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More medieval dyes for y'all!
pet owners am I right
"Fire In His Heart" Baelor Targaryen
summary: Baelor teaches his son's pretty betrothed how to please a man...
warnings: smut; inexperienced!reader; age gap; secretly pervy Baelor; mentions of Valarr, cheating; Baelor is struggling with his morals
words: 3.3k
notes: No physical description of the reader (only that she has hair). If you don't feel comfortable with these warnings/topics, please do not read. I am not responsible for the media YOU choose to consume. Also, English is not my first language.
Baelor let out an almost guttural sound at the feeling of your gentle kiss, a strange mix of pain and relief washing over him all at once. He knew it was wrong. He knew he should keep his distance. But he was weak. Too weak for you. For his own son’s betrothed.
When you murmured that you wanted to help him undress, a wave of heat washed over him. He wanted to feel your hands all over him so bad, and he was too damn weak to deny you.
"Help me, then," he grunted roughly.
You reached for the laces of his tunic with trembling fingers, tugging them loose with slow, clumsy movements. Your breath hitched as you exposed the broad expanse of his chest - the salt-and-pepper hair dusting it, the scars mapping his skin. Your fingertips traced a particularly jagged one near his collarbone.
"Tell me how you got this one?" You whispered, pressing a feather-light kiss to the mark while your hands continued working downward to unfasten his belt.
Baelor's breathing turned ragged when your lips touched his scar, his hands tightening where they gripped your waist. "The... the First Blackfyre Rebellion," he managed, voice thick. "Took a lance splinter through my gorget."
You made a soft, sympathetic noise, kissing the scar again before continuing your ministrations. Your fingers brushed against the growing hardness straining against his breeches, making you both gasp.
"Oh..." you breathed, looking up at him through your lashes. "My Prince, you're..."
Baelor growled—low and rough—at your innocent touch, at the way your fingers brushed against him like you didn’t know what you were doing to him.
He caught your wrist suddenly, pinning it against his chest—right over his pounding heart. His mismatched eyes burned as they locked onto yours.
"Yes," he gritted out, breath ragged. "Yes, I am."
He dragged your hand down, forcing you to feel the full length of him—hot and aching beneath your fingertips.
"And you did this."
You made a small noise as you felt the full size of him. He was big, hard. His length felt hot under your palm. You squeezed on instinct, grip tightening around him.
A violent shiver went down Baelor's spine at the innocent squeeze of your hand.
He groaned, his fingers clenching into your hip once more. He was losing his damn mind.
He was supposed to keep himself in check, he was supposed to let you leave—but then you looked up at him with those damn big eyes like you trusted him…
"Stop," he rasped, his voice low and gravelly. "Stop teasing me, sweet girl. We shouldn't be-"
“Does it hurt?” You asked. “I’ve heard men say it hurts if they stay like… like this, for too long.”
Baelor’s expression darkened instantly at the mention of other men.
The last thing he wanted was to think of other men right now.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together for a moment before he forced himself to exhale through his nose.
"Yes," he admitted roughly, though it pained him to say it aloud. His cock ached, throbbing under your touch, desperate for relief.
"But that doesn't mean you need to-"
He cut himself off sharply, fingers flexing against your skin.
"Damn it, girl—you shouldn't be thinking about such things."
“But I don’t want you to hurt.” You pouted. “You helped me with my ache…”
Baelor exhaled sharply—half frustration, half pure torment.
You looked up at him with those big, earnest eyes, pleading with him like this was some selfless act of mercy rather than a sin.
And gods, he was weak.
He shook his head, looking almost pained. "That's… that's different," he protested, voice rough and tense. "I'm a grown man. I can handle it. You're just a girl."
"You don't have to," he insisted, even as his hips twitched forward slightly—betraying his own desperation. "I can—ah—take care of it myself."
His breath hitched when your fingers brushed against the tip—so soft, so damn innocent.
Fuck.
He was already losing his mind.
“How do you take care of it?” You asked, kissing up his neck. Helping him take off his tunic.
“Can I watch? I want to learn how to please you, my Prince.”
The Seven help him.
He groaned softly when you began peppering his neck with soft kisses, your lips feather-light against his skin. He couldn't help the shivers that ran down his spine, the way his chest heaved as the heat in his belly coiled tighter and tighter.
And then you were offering to watch while he took care of this?
He almost whimpered, his head tipping back as he exhaled sharply.
"You... you want to watch?"
You nodded against his neck, leaning closer into him so his bulge pressed against your belly. Sighing as you felt it against your soft skin—hot and thick. “Let me… please.”
Baelor was doomed.
He exhaled sharply—half a groan—before finally, finally nodding—slowly, as if fighting himself even now.
"...fine," he rasped, voice wrecked already.
He leaned back slightly, just enough to drag his breeches down over his hips—freeing his cock, thick and flushed and aching.
He took himself in hand with a low groan—eyes flicking to yours—before he gave a slow stroke.
"Like this," he gritted out, breath already ragged, watching your face closely, gauging your reaction.
His voice was rough with desperation: "Now learn."
"Watch how I touch myself... think of you while I do."
His hand moved again, another long, slow drag up his length, eyes burning into yours as he did so.
You smiled, biting your lip as you watched with hungry eyes. In a moment of confidence, you push him down onto the bed and lie your head on his stomach to watch closely.
