CW: Targcest mentioned in passing. Dubcon implied. Power imbalance. MDNI
Baelor with ED, who just cannot produce an heir. Even when he manages to finish, it's thin and watery and he doesn't need a maester to tell him he's the problem. And yet, without a proper successor, who will be king? Sickly Rhaegel, Aelor after? A young boy more worried about his sister's cunt than actually learning statecraft? Aenys on the other end of the spectrum, spending his nights in his study away from his wife?
Or Maekar, and the drunkard after? Or worse, Aerion?
No. Baelor needs an heir he can shape on his own, even if 'his own' must be subjective. His wife will hate him for it, but needs must, and it's not like she'd dare say anything lest he deny any involvement in the affair - and that's what it would be. An affair. Royal, too, and mores the trouble. Baelor may not show much of it himself, but Targaryen blood is distinctive, has been known to resurface generations on. The same lords that whispered about his own Dornish blood would only grow bolder with a dark haired heir. Or worse, some unaccounted for Tully auburn if he wasn't careful.
Better to stick to what you know, he figures, and thankfully he knows one Targaryen prince who's proven himself more than capable.
He lifted his head to look at her. "Catelyn," he said. His voice was distant and formal. "Where are the children?"
[Ned] would always ask her that. "In the kitchen, arguing about names for the wolf pups." She spread her cloak on the forest floor and sat beside the pool, her back to the weirwood. She could feel the eyes watching her, but she did her best to ignore them. "Arya is already in love, and Sansa is charmed and gracious, but Rickon is not quite sure."
- Catelyn I, AGOT
I wonder if he always asks because his own sister was still a child when she went missing? I’m having some sad thoughts over this line . . .
Hear me out — scent kink with Maekar, let that man be nose first in a bush and jerking it
This is how he wakes you up when you're pregnant. He insists you smell (and taste) different when you're making him another baby, and he likes it best when it's strongest, when the hinges of your joints are still damp with the night sweats you always get in your last trimester. You wake up slowly at first, the tickling of his beard and breath and the soft sounds of his fist - but then he's groaning long and low and you're reaching down to fist his hair as it draws you to full consciousness.
"Couldn't even wait until after breakfast?" You chastise, the baby growing within you prioritizing food over your slow-building pleasure.
Your husband hums, evidently pleased you're awake for this next bit. "My love this is breakfast."
CW: Targcest implied. Implied grooming. Canon atypical misogyny. I went above and beyond. MDNI
Maekar puts his daughters in chastity.
His sons are lost causes; it makes sense that he should be so strict with you. He might be the son of the king, but the fourth one - and no better than an upstart lordling with too many heirs to earnings because of it. Yet for all his brothers' might, he's three things they've not: eligible daughters that the king might use to curry favor, for everyone knows that gooddaughters bring more joy than sons. So you will remain intact and you will make a respectable match for a high lord.
He trusts none but himself with your key, only relinquishes it to your maids when you're in need of a proper bath. Even then he must supervise. There have been many a Targaryen princess who've been deflowered with the help of their servants sneaking in lovers. You're sweet, but your brothers aren't, and your maids are all stupid and quite useless. Easily led. (How else could he ensure your general safety but by his constant influence, after all?) It's a pervasive fear that grips him, the thought of Aerion bullying his way past your gaggle of women. They'd tell Maekar straight away, of course, because he'd hired them for the very same qualities that some monster like his son would seek to take advantage of, but still. The deed would be done by then. So he sees to it himself, watching - sat at your table, swallowing thickly around a late meal - as she unlocks you, control stretched thin as the string of slick that snaps between your thighs when they pull the belt away.
Of course they cannot be trusted to lock you back in afterwards. That he must do, tugging on the lock to be sure it stays. You're not like your sisters who fight him tooth and nail all the while. Not enough of the dragon in you, maybe, but it's hard to be bitter about that when so many of your siblings have too much. You are sweet. Docile. Know your position and your duty and thank him for guiding you to it.
"No one will be worthy of you," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the chafed skin of your hip when he pulls your belt into place, aggravating it. He'll have to get you a new one, find an even more skilled tanner who can work the leather even softer. He prefers the chains your sisters still wear if he's being selfish, likes being able to see the faint outline of them through their skirts, but he's willing to sacrifice some things for his favorite little lamb. Especially when you smile down at him, just as easy to please as you are eager.
