Game of Thrones Addict

my main blog, fanfic blog is @ravenofthefandoms // Shi // 22 // writing, crafting, and baking <3

[ravenofthefandoms]

Masterlist

It’s not gonna be anything special for now, I’ll make it all aesthetic n shit later.

Harry Potter

Neville Longbottom

Your Secret Admirer

Matchmaker

Draco Malfoy

Forgive and Forget

Severus Snape

Sabotage

Game of Thrones

Sandor Clegane

The Lucky Stag - Part 1  Part 2 Part 3

Bronn of the Blackwater

Quiet Isle - Part 1

Jorah Mormont

Jorah the Northman

[captainfern]

Here With Me

Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader

✿ despite your warnings, aerion drinks a powerful stimulant, and then seeks your help when nothing else seems to fix him (or, a sex pollen fic with the dragon himself) ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 7.7k ✿ cw: fem!reader/healer!reader, no y/n, reader is undefined and smart asf, sex pollen, SMUT, oral (m!receiving), face-fucking, unprotected piv, multiple orgasms, hyperspermia!!, reader gets bent over her shop counter, rough sex, dirty talk, cw for aerion being himself (he's lowkey mean, mentions of frequenting brothels, slight degradation, etc), strong language, ser donnel mentions <3

a/n: inspired by this ask

Your shop is rather small, but you love it.

Behind the sturdy wooden counter—which itself is laden with misshapen plants sprouting from old teacups and half-filled bottles of sparkling powder—sits rows upon rows of shelves. The shelves are stocked full of your natural remedies and creations, vials big and small, pouches of linen and pouches of ribboned silk. You have everything, perfectly organised, by remedy and in alphabetical order.

For years, you’ve operated out of your little shop in a narrow side-street in the heart of King’s Landing, just a stone’s throw from the main thoroughfare. You’ve helped countless travellers and residents with a range of issues: from sedatives for unruly hounds and salves to treat festering hoof-rot, to fast-acting contraceptives and bitter-tasting hallucinogens.

You can make anything.

And because you can make anything, you’ve become familiar with many a noble and knight in your time.

The door to your shop opens as you’re serving a little old lady, handing her a parcel of dried mushrooms. A cool breeze smelling faintly of winter rain and freshly baked bread sweeps into your shop, jostling the bundles of herbs you have hanging from your ceiling. You wave goodbye to the elderly women as you look up, smiling politely as you catch the unmistakable glint of midday sun against white armour.

“Ser Donnel,” you greet with a small bow of your head as the older kingsguard enters your shop, his gleaming armour making him appear like a pearl in the sand amongst your dim wooden shelves. “How is your finger? I trust the salve I made you helped the wound heal?”

Ser Donnel approaches the counter, offering you a small smile as he lifts his hand. He flexes his fingers, eyes lingering on the index, which he had sliced open a week prior.

“It did, thank you,” Ser Donnel says, his eyes lingering now on the shelves behind you.

“What can I do for you?” You ask, drumming your fingers on the solid wood of your counter, watching as the older knight spins slowly on his heel, taking in the other shelves and tables packed into your small shop.

“Don’t suppose you have something for horses?” He asks, back to you. When he turns, however, he gives you a rueful smile, then laughs. “Of course you do.”

“Of course I do,” you mimic, rounding your counter and leading the older knight across the room. You find a shelf near the shop’s far side, gesturing to an array of small vials, many labelled “Dog – Rash” or “Cat – Sneezing” and even “Chicken – Eggbound.” Ser Donnel looks at the array of small vials with complete amazement as you turn back to him. “What’s wrong with your palfrey, ser?”

Ser Donnel points to his own eye for emphasis. “Got something in her eye. All red and weepy and that. Not pleasant.”

“I see,” you say, then turn to your shelf. It takes you less than a second before you’re plucking a vial with dark brown glass off of the shelf. You hold it out to Ser Donnel. “Sounds like conjunctivitis. Very common, and, lucky for you, easy to treat. Just a few drops of this, morning and night, and she should be all better in a couple of days.”

Ser Donnel looks at you, visibly pleased, as you gently press the small vial into his palm. “You’re an absolute darling, you know that?”

“I try,” you reply, smiling as you return to your counter. Ser Donnel follows you, dropping the vial into a pouch and pulling out his coin purse at the same time. He drops several stags onto the counter, and you gape at him as they clatter loudly against the wood. “Ser Donnel, this is too much—”

“For the eye-drops,” Ser Donnel insists, pushing the stags towards you. “And for your services, okay? Now, I don’t want to hear another word of it.”

You bite your lip, hiding your smile as you reluctantly scoop up the stags and slip them into the coin pouch on your belt.

“Well, can I at least give you something for your generosity?” You ask, ducking beneath the counter before he could even open his mouth to reply. You snatch up a small pouch and get to your feet, offering it to the knight, who peers at you as if you had grown another head. You sigh through your nose, amused. “Sourleaf. Fresh in this morning.”

Ser Donnel offers you another kind smile, taking the pouch of painkillers and slipping it alongside the pouch with the vial.

“Thank you,” he says, bowing his head, just as the door to your shop opens and another gust of wind blows in.

The cold breeze sweeps through the store, and the door bangs harshly against the side wall, creaking on its hinges from the force. You startle, and Ser Donnel whips around. Composing yourself, you’re quick to sink back, making yourself appear smaller, as Aerion Targaryen bursts into the room with eyes spitting embers.

“How long could it possibly take to buy an ointment for a fucking horse?” The prince seethes as he steps into the shop, looking around with genuine distaste. His eyes linger on a murky liquid in a large bottle on the wall beside him, before they drag through the dim to Ser Donnel. He makes a face, eyebrows raising like he’s expecting something. “Well? Did you get it?”

You hear Ser Donnel release a short, quiet breath.

“Yes, your grace,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder sympathetically before stepping towards the prince. “We may be off now.”

Aerion scoffs, allowing Ser Donnel to brush past him, but his eyes lift and land on you. He peers at you, as if just noticing your presence, his gaze burning holes right through the centre of your face. He looks at you half with distaste—probably due to the leaves in your hair and the powder dusted across your arms and apron—and half with interest, like a merchant admiring a newly minted coin.

“So you are the woods witch Ser Donnel speaks so highly of…” Aerion comments, eyes unwavering in their stare. You shift your eyes to the floor. Aerion huffs, partially amused. “I expected an ugly old thing, but this—”

“Your grace,” Ser Donnel warns with a sternness akin to a strict father.

“—is unexpected,” Aerion continues, unphased. He traipses into the shop, cloak swishing behind him like a pair of raven’s wings. His eyes scan the walls of bottles and vials and jars, and he plucks a small one from the closest shelf. Spinning it between his fingers, he speaks with considerable disinterest, “How exactly do you know how to make all of this?”

You lift your head slowly, hands clasped in front of you. “My… my mother taught me, your grace.”

The vial he holds holds a sticky green liquid, the colour of forest moss. He peers at it strangely. The liquid inside sticks to the glass, viscous and slow-moving as he turns it.

“What’s this for?” He asks, and you know he doesn’t actually care. You lock eyes, and you realise he’s testing you.

“Eases infant colic,” you reply straight away.

Aerion drops the vial on the floor and it shatters against the wood. You flinch, startled by the sudden noise. You hear Ser Donnel protest with a gruff call of the prince’s title, but Aerion is undeterred, slipping behind the counter and appraising the towering shelves behind you. He takes another vial, the liquid inside a deep, mustard yellow.

“And this?”

“Inflamation caused by pox,” you answer. “Soothes the skin.”

He huffs, and drops that vial too. It shatters, but this time, you don’t flinch. You watch the syrupy yellow liquid leech between the floorboards, glass shimmering in the ghostly light streaming in through the only window near the door.

Aerion walks further behind the counter, and you shift until the small of your back is pressed to the solid wooden lip. The prince closes in on several vials on the very top shelf, and he has to stand on his toes to reach one of them. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you open your mouth to say something, but no words fall.

Aerion’s pale fingers snatch a small bottle from the top shelf. The glass is clear, and it’s labelless, but you know exactly what it is. The substance inside resembles wine: a deep, blood-red that bubbles a little on the surface as the prince sloshes the liquid around. There’s a small, oil-like sheen to it as he holds it up, violet eyes finding yours.

“What’s this?” He presses, and you wonder if he catches the fear in your eyes.

You clear your throat. “I, uh, it’s—”

He uncorks it, and you raise an arm.

“It’s a stimulant,” you blurt out, stopping yourself from pulling the vial from his hands. Aerion continues, unphased, as he lifts the bottle to his nose and sniffs. You can almost smell it yourself: overripe grapes, crushed honeysuckle, and what smells uncannily like the perfumed skin of an expensive courtesan. Aerion pauses, something flashing in his eyes as you continue shyly, “To… increase desire and maintain… maintain a man’s excitement.”

Aerion stares at you, slowly lowering the little bottle from his nose.

He holds it carelessly, and as Ser Donnel sends another warning from across the room, you attempt to prise the bottle from his fingers, your touch slow and gentle.

“Please be careful, your grace,” you utter, fingers skimming the cool glass of the vial. “It’s incredibly potent in large doses—”

Aerion jerks away, and you snap your hand back as though you’d been burned. 

The prince hisses at you, serpent-like as the pointed ivory of his teeth glint in the grey light. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

You withdraw. “Your grace, please—”

“You’re trying to scare me,” he seethes, shaking the bottle enough for a few droplets to flick out and onto the pale skin of his fingers. It stains like mulled wine. He continues, staring you down. “How dare you even—”

“Your grace,” Ser Donnel’s voice booms through the small room, and you find yourself cowering back against the counter, stuck between two brewing storms. Ser Donnel sighs loudly. “Listen to her. She knows a lot more than you do, believe me.”

Aerion lets out a bitter laugh. “Don’t mock me.”

You chime in hesitantly. “Please, your grace. It’s a concentrated mixture. I wouldn't want you to—”

“I can do what I want,” Aerion spits out, and before you can even react, he downs the entire vial in two quick mouthfuls.

You gasp out. “Your grace—!”

Aerion drops the vial and it shatters right at your feet. You jump back, avoiding the splash of broken glass, as the prince turns on his heel and makes for the door. You scramble after him, but you’re stopped by Ser Donnel, who places a gentle hand on your shoulder.

At the door, Aerion turns and gives you one last look, eyes trailing up and down your figure, before he rolls his eyes and vanishes back onto the street.

You’re breathing deeply, overcome with guilt. Ser Donnel strokes your shoulder gently, calming you.

“It’s alright, it’s his own doing,” Ser Donnel assures you, hand shifting up to pat you comfortingly on the cheek.

“But—he just—the entire thing.”

“Will it harm him?” Ser Donnel asks. His voice is firm and it almost makes you want to cry. “Will it kill him?”

You quickly shake your head. “No, ser! It—it will be very intense, and very, uh, difficult to remediate without—without help, but it will not harm him, no.”

“Can a cure be made?”

You feel yourself warming beneath your clothes, and you clear your throat, soothing your hands over your apron and your skirts.

“I suppose I can give you something to ease the racing heart,” you say quietly, ducking off to the side to pluck another small vial from a nearby shelf. You hand it to Ser Donnel. “Mix with hot water and it will ease the fast-moving heart, but I’m afraid… I’m afraid the other symptoms will have to be cured… in other avenues.”

Ser Donnel chuckles, taking the vial. “I suppose I’ll be taking him to the Street of Silk later tonight then?”

You offer Ser Donnel a sympathetic smile, nodding and trying to ignore the warmth in your belly. You put it down to the shock of the whole thing, and you give Ser Donnel a polite wave as he leaves your shop without another word.

You sigh, turning and examining the broken glass and spilled liquid across your floors. You grab your broom from near the door and set to work.

—✿—

Later that night, you’re setting a new set of vials on a shelf across the store, extinguishing the wall-mounted candles as you move. You hum to yourself, skirts brushing the dusty floor, the street beyond the small window empty and pitch-black as night falls across King’s Landing. A crescent moon hangs, thin and pale, above the horizon.

You take your apron off and place it neatly on a hook near the door behind the counter—the door which leads up a narrow flight of stairs to your home above. As you do this however, there’s a thud at the locked door. It rattles the old wood where it settles on its hinges, and your heart flutters a little in fright as you look over, spying a shadow through the stained glass. Taking a knife from a block behind you, you approach the door with your hand obscured behind your back.

There’s another thud. More like a knock this time.

“Are you alright?” You ask through the stained glass, the outer pane caked in grime kicked up from the street. You gently unbolt the door and open it a crack, peering out at the shadowed figure that hunches in your alcove. “I’m closed for the night, but if you are ill—”

“Let me in,” comes a familiar voice, and you squeak in fright when you recognise it. 

Quickly, you pull open the door, still holding your knife, and the shadowed figure slips into your shop. You close and bolt the door behind you, turning with your back to the surface as the figure drops his hood, and subsequently, his cloak, and you watch as Aerion Targaryen turns slowly as the thick black fabric pools at his feet.

“Your grace,” you mutter, dropping into a polite bow. Worry clenches tightly in your chest as the prince looks at you with narrowed eyes, features appearing gaunt in what remains of the shop’s fading candlelight. You spare a glance through the stained glass of the door, then through the pane of the window adjacent. “Your grace, I’m not sure if—”

“What have you done to me?” Aerion interrupts you, his question slicing through the nervous quiet like the blade you clutch. He takes a step forward and you suck in a startled gasp, slipping around him and hurrying towards your counter. You just want to put as much distance between him and you as possible. He groans when you breeze by him, slowly turning as he speaks, “You’ve poisoned me.”

You’re behind your counter now. “I’ve done no such thing.”

“You have,” Aerion hisses, and he takes another step forward. You notice he’s slightly wobbly on his feet, pitching forward chest-first as though his legs are too heavy. He catches himself on a nearby shelf, bottles clinking together as the wood trembles. “This is your fault. You’ve poisoned me. You’ve—you’ve cursed me.”

Your eyes grow wide. You shake your head. “Your grace, please, I would never.”

In the low candlelight, sweat sparkles like broken glass on Aerion’s forehead. His white-blond hair clings to his skin, damp near his temples, and there’s a dip in his brow that casts a dark shadow over his eyes. But when he cocks his head, staring you down, you see them flash violet in the ochre light, his pupils slowly expanding.

“Ser Donnel informed me of what I had taken, and what it would do to me,” Aerion mutters, his voice hoarse as he pushes himself off the shelf. His palms slam down on the counter directly across from you, and you take a step back, fingers tight on the bone handle of your knife. Aerion huffs, “So I drank your little tea for my heart, and I fucked a couple of whores, but nothing is working.”

You swallow, heart in your throat.

“I tried to sleep,” Aerion says, dragging himself around the counter. You mimic his actions on the other end, slipping to the other side to avoid him. He continues, one of his hands shifting to the thin buttoned tunic he’s wearing. He pops open the top button. “I tried to bathe, I tried to pleasure myself, and I went back to that fucking whorehouse twice more and nothing—” He groans, and undoes another button. “—is working. What have you done to me?”

Slowly, he exposes the pale, unblemished skin of his chest. He’s damp with sweat as you round the counter, skirts flowing around your ankles. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest as he advances on you lazily, eyes drawn to the movement of your body like a falcon.

“You drank the stimulant,” you tell him as gently as possible.

You’re at opposite ends of the counter now. He pauses, undoing another button.

“So it’s my fault?” Aerion hisses out. 

You watch as he pushes his hips against the lip of the counter and he groans, hoarse and animal-like from the back of his throat. It strings across a whimper, and heat floods your belly. You curse yourself, watching as the prince—the Targaryen prince Aerion Brightflame—ruts himself slowly against your counter. You can see the stimulant’s effects on him: the tent pitched in the front of his trousers, the beads of sweat that trek down beneath his now open-tunic, rolling between the grooves of his abdomen.

“Yes,” you say boldly, holding the knife. “You shouldn’t have drank it.”

Aerion huffs out, then groans again as he looks up at you, hips pressed firmly to the edge of the counter. “You’re a witch. Fix me.”

You release a shaky breath, then approach him. You move behind your counter, and he watches you with serpent-like concentration as you slowly place your knife onto the surface. He smirks at that, moving behind the counter too.

“You…” Your heart is wild beneath your ribs, and you can smell him as he nears. He smells expensive: smoked oud, honey-washed skin, patchouli incense from the Street of Silk. You smell sweat and wine too when he gets within a foot of you. You continue, “I cannot fix you, your grace. The easiest fix is to find… find a woman, or a man, I suppose, and engage in sexual intercourse until the effects wear off.”

You hope you sound confident enough. You fear you may faint as he looks you up and down, bare chest rising and falling, smoke trapped beneath shifting scales.

“This is your doing,” he says, seemingly ignoring your previous statement. One of his hands finds your hip and you seize up. “You will fix me. You will fix this.”

