#ask b

[sedonasummer]

Joke's on Maekar in The Baby Project, wife reader's hormones are all over the place and will want him twice as bad as before 🤣 he'd complain about it to baelor but he secretly enjoys it 🤭

Thank you for writing that fic i read it twice today 🖤🖤🖤

ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱꜱɪꜱᴛ | ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

─ summary: Pregnancy hormones leave Maekar's wife more insatiable than ever.

─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x Reader, Baelor Targaryen x Reader

─ content: 18+ MDNI | Fluff | Implied smut | Baelor is down bad |

─ a/n: Read as a quick continuation of this. I may have gotten carried away here 🖤 Thank you for reading my little fics, commenting, liking, rebloging. Genuinley means the world. Send your requests!

Maekar dropped into the chair across from his brother, a lock of silver gold hair falling across his furrowed brow, "Fuck me."

Baelor looked up from his correspondence. "Something troubling you, brother?"

"This woman," he breathed, shaking his head. "Every minute of every day."

Baelor set his quill down. "I beg your pardon."

Maekar looked at him. "You heard me."

Baelor folded his hands on the desk with the composure of a man conducting a formal inquiry, his signet ring gleaming. "Let me be certain I understand. Your beautiful wife, who is carrying your child, desires you. Constantly."

Maekar was silent.

"That is your problem," Baelor said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

More silence.

Baelor leaned back in his chair, a playful smirk settling on his lips, though something darker flickered beneath his mismatched eyes. "Why are you telling me this? Are you seeking assistance?"

Maekar, who had been slouching with the exhaustion of a man thoroughly put upon, shot upright in his chair. "Have you taken complete leave of your senses?"

"We have shared many things in the past," Baelor said, with great serenity.

Maekar was on his feet. "I can take care of my own wife."

"I jest, brother," Baelor called after him, the words catching slightly in his throat. "Give her my regards."

"Fuck your regards," Maekar said, already through the door, the heavy oak slamming behind him. His voice carried back down the corridor, low and deeply aggrieved. "Assist my fucking wife! Assist!" And then something further that was largely incoherent and entirely indignant, fading as his footsteps did.

Baelor chuckled softly to himself. The sound did not last long. He reached for his wine, took a long slow sip, and looked back at his correspondence without seeing the words.

He was jesting, naturally.

Mostly.

If Maekar ever found himself not quite up to the task, if the desires of that perfect woman ever proved too much, well. His brother's beautiful young wife deserved to be well looked after. And Baelor had always been exceptionally thorough in his duties.

[beebymoonlight]

Ex!husband Ghost that's still your emergency contact (oopsie!) and he gets contacted that you've been in an accident and races to your side because divorced or not you're still his bird. Imagine his surprise and utter delight when you wake up and look at him confused and ask "Who are you?" "I'm your husband, luv. You don't remember me?"

or...you don't remember getting divorced, so when he's there standing over the side of your bed, you pull him down and give him a nasty, wet kiss, asking where he's been, asking where you are, and when he says you hit your head a little hard, you ask him to kiss it better. and when he takes you home, you ask where all your things are, and he bends you over his pathetic, peeling kitchen counter and fucks you breathless.

and it's when you're fat and round with his little one kicking that you find the papers he signed and buried in a junk drawer in the kitchen, under the same counter he put a baby in you on.

and you just kick it shut cause well. you'd rather not think about it. ;)

[thefakebernadettebanner]

I love how every time there's a social media crisis, everyone comes back to us... Now you can't leave until you watch Goncharov! ;)

I'm shocked that you would assume I have not yet seen the greatest costume film of all time. Truly Tis Peak representation of mid-20th century dress (give or take the cufflink debate). >.>

[grape-souffle]

I know the height difference between Charley and 83 is hilarious and I love it, but do you have actual heights for them? rough numbers?