Baelor groaned as your soft head came to rest against his stomach, his free hand reaching down to run through your hair affectionately.
You were so close, so damn close to him. He could feel your warm breath on his skin, your soft hair against his stomach, the way you watched his every move in rapt attention.
The way your eyes followed his hand as it moved against his aching length, the way they darkened, your cheeks flushing with a soft pink as he began to stroke himself off more quickly.
"You like watching, don't you?" he panted.
“Mhm,” you hummed, nodding, your hair tickling his stomach. Your hand coming to rest on his lower stomach. Not quite touching his cock, but close enough to tease.
Baelor hissed when your fingers brushed just close enough to tease, close enough that he could feel the ghost of your touch, but not enough to give him any relief.
His stomach muscles clenched beneath your hand as he fought against the urge to beg you to touch him, his breathing already ragged, his cock twitching eagerly in his own grip.
"You're a cruel little thing," he gritted out, halfway between frustration and admiration, before his fingers tightened around his length again, his strokes growing more frantic as he lost himself in the sight of you watching him so intently.
He growled, his thumb passing over the head of his leaking head. He was so damn sensitive.
"Enjoying yourself?" he groaned, voice dripping with sin.
"Enjoying me?
“Yes, my Prince,” you said in a breathy voice. Watching the red tip leak as he touched himself. Finding the sight oddly pretty. The pearly bead making you lick your lips, as if you were a kitten wanting the cream.
Baelor groaned as he heard your breathy voice, saw the way your eyes widened when the tip of his cock twitched against his palm, smearing pre-cum against his skin.
He could feel his own control slipping, his hand moving faster now, his grip tightening as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in his gut.
"You—ah—look at you," he gritted out, eyes dark with need. "Staring at my cock like a little whore..."
The words came out before he could stop them, raw and possessive, but gods, he meant them.
You gasped as he called you a whore, eyes widening. “I’m not!” You protested, brows furrowed defiantly.
Baelor froze, his hand stilling mid-stroke, his entire body going rigid.
The moment the words left his lips, he regretted them.
His breathing was harsh, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he looked down at you—his expression shifting from heated to horrified in a heartbeat.
"Fuck," he rasped, voice thick with guilt—immediately pulling his hand away from himself entirely, his cock twitching pathetically against his stomach.
"I didn't—" He swallowed hard, shaking his head slightly as if trying to clear his thoughts.
"Forgive me," he gritted out, his voice rough with self-loathing now. "That was—that was wrong of me."
He sat up suddenly—moving away from you—before running a trembling hand through his hair.
"You're not," he insisted hoarsely. "You're good. You're—" He exhaled sharply, jaw clenching.
"—Too good for this."
His mismatched eyes flickered with conflict—want and guilt warring inside him.
"I told you we should stop."
His voice was thick—halfway between a plea and a growl—before he reached for his breeches, hastily tugging them back up over his hips as if desperate to hide the evidence of his sin.
He needed to pull himself together.
Now.
“No, stop,” you stopped him, gently pulling him back to you. “I… I was only teasing. I wasn't offended by your words.”
Going to pull his breeches down again. Looking at his cock as it jumped up once again. Jutting against his stomach. “Please…” you pleaded in a soft voice.
Baelor groaned, his breath ragged as you tugged his breeches back down, freeing his cock again.
Your soft plea, so goddamn innocent, sent a violent shudder through him.
His cock twitched against his stomach as you freed him again, already leaking at the tip, shamefully eager for your touch, your gaze, you.
He wanted to protest. He should protest. But the moment you touched him, the moment your fingers grazed his heated skin, his resolve crumbled.
"Gods," he gritted out, hand tightening in your hair before he could stop himself, pulling you closer to him.
His cock throbbed against your cheek, leaving a sticky smear against your skin as he groaned, half-mad with want.
"Fine," he growled.
His fingers slid from your hair to cup your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, his mismatched eyes burning into yours with an intensity that made your stomach flutter.
"You want to help?" His voice was rough and low as he guided your hand to his cock, wrapping your fingers around him.
"Then touch me."
There was no hesitation from you, your fingers encircling him obediently, stroking him gently at first—tentatively—as if still unsure of what to do.
But your eyes were still fixed on his. Wide and innocent, yet darkened with an eager curiosity as you watched him, studying every twitch and shiver he made under your touch.
Baelor hissed—his grip tightening in your hair—as your fingers tentatively wrapped around him, your touch so soft and unsure yet so perfect all the same.
He watched you, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he fought to keep his breathing steady.
"Tighter," he growled, his cock twitching eagerly in your grasp.
"Like this."
His hand covered yours, guiding your fingers tighter around his length, before demonstrating a slow, firm stroke.
His hips bucked up into your grip—helplessly—as a bead of pre-cum leaked from the tip.
"Yes," he groaned, halfway between praise and prayer, as he watched you with darkened eyes.
"You learn quickly, sweet girl."
His thumb brushed your bottom lip that was swollen from biting, before murmuring, dangerously soft:
"Now kiss it."
You hesitated for just a fraction of a second, your breath hitching, before obediently leaning forward, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to the flushed head of his cock.
It tasted salty, the skin so impossibly hot against your lips, and you heard Baelor gasp above you, his fingers tightening in your hair almost painfully.
