had been gentle because he thought you needed gentle. He had held you like you were precious, like you might break, because the idea of causing you even a moment's pain had been unbearable, the mere thought that you had wanted that part of him unleashed made his cock stir within the confinement of his breeches.
He had learned to be soft from a lifetime of watching what unchecked Targaryen passion could do to those caught in its path and the last thing he wanted was to frighten you.
He had sworn to himself that he would never be that kind of husband—not even with Dyanna and most certainly not with you—that he would love you with patience and care and the steady warmth of a hearth fire rather than the consuming blaze of dragonflame.
But you had not wanted a hearth fire. You had wanted the blaze. You had wanted the part of him he had locked away, the part that watched you with something darker, something that stirred when you bit your lip or looked at him from beneath your lashes.
You had wanted him to take, not to ask and he had been too afraid to see it.
The door opened.
You stepped into the room, your hair catching the afternoon light, your eyes lifting from the floor to find him standing there and you stopped.
Your hand still on the latch, your body half-turned as if you might step back out, as if you had sensed something in the air that did not belong.
“Maekar.” Your voice was soft, uncertain. Your gaze flicked past him to the table, to the diary lying open beside your brush, and your face went pale. “You—”
You did not finish.
He watched you process it. Watched the color drain from your cheeks, then rush back in a flush of heat that spread down your throat.
You knew.
You knew what he had found, what he had read. Your diary. Your secrets. The hunger you had never dared to show him.
“I found it beneath the sheets,” he said, his voice lower than usual, carrying a weight that made your breath catch. “I did not mean to read it. I meant to put it back, to pretend I had never seen it.” He took a step toward you. “But I read one line. And then I could not stop.”
Your lips parted but you said nothing, your hand came away from the latch and pressed against your throat, that nervous habit he had always found endearing, and watched your fingers curl against your collarbone as if you could feel his gaze there, as if the air between you had thickened with something you did not yet trust.
“You want me to stop being gentle.” He said it plainly, without accusation, but the words landed like stones in the silence between you. “You want me to pin your wrists. To take you without asking. To make you feel my strength.”
You flinched, a small, almost invisible movement, but he saw it, saw it in the way your eyes dropped, the way your throat worked as you swallowed, the way your hand pressed harder against your skin as if you were trying to hold yourself steady.
“Tell me,” he said, and his voice dropped lower still, rough at the edges, carrying the first hint of the fire you had written about. “Tell me if it is true.”
You looked up and met his eyes and in that look he saw everything, the fear, the shame, the desperate wanting that you had hidden behind shy glances and soft sighs.
You nodded. A single, small movement of head.
“Say it,” he said. “I need to hear you say it.”
Your lips moved, but no sound came. You wet them, tried again, and your voice emerged as a whisper, fragile and raw. “Yes. It's true. I want—” You stopped, your breath hitching. “I want you to stop being careful with me. I want you to take what you want. I want—”
He crossed the room in three strides.
His hand found your waist, not gentle, not hesitant, and pulled you against him so hard you gasped. His other hand came up to your jaw, fingers pressing into the soft flesh beneath your ear, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.
“Do you know what you have done, woman?” he asked, his voice barely above a murmur, vibrating with something that made your knees weaken. “Do you know what you have unleashed by writing those words?”
You shook your head, a tiny, trembling motion against his grip.
He lowered his mouth to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You have given me permission to be the husband I have always wanted to be. The one I locked away because I thought you needed softness. But you do not need softness, do you?”
You made a sound, a small, desperate sound that was almost a sob, almost a moan and your hands came up to clutch at his doublet, your fingers curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself against the current you had set in motion.
“Answer me,” he said, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “Do you need softness?”
“No,” you breathed. “No, I don't—I need—”
“What do you need?”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes dark and wet, your lips parted, your breath coming in uneven gasps. “I need you. The real you. The one you hide.”
The words hit him like a blow.
He stared at you, at the woman who had been sleeping beside him for months, who had smiled at him over breakfast and blushed when he caught you staring, who had written your darkest desires in a leather-bound book because you had been too afraid to speak them aloud and in that moment, he saw you clearly for the first time.
He released your jaw.
His hand slid down to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse hammer against his palm, you did not flinch and you did not pull away, but rather you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed, your lips parting on a soft exhale.