Charley is 6 ft 7 inches whereas 83is 4 ft 11 inches, so it’s quite a drastic difference

[beels-burger-babe]

Why is it that in all of your obey me fics MC is either dumb and obvious to all the brothers concerns or a weak bitch who’ll lose an arm wrestle match to a 7 year old boy??? Dont get me wrong I like your fics I do and I do appreciate your talent as a writer however you write MC as if they aren’t 1.Master of the 7 sins and 2. Solomon the wise’s apprentice. They know magic yet in all of your fics it seems like they either forget everything they learned or just can’t summon any of the brothers to take care of them, so like what the hell is up with that?

Hello Mx. Anon

I would argue my MCs I present aren't weak or stupid. They are human.

I prefer the MC we have in the early stories of the game over the MC in the later episodes. The MC who is still learning about the Devildom, and magic, and the culture around them. Most of my fics take place during that time when they AREN'T Solomon's apprentice yet and either haven't formed pacts with the brothers yet or respects them enough to see themself as their 'Master' and abuse that title. Because of this, the MC I tend to write often doesn't have magic, and yes I make them the victim in several scenerios of the over 70 fics I have as those tropes are very popular and often times requested.

However.

Just because they may be oblivious to the advances of the characters (which is not true for the majority of my fics where MC is actively in relationships with one or more of them) that does not make them stupid in general.

I believe in the strength of the average. I don't like writing super strong, super powerful MCs because I don't find them relateable. You can have a super badass MC who is trying their best and never so much as casts a spell, and they are still a bad ass. I think MC being mundane in the Devildom is what makes them so unqiue. Their strength doesn't lie in their magic, but in their emotional intelligence, their empathy, and their words.

That said. I have written fics where MC tries to kill their ex. (Changes in Behaviour). I have written an MC who punches Levi across the face and spits blood on Lucifer's shoes, and who refuses to take any bullshit from the brothers. (Sister's Keeper). I have several MCs who does not allow others to cross their boundaries and abuse them (What's in an Apology?, The Pain is Yet to Come) I have a deaf MC who stands up for themself and doesn't allow others to see them as less (Deaf MC AU). I have written a siren MC who attempted to murder the brothers, their captors, in order to escape. (Waves are Calling) I have had MC flirting right back at them with confidence enough to take control. (Class is in Session.) I could go on.

I see your critique. I hear it. I appreciate it, because writing strong, bad ass characters who take no shit and who can and will fight for themselves is important.

I just prefer to show that strength internally over externally. If I do come back to writing here, which I haven't done in over a year, I will remember your words. But that said, my inbox is filled with prompts asking for more MC being saved or in situations where that physical poweress wouldn't necessarily apply.

Thanks. Have a nice day.

[sedonasummer]

how do you think the first kiss with the akotsk men would go? love your writing <3

─ summary: the first time you kiss the men of AKOTSK

─ pairing: Maekar, Baelor, Duncan, Daeron, Valarr, Aerion x female reader

─ word count: 2.2k

─ content: fluff, arranged marriage, jealousy

He wasn't supposed to notice you. He was a widower, a man with six children and a reputation for being as harsh. But he did. He noticed when the feasts grew long and your smile began to fade, quietly having a servant bring you a cup of spiced wine. He saw the flicker of unease in your eyes when a boisterous knight told a crass story, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. He watched you, not with the open appraisal of the other men, but with a quiet, intense focus that made your heart beat a little faster. You sought him out, drawn to the stillness in him, and he would warn you, his voice low and rough. "You shouldn't waste your time with me. There are better men for you." 

Maekar noticed your homesickness too, though you never spoke the word aloud. He heard it in the way your voice softened when you spoke of your family, in the distant look in your eyes as you recounted childhood memories. One morning he found you in a quiet garden. "Walk with me," he said, his tone leaving no room for refusal. He led you to the stables, the air rich with the familiar scent of hay and leather. He stopped before a stall, and you looked inside, your breath catching in your throat. There, nudging a hay rack with its soft nose, was your favorite childhood horse.

You turned to look at him. This man who had gone to such lengths to arranged this quite immense gift and never once breathed a word of it. He had simply seen a need and filled it, expecting nothing in return. Without thinking, you stepped forward and placed both your hands on his bearded jaw, his skin warm beneath your palms. You rose onto your toes and kissed him.