You will make a good wife; but more and more, he wonders for whom.
Dunk x f!reader. Modern AU. Dubcon if you squint. Spit kink. Oral. Cum eating, kinda. MDNI
You've been trying to get cbf!Dunk's attention for what feels like forever. Sharing his bed, making a show of how comfortable you feel around him by changing into his oversized shirts right there before him. Hell you've even 'conserved water' after swimming once by sharing a shower (outdoors, with your waterlogged bikini hanging on by a literal thread). He only ever turns his back, the tips of his scarlet ears the only indication you get that's he's not outright disinterested - just patently obtuse.
But you're too stubborn to give up hope, so when you stop by to visit one afternoon to find him sprawled on his couch in nothing but a black, tight fitting pair of boxer briefs to fend off the heat wave currently battering the city, you don't hesitate to slump down next to him, your head propped on one meaty thigh.
"What are you watching?" You ask absently, too distracted counting the fine gold threads dotting his quad to listen to the answer. You hum in recognition when he gives one anyway, cuddling even closer just to feel the way the muscle bunches under your cheek, wary. You wait until it relaxes again before sitting up. "It's hot in here," you observe, pulling your shirt overhead to leave you in nothing but the cami you'd risked wearing today. (No one wanted the extra layer in this heat until it provided one more layer your sweat would have to work its way through.)
"Mmhm," Dunk grunts, his parched throat catching on the sound. He clears his throat when you catch him staring, a cute blush blooming on his cheeks. He stammers, motions to himself vaguely. "T-that's why -."
"Right," you laugh, sinking back into position. He's very tense now, enough so that you risk a peek up at him to gauge if you should stop. But with his glazed eyes and the splotchiness running down his thick neck to make the gold threads of his chest hair stand out, you're only encouraged to nuzzle closer. The thin cotton of his boxers does little to hide his interest.
You can smell him easily now, with your face nearly tucked into the crook of his hip. There's the faintly lingering traces of the body wash you'd given him for his birthday, but the tang of salt is stronger, twining with a musky scent that has saliva pooling in your cheeks, chasing after it even closer. Dunk grunts when he feels your chest press against his thigh.
"What are you -?" Breathless, like he's already worked up.
"Just cooling you off," you supply, letting your drool leak past your lips.
"Wh -? How?"
But you just lick a fat stripe over the crest of his hip and blow over the affected skin, marvelling as his dense stomach jolts hard enough to knock you further down his thighs.
"S-sorry," he stammers, but you only laugh, letting another string of drool dangle from the tip of your tongue to distract him as you hook your fingers into his waistband.
His cock is still mostly soft when you hook the elastic behind his balls, but Dunk gets on board rapidly when you lick another fat stripe up the underside.
"Fuck," he hisses, big hands coming up to cradle the back of your head, hook over your shoulder. You suckle at his tip until he's fully hard just so you can take his measure before you even attempt fit him in your mouth.
"Gods, you're big all over," you breathe, but Dunk catches the note of apprehension in your voice. (Of course he does, this is why you've been trying to get his attention for so long.)
He apologizes again. "You don't have to -? Oh, fuck."
It's like he's been waiting for it just as much as you have after that. With his jaw hinged open around and endless stream of audible gasps and vague niceties - helpless pleas when you manage to take his breadth into your throat alternating with apologies neither of you seem able to heed when his brawny arms pin you in place against twitching hips he can't quite control.
He cums with a throaty groan, head tipped over the back of the sofa. You pull back in time to let him paint your face, watching as comes down after, his throat bobbing around words he doesn't quite let loose.
Dunk cups your face when he's able, pulls you up so he can lick his spend up.
"That's gross," you chastise, but you can't help laughing when he does.
"What's gross is how sweaty you are," he teases, spilling you over the side of his lap so he can lean over you and make a show of licking his lips, a milky string of drool hanging off the end. "Probably, I should cool you off."
