— Duncan the Tall | Lyonel Baratheon | Baelor Targaryen | Maekar Targaryen | Aerion Targaryen | Daeron Targaryen | fem reader | “my lady” used as a title | smut | let the men whimper
Word count: above 900, 100 or 200 for each character
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— Dunk
He’s so delicate, this big man. So sensitive to affections. To earthly pleasures. They pour out of Dunk, unstoppable. Your touch reigns over his senses. Every graze, a kindle to shivers upon his body. The ones that shake his sigh. His breath hitches nearly at each caress. It parts his lips, pulls the sweetest cries out from the very depths of his broad chest, every little one — yours.
“My lady—" he gasps, tender and sincere. The might of his frame yields beneath you. It's hopeless, his body. At your command, your mercy. And he loves it. In his frantic, strained way, he does adore it.
The sounds he lets out for you carry each shudder, each breathless heave coiling his form. His mewls echo and linger. Rise in their passion, echoing longer with the glint of his eyes rolling back behind his lids. “Gods… you’ll undo me—fuck,” a growl furores in his throat. An uglier, filthier thing, and a sharp pull of his hands upon your hips follows. “Don’t you dare stop now.”
— Lyonel
“Mmhmm… there—ah, aren't you perfect?” A breath falls from his smiling lips. Always laughing, always beaming. A glint burned deep in the depths of his eyes.
The storm is loud when he wants to, gentle whenever he wishes as well. In bed, it is only right for him to sing to the Gods. To laugh until they deem him sinful, until their grievance at his pleasures is known, for he does not waste his voice, the thunder of it heard through the heavens. And Lyonel just won't shut up.
His groans soak into your ear. Into your hair and skin. Their warmth veils your senses, their urgency rouses them aflame. Oftentimes, they are thrown into the air, staining it with their obscenities as his form arches into the delights. Their filth would make one think he is in a brothel, not a marital bed. “Good little lady… yes, such a good—oh, riiight there—good girl,” the storm lord can't hold himself back from drowning you in sweet praises, all the while his cock is raging feral into you.
— Baelor
Decency is a virtue Baelor came to honour. Yet, he is just a man. One of the realm, to be sure — but your man, most importantly.
His voice rarely rises, in anger or not. It is calm, even with his hips slowly rutting into the depths of your velvet caverns. “The matters of council are improving,” he says, duty always in his mind. Even now, with you laid bare for him to dine on. Yet, the way those words flow out of his lips tastes sweet. His tone is honeyed — smooth and cloying as it pours over you. As if he's burying a hidden part of his being in you.
“If everything goes well, there won't be any more need for concern—oh…” his voice breaks on a soft grunt. His eyes flutter closed, as though to recall composure suited to a prince. Or relish this pleasure, one that nothing can steal away. His gaze opens back to you, heavier than before. “You look beautiful, dear,” he whispers, finds a tighter pace of his cock dragging within you.
A shaky sigh leaves him; he plants it in the hollow of your neck. A gentle moan pursues.
— Maekar
He's not a man of kind words. They don't slip his tongue easily. He speaks in grunts. Curt words of convenience. Maekar’s pale gaze tells a tale of constant discontent — anger buried beneath the pallid marble of his face. The snow on his complexion doesn't melt away, even in bed with you. It freezes tighter. Hard and concentrated in the veneer of bliss. The grunts of his last long, morph into growls fitted to a dragon. And yet, they wake louder, louder, louder — so blaring loud for the very Gods to hear. Terse words abandon him, useless things, for they cannot absorb the very relief that has his form trembling above you. Not as much as his noise.
Maekar tries to drown his calls of pleasure in your body, your neck damp under their heat. They roam through the insides of your guts. Stroke the very places nothing else can — as if reaching for your soul. “Fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck—” he chants with each swat of flesh joined together in the hunt for spill and something much cruder. The sheer satisfaction of fucking you. “Ohh, you are my ruin—Gods be good…”
— Aerion
The dragon snarls, rumbles. Bashes about and bears his fangs in tearing roars. He doesn't whine, doesn't mewl — a dragon he is ought to preserve his dignity. A true dragon takes. But his breath hitches. Leaves in pants and huffs of steam out of his nostrils. For even he isn't immune to the pleasures of your body, of his senses. He chokes on gasps he doesn't wish you to hear — to know what you do to him. And you do a lot. Too much. It makes him tremble; the pretty eyelashes of his flutter with the tremors shaking his body.
His hand pushes at your head, drowning your mouth further around his cock. A low hiss slips from between his teeth. His hips lift into the heat hidden behind your lips. His grasp narrows in your hair with a satisfied rumble rolling in his chest. “Good… serve your dragon,” his voice is paler, its usual poise and grace wrapped in quiet vulnerability.
His breathing quickens. It beats with waking urgency — erratic, weak. He hates it as much as he loves your touch, your worship. His eyes close with a rare moan. An odd, soft thing falling from his lips. Another one follows, one he cannot repress. It shames him to be gasping at the release you bring him to, yet he doesn't stop it.
— Duncan the Tall | Lyonel Baratheon | Baelor Targaryen | Maekar Targaryen | Daeron Targaryen | fluff | hint of angst for Maekar and Daeron | self-indulgent once more, based on one of my previous fics for Dunk | something to get me out of the writing slump
Word count: 1, 6k, about 300 for every character
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— Dunk
He hadn't seen himself often — a faded glimpse of his face echoing in the river's unbroken water once a moon, in a polished glimmer of Ser Arlan's sword he cleaned. When a mirror rarely caught him, he wasn't proud of what he saw. A boy. A soiled, poor boy, grown into a man. He couldn't possibly believe that in your eyes, he might be beautiful.
Dunk's frame slouches upon a seat you dedicated for him. It's almost too puny for him. His sheer muscle and sculpture spill everywhere. He is aware of that — painfully so. He doesn't know what to do with his restless hands as they pleat into one at his knees. His nails tinge with dirt, he sees. His lips narrow in silent shame. Mighty shoulders rise and fall with a hefty breath, one that tells him he's doing this for you.
His eyes lift, watching as yours dance between him and the sheet in your grasp. What are you thinking about, he wonders — do you witness something out of his knowledge? Perhaps more than a hedge knight, too big for his own good. Aye, that's a nice thought.
No word falls from his mouth. He sits as still as he can, tries not to blush under your gaze so bound upon him. Dunk's nearly afraid to look at what you've created, but then he sees — he sees a version of himself so distant to his own senses, yet so loved. Every stroke of a fusain is a whisper of devotion, one carved into paper. His fingers are the most tender when they cradle your work. His lips part with so much to say. His voice doesn't come, caged in his throat. He can only pull you close, bury himself in your warmth, in a quiet thank you.
— Lyonel
His eyes linger calmly, shrouded in dark lashes and intrigue. He observes silently, his mouth unsoaked in laughter or jests. A lone curl of dark cloud that is his hair slips over his brow. He lets it drape, knows you'll catch the detail swiftly.
Lyonel finds your talents curious, so divided from his own and their unabashed violence. They ought not capture him as much as they did. Silly drawings, he named them. But his own pride burned brighter upon seeing his likeness in your collection. One he enjoyed quite a bit. And so he believed he should be a muse enough for you, demanding your unwavering attention solely for him.
He was willing to pose. To become the outlet of your grand artistry for the world’s eye — for the Laughing Storm knows no fear, bears no shame in who he is. He's a true man. A man who lets you bleed him onto your pages in all his forms, this being one of the endless — a lord sprawled on his bed, drowned in candlelight and furs. Lazy and unveiled. Past passions, past wine and laughter, and of great charm. "Don't you get bored of this, sweetling?" his voice is a soft drawl, slow and lingering on his tongue, "Not an awful lot happens... But I suppose it is only a delight to look at me for so long," he chuckles, light and easy. And he's not wrong.
His head tilts idly with his eyes lowering to your revealed sketch. An art that delves into his soul, understands both his storm and its stillness. He smiles. His gaze — it soothes into fondness unspoken but felt. A hum leaves him as the span of your skill pleases again. “Look at that… even your hands know you love me.” he reaches for you, covers your knuckles in kisses that sink into your skin with worship.
— Baelor
You had been furtive enough — hiding the scrape of charcoal in the hush of his study behind a book at your lap. Your glances were quiet, fleeting. But he felt every one of them, searing their weight deep into his flesh. It’s almost amusing, if not for the curiosity that grows within Baelor. What might you be hiding there?
Sitting at his desk once more, he's mildly engrossed in literature before him. His eye slinks your way, where your chair rests by the window. For light, he thinks, and nearly smiles at the absence of your secrecy. His gaze hovers over you quietly. He catches you stealing a peek at his hand — he cannot repress the curl of his lips that glance of yours engraved. Too sweet. “And what are you doing, dear?” his voice closes the air that splits you through the room, pulls at you with its gentle baritone. “You appear very engaged. I can't help but be intrusive.” His smile is kind, one of a mild tease in his knowledge.
He rises before you can speak. The lean, graceful stride of his crosses the floor with a weak cry of withered wood beneath his step. His presence comes to loom over you, delicate in its form and rooted at your side. His crown leans down. The polar gleam of his eyes roams over pages of your making and softens so dear at what he finds — himself, in the glow and affection of your gaze.
He had sat in front of a canvas before. His portraits hung among the many heirs of golden blood before and after him, but none were as quiet as this. As intimate as Baelor seated by his books, his hands at rest rather than in command. It’s clear you favour them, their detail close to their true warmth and pulse. His face, rendered not to display force, is aged, honest in its fatigue. But no less loved, for he can glimpse the care you laid in the arc of his lips, his nose as awry as it is. The smile he wears is touched, vibrant. “You shouldn't hide your talents from me,” his whisper skims your temple as he kisses it, “You have insightful eyes, dear.”
— Maekar
The lesser prince doesn't fuss himself with his facade. He's kempt well enough, but he doesn't expect himself to be admired often — not with his brother there. His portrait is a shadow beside his brother's, slung with less pride. Less glory. It doesn't shine like Baelor's; Maekar's face is a frozen, lasting scowl. One that makes you wonder if he held it the entire time for the painter. Maekar doesn't like that portrait. He doesn't like looking upon it and recalling who he is. A sore cunt. It's no surprise to him. Yet it still stings — just a little. For that's not all he is. He's a father: a brother, the Anvil. Yet no one seems to remember that, except for you. You remember, pour that wisdom into pages hidden from him. Ones that he finds amid the pages of your favoured book.
There he is, his face. As blemished as it is, as pale and cracked with creases. Perhaps he ought to be offended, but he isn't. What use would it be to ache over the truth? And it's not mockery. It's not bitterness forwarded his way. It's reality. One that you love, embodying him with the twisting smile of his that leaves others unsettled, the quiet fondness with which he regards his youthful dragons, stained by lingering worry. The one he hoped not to be witnessed.