For a heart-stopping moment he went completely still. He didn't breathe, didn't move, and a wave of doubt washed over you, making you start to pull back. But then his arms came around you, banding across your back and pulling you flush against his chest. He kissed you back, not with the careful restraint he always showed when it came to his feelings for you, but with a desperate hungry passion. All the emotions he had so carefully suppressed came undone in a single breathtaking rush. When he finally pulled back his eyes were dark and searching. He didn't say anything. You didn't need him to. Maekar did not let you go.

You did not choose each other, you both know this.

He is kind enough never to pretend otherwise, and this is the first thing that makes you think perhaps this marriage will be alright. He does not try to convince you that the arrangement is something other than what it is. He simply treats you, from the very first day, as though your comfort matters to him.

He courts you properly. Time spent learning what you like and what you don't, what makes you laugh and what makes you go quiet.

Your first real kiss is on your wedding night. The candles burn low, casting flickering shadows across the chamber. He looks at you, his blue eyes soft and searching in the dim light, and leans in slowly, giving you every moment to turn away. When his lips meet yours it is so gentle it is almost a question, a soft hesitant press that asks for nothing but offers everything. You put your arms around him and lean into it, a silent answer. He kisses you again, still gentle but with more warmth behind it, more feeling, the careful restraint of a man who has been patient a long time and is now, with your permission, allowing himself to mean it. The night is quiet and entirely yours.

For two weeks every morning, just as the sun began to warm the cobblestones, the bell above your shop door would chime and in he would walk. Duncan, a mountain of a man who seemed to fill the small space with his sheer presence. He claimed your shop was simply the most convenient on his route. It was a flimsy excuse and you both knew it. He passed three other perfectly adequate shops to reach yours.

By the end of the second week his daily visits remained chaste and friendly and you realized he was never going to be the one to bridge the gap. He would not presume. So that evening, as the town square filled with music and chatter for the nightly entertainment, you turned to him. He agreed to stay with a strained casualness that was almost endearing, his eagerness barely contained beneath a layer of feigned indifference. Afterward you stood together in the deepening twilight, the last notes of a fiddle fading into the night.

"So," you said, your voice light and pleasant in the quiet air. "Are you going to kiss me?"

He did. He moved with an immediacy that stole your breath, a man who had been holding something back for two weeks and was finally, blessedly, given permission to let it go. His lips met yours and you laughed against his mouth, a sound of pure joy. He laughed with you. When you finally parted he stood there grinning like a complete fool, his face flushed pink all the way to his ears, and walked back to his lodgings that way, replaying every second of it, the smile never leaving his face.

He stood in the torchlit corridor, a silver haired silhouette against the dark of the sleeping castle. His face, usually a mask of serene distance, was etched with a weariness that went far deeper than a simple lack of sleep. The indigo of his eyes was shadowed, haunted by things you couldn't see but knew were there. You said nothing, just stepped back, creating a space for him in the warmth and quiet of your room.

He sank onto the edge of your bed and began to speak, his voice low and rough, and you listened. You gave him the only thing you knew he truly needed — your complete unwavering attention. He spoke of dreams that were not dreams, of dragons in the corners of his mind, of a crushing weight behind his eyes that made him fear the dark. You listened to all of it without a flicker of judgment or the careful distance most people afforded a prince's strangeness.

Then the words stopped. The silence that fell was full, thick with everything he had left unsaid. He looked at you, really looked at you, and saw the person who opened her door in the dead of night and asked for nothing. Something in him, something tight and coiled for what felt like an eternity, finally gave way.

He leaned in slowly. You met him halfway. His lips were soft against yours, a tentative thing, and you answered it with a gentle pressure of your own. Your hand found his and he exhaled against your mouth like something had finally, after a very long time, been allowed to rest.

You had been in love with him since you were children. It was a fact and a secret you had never dared speak aloud. So you had tucked it away and gotten on with things, watching from a sensible distance as the boy you knew grew into exactly the man you suspected he would become. What you hadn't known was that he had been doing the exact same thing.