Encouraged, you kissed him again—just as sweetly—before daring to flick your tongue against the slit, tasting him properly this time.
Baelor groaned, his entire body tensing as your tongue flicked against the sensitive head of his cock.
He tried desperately to fight the urge to thrust up into your mouth.
"Fuck," he rasped as he watched you with darkened eyes.
Your innocent curiosity was ruining him—the way you licked at him tentatively, like you weren't sure what to do but wanted to learn. It made his cock twitch violently against your lips.
His hips bucked helplessly—just once—before he caught himself, gritting his teeth hard enough to ache.
"More," he growled almost desperately as his thumb brushed your cheekbone, guiding you closer.
"Take me into your mouth—slowly."
His breathing was ragged, his cock throbbing as he watched you, waiting for your next move with feverish anticipation.
You swallowed nervously, never having done something like that. It almost seemed wrong... taking a man's private parts into your mouth? But you couldn't deny him. He was your Prince, your soon-to-be husband's father.
Slowly, hesitantly, you wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock. Suckling on it gently. Eyes still big and unsure, your inexperience clearly visible.
Seven Hells.
If Baelor was in any way coherent, he'd feel guilty for taking advantage of an innocent girl's trusting heart.
But as it was, he could no more deny the pleasure you were giving him than he could stop breathing.
He watched you with feverish intensity—as if he was memorising every detail for later, for all those times he would spend alone and desperately thinking of you.
He reached out to gently caress your cheek, fingers lightly tracing the outline of your jaw—before cupping your throat.
His hand was almost large enough to encompass your entire neck, his fingers squeezing slightly around the sides—as if testing, as if thinking of how easily his thumb and forefinger would almost reach around.
"You're lovely, you know that?" he murmured—a hint of a breathless smile on his lips.
"I could watch you like this for hours. Days. But I'm only a man, girl, and I can only take so much."
You mewled around his cock as he wrapped his fingers around your throat, still only sucking shyly on his tip. Unsure if you should go further and take more of him into your mouth. Your hand wrapped around the base of his cock, holding him firmly in your grasp.
Baelor's thoughts were nothing but a blurry, feverish mess, all focused on the feeling of your mouth around him, your soft tongue on his skin.
He wanted more, needed more, but he knew he had to restrain himself—he was already pushing the boundaries of what was proper, what was right.
And he knew he should pull away, now, before he did something he'd regret for the rest of his life.
He was a grown man—a man of honour, of duty, of responsibility. He was the heir to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms.
Yet here he was, in bed with his own son's future bride.
But the guilt was quickly outweighed by how good it felt, silencing his moral compass instantly.
"You can take more," he murmured—rough but encouraging—his hand sliding from your throat to cradle the back of your head, guiding you gently.
"Just a little deeper—ah—just like that."
You keened at the praise, slowly taking more of him into your soft, wet mouth. Tongue pressing on the underside of his cock. Hollowing your cheeks to suck on his cock more properly.
You just wanted to make him feel good, wanting- no, needing his praise. You knew it was wrong, a sin, to be in bed with your beloved's father. But Gods could surely forgive you, right?
"Fuck—" He barely choked the word out, his entire body shuddering as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in his gut.
His cock throbbed against your tongue—so close—his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps as he fought to hold back.
"You—ah... you’re going to ruin me, sweet girl," he gritted out, voice wrecked, before his hand wrenched your head back just enough to pull his cock from your lips with a wet pop.
"Where did you learn to—shit—suck cock like this?"
Had someone else touched you? Taught you? Was it Valarr?
The thought made his stomach twist with something dark and ugly.
His chest heaved, his cock dripping against your flushed lips as he stared down at you with darkened, wild eyes.
"Enough," he rasped, though it sounded more like a plea than an order.
"You’ve—fuck—you’ve done enough."
Baelor's heart clenched at the expression on your face, his expression twisting with guilt, then shame, before he shook his head roughly.
"No," he gritted out, breath ragged, as he tried to force the words past his teeth. He wanted to finish, gods knew he wanted to finish. He could still feel your lips on him, warm and soft and tempting.
He looked away, struggling to find his self-discipline, his resolve, before turning back to you with a sharp, commanding voice.
Baelor's entire body trembled with restraint as he cupped your face, his thumb wiping a stray drop of spit from your swollen lips.
"Because I'm this close—" His cock twitched violently against his stomach, still flushed and leaking. "—to forgetting you're my son's bride and fucking this sweet mouth raw."
His voice dropped to a broken whisper: "And that can't happen."
With visible effort, he pushed you back gently and reached for his breeches—his hands shaking as he pulled them up with deliberate slowness.
"Go. Now."
The order came out strangled, part plea, part warning, as he turned away to grip the bedpost until his knuckles turned white.
"Before I do something we'll both regret."
Your brows furrowed, and you immediately thought you must've done something wrong. "No, please," you pleaded, voice almost pathetic. "I can do better, I promise. I-I'll try with Valarr so I can be better for you," I whimpered, tears in my eyes now.
"I'm sorry if I'm not so good yet; I can do better."
Feeling so small and sad, not wanting him to pull away again. You could be better for him. Practice on your husband, Valarr, you're sure he wouldn't mind.