“From now on,” he said, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, “you will tell me what you want. You will not hide it in a book. You will not bury it beneath your pillow and hope I do not find it. If you want something, you will say it. Do you understand?”
You nodded, your throat moving against his hand.
“And if you do not say it,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that was almost a growl, “I will find out anyway. I will learn every corner of your desire. I will take it from you, piece by piece, until there is nothing left you have not given me.”
Your breath caught.
Your hands tightened on his doublet and when you spoke, your voice was barely audible, trembling with a mixture of fear and want that made his blood run hot. “Yes.”
He kissed you, not the soft, reverent kisses he had given you every night for months—no, no, this was a claiming, a taking, his mouth hard on yours, his hand pressing against your throat, his body crowding you back until you hit the doorframe with a soft thud.
You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting the shock and the surrender and the relief you could no longer hide.
When he broke the kiss, you were both breathing hard, your lips were swollen, your eyes dazed, your fingers still clutching at him as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly tilted off its axis.
“Take off your dress,” he said.
You stared at him as your hands trembled as they went to the laces at your shoulder. You fumbled, your fingers clumsy with nerves and want, and he watched you struggle without helping, without offering any of the gentleness he had always given you before.
The dress slipped. It pooled at your feet in a whisper of fabric. You stood before him in your shift, the thin linen doing nothing to hide the shape of you, the rise and fall of your breathing, the way your nipples had hardened beneath the cloth.
He looked at you, slowly, intensity burning and letting you feel the weight of his gaze, the heat of it, the hunger he had finally stopped hiding.
“On the bed,” he said. “On your knees. Face down.”
You moved without hesitation, no questions, no fear as you crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, the velvet rustling beneath your weight, and you arranged yourself as he had commanded, knees apart, face pressed into the pillows, your spine curving into an arch that made his mouth go dry. “Fuck me, woman.”
You said nothing, but he groaned at the unmistakable shake of your shoulders as you muffled the small giggle that tumbled from your lips, “I do not find this amusing, wife. You have undone me.”
The afternoon light fell across your back, across the curve of your hips, across the thin linen that separated you from his hands.
He stood at the foot of the bed and watched you, letting the image burn itself into his memory, his wife, the woman he had held so carefully, now offered to him with a trust that made his chest ache.
He removed his doublet, the leather slid from his shoulders, and the fine linen shirt beneath it followed, falling to the floor beside your dress. “I am going to fucking ruin you.”
He walked around the bed slowly, letting you hear his footsteps, letting you wonder what he would do next, letting the anticipation build until he could see your fingers grip the velvet covers.
When he climbed onto the bed behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight, you made a small sound, a breathless anticipation that tightened his jaw and hardened the cock already pressing against his trousers.
He settled behind you, one knee on either side of your legs, and let his hand rest on the small of your back, “You have been wanting this,” he said, his voice low, his palm pressing down until you arched deeper. “You have been lying beside me, night after night, wanting me to do this.”
“Yes,” you whispered into the pillow.
“Say it again.”
“Yes.” Your voice was stronger this time, carrying a note of desperate relief. “Yes, I have been wanting this. I have been wanting you.”
His hand slid down, over the curve of your hip, over the thin linen of the shift, until his fingers pressed between your legs.
You were wet, so fucking wet that the dampness of your desire soaked through the fabric, and he groaned at the feel of you, at the proof of your desire that you had hidden from him for so long. “You are soaked,” he said, his thumb pressing against you through the linen, making you gasp. “How long have you been this wet for me?”
“Months,” you breathed. “Since—since our wedding night. Since you held me so gently that I almost cried, because I knew—I knew you were holding back, and I wanted—”
“What did you want?” He pressed harder, circling, felt your hips push back against his hand.
“I wanted you to take me. I wanted you to fuck me like you meant it, like you needed it, like—” Your voice broke on a moan as he pinched you through the fabric. “Like I was yours to take.”
He pulled his hand away, and you whimpered at the loss. He grabbed the hem of your shift and pulled it up over your hips, baring you completely, the curve of your ass, the wet heat between your thighs, the glistening proof of your hunger.
He stared at you, his breath coming hard, his hands aching with the need to touch you. “You are mine,” he said, and his voice was not gentle. It was rough, possessive, dark with a fire he had never let you see.