Then came the knight. It was nothing; a harmless conversation in the great hall, a jest that made you laugh. It carried across the room. Something in Valarr went very still.

He crossed to you without hurry, which was somehow more unnerving than if he had moved quickly. He was perfectly courteous. The knight found a reason to be elsewhere. Valarr's hand closed around your arm, firm and certain, and he guided you from the hall and down a quiet corridor until there was no one else.

He released you and turned. The composure was gone. He looked at you for a long moment.

"I will not watch you with anyone else," he said. Simply. Like a fact he was reporting.

"It's about time," you said.

Surprise, then warmth crossed his features. Then the expression of a man who has just understood how much time he wasted being sensible. He kissed you, and it was unhurried and certain and entirely worth every year of waiting.

You stopped and turned on him, the soft light from the window catching the determined set of your face. You told him exactly what you thought of him. Your words were precise and direct, each one slicing through his armor of disdain. You spoke of his cruelty as a shield, his condescension, and how you refused to be managed or dismissed like a troublesome servant. You were entirely unafraid, and somewhere in the middle of it you noticed the shift. His usual restless energy gone, looking at you with an expression you hadn't seen before — focused and arrested, you had his undivided attention.

You finished what you were saying. The final word hung in the air between you.

He kissed you.

No warning, just a decision made and acted upon. His hand came up to the back of your neck and the kiss was certain and consuming and entirely on his terms. When he pulled back his eyes held yours, something warm and satisfied in them, waiting to see what you would do.

You held his gaze.

"Don't think this means you weren't being insufferable," you told him.

He smiled, the kind he didn't give easily. "I know," he said, and kissed you again.

[sedonasummer]

oooh i loved the headcanon about the characters saying ‘i love you’ for the first time. it was so, so beautifully written.

i was wondering if you might also be open to writing about this: how do they say ‘i love you’ non-verbally? <3

and please feel free to ignore this if you’ve already written something like it, or if someone’s asked before and i just missed it 🫣

ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ | ᴀᴋᴏᴛꜱᴋ ᴍᴇɴ

— summary: They love you in more ways than just words 

— pairing: Valarr Targaryen, Aerion Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, Ser Duncan, Daeron Targaryen, Lyonel Baratheon x Reader 

— content: fluff| These men are down atrocious

— a/n: no notes, just fluff. Thank you as always for likes, comments, reblogs, and requests. <3

He shows his love by being the most princely of princes. For you, every rule of chivalry is simply the way he lives. He offers you his arm to walk. He gives you his cloak if there is a chill. His hand is politely at your back to guide you through a crowd. He brings you flowers. He may have written you a poem — perhaps in fact, he has written you several. You are his lady, and he treats you like the treasure you are, genuinely and without performance, because to him that is simply what you deserve, and he cannot imagine behaving any other way.

He shows his love by taking care of your well-being. You were deep in work all day and complained of a headache that evening, you think it's because you forgot to eat. He grumbles about this, but the next time you are caught up in something, servants appear at regular intervals with meals, snacks, wine, water, whether you say you need them or not. You want to go riding, he complains at length about how ridiculous it would be if you were to get hurt. Three knights accompany you. They have all been made aware that if a single hair on your head is out of place, he will separate their heads from their shoulders. You tell him you do not have the heart to ever turn the children away no matter how exhausted you are, so he takes it upon himself. The next time he sees you tired and hears them looking for you, he sends them off to do something else so you can nap. They pout, he does not pay it much attention. Your well-being is the most important thing.

He shows his love through grand gestures and gifts. He brags about you to anyone who will listen and several who would prefer not to — your wit, your beauty, something clever you said, the way you handled a situation. He wins tournaments, hunts, contests of every kind, and his very favorite thing to do with a victory is make it about you, crowning you queen of love and beauty with great ceremony and considerable noise and looking around the room afterward, daring anyone to have a problem with it. There is nothing small or quiet about how he loves you. The whole of Westeros is going to know.