You find yourself shifting then as he pushes you up against the counter, the print of his hard cock pressing between your thighs as he pins you. You frown as he groans, the hand on your hip tightening while the other slowly rises to take your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“I can’t fix it,” you whisper as he forces your eye contact. You’re trapped beneath him, but there’s a heat in your belly you can’t deny, and the pounding of your heart travels south, settling between your thighs despite your racing mind. “I, well, I can try and make a cure—”

“I don’t want an elixir or a salve or a bunch of dried fucking herbs,” Aerion utters as his fingers tighten on your jaw. He ruts his pelvis against your thigh, and you watch as something flits through his eyes, the black of his pupils having engulfed the violet of his irises. “I want you to fix me.”

You swallow. “Your grace—?”

“I want your mouth on my cock, and I want you bent over this fucking counter,” Aerion interrupts with a voice strewn through gravel, dark and hoarse. Something twists deep in your belly as he bends his head, dipping his nose against the curve of your jaw. He grunts when he inhales, lips vibrating against your skin when he speaks again. “Will that fix me?”

Your hands are tight around the edge of the counter. “Yes, your grace, but—”

Aerion hums, teeth just skimming the skin of your jaw before he pulls back. “Good. Then get on your knees.”

The heat of his body leaves yours then, and you blink up at the ceiling. Aerion Targaryen was telling you to get on your knees? Aerion Targaryen was currently pulling apart the knots of his trousers, panting like a wounded dog as he dips his hand into his breeches to fist himself? Your mind was a mess.

But you did what you were told. You could have easily overpowered him in this state. Simply leapt from his reach and locked yourself in your room. But you didn’t want to. There’s a heavy fire kindling in your belly, fanning out over your womb as blood pumps hot between your thighs.

You sigh gently, slowly pushing yourself off the counter and sinking to your knees, your powder-dusted skirts flowing out around you. The wooden ground is hard but well-worn from years of footfall, and you settle on your knees as the prince takes a step forward, his trousers gathered just beneath the curve of his arse. The print of his cock strains against the white linen of his breeches, the front wet with pre-cum, and the way his fingers tremble when he attempts to unknot them makes you whine.

“My prince…” you whisper, reaching your hands to take hold of the strings of his breeches. 

He stills above you, muscles in his abdomen clenching as you pull the knots apart. While you do this, one of his hands comes to rest on the back of your head, and he pulls you to him. Adrenaline is thick and viscous in your veins, but you let yourself be guided despite the hammering of your pulse up the side of your neck. You’re dizzy with both need and fear as you open your mouth and press it, hot and wet, to the front of his breeches.

He bites down a hiss. “That’s right.”

You kiss over the line of his cock, open-mouthed and messy against the soft linen. You smell perfume and imagine the skilled hands of trained sex workers pulling the prince’s breeches down for him. You squeeze your thighs together at the thought, and you finally manage to pull apart the knots beneath his navel.

“Kiss me, that’s it,” Aerion groans out, holding your head firmly as your lips move across his covered cock. He’s burning hot and rigid beneath the fabric, and your hands find his thighs as you lave your tongue. That earns you a groan, and your eyes flit upwards to find him already looking at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “That’s it, fix me… fix this.”

Your head rocks beneath his hand as you mouth at his covered length. You feel him twitch beneath your lips, tip drooling out onto the fabric as you run the point of your tongue across it. Aerion hisses, hips bucking so harshly he knocks against your nose. Tears well along your waterline as he pulls you away then, just long enough to shove his breeches down.

He pulls his cock out, pale fingers wrapped tightly around the shaft. He groans at the raw contact, and you can’t help but gape as he clutches himself, tip a bruising red and wet with pre-cum. Pearlescent beads roll down the dip of his frenulum, and down his length as he slaps it against your cheek, then the other. He groans again when he pushes the tip across your lips, your eyes glassy as you watch him.

“Didn’t think witches could be as pretty as you,” he says suddenly as he ruts his cock along the warm lines of your face: over the curve of your cheekbones, rolling beneath the angle of your jaw. You kneel there, breathing hard, as he rubs himself over your skin. His words have heat flooding from your belly to your chest. The prince continues, “Might take you back to the Keep with me, huh? Keep you locked away…”

He tapers off when he groans, his balls drawing up tight. He grips the back of your head as he slides the head of his cock across your wet lips. He manages to bite out a quick “open” and you listen, opening your mouth and letting him slide just the tip in before he’s spilling in thick, hot spurts. Aerion groans, a shaking timbre from his chest as he rubs the head of his cock against the front of your tongue and spills into the warmth of your mouth. Some hits the back of your throat, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to choke as he releases, fingers firm on the back of your head.

After a moment, his cock jerks, but doesn’t soften. A loud, frustrated groan rips from Aerion’s throat as he pulls out and smears the remnants back over your cheek again.

“You did this to me,” he growls out as he shoves himself back into your mouth, barely giving you enough time to swallow. You open your eyes when he feeds himself into you, cock a velvet warmth against your tongue. He releases a stuttered breath, his other hand finding the back of your head as well. “So you’re going to take it.”

You gag when his hips rock forward and the leaking tip nudges down the back of your throat. You swallow, huffing out of your nose, and he groans loudly enough for it to echo. His hands tighten on your head and he physically starts moving you, pulling your head back and forth and fucking his cock down your throat. You try your best to lax your jaw, minding your teeth as you slide your tongue along the underside—you find a prominent vein easy enough, and you squeeze your thighs together as he whines, the muscles in his abdomen shifting.

The velvet of his trousers is plush beneath your fingers as you grip his thighs. They sit low on his hips, ties swaying as he pitches his hips, pulling your head back and forth. Every other thrust, he’s pushing you deep against him with a guttural groan, forcing your lips to the very root as the tip knocks against the back of your mouth. Your nose finds the neat white hair at the base, and the smell of perfumed oil should be a turn off, but it isn’t.

You whimper around him, cheeks hollowing. Your eyes are glassy and there’s a thin rivulet of saliva running from the corner of your mouth as he fucks your throat. Heat settles deep in the marrow of your bones, fluttering heart between your thighs. The feeling of spit rolling down your chin makes you whimper again, and suddenly, his eyes are on you. They’d been closed in, what you can only assume, is ecstasy as he chases another high. But now, he stares down at you with a subtle pinch in his brows. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“If I knew you’d take my cock like this,” Aerion utters, petting the back of your head as he stretches your lips apart. “I’d’ve skipped the fucking whores and come straight here.”

You moan, something like a protest, but it’s shoved right back down your throat by the leaking head of his cock. You choke and splutter when he rolls his hips and he, somehow, goes even deeper. Aerion pulls back with a groan draped across a chuckle, letting you suckle the head as you catch your breath. His balls twitch as he slowly ruts back in, and once you blink the tears from your eyes, you reach a hand up to cup them.

He hisses out, “Fuck, fuck, oh gods—”

You let him press you to his pelvis, nose between the prominent lines of his hips. Your fingers and thumb work gently, rubbing over smooth skin as the grip on either side of your head tightens as he thrusts once, twice more before he begins to lose his rhythm.

“That’s it, that’s it, take it,” the prince moans, still looking at you, eyes black with lust as his hips slow and he forces you right down onto his cock again. He moans again when he spills—another thick, hot release that splatters down the back of your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut, practically holding your breath as his cock jerks, balls drawing up beneath your fingers. When your eyes close, Aerion lets out a quiet, “Look at me.”

It’s surprisingly soft. You blink up at him. His hand finds your warm cheek then, petting you two times like he’s trying to be gentle, and the effort puts a pit in your stomach. But it doesn’t last: his cock, still hard, dribbles as he pulls it from your mouth, taking a step back but still holding your head in one hand. His other hand finds the base of his slick cock and he moans as it pumps hot against his palm.

His bare chest is flushed, as are his cheeks. He pants like a dog too, and as he grips his cock, you watch with lowered lids as cum beads against the slit, then strings out like a spider’s web. It drips onto the floor as he groans, his lip curling up in a frustrated snarl.

“Why isn’t it working?” He asks you, fingers on the crown of your head.

You flick the point of your tongue across your teeth before you speak, tasting his release in the grooves. Overripe grapes linger in the back of your throat.

“You drank six doses worth,” you whisper, hands caressing his thighs.

“Fuck,” Aerion curses, and he watches with dark eyes as you lean forward, testing the waters, and press a wet kiss to the tip of his flushed cock.

You continue speaking as you slowly kiss down his shaft. “A single dose will usually allow a normal man three or four releases, if he’s lucky.”

Aerion grunts as you lick over the vein on the underside. It’s throbbing and hot against the flat of your tongue.

“But you, my prince…” Your tongue lowers and you lick a stripe from root to tip, and the sound that leaves him is more animal than human. You hide your smile. “Are not a normal man, are you?”

“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, but he’s preening. Like a cat being praised, a small groan lifts from his chest like a purr, and something flashes across his eyes. Pride. His hand pets your hair softly despite the venom in his tone, and he watches you in awe when the tip of your tongue darts out to collect a welling bead of pre-cum. He grunts then, pulling his cock away from your mouth with great effort. “Stand up.”

You do as you’re told. You clamber to your feet, and you feel slightly silly as you wait for him to kiss you. Of course he doesn’t—he spins you around with a grunt and pushes you roughly against the table. It hits your tummy as you bend, and you exhale a little “oof” as his hands make quick work of flipping up your skirts. He gathers them at your hips before he’s ripping your smallclothes away from your core.

“Cunt this wet from sucking my cock?” Aerion plasters himself to your back, leaning over to whisper in your ear as he runs the length of his cock from your arsehole to your pussy. You whine as he spreads you apart, slick webbing between your folds before they snap where he runs his cock through you. He groans at your heat, head dropping to rest between your shoulder blades as he rocks back and forth. “Gods, you’re dripping, sweet girl.”

The pet name has you reeling.

You hadn’t been expecting it, and it seems like he hadn’t been either. The length of his body stiffens behind you, as if his words were involuntary beneath the haze of his pleasure. With a grunt, he pulls back, taking the flat of his palm and muscling you down from between your shoulder blades until your tits are pressed tightly to the surface of the counter.

“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, still holding his cock as he drags the flushed tip through your folds. You suck in a breath, mewling when he slaps it against your clit. He makes a pleased sound, squeezes it out between clenched teeth, before he circles the tip at your entrance. “You did this to me. You did this to yourself.”

He pushes in with a low moan. There’s no slow stretch. There’s no slow.

The prince shoves himself in like it’s all he can do, the thick of his cock pulling you apart from the inside out. There’s a sting low in your pelvis and a dull kind of ache that festers like a bruise in the base of your womb as he bullies himself into you. A deep, keening sound is pushed involuntarily from your chest as you clutch the counter, followed by a gasp of “my prince” as he bottoms out, hips flush with your arse.

Your pussy is slick and warm around him and you squeeze tight when he pauses.

He’s panting. You can feel him straining behind you, his hands gripping your hips so hard it’s like he’s anchoring himself to you. The walls of your cunt hug around the thick of him in such a way that he’s completely lost himself.

“I—fuck… gods above…” Aerion mutters, slowly pulling out.

You press your cheek to your counter, attempting to look back at him, but the angle is awkward and you can only just make out the look of pure awe on his face. His dark eyes focus on the tight pull of your cunt as he slides out, shaft slick with you. A small whimper—he covers it quickly with a grunt—falls from his parted lips when his head notches at your hole.

“Maybe you belong in a whorehouse,” he whispers after a moment of tense silence. He rolls his hips and shoves himself back in, ears picking up the wet schlick as he slides home, balls coming to rest against the curve of your arse. He hums, pulling out again, then pushing back in. “Men’d pay good coin for a cunt like this.”

The prince sets a rhythm that rocks you against the counter. It’s sharp, desperate. You clutch onto the edge as if he might push you over, his cock rutting in and out of you at such a pace you’re becoming dizzy. He’s panting, frantic, the speed of his hips filling your small, dark shop with the echoing sounds of skin-on-skin.

His previous words settle and then he hisses like he’s offended himself. A disgruntled jeer as he grips your hips and fucks you back onto him.

“Too bad you’re here,” he utters. His thighs are a firm bracket behind yours as he fucks you. The way he speaks is dark and smooth. Dangerous flashes through your mind as you moan, a solid heat collecting in the very depth of your belly. He continues, “Too bad you’re here. With me. Too bad no one’ll stuff this cunt like your prince.”

You gasp around a small moan at his words. They hit you right in the stomach, churning something erotic inside you. You grip the counter, bottles nearby clinking at the movement, and you try to turn your head to look at him again.

“My prince—”

“Shut up and take it,” Aerion interrupts with a bite. A gnashing of ivory as he fills you over and over, the head of his cock finding that spot inside you that has you arching for more. 

Your body trembles, shaking against the counter as he folds you over it. The fat of your arse shifts with each of his thrusts, his fingers a bruising hold on your hips. Sweat builds beneath your dress, damp along the dip of your spine as you grow hotter and hotter. It’s an unbearable sort of heat that sparks in your womb, then spreads. It spreads up and out, flaring like a pair of glowing wings.

“Fuck, I can feel you, sweet girl,” Aerion says, his pace slowly losing it’s pattern. He’s scrambling now, sweat tracing down the back of his neck as his heart clatters against his ribs. Your pussy flutters around him like she doesn’t want to let him go. He groans, eyes slipping up your body, before resuming on where you take him. “Let me have it. Give it to me.”

You gasp out. “My prince, I—”

“Don’t fuss,” he snaps, hips stuttering. “Don’t fucking fuss and do what you’re told.”

There’s a heaviness in his tone that pins you down, but you expect nothing less. You instead focus on those gold-guilded wings spreading out inside you—filling your tummy, fanning heat through your chest as your tits squeeze almost uncomfortably against the wooden counter. The flames of pleasure are crawling down your spine now too, and with four more heavy thrusts of his cock against that perfect spot inside you, it reaches your core.

You can’t help what happens next: you call for him, his name, a sickeningly sweet “Aerion!” as you come around him, pussy pulling tight as the warmth overwhelms you. Your release is bulky as it takes hold, dragging you into ecstasy as his cock drives you through it. Your eyes squeeze shut, body shaking, as it takes over.

He mutters something under his breath then, hips rolling as he slowly begins to lose focus. You feel his cock jerk inside you as he slams inwards, tip nudging up towards the plug of your cervix. The feel of him is muddled in your brain and you feel sick with need as your orgasm begins to fizzle out, embers flickering.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Aerion groans. 

He spills then, with his cock flattened deep inside you and his fingers vice-like on your hips. He curls forward, dewy forehead finding your shoulder blades as his cock twitches, filling you in hot strings. It’s thick and viscous and makes you moan, and Aerion matches the sound with his own, feeling the clutch of your pussy tighten around him.

Some long seconds pass and he’s still spilling. Your eyes fly open as his cock, still pulsing and hard and hot inside you, jerks with his release. Spurts of it, again and again. You whine at the feeling. Too full, too full, you want to mutter, but you can’t. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, throat dry as the prince rolls his hips, rutting himself against you with his face in the laces of your dress. You writhe, and he groans, open-mouthed and pained as he holds your hips, unwilling to let you go.

“No, stop, fuck,” he hisses out, muffled in the material of your dress. “Don’t fucking move—don’t—ah, ha, fuck, fuck.”

You still immediately, freezing like a scolded puppy. The prince breathes heavily against you as his cock jerks and jerks inside you. He whines into your dress. The sound has your heart fluttering.

“Gods above…” Aerion whispers after another long moment. 

His cock stills now, but he’s still hard. And he doesn’t pull out. He does, however, lift himself from you gingerly. His hands tremble on your hips, but you pretend not to notice.

“I can’t…” He tapers off, breathing heavily. 

There’s a searing pleasure in his abdomen that’s almost painful now, and his cock aches something fierce—like he needs to release again, like he’s edged himself for an hour. But he hasn’t. He’s spilled more times than he can count, but the pent-up need is making him nauseous with desire. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, and his skin feels too hot against his flesh.

He swallows thickly as he plugs your pussy full of his seed. His cock twitches and, much to his horror, he feels the hot press of tears behind his eyes. “I can’t… I need…”

“I know,” you whimper.

The change in his tone, in his demeanour, is a slap across the face. It’s abrupt and unexpected. You almost feel sorry for him—sorry for the man he’s become as he slowly rolls his hips, his cock barely moving inside of you—but you don’t. He’s done this to himself.

“One more,” he whispers, pulling out until only his flared head rests inside you.

“One more,” you repeat after him.

He groans, pushing back in once he’s caught his breath. You moan quietly, body pliant and spent beneath him now. There’s a prickle of overstimulation in your belly, but you don’t complain. His cock knocks right back up against that perfect spongy spot inside you and you shut your mind up with a string of whimpers.