"Don't keep such things away from me," Maekar murmurs when you catch him. He's not embarrassed, unlike you. Looking at the pages for a moment longer, his gaze rises to meet yours. His expression is softer, not so tight as ever. With a slow step, he closes in on you. He returns the book to you, not without his fingers brushing against you in a whisper of a touch. "If you were ever to create more..." Maekar's voice lowers into a tamed whisper only known to you, "I'd like to see them. Watch them come to life."
— Daeron
He’s never awake on your pages. Nor was he often known to be sober. He always lies still — a breathing corpse on the mattress and under your quill. A perfect muse. And he's beautiful, deep in slumber that nearly looks serene. At peace, at last. You cannot resist sizing that sight. One when he's not mumbling of distant dreams. When his gaze doesn't glisten with tears unshed.
Daeron's breath is slow, his face bathed in relief and sleep. His hair is a veil of gold, seared dull in cluttered locks. It's dark in the chamber. Yet he glows. The candlelight caresses at his form, his smooth flesh a marble of ill snow. Beneath loosened cloth, his form rests — a lithe sculpture, limp and abandoned by reason. Lips dry of ale and wine gently split apart, almost in an unspoken plea. A shade of misery clings to every feature. Even now, it pools over his eyes. He's sad. Even on your portraits.
"You shouldn't stare at me for so long," his voice wakes before him, parched inside his mouth, "might make you as misirable as I am." The flash of the blue stones of his eyes pierces you in a flutter of lashes open. He glances at the sketches in your hands. He sees himself — his useless, drunken self. It almost pains him, brings a twitch to his face. "You ought not waste your talents on me," he speaks in quiet pity, one that drowns him in more woes, "I'm not worth it."
Yet, Daeron's gaze lingers. Through the ache of self-loathing, he witnesses something greater. Your care, your attention. You don't depict him as the prince, a failure and an heir. There's no glory, no disgrace either. Just him. Raw in his sorrow, in his burdens. Somehow, that touches him. Doesn't make him flinch. "But I am grateful... to occupy your thoughts," he leans towards you, meaning a kiss upon your cheek. But he stumbles, his lips slipping to graze your shoulder instead.
— Duncan the Tall | Lyonel Baratheon | Baelor Targaryen | Maekar Targaryen | Aerion Targaryen | fem reader | fluff and smut
Word count: 1, 2, about 200 for every character
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— Dunk | neck
It is difficult for him to catch your neck. A clumsy mouth grazing the skin when he dares to, or his head plunging against yours in earnest endeavour — a dear blush blooms on his cheeks with a soft apology on his lips every time. Yet, against the hardship, the curve of that delicate path of flesh calls for him.
His eyes fall on that arc unwaveringly. At how it curls, the subtle arch of your throat as your eyes reach up for his face. An urge to cradle that column in his broad hand, run his thumb over that sculpture in your skin, is too great to resist — his teeth sinking into the lush is nearly impossible to defy.
A moan flees from him. A wonder soaking into your neck once again. Buried in the warmth of your skin, Dunk feels safe. Your flesh is a delicacy he can nibble on with no end, utterly lost in the unbroken graze of his lips, the tenderness of your neck. It is expected of him to colour it — whether in a passing kiss, a latch of his mouth to leave you burning with the bloody blotch during the day. Or his teeth tearing into the smooth porcelain amid thrusts of mighty hips. And of course, he blushes at their sight. His lack of restraint shamelessly stares back at him. A smile of shy pride graces his face. “They, uh… they suit you.”
— Lyonel | back + neck
To leave your neck without a decoration to bear would weigh heavily on the Laughing Storm’s conscience. As a man of whims and indulgences, he can't deny himself capturing a taste of your flesh in his fangs.
With a frivolous lean of his head, his mouth delves into the crook of your neck. His curls pool at your shoulder with every brush of a kiss he leaves after himself — and he does it for the eyes of all. For the thrill of having you to himself even among the gathered. The blushes of his teeth left behind grace your neck with lingering disregard. As if daring anyone to notice them. To presume where and how he claimed that skin.
And no matter how much of a brag he is, Lyonel has the will to protect some secrecy within your intimacy. No one can witness the bites he had left on your back. His teeth lunging at your shoulder blades or spine, with him losing control in pounding at your ass again, again, again. Only he can see the red blooms on the bend of your back. Trace them with his fingers when lying amid the sheets with you, their sting still pulsing raw within flesh. “Don’t you look stunning,” he murmurs with a countless kiss on your neck. He adores them, adores to glimpse them when you clothe. A grin that arises on his face whenever he looks upon your proper back in public, with the knowledge of his bruises hidden beneath silks.
— Baelor | shoulders + hips
Decency binds Baelor to the discretion of his affections. But he's not dull by any means. A scrape of his dimmed beard against your shoulder is a lingering ritual. A brush of his lips as he passes by — a gentle press when no one wanders about the hallway that he finds you in.
He bears his teeth to bite you, a rarity. They scorch into your skin, burn along the curve of your shoulder to find the dip of your neck. Even then, his touch echoes tenderly — a care forged in every graze. A weak shade is all he leaves on your flesh, all the eyes of court might catch.
In the solitude of your chambers, his teeth grow sharper. They plume deeper into the form of your shoulder, tasting the bones that cage your flesh. Your shoulders, embroidered with gnaws low enough for fabric to conceal the prince’s desires.
His lips seal at your hips amid the passions, fervid with hunger improper for the realm’s hand. They swallow every quiver after he eats you out. Lead trails of slick with his tongue along their curve. Engraving his nibbles onto your beating skin, he knows no one will see other than him — only kindling his fervour brighter. Praises fall from his lips, all sweet and eager, falling into your plump. “You’re so beautiful, my love. Mine to hold, mine to love. Sing for me, let your prince know how much you enjoy him.”
— Maekar | breasts
He doesn't make it across as though he touches you. At all. The cold prince wishes not for people to wonder about what he does to his wife. You belong only to him for that.
Your shoulders are untouched, neck pristine — but your dresses don't indulge in displaying your cleavage. Not often, at least. Whenever it does happen, a carving of teeth can be visible at the curve of your breast for anyone to witness. And Maekar witnesses. The aloofness he portrays might fool a stranger, but not you.
In bed, his mouth cannot resist dragging back to your tits. Their softness is a comfort as much as a craving.
His teeth feast on their plump, spilling to the sides, all the while rutting into you so hatefully. Grunts and growls roll through them in a quake, his breath a slick heat upon your skin. They ache, yielding beneath his will with every bounce sent by angry hips. Satiny flesh finishes butchered with burns, gnaws of vigour and strength. And Maekar kisses every one of them.
He's not always mean. Not when he wants his lips to be kind. In quiet moments of fragility, he hides between your breasts. Their warmth soothes him, a gentle plush pushed against his face to drink in. His breathing is then calm, lingering and slow on your flesh. Pale lips skim over their swell with silent care. Memorise their mould with fleeting kisses. His teeth nibble only for a taste, a tingle rather than a sting.
— Aerion | thighs + collarbones
He burns you whole, arouses flames in your bones that nothing can reach. Your flesh is a map of his groping, his presence — every feature of your form, marked by his will. His mouth is restless and relentless, leaving gushes of the dragon's fangs.
His breath seethes within you with every snarl. His claws rip your legs open, dig into their innocent gentleness. His lips follow the pale scratches he left, fangs seeping deep into the alive flush. A low hum shakes his chest at the soft heat he finds between your thighs. Yet, he doesn't indulge, doesn't grant himself the relief of your flavour dripping in his mouth.
His teeth gush into your inner thigh, and he's purring in satisfaction at your flinch. He sucks, hungry for blood, beating beneath the skin. His tongue swirls, piercing into the cut he had imposed upon you. He swallows any fall of blood he can find. "So sweet," a mutter leaves him, before another bite hunts after on your leg.
He overwhelms you with more gnaws until the dragon's contented. Until you cry. His mouth brushes upwards, melts into softer care when it fixes on your collarbone. The mark of his bleeds onto your flesh there as well, but kinder.
── After the death of your husband, his brother tries to make amends
— Angst | hurt-comfort | Baelor’s widow reader | Baelor’s death and funeral depicted | grieving | trauma bonding | contemplation of death | crying | soft Maekar | depressed Maekar | grovelling | we don't mourn Bealor Break-my-back enough
Word count: 1, 5
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The world ought not to be the same after that pearly morning. The air grew quieter, golden streams of sunshine almost a mockery to tragedy upon the ground.
The realm’s prince was dead — a father, a son, a brother, a husband that once was.
The sight of his body, no longer breathing, no longer speaking, burning with flesh not yet rotten, not yet ready for an eternal sleep — what an ache it was to your heart.
It crackled, his flesh. Bones melted, hair went aflame, blood seared. Baelor faded. The man you once thought sturdy and everlasting. How foolish.
The warmth of flames stroked your face from where you stood. You smelled him, foul and bitter in death, but you refused to flinch. The whispers of fire were the only goodbye from him bestowed upon you, and you wished you could have talked to him just one last time.
No one spoke. Whatever could be said wouldn't compare with the great loss before you. With a gaze intent on the last glimpses you’d hold of Baelor, last memory, you felt Maekar near — the man who burdened you with this pain as much as himself.
His presence, for a rare moment, felt empty. No snarls, no tears, no anger. It seemed as if a part of him had perished along with Baelor and didn't have the right to return.
He hadn't spoken to you. You hadn't uttered a word to your husband’s assassin either. If the silence was born out of hate or grief, you couldn't be certain yourself.
It has ended, you thought in the cold comfort of your chamber once shared with him. Soon, you’d depart this wretched place behind, and Baelor with it, sealed in its past just as much. The silence choked your guts, and you lingered still like a fool, lost without him. What would become of you now?
A thought of Valarr passed your shambled mind. Gods, he was young, still needed a father. Yet his own blood took him away. And Matarys — you couldn't bring yourself to ponder about the weight of his grief, hurting him from afar. They were only boys.
Your lip tightened as you attempted to catch its tremble still between your teeth.
You missed him. The very fibre of your soul missed him. You wanted him back. It was unfair.
A weak whimper fell from your mouth before you could swallow it down, a shallow breath shrank within your chest.
Horribly, there wasn't any future lying before you — just this moment of dread, and perhaps a life of lasting grief after a ghost. The comprehension drew a breathless cry from your depths, raw with its despair. Tears bit at your eyes, bound around your throat.
A skreak nearby. The old floor gave a quiet call, and your gaze leapt to the disturbance.
Maekar. His frame soared at the doorway, as silent as he. The graveness upon his face was piercing, tangled with something sorrowful at the rims. Your opposing stares united, only your breaths echoing in the room for an agonising stillness.