His heart ached as he watched your expression crumple, the sight of you pleading with him, offering yourself for his use was almost too much to bear.
He should've pushed you away, but he just couldn't.
"Shhh, sweetling…" he murmured, voice rough and choked, as he cupped your face with his hands.
"You're so sweet. So lovely."
His hand came up to tenderly stroke your hair—his thumb sweeping across your forehead.
"And far, far too perfect for this messy, old man."
You pouted at his words, shaking your head in his hands.
You looked up at him through your lashes, looking vulnerable as you leaned into his touch. "I don't mind that you're older... I like that." You said in an almost whisper, leaning closer to him. Wanting to feel his lips on yours again.
"You can teach me things I don't know yet..." You said the sweetest things. Any other man would simply break, but he was the king to be. He had to be stronger than this.
Baelor exhaled sharply—his fingers tightening briefly in your hair—before he forced himself to pull back.
His chest ached with want, but his conscience won out.
"You don’t even know what you’re asking for," he murmured, shaking his head slowly, his expression pained but firm.
His thumb brushed your cheekbone tenderly, almost regretfully, before he straightened, putting distance between you once more. Leaving you sad and teary-eyed on the bed.
"And I won’t be the one to teach you."
His voice was softer now, but still edged with finality.
"You deserve better than this, little one."
You were about to interrupt, but the look on his face made you close your mouth. Knowing when to stay quiet like a true princess.
Then—with visible effort—he stepped back, adjusting his tunic before speaking again—this time with the quiet authority of a prince, not just your prince:
"Go find Valarr."
The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he forced them out regardless.
"Now."
And then he turned away. He couldn't change his mind on this.
A FORGOTTEN HABIT
pairing: cregan stark x wife!reader
summary: you’ve already forgotten what it's like to share a bed with your husband. and cregan, as the most conscientious and proper husband, decided to remind you. you're meeting a new day together after his long absence.
word count: 2k
c/w: 18+ , mdni , fluff , domestic intimacy , oral sex ( fem receiving ) , cregan is longing , cregan is desperately in love with his wife
a/n: i couldn’t finish it for a long time and that tortured me
The castle was slowly stirring to life, another day beginning to unfurl. Servants flitted to and fro, a quiet chaos humming just beyond the chamber doors. Each body has its own purpose, each part essential to the whole. One could not interrupt its natural flow without consequence.
From the yard below came the crisp, rhythmic wallop of wooden swords. Boys at their drills, their laughter carrying clear and bright across the frostbitten air. The unfiltered, guileless joy of childhood. Lord Stark watched them sometimes from far, wondering how quickly the years would slip through his fingers before sons became men, before they took up the mantle of their ancestors and carried the North forward on their shoulders.
The walls of Winterfell, as well known, were raised upon natural hot springs. Fires were seldom needed; the very stones breathed warmth, lulling one toward sleep.
Heavy tapestries, richly embroidered, barred the morning sun from entering, and the chambers lay steeped in a soft, muted gloom. You lay sprawled in lazy serenity, buried beneath thick furs that cocooned you in warmth. But not only they kept the chill at bay. A man lay atop you, heavy and solid as another blanket entirely — Cregan, his cheek pressed to your belly, his broad palm splayed across your side, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your skin. His long and dark hair had tangled overnight; he never braided it before sleep, and come morning he would grumble (adorably, you thought) about the knots that always seemed to find him.
You smiled at the thought, your fingers threading almost idly through his tousled locks. He looked so peaceful now, so utterly at rest, though he had only returned from the Wall a single day past, pushing his horse hard the whole way.
"I missed you," he mumbled against your skin, his breath warm and startling, raising goosebumps in its wake. You twitched, not having expected either of you to break the silence for some time yet. His hand shifted higher, sliding just beneath your ribs, and he hitched himself closer. Closer hardly seemed possible, you thought.
His eyes were still heavy with the pull of sleep. Cregan could easily sink back into dreams, lie tangled with you for hours more, until some urgent lord came pounding at the door with talk of accounts and petitions and all the thousand petty matters that lordship demanded. No. No one will tear me from my wife for a single second longer, stirred in his mind.
Home. The word suddenly echoed in his chest, strange and new. The grey stone of Winterfell, so often grim and unyielding, now meant only you. Your smile, your eyes catching the firelight; your laughter, your sorrow. Everything now filtered through the heart of a man who had once been as cold and impassive as the walls he ruled.
You hummed softly, scarcely above a whisper. "You've already said that…about ten times now." Your fingers burrowed deeper into his dark hair. Your gaze drifted across the broad expanse of his back, the muscle that lay carved even in stillness, broad and powerful. Cregan's breathing was deep, almost a soft snore; your touch, soothing as it was, made him sway faintly, following the motion of your hand like a great beast seeking comfort.
Then, as if stirring from a dream, he lifted his head to meet your eyes. His lips curved into a faint, almost teasing smile. "I think one more time wouldn't hurt, my lady." A playful glint lit his gaze as he pressed a quick kiss to your stomach, the nearest of his sudden carnality.
You kindle something wild in him, a storm he couldn't always name. Some days you were sharp-tongued and impossible, and he half-wondered if some old crone had taken root inside his pretty wife. Other days you were light and sly as a vixen, and he feared he could never keep pace, that you would vanish into the snowy depths of the wood and leave him chasing shadows.