The prince builds his pace again. His cheeks are pink with the effort, and strands of his white hair cling to his forehead as he ruts into you. A thin white ring builds at the base of his cock as he thrusts, his seed drooling through your folds as he bends and fucks you. It’s wet and loud, and paired with the little whimpers you’re trying to hide, it’s better than any sex he’s ever bought. And he didn’t spend a single coin on you.

“No one else took me like this,” he utters as thoughts of you, you, you clatter around his skull. You’re a witch. You’ve poisoned him. He grunts, almost mad at himself. “You take me like you were made for it.”

“Aerion,” you whisper, eyes drooping, another orgasm encroaching on you. This one is even heavier than before. You can feel it in your bones, seeping into your marrow as he fucks you and rambles all the while.

“Made for me,” he continues. “Made for the dragon.”

His thrusts are loosening, and he chases his release with his cock barely leaving you. He rolls his hips, sliding against you as he huffs and bends. To your surprise, he places a kiss between your shoulder blades, teeth tugging briefly at the laces of your dress before he pulls back. He rocks and rocks, a thick moan fighting its way out of his throat as the counter trembles. A glass vial topples with the force, rolling off and onto the floor. It shatters, but neither you or Aerion flinch, too consumed in your pleasure to pay it any mind.

“Ah, fuck, fuck, oh fuck, sweet girl—” Aerion rambles, and then he’s spilling again.

He moans loudly as he ruts himself through it, cock shuddering inside you as he comes in more thick spurts. Back dipping, you feel him fill you even more than before, and you feel the heat of it seep like honey into your womb. It makes you dizzy, and it makes your own orgasm reveal itself from the ashes of the first.

You come with his name on your tongue again, holding onto the counter as you stiffen up. He groans when your pussy tightens around him, fluttering as the tension releases like blood pouring from an open wound. He falls over you as you tremble, sweat-slick chest finding your back as his cock gives one last jerk while your orgasm tapers off, slipping back into the shadows. He pants behind you, hands still on your hips, cock still inside you—but it’s softening.

The prince moans in relief as his cock slowly softens, his seed leaking from your spread pussy as he slowly, slowly pulls himself from you. A quiet moment passes before he exhales, presses one last almost imperceptible kiss to the covered space between your shoulder blades, then rights himself.

“I trust you have something to deal with… this,” Aerion mutters, and you feel two thick fingers drag through your folds before pressing inside you. Despite his words, obviously slightly concerned with the fact you’re filled with him, he plugs you, knuckles against your core.

You release a shaky breath. “Yes, my prince.”

“Good,” he huffs, still catching his breath.

You’re still bent over the counter. And his fingers are still inside you. He sighs, more to himself than to you.

“Thank you,” he whispers, sounding the most unlike himself of the entire night. 

That’s all he says, and you know he doesn’t want a reply.

—✿—

Three days—and several cups of moon tea and other fast-acting contraceptives—later, you’re restocking the shelf behind your counter when the door opens. You cast a glance over your shoulder, finding Ser Donnel entering, white armour gleaming as his mass fills the doorway. You turn and greet him properly.

“Ser Donnel,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “How is your horse?”

Ser Donnel smiles. “Fine. You fixed her right up.”

You smile back, busying your idle fingers by stuffing a small pouch with crushed willow bark. “That’s great to hear. What can I do for you?”

The knight clears his throat, looking around the empty shop for a moment before speaking. “He requires your presence. At the Keep.”

“I beg your pardon?” You cock your head. “Who?”

“The prince,” he says pointedly.

You frown, tying a knot around the little pouch and placing it to the side. Nerves spike in your chest as you wait for Ser Donnel to continue. He does.

“He’s earned himself a nasty gash—” Ser Donnel gestures to his own bicep for specification. “—during training. And he’s, uh, refusing the help of his maesters. He wants you.”

You gape. “But I’m not a maester—”

“But you can help him, can you not?” Ser Donnel interrupts you before you spiral. “You’re a smart wee thing. You can fix anything.”

You bite your lip, nervous. “Ser Donnel, I don’t think—”

“Unfortunately, it wasn’t a request,” he says as gently as possible. “He won’t be taking no for an answer. I’m here to escort you.”

“Right…” You sigh, turning back to the shelf and gathering some supplies.

You shouldn’t have expected anything less from Aerion Targaryen.

———

be nice to the woods witch ❌

fuck her against her shop counter ✅

idiot (need him)

tags 🌿

@ghostlybfgf @breakspearz @starxs-s @the-darklings @targlocket @targaryenstar @pinkdoeweirdo @brightflameprincess @through-the-looking--glass @all-men-are-knights @lunazz

[annsfics]

♡ a bird set free ♡

♡ pairing: baelor targaryen x femhealer!reader x lyonel baratheon

♡ synopsis: during the tourney at ashford, you catch the eye of yet another highborn man. jealous & protective, however, baelor bids you to stay far from lord lyonel's grasp. until the trial of the seven sees him perish in your arms... only to be taken into another's, and by extension, freed from your gilded cage at last.

♡ content: angst, baelor is possessive & jealous, lyonel gets turned on when reader threatens to cut off his member, baelor & reader are in a situationship, reader is an independent girlie, baelor is basically her sugar daddy (a role lyonel very much wants to serve as the replacement for)

Weaving between twirling bodies cramped together in a sweltering tent, you hold close a gilded goblet, nursing a cupful of sweet wine from the Arbor. You had not thought to be here—being unfamiliar as of yet with House Baratheon—but could hardly help yourself when walking past after hearing the raucous celebrations within.

Umber-hued eyes—set beneath a horned crown upon a dark brow—follow you closely from the trestle table at the front. "You! Girl!" Bellows an unfamiliar voice, which causes you to suddenly turn your head.

"Come," the Baratheon Lord commands, beckoning you forth with his hand.

Mildly interested, you oblige by side-stepping dancers and drunkards alike to reach him. Once you're standing before his table, he leans back while a lazy grin blooms upon his face. "But you are a beauty," he remarks quietly. "Tell me, my Lady, from which house do you hail? So we may toast to their good fortune in calling you... Well, theirs," he purrs.

The corner of your lips twitch. "None at all, my Lord," you supply. "My house is but an unremarkable one of no renown, located in a small village here in the Reach."

He hums while pursing his lips and leaning forward. "So I need not comport myself a proper gentleman, then?"

You snort. "Titled or not, do you not still think me a lady?"

He barks a laugh before leaning back once more and patting the cushioned seat beside him. "Join me, then. Regale me with fanciful tales of where you've been, and still yet mean to be."

Rounding the table's square edge, you seat yourself easily beside the Lord. Lyonel, you believe his name to be.

"And your name, my sweet?" He inquires while topping off your goblet.

"Y/N," you reply between small sips. "And you," you continue while propping your chin atop your fist. "Are he which they refer to as the Laughing Storm. Are you not?"

Resting his hands behind his head, he nods. "That I am. So, tell me, lady Y/N, how is that you are here at Ashford? A... Hm, how should I put this, and in delicate terms?"

Prostitute, you supply mentally.

"I am a healer."

He raises a well-groomed brow. "Ah. A woman with talents such as clawing back a man from the Stranger's cloying grip?"

You take another sip of your drink. "Something like that."

"And you are here serving alongside... The Silent Sisters," he states, punctuating the air with his finger.

You shake your head. "I call the Red Keep home now. So I serve at the pleasure of House Targaryen. But my hands are like to heal any who come into my service in need of aid."

He shifts, positioning himself closer. "And how did someone such as yourself manage such a feat?"

You can only imagine the ideas and possibilities which must be circulating within his mind, like a tempest. "I worked for it."

Hours later sees Lord Lyonel as having well and truly sunken into his cups. Struggling to keep him self sitting upright, slurred words spill from his lips incomprehensibly.

"Could return w'me," he mutters. "To Snorm's 'Nd."

Studying your cup which is still yet half-full, you snicker. "My place is in King's Landing, my Lord."

"And what've the dragon 'ords offered which I cannot?"

Your lips tug into a smirk. "My own private, decadent chambers. A surgery and apothecary to accompany it. Renown amongst the royals."

He blows a raspberry. "Must be favored by someone."

Lyonel swings his head in your direction. "That boy—Maekar's son—mayhaps."

His uncle, you think. "I gained my position upon my own merits and skills. Nothing more, nothing less."

Stinking of wine, he comes ever closer. "I could make you an offer meself."

You think it time you take your leave.

"You could be," he begins while dragging a palm up your thigh. "My concubind."

That is your signal, indeed.

You stand and smooth your skirts back into their proper place. "I thank you for the wine and company, my Lord. But the hour is late. I think it best I depart for my tent. Until the morrow, Lord Lyonel."

You step round the table, eyeing the entrance of the tent, until he speaks. "I've offended you," he drawls, snickering with the men at his side who are still yet conscious. Men who mean to mock you.

Turning back to him, you slam your cup on the table, and all grow quiet as you lean across its width. You caress his chin and he beams, thinking he has you at last.

"Oh, my Lord, it would take far more than a handsome face like this to offend the likes of me."

Reeling back, you march swiftly away, leaving him howling behind you.

"She has bested me!" He cries. Turning to the steward at his side, he winks. "I believe us now in love, lads."

Even after enclosing yourself safely within your spacious tent, your hands still slightly tremble. Playful and flirtatious Lyonel had been, yes, but still a highborn. A lord. The Lord of Storm's End. Had he ordered you drawn and quartered because he suddenly felt insulted, the men at his side surely would've made it so.

You toe off your slippers, then make to begin untying your dress before you're startled by an unexpected voice from behind. "I've been here for some time. Worried as to your safety, and where you wandered off to."

You settle a hand over your fluttering heart and inhale deeply to calm it before turning. "Baelor."

He does not rise. Instead, the crowned prince merely studies you from a darkened corner, dimly lit by low-burning candles. Eyes of azure and tan flicker in the limited light, never looking away from you.

"I... I was in the Baratheon tent—"

"Yes," he interjects. "You smell of wine. Its scent clings to your skin."

Your cheeks burn from mortification. "I had not even half a cup," you mutter.

Finally, he rises. Measuredly—slowly—with the chair creaking from his movements. The prince stalks toward you with hands clasped behind his back. "And what did you do in Lord Lyonel's company? What did the pair of you speak of?" He asks, now standing but a breadth's width away.

You press your rear against the table behind you. "Just that I am from here—the Reach—and of my...occupation. And current position. At the Keep. Mere conversation."

He hums. "And what did he have to say to that I wonder? Rising so high at so young an age."

"I think perhaps he was impressed."

Baelor cuts you a cool, warning look. "With more than your healer's talents, to be certain."

You clench your jaw. "It's late—"

"I had hoped to be abed far sooner. Had hoped the same for you. And yet."

You throw your head back and squeeze your eyes shut while your carotid pounds in your neck. "What is it which you mean to convey, exactly?" You lower your chin and level him with a glare.

He prowls ever closer. "You are here in representation of more than just yourself, Y/N. You will conduct yourself accordingly."

"Is that a command from my Prince?" You spit.

"From your future king," he states evenly.

"So, I—I am t-to what, then? Do as I am commanded like some lowly serving girl, or—"

"You would have me play the tyrant?" Baelor hisses. "I've given you a simple request. Lord Lyonel has a reputation. You are too smart not to know as much. That said, you may be cordial with him, should you cross his path again, but you are ultimately to keep your distance. Is that understood?"

You scowl and set your jaw, refusing to give him what he wants out of sheer stubbornness when you cross your arms vexingly.

Coming impossibly close until his doublet brushes against your breasts, he lowers his lips next to your ear. "You wish me to be the villain? Fine. Any man who touches you in an untoward way in the next few days loses the hand. Something for you to consider before entertaining those not worthy of your attentions."

With your hands now squeezed tightly into fists, they shake at your sides from a sense of pure rage.

Finally, Baelor takes a step back and bows his head. "I will have servants who are still about prepare you a bath. Wash, and then straight to bed. I bid you goodnight, and we shall talk in the morn if there is time before the tilt."

You watch, unspeaking, as he exits your tent—a heavy flap closing shut behind him when he goes.

You count backwards from ten—giving him time to head in another direction—before you pad over to your bed and scream into a pillow.

Your sleep is fitful that night; your dreams full of crystals casting strange, vivid mosaics against red stone walls and fluttering tapestries. Baubles and tinctures spill from your hands, only to shatter on the floor and form a rushing river of blood in turn.

Glass cuts the soles of your feet while drapes fall from where they hang from the ceiling, only to reveal a fiery red sky above. A dragon with shimmering blue and brown scales claws its way through before unhinging its jaw, and summoning a stream of fire to bathe you in.

Then is when you wake up breathless, and drenched in sweat.

Shortly after emerging from your personal tent, ready to head in the direction of the more spacious one erected for healers, Lyonel had spotted you in passing. A joyous smile had broken out across his face...until you quickly scurried away—afraid for his safety, lest you enter into conversation with him and Baelor bear witness from afar.

He had seemed to deflate at your ignoring him, but at least he would be left unharmed that way.

Prince Baelor has always seemed quite level-headed—gentle, even—but he has a jealous streak, to be sure. Things between the two of you did not start out this way. Instead, it was...friendship, perhaps, initially. Shortly after arriving in King's Landing and earning yourself a position amongst the court—and an invaluable one, at that—he showered you with gifts from afar: your own private chambers, complete with a balcony, a surgery so you could tend to patients and their wounds away from maesters who felt justified in lecturing you on your methods simply because they were men, and an apothecary to treat illnesses and craft medicines in.

Your shelves stay well-stocked, your chambers are complete with a plush mattress, settees, and a grand wardrobe...and you want for naught.

So you feel compelled to honor his demands. No matter how hard you wish to rail against them like a wild horse after the way he spoke to you.

You're in the middle of preparing a poultice with a mortar and pestle when a familiar hand comes to rest gently on your hip, accompanied by a soft kiss to the back of your head. "Forgive me," Baelor mutters while placing a small jeweled bracelet before you. One comprised of shimmering stones that match your eyes. "There is little excuse for how I spoke to you the night previous. It shan't happen again. You have my word."

Without speaking, you set down the mortar to instead pluck the jewelry from where it lays, turning it over and over in your hand. "You cannot speak to me that way again."

"I know."

"You know that I still yet remain unwed because I value my independence. That I don't wish to be a caged bird; a man's property—"

He silences you with a caress of your cheek, turning you around to him. "I know you have certain...predilections. That you have indulged yourself at court. But all I ask of you now is not here, during this tourney. I've not begrudged you such liberties, but when amongst strangers—"

You turn swiftly away while heat rises up your neck, past your cheeks, and finally to the tips of your ears. "I understand, Prince Baelor."

From behind you, he frowns. Nevertheless, he grants you one final kiss before stepping away.

"You deprived me of your company," utters Lord Lyonel from the arched entryway of the healer's tent—leaning against a solid pole with folded arms as he watches you.

"Busy morning," you reply simply.

Ah, a challenge, he muses. Women do so love to be chased, like a doe through dense woods. And he is a fine huntsman.

He pushes off the wooden pillar and saunters closer. "Is that what you and the Prince call it? Such a simple explanation for so complicated a thing."

Swiveling around on your heel, you advance on him and clamp a firm hand over his mouth.

In truth, he half thinks to lick it, but deigns that may earn him a solid slap to the face. Not that he would be wholly opposed...

Shoving him back against a pillar situated in a corner, and thus out of eyesight from the tent's opening, you scrutinize him with narrowed eyes. "If you speak a word of it to anyone—"

He snorts.

Something unsheathes, and a pointed tip is pressed firmly to his throat—the hollow bit just beneath his chin.

His brow raises in interest.

"I will fucking geld you."

You've lost your mind. Entirely. Threatening a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms! You could be executed before most are so much as through with breaking their fasts!

That worry is promptly put aside when a firm erection presses against your belly, however.

Staring down, you find a small soldier standing at attention between the two of you.

You throw your head back and groan in frustration before releasing him.

"Gods," he moans while stumbling forward—catching himself against a table. "You are fucking magnificent, aren't you?"

You pinch the bridge your nose and squeeze shut your eyes, willing him away.

"I do admit that I wondered what sort of woman you must be to tempt even the likes of the chivalrous Prince Baelor. Now I know. Not many find themselves able to resist you, do they?"

You eye a blown glass chalice, half considering tossing it in his general direction.

Lyonel chuckles. "I assure you, Y/N, your secret is safe with me. Hate to lose my head...or any other part over it. I'm quite fond of all my extremities, to tell you the truth."

Burying your face in one of your hands, you shake your head. "Just go. If Prince Baelor discovers that you even suspect you know something... He has a jealous streak as wide as the Red Fork."

Stepping over to a fruit bowl, he retrieves an apple—polishing it against his tunic before taking a bite. "Hidden depths to that one," he replies between chews. "Fear not, my lady, you have my confidence."