Coming to your senses, you hastily dried your eyes.
“My prince…” You muttered hoarsely, tears and woe caged in your throat. He didn't judge. He didn't speak of it as if he understood without declaring so.
Only with the slow, dragging step he took did you truly see how broken he was. He had bled as well, yet the Gods spared him — the lesser man of the two.
An ugly smear of a bruise gushed over his cheekbone, cruel even to him. You could merely wonder how the rest of him ached beneath dark robes. A worn veil of gloom streamed over his form, the shade of mourning hiding his face.
“To try apologising,” his voice flowed slowly from pale lips, and his gaze lowered in humility not often found in his eye, “would be an insult to you.”
The distance between you hovered firmly even as he stood closer, not daring to close it when both of you held such misery.
“Nothing I could say would mend the pain I brought upon you,” he looked towards you, his face tight with remorse.
You answered with vacancy. Looked back in the eye of your husband’s killer and your kin by law.
It was tempting to blame him, to have an easy cause for a good man’s death. But deep within your wounded heart, you knew that wasn't right — not to Baelor, and not to Maekar.
“The Gods have spoken,” you said on a breath, felt the way your ribs hurt at those words, “whether their judgement is just… I wouldn't dare to question.”
Maekar’s fair head shook, furrows narrowing on his face.
“This wasn't a matter of Gods. It was a foolery, easy to prevent,” he spat through his teeth, bitterness pooling in his mouth. His anger had stung him, it appeared, when his jaw tautened, his lids closing to recall composure under the strength of his injuries. A fragile sigh plunged his shoulders. His glare found you again — crushed and glistening.
“If I could replace him, face the Gods myself… believe me, I would.”
“Don’t speak such nonsense,” you frowned, only because even entertaining the thought insulted you, “Whether you’d come into his place, I don't doubt. But he's the one gone.”
Maekar’s white crown tipped upwards as he soaked in your words. He regarded you with something quiet, contemplative, with the realisation that you didn't wish for his blood.
He nodded.
“That he is,” he whispered, the truth soft on his tongue, “And I’m the more sorry for it.”
“I know you are.”
Violent, sad eyes softened, swirling with disbelief as much as hope.
“You do not think me a monster?”
You’d lie if you said that sentiment didn't fill your being for past nights, reel at your sanity. But before you was no murder, no kinslayer — you witnessed a man grappling with his guilt, with his own loss. By his own hand, he had lost a brother.
“No.”
Maekar’s frail take of air carried in the dulled room, as though he could breathe again.
“You’re finer than most,” he choked. His lustrous gaze fled aside, “A lesser woman would want me gone. Want me dead.”
“Baelor wouldn't wish for that.”
A pierce to a heart, sharp in its truth. It sank between the two of you, a shared pain of different people.
“No, he wouldn't.” Maekar’s voice withered in his throat, laced with caught weeps. “He loved you.”
Your bones began to flutter, shudder silently.
“Honestly and entirely,” he looked upon your face. The shade of suffering carved into your features. He wished he could kiss it away, “and I see why.”
He closed in nearer to his best abilities at the strangled wail fouled in your chest. It was unbearable to see you toil to retain your emotion, how it shook you to the core. You were so tender — a grieving lamb.
Feeble apologies stuttered from your lips in shame, but he did not care for them. Your hands quivered, Maekar saw. He reached, his fingertips carefully grazing your tense wrist. A quiet question arose in your frantic expression, even if you didn't draw back.
With his eyes on the skin he touched, his lips parted in a struggle for words.
“If you let me… I’ll take care of you.”
You wavered at that. Blinking your unshed tears at Maekar, your heart twisted. He was just as tormented about it as you, yet held a sense of care in his tone — a true desire to help. To redeem himself to you.
“You don't deserve to be alone right now,” he whispered again, meeting your eyes. They were drowning. You were drowning.
In a surge impossible to cease, you shattered — face wrenching with guttural sob as your tremoring hand clasped over your mouth. A glimmer of shock passed Maekar briskly. Protectiveness followed it.
A bloody cry rooted into the cloth of his garments when his arms took you, holding you as closely as his bruises would allow without pain. You didn't think about collapsing into the grasp of your husband’s demise, the man whom you should resent. The necessity of comfort was stronger, to have something to uphold you.
Maekar felt you tremble beneath his hands. The weight of your heartbreak washed over him, piling on his own great heartache. He wished he could stop it — Gods, how he wished.
You gagged on outcries, mewled like a ruined animal, and Maekar held you through every gasp, every spilling sniffle.
“They took him… they took him away from me…”
Maekar’s breath hitched at your anguished moan — they. Not he. He didn't know if that brought him relief or more agony, your lack of wrath for him.
With a shudder of his own, his hand clasped the back of your head. Held you tighter against his massacred chest. His lips pressed tightly against your temple, almost a whisper of a kiss.
He let you cry into him. He cried with you, silent and secret. But he didn't let you go. He wouldn't let you go when you needed him, and he needed you.
if you haven't done anything similar to it yet, i would love to read about the akotsk men grovelling🙏🙏
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Forgive your sinner
── Them grovelling for your favour
— Duncan the Tall | Lyonel Baratheon | Baelor Targaryen | Maekar Targaryen | Aerion Targaryen | love accountable men | Thank you for the request! I see you lurking about in my posts, and I really appreciate it ♡ | I hope you’ll enjoy it ♥︎
Word count: 1, 4, about 200 or 300 for every character
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— Dunk
He didn't mean it — Gods, he would never mean to upset you. The blear of his emotion overcame his judgment and his affections for you at a point of weakness. The graveness of his rare bitterness upon you burdens his heart.
It has been a while since he spoke. Since you spoke to each other. A few murmured words, hushed glances, and hands brushing when he gives you a coin for the night at an inn — that’s all he dares to do. The fear of fronting your anger, hurt, or dismay is greater than his will to reconcile.
The air is silent. Egg is asleep nearby. The two of you are alone, and it feels heavy. Dunk quietly watches you tucking away withered clothes. The sad shadow of your face is pronounced, even to a nitwit like him. A sigh shrinks his chest as his lips writhe with the words that choke Dunk. Your name leaves him first, gentle yet dire. The lack of your response aches the knight.
He moves before he intends to. His footsteps close in on you, but give you enough space to breathe. Standing before you, he doesn't know what to say — only that he is so sorry, that he wants you to love him again. The weight of that wish brings him to his knees. Dunk looks up at you, for once, and allows you to hold all the ruling over him. He calls for you again, desperate. “If I could… I’d swallow back every word I said,” he utters, his breath caught in parted, honest lips, “Those weren't things meant for you. Never for you.” his hands carefully capture yours. He holds them near his heart; his eyes gleam for you. “Forgive me… and I shall be better, to truly deserve you.”
— Lyonel
He doesn't think he did anything wrong. You’re simply overstating — that's what Lyonel tells himself when you flee from him through dark corridors, don't return his gaze, keep your silence for too long.
Lyonel’s eyes roll when you leave the table without a word, expected to stay for the rotten lordlings around. With a heavy hand dragging down his face, a low groan rolls in his chest. He doesn't want to grapple with this. Not because he's embarrassed in front of the crowd, the cunts, but because this is possibly the only thing he's fearful of. Defeat. Lingering at the table, alone and incomplete without you at his side, Lyonel brews his upcoming decision. In every man, there are many men — he had been a nasty man, and another, better man within him, had to heal his mistakes. “Drink on, my lords,” with a slam of his hands on the wood, he rises and trails your way out of the hall.
Finding you in your chambers is not a surprise. With a sure step, he waltzes inside, still holding some of his bravado. But the sight of you, sitting mute with your cold back to him, melts it away. He sighs, eyes closing as his face twists into a silent battle within him. “You’re avoiding me as though I’m the Stranger himself,” he says, cracking a frigle jest that doesn't reach you. Recognising that his charm won't dull your irritation away, Lyonel tightens his teeth. Another breath lets out the Stag, and he makes his way to you. A warm waft washes over you with his arms, and his scent follows. “Your displeasure with me is apparent, if that's what you hoped for,” he mutters in your ear with his voice falling to that drawl devoted to the dearest. “And it hurts me deeply. I miss you.”
— Baelor
Even the most perfect break. Baelor came to know that well. The perfect prince was still a man, with all his faults. Yet that wisdom doesn't dismiss the weakness he has displayed, to you of all people. It is a mystery even to himself as to why — fatigue, frustration, perhaps dread. Not excuses, but reasons.
Bealor gives you enough space to understand that he respects your judgment. He doesn't hasten your healing, but the vacancy of you not filling his side is almost too loud. The man within the prince is lonesome, yearning for your presence.
His eyes catch you seated in the gardens, shrouded in flowers and their bloom — a melancholy hovers over you amid the sweet song of the birds. He can't delay any longer. The step of his stride is quiet on the grass, and he feels a clench in his heart the closer he comes. “May I sit with you?” he asks softly, earnestly — A lover rather than a commander.
With your gracious agreement, a hint of ease sweeps into his heart. No words leave him at first. Nearly as if he had forgotten everything he wanted to say. His fingers move. Twirl the ring in the persisting stillness between you. “It was not right of me to speak to you in such a manner,” he confesses, his gaze gentle when it finds you. “I wish not for it to happen again. I promise you, it won't,” a whisper, those words. His hand unfurls to you and clasps around yours in a tender hold that he doesn't let go.
— Maekar
His outbursts are to be expected; he knows you’re aware of that. But Maekar doesn't anticipate that they might pain you just as much.
He didn't wish to be cruel. Truly. Living in enduring clutter, the worry of his unwieldy youth, isn't merciful upon a man. Resentment filled him nearly every day, and it is hard to keep it at bay. And he knows that he can't linger like this — especially without you beside him.
Your absence is even more unbearable than most of the misfortunes that irk him. The silence is unfurling into something cold, because he's as dour as he's hurting. The pride within him doesn't want to waver. Even if he misses your warmth, the unvarying solace you bring. “Fuck,” he spits through his teeth, hands firmly rooted in the timber of his desk. He had called for you, as taut as a string, while he waits in his study. The moment you emerge through the doorway, the anger bleeds away from his being. Almost fear sinks into him, into his stare. “I want to talk,” he dares, his voice rougher than reserved for peace. That's not lost even on him, despite his lack of talent to avoid it. There's an emptiness in the room that his senses struggle to fill. Worn eyes fall in silent humility, almost shame. The marble of his face collapses into something softer and quieter. “I’ve behaved a fool, that I know all too well.” his words are gentle in his mouth for once, a rarity. He doesn't feel himself in that moment. But for you, he's willing to be something else.