A startled gasp escaped you at his unforeseen movement, and the heat rose swiftly to your ears, flooded to your cheeks. You must have looked like a maiden again. Cregan chuckled, warm and low. "Forgive me, my wife. My long absence has clearly made you forget what it is to be surrounded by a man's attention, to be so affected by it," he intoned, droning voice of a maester reciting some tedious moral. Then laughter broke through, bright and boyish, and his lips descended again to your sensitive skin.
Lord Stark kissed you with life and fire, playful and fervent, as if he wasn't kissing you at all but rather tumbling like a wolf pup with its littermates. Your vibrant laughter filled the space, and the man’s heart pounded harder with very beat. In an instant, his hands braced themselves on either side of you, and he hovered above your frame, his chest rising and falling, his hair wilder than before. A smile spread across his face — the kindest, most genuine smile — and a faint dimple appeared on his cheek. You would never have guessed that this rugged, weathered man of the North could hold such lightness, such unguarded devotion. A man who had fallen for you utterly, who would move mountains or burn the world just to catch your smile.
You rolled your eyes, trying to deflect any suspicion that he was right and you truly had forgotten what it was to share a bed with your husband. But your nervous smile, the frantic beating of your heart betrayed you completely.
"I see," your husband said, with deliberate clarity.
His lips met yours in a tender, languid kiss. Palms cradled your face, rough and warm, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with unhurried reverence. The heat of his mouth settled on yours in a hungry, patient, full of all the longing kiss he had carried across the miles. You exhaled sharply through your nose, and he deepened the kiss, working on your lower lip, sliding his tongue inside with a slow, warm exploration that made your head swirl. You found your arms wrapping around the back of his neck, pressing him closer, craving more. Your cheeks flushed hot, your breath came short and ragged. It was only a kiss, one you had shared a hundred times before. Yet somehow, this one undid you entirely.
With visible effort, Cregan pulled back, just far enough to look at you. Cregan always wanted to look at you, your face was a miracle he could not explain, a mystery that stole his breath every time. His heart hammered as wildly as yours, his pupils blown wide, and in that very moment he looked less like the Lord of Winterfell and more like some adoring, awestruck pup.
He kissed you again, soft and brief. "You are so beautiful," the man murmured, and there was a tender sadness in his voice. "It almost grieves me that such loveliness must dwell in the cold North, tucked away behind these stone walls." He spoke with complete sincerity; soon after the Northman pressed another kiss to your lips, your jaw, the tender spot behind your ear, drawing out a fresh wave of goosebumps. You sighed, surrendering to his gentle ministrations.
He was here. Real, solid, warm — flesh and blood.
His kisses grew bolder, his open mouth trailing down your neck, your shoulders, your collarbones. Back up again.
Husband's large hands slid beneath your shift. You flinched, more violently than before, at the wave of warmth that washed over your body. Cregan's hands had always been warm, almost scalding. And he himself always seemed to burn with fire. He often complained that your chambers were too stifling, and so he would throw open the windows. Yet watching you burrow deeper into the furs with each passing night, he would think that he could endure the heat, if only his sweet little wife might sleep in comfort.
His palms traced the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist. His eyes gleamed with something ravenous.
He hitched up the hem of your nightdress, baring you with immodest recklessness. Your gaze darted away, your lashes fluttering in a frantic beat.
His lips descended upon your tender skin, a new expanse he had yet to explore that morning in your lovemaking. The Northman was gentle, but unbearably impatient, as his mouth traveled lower, from your ribs down to your navel. His breath seared your flesh, and through your mind raced the thought: how could a man so cold harbour such fire within? You arched into those utterly honest kisses. If only you knew that Cregan had cultivated and nourished these feelings solely because of you. Because of you and your nature, which captivated him more with each passing day, with a force that was nothing short of staggering.
Cregan hooked your leg, lifting it onto his shoulder. You shuddered entirely, drawing inward, as though he were committing some forbidden act, some transgression against the honourable nature of the Starks. And yet it was nothing of the sort of an acknowledgment. An acknowledgment of a husband's surrender to his wife.
With kisses, he descended upon your thigh, and his breath raised an extraordinary host of goosebumps across your skin. Your lips parted, and from your mouth escaped an involuntary sigh, impatient and utterly inviting.
He found your pussy and covered it with open-mouthed, wet kisses. He did it with such fervent hunger, as though he had dreamed of nothing else during all those days he had spent at the Wall. He worshipped you as if he could think of no other thing in the world but your slick, aching cunt. And that was the plainest truth. He licked and sucked at your folds, feasting in that very moment. He needed no grand banquets thrown in his honour — leave him his wife with her legs spread wide in his chambers, and that would be the truest feast for the Lord of Winterfell.
You arched your back and moaned so lewdly that you would later feel the burning shame of it, utterly and without question.
Cregan, meanwhile, was drinking you in, savouring every last drop of you.
Your fingers sank into your husband's hair with a newfound fervour, pressing him closer still. Cregan smiled against your skin, and his tongue began tracing ever more intricate patterns upon your swollen, aching nub with renewed diligence. His thumb stroked your thigh in a slow, steady rhythm, as though encouraging you. What further encouragement could you possibly need, when his mouth was working so ardently between your legs, delivering such immeasurable pleasure and setting sparks alight behind your eyes?