He heads for the entrance of the tent, and you turn to watch him go.

"And any other parts which you may require," he finishes with a salacious grin and a wink—complete with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

You wish Aerion had died at the joust. Wish...his mother had never bore him to begin with. The boy has always been trouble: entitled and self-serving.

And now here over a dozen men stand to lose their lives because of him. Because he is too cowardly to fight Ser Duncan himself, or name a champion to do so in his place, at the very least.

Like a dam fit to burst, you have been fighting back a torrential downpour of tears all morn. None but his squire, son, and you know that Prince Baelor means to fight.

And you had been selfish enough to beg him not to. Surely at least one more man would volunteer. For the grounds are crawling with ones who are more than able to mount a horse and hold a lance. But the Prince being honorable, and choosing to hold true to his vows, could not be assuaged.

So now here you stand, watching silently as his squire situates his own son's armor to his person, clasping pauldrons to his shoulders and bracers to his forearms.

You pray to all the Gods it will be enough to protect and shield him from harm.

"Ah, good of you to join us," Lyonel calls from the side.

Turning your head at breakneck speed, you walk over to him. "You mean to fight as well?" You ask while blinking back fresh tears.

He reaches up, and brushes one from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "I fear so, sweetling."

"This...needn't happen. If Aerion withdraws his accusation—"

Lyonel snorts. "Fat chance of that happening."

His gaze flits to Baelor before returning to you. "Grant a dead man walking his final wish?"

You pout, firmly pursing your lips. "No one needs be that today."

He cups the back of your head, ignoring your sour disposition. "Kiss me," he whispers.

You waver, half considering turning back to Baelor, knowing that this isn't right. Not here. Not in front of him.

Until Lyonel makes the decision for you.

Leaning down, he takes either side of your face in his hands and presses his lips to yours with surprising tenderness. The kiss is slow, sensual—his lips spreading yours like a butterfly extending its wings beneath the sun; gentle and then all at once. His tongue softly explores, coaxing you into joining him.

And just as quickly, he retreats.

Dragging his bottom lip between his teeth, he appears wholly satisfied. "Just as good as I imagined."

He looks to Baelor—who watches him with unyielding conviction, but does not make to step forward—and then to you once again. Lyonel runs his knuckles along your cheek. "My offer still stands: come with me to Storm's End once the fighting is through. Do not tie yourself to him like a mermaid to a mast. Nothing good will come of it. One day, the sun will rise and you will see that you have grown old and given all your youth to one who ought not to have taken it. Allow me to give you more than he can: a life of freedom and frivolity."

You look down, shaking your head. "As your whore."

He tilts your chin upward. "As whatever you wish to be. Friend, lover, confidant." He shrugs. "Pick whichever word feels best suited."

He sighs, releasing you. "Go to him," Lyonel says with a small nod. "Give to him that which he will not take for himself, just as I have."

He turns and mounts his horse. "It might be your last chance."

After he has ridden through the gate, you and Baelor are all who remain.

Mud squishes underfoot as you return to his side.

"I..." You trail off, worried that he is...angry.

"He is fond of you," Baelor remarks. "I cannot fault him for it, as he and I seem to share the same affliction."

You frown. "You make me sound like a plague to be scourged."

He chuckles while fastening his horse's bridle. "Not at all. It is merely one of the heart. Though mine goes deeper. His is still yet superficial. Lord Lyonel does not know you as I do."

You stay quiet.

"Do you wish for him to?" Baelor asks, turning to you.

You rest your palms over the cool metal of his breastplate. "I wish only for you to return to me. Nothing else."

He smiles, and you take a moment to memorize it: the shape of his lips, the grooves which comprise the lines on his face, the colors of his eyes.

At long last, he takes you into his arms, and crushes his lips to yours. Fervently, passionately—an action which stirs a fire in your loins comparable to that of flaming dragon fire. His beard scratches softly against your skin, marking you as his. Always will you be his.

Perhaps Lyonel is wrong. You could be quite content living and dying by his side.

When he breaks from you, it is with ragged breaths puffing from his lips. "I should've done that long ago," he murmurs. "Too long have I wasted."

He pulls back then—a look of sheer conviction in his eyes. "They will not like it: what I now mean to do when I am crowned king."

Your brows furrow. Banish Aerion across the Narrow Sea, you pray.

"I mean to take a second wife, as my forebears did. A custom I shall renew."

Your chin wobbles and tears begin to freely spill from your eyes like rain from the skies. "Baelor—"

"Say nothing now," he whispers. "Not until I return to you."

With a trembling hand, you press your favor into his palm. "I love you."

He presses the small, delicate cloth to his lips, breathing in the lovely scent of you. "And I you."

He died in your arms. Without fanfare or flourish.

Quietly, with his eldest son's name being the last word to pass his lips and spill into the world. You had held him close to your breast, weeping for your king. The king who would never be. For the late husband who never got a chance to make you a proper widow.

For the children your womb would never gift him.

You tell no one of the promise he made you. His death will shake the foundations of the Seven Kingdoms deeply enough as it is without you adding controversy on top of it all. Instead, you hold it close to your heart, in the part that withers and dies along with him.

After he has gone, you grant him one last kiss to say goodbye.

You are unsure of what your standing at court will be once you return. His wife will be all too pleased to finally be rid of you—thorn in her side that you've been, despite Baelor's better efforts to keep his affections hidden from all but you.

Your work there will somehow feel emptier, knowing that it is a place where he no longer resides. You had him to thank for your being there to begin with.

Now what are you? He had made you feel so...special. Like a rare jewel. A prize to be won.

Now—

"Condolences," speaks Lyonel from just outside the tent you're packing up so you can soon be on your way, back to a place that you fear will never feel like home again.

"Thank you," you mumble.

He pads closer. "Don't go back with the rest of them. There's nothing left for you there."

You sniffle. "I've nowhere else to go."

"Horseshit and you know it."

You throw your head back and stare up at the canopy above while intaking slow, even breaths to contain your rage. Today of all days...

"Do not spend your life loving a ghost, Y/N. Chasing him through halls where he shan't haunt your steps any longer."

"My things," you spit. "You mean for me to leave behind all I have built?"

"I'll make arrangements. With Maekar. Or, whomever," he replies with a shrug. "Your belongings will be shipped to Storm's End. Every last candle and crumb. I assure you."

"And then what?" You ask, skirting past him. "Three rooms he gifted me, as I told you previously. Each with their own purpose which I made great use of."

"Fuck it, I'll give you four. I'll give you five. I care not so long as you're by my side."

Turning on your heel, you cross your arms. "You don't know—"

Cutting you short, he grabs you by the waist and pulls you flush against the wealth of his chest. "I've the rest of my days to find out. As do you."

He kisses you, hoping, praying—

Slap.

Without releasing you, he leans back and grins contentedly. "I always get what I want. And now what I want is you. So let me free you from your gilded cage; make you a bird set free."

You scowl. "He made me other promises that you cannot hope to keep."

"Baelor hardly seemed the man to debase himself by taking a mistress. Would be keeping with their peculiar traditions—not that I blame the men for it; women are so lovely a thing—a second wife, I presume?"

Smarter than he looks.

You say nothing.

He presses his forehead to yours, a curl slipping from behind his ear to instead rest in front of one of your eyes. "Give me a bit of time," he whispers. "Let me set some things in order, get you settled in your new home, and see where I stand in your eyes at the end of it all."

Your brows furrow.

"You're a woman who values her freedom. I would not deny you it. As the wife of a lord, things would be expected of you. Things you make come to resent, and me by extension."

He slides his hand to the small of your back. "I can scarcely imagine that I would much enjoy being the object of your ire. Let yourself heal, and then we live."

It's the best offer you're going to be made. Given that you are allowed to remain at the Keep, it will be in a precarious position at best, with a temperamental benefactor at worst.

"Yes," you breathe.

Positively elated, Lyonel picks you up and twirls you around. "Let us make merry!" He shouts.

[vandnana]

Linger

pairing: solek x female sarentu reader x itu

summary: itu isn't the type of guy who stays in one spot for a long time, but every time you're around, he can't help but be near you. and while you enjoy having itu around, there's one other person who finds himself bothered having to share your attention.

genre: fluff, classic jealous trope with love triangle

word count: 3,732

notes: long awaited request! if you know me from tiktok, you know I've been brewing with these ideas :) [more parts to come]

-

-

Itu didn't plan on liking you, not even a little bit.

You showed up in his reality without warning, your presence sudden and unexpected when you came to him in the Kinglor Forest, claiming that he was teaching you how to hunt. He even laughed in your face about it, bellowing loudly that even his ikran Zomey echoed in a similar sound.

He didn't have to think twice to know that it was Nefika who had put you up to it, so accustomed to her usual antics. She would do anything to irritate him, knowing full well she couldn't do it in the comforts of Hometree, the place he avoided the most.

All he wanted to do was soar the skies alone with Zomey. He had absolutely no interest teaching you anything, the whole concept of it so intensely boring and not at all what he wished to spend his time doing.

Still, he found himself giving in to you anyway, unwilling to admit that there was something positive in the intrigue he held about you. Itu simply convinced himself that the mystery of your identity and your lack of awareness merely gave him more of a chance to make fun of you for your rookie mistakes.

Suddenly you had Itu's heavy bow in your hands, drawing the string back and aiming at the target ahead. You looked over at him before you let the arrow fly, slightly nervous under his judgmental gaze. Despite your own jitters, you hit the target with surprising precision, moon eyed while a satisfied smile took over your lips.

"You can hit a static target at least." He chided as he stood beside you, catching the happy glint in your eyes that remained even with his sarcastic remark.

You didn't find him rude or off-putting even though he found amusement in teasing you, laughing along as you replied, "So what do I have to do to hit a moving target? Not everyone can be as skilled as you Itu, but I'll take it as a challenge to try."

Itu raised his eyebrows at you, begrudgingly drawn to the quick contrast in you, your gentle voice speaking words that exposed a fierce spirit he didn't expect, "You are right about one thing. It will be a challenge. Come, you have a lot to learn."

Eclipse was nearly approaching, the regular shade of blue that cascaded the sky slowly darkening and the transition of the plants' bioluminescence almost upon you. You had lost track of time exploring deep within the trees and brush of the Kinglor Forest, learning to track with your senses and discerning the signs of the sturmbeests who were just nearby.

Itu knew where the sturmbeests would be of course, purposefully straying you away to test the sharpness of your senses. You had caught onto his tricks rather quickly though, but you went along with his lessons anyway, eager to learn as much as you could.

When you had successfully tracked the sturmbeest herd, four of them at the shore of a river drinking water, you let a breath out, trying your best to expel your nerves as you drew your bow back from a distance.

"Now is not the time for hesitation." Itu spoke in your ear, deliberately trying to distract you.

"Be quiet. Your annoying voice might scare them away." You glared at him before letting go of the taut string.

Itu said nothing, his focus on the release of your arrow and his mouth agape as he hoped you would miss, the inherent need he felt to gloat so desperately wanting to be fulfilled.

But to his dismay, you managed to hit your target, the sturmbeest falling into the water with a large splash as its companions scattered back into the forest.

You ran toward the animal quickly and approaching it, you knelt down, placing a delicate hand on its neck, "Thank you for these gifts." You spoke with your eyes closed, feeling its life fade and return to the Great Mother.

When you opened your eyes, Itu was right beside you, his hands against the stomach of the sturmbeest and his eyes still closed, whispers of prayers coming out of his mouth and into the open air.

You let him finish his prayer before you took out the arrow, wiping the blood off with the edge of your shorts. Itu watched you, shaking his head in disgust, "I meant to ask earlier, but what are you wearing? I have never seen armor as ugly as yours."

You were wearing military-grade clothing, bland guerrilla gear that was clearly out of place, "This is the best I could do right now," You sighed, remembering Nefika say the same thing, the sight of you ghastly amidst her ornately decorated silken accessories and colorful garb.

Chuckling, he began carving out the meat from the sturmbeest, "Your best can be better."

"I'll make sure to tell Nefika you agree with her then." You beamed with satisfaction, smiling at him as he met your eyes.

Surrendering immediately, he refused, "No, please do not tell Nefika one thing. I do my best to avoid her as much as possible, even through the mention of my name."

Placing a hand on his shoulder, you let out another laugh, your eyes crinkling in the corners at the change in his attitude, "Relax, Itu. I'm only kidding. But try as you might, I feel Nefika will always have her ears open, even when she's not here."

He paused, finding himself amused again by you, disarmed by your laughter as his own erupted, "That is true. Nefika does have quite the hunger for gossip. But I would rather live my life in practice, rather than speak of things true or untrue for fun."

Shrugging, you disagreed, "All of us find joy in different things. You have a love for adventure and Nefika loves her clothes and gossip."

Itu put his knife down, turning his body toward you with a tilted head, his tone curious, "And what about you, Sarentu? What gives you joy?"

"What gives me joy?"

You thought for a moment, the spirit of the Forest seemingly livening with every breath as the bioluminescent glow awakened around you. Eclipse had finally come, beckoning the colors of each plant, the shore ebbing and flowing with receding shades of pink and green. You looked down at the arrow you still held in your hand and the heavy bow clasped around the other, then shifting your eyes to Itu, you couldn't help but smile seeing the dots on his face and body glow just as yours did—he was another one of The People teaching you the Na'vi ways, something that was no longer lost to you.

"Being here with you," The words left you rather carelessly as you looked all around in awe at the Forest's beauty.

Itu stilled, your words coming out like they were nothing as something in his chest stirred before he could stop it. It was an unwelcomed warmth that erupted so suddenly that he turned his face away from yours and back to the sturmbeest below him, chuckling as he brushed the feeling away, "Consider yourself lucky then that you've found company with me and not some of the boring folk who only want to stay at HomeTree."

"Well speaking of the boring folk of HomeTree, I have to go back now that we've finished our hunting lesson." You got up, wiping the dirt from your knees.

Itu stood up with you, his next words escaping without a second thought, "You don't need to go back to HomeTree right now. It is eclipse. Stay at my camp and you can go in the morning. Besides, don't you want to eat the sturmbeest you hunted?"

"Well, I have someone waiting for me to return after I come back from HomeTree, so I..." You began, but you stopped, noticing a slight pout on Itu's face.

But his pout faded away as quickly as you noticed it, a laugh replacing it, "Surely this someone who is waiting for you can wait one more day. I would not want to make you return in the night, no matter how capable you have proven to be."

You were caught off guard, crossing your arms with a raised eyebrow, "You give compliments with such attitude. You know Itu, if you simply enjoy being around me, you can just say that too."

Itu felt that unwelcomed feeling arise again inside of him, but he pushed it down deep as he scoffed, shrugging, "Do not be mistaken. I would rather be alone with Zomey. I am merely taking pity on you by saving you from a boring night with boring company."

You could sense that there was more to what he was saying, realizing that his relentless teasing was only a front. So, you simply surrendered to his request, going along with him with another chuckle, “Well then, thank you for saving me.”

Itu led the way as the two of you went back into the Forest. His camp was not too far from the water, the site nestled between two large trees and his resting spot being a small cave. Zomey was perched above the cave, waiting patiently for Itu to return before she felt comfortable to lay down atop the grass on the rock.

You stepped inside after Itu, his belongings placed around a firepit in the middle, "This is home for the week before I move on to another spot, somewhere near more Fortune's fruit most likely."

“Ah, that makes sense since it's her favorite, right?." You replied, watching as Itu began to prepare the fire, placing the kindling within the firepit then igniting it.

He had only mentioned that once to you, an instant smile forming on his face because you remembered, "That is right. The fruit is fitting for her personality."

"For both of you." The light jab making Itu laugh as he arranged a bed of rocks for the meat to be roasted on.

"For you as well." He paused, granting you his eyes as he looked over your figure in front of him, "There is more to you than meets the eye."

Leaning back, curiosity hung in the way he stared at you, his eyes lingering on you more than he meant to as he uttered a question you didn't hear at all as you heard a familiar voice in your comms, low and gruff.

"Tamtey? Can you hear me?"

Your eyes widened, your grin turning into a flat line as you placed a hand around the strange choker you had around your neck, "So'lek? Is everything alright?"

Itu was utterly confused, watching as you seemingly spoke into the air with no subject to catch them, commenting rather loudly with a smug grin, "I hope you are not so hungry from our hunting lesson you have begun hallucinating! The meat is almost ready."

"Who is speaking?" So'lek emphasized every letter, concern and confusion fusing into one hearing Itu's unfamiliar voice.

"It's Itu." Your hands were on your comms as you bellowed in laughter replying to Itu, "I am hungry, but not hallucinating. I am speaking to someone through this...device in my ears. It is hard to explain, but—"

"Who is Itu?" So'lek interrupted, his tone coming off slightly insulted as he heard your laughter in his ear, "It is eclipse. I will come get you. I am with Iley now." You heard Iley's caw amidst So'lek's voice, his inflections of concern obvious in how fast he talked.