With a sigh, he slowly rolls his way to you — like a remorseful beast. “I hope to mend this. If you have me.”
— Aerion
Why would the dragon ever apologise? That question hunts Aerion through the sense of twisting urgency within him. There's no need for him to be ashamed; a dragon can do whatever he desires. Yet, the poundage of his evils towards you morphs that liberty into something sour and foul — even for him.
It is a misery to apologise, to confess the wrongdoing of his judgments and put himself as lesser. For a long time, he has expected you to forget your hurt. To look at him with the same warmth, no matter how much of a terror he can be.
The thought of losing that warmth is the only fear he entertains. And the only thought that pushes him to engage through his pride (like father, like son).
The late hour doesn't prevent Aerion from coming to your chamber. His presence fills the quiet of the room, a flaunting gesture in every movement of his as he strides towards you. The expression on his face doesn't convey guilt. Except for the subtle writhes of his lips, the flutter of light eyelashes. “I hear you're still displeased with me," he murmurs, tongue piercing the inner of his cheek in a carelessness he so desperately wants to portray. Your silence does startle him, his eyes flickering over you in a closer survey.
With a kink of his jaw, the echo of his steps rumbles over the floor. His snow-coated crown drops, and his arrogance dulls enough for you to notice. "If you want to punish me for my conduct, do it with blood and teeth. Not quietness."
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Feel free to request anything, I like thinking about those men
— Duncan the Tall | Lyonel Baratheon | Baelor Targaryen | Maekar Targaryen | Aerion Targaryen | “good girl” used once
Word count: above 900, about 100 for every character
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— Dunk | comfort
He’s still trembling. Even after the air had lessened, the echoes of breaths and moans had melted away — he's still shaking. You feel it right against you, gentle tumours within his arms surrounding you in his grasp. His heartbeat still calls for you, beating hard with waves of pleasure even now carving within his body.
Dunk’s face buries in your hair, flushed, his eyes closed. His hands hold you close, filling your curves perfectly as if they were sculpted for his touch. His fingers slowly caress the hollows he had left upon your skin — on your hips, your waist, the arch of your ribs. “Are you alright?” his voice rumbles against your head. You feel the care in his words within your bones more than hear it. “I got… a bit carried away, possibly,” he smiles sheepishly, hides it in your locks.
He draws you deeper against him, into his chest. into his heart. “Tell me if something hurts,” he softly whispers. And if you do, his loyal hands are at your command. He strokes at any place you complain about, sweeps the ache away with broad palms. “I’ll be more careful next time,” he sighs into your temple as he kisses it.
— Lyonel | praise
“You’re absolutely fabulous, you know that?” his drawl rumbles against your lips when he speaks into their petals. With dark eyelashes draping low, his gaze is tender as much as it is idle. His body, limp in contentment, sprawls next to yours on his side, his arms lightly closed around your waist. The warmth between you still burns alive. Sweat latches to his cluttered curls with the aftermath, and ease shades his blooming face because he lies here with you. “My lovely,” Lyonel mutters in a sweet purr, his lips seeping into yours with a passing kiss, “You’ve turned me into a greedier man than I already was.” A tease pulls at his mouth, a grin following it.
Sly hands of his stream down your back, taking a grip of your arse that he can't neglect. Your flesh tickles beneath his thumbs rubbing it, spilling through his fingers as he squeezes. A rumble close to a groan scratches in his throat, and he pushes his face into the softness of your skin where the neck moulds into a shoulder. “You take such good care of me… Fuck me so good. My good girl exhausts even a stag.”
— Baelor | peace
The chamber has fallen quiet, and even the fire has faded to rest. But you are awake, and so is Baelor. His arm cages you against his side, his chest bare for your hand to feel his flesh. Only for you. You feel the pulse within him, steady and calming down. His breath whispers warmly against your head. His lips are at rest on your hair. His hand fills your side, fingers gently dancing at its arc in a loose caress. “If you wish to sleep, you can do so,” his voice sweetens the air, soaks into your skin with affection, “I’ll keep you safe, my love.”
The quiet strength of his arms keeps you sound and loved, assures your comfort is secure. As you drift to honeyed slumber, his presence persists. His care sinks into your form — the kisses he leaves on your crown, his fingertips upon the blushes he left not so long ago on your body in heights of thrill. “I adore you, sweetling. You make every waking moment beautiful,” Baelor utters when he thinks sleep drowned you.
— Maekar | distance
He faintly kisses your cheek and then pulls away. A shadow of tension dims his pale eyes, something almost close to shame. The gap between you he inflicted feels cold, yet it shouldn't. Moments ago, your bodies laced together so close, so unabashedly. But now, he hesitates, as if all of that wasn't a display of feelings true. “Would you like me to leave? Give you some space?” he asks with a scrape in his voice that sounds unfit for his loud mouth. He asks only because he doesn't know what to do, only because he feels mildly startled being so bare.
You gently lure him back, and Maekar isn't strong enough to refuse. Carefully, he lies beside you, a sudden vulnerability present in his movements. He doesn't conquer, he doesn't dominate now, as he lets you hold him. The prince recoils to a man, and a lonely one at that. In your arms, the void within his heart feels lesser. He softens, as much as he allows himself to. His eyes close, his hands slowly return to your body. “Thank you,” he whispers, trailing his fingers over your back.
— Aerion | silence
His eyes are closed, his breathing is even. He is calm. Eerily so, after devouring you whole and leaving you breathless. There's a blotch of a flush on his pallid, porcelain cheek, a rare flush of emotion.
Aerion doesn't speak, doesn't hold you. But his proximity lingers, quietly so, with his hand upon the curve of your hip. His fingers mould into your flesh, a hint of a claw curling in his grasp. He expects you to care for him, to make him feel good even now. He deserves it, after all. And you do, because it is hard not to worship the majesty beside you — bare and beautiful.
The dragon lets out a low purr under your kisses and caresses — contented for once. His head leans in, a mute command for more. Aerion’s fingers dig faintly into your hip when he's particularly pleased, the burning marks he leaves behind a gesture of affection of his own making.
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I lack a bit of inspiration as of late for more, and would love to do any of your ideas — feel free to request ♡
Aerion Targaryen with an equally awful twin sister
The dragon didn't fear a lot. His cruel fangs bit at anyone. Claws torn through the bravest. Not a lot dared to oppose his will — but his sister did.
She was as deserving of his rage as the rest, if not more. She bit back at him and scratched him when his viciousness bound her. She burned him. She angered him, drove him mad. Yet, that blaze of hers wavered him.
His twin — she was his blood and bone, his other half, as rotten as he.
Their tournaments had flourished since their youth. Hair-pulling, biting, and echoing bruises carved into the same flesh. Aerion had slashed his sister's hair, beautiful locks butchered into ungraceful strands, thrown her dolls and silk dresses out of windows. Spoke that their mother had left them behind because of the lack of love for her monsters. And she bore her teeth every time.
In kind, she humiliated him — threw him off his horse, flung rocks at him wherever she passed him, and killed any wench he had taken to bed. How amusing. How thrilling for him, to have an opponent.
His brutality turned her into a beast of her own making — a screaming child, to a scowling, scoffing princess. Little Egg was scared of her; their father couldn't gain a match for his daughter. Lords and ladies weren't keen on betrothing their sons to the creature she was, no matter the name she wore. Aerion liked that.
He liked jabbing it at her, telling her that no one wanted her. And she whacked at him, and she snarled, but couldn't deny the truth.
She was as terrible as he was, wild and hateful. She was his to torture.
“You disappointment,” Aerion’s smooth voice was sleek in her ears, his hand steering her head to him by the hair. She wailed, feral and furious. She growled, trembled, her stare searing him. It had been a punishment, one she inflicted upon herself by insulting his practices aloud, “Such a waste of dragon blood. Has father found some lordling to put ugly children in you yet?”
A broken howl ripped her throat. She launched at Aerion, dug her nails into his pale cheeks. Aerion didn't flinch. The dragon shoved her down to her knees. Held her at his feet. A smile curled on his lips as he witnessed her rage, her disgrace.
“Perhaps I’ll be the one to marry you,” he mused effortlessly, “this animal you are. Not much of a bride.”
His shoe dug into her hand, hard. Bones cracked, anguish coiled her face into something foul.
— Duncan the Tall + Egg cameo | Lyonel Baratheon | Baelor Targaryen | Maekar Targaryen | the Oh Hellos as inspiration
Word count: above 900, about 200 for every character
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— Dunk
Laughter echoes across the field, along with stout boots trampling the grass. The fire crackles with a joyful shriek fluttering from smiling lips, and you nearly find yourself upon the ground. “No, ser! You don't do that without permission!” the ever-prim Egg scolds Dunk, who earnestly attempted to dip you in his arms. In a rescue, your hands curl into his shoulders, and the hedge knight is quick to fix himself. “Sorry,” he breathes, his grasp hugging your waist. You can't spare yourself a giggle. Egg’s fair head shakes.
“Honestly, ser. Hopeless,”
“Hush, squire.” Dunk furrows a brow at the boy; his eyes find your face again, afterwards. He softens. “May I try again?” You graciously agree, needing no more persuasion.
His hand melts into yours, his feet shift with the most focus on his face. There's no music. Only the humming of the nightly sky, the melody of a fire alive. He moves, and it is clumsy — tight gestures of his form, broad feet biting at yours, the spirals he draws ungraceful, but honest. He looks down at his shoes, vigilant not to step on yours. Lips idly parted.
Pulling his eyes up to yours, Dunk catches the smile on your face. And everything grows so much easier. His hand tightens around yours as he throws you into the freedom of holding a body — impulsive, sudden, brazen and gleeful. Excitement stirs among you two with every twirl, stomp, and fling of limbs. His laughter joins yours. Mirth and lingering. He's smiling as brightly as a flame flickering over his face. The whimsy gains even Egg, rosy lips curled, upon seeing two of his dearest people happy. Even if their dancing is atrocious.
— Lyonel
The world is whirling, panting, heavy with sweat. Beautiful and beating. Howling of fiddle reels in your ears. Your body soars smoothly through the air without your will. Hands glide through the song of indulgence. In faith of senses, your eyes are closed, blind to the storm rising around you. You leap. Forward, backwards — you don't know, until warmth cages you. Perfume of sickeningly sweet wine ties you, tickling internally. “Caught you,” he whispers, already latching onto your bones. You smile, and he chuckles.
Blunt hands twist you gently toward him. Lyonel’s eyes lidded in half a blink, catch yours, wine-blooming lips grinning. He surges ahead, nestles his face in your locks and their flowering scent. “Dance with me,” he utters in a breath, fingers slinking across your sides. You accept with a kiss upon his ear, and a smile rises on his lips. He's wild, as always. Spinning you vigorously, his arms don't waver to capture you when your foot slips. He laughs delightfully, with you safe. Your head swirls in every jump, every twirl of his hand linked with yours. His laughter always gushes at you, thrown into the air with his curls aflare, fabrics whirring him in a festive hurricane. His hands grasp you passionately, always returning to your body to sink, to guide you back to him. To pour a kiss on your lips.