You gasped and panted, your breath hitching with each flick of his tongue. "Cregan!" you pleaded, your eyes snapping upward in a silent, desperate prayer to the heavens.
In response, your husband merely hummed against you, drawing out your rapture with merciless precision. You trembled violently, and with a loud, broken moan, you shattered beneath him.
Cregan pulled back from you, wiping your wetness from his face with the back of his hand. He looked more than satisfied with his morning mischief. The formidable man offered you a tender smile, then pressed a kiss to your forehead, achingly gentle, impossibly soft.
He held your gaze, his palm coming to rest against your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin in a slow caress. "I believe I must take my leave now, my lady," he uttered, his voice low and measured. "Else my wayward lords will have wrought some folly in my absence."
The man disentangled himself from the furs and rose from the bed with an effortless motion, shrugging into his robe. He dressed with soldierly swiftness, for that was precisely what he was. And then he left you, alone with your thoughts.
You lay there, flushed to the very roots of your hair, as the heavy door thudded shut, stirring a faint breeze across your heated skin. You bit your lip, still half-disbelieving of what had transpired only moments ago. A quiet giggle escaped you at the thought, and you burrowed yourself up to your nose beneath the blanket. Your smile lingered on your lips for a long, long while after.
dividers by @porcelaincatx 🤍🤍
THE JEWEL OF THE REALM
akotsk targaryens x reader; a series
04: MAEKAR— after another day of the tourney, you find yourself sneaking into Maekar’s bath. And he finds you.
warnings: smut, 18+, unprotected p n v, manhandling, Dom!Maekar, slight nipple play, fingering, pussy slaps, creampie, slapping, marking, sex in the tub, rough sex, orgasm denial.
The morning broke bright and clear, banners snapping in the wind above the lists. The postponed tourney had finally resumed, and the Red Keep stirred with excitement. Lords and ladies gathered in the stands, their silks and jewels glittering like a sea of color.
You arrived with the other noblewomen, your gown catching the sunlight, your hair pinned with a star-shaped clasp that marked your Dayne heritage. The air was alive with anticipation, though you noticed one figure who seemed utterly unbothered by the spectacle.
Valarr.
He reclined in the shade of the royal pavilion, a goblet in hand, his posture languid. He had already won his tilt the first day, his victory secure enough that he could afford to spend this one in leisure. His hair gleamed, his dark honey and violet eyes half-lidded as he watched the field with the air of someone who knew he was admired.
When he saw you, his lips curved into a smile.
“Lady Dayne” he greeted, rising just enough to offer his hand. “Come, sit. The view is better from here.”
You accepted, settling beside him.
Today Prince Maekar had decided to participate. Probably his father, the King, had dragged him there with the excuse of ‘his brother’s honor’ since he had a frown and a look that seemed to want to kill everyone. Besides, it was a hot day.
But when you saw him in his Targaryen armor, red and silver, you bit your lip. How would you do to get him to your bed? You needed him, clearly. But he had ignored you. Maybe if you sneak into his chambers..?
The prince’s voice took you out of your thoughts, and his sweet gaze made your lustful desires disappear for a while.
“You look lovely today, my lady” you smiled.
“Thank you, my prince.”
It was really a nice view to see a Prince of the realm blush. You got lost for a moment in his smile when you felt a burning gaze on you.
Aerion.
He rode with ferocity, his lance steady, his strikes right. He unhorsed one knight with brutal precision, looking triumphant, as always. Yet even as the crowd cheered, his eyes sought you in the stands.
He saw you laughing beside Valarr, saw the way Valarr leaned close, the way you smiled at his words.
Jealousy burned in him. His jaw tightened, his strikes grew harsher, as though each opponent were Valarr himself.
Valarr noticed, of course. He sipped his wine.
“He’s glaring”
You had noticed before but you played fool. An amazing tool that had helped you many times. “Whom, my prince?”
“Aerion. I think he likes you. He cannot bear that you sit with me.”
He couldn’t get any sweeter. ‘I think he likes you’ as if these were child games of child little crushes. Little did he know what you had planned..
“Oh really? Well, i think he likes half the noble laddies here, that shouldn’t be a problem”
“Aerion is ruled by envy” Valarr said lightly. “He cannot stand to see another favored. It is his nature.”
You glanced back at the lists, where Aerion’s lance shattered against another knight’s shield. His eyes flicked up again, sharp, accusing.
“My father was looking for you yesterday”
Oh.
Oh.
That can’t be good. You froze, trying to maintain your breathing, but the thought of your little princes talking to each other about you scared you to death. They could not know…no.. it’s not possible. It was a one time thing, clearly. Could he…?
“Really? Oh, well—what did he…what did he want?”
Valarr seemed unbothered, completely unaware of what was before his eyes. “Something about an important talk” he said, taking a sip of wine and looking at the knights jousting.
“Probably politics and such, he’s very good with alliances”
You relaxed.
“Ah…well, he can find me anytime” no he can’t.
He just hummed in response and you cleaned the sweat off your forehead. How did this affect you so much?
When Aerion returned to the pavilion after his tilt, his armor gleaming with dust and sweat, he passed by without a word. Buy when his eyes lingered on you, he couldn’t resist.