"He has been teaching me how to hunt all day. I am staying at his camp for the night since it is so late." Explaining the situation with ease, you thought that So’lek would respond right away, but there was a beat between his next words.

“So’lek? Are you still there?”

“Teaching you how to hunt? Had I known this was what Nefika had planned for you, I would have just taught you myself.” His voice, still low, came out more aggravated than usual, a tone of voice you hadn’t heard before.

Reassuring him, your voice remained calm and gentle as it usually did, chuckling lightly, “I am about to eat the sturmbeest I hunted now. And when I return tomorrow morning, you can teach me how to hunt your way."

"So you are not returning to HomeTree tonight?" So'lek prodded further.

"I'm at Itu's camp." You repeated, your response too nonchalant for So'lek's liking as he let another beat pass, his surprise taking away his ability to speak for a moment.

The silence made the air feel awkward, despite So'lek not being there and you made eye contact with Itu from across the fire, grinning nervously, "So'lek?" You repeated.

But Itu cut the silence, joking loudly, “Let me guess, this is the someone waiting for you to return? Tell him to relax. A woman with a brave heart like yours will be fine out here. And besides you are under my watch. No harm can come to you when I am by your side."

Like an electric shock to his ears, So'lek felt irritated hearing Itu's voice instead of yours, forced to listen to that noise rather than you. He had missed hearing it all day, the gentleness that always seemed to calm the turmoil in his heart.

"I am alright, So'lek. I will see you tomorrow." You reassured him again, and you could hear Iley caw again, her wings flapping amidst So'lek's voice.

He felt relief knowing that you were well and safe, the sound of your voice calming him like it always did, despite him wanting to see you in person. But it did not stop him from still showing his agitation, "If you would rather spend your time with Itu, I will not get in your way. But rest assured, tomorrow I do not intend to share my time with you. Good night Tamtey.”

So'lek was never a man of many words, his reaction wholly uncharacteristic as you said one more good night to him. He merely grunted in response, saying nothing more as you heard Iley's caw once more and the flap of her wings.

"He is angry you are not coming home?" Itu jested, smirking as he portioned off a piece of the cooked meat for you.

"So'lek is used to our usual routine. I realize now that I had forgotten about it when we were out in the Forest." You sighed, taking the meat from Itu as he handed it to you.

"Ah, so this So'lek is forgettable?" Itu kept his lighthearted tone, unable to contain another fit of laughter.

"That's not what I mean." Taking a bite of the meat, the spices filling your nose with their hearty aroma, you shook your head, "Most of the time we are fighting Sky People. It has been a while since I have been out in the Forest enjoying the Great Mother's gifts."

Itu let his gaze linger on you again, warmth filling his chest as he watched you happily eat the sturmbeest roast. Still, he felt denial within him, misguided in his thoughts as he attributed that warmth to the pride he felt teaching you.

"Well, should you ever want to break routine again, you know who to go to," He began, inching forward to sit closer to you, "Although you are not as good a hunter as me, I see...great potential in you."

This time, Itu's voice did not hold a cavalier tone, soft instead as he slowed his words. And you received his message with a grateful nod, smiling widely at him while your voice matched the gentleness he suddenly procured, "Just you wait and see, I am ready for your challenges any time. One of these days, you will be surprised by me."

-

When you returned to HomeTree the next day, Itu came with you, offering you a ride on Zomey to make your trip back quicker.

Touching down on the ikrans' landing, Nefika was already there with the other weavers that were seated. She was waiting there all morning for you to return, standing with other weavers who were completing their work outside in the morning light.

She was speaking to them, but the sound of Zomey from the distance made her ears twitch and looking in the direction of her familiar caws, she stopped talking mid-sentence, staring intently with her mouth hung open as she watched Itu help you dismount, taking your hand into his with a smile she had never quite seen before.

Not wasting any time, Nefika abandoned her previous conversation to greet you both, her mischievous tone escaping her as she said aloud, "I am surprised you still know the way home, Itu! Or perhaps you let our Sarentu lead the way?"

You touched your forehead with your fingers, extending your proper greeting as she did the same, "It is good to see you again, Nefika."

Observing you up and down, she crossed her arms, her facial expression satisfied, but expectant as she raised her eyebrows, "If I recall, I sent you out into the Forest early morning, Sarentu. Surely, you are not so bad at hunting that you both stayed up all night." She paused, feigning a casual curiosity, "What else did you do?"

"Besides have my clothes mocked by Itu?" You glared at him playfully, but he only returned an innocent smile back at you.

Nefika watched Itu's reactions, sensing the energy between the two of you, and taking your hand into hers, she tilted her head, prying again once more, "Oh our Sarentu! You worry me for staying out so late! And I was not the only one looking for you. Your dear So'lek came to HomeTree last night."

She was baiting Itu on purpose, watching for a slight twitch in the lip, any hint of being affected when she mentioned So'lek while she listened to you speak.

"So'lek came all the way here?" Recalling your conversation in your comms, you didn't know that So'lek had already stopped by HomeTree when he called you, your heart sinking at the realization, "I didn't know that."

Right to sense that Itu would be affected, Nefika caught the quickest shift as Itu clenched his jaw for a moment. Satisfied, she added, "But I reassured him that Itu is a fine hunter and a fine man as well! You would not be in harms way. So, he returned back home."

Looking out at the horizon, you sighed, "Thank you both for everything, but I should return home as well."

"I will take you to where home is for you. It will be faster on Zomey." Itu insisted, already looking behind at her.

"It's okay Itu! You already took me here and you didn't have to. I know you want to go explore and fly on your own. I can go alone from here." You refused, walking toward the back entrance before Itu took hold of your hand.

"Where is it? You cannot refuse if I am already on the way there anyway." He coaxed.

Pointing northwest, you explained "It's above a waterfall in the Dyers' bowl."

"Then our journeys cross. I must pass Dyers Bowl to get to Waterway Valley." Itu boldly stated, confident as he waited for your approval.

There was a faster way to Waterway Valley that did not go through Dyers Bowl at all, but Nefika maintained her position, highly amused as she watched Itu unabashedly lie to you. In her mind, she was praising herself for what was unfolding before her. Never did she think she would ever catch Itu in such a state, but she fully intended to take advantage of this newfound project of hers, taking you two both by the shoulder with affectionate fervor.

"Please Sarentu! Go with Itu! Besides, you would not want to make So'lek wait too long."

"You're right. Thank you again." Again, you spoke from your heart, oblivious to her true intentions.

"But you must come back soon. I've already begun to design your new clothes!" Nefika called out as you and Itu both walked toward Zomey.

"Of course. I will come back a week from today then!" You were already behind Itu, mounted on Zomey who was waiting for Itu to tell her what to do, her eyes already on the sky.

You figured you would surprise So'lek, not telling him that you were coming. You waved goodbye to Nefika one last time before Zomey took off, flapping her wings as she gained altitude, higher and higher until she was above the tops of the Kinglor Forest trees.

As you rode together, Itu was determined to make the flight memorable, switching between speeds and guiding your trajectory. Then when you approached closer, you instructed him past the trees and up the waterfall until you saw the familiar flag that hung on the edge of the base.

Landing Zomey near the shallow part of the water, Itu observed the base, the stories he heard of Sky People metal no longer stories as it became tangible in front of his eyes, "This is home?"

"This is—"

"Tamtey!"

Turning around, you already knew who it was, your grin widening, "Sorry I'm late."

Walking over, So'lek started out smiling, but it faltered when he noticed that you had not come alone, Itu close beside you with one hand on his ikran's head, "And you decided to bring the reason you are late here?"

Acknowledging him, Itu greeted So'lek properly, but maintained a smug smirk, "And you must be So'lek? Forgive me. I heard you were concerned for her safety, so I figured I would ease your mind."

"So you are Itu." So'lek clenched his jaw, reluctantly polite as he replied gruffly, placing an affectionate hand on your shoulder, holding your gaze with fondness, "Thank you for bringing her back to me."

"For now." Itu let out, amused as he watched his comment harden So'lek's soft gaze on you immediately, the smile he once had thinning into a frown, his agitation brewing as he glared.

And as Itu mounted Zomey again, his eyes lingering on you again, he thought about what you had told him in the cave. In truth, it only took one day and you were already surprising him.

Because suddenly, Itu found himself ready to break routine for you.

-

Author's Note:

Oel ngati kameie,

Nefika is sooooooooo funny. She really is such a gossip queen.

If you're here from my TikTok, hi! This is just part 1! If you liked this first part, tell me what you think in the comments!! :)

I love hearing your favorite parts or what you loved about the chapter! Stay tuned for the next installment

[onanistbride]

thats dada

[withpearlsandpetals]

a princess' favour

pairing: baelor 'breakspear'× pregnant!wife!reader

summary: What was set to be a wonderful day at the tournament ends up turning into an awkward afternoon after a knight asks for your favour in front of your husband.

warning: pure fluff / comedy, no description of the reader, no use of y/n, let's just ignore the fact that it's completely implausible lol

wc: 4,5k

read it on ao3!

note: english is not my first language, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know!

a/n: i'm obsessed with writing baelor fluff and i've been wanting to write a typical scene from any asoiaf book for a while now, so… enjoyyy!!

You waved your fan again and breathed a sigh of relief when you felt a gentle breeze brush against your face.

It was a pitiful relief.

The royal box had become an inhospitable spot in a Dornish desert. The wood was parched, the air remained thick, and the Targaryen three-headed dragon crest watched over the lists from above, its presence rivalled only by the sun’s powerful rays.

“If you keep fanning yourself like that, your hand will fall off, my dearest,” you heard your husband’s voice beside you, with that exasperating calm that only he could maintain in the height of summer. “Why don’t you ask one of your ladies-in-waiting for help?”

Instead of answering, you turned your gaze to three young ladies sitting at a respectful distance from you. They looked like three little flowers dozing in the shade of the awnings, their wrists moving so slowly that it seemed more fitting for an elegy than for a day of such heat.

You looked at Baelor again.

"They're fanning too slowly."

The corners of his lips curved slightly.

“You are too demanding, my sweet wife.”

You looked at him with the last trace of exasperation that the stifling heat had not taken away, and he, instead of laughing—which would have been an insult at that moment—silently pulled a white handkerchief from his black doublet, the edges of which were embroidered in red thread with intertwined figures that looked like a maze of vines, and in the centre, a B in Gothic script.

He wiped a bead of sweat from your temple that had begun to race down your skin, intent on reaching your jawline. The gesture was so sweet and so characteristic of him that you knew you could not hold onto that exasperation much longer.

The prince bowed his head and placed a brief kiss on the spot. At the same time, one of his hands seized your wrist—the one so desperate to bring you a little breeze—and stopped your movement. Then his fingers began to caress that spot, numb and aching from the use of the fan. You felt the chill of his rings against your heated skin.

“Would you like something cold?” he murmured against your skin.

“I’m fine.”

Baelor, not entirely satisfied with the answer, made a subtle gesture to which you paid little attention. He looked at you again.

“You just have to hold out for a few more hours and we can leave,” he said as he brushed a strand of hair from your face.

You paused. Your irises met those two-toned eyes.

“Shall we have a bath?” you asked, with more hope than you meant to show.

“A bath,” he smiled. “We can ask them to put mint leaves in the water, if you like.”

You were tempted to close your eyes and imagine the scene for a second: that sensation of cool water on your skin, the mint leaves dancing on the surface, your husband’s large hands caressing every inch of your body and his lips on your neck. All of that far removed from the cheers and the clang of steel, from the stifling humidity and the oppressive heat.

You refrained from sighing longingly.

“That would be perfect,” you said, a smile on your lips.

It was then that you felt it: a sharp, dull thud from within. The smile vanished instantly.

Apparently, that day, Valarr — that was what your husband had insisted on calling him, because he was convinced that the life growing inside you was going to be a little prince and not a princess, as you were convinced — had that energy so uncharacteristic of a day as hot as that.

"By the Seven, the baby is really out of control today." You placed a hand on your swollen belly.

Baelor looked down at your hand and quickly covered it completely with his own.

"He’s excited," he said in a soft voice, almost more to himself than to the others. "He likes tournaments, just like his father." He paused for a moment. “When he grows up, he’ll win them all.”

You tilted your head and looked at him more closely. Baelor had an expression he didn’t usually show in public, but only in the privacy of your chambers, when you let him rest his head on your chest to gaze more tenderly at your belly: a seamless blend of pride and something more fragile, more tender.

The horn blared, shattering your intimate moment, and you stifled a snort.

The maelstrom of voices, the sound of the fabric of the dresses brushing against one another, and the excited laughter swirled around the seats as the audience settled in, eager, ready to watch the jousts.

Likewise, you too settled in as best you could amidst that unbearable heat and the bulge of your belly. Resigned, you opened your fan once more and fanned yourself, knowing you would spend the hours of the tournament repeating the same mechanical gesture.

Before the incessant sound of the horn died away, you heard the sweet voice of one of your ladies-in-waiting to your left.

“Here, my princess,” the young woman announced as she handed you a goblet. You raised an eyebrow.

“But I haven’t asked for it, my lady.”

"It was Prince Baelor, my princess," she explained with a smile. You took the goblet at her almost insistent gesture. "Oh, and you dropped this." She bent down and picked up something, placing it on your lap. "Enjoy the tournament; if you need anything, I’ll be at the back."

You froze for a split second.

Then, you looked at the cup: it was full of cool water.

Next, you looked at your leg: Baelor’s handkerchief, with crimson figures embroidered around the edges and his initial adorning the centre.

You turned your gaze to your husband, who already had his eyes fixed on the list with a perfectly neutral expression—and one that was innocently admirable for someone who had just given himself away.

You drank in the same way, and, along with the water, you swallowed your pride because, after months of marriage to Baelor, you realised that those gestures were entirely his own and that, surely, he knew you better than you knew yourself.

You set the goblet aside and, next to it and without thinking, your fan.

This time you didn’t let the thick air dry your sweat; this time you wiped it away with your handkerchief, with the same calm sense of someone who has finally decided to stop fighting the summer heat.

Now it was you who fixed your gaze on the pitch.

The colours of half the continent fluttered in the boxes, and the stands were swallowed up by all manner of flowers—an enthusiastic decision by the decorator, which had provoked incessant sneezing amongst the spectators and the horses.

The tournament had been organised to celebrate yet another year of the kings’ marriage and, consequently, the full annexation of Dorne to the Crown.

Daeron II and Myriah Martell presided from the royal box with that kind of calm dignity that comes from celebrating the historic milestone that was an alliance cherished by the realm.

Baelor was seated three chairs to the king’s left, the place that was rightfully his as heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone. Ever since the tournament had begun, he had been watching the arena with the focused, slightly bored expression of someone who had been to enough tournaments to know when each rider would fall before they actually did.

However, this time, Baelor was wearing a dark doublet studded with rubies rather than his steel armour. For the first time, he was not living up to his nickname. Today he was not breaking spears, today he was watching them being broken.

Baelor had announced this to the Small Council two weeks earlier.

It had been a premeditated decision and contrary to his father’s opinion, who was always keen for his eldest son to demonstrate his skill with the hammer on such occasions — as if anyone doubted the prince’s worth.

The reason Daeron had heard: Baelor would not be attending, so as to allow young knights to demonstrate their skills in such an important tournament.

What Myriah had understood: it all had to do with the figure now sitting beside her son.

You were seated to Baelor’s left.

You were bathed in silver jewellery; the earrings weighed heavily on your ears and your necklace — a gift from your mother on your wedding day — adorned your bare neckline.

You wore a sky-blue dress with wide sleeves and silver embroidery, a dress that had required two weeks of alterations and three separate conversations with your seamstress, because your stubbornness had made you insist on wearing those garments despite your prominent bump. The result had been dignified and comfortable; ‘cool’, however, was not an adjective you would have used to describe it.

Baelor had noticed it even before you left the Red Keep to head out into the countryside — just as he had noticed every change, however slight, since you’d been pregnant, because, apparently, to your husband, you were now made of glass — which was why he wasn’t down there.

He had no intention of spending that day in the lists when he could be exactly where he ought to be: sitting by your side, watching for every little gesture that might betray tiredness, pain or discomfort, as if that were a battle far more important than any joust.

He could have won another tournament in any other year.

Moreover, he was curious to see who might have been his rivals.

It was then that Ser Gwayne Oakheart entered.

He had a presence so commanding that it stood on its own, an impeccable reputation built over decades of loyal service, and a habit of doing what he believed to be right without regard for what was expedient.

He was a man of principles, and this afternoon his principles had led him to win most of the afternoon’s jousts with a fluidity that had drawn shouts and applause even from the most demanding stands.

Now he rode around the perimeter of the field, his visor raised, the silver leaves carved into his breastplate glinting in the morning light, and that sly smile of someone who knows he has the crowd in the palm of his hand for the rest of the tournament.