— Baelor
“Darling,” you look up to the ring of his voice, see his hand beared open to you. He smiles, quiet and adoring. “Will you do me the honour?” his hand locks with yours, gently. He leads you to the dance floor, where the music reigns, and silks roll in the rhythm of pairs dancing. Coming to the flow of the waltz, Baelor is swift and graceful in melding among the moving forms. The warmth of his other hand soaks into your waist, through the linen into flesh. His heartbeat bleeds through yours as his chest leans into you, steady but cheerful. Young again. For a moment, the prince yields back to a man, a lover.
His smile is still aflame for you, gaze kind and unwary upon your face. “You look beautiful, dear,” he whispers into the warmth bonding you, and kisses the sweet blush on your cheeks. You don't feel the burden of your movements, flowing through the air, honeyed by a lovely melody with a steady hand on you. Baelor is tender. Attentive as he spirals you, guides your step, becomes your hold. Your head comes to lie on his shoulder, and his chin on your hair. His eyes close, utterly defenceless. The room fades, it’s just you and him.
— Maekar
The old floor calls quietly beneath your feet. There are no instruments, no singing of violins — only a soft hum trembling gently against your head. His lips seal to your crown, his frame upholding you in a slow step. His hand carries yours, gentle in the solace of your chambers. There are no gazes to scrutinise you, and that brings him contentment as he shares this dance with you. It isn't for a display; it is not performed. It’s lasting, slow, and bare.
His eyes are closed, and his face doesn't wear a scowl. Maekar's heartbeat stalls against you, bearing no duty with you filling his arms. He knows the steps, has learned them a long time ago as a youth, but doesn't think about them. They don't matter. Not when he feels you resting against him, guarded by his grip. His hand caresses your back, his breath your hair. In the stillness, the modest movements of your union, he feels affection in his heart. And something close to warmth. “I like this better,” his voice is scratchy in the back of his throat, vulnerable, “No fucking lordlings barking about, no one to watch. You’re all mine,” he whispers near marvel, and his lips grace a faintest peck on your forehead. His grip tightens, and he doesn't want to let you go.
— Duncan the Tall | Lyonel Baratheon | Baelor Targaryen | Maekar Targaryen | “my lady” used as a title | short and sweet | requests are welcomed
Word count: above 500, about 100 for every character
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— Dunk
He stands at the door, loyal in his place. A knight doesn't move when unasked to, even if it aches. Because seeing you like this — Gods. So much effort cannot bury the admiration rooted within his eyes, the glint of wonder bounding out. A vision stands before him, wrapped in delicate linens, draped in lustrous pearls. He thinks a celestial of you. Surrounded by mere mortals to witness, you beam with every caress of the maids’ and ladies in waiting's adroit fingers, and he thinks himself unworthy.
A sigh falls from Dunk’s lips. You look his way and shine a smile upon him so beautiful it washes over his being. A blush blooms on his cheeks, and he shys. “You look stunning, my lady…” he utters, earnest in the tremor of his voice.
— Lyonel
“No- what is that, for my dead mother? Find something suitable for the lady, cunt,” a pair of heavy earrings strikes onto a platter, disregarded. A servant bows when fleeing the room, and the Laughing Storm exhales vastly.
The dull smack of his shoes trembles the floor as he turns to his lady wife, an adorned statue upon the dais. The gale on Lynoel’s face soothes into a gentle breeze at the lovely sight of you. “I won't let them disrespect you with an unfit wardrobe, sweetling,” he reassures, stepping up to you. He joins behind your reflection in the mirror before you, marvelling at your beauty. The warm waft of his arms wraps around you, driving at your back. “My treasure,” his lips fall on your neck, a soft kiss blossoms on your skin.
— Baelor
Nimble fingers twirl his rings, an idle motion at best. His opposing eyes follow how the layers of silk spill upon you, Baelor sitting by for the act unbroken. The prince appoints time for this duty, and nothing in the realm can stir it.
A smile plucks at his lips, fond and gentle. The thick colour of the Targaryen blood pours over you, you bear it in your ownership — as if bred into it. Pride tightens his heart, affection alongside it. “The pale necklace,” his voice rises, tenderly in the silence of the task, urging your eyes towards him, “it will suit best,” he ends, sharing a smile across the room with you. Silver gems grace your neck, and he arises from a chair nearby. Closing in on you, his fingers brush the stones, your skin afalme against the cold jewels.
— Maekar
He was a busy prince — or that was what Maekar wanted to be thought of. Yet, his presence at your customary dressing puts that truth in question.
With a face of white marble, he is mute. Pallid eyes pierce through the fabrics of your enveloping dress, intent on the sculpture of your frame. A flutter of curled eyelashes breaks his stare, and he furrows a brow at one of the maids fiddling gracelessly with your laces. “Move, girl,” he grunts, his strong steps parting a path through skittish women. Severe hands catch your back, and melt into gentleness foreign to claws that tore through men. Every gesture is precise, practised for his girls. He glances your way in the echo of the mirror. He catches the smile illuminating your face. “Hush,” he forces between his teeth after he finishes with a firm kiss on your hair.
── summary: During your travels, you and Dunk come across a pond. It is hard for him not to admire you when you bathe, you invite him to dip in with you
— fluff with smut, smut with feelings, first time, fem reader, PiV, sex in water, build up, light teasing, contemplation of knight vows, “subtle” ogling each other, mild idiots in love, hint of a praise kink, caring Dunk, stumbling Dunk, flustrated Dunk, Dunk is a little liar
Word count: 3, 3k, this took me too long to finish
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The road could be cruel, with long, twisted paths, its cold weather, or the sun throwing its rays on the top of your head, burdening your shoulders.
No matter how kind Dunk could be, there were times he couldn't change. In merciless nights of the wind, he'd hold you close, shielding with only his body cupped around yours, legs and arms broad enough to be your blanket. In the breathless days of summer, he’d oftentimes make you drink water — despite his own throat burning and the last puddle having been left behind you miles ago. And in the night, he'd let you sleep against his chest when atop a horse, his own eyes sleepy and heavy in need of rest while he gently kicked Thunder onward.
He was tender and never wished for anything in return for his graciousness.
“Just stay alive for me,” he’d say, and get clumsy because of how sentimental that rang, quickly attending to something different entirely.
It could have been a blessing from the Gods when, after days of travel, you happen upon a pond, sweeping and clear, hiding among the trees. You couldn't contain your enthusiasm, tumbling off the horse’s back amid-trot and rushing to the waters with pure joy as you left Dunk to watch you off.
“Be careful,” he called out behind your shoulder, loosening the reins as he tipped with Thunder’s last steps, “we don't know if it’s safe out here.”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere, ser!” you said when reaching the edge of the pond, gathering its gift into your hand to drink.
“That’s the best place for trouble.”
Dunk explored the surrounding woods with his eyes, ever so careful, only then jumping off Thunder with a grateful pat on the stallion’s side. Soon, he began to unravel the humble gear you carried, while you supped the water with any dignity forgotten, lying on the grass at its edge. After filling your flask, you scraped up, dusted off the dirt that clung to your clothes, and dared to sniff the fabric by the way. Wrong decision — the odour of sweat, blood, horse, mud, shit, and the Gods know what else, stung at your eyes, dizzied your head, and made you swallow down your breakfast curling up in your throat.
“Oh- Gods be good… I need a wash.”
Dunk glanced your way at your words, only for his eyes to find the garments gliding off your body, baring smooth skin to glimmer in the glow. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest, breath stilled to a shallow huff in his mouth.
It wasn't the first time, far from it, yet his being froze into place as if enchanted. He knew it wasn't proper to stare, and he didn't most of the time, but glimpses of your form were enough to waver him. The sight should be desensitised to him by this point, Dunk was aware, but what could cease that pang in his soul that called out every time he saw you?
His head turned to the other side when his senses returned, looking at the foliage instead while his heart thought of you. Strong hands worked on whatever they could reach; his chest ached with the knowledge of you there, sinking into the waters as their waves echoed against the walls of the enclosing trees.
“You can look.” Your voice startled Dunk despite its gentleness. “It’s not as though you haven't seen a naked woman before.” The sound of your nonchalance made him shake his head low.
“Or have you, ser?” you asked as you led your gaze over your shoulder towards Dunk on the grass, sudden uncertainty slinking into your judgment. His silence and the harsher pull of his grasp on the packs were the only responses you got, his focus seemingly elsewhere. A merry curl stretched upon your lips.
“Perhaps not.”
“That’s enough,” he called, his tone firmer in his fluster when he accidentally glanced at you again. He saw your nude back staring back at him, the water tall enough to cover places that might have distracted him more. He forcefully set his eyes on yours and nowhere else, his mouth writhing restlessly as you smiled at him.
“It’s not the first time you have seen me,” you elaborated as if that were a reason, causing Dunk to twitch on his legs. His head shook once more, lips pursing hard and eyes trailing downwards.
But the murmur of the water pulled Dunk’s gaze up again, falling on your hands moving upon your body. He allowed himself to look, even for a brief moment, watching you smooth your arms with dampness, droplets drippling down the arch of your spine, following its path. He traced the curves of your shoulder blades, his eyes coming to touch at your waist, your hips drenched beneath the surface — Gods, you were a pretty one, he couldn't resist the thought, and his body seemed to agree by the warm bloom that poured over it.
You weren't oblivious to his attention, smiling to yourself away from him. It was only natural for a man to be curious about the woman he was travelling with so close. But what made Dunk a better man was his courtesy.
He never touched you when you didn't wish to, didn't try to; his gaze was harmless even when he looked at you like that. It was as if he didn't lust after you, even if he might, but admired the work of the Gods before him.
“Have you been with many women, ser?” you asked, words flowing from your lips all too easily. You heard him hesitate to answer, the rustling of him unfolding the bags returning as if he tried to deflect the question.
“Not many,” he replied after a longer while, preparing the camp for today.
“You’re a good lad then, Dunk,” you mused, “some men can't stop themselves from misleading girls.”
“Hm, some men are idiots.”
You laughed at that.
The water fluttered around you, accompanying the following question spilling out of your heart.
"Would you ever have me?"
Dunk's silence replied to you first, even if the answer was a painful, lasting yes. He felt it crawl at his throat, and he swallowed it down hard enough for it to hurt. He was a good knight, and good knights didn't stray because of their cocks.
The hefty exhale that left his nostrils made you look back at him, witnessing the sheer struggle in his taut frame.