“You have always been mine. But now—” He leaned over you, his mouth close to your ear, his cock pressing against you through the fabric of his trousers. “Now you are going to know what that means.”
You trembled beneath him, a full-body shudder that ran from your shoulders to your thighs. You did not speak as you did not need to, your body told him everything, the arch of your spine, the spread of your knees, the way you pressed back against him as if you could not get close enough.
He reached down and freed his cock from his trousers, the head already slick with need, and guided it to your entrance. He did not push inside. He held it there, pressing just at the opening, letting you feel the pressure, the promise, the heat of him ready to fill you.
“Look at me,” he said.
You turned your head, your hair spilling across the pillows, your eyes finding his. They were wet, dark, full of a wanting that mirrored his own. He held your gaze as he pushed inside you, slow and steady, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.
You gasped. “Fuck, woman. How the fuck—,” his jaw clenched as the words tumbled from him, “are you still so tight?”
Your eyes fluttered, but you did not look away, your body gripped him, hot and tight, and he felt the tremor run through you as you adjusted to the fullness of him.
He stayed still, letting you feel it, letting the moment stretch until you were breathing in short, shallow gasps that told him you were ready.
He began to move, not gentle and most fucking certainly not slow.
He fucked you with a rhythm that was hard and deep, his hips driving into yours, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. You made sounds he had never heard from you, raw, desperate, broken sounds that drove him harder, that told him this was what you had needed.
He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth at your ear. “Is this what you wanted?”
You could barely speak. Your voice came out in fragments, broken by each thrust. “Yes—yes—Maekar—”
“Tell me. Say the words.”
“I wanted you—to fuck me—like this—I wanted you—to not hold back—”
He reached around and found your clit with his fingers, pressing hard circles that made you cry out. Your body clenched around him, your muscles tightening as you neared the edge, and he drove into you deeper, faster, chasing the release that was building in both of you.
“Come for me,” he said, his voice a growl against your ear. “Come for me, and I will give you everything you have ever wanted.”
You shattered as your body arched, your cry muffled by the pillow, your cunt clenching around him in waves that pulled him over the edge with you. He came hard, his hips pressing deep, his fingers digging into your hips as he emptied himself into you, his breath ragged against your skin.
The room was silent except for your breathing, the ragged gasps slowly settling into steadier rhythms. He stayed inside you, not wanting to leave, not wanting the moment to end, and he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, soft, reverent, the ghost of his old gentleness.
But when he pulled out and you turned to face him, when you curled into his chest with your eyes still wet and your lips still parted, he knew. He knew that the gentle husband was not gone, that he was only one part of who Maekar Targaryen could be.
And now you knew it too.
He held you, his hand tracing slow circles on your back, and he looked at the diary still lying open on the table, at the words that had changed everything.
“No more secrets,” he said softly. “No more hiding what you want from me. I will be the husband you need, all of him. The gentle and the rough. The fire and the hearth. But you must promise me the same.”
You looked up at him, your dark eyes meeting his violet ones, and you nodded. “No more secrets.”
He kissed your forehead, a benediction and a promise. And in the quiet of the afternoon, with the diary still open on the table and your body warm against his, he began to understand what it meant to be the husband you had always wanted and to want it for himself.
The warmth of your body against his chest was still settling when he felt it, a twitch, a pressure, the slow resurgence of blood moving south. You must have felt it too, because your breath caught, and your fingers, which had been tracing idle patterns on his ribs, went still.
“Maekar.” His name on your lips was not a question. It was an acknowledgment, but rather a sudden flash of heat that had built beneath you once more.
He did not answer with words.
He rolled, taking you with him, pinning you beneath his weight before you could draw another breath, his hand found your throat, not the gentle resting touch from before, but a grip that pressed your head back into the pillows, that made your eyes go wide and your lips part on a sharp inhale.
He watched your pupils dilate, watched the rush of color stain your cheeks, watched the way your hands flew up to grip his wrist, not to push him away but to hold on. “I am not done with you,” he said, his voice low, rough, carrying an edge that had not been there the first time. “I barely started.”
You swallowed against his palm, your throat working, and the movement sent a pulse through his fingers that he felt all the way down his spine.
Maekar pulled his hand away just long enough to grab your hip and flip you onto your stomach and you gasped, the sound muffled by the pillows, and he dragged you up onto your knees, your ass pressing back against his thighs before he had even settled behind you.