Baelor watched him complete the first quarter of the circuit. Then the second, and so on until the end.

As the knight slowed his pace in front of the royal box, the prince looked at him with polite attention, settling into his seat and twirling the rings on his fingers.

Ser Gwayne looked towards the dais.

His green eyes swept over the faces of the ladies-in-waiting, strategically placed there by fathers with well-calibrated ambitions, their skirts adorned with those wreaths of flowers that hoped to be worn by some handsome knight.

Then they turned to Queen Myriah, who wore a stern yet calm expression, enough to remind any sensible man where overly bold knights ended up.

He paid them little heed: that day he was being crowned the best knight of the tournament and he wanted to continue proving it without ending up with his head on a pike.

Finally, they paused at your figure, standing imposingly to your husband’s left, like a treasure made up of a hundred gold dragons guarded by steel.

He rode up to the foot of the dais. When he stood before it, his regal eyes fixed upon it, he leaned forward from the saddle with a defiant expression and extended his mustard-and-green-striped lance towards you: princess by name of the Seven Kingdoms, wife of Baelor Targaryen and future mother of the child of the heir to the Iron Throne.

“My princess,” Ser Gwayne spoke in a steady tone, as though the blood of a reckless man did not run through his veins, “I trust you will forgive my boldness.”

Baelor felt something in his chest which, after a moment of genuine bewilderment, he identified as indignant surprise. You remained still in the seat, your hand halfway through wiping away your sweat.

“But I thought that, if I fought today with the favour of two Targaryens, perhaps I might have twice the luck.”

The field fell into an expectant silence, and for a few seconds the only sounds were the chirping of birds and the air rustling through the leafy branches of the trees and flowers.

You blinked twice.

You processed his words.

You wondered if it was really happening, if it was just a dream or simply a hallucination caused by the extreme heat of the day.

You even wondered if that proposal was really meant for you or for someone who, surprisingly, bore the same features as you.

But no, as far as anyone knew, there was only one heir to the Iron Throne; he had only one wife and was expecting only one child.

You opened your mouth, but, as if the words had died in your throat, you closed it again.

You looked around. Everyone was staring at you, but you searched only for the one pair of eyes that weren’t on you at that moment and that you needed most.

Baelor continued to stare straight ahead as he slid the rings on his fingers up and down, insistently. His chin was raised and his eyes had darkened, looking almost jet-black.

With no help from your husband, you turned your gaze to the sides. That day you weren’t wearing a wreath of flowers, as all the women in the boxes were, because you thought that, given your condition, no one would approach you.

You had greatly underestimated men.

You clutched the fabric of the handkerchief in the palm of your hand.

The audience was plunged into silence, eyes wide open and waiting with bated breath to see what would happen next.

Daeron II looked at you with a wary expression, his eyes darting between you and his son, who stood right beside you, not moving an inch. Meanwhile, Myriah also looked at you with the same gleam in her eyes as a woman who understood just how uncomfortable it was to be dragged by force into a situation like that.

Five, six, seven seconds of complete anticipation passed.

Finally, with the composure of someone who had spent far too many hours with her septa learning the proper manners of courtly behaviour, you rose with the limited ease afforded by your condition of the past six moons and approached the edge of the dais with slow steps.

“You are very generous, Ser,” you said in a tone that was utterly courteous and inscrutable. “It would be an honour.”

You placed the handkerchief on the tip of the spear—the one with the edges stained with red designs and your husband’s initial in the centre.

A wave of applause and whistles swept across the field, and that oppressive silence vanished in a matter of seconds.

Ser Gwayne flashed a smile that shone like the sun, took the handkerchief, tucked it into his gauntlet, clicked his spurs and rode off with the quiet satisfaction of having done the right thing.

You sat back down in your seat. You looked back at Baelor, who still had his gaze fixed on the front.

He didn’t say a word to you about it all day.

Not even when Ser Gwayne won every joust and earned the honour of naming the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Not even when he saw you accept the gift and, in the next moment, place the crown of pink lilies in your hair, only for it to sit askew because no one had measured the shape of your braids and it was a little too small for you.

But even though he hadn’t said a word, you already knew what was going on.

You’d known it ever since he’d stopped making the occasional comment about how he thought the joust would end—and getting it spot on—or when, on the carriage ride back, he’d simply offered up fleeting replies whilst gazing out of the window, when he’d always devoted himself to listening to your comments and critiques of the day’s events whilst caressing you and playing with your fingers.

That had been even more refreshing than that glass of water, because since you’d married Baelor, you could count on one hand the times he’d been jealous, and you wouldn’t even use all the fingers.

You’d never admit out loud that you loved seeing your husband like that.

It was more fun to try and prolong the situation, not out of cruelty, but because you didn’t know when it would happen again.

Your shared chambers fell silent when the last handmaiden left the room after the creak of the large wooden door.

You were sitting on a chair next to the bathtub placed on one side of the room. You had freed yourself from the confines of that dress that was constricting your skin and now wore only your white chemise, which reached down to your ankles. Your hand moved back and forth, slowly touching the surface of the water. It was warm and, just as your husband had promised, the mint leaves floated aimlessly.

You heard Baelor take off his cloak and drape it over the back of the chair. He loosened the clasp at his neck.

Usually, he didn’t do that himself, yet that evening, he was doing it, with the methodical calm of someone whose mind is occupied by something that is taking up more space than expected and causing him to be oblivious to his surroundings.

As if his mind were filled with the persistent image of a white handkerchief with red trim and a wreath of flowers tilted over his wife’s hair.

“What a lovely evening,” you said with a sigh of satisfaction after dousing the nape of your neck with that crystal-clear water.

He didn’t look at you.

“Aye.”

You did look at him.

“The tournament was very well organised.”

You heard the metallic clink of his silver brooch as he set it down on the table.

“Lord Penrose has improved since last year.”

“You mean Elaena,” you corrected. You smiled slightly when you saw that Baelor still wouldn’t look at you. “She’s spread the word well; she’s managed to gather some fine knights.” You paused. “Ser Gwayne rode very well.”

No one spoke for a moment.

“He rode well,” said Baelor.

“He’s a fine knight; I’m sure he’ll win greater tournaments in the future.”

“Hm,” he murmured, still not looking at you. “That was a very kind gesture, the crown.”

You smiled.

“Very chivalrous,” you remarked, almost as if it were of no importance. “It’s the first time I’ve been crowned and asked for a favour at a joust; it made me happy.”

This time, Baelor turned.

You hadn’t moved: one hand was still skimming the water with your fingertips, the other resting on your swollen belly. On your head, the crown of lilies, now sitting perfectly because your braids had been undone; a decision you’d made consciously and which he was choosing not to comment on. You wore an expression of innocence so carefully crafted that it seemed as though you’d been practising it your whole life just for him.

He leaned against the table and looked at you from across the room.

The moonlight streamed through the window, casting a more imposing silhouette of your husband.

“Are you going to take that off?” he said, nodding slightly towards the crown.

“What?”

He let out a perplexed snort and looked away again.

You managed not to laugh.

“Ah, the crown,” you said. You touched the flowers with your fingers, just as you had done that afternoon in the royal box. “I was thinking of taking the bath with it on, in honour of Ser Gwayne’s lovely gesture.”

Baelor looked at you again and crossed his arms.

It was a posture that, in the Small Council, conveyed honour and princely authority, whereas in private, in your opinion, it suggested he was trying to appear calmer than he actually was.

He took a deep breath and you saw his jaw clench slightly.

“You are the Crown Prince’s wife,” he said in a serious tone.

You nodded: “I am.”

“Pregnant, too.”

You looked down at your belly. The six moons were already noticeable beneath any garment. You looked back at your husband.

“Quite noticeably.”

He lifted his chin and leaned further against the small wooden table, which seemed to be the only thing keeping him from losing his temper.

“And Ser Gwayne Oakheart, with his reckless boldness and his spotless reputation, has decided that you were the fairest in the whole field, after having asked for your favour.”

You blinked twice and settled back in your chair.

“That is what he did, yes,” you said, calmly. This time the pause was barely a second. “Do you think he was wrong?”

Baelor tilted his head to one side. In the dim candlelight, the contrast between the violet and brown of his eyes—now darkened—was barely discernible.

After a few seconds, Baelor approached you with measured steps. The sound of his boots was muffled by the carpets; yet, even though you could not hear that tinkling, authoritative sound, you felt a shiver run down your spine.

When he stood before you, he lowered his gaze just as you raised yours. Your gazes merged into one.

He raised his hand and traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, then moved upwards, drawing an imaginary line to your cheekbone. His fingertips were rough, worn from the use of weapons, and yet you knew full well that he was the person who could convey the most tenderness when he caressed you.

Finally, he brought his hand to the wreath of lilies and removed it with more care than might have been strictly necessary given the circumstances.

He placed it on the side table.

“He wasn’t wrong,” he said at last, in a low voice.

He ran his fingers through your hair tenderly and slowly, and the look of feigned innocence had vanished from your face because, no matter how elaborate your plan might be, Baelor could unravel it with just the touch of his fingers.

"No?"

"No," he confirmed.

You took a deep breath and clasped your hands in your lap. You felt your chemise getting wet from the water you’d carried from the bath to the fabric.

You tilted your head.

“You could have given me the crown yourself.” There was something softer in your voice now, intertwined with a touch of humour; nevertheless, there was no lie in your words.

Baelor’s hand tightened in your hair.

“I didn’t win the tournament.”

“You could have if you’d taken part.”

“It’s my parents’ anniversary; it wouldn’t be proper for the heir to take part.”

You raised an eyebrow. That had sounded more like an excuse than a reason.

“How convenient.”

Baelor looked at you with his two-coloured eyes and sighed. He ran his hand through your hair and let silence fill the conversation for a few seconds.

"Valarr," he murmured finally, in a low voice, and at last you understood his concerns. He didn’t want any surprises, he didn’t want any nerves. As always, he was overly concerned for your well-being.

"He likes tournaments…" you repeated the words he’d spoken to you hours earlier. "Just like his father. When he grows up, he’ll win them all."

The prince swallowed hard.

Perhaps what you really wanted was for him to have been the one to crown you.

Perhaps he, as your husband, should have been the one to crown you for the first time.

You struggled to your feet — instantly feeling your husband’s hands steadying you, as if you were performing the most arduous task in the Seven Kingdoms —, resting your hands on the edge of the bath and the chair, until you stood facing Baelor. Your chests were brushing against each other and your husband lowered his face slightly, almost as if his heart were inevitably compelling him to draw closer to you.

“Next time,” Baelor spoke calmly. He rested his forehead against yours. “Next time there’s a tournament, I’ll participate. And I’ll win. And the crown will be placed upon your head by the one who ought to do so.”

You smiled faintly.

"By the one who ought to do so" you repeated, sealing that promise.

Then, he kissed you.

His lips on yours were soft and still. It didn’t last long, just long enough for you to feel it fully, not on your skin, but somewhere deeper inside, in that place hidden beneath the layers of flesh where butterflies flutter energetically and the heart beats far too fast.

His hands slid down to the small of your back and you felt the warmth of his skin even through the linen.

When he pulled away, he didn’t pull away completely. His breath brushed your mouth, and for a moment neither of you said a word, for there was no need. Everything had already been said: you had already tempted him and he had already answered you in his own way, with that cold reserve of his that only appeared on those occasions that could be counted on one hand.

With your eyes locked, your breaths in unison, and your hands clutching his dark doublet, you smiled; and after that, you let out a genuine laugh—one that made you clasp your hands to your ribs, for it seemed that even laughing whilst pregnant was torture.

“If you think about it, it was you who gave your favour,” you remarked between laughs, and you saw Baelor smile and roll his eyes.

“It was my favourite handkerchief.” He raised one of his hands to where yours lay, resting on your ribs. “Don’t you feel even a little guilty about what you’ve done to your poor husband today?”

"I like seeing you jealous."

"You're cruel."

"I'm not cruel, I'm your pregnant wife, so be nice to me."

"I'm perfectly nice to you, my dearest."

You bit your lip, still wearing a mischievous smile.

"Ser Gwayne would have been nicer."

The prince rolled his eyes again and wasn’t sure if he was doing it because of the comment or because, after he’d done so, you started laughing again as if you’d pulled a prank.

You settled against his chest with the same calmness of someone who’d achieved exactly what they’d set out to do.

Baelor leaned over to test the water. It was still lukewarm.

He began to undress you with the unique tenderness he possessed, now caressing your neck with his lips and playing with the fabric, all perfectly within the bounds of propriety, without a trace of jealousy.

Meanwhile, the crown of lilies remained on the little table until the following day.

Baelor did not move it from there again.

[cestpasfaux24601]

AKOTSK Appreciation Week - Day 4: ↳ Costumes

[dreamfyrie]

watching aerion give baelor the ick in real time is killing me

[thehoneywine]

BE A FREAK (LIKE ME)

Summary: The boy’s kinks and how they introduce you to them ! Based on this ask !

Characters: Valarr Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, Ser Dunk, Daeron Targaryen, Aerion Targaryen & Lyonel Baratheon x f!reader

Contents: 18+ | This is basically soft porn but it isn’t like insanely descriptive | Rough sex | Overstimulation | Bondage | Manhandling | Coercion…so dubcon elements | Marking | Orgasm denial | Blood play | Knife play | Sadism | Exhibitionism 

Word Count: 2.3k (yooo….I yapped…) 

Author’s Note: This is my first time trying my hand at smut/suggestive content lol so if it’s bad just say that </3, also ik the ask specifically asked how the boys introduce you to their kinks, and I tried my best to portray that but some of the headcanons don’t explicitly state they ask you to try or slowly introduce you to whatever I decided their kinks were so I hope this is still in the ballpark of what you asked for anon ! Enjoy ! Credit to @cursed-carmine for the dividers used and the user @/oliviajlee1 on pinterest for the header image. 

Baelor Targaryen ↠ Overstimulation

Baelor Targaryen is a giver. He sacrifices over and over for the realm; his time, his patience, his mind, all to the king as he acts as his hand. It’s embedded in his personality at this point, to give back, to put others before himself, and you are no exception. It isn’t really introduced to you as it just happens. 

You’ll be laid back in your bed, soft skin on softer silks, completely at ease when Baelor makes his claim. He’ll join you, strong hands gripping one of your ankles and bringing it to his lips, kissing a trail from the very bottom of you towards your knee, before ending on the plush, soft skin of your thigh. Broad shoulders part your legs, holding them apart as he makes himself at home between your legs. He eats you like he’s starving, open mouthed kisses to the most sensitive parts of yourself, uncaring of the fingers tightening in his hair as he works you over the edge. You expect him to stop, to come up for air, to kiss up the rest of your body before claiming you as he had many nights before. He doesn’t. He kisses at you, laps at your folds until you’re crying out his name again, positive he must just be taking his time tonight – and he is, just not in the way you think – breaths stuttering in your throat, feeble hands pushing at his shoulders in a weak attempt to get him to stop. You don’t want him to stop. His fingers join the mix after your second orgasm, pushing into the warmness of your heat, a groan leaving his chest at the feeling of you tightening around him, sucking his fingers in, desperate just like he wants you. He brings you to your peak again with his fingers and his mouth before he finally frees himself from his trousers, body hovering over yours as he kisses the tears leaking from your eyes from the oversensitivity. He shushes your quiet whines, kisses you deep and sure before he lets himself add just the right amount of pressure, drinking in your gasp with a greed a man could only have when it comes to his pretty wife. He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, until your back is arched off the mattress and your head shakes from side to side, pitiful whimpers leaving you about how it’s too much, too hard, too good. Only then would he be satisfied. 

Maekar Targaryen ↠ Bondage 

Maekar desires control. He wishes he could control his unruly children, wishes he had more control over what his father orders him to do, wishes things would simply just go the way he wants them to. How else is he supposed to take these frustrations out if not on you? 

He brings it up in the heat of the moment, during a regular night laid beside you after the two of you are panting and breathless. How he wishes to see you at his mercy, wishes to tie your wrists behind your back while he drives into you. He says it softly, almost offhandedly, suspiciously uncaring. He reads your hesitation, quiet words ensuring you didn’t have to, that he could happily survive off of just this, happy to be drunk on only you. You agree anyway, head nodding slowly and giving your trust over to him. He introduces you slowly, just a few nights after your agreement, sure hands tying a loose knot around your wrists with the softest silk the realm had to offer. His fingers test the hold, tugging the silk back to him, watching as you come with it with a darkened gleam in his bright eyes. He relishes in watching your fingers curl into fists when he’s behind you, grins wide and wicked when you beg him to let you touch him, delights in the feeling of your fingers struggle against their hold, trying to claw at his forearms despite yourself. When you admit you liked it? It only fuels him further; the knots getting tighter, the positions more intricate, holding you in place against the headboard, your ankles to the posts. He switches the silk ribbons out for commissioned ropes, rough enough to where it hurts deliciously, leaving your wrists and ankles raw after a particularly rough night spent in his embrace. You are completely at his mercy, you’ve given him the permission to use you as he sees fit, and use you he will. 