"You shouldn't ask things like that," he rumbled gently, despite the dismay in the shake of his head, "it might make me less of a good man."
"To desire would make you human, ser," you replied, tone measured in your truth. "It is not an insult to me."
"It is a broken oath," he defended and met your gaze frankly, not as skittish as before you noticed. His eyes were earnest, soft even when he scolded you, and made you feel strangely timid under their honesty. Your hands came to clasp over your breast, and he was quick to look away if his stare brought you shame.
With a tight jaw, Dunk began to prepare the bonfire for the night, his tall build reaching down for branches of weight that some men might have trouble lifting. You found yourself looking, taking in each shift of his muscle beneath his modest clothes, the bulging of his forearms exposed by pushed-up sleeves, the faint grunts rolling deep within his chest. And yet, his face appeared so delicate, the carvings of his features mild in the setting sun's glow in a way that made you think of kissing his lips.
"Are you willing to dedicate your own feelings to pledges forced upon by men who don't obey them?"
"What else is there for me to do?" Dunk murmured as he let the wood fall on the grass near a tree, "I don't know anything else. That's all Ser Arlan has taught me." He crouched down, weight pressing on his strong thighs, and pulled out a handy flint and steel often present in his pocket.
"And did Ser Arlan follow those oaths?"
Dunk wavered, the flint almost aiming at his fingers. His eyes flickered towards you, trying to hide the uncertainty in his stare with more defensiveness.
"Let's not talk about that. Not disrespect the bygones."
"You're too good, Dunk."
The hiss of the fire breaking aflame filled the silence between you, a burning beam settling over the dimming ground. You watched Dunk sitting at the fire, its heat dancing on the planes of his face as a solemn expression settled in his features.
"Aren't you going to bathe, ser?" you asked meekly, fingers nibbling at the ends of your hair.
"Hm? Later," he dismissed you in goodwill, even if any other man would read your seemingly innocent question in any way he wanted to. You weren't certain if you found his obliviousness endearing or maddening.
"Duncan."
"Mhm?"
"Come join me."
He flinched as if scorched, and you saw the turmoil of conflict storming through his eyes — shock, fear, restraint, duty.
"My lady..."
"You have to wash too, don't you?" you asked, smiling in the coyness of your excuse for something so scandalous. "There's enough space for both of us."
A slightly amused breath left him in reluctant entertainment at your antics, a smile ghosting his lips in return.
"I... couldn't possibly..." but he paused when he looked at you again, saw your body soaring over the calm surface of water, standing there like an invitation. So many thoughts passed through his mind, but he couldn't focus on any of them when the aching turmoil grew within him. It's just a wash, he thought, trying to justify the fact that he stood up and began to peel off his humid shift.
Fresh waves pushed at your back when you heard Dunk stride into the pond behind. Your heartbeat skipped. You dared not look behind you just yet, but you knew he was there, just as bare as you. A moment or two passed by where you didn't move, listening to every splash of water that might be coating his skin.
Slowly, your gaze moved towards him, finding him standing at a distance that should stay respectful — strapping back, muscles piled with strength, yet tenderness of his smooth flesh, besides a few scars fading in. Dunk’s physique, though undeniably powerful, was so gentle as well, curved and bulbous enough to make you want to squeeze.
His hands spattered water on his face, and you heard him groan in a way that splattered your thoughts to wander even more than before. His hair was wet, perfect for running your fingers through or pulling at.
Without you noticing outright, Dunk peeked through his fingers in your direction, just out of curiosity, to see you looking at him so intently through the dim light of the evening sun.
Gazes met, everything stilled, breaths seemed to shrink to a tremble.
“I should go,” Dunk uttered through his haze, blinking away the lust fogging his eyes as he moved through the waters in a few steps.
“Dunk.” Your call bewitched him in place, mighty in its quietness. He waited; his heart fluttered. “Stay.”
“My lady,” he warned, and you saw the sprang of his shoulders, the twitch in his neck lines. He wanted you, and you knew you wanted him.
You were the one to move now, making the waves stir around your thighs as you approached him and nearly made the poor hedge knight flinch. Soon, he found you before him, and Dunk swore that his head got light as he looked at you there, so unapologetic for the flush of your chest, the shape of your waist. You smiled at him, kind but knowing; the glimmer in your stare was heavier than usual, he observed.
“My lady-” he spoke again, this time almost in fear when you dared to lean closer. But he didn't run away, despite the emotion spilling on his face, “I have lied…”
“Oh?” you mused through the dense heartbeat in your chest. Dunk appeared to squirm.
“I have not been with a woman before. A mere kiss as a lad is all I know…”
Dunk wasn't certain what to expect as your reaction, guessing that you might laugh like those girls who could see through his clumsiness. Yet, you didn't giggle, didn't scrunch your nose in disbelief, or overly praise his virtue. You looked at him just as you looked at him before — fondly, warmly. And he stopped being scared.
“Do you wish to change that, ser?”
“With you, yes-” he blurted out with a shaky exhale. “But… won't I be misleading you then, like all those lords and men?”
A smile pulled on your lips again.
“Not if I’d want it.”
Dunk nodded slowly with the most seriousness, and it looked awfully handsome on his face.
“And… you want it.”
“Yes.”
With that answer, hovering over the waters, Dunk’s frame relieved just a little, and he accepted the ache within him, let it guide him as he bent to you. His hands found your cheeks, stable in their quiet tremble. Holding them so carefully, the waves swirled around him as he closed the remaining distance between you, closing your bodies in a whispering cage. His warmth streamed into you, just as unpretentiously as his touch, a lingering presence that brought you protection.
The look in his eyes made you shiver, deep concentration coiling in the reflections of his gaze. His hands were naive when they began to descend over your body, little kinks of his fingers burying into your flesh, but just as honest when he caressed you. He found the path of your neck, the slope of your shoulders, the shape of your chest as he touched its curve. A small breath parted his lips, and he allowed himself to look at you without turning away, without shame eating at him.
“How did the Gods send something so beautiful my way…” You heard him utter, and those words stroked you from within.
“Dunk.” Your voice passed by as a sigh when you reached for him, hands cradling the strong contour of his face. Your eyes urged him, quietly but desperately enough for him to understand.
He kissed you, as well as he could. You tasted salt on his lips, drips of water soaking into your skin, and the softness he gave you. It was gentle, clumsy at times when his mouth didn't follow yours.
“I’m sorry, my lady…” he whispered into your mouth when his teeth accidentally grazed your lip, embarrassment creasing his face.
“Don’t be,” you cooed, feeling your skin prickle where his nose brushed yours, his forehead almost sealed against yours. “I liked it.”
Dunk’s breath hitched, his heart beat harder than before as something tensed his being and narrowed his hands upon you. You felt the wet press of his body against yours when he leaned closer, flesh tightly laced together, and the growing strength behind his lips. A small sound clogged the back of your throat at how his mouth began to work, how his form pushed into yours as if he wanted to merge into you. His hands grew braver, almost frantic, as they travelled from your waist, to your back, your nape, and burned you with heat. Your own hands moved, and he couldn't hold back the low groan he spilt into your mouth when your fingers splayed across his chest.
A brisk splash of water broke the smooth surface of the pond when his arm hooked around your waist, pulling you as close as possible, the petal of your ass cheek filling Dunk’s hand so perfectly. He squeezed, you whined and bucked into him with the strain growing in your roots. You felt him curse against your lips, grind almost instinctively against you in kind with his thickening cock. Your hand slipped down, embracing his width to draw a gasp from his mouth as his lips shattered away from yours with a backwards tilt of his head. He breathed your name out, looking down at you in a plea too sweet to ignore.
His size drowned between your thighs with a slow glide, torturous for both of you. Dunk watched closely as he faded within you, awed at the pliant nature of your slick folds. The moment he sank entirely in your warm cunt, he sighed in relief.
“I hope I'm not hurting you, my lady.”
“No.” You shook your head lazily. Locking your gaze with his, you felt yourself flutter around him. And so did he, moving his hips ever so slightly in an excuse to adjust himself. “You’re perfect.”
He met your words with a whimper, unable to deny how he twitched when buried deep in your slit. His hand squeezed your plump again, thumb smoothing across your flesh as his hips began to roll — slowly at first, cautious as the new sensation settled within him. Every thrust steeped in your sap felt overwhelming, and the little gasps you let out only overtook him more.
Dunk had tried moving harder, pushing into you with more force, as the mild tingle inside his stomach became familiar — he wanted more. With a few rigid snaps of his pelvis, your breath hitched, your cunt pulsed around him as if this was exactly what you needed all along. He had you mewling by the time he set a steady pace, observing how your body trembled, how he drove himself over and over again inside you.
Dunk’s other hand wandered between your forms, just like when he caught Ser Arlan doing to a whore once, his fingers petting over the pearl his cock couldn't reach. His breath caught as he watched you arch into his touch, your moan dropping into the water around you.
“Duncan…”
“Am I pleasing you, my lady?” he huffed through repeated jabs of his hips, his thumb beginning to circle your swollen nacre in tender rings.
“Gods, yes…”
The encouragement seemed to provoke Dunk more, and you felt his cock riding deeper into you, more persistent. Waves crashed against your tangled bodies as he went faster, short and deliberate thrusts jolting pleasure through your roots while he chased the climax with you. Your arms closed around him tightly, his face nestled in the crook of your neck as he softly chanted “my lady, my lady, my lady,” like a prayer into your skin.
A cry broke from Dunk’s throat, planted in your neck, when he spilt into you, warmth dribbling into your cavenrs in streams. Tight around his stuttering length, you couldn't open your eyes for a long moment in your heightening delight, your fingers cutting into his skin.
It was silent afterwards, your breaths echoing over the pond in union. You felt Dunk shivering against you, still sealed so close to you with his sighs melting on your flesh. The movement of his thumb lasted in the stillness, caressing you gently as if to comfort. Slowly, his head lifted, his face came to yours as your gazes caught each other in the haze. A dear blush dusted his complexion, his lips parted perfectly for you to close them with a light kiss.
"I think we should go dry," Dunk whispered into your mouth; you nodded.
Adorned in your clothes again, you sat before the dancing bonfire, watching it flare and curve with Dunk. You rested against his shoulder, just like many times before, a solace settling within you. You felt the weight of the glances he stole your way, something unspoken present in his eyes.
"Do you think... that I will ever get to do that again?" he asked, voice no louder than a rumble of the flames. A smile came to rest on your face, only for his eyes to see.
"I think you will get to do it more than once, ser."
Dunk shared a smile with you, leaning his head gently against yours, as a shade of contentment settled in his features.
It had begun with a drink—one, plain nectar tossed about the three of you—but it changed into a game of pretend, then into slurred and proud singing, and then this.