“Lady Dayne” he said curtly, bowing stiffly.
“Prince Aerion” you replied, polite.
He looked at Valarr, lounging with his goblet, and his lips curled. “Some prefer to watch rather than fight.”
Valarr raised his goblet in mock salute. “And some prefer to win early, so they may enjoy the day.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened. He turned away, muttering ‘spoiled prince’.
As the sun dipped low, the day’s tilts ended. The crowd dispersed, the lords returned to the feast, and the princes retreated to their chambers. You lingered in the gardens, the memory of Valarr’s laughter and Aerion’s glare still vivid. ‘They could wait’ you thought. What really had you pressing your legs together was Maekar and his impeccable armor. So you couldn’t resist.
The hot springs of the Red Keep were a secret indulgence of the royal family, a network of cavernous, steam-filled chambers fed by the same volcanic heat that had warmed Old Valyria. For Maekar, they were a sanctuary. A place to escape the endless courtly dances, his father’s quiet disappointment, and the prattling of his more charismatic brothers.
Tonight, the water was near-scalding, a perfect balm for muscles sore from the jousting. He sat on a submerged stone bench, the water lapping at his chest, his head tilted back against the cool rock, eyes closed. The only sounds were the gentle drip of condensation and the soft crackle of the braziers.
The soft click of the door’s latch was barely a whisper, but Maekar’s eyes snapped open. His violet gaze, cut through the steam. He saw a flash of your skin, a tumble of long hair, and the furtive movement of your figure slipping into the shadows by the pillars.
He said nothing. A muscle feathered in his jaw. Of course. It was you.
The Dayne girl. The realm’s new favorite playmate, all big lilac eyes and a smile that promised both innocence and utter chaos.
To him, you were a brat. A beautiful, infuriatingly bold brat who had clearly decided he was your most entertaining quarry.
He watched you through the mist, a silent predator. ‘She thinks herself clever, hiding.’ He thought. But Maekar was done with your games. The simmering irritation he always felt around you had, tonight, in the oppressive heat of the baths, twisted into something else. Something darker and far more insistent.
He rose from the water with a soft, near-soundless glide. Water sluiced down his broad, scarred chest and the powerful planes of his back. He didn’t reach for the linen cloth left on the edge. He moved with purpose, his bare feet silent on the warm, wet stone.
You were tucked behind a thick marble pillar, back to him, peering around it towards the pool he’d just vacated. You wore a thin, sleeveless shift of pale linen, already clinging damply to your skin in the steam.
He was upon you before you sensed him. One large, calloused hand clamped gently but firmly over your mouth, stifling the startled squeak. The other arm snaked around your waist, crushing your back against the solid wall of his chest. You went rigid, a tremor running through you. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come here…’
“Did you think” his voice was a low rumble against your ear, vibrating through you, “that I wouldn’t hear you? That I wouldn’t smell you?”
He could feel your heart hammering against his arm. He didn’t loosen his grip. He liked the feel of your panic, the way your body reacted to his sheer physical dominance. He turned you around to face him, keeping his hand over your mouth. Your eyes, so like his own but warmer, were wide with shock and something else… a spark of the familiar mischief, now tempered by a thrilling apprehension.
He removed his hand slowly, a silent warning. “What are you doing here?”
You licked your lips, a quick, nervous flick of your tongue. “The baths… they’re for the royal family. I am a guest of the crown.” Your voice was breathless, but you tried for defiance. It was a weak attempt.
“Guest” he repeated, the word dripping with disdain. “Guests do not sneak into occupied baths. Guests do not hide behind pillars like thieves.” He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. “You have been poking and prodding at me, my lady. Like a child with a stick, poking a sleeping dragon.”
Your chin lifted, a futile gesture of rebellion when you were pinned so thoroughly against the cold marble. “A sleeping dragon is a dull thing, my prince. Perhaps it needed waking.”
A slow, wicked smile touched his lips, a sight so rare it made your breath catch. “Oh, I am awake now.” His eyes roamed over your face, your parted lips, the rapid pulse beating in your throat. “And I am not dull.”
In one swift movement, he ducked and hauled you over his shoulder. You gasped, fists beating against his bare back. “Put me down! Maekar! Someone could…!”
“No one will come” he said, his voice grimly satisfied as he strode back towards the main pool. “It is just you and me.”
He didn’t gentle his descent into the water. He walked down the steps until the hot water reached his chest, and then he simply let you slide from his shoulder, down the front of his body. The thin shift was instantly soaked, becoming a transparent second skin. Your nipples pebbled against the wet linen, and the dark triangle at the apex of your thighs was a tantalising shadow.
He kept his hands on your waist, holding you steady in the chest-deep water. You had to tilt your head back to look up at him, hands braced against his chest for balance. The contact of your cool hands on his hot skin sent a jolt through him.
“You wanted my attention?” he murmured, his gaze heavy-lidded. “You have it.”
His hands slid from your waist, down over the curve of your hips, and then lower, gripping your ass and pulling your flush against him. You gasped, eyes widening as you felt the unmistakable, rigid cock pressing against your belly through the layers of wet linen. ‘This is no sleeping dragon.’
“I…” you started, but the words died in your throat as one of his hands left your backside and travelled up your spine, under the heavy, wet curtain of your hair, to fist gently in the dark strands at your nape. He tugged, tilting your head back further, exposing the long, pale column of your throat.