Ser Duncan The Tall ↠ Manhandling 

Dunk is a big boy. You know this, he knows this to the point he’s self-conscious about it. Constantly shrinking himself when in the company of others, rarely standing to his full height at the fear of making those around him point it out. However, with you, it’s something he relishes in. 

Just standing next to you causes his heart to race, having to peer down his chest just to make eye contact with you. The feeling of his hand coming across your back to guide you along when the crowds grow dense. The mere fact that he can, and has, thrown you over his shoulder when things get too rowdy in a crowd, putting your safety above what would be seen as respecting modesty. This only increases ten fold when he has you underneath him. Seeing you there, trapped under his large hands holding down on your hips, covering the softness of your skin with work-roughened hands. It really gets him going. There’s no need to ask you to perk your ass up, or tell you to turn this way or that, he simply does it himself. His hands will reach under your hips when they fall to the mattress, rearranging you so you’re set up just how he likes you to be. He’ll drag you towards him by your thighs until you’re flush against him, he’ll flip you mid thrust to lie on your side, a leg coming up as he drills into you from behind, a hand coming to rest on the nape of your neck, keeping your head pushed into the pillows. There is no ‘running from it’ with Dunk, he’ll simply tighten his hold and keep you exactly where you are, shushing your quiet cries and murmuring into your ear as he folds you in half to take it like a good girl. 

Daeron Targaryen ↠ Orgasm Denial 

Daeron does not believe he deserves nice things and this unfortunately carries into the bedroom with him. It isn’t like he’s forcing you to delay his orgasm, except he would totally be into that, but he does hold himself back. He wants this to be good for you. 

This bleeds over at some point, he’ll have you situated on top of him, legs straddling his hips as he moves you up and down on his cock, veiny hands gripping onto your hips and thighs for dear life as he watches your face. Your brows furrow together, lips parting to make that expression that let him know you’re about to come. That’s when he stops, hands stilling on your hips, grip suddenly tight on your skin when you try to lift yourself up, chasing the high he just tore out from under you. He’ll shake his head, words leaving him in a pant of air. “Patience, my flower,” he’ll say it low, blue eyes staring up at you as you try to squirm your way into an orgasm. He’ll keep you pressed to him, just as desperate as you are, until both of your breathing slows to what he deems satisfactory. Only then will he let you start moving again, hands guiding you up and down, up and down, up and down. But then your eyes widen, your thighs begin to shake, and he’s holding you still again, voice soft and teasing, “Do you dare put your pleasure over that of Your Prince? Hold out for me.” He doesn’t let either of you reach peak until you’re both barely holding on, delirious with the need for it, bodies stuck together and shaking from the exertion. He isn’t letting up until you’re crying to him, begging him to stop doing this to you, whining about how you can’t hold on anymore. 

Aerion Targaryen ↠ Bloodplay / Knifeplay

Aerion is the textbook definition of a sadist. He likes to see others in pain, he likes to cause them pain even more and nothing is a prettier sight than seeing you laid out for him, crying and bleeding. 

His fascination with pain is something not easily described; all he knows is it gets him going like nothing else. He thinks of it the moment the two of you meet, how easily it would be to hold you down and drag ornate Valyrian steel over the expanse of your body. He barely contains it, he already loves to watch you cry, especially in the throes of pleasure, so it comes to no one’s surprise that he is swift to offer the idea up to you, promising he will be nothing but gentle. That’s a lie; well it becomes a lie. At first, it’s small knicks to your thighs, his tongue laving over the wound immediately in an act of soothing. He holds himself back enough the first few times, but it quickly spirals into something debauched. Soon enough, he’s dragging blades across your stomach, pressing deeper, listening to your pained cries as you beg him for more, more, more. You edge him on, with your whimpers and your pleas, the sight of you covered in red in places he put it, the sight of your tears streaming steadily down your face as you flinch away from his touch. Gods, there’s nothing quite like it in Aerion’s mind. Soon enough, he’s pressing the blade to your lips, dragging it over the middle of your bottom lip, just as they did in Old Valyrian mating rituals, watching the droplets collect and slide down onto your chin. This is when he really cannot help himself, you just look so darling covered in your own blood, and his lips will press into yours. Tongue entering your mouth as you gasp at the feeling, the pain that comes with his teeth sinking into your lower lip, leaning into his touch nonetheless. He drinks you in, both your taste and your blood, refusing to push away until your blood is covering his lips, his chin, his tongue. It’s in moments like that he’s certain he could get drunk off of the taste of you, he finds nothing sweeter. 

Valarr Targaryen ↠ Excessive Marking 

Valarr is always trying to hold himself a certain way, in a way he thinks the realm needs him to. He doesn’t lose his head, he’s been curating the art of not letting his emotions and impulses get the best of him. 

This being said, it comes as a surprise to both of you when he just cannot help himself when it comes to marking your body. It happens on an off chance when one night he’s just rougher. You walk away from the encounter with bruises on your hips in the shape of his fingertips and when he first sees them, he’s apologizing feverishly. How could he not have noticed he was gripping his precious wife so hard? How could he have ever dreamed of harming you? When you shake your head, a grin blooming on your pretty lips, insisting you liked to see the reminders of your time together? You unlock something in him. Suddenly, every night spent together is filled with his hands digging into the plush skin of your thighs, his lips are attached to your neck, your shoulder, your breasts. He’s leaving lovebites all over any piece of skin he can get to, his fingernails are scratching down your back when you get on top to ride him, faint scratches glowing on your skin. He urges you to mark him back, to bite at his skin, scratch at his chest, to leave the reminders of your claim on him. It excites him whenever the two of you are around the court, knowing that just beneath both of your clothes lies the evidence of your time together. Knows that if your dress were cut just the slightest bit shorter on your chest most courtiers would think you had been attacked by an animal instead of ravaged by your compassionate, stone-faced husband. 

Lyonel Baratheon ↠ Exhibitilism 

The Lord of Storm’s End loves to put on a show, loves the feeling of eyes tracking him around the room while he moves with less than a care in the world. He loves to host parties and feasts, loves to enter the lists for tourneys, loves knowing people admire him. 

With this in mind, it’s of little revelation that you find yourself pressed against the windows of his chambers when the two of you make love during your times at Storm’s End. You never start there, Lyonel prefers to start on the mattress, or on the wall, hands roving over your body, pressing you into any surface he can as he takes his time undressing you. But sooner than later, you’re pressed against the glass, hands bracing against the frame, your breaths fogging up the surface. Lyonel is mean with it, lips touching your ear while he’s inside of you, hand moving your hair from where it’s stuck against your face, lips pressing into the nape of your neck. “Do you think anyone is watching, my love?” He’d whisper like he was keeping a secret, like it was something embarrassing, something wrong. Which, it is, considering societies standards, but Lyonel has never cared much what other people thought of him. “Do you think the servants and the lesser Lords are watching you as you clench around me? Do you think they want to join?” He’d laugh in your ear, delighting in the way your face gets flushed, at the way a silent type of panic shows in your eyes at your words, head shaking as he reassures you. He might like to put on a show, but he’d never let anyone else touch you, but they could always watch. 

[f41ryb0nes]

Leon comes home feeling better than he has in ages, and he knows just how he wants to show you.

ao3 ✦ wc: 5.9k

tags: Leon Kennedy/cisfem!reader, marathon sex, multiple creampies, p in v, porn w/o plot, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, cockdrunkeness, rough sex, praise & degradation, aftercare, wife!reader, can imagine with or w/o age gap, re9 requiem spoilers

a/n: I meant for this to be love-making but then it turned freak nasty oops

SMS Message: Home tomorrow.

Sender: Leon S.K.

You jumped up from the couch as you read it, the words shaking on the screen you held with trembling hands.

You didn’t think he’d come home so soon. You didn’t think he’d come home at all.

The next 18 hours were a blur, and then you heard it: the purr of a familiar motor in the driveway. It stopped you dead in your tracks, standing as still as a statue in the kitchen. You tensed as you waited for the sound of footsteps outside— held your breath as you heard the key in the lock— watched unblinkingly as the handle turned— when Leon walked through the door, time itself went still.

For a moment, all you could do was stare. You didn’t know what to expect. Every mission changed him, and you didn’t know what new version of him would walk through the door now, or how to react to it. And the stakes had never been higher.

The days before his departure were spent mostly in silence, doing little else except hold each other as his departure neared every second. You both knew the two likely results: he’d either die in the place it all began or come home even closer to death’s door. He’d wait for his disease to slowly consume his soul while he made his own funeral plans, and you’d stay close to your gun to prepare for the moment he went cold.

You’d spent the time between his text and now clinging to hope and preparing yourself for the worst. You’d never felt as fragile as the moment he opened the door.

He looked your way as the lock clicked behind him. It was only a few seconds, but they expanded into eons as you searched him for signs of bad news. A knit in his brow, or a downward tug of his lips. Traces of tears he may have wiped away in the car before you could see them. His steely eyes filling with grief.

But you didn’t see any of that. Instead, he grinned and held his arms out wide.

You flew crashing into them. He was steady, firm, and tight as you clutched your fists into the back of his shirt. His arms wrapped around your head and he kissed the top of it softly, swaying you ever so slightly because he was too overcome to stand still.

For minutes, all you did was stand in the doorway and hold. That was the quiet choreography of all of his homecomings, though it never felt routine. Each time it had a different weight, and this one was the heaviest yet by far.

When you finally were able to pull away, you scanned him again for signs of injury, physical or otherwise. You knew him like you knew yourself, and even the most imperceptible changes never got past you.

Your eyes widened when they dropped to his neck.

You didn’t have to ask; he already knew the question. He answered it, still smiling, his voice gravelly and low, soft and tired, but not weary. All of it built up your hopes until he finally spoke it into reality.

“I’m alright, baby.”

His hands grazed your face, and you nearly flinched at the feeling of his bare fingertips purely out of habit. You’d spent months of him preventing you from coming into contact with his infected tissue. But then you realized what you were feeling: real skin sans leather, flesh devoid of flaw. His fingers were roughened from calluses and nothing more, complete with his wedding band returned to its rightful place.

Your eyes watered in disbelief and awe. A trepidatious smile grew on your lips as he cupped your cheek in his palm. You covered his hand with your own and pressed into the warmth while your other hand traced up his torso, until you were grazing over the skin of his neck and nudging down his shirt collar.

It was free of all black-rotted dry patches, no cracks on the surface to be seen. Nothing but a fresh scar you didn’t need to ask about right now. Right now, all that mattered was that he was whole and solid, returned to his natural state, totally healed and hot-blooded under the surface.

Your breath hitched at his body heat. Oh, how you missed his skin.

“You’re really okay..?”

The words were small and barely squeaked out. You didn’t want false hope. You needed to know the healing was more than just skin deep. His reaction assuaged all fears.

“Yeah. I really am.”

The truth took a moment to permeate the air. When it did, he took you in a kiss so firm and certain, it crushed all remaining doubt.

You met it fiercely, pushing yourself against his torso to feel him closer. Your hands threaded into the hair on the nape of his neck as he wrapped his arms around to hold you firmly in place.

Your tongue darted out first, or maybe his did, you couldn’t say. And from there, it happened fast.

His hands moved to the back of your head, then your waist, and then your ass, where they couldn’t help but grope and lift until your legs wrapped around him and he held you in the air. You grabbed his face as your lips parted wider to allow his tongue further inside. He roughly kicked off his boots and then he was walking. He kept kissing you all the way through— he didn’t need to open his eyes, he knew where he was going.

Your back met the cool blankets on your bed and then he was crawling over you, caging you under him in the dark. You wrapped your hands around his biceps and felt the muscles flex as he lowered himself to kiss down your neck, covering each square inch of skin with his sloppy, desperate kisses.

“I feel better than I have in years. Spent the whole trip home waiting to show you.”

'To prove it to you' was in the subtext.

He returned to your mouth hotly and grinded his hips into your center, the friction of his jeans against the soft fabric of your home clothes making you keen into the toe-curling feeling. He pulled his shirt over his head and you took the opportunity to speak.

“Turn the lamp on, need to see you.”

He made quick work of reaching over to it, and then you shuddered as your palms felt the expanse of his abdomen. Tight ab muscles, beefy pectorals, and broad shoulders. The sight you never got sick of that made up his brawny form. All of it healed and renewed.

He kept grinding while you took him in. Your arms went up and around and down again, nearly worshipping the flesh. But when you yanked at his belt, he stopped you with his hands around your wrists, bringing them to each side of your head and caging you in again.

“Spent too much time thinking about what I’m gonna do to you.” He sat back up and you kept your arms where he fixed them as he began to pull at the elastic waistband of your bottoms. He kissed your exposed navel and you shivered as he mumbled into you. “Need’ta show you how I’ve always wanted to fuck you.”

You never felt like his age held him back much in the bedroom— his job relied on stamina and endurance, and though his job was physically demanding and he was not quite in his prime, the toll was mostly seen in the back pain after; it hardly showed in the moment. As his hands and mouth traveled every inch of exposed skin like a starving animal, you wondered if you could even handle him giving you something more. The thought of finding out went straight between your legs.

His mouth went straight there, too.

You nearly yelled as he dove into your cunt with a fervent tongue, lapping and sucking and messily making out with your folds, his thumbs kneading to pull open the soft fatty skin of your vulva. He wasn’t interested in wasting any time on teasing, clearly.

Your thighs clenched around his head and a hand pushed against his head reflexively to fight off the sudden intensity, but it was useless. The pressure of your legs around his head only spurred him on until your cunt was soaked in spit– it certainly wasn’t your own wetness– he devoured every ounce that escaped before it could go anywhere but his mouth.

You bucked and twitched as you cried out his name. “Leon, Leon, s’too much, holy— fuck, Leon—” but he only spread your thighs and kept your there, pointing his tongue to circle sharply around your clit.

“I’m just getting started, baby,” he said, sucking your clit into his mouth and letting go with a flilthy noise, “thought I’d never taste this sweet cunt again, gonna drink my fucking fill.”

Your head fell back as he dove back in, steady and thorough and obscene. You took deep breaths, although they were more like hitched pants and moans until you acclimated to the sensation. He hummed as he felt you melt under him and added a single finger inside, groaning when you arched into it.

He slowed down, his finger rocking and curling in and out and his tongue lapping at you. You looked down to see his darkened eyes gazing at his work between tastes, and you shuddered as he licked his lips before retracting all touch. Your hips flinched upwards to beckon him to return, but he didn’t. He met your eyes and reveled in your wanton expression as he sucked you off his fingers, never breaking eye contact as he rose to kneel between your parted legs.

He finally began to do away with his jeans, and something changed in his tone as he did. You shivered with desire as you watched him move. It was deliberate and slow. He was undressing like a threat.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen…”

His belt fell with a thud against the ground—

“I’m gonna fuck you until you cry…”

The button fell apart with a flick of his wrist—

“Fill you so full of cum you’ll be dripping ‘til next week…”

The zipper seemed to ache as it slowly parted open—

“And you’re gonna fucking take it.”

Unhurriedly and never once looking away from you, he pushed his pants and boxers down until his thick cock sprang free. You whined at the sight of it, eyes fixed where it hung in the air. It was dark pink– definitely darker than usual– his hot blood expanding every vein. He was harder than you’d ever seen him, a full display of the immensity of his desire, so much that it nearly looked painful. When a bead of precum began to appear on his tip, your mouth watered for it.

Your eyes scanned upward as you realized he’d stopped talking and was kneeling there in wait while you stared. You took in his form on the way up; the way his abs tightened with every throb of his cock, the striations of his brawny arms, the few new cuts over old scars. The heavy rise and fall of his chest as he held back for the last time tonight.

And then, you saw his face. His chin was slightly raised as if he was looking down on his next confirmed kill. His lips were still glistening with slick as they were pulled into something not unlike a snarl. His hair was halfway in his eyes, but it did nothing to conceal the intent within them.

“You think you can handle that?”

Your eyes fleeted to his navel, only for a second, assessing him like a loaded gun that was aimed right at you. His hands held his clothes in tight fists and his cock leaked with pre.

You met his eyes again and blinked as you nodded and choked out a needy, “yes,” and your gulp gave away your uncertainty. But that only seemed to spur him on.

He fell forward; suddenly, his face was inches away from your own, one hand on the mattress beside your head to hold himself up, the other yanking his pants off as quickly as he could.

“You know what to say if you can’t,” he grumbled, hunkering down to glide his tip against you until it notched against your entrance, “because telling me to stop won’t be enough.”