The seat on Dunk’s broad lap is awfully comfortable, pulling you to slump further into his chest and the steady grasp of his hands upon your hips. His breath warms the back of your shoulder, sweet and hot with wine, his nose nestling against your flesh while he quietly draws in your scent into his lungs. The turmoil within his being is rising, aching and restless, eyes closed as he tries to forget it, but the light brush of your hair on his face is nearly enough to unleash it. He listens to your breathing, to the hitches of your gasps sinking into the mouth of the Laughing Storm.
The kiss the stag bestows on you is overbearing, sickeningly delicious as he eats your lips with the appetite of a man lost, lost in the sinful joys. The more bold and skilled hands tangle in your hair, pulling your head at an arch that allows his mouth to swallow yours. He spills a pleased rumble into your throat, tasting you in the daze of passion that you feel deep in your roots — and against your stomach pressing persistently at the front, against your arse as your seat on Dunk’s strong thighs grows clumsy.
“Hm, is the hedge knight feeling neglected?” Lyonel huffs after he parts off your lips. His words entice a muffled whimper from Dunk, the sound buried in your hair as he presses further into you with a tight brow.
“ M’not…”
“Oh, you’re ready to shatter right there and then.” Lyonel chuckles breathlessly, his dark gaze gleaming in amusement as he looks at the man behind you, breathing harder down your neck. “How precious.”
Dunk whimpers again, hips stuttering forward against the curve of your rear, cramped so perfectly with his clad, swelling cock. The giggle you let out doesn't help the poor hedge knight, put against two scoundrels that seem to love teasing him — Gods help him.
── summary: you take care of your husband after the trial of seven, grateful that he made it out alive once more
— Fluff, attending injuries, fem reader, slightly bossy wife, domestic bickering again, medieval medicine, shitty Maester cameo, short and sweet
Part one
Word count: above 700
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Gods liked to toy with their playthings — sometimes, you wondered if the Gods were capricious children, given the choices they sent your way. But at least they favoured you, and your no-good husband.
“Can’t drink, can't fight, can't fuck—I’m useless.” Lyonel hissed through his teeth as Maester dappled his wound with a dubious balm. The stag sprawled on the bed, damaged and aching, but undefeated, much to your relief.
“You’re alive, most importantly,” you said, seated by his side and observing the witch of a Maester with a vigilant eye, determined to ensure he would attend your husband well.
“That’s the dullest part of it all,” he sighed, and let his dark shag spill on the pillows. Leaning his head towards you, a lazy smile curled on his lips at the sight of your concerned frown. The bruises shaded his bright features, clung tight to his skin, cruel even in his laughter.
“You saw me, haven't you, darling?”
“Yes.”
“How I held down that dragon-cunt." he chuckled, a fragile but no less important sound plugging his throat. "Ah, I was ruthless. Shame I'll be limping for weeks- ow, cunt!" his smile wrenched sore in nearly gustable pain, and he swatted his hand at the old man attempting to soothe the Baratheon's great pain. Upon seeing that, you rose from your seat.
"I thank you for your aid, Maester. You may leave."
"Your grace- the wounds are lethal if left neglected—"
"I said thank you." Your voice petrified in its low, stoned command, forcing the man to flee through the tent's draped gate, and leaving Lyonel grinning broadly through the grazes covering his face.
"Do you want me to die, wife?" he asked plainly in a jest that made you huff when you reached the table stuffed with various medical science and presumably heathen as well.
"If I did wish you death, I wouldn't have dragged you here."
Your fingers closed around the warm wine vase's neck, and Lyonel watched as you shaded a cloth red, quite familiar with this practice. The sting within tattered, raw flesh pushed out a sharp exhale from between his fangs at the biting touch, his handsome features curling into an ache you wished you could hunt away.
"Gods, I didn't miss that."
"I told you you didn't have to do this," you scolded gently, yet he knew you only meant that care, especially when you glided the wine over his thruming gashes with stunning talent that had matured over time.
His eyes slowly toured down to his side, where you performed your wifely duties, washing your husband of rotten, miserable blood, latching onto his muscle. His laughter and fervour died into occasional stillness, a memory dimming his expression.
"I remember the first time you nursed me," he murmured, his tone mellowing into something almost glum. Your gaze flickered to his face, the event he spoke of fresh in your mind as the Gods wouldn't let it escape you. "You were so scared, but oh so fierce," he continued, and something in your fingers narrowed as your movements numbed.
His teeth shone as he smiled, a fond and gentle smile, lush lashes hanging low in rest.
"Wouldn't leave my side, and yelled at the Maesters," he chortled as though that was a doting picture when you recalled only fear. "Gods, I thought, what a blessed man I am to have a wife more fearless than any man." The depths of his eyes held your face when he looked back at you, a slow sigh filling his chest. You were silent, meeting his gaze with tight lips. You didn't take compliments well, Lyonel knew it and loved it just as much.
"I didn't want to lose you," you finally uttered through a rough blotch in your throat, blinking away the echoes of memories as you forced yourself back to caring for his wounds.
"And you didn't," he assured confidently, despite the gentleness in his voice, his rasped hand rising to embrace your cheek, "and you won't. Not now, not ever." his eyes flashed an earnest and compelling stare into your own, and they nearly made you believe him. You sloped into his touch limply, coddling into the warmth of his hand that you didn't want to lose ever.
"Don't make me worry about you like this again," you demanded strongly despite how much of a mush you were in his grasp.
"I can't promise that." Lyonel hummed in amusement, drawing a slow caress over your cheekbone. "But I promise to come back to you, always."
── summary: The night before the trial of seven, your husband comforts you that he will return to you the next day
— Fluff, domestic bickering, teasing, typical drinking, a bit of a snob wife, fem reader, contemplation of death, hair pulling, biblical lovemaking (I can't write pure filth just yet)
Word count: 1, 7k
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The news came in the form of a frantic boy’s mouth, pleading with your husband to join the trial that wasn't his to win. The hour was late, yet the little prince was wide awake on his feet before Lord Baratheon, who entertained the young one with a solemn furrow of his brow. Hovering by the side, your gaze attended to the child, then your husband, and back to the boy, guarded in its silence.
After listening to what the Targaryen had to say, the proud stag nodded only once — a finality.
“Ser Duncan has a new champion.”
Your eyes sealed tightly in an exasperated plea of your own.
“Why did you agree?” you nearly berated Lyonel in the comfort of your square, folded in the tent’s silks, far from prying ears. You watched him stride to a table nearby, his silence broken by the swashing of wine he poured into a glass. He was tense. You saw it through the lavishness of the arc his hand drew when drying the goblet, how he shook his curls afterwards and stood still for a moment too long.
“You don't have to do this.” Your voice lowered, softened in your worry for him.
“A man’s honour is being doubted,” Lyonel stated, looking down with his beard tucked as he set the empty glass back on the table. “This is exactly what I need to do.” his smile shone your way over his shoulder, as handsome as drained.
“I say the honour of a hedge knight cannot be found,” you spat, and his smile burned out as swiftly as a candle flame.
“Careful, wife,” he reprimanded gently, but the velvet of his tone didn't dismiss his warning. “We’re all men here, at the end of the day. Creatures who eat, shit and fuck all the same, no matter the titles.”
You frowned, but didn't battle the truth of his words. The sour expression on your face seemed to brighten him again, his head tipping with a smile buried under his softly faded bristles.
“You’re scared for me.”
“Yes.”
He chuckled, flinging his eyes upwards as if to ask the Gods for mercy.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake- my wife’s frightened for the Laughing Storm!”
“Lyonel,” you urged severely, coaxing a stretched sigh from him with an insolent arch of his neck as his head tilted back. “This is a trial, not a tourney. They won't stop until they see blood.”
“As always,” he shrugged, a carelessness present on his face that aggravated you. The urge to smack his pretty mug was almost undeniable.
“Did it cross your mind that I don't want to lose you?”
Another exhale left him, greater in its importance, as his shoulders fell, and the glow of his eternal sun dimmed — he wasn't vicious enough to make light of that.
"You won't."
"How can you be so sure?" Your frown twisted bitterly in its sorrow, which his gracious eye caught swiftly.
"Because I'm one of the best." Lyonel's smile dulled enough for you to know that he wasn't bragging. Honesty danced over his features in the warm glimmer of candles keeping you company, "And I have a beautiful wife to return to."
A breath left you that could echo as a scoff, but the Laughing Storm understood you all too well and grinned in delight as he saw you push away a smile. A fond rumble of a laugh shook his chest when his frame joined you in a few swaying steps, closing in with an aroma of wine swirling around you in a dear embrace.
"The Gods only know the fury of an angry woman," he mused with a contented sigh the moment you filled his arms, his appreciative gaze trailing along your neck — a path to your displayed chest by a low necklace.
"Tease."
"That is the truth, wife." Rough fingers were gentle upon your chin, tilting your eyes to his with a tenderness only you were familiar with. His dark eyelashes fluttered low over his gaze, muted into something private and kind as he witnessed the worry wind over your face. "Fret not. I will always come back to you."
You released another breath, right into Lyonel's lips to taste, and he relished it with a low hum. You looked at the face of your husband, and your heart ached at the thought of possibly fantasising about it for the rest of your life with him gone.
"You'd better," you murmured, concealing your silent anguish with a tight smile, "I don't want to rule the Storm's End alone. Or be forced to recall the sound of your voice, or remarry..."
"Shh..." he cooed lovingly, craddling you against his chest as he planted a kiss on your temple. "I'll kill any bastard that tries to court you, even in death."
You laughed despite the strain in your throat, folded right where you wanted to be — in your husband's grasp. His hand rubbed in rings on the small of your back, their repeated motion the only thing you could anticipate. His free curls tickled your skin when his forehead pressed firmly against yours, almost as if he was trying to lean himself into you entirely.
"Let's not sulk. The night is still young." He smiled, his eyes locked on yours after he pulled back. His hand lingered on your back, guiding you with gentleness to the table he had left not so long before. You watched quietly as his adorned fingers grazed the glass, pouring a generous amount of wine into two goblets.
"Darling," he turned to you when gifting your drink, your hands shamelessly brushing together in a light graze. He sent you a smile, lifting his own glass to chime with yours, "To us."
"To us."
The bittersweet stream flowed through your throat, sharing a moment of silence as Lyonel drowned in his cup with you. He burped unapologetically after clearing his goblet, giving you a merry grin in response to your mildly dismayed glare. A carefree cackle left the stag, watching in ever so growing admiration as you rolled your eyes.
"You're so sweet."
"And you're ridiculous."