“You talk too much” he said, his voice a husky growl. “You always have too much to say. Clever little comments. Barbed little smiles.” He dipped his head, his lips brushing against the frantic pulse at your throat. “Let us see if I cannot find something better for that clever mouth to do.”
He kissed you then, and it was not a gentle thing. It was a claiming. His mouth slanted over youre, hot and demanding, his tongue pushing past your lips to tangle with. He tasted of the mineral water and raw masculinity. You moaned into his mouth, your hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. All the teasing you haf prepared, all your bravado, melted away under the assault of his focused desire.
When he finally broke the kiss, you were both panting. Your lips were swollen, eyes dazed.
“Now” he commanded, his voice rough. “You are mine for this night. You will not speak unless I bid it. You will not move unless I guide you.”
He released your hair, only to grasp the neckline of your shift. With one sharp, wet rip, he tore the delicate fabric down the front, baring you to the waist. The torn linen floated on the water around them. Your breasts, perfect with hardened nipples, were beaded with droplets of water and heat. His gaze was a physical caress.
He lowered his head and took one tight peak into his mouth. You cried out, your back arching, hands flying to his wet hair. He suckled you deeply, his tongue laving the sensitive bud while his hand found your other breast, kneading and teasing. He was relentless, alternating between gentle nips and deep, swirling sucks that sent bolts of pure pleasure straight to your cunt.
His free hand slipped beneath the water, finding the ruined remains of your shift and pushing it aside. His fingers found the slick heat between your legs. You were ready for him, more than ready. He groaned against your breast as he felt your wetness, your desire for him, a desire that matched his own.
“You are so wet for me” he breathed against your skin, his fingers circling your sensitive nub.
He gave your wet cunt a few slaps, the sound of the water against your skin was pure sin, just like the moan that came from your mouth.
You couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone a retort. All you could do was cling to him and moan as his fingers worked their magic, building a pressure inside you that was both exquisite and unbearable. He felt you begin to tremble, felt the first fluttering signs of your impending release.
He stopped.
You whimpered in protest, hips instinctively bucking against his hand. He chuckled, a low, dark sound.
“Oh, no, my lady” he murmured, gripping your hips and lifting you. “You do not get to spend before I am buried inside you. Not tonight.”
He positioned you, and with one smooth, powerful thrust, he entered you. The hot water offered little resistance, and the feeling of sinking into your tight, slick heat stole the breath from both of you. You cried out, head falling forward onto his shoulder. He held you there for a moment, letting you adjust to his size, his own body taut with the effort of restraint.
Then he began to move. His thrusts were deep up into you. The water sloshed around you, lapping against the stones, a rhythmic counterpoint to his relentless rhythm. He kept you pinned against him, one arm hooked under your knee to lift you higher, to drive himself deeper.
He slapped your ass hard enough to leave it red and burning, but you didn’t care.
“It wasn’t enough with my brother” he grunted against your ear, his pace increasing, “You needed me too” Another deep thrust. And another. On another occasion you would have jumped in fear, but you were drunk because of how well Maekar was fucking you.
It was beyond words, a litany of breathless cries and moans spilling from your lips. The pleasure was a wild, raging thing inside you, building higher and tighter with every stroke. You raked your nails down his back, your body a bow drawn taut by his hand.
He felt your inner walls begin to clench around him, and this time, he didn’t stop. He drove into you harder, faster, chasing his own release even as he spurred you towards yours.
“Now” he commanded, his voice a guttural roar in the steamy cavern.
And you did. With a shattered cry of his name, you shattered, body convulsing around him, waves of intense pleasure crashing over you. The feeling of your climax, so hot and tight, was his undoing. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and followed you over the edge, his own hoarse shout echoing off the ancient stones.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the gentle lapping of the water. He held you, his forehead resting against yours, both trembling in the aftermath. He slowly, gently, lowered your leg and eased his grip.
When you finally opened your eyes, the mischief was gone. Then, you remembered what he said about Baelor. You couldn’t find the words to ask him.
He cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing over your swollen lower lip. His own gaze was still intense, but the hard lines of his face had softened, just a fraction.
“You think my brother doesn’t tell me everything?” he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur that was a stark contrast to his earlier commands. “He came to me as if he had sinned and cursed our next five generations, my honorable brother”
You swallowed hard.
“Not to worry. That’s how he is”
You relaxed thanks to his touch.
“And i’m nothing like him.”
a/n: i had to i’m sorry. I just pictured Baelor confessing his ‘crime’ to his brother and Maekar just seizing the opportunity. Lol. Also, i noticed how i make more descriptions when it’s smut time. I’m a #whore
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⋆⭑”They say she is the fairest woman in the world. Her hair is silver-gold, and her eyes are amethysts.”⭑◦
My beautiful queen Daenerys Targaryen 🌸
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Please don’t repost without credit❕
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Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons.
more + timelapse under the cut
got carried away coloring a dany doodle from two weeks ago. spent 6 hours locked in on her only to delete the background and go w the classic j.c. penney glamour shot.
felt froggy and wanted to include a short time lapse of the coloring process bc i liked how it turned out. TW for flashing, it’s sped up.
Some Shiera and Bloodraven art, lol