He grabbed your wrist at the same time he violently drove in, knowing you’d leap from it and keeping you there anyways. You were nothing but a mess of yelps and moans as he beat his way inside, clawing against his back and shoulders. A single finger wasn’t enough to ready you for this, and the knocks against your cervix were only soothed by the equal force against your g-spot.

Each merciless pounding of his fat cock stretched your walls to their limit, and he truly didn’t give you any other option but to take it. You groaned at the way he used his broad build to keep your legs open to him, every ounce of muscle that you were no match against weighing down to pin you there.

With an arm wrapped under you to hold you by the back of the neck and the other tightening in the hair on the crown of your head, he caged you in to face him. But your dizzy eyes were squeezed shut and could only open to roll back into your skull.

He shook you lightly by the hair. “Look at me,” he growled. You mewled as you attempted it, but your glossy eyes went straight back behind your eyelids. He did it again, harder, pistoning up to fuck you harder, too. “Look at me, you fucking bitch.”

The shock of his words made your eyes shoot open with a gasp and a furrowed brow, far removed from the gentle reverence he held you in at the door. His gaze bore straight into you with a scowl, his adoration replaced with possession.

He was terrifying. Unhinged. A madman on the loose inside of you. A killer who lashed against your walls with uncalculated raw power. Though you could only see his face, it was the hottest thing you’d ever seen.

While you were still reeling from the disparagement, he gritted angrily into your face, crowding you until your noses nearly touched.

“Who owns you?”

You could only attempt to answer, your voice breaking into a sputtering moan as he bottomed out harshly again and again, not needing any of the great focus it took you to speak.

The pitiful noise you’d made wasn’t good enough for him. He squeezed the sides of your neck and you arched off the bed, but that only sent your body flush against his, which didn’t make you any clearer-headed.

“Tell me who fucking owns you.”

You felt like you were floating as your brain was cut off from blood flow, and out of care for your own wellbeing, you managed to answer him.

“Y-you, Leon—“

He let go of the pressure and smirked as you gasped. “Mouth not so good for talking right now, huh? Only good for one thing?”

He unclasped his fingers from your hair and brought them to your chin, delving into your parted lips to hook around your bottom teeth. You let your jaw fall open and watched in shock as he spat inside.

“Swallow it,” he commanded, fingers digging into your face as he pushed it shut. You shuddered as you did, and his own eyes rolled back now.

His head fell into the crook of your neck with a smoky groan. You felt hot puffs of air against your pulse as his hands became gentler, like he revered you for doing what he demanded.

“Gorgeous fucking girl… needed this cunt so bad, went through hell to get back home to you…”

His hold on you may have lessened, but his words held your heart in his fist and squeezed. He’d captured your thoughts so purely on the present, you nearly forgot the context.

Your arms were limp as they tried to wrap around his back, barely able to hold on as he moved with every pounding of his hips. But still, they searched him, chest filling with every inch they felt unmarred by disease, and your cunt pulsed as he searched you for places to grab. Your ebbing breasts, the small of your waist, the meat of your hips, landing finally on the underside of your knee where he changed the angle to impale himself even deeper.

You were losing it, and he could tell. He thrust upwards to meet where your hips rose to help him land in that perfect spot and he kissed your jugular— first a peck, then an open-mouthed kiss, and then a full-on lick of his tongue.

Your legs trembled under him. “Leon, I’m, fuck, please,” you breathed.

He twisted your nipple and nipped under your ear as if to mock how it made you writhe. “Oh yeah? You sure you wanna cum so soon?”

‘So soon’ ..?

Maybe he wasn’t all talk when this started. Maybe that savage look in his eye wasn't a trick of the light. At this rate, he wasn’t going to fuck you until you cried, he was going to fuck you until you died.

But he wanted it. He lifted himself enough to sear your mouth with a kiss, his thrusts slowing momentarily to wedge his hand against your clit. He gathered the wetness between your bodies to easily rub against the silky nub. Your toes curled and your spine curved to seek the friction of his freshly calloused fingers. He deepened the kiss as you moaned, and it became all tongue so he could swallow the sounds in his throat.

He was debauched. Delirious. A bad man smiling as he plucked petals from a flower. Delightfully drowning himself in sin. All you could do was surrender as he brought you your undoing.

You came with wild cries and jolts of ecstasy, nails digging into his deltoids as he sped up even more. You watched him look down at his cock being covered in your cream, a ragged sound in his throat as you tightened around him with each wave of pleasure.

You panted sharply as you barely began to come down, and he lifted himself up on his haunches, kneeling between your legs as he soaked up the sight.

Once your half-lidded eyes met his, he grabbed your hips to brutally fuck you into him.

You clawed at the sheets as he used you like a toy. You won’t be surprised if your ass is speckled with fingertip-shaped bruises tomorrow. All you could see in front of you was your breasts recoiling from each thrust, and behind them, Leon lost in his own world of feeling. His head was tipped back and you saw the stubble under his chin— his pecs were flexed and flushed pink from the vigor— all of him covered in a light gloss of sweat that shone in the warm lamplight.

He was intoxicating to behold, and it was absolutely unfair, because you already lost the ability to think straight. Now you drank him in with your eyes, and you were totally inebriated.

Your moans turned into some kind of mumble. You didn’t know what words you were hoping to form, but it was something along the lines of a warning that he was approaching the realm of too much. He looked down at your babbling with a lust-filled, lazy smirk, all too pleased with himself already.

“Whatdya want, love? You drunk on my cock already?”

He slapped your clit and laughed lowly as you gasped and jolted, then propped your limp legs around him and barreled in even more. Steady, fast, and loud.

Thank god the apartment days were over or the cops would come any minute. Skin slapping against skin, the headboard banging dents into the drywall, you crying out for him like he was carving out your heart. A noise complaint in the making. But when he signed the property deed, it came with the right to make you scream, neighbors be damned.

And scream you did as he held you even tighter and thumbed your swollen clit, evoking your walls to seize in the way he needed to release. He leaned back with a sharp and airy shout, hips sputtering as you felt him unload deep inside, his remaining jerky movements making it trickle out around him.

You were a touch thankful as he slowed down and his hands rubbed soothingly on your thighs. You could finally catch your breath. But your graciousness was short-lived as he flashed a grin and flipped you onto your stomach. The breath was forced out of you as your chest fell into the mattress, and your eyes went wide as he lined himself back up, slowly pushing inside, his cum allowing his cock to slip easily inside regardless of how sore your folds already were.

You whined and knotted your fists into the fabric under you as he bottomed out and pulled away with slow and liquid motions. You heard the faintest laugh rumble in his chest before he spoke.

“I’m not anywhere near done with you,” he huffed.

You buried your head in the soft sheets below. Filled with his load and the promise of another, you felt totally and completely his. Exactly where you wanted to be. Right where you belonged. You couldn’t help but smile, until he moved and it was wiped off your fucked-out face.

He gripped the meat of your ass as he steadily picked up speed, the silver of his wedding band cold against you in contrast to the heat of your bodies. A wet spot collected underneath you from his cock coaxing out his cum with each thrust. The sounds were softer yet even more crude with your cunt so sopping wet.

“Gripping me so good, look at you,” he spread your cunt apart a little more, “goddamn, you’re perfect.”

You felt mildly embarrassed at the messy sight of you that he was undoubtedly staring at right now, but at the same time, you envied his view. To watch his cock disappear inside of your puffy and well-used folds, then withdraw covered in his cum and a healthy mix of your own. To view his strong hands holding you open, to see yourself laid out in submission.

But all you could do was feel, and that was more than enough to sate you. In fact, you were already well past satisfaction, and you kept having to refind your focus so you could keep taking more. You inhaled deeply as you felt the soreness at your entrance and reminded yourself to relax your body, sighing away the tension in the muscles you didn’t mean to flex: your thighs, your back, your shoulders. But then you’d feel the friction of his tip dragging against the gummy walls of your g-spot, and your mind was clouded by pleasure all over again.

He wasn’t going nearly as fast as before, but it was obviously a choice, and not one made out of tiredness or necessity. It just felt too good for him to change the rhythm. With your knees together as you lay prone, your canal was tightened in a way that made you feel dense and so, so warm around his tender cock. You always felt incredible to him, but if sex always felt like this, he wouldn’t just fuck you all night, he’d stay buried in you so long he’d risk starving to death.

You were each lost in your own minds as the feeling went on and on. The air was heady and thick as you breathed against the blankets, and Leon was humping into you like waves rolling into shore– fluid motions that still crashed onto the shore or your center, followed by another and another, a constant ebb and flow that lulled you deeper into euphoria.

“Feels s’good, Leon, oh my god… d-don’t stop.” Your voice was laced in awe.

“Really fucking does… shit…”

The words were airy and held just as much wonderment as yours had. He traced a hand down the valley of your spine, revering the body that gave him such immeasurable bliss. Knowing that he was feeling the same seventh heaven you were made you feel even more connected to him, and your toes curled at the thought.

It kept going, and going, and going. You couldn’t tell how long it remained exactly like that, neither of you searching for your next orgasm, just totally and completely captured by the present. Time wasn’t something that existed in the room. It was a long time, but it’d never be enough.

He groaned as you felt his hips stutter involuntarily as the next thrust landed even deeper inside. The unexpectedness hit you both and turned it back into something needier. The next thrust snapped against your ass and you arched into the air to meet it. He shifted to hold you firmly as he set on a new wanton speed.

You mewled as you keened into him, legs parting slightly to make room for any spare length he had to give, and gripped the sheets as his balls began to slap against your clit. Each time he crashed against your walls, you felt them begin to bloom with electric want, and you braced against the bed to push yourself back into his thrusts as they became gritty, harsh pounds again.

He felt just the same as you, blood rushing to the parts of his brain that demanded another orgasm, and he felt every flutter of your walls around him that beckoned to milk him dry– exactly what he wanted you to do, to drain him until he had nothing left to give. He wanted to do whatever it took to make sure that fluttering didn’t stop.

He reached under you to rub your clit. You yelped as his fingers made contact, gliding easily against the cum-covered nub. His forearm was pressed against your navel, pinned between you and the mattress, and you could feel the size of his cock protrude against it from within you. Your legs spread even wider as you cried out, struggling to hold onto reality as he worked the thousands of nerve endings he’d already made oversensitive. Now, it bordered on torture.

The way you opened yourself only made it easier for him to find purchase to pound even harder, meeting the way you writhed and keened for more, his eyes rolling back as you bore down as if you were trying to squeeze him out. But all it did was drive him harder into all the right spots inside of you, and you were so overcome with sensitivity, you came before you even knew you were close.

And you came hard. Jolting and seizing as you cried his name, your eyes growing wet from the shock of it. He was loud as he reacted to the way you clenched and pulsed around him, your warm, slick cum covering his cock and making his movements sloppy and wet. And you were even louder as he kept going even harder.

He was surprised that he didn’t cum again right then and there, but it only galvanized him to pull your hips back and use you again. Your body was growing limp, you were shuddering and shaking, and his eyes widened with madness as he watched your face contort in pleasure. He was watching for signs that you’d say your safeword, too, but every moment that passed that you didn’t, he took as permission to fuck you even harsher.

Your head lolled and your lip quivered as you took it like a punishment, not a single coherent thought inside your head. You registered that he was close like white noise, simultaneously in the background and all around you. His hands seared in their grip on you as he hammered in once, twice, and then held himself deeply inside with broken rasps and moans. Your lips fell open as you felt his fresh load mingle with the first, pooling hot against your cervix.

He pulled out with a violent hiss, and you cried out as the fluid stung against your sore opening. Your legs trembled until they collapsed back onto the bed along with the rest of your body.

You were vibrating from the inside out, still reeling from how aggressive both of your orgasms were. You could hear him catching his breath, too. You twitched as you felt him touch the outside of your cunt, bracing yourself for more, relaxing when he only stroked the outside. He drew his fingers up and down the crease of your folds, languid and smooth, leisurely playing in his overflow. He pressed them in once just to watch you jolt, and then cleaned them off with his mouth.

He finally gave you a break and turned his focus to taking care of you. By the way you lay there limp, he knew you needed it. He peppered you with kisses as you floated in the afterglow, sprinkling them softly on your rear, up your spine, and onto your shoulder blades, until he placed one on your cheek.

He brushed your frazzled hair away from your face and the corner of his mouth pulled into a smile at the absolute state of you. But then the lamplight reflected off a tear and he furrowed his brow as he gently wiped it away.

“You with me, sweetheart?”

He chuckled at the small sound you made in acknowledgement, the only thing you had effort to respond with. He placed a kiss onto your head.

“Did so good for me, love. So perfect.”

He grunted as he laid down, pulling your back into his chest to spoon you. You weakly held onto his arm as it wrapped around your torso, shifting back into him to steal his body heat.

You closed your eyes with a sigh as you soaked in the way he took care of you after such a brutal display of lust. His thumbs circling against your sweat-damp skin, nose nuzzling against your hair, gravelly voice soothing you with praise.

“M’so glad to be home, baby. You always made me feel young again, but it’s almost like I am young again. Don’t want to take it for granted. Gonna take some time off, take you on vacation, let you see the world. Might fuck you on every continent.”

You giggled at his ambition, still high on happy chemicals and swimming in the dream he laid out. It’d be a significant change, him enjoying the fruits of his labor with things more permanent than gifts and fast cars. You always encouraged him to, but he said it’d be easier for him to cope with losing a material possession than a vacation being ruined by being called on a mission. You hoped it wasn’t just the endorphins talking.

“Yeah, you like that idea? Good, ‘cause I mean it.” He kissed under your ear and squeezed you in closer. “Wanna spend every day making you happier than ever, make up for how long I was sick. Can’t waste any of ‘em not fucking you the way you need me to.”

You gasped as you felt his half-hard cock twitch against your ass, instinctively arching back into it. A shiver ran over your skin as he pressed it against you in turn, and you realized he still wasn’t done, confirmed by the way his voice darkened against your ear and he started kneading your breast in his hand.

His kisses against your pulse turned open-mouthed and erotic, one hand pinching your hardening nipple as the other reached for his cock, slowly stroking himself with the tip resting against your sopping hole. You were so flush together that with each wave of bloodflow that grew him towards full-hardness, it breached your pulsing entrance without him even trying.

Your toes curled as he leisurely thrust into one centimeter at a time. It was just enough of a tease to eat away your apprehension. You really weren’t sure how much more you could take, but as he shallowly fucked his tip into you, you became increasingly desperate for more, until you were squirming and panting in his arms.

You gasped as he suddenly pushed halfway in, feeling your folds and your entrance smart in their soreness. Just a few minutes left empty and you needed time to accommodate him all over again. He wasn’t quite as big as before after two orgasms, but with his size, being slightly smaller was still pretty fucking huge. And now you needed to adjust to more than his size; you needed to adjust to your own overstimulation, too.

He thrust halfway in and stilled there, holding you tight to prevent you from backing into it, feeling your legs shake around him.

You already couldn’t walk, he was sure of it. But it must be well past midnight now. Did you need to use your legs tonight anyways? He decided that you didn’t. Might as well make them truly useless.

He bottomed out in one smooth, sharp thrust, aided by the lubricant of the two creampies inside. His eyes rolled back as he stayed there for a brief moment, just long enough to feel you throb around his cock, like your body was begging him to make it three.

He’d never cum that many times in a row before, not even in his prime. But now, he felt like he’d entered a new prime, and he wanted nothing more than to see just what his limit was. He wondered if he’d reach yours first. But you were a tough girl, he thought. You took him like you were made for it.

His navel thumped against your ass as he drove in with that goal in mind: find out how much cum he could stuff inside your cunt until one of you tapped out.

He started steadily, knowing it’d take him longer to find his finish a third time, and seeing how you were already a mess of moans, both from pleasure and physical overwhelm. It boosted his ego to know he was pacing himself for you much more than for himself.

You felt like an unraveled spool of thread. You couldn’t believe he had the stamina for another round, his age considered or not. You were shocked you could keep going yourself. But at the same time your swollen cunt ached around him, it sucked him in for more.

He twisted your head back to take you in a kiss, swallowing your moans as he beat fast inside again. You reached back to hold onto any part of him you could until your senses were once again flooded and you melted open to him.

“That’s it, relax for me. Just one more, baby, gonna fill you to the brim. Fucking take it.”

And take it you did, until the night sky turned light blue.

[theoncel]

[clydecashed-deactivated20200313]

just remembered music is real

This post is for fans of MUSIC only

[spillybun-deactivated20190921]

Boy ain’t that the truth

[daenerys-stormborn]

— Game of Thrones, 5.07 "The Gift"

[wewontbesleeping]

I love a snack that’s also a little bit of an activity. peeling a clementine, stringing a cheese, roasting marshmallows, stuff like that. eating a pomegranate is like a game of sudoku to me.

[archamion]

Baelor and little Valarr

[lopata-four]

"Get out and close the door!" (I added canonical pockmarks to Maekar because I love details like that🙏)