He shows his love by remembering everything. Every small thing, every detail, every passing mention. You like a certain fruit and have not had it in a while — someone is sent across King's Landing, across Westeros if necessary, and it is with your breakfast the next morning. You mention an interest in a book and find it placed carefully in your favorite reading spot the following day. You told him once, offhandedly, about a cat that scratched you badly when you were young, explaining that's why you don't care for the creatures. No cat will be seen in the keep again. Sorry Egg. His attention to you makes him the best at giving gifts, which works out beautifully because he loves to give them.

He shows his love by giving you his time and keeping you near. He is not a man with much of it, but for you, he always finds it, even if it is only a moment carved out of a day that belongs entirely to the realm. He likes to have his meals with you — it is a moment where he can catch up with you, hear about your day, and simply be present with no demands on him from anyone else. He never tells you he is too busy. Sometimes you come to his solar and simply sit, you with your embroidery or your book, he at his work, both of you quiet, both of you in your own world, and he loves this more than he would ever say. And if you come up behind him and press a soft kiss to his cheek while looking over his shoulder at whatever he is working on, that will undo him entirely. 

He shows his love by protecting you. He walks slightly behind you because from there he can see everything in front of you, and nothing can reach you without going through him first. He is the first through every unfamiliar door, he gently but firmly holds your hand, and always helps you down from your horse. You move through the world with a happy obliviousness, and you are allowed to because he is the one making sure you never have to think about your safety.

He shows his love through contact. It does not need to be large or obvious, just the steady reassuring fact of him. His hand finding yours under the table, light and certain. A hand at the small of your back as you move through a room. His knee against yours as you sit together. The way he leans in or dips his head when you speak, like what you are saying is the only thing in the room worth attending to. Kisses pressed to your forehead, your cheek, a quick press to your lips in passing. A look across a room that says everything. Aerion makes sure you always know he is there, he has you, he is paying attention. With him you never have to wonder.

[sedonasummer]

the men of AKOTSK + what are their hands doing while they’re in the middle of it? because I can absolutely imagine Maekar being the type to grab your wrists and hold them behind your back when he’s taking you from behind

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ | ᴀᴋᴏᴛꜱᴋ ᴍᴇɴ

— summary: exactly what it says on the tin 

— pairing: Valarr Targaryen, Aerion Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen, Daeron Targaryen, Ser Duncan x Reader 

— content: 18+ MDNI | Smut | Implied smut | Porn without plot

— a/n: the things I would do to get Valarr's hands around my throat. The things I would do to get Maekar frankly anywhere near me. Anyway...

Aerion's fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, the pressure immediate and unrelenting. You gasped, your back arching off the mattress as he hauled you closer, the friction of the sheets burning against your skin. His grip was a vice-like clamp that promised to leave dark, finger-shaped bruises mapped across your thighs. . That was the point. He wanted you marked. He wanted you to feel the phantom pressure of his hands hours after he was gone, a physical reminder that every inch of you belonged to him. You didn't fight it.

Then the atmosphere shifted. The hand that had been bruising your hip moved with sudden, startling deliberacy, trailing up the curve of your waist before settling against your jaw. The contrast made your head spin. Where his touch had been punishing, it was now reverent, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a tenderness that brought a lump to your throat. He tilted your head back, forcing your gaze away from the ceiling and locking it onto his. His eyes were dark, swirling with a hunger that made your breath catch, yet the way he held your face was as if you were made of spun glass that might shatter under too much pressure.

You didn't look away. You couldn't. He lowered his mouth to yours, the kiss deep and consuming, stealing the air from your lungs. It was a claim, just as much as the bruises on your hips were. His lips moved against yours with a slow, devastating rhythm, his tongue sweeping in to dominate the space, tasting you, memorizing you. You felt the duality of him in every nerve ending, the rough hands that manhandled you, the soft lips that adored you. The marks screamed you are mine, while the kiss whispered you are everything.