He grabbed a fist of your hair and pulled, forcing your spine into a deeper arch, until your cheek was pressed flat against the mattress. “You said you wanted to know the real me,” he muttered, guiding his cock through the slick mess he had already left inside you. “The part I locked away. Look at me, and tell me you still want it.”
You turned your head, your eyes finding his over your shoulder. They were wet, wild, dark with a hunger that made his blood roar. “Yes,” you breathed. “Yes. Give me all of it.”
He drove into you in one, brutal thrust, no slow easing this time, no steady inch-by-inch. “You fucking wanted this, now take it.”
He buried himself to the hilt in a single motion that punched the air from your lungs and made your fingers claw at the sheets. He did not give you time to adjust. He pulled back and drove in again, harder, the slap of skin against skin sharp in the quiet room, the sound of his breathing ragged and harsh above you.
You made a sound that was almost a sob. Almost a plea. He did not slow down. He fucked you with a rhythm that was punishing, deep, each thrust driving your body forward until your knees slid against the velvet, until you were braced against the headboard, until the only sounds in the room were the wet slide of him inside you and the broken moans you could not contain.
His hand stayed in your hair, pulling your head back, keeping you arched and exposed. His other hand found your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave crescents. He wanted to mark you. He wanted you to feel this tomorrow, to walk through the keep with bruises blooming on your skin that no one else would see, to know that every ache in your body came from him.
“You like this,” he said, not a question. “You like being taken like this.”
You could barely speak, your voice breaking on each thrust. “Yes—yes, Maekar—please—”
“Please what?” He slowed, just enough to make you feel the difference, to make you desperate. “Tell me what you want.”
“Don't stop,” you gasped. “Don't—please—I—”
He drove into you again, hard, and you cried out, your body clenching around him, your thighs trembling. He could feel you approaching the edge, could feel the way your muscles tightened and fluttered, could feel the heat of your rising to meet his.
He pulled out.
You whimpered at the loss, a desperate, broken sound that nearly undid him as he grabbed your hips and flipped you onto your back, spreading your legs wide, positioning himself between before you could catch your breath.
He did not enter you.
He leaned over you, his weight on one arm, his other hand wrapping around his cock and sliding the head through the wet mess he had made of you, teasing your entrance, letting you feel the pressure without the relief.
“Look at me,” he said. “Do not fucking move an inch,” and then he left you, his presence an absence that made you mewl in protest.
You did not move, your eyes were glassy, your lips swollen, your chest heaving. You looked wrecked, and beautiful, and utterly his.
He retrieved the diary from the table. He did not close it. He held it out to you, the pages facing you, and said, “Read to me. The entry you wrote last night. The one about my mouth.”
Your cheeks flamed and your hands trembled as you took the diary, your fingers brushing against his.
You looked down at the page, your lips moving silently as you found the passage. And then you began to read, your voice low and shaky, the words spilling into the space between you like a confession you had never meant to speak aloud.
He watched you and listened as you read, about his tongue, about the way you imagined him tasting you, about the shame and the hunger, he felt something settle in his chest, a hunger of his own.
The chapter was not over. It had only just begun.
Your voice trembled through the first sentence, then steadied as you found your rhythm. The words you had written in the dark, when you thought no one would ever read them, now filled the space between you like smoke, intimate, unavoidable, burning.
“I imagine him on his knees,” you read, your cheeks flushing deeper, your eyes fixed on the page. “Between my thighs. His mouth—,” you stopped, wet your lips, and continued. “His mouth on me like I am something he needs to survive. Not gentle. Not careful. Devouring. Like he wants to consume me.”
He watched your throat move as you swallowed, watched your fingers tighten on the leather binding, in the way your thighs pressed together, as if the words themselves were enough to make you ache.
“Go on,” he said.
You turned the page.
Your breath caught.
“I want him to hold me down and taste me until I forget my own name. Until I can't think, can't speak, can't do anything but feel his tongue inside me. I want—,” your voice cracked. “I want to feel his beard against my thighs, his hands gripping my hips, his mouth—,” you stopped, your eyes squeezed shut, the diary trembling in your hands.
He took it from you gently, set it aside on the bed beside you and then he took your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the heat in your cheeks, and he kissed you.