He chuckled, long and rolling, his dark eyes gleaming wickedly enough for you to grant a knowing smile. He came closer once more, plucking the wine out of your grasp to replace it and lace his hand with yours instead. The warmth of his touch tingled your skin as his lips began to decorate your knuckles with fleeting kisses, looking into your gaze while his mouth worked so freely. You could feel the skill and charm of his touch, the petals of his lips parting to leave a soft smack on the back of your hand.
You sighed out of affection as your unburdened hand wandered to his hair, fingertips soaking in those curls you loved so much. His eyes closed, purring in utter enjoyment of your touch while you played with the waves of his strands. Until you tugged at them — he gasped, mouth falling apart as he let you pull his head back. His eyes remained closed for a beat longer, a slow and burning smile blooming on his face.
"Oh, you're a bad woman."
Your breath was struck out of your chest when his arms locked around the back of your thighs, lifting you with enthusiasm only known for a Baratheon. With confident steps, he carried you to the bed that couldn't compare with the marital one you made at Storm's End — but it would do, anything would do for Lyonel, only to have you.
Your flesh muffled his laughter as he kissed your chest, following the curve of your breast with nimble lips and letting out a pleased hum at your squirming.
"This is our night." He breathed out as he looked up at you through his brows, "and so is the next... and the next." he chuckled, watching you smile and flush so prettily.
"I expect you here tomorrow," you whispered, your fingers twirling in the fabric of his shift, meeting his gaze when he lay you upon the rich furs, "If not..."
"None of that."
His hand came to cradle your cheek, making you lean into the safety of his touch.
"Just love me now, and let me love you."
You nodded, a frail breath leaving your lips. Lyonel rooted that promise in a kiss on your forehead, and he gave.
Your skirts went flying, and his garments followed onto the floor. Flesh against flesh in restless heat, a breath against a moan, no part of you or him left untouched. Lyonel filled you, carved into sweet spots only he understood and to which only he reached, thrusting gasps out of you to his piled pleasure. He pulled ecstasy out of you, made you shatter around his cock once, twice, thrice — as much as your body would allow, time passing by in delight rather than dread.
"Oh, Gods- " he groaned sharply as he spilt into you hard enough to make him tremble, hips flushed against yours in a taut plunge so deep to entice out a cry from your lips. Your shared pants hovered in the stillness of the blissful aftermath, the candles almost burned out by now. His curls skimmed over your forehead with his head hanging low, his eyes lifting to find yours through his hair. Your fingers brushed his hair out of his eyelashes, and he melted into your hand with an exaggerated tilt of his head. Both of you were dazed, breathless, but oh, so happy. He smiled, you smiled — your giggles mingling together.
Soon, Lyonel was lying at your side, nestled against you with his head tucked under your chin. You stroked his hair, and he caressed your side in slothful and tender traces. His eyes were closed, while yours stared up at the draped ceiling of the tent, pondering the events coming at dawn. You learned of the brutal fights your husband would take part in and saw what a lance could do to a man. You prayed for the Gods to spare your man, your fingers unconsciously coiling in his hair.
Come back to me, your soul pleaded, and you planted a kiss upon his crown as he slept.
— Duncan the Tall | Lyonel Baratheon | Baelor Targaryen | Maekar Targaryen | Aerion Targaryen | “my lady” used as a title, try to guess which character is my least favourite to write
Word count: 1k, about 200 words for each character
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— Dunk
Strong, competent hands, cradle your face with newfound care, poor fingertips dusted in earth, grazing a whisper of a touch upon your cheeks. With a caress so gentle, you forget the violence carved on his hands, the blood that stained those meek fingers. Dunk's breath is a lasting breeze against your skin, warm and tender, his lips parted in a plea that he's too shy to whisper. But you see it in his eyes, soft as they glimmer quietly, lingering on your mouth as if it's luring him.
In a wave of courage, he leans in, breath hitching at the taste of your kiss. His palm comes to hold the back of your head, unable to bear the thought of you pulling away. Each press is enduring, a vow of devotion bleeding into your flesh. The fleeting brushes of his lips grow to broad sweeps over your mouth, so hungry for more that he surprises himself. Dunk had been starved for so long — he can't help it, the desperation squeezing out of his throat in a vulnerable, feverish moan. "M'lady... I'm your man, as long as you'll have me," his voice quivers upon your lips, honest and blooming with utter affection for you, flowering in his heart.
— Lyonel
He pours his laughter into your mouth to drink, deep and rich in its velvet. Lyonel’s beard strokes like kinder thorns against your skin; his dimmed curls fall into your eyes from his sheer enthusiasm when he leans into you. His lips latch onto yours with delicious force, leaving no space wasted between you as he wants to savour you as much as the Gods will allow. And when he peels his kiss off your lips, it is achingly slow, making the loss all the more devastating. His forehead brushes yours while he stays locked close to you, his eyes warm and adoring as he smiles your way.
His hand lifts, the back of his finger tracing the curve of your cheek, then travelling down to touch the rim of your mouth. “There’s nothing sweeter,” he muses, voice low and rumbling in its passion. His thumb pulls gently at your lower lip, his gaze marvelling at its softness as he gives a burning glance. He breaks the tension with a light poke of his finger to the end of your nose — anything to make you smile. Lyonel hums out a chuckle when his arm wraps around you, nestling you against his frame as his lips find your ear, burrowing it with soft pecks and lovely nothings.
— Baelor
The tall frame of the realm’s prince cages you against a wall, his heat streaming into you hot enough to dull the cool surface of the hallway’s stone. His taut body nearly merges into yours, pushing and pressing in aching need for your comfort. Ever so careful and dutiful hands, now seek you through fabrics with increasing appetite unsuitable for the Hand of the King. His lips near tremble against yours, loving yet so shameless in the fervour he holds for you. “I apologise, my lady,” Baelor breathes out softly, eyes closed in awe even after he pulls back enough to whisper into the secrecy between you two, “you deserve to be cared for tenderly... But Gods know I don't have it in me.” his firm kiss crashes into your mouth, and the sound of his sharp inhale fills the echo in the corridor.
He bites at your lip, folding it between his teeth and pulling with a scorching sting on your flesh. Baelor is quick to soothe that nip, but the slick of his tongue only kindles that fire burning so bright. His hands close on your waist, moulding into its curve while he relishes your sculpture, fingers clawing at the material with a muffled groan.
— Maekar
His pale eyes seem to pierce you in silence. They're angry, as always, bitter in their muted glint. He stands unmoving, even if the weight of the unspoken looms over him. He doesn't have to be here with you, he's aware, but fuck that — he wants to be here, even if he doesn't say it. The space between you is noticeable, but too tight to be dismissed. His hands are still, frozen at his sides, his shoulders strained in a silent battle. A cramp in his fingers is as much movement as you get from him, along with the flicker of his gaze to your lips. He looks at them, then at your eyes, then your lips again, and his hands curl in frustration after dancing between the two for too long. “Kiss me, for fuck’s sake,” he spits, rough even in his affections.
And when you do, Maekar crumbles just a little. There's a catch of his breath, accompanied by a sound in his throat that almost tolls weak. His lips are initially tense underneath yours, nearly afraid to let you in despite his great desire to. But with patience, he eases, closes his eyes as he lets you guide him through this pleasure, wrecked by the terrifying void in his chest that he needs to fill with you. His hand wraps around your throat, tender in its danger as his thumb smooths your skin.
— Aerion
There is nothing gentle about how his hand cruelly clutch your cheeks to bare your lips to him, fingers digging into flesh without any restraint. His teeth mark them furiously, but not carelessly, not hastily. Every bite is deliberate, practised, and anticipated by Aerion — there are no mistakes nor accidents. His tongue slithers out of his mouth to coat your lips in hot spit, tasting the beads of blood he enticed in vain satisfaction. “Take it like the good little whore you are,” he drawls at your whimper, his voice almost carefree in its eerie softness.
He pulls back, handsome eyes roaming over your face as he licks your taste off his lips. His hand shoves your face after he releases you, like a capricious cat pushing another away. Instead, he grabs at your neck, tugging you back in merely to play with you more. A surprisingly soft kiss lands on your cheek, making you wonder if this is the same dragon that had just burned you, before you feel a nip join on your cheek, hard enough to bruise for sure.
Dunk can really sing, he's just very reserved about it.
He had learned to be quiet, for safety, taught by danger to be silent. Before the gashes that he earned with his mouth, he liked to sing — voice low enough to fade in his throat, sweet words of jolly tunes morphing into broken mutters only for him to understand, a song becoming a friend. Sometimes, his chant would join Ser Arlan’s proud howl, throwing lyrics of love found, bravery, and forgotten by now honour into the empty air.
He didn't share that talent often, forcing it into an idle hum while he groomed the horses and sizzled the eggs in the pan. You wouldn't foresee a man like him to have such a soft tone when cooing melodies reserved for his steeds, or Egg later on, but there you sit, smiling fondly as Dunk lulls the little boy to sleep with a ballad of stars and sky.
He looks at you after his voice melts into the crackle of the fire, eyes shy but lips pursing into an adorable curl.
“You should sing more often,” you say, earnest in your awe.
Can't stop thinking about Lyonel’s wife, possibly leading an army to battle as aid, Katherine of Aragorn style, glowing in armour and a babe in her swell, and the Laughing Storm screaming the proudest “that’s my wife, you cunts!” as hell breaks loose
I think Dunk has trouble saying “I love you”. Out loud, at least.
After being proven that those words don't save lives, don't make people stay, he's afraid even to utter them, fearful that the Gods might take another thing that he loves.
“It’s not that I don't want to say that,” he’d murmur, his shy gaze avoiding your eyes almost in shame. “I do. I really do. But I don't want to lose you as well.”
His gestures, soaked in love, show more than any words could — his care, cooking for you when you're tired or simply because he thinks it's kind, his fierce protectiveness as he barks at any dangers and shields you with his own body, the way he puts a blanket around you when you fall asleep, the tenderness in his touch as he holds you like it might be the very last time.
Dunk’s heart screams the words out whenever he catches a glimpse of you, understanding that you deserve to hear them from his lips, in his voice, but they choke him just as much, dread ruling over his affections.
“If I say them… you won't leave, right?” he asks you one sleepless night, voice near a quiver. You grasp him close, promising him that you won't with a kiss on his fleece hair. His breath trembles when he inhales, eyes closing so tight as if he might get punched, as he used to once when he said something wrong.
“I…” he starts, but flinches back in anticipation of a slap to his face. He nearly whimpers when he feels the gentle embrace of your hand on his cheek instead. “I- I love you.” he's close to a cry, certain that he has doomed another. Yet you're still here, whispering how you love him too, sweetly kissing his brow, and the weight melts off his heart slowly. He leans in closer, burying himself in your chest as much as his great size allows. His hand finds yours, clenching it tightly but not forcefully, bringing it to his heart that beats for you.