The air in the room felt heavy, charged with a silence that vibrated against your skin. You were lying back, breath hitching in your chest as his weight shifted beside you. His hand was never still, a constant, roaming heat that refused to let you settle. It started at your breast, his palm rough and demanding, squeezing the soft flesh until you gasped, your back arching off the mattress instinctively to chase the friction. He didn't linger there for long. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path upward, skating over the sensitive curve of your collarbone before wrapping firmly around your throat.

The grip was possessive but not suffocating, a blatant claim of ownership that made your pulse hammer against his fingertips. You stared up at him, your eyes wide, feeling the rapid thump of your heart trapped beneath his hand. He watched you with an intensity that consumed everything, his gaze dark and unblinking, cataloging every flutter of your eyelids and every parting of your lips.

Without a word of warning, without asking for permission or shifting his weight to give you a moment to adjust, his hand hooked behind your knee. He shoved your leg up and out, opening you to him with a roughness that felt entirely like devotion. He grabbed your hip, his fingers digging deep into the softness there, and pulled. Your body slid across the sheets, entirely at his mercy, repositioned exactly how he wanted you.

His other hand joined the first, gripping your waist, then sliding down to cup your ass, lifting you slightly to change the angle of your hips. The overwhelming effect of that focused attention was consuming. Every squeeze, every repositioning, every heavy breath was absolute. You were entirely in his hands, maneuvered by a man who decided what he wanted and simply took it, leaving you breathless and soaking wet, waiting to see what he would demand next.

Daeron's fingers were always in your hair, a fixation that anchored you to the present moment. It started as a gentle exploration, his palms cradling the back of your head with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. You leaned into the touch, eyes closing as his thumbs stroked the sensitive skin behind your ears. For a moment, the world narrowed down to the warmth of his hands and the steady rhythm of your own breathing. He didn't speak, but the way his fingers combed through the strands, careful not to snag, spoke of a reverence that made your throat go dry.

Then the mood shifted. The gentleness evaporated, replaced by a rougher need. His hand tangled into the roots, fingers curling into a tight fist, and he pulled. Your head snapped back, a sharp gasp tearing from your lips as your scalp stung. Your eyes flew open, locking onto his. He watched you intently, his gaze heavy and unblinking, tracking every flicker of sensation that crossed your face. The pain was sharp but electric, shooting down your spine and settling low in your belly, a sudden, throbbing heat. You didn't pull away, instead your body arched toward him, silently begging for more. His grip tightened, holding you captive in the tension between pleasure and pain, and you felt your pulse hammering against your skin.

He didn't let you look away for long. When he wanted you completely still, he released your hair and cupped your face, his palms rough and hot against your cheeks. He tilted your head up, forcing you to meet his stare. There was no escape, nowhere to hide. His thumbs brushed over your lips, parting them, and then he leaned in. The kiss was deep and consuming, his tongue invading your mouth with a deliberate slowness that left you breathless. You moaned into him, the sound muffled by his lips, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

He swallowed every noise you made. You felt the weight of his control, the way he dictated the pace, the depth, the very air you breathed. Your pussy throbbed, wet and aching as he filled you. He just kept kissing you, relentless and thorough, until your knees were weak and your mind was a haze of need. Nothing escaped him, not a gasp, not a tremble, not the way your body melted against his, surrendering to the overwhelming heat of his touch.

The iron headboard rattled against the stone wall, a rhythmic thudding that echoed the heavy slap of skin against skin. Ser Duncan loomed above you, his broad shoulders blocking out the flickering candlelight, casting his face in shadow while his body radiated a heat that seared your skin. One of his large hands was clamped tight around your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh with a grip that left absolutely no ambiguity about his strength. He held you pinned to the mattress, anchoring you in place as he drove into you with relentless, punishing thrusts. You gasped, your back arching off the bed, your hands grasping futilely at the sweat slicked muscles of his arms.

His other hand was wrapped around one of the vertical bars of the headboard, knuckles white as he squeezed the iron. You watched the corded muscles of his forearm tense and bulge, the veins standing out starkly under his skin. He was doing the harder work with that hand, keeping something brute and wild tightly leashed. It was a restraint you only witnessed on the nights you explicitly asked him not to hold back, and the air in the room was thick with the tension of him fighting for control. The bed frame groaned under the strain of his grip, the old wood creaking in protest as he forced himself to stay measured despite the ragged rhythm of his breathing.