Soft, reverent, the ghost of his old gentleness. “You wrote about my mouth,” he said against your lips. “Now you will feel it.”
He pushed you back onto the bed, your hair spreading across the pillows, your legs falling open without hesitation. He settled between them, his shoulders fitting into the cradle of your thighs, his breath warm against the slick heat he had already filled twice that afternoon.
You were still wet with him. His seed leaked from you, mixed with your own desire, and he pressed his mouth to you without hesitation, tasting you both, tasting the evidence of what you had done. You gasped, your hips bucking, your hands flying to his hair.
He did not start slowly.
He devoured you, just as you had written, his tongue flat against your clit, his mouth open and hungry, his fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks. You cried out, your back arching, your fingers twisting in his silver hair, and he felt the vibration of your moan through his lips.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his mouth still against you. “You taste like us. Like everything we have done today. Like everything we are going to do.”
You made a sound that was not quite a word, your hips pressing against his face, and he gave you what you wanted, his tongue sliding inside you, tasting the depth of you, feeling you clench around nothing as he worked you open with his mouth.
He stayed there for a long time, not rushing and not holding back either as he licked and sucked and pressed until your thighs were trembling against his ears, until your breath came in ragged sobs, until you were so close he could feel it in the way your body tensed, in the way your fingers tightened in his hair, in the way you whispered his name like a prayer.
He pulled his mouth away.
You whimpered, your hips chasing him, and he pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then the other, working his way up your body slowly, deliberately, letting you feel the absence of his mouth where you needed it most. “Not yet,” he said, his voice rough, his chin slick with you. “I want you to watch me when you come this time.”
He positioned himself above you, his cock pressing against your entrance, and held your gaze as he pushed inside. The angle was different like this, deeper, fuller, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he filled you completely. You gasped, your hands finding his shoulders, your eyes never leaving his.
He fucked you slow at first, deep, grinding thrusts that let you feel every inch of him, that made your breath catch on each withdrawal and rush out on each plunge.
He watched your face, watched the way your lips parted, the way your eyes glazed, the way your hands slid from his shoulders to his chest to his face, tracing the lines of him as if you were memorizing him by touch.
“You are everything,” he said, his voice breaking. “Everything I was afraid to be. Everything I locked away. You—” He thrust deeper, harder, and your back arched. “You set it free.”
You pulled his mouth to his, kissing him hard, your tongue sliding against his, tasting yourself on his lips. He groaned into your mouth, his rhythm faltering as the heat built, as your legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him deeper, as your cunt clenched around him in waves that told him you were close.
He broke the kiss, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged. “Come for me. Look at me and come.”
Your eyes locked onto his. Your body tensed, your mouth open on a silent cry, and you shattered beneath him, your cunt milking him with a force that sent him over the edge with you. He drove deep, pressing you into the mattress, and let go, filling you again, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
He collapsed beside you, pulling you with him, his arm wrapped around your waist, his face buried in your hair. The room was darkening, the afternoon light fading to the amber glow of early evening, and the diary lay open on the bed beside you, its pages catching the last of the sun.
You turned in his arms, your hand finding his chest, your voice barely a whisper. “There are more entries.”
He looked at you, at the flush still staining your cheeks, at the trust in your eyes, at the woman who had hidden your desires in a leather-bound book and now lay naked and spent in his arms, your secrets laid bare.
“I know,” he said softly. “And I will read every one of them. But not tonight.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Tonight, I want to hold you. Tonight, I want to feel you sleeping against my chest, knowing that you are mine, all of you. The gentle parts and the hungry parts. The parts you showed me and the parts you are still afraid to speak.”
Your eyes glistened as you nodded, curling into him, your cheek pressed to his heart. The diary lay open beside you, a witness to the change that had passed between you, a record of the hunger that had finally been fed.
He reached over and closed it. The leather creaked under his fingers, and he set it on the table beside the bed, beside your hairbrush and your ring and your pendant.
“Hmm.”
“Maekar?”
He grunted, something between hunger and an incredulous laugh, “I am particularly interested in how the fuck you want me to fuck you on the Iron Throne, but I suppose the vivid imagination you had bled into that fucking book will give me an idea.”
“You are insufferable.”
“You words, woman, not mine.”
Do not fret, for I intend to write this scenario for Valarr, Daeron, Aerion and Baelor. I just needed to get this off my chest first.
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