Your pussy clenched around him, the wet sounds of your coupling filling the silence between his guttural grunts. He felt massive inside you, stretching you wide, filling you so completely that you could barely think straight. The friction was exquisite, a dragging heat that built with every stroke, stoking the fire low in your belly. You looked up at him, watching the bead of sweat roll down his temple, his jaw clenched tight as he stared down at where your bodies joined. His eyes were dark, burning with a hunger that bordered on feral, and you knew exactly how much effort it took for him not to simply let go and wreck you.

The air in the room was thick, heavy with the scent of sex, but you barely noticed it over the overwhelming sensation of Maekar's grip. His hands were everywhere and nowhere all at once, controlling the narrative of your body before your mind could catch up. You were on your knees now, face buried in the mattress to muffle the sounds clawing up your throat, but he didn't let you hide. One large hand clamped around both your wrists, pinning them securely against the small of your back. The pressure was absolute, a steel band that forced your chest down and arched your spine deeper, presenting you to him like an offering.

"Stay still," he growled, the command vibrating through his chest and directly into yours.

You couldn't have moved if you wanted to. His other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh to hold you steady while he drove into you. The rhythm was brutal, a heavy, punishing cadence that he set with terrifying precision. Every thrust slammed his hips against you, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing lewdly in the quiet room. You were helpless, taking the thick, relentless stretch of him while he used you exactly how he pleased.

Then, the world tilted. Without warning, he released your wrists and flipped you over. Before you could scramble for purchase, he was on top of you, heavy and suffocating in the best way possible. He caught your wrists in one hand again, dragging them up and pressing them into the pillows above your head. The stretch in your shoulders burned, grounding you in the moment as he settled between your thighs. He didn't surge in immediately, he paused, his free hand splaying wide across your lower belly.

You gasped, your back bowing off the bed. The pressure was immense. With his hand pressed flat right above your pubic bone, you could feel him moving inside you with terrifying clarity. Every inch of him dragged against your walls, and his palm forced you to feel the intrusion from the outside too. It was too much, a double assault of sensation that made your vision blur.

"Feel that?" he rasped, his eyes boring into yours, dark and hungry. "You take me so well."

You nodded frantically, unable to form words. You were exactly where he put you, trapped under his weight, filled to the brim. The knowledge that this was exactly what you craved, this total loss of control, this absolute surrender, crashed over you. And looking into his eyes, you saw that he knew it. He saw the surrender in your glassy stare, the way your body clenched around him in greedy appreciation. That realization shattered his composure, his rhythm faltered for a split second before he fucked into you harder, chasing the high with a desperate possessive intensity.

The mattress dipped beneath Valarr's weight as he settled over you, his knees framing your hips, trapping you against the sheets. His hand found your throat, the grip firm and calculated, his palm pressing against your windpipe with a precision that stole the air from your lungs without causing pain. Your pulse hammered against his fingers, a frantic rhythm that matched the throbbing between your legs. The restriction sharpened every sensation, the edges of your vision blurring as the blood roared in your ears. You couldn't think, couldn't form a coherent thought beyond the overwhelming pressure of his body and the hand cutting off your oxygen.

He leaned down, the heat of his chest radiating against yours, his breath ghosting over the sensitive shell of your ear. "That's it," he murmured, his voice a low rasp that settled somewhere behind your sternum. "Take it." His hand shifted. Before you could gasp, two fingers pressed against your lower lip, insistent and demanding. You parted your lips automatically, welcoming the intrusion. He slid them inside, pressing down on your tongue, filling your mouth with the taste of salt and skin. You closed your lips around his digits, sucking hard, a guttural groan vibrating in your chest.

The sound snapped something loose in him. He studied every micro expression, cataloging your surrender with an intensity that consumed. You were completely exposed, utterly at his mercy, and the way he drank in the sight made your pussy clench.