Baelor "when's the last time I took my time with you?" Targaryen, who's been run ragged for months, orchestrating the ruin of a small but aggravating insurrection attempt building throughout the south. He hasn't had time for you, it shames him to admit, though you've been nothing but the doting wife all throughout. You've taken almost complete control of his care from his steward, ensuring he eats regularly, and collecting him from his solar when the night grows too late. Trimming his beard when necessary.
And of course, providing relief when he gets wound so tight it begins to cloud his judgement. He's never once had to ask - wouldn't, when he knows he can't properly focus on returning the favor - but he's only a man, and who is he to refuse when you're so eager to please?
But tonight is different. Tonight the events of the day have left him energized and youthful, seeds planted and sown in the south tallying up to an all but certain victory. Though, he won't be content without at least one more.
You're still at table when he makes his way to your shared quarters. It's late, but he knew you would be. He cuts your meat for you, not unusual, but he delights in the confused tilt of your head when he holds a speared chunk out for you, waiting expectantly for you to eat from his fork.
"What's this?" You ask when you're done chewing, another piece already waiting on his utensil. One for you, one for him.
"Just wanted to take care of you for once," he explains, voice deceptively soft.
"But you do take care of me," you smile, nose wrinkling like you're still struggling to make sense of him.
No matter, he'll show you.
After dinner he orders a bath be drawn up.
"I've arranged for that in the morning," you protest, and he just smiles indulgently.
"For yourself?"
But of course you don't answer because he's been remiss, letting the maids take care of you, your schedule revolving around his.
He washes your hair for you, treats it with all your special creams. Scrubs you all the way down to your ticklish little toes and somewhere along the line you stop pestering him about spoiling you and just thank him for it. You're cradling the back of his head as he kneels before you, running a soft linen up from the fine bone of your ankle, drying you thoroughly even as he digs strong fingers into your shapely calves, sore from all the riding you've been trying to master. All the proper ladies do, you'd said, as if you weren't the finest among them.
It's midmorning when you start up, drawing his attention like a fussy child. You'd lingered after breakfast, content to do some sewing at the table while he caught up on some correspondence. It's not too unusual. Aemon would often join you, but he's gone now and in his absence you've been even more clingy; all but friendless without him. Maekar wouldn't complain exactly - he loves your company, really - except it's hard to concentrate when you're restless, wriggling around in your chair as the practiced, measured movements of your stitches begin to lose their rhythm. He glares over the letter he'd been reading, reprimand ready on his tongue, but he stops short when he gets a proper look at you: gaze unfocused, lips parted around rapid, shallow breaths. Your fidgeting, aimless and scattered before, seems more desperate and uncoordinated now. Directionless.
It doesn't take him long to figure it out. He's been living in fear (or some selfish, anticipatory version of it) of this exact moment for what feels like years. Your belt, little miracle that it is, protects your virtue, but your pearl -
(The maesters say pearls are formed by irritants. Grains of sand turned treasure as the nacre swells, hardens itself to meet this new agitation. And if you've outgrown the guard - if it no longer curves with your body just right. Hooks too sharply and presses insistently upon your pretty clit instead…)
You don't know what you're doing. Can't, else you wouldn't be doing it here. What's more, the confused awe that twists your moue, has his attention rapt immediately. Hyperfocused on the way your chest rises and falls so rapidly. He should say something. Interrupt, dismiss you to your rooms - anything to stop this. For your sake if not his own.
And yet he's powerless to do so.
He doesn't know how long he watches you, minutes ticking past uncounted by anything other than his own thundering pulse. The moment simply stretches until it crumbles - no cresting wave you ride out with a bitten off cry, but with a pathetic, frustrated whine, your limbs stiff as a wooden dolly, looking to him for answers you instinctually know he will provide.
He's beside you in the same instant, shushing your pitiable pout with a quick brush of his knuckle.
"Don't stop," he murmurs, lips grazing the delicate skin of your exposed shoulder as he slots himself as close to you as possible, looking over your wing. "You're close, don't stop."
"Close?" You ask, but he doesn't bother clarifying verbally, just slips one arm behind you to pull you closer into his chest, the other hand wedging itself between your clenched thighs to ease them wider, hook your knee around the corner of your chair.
"You'll see," he promises. "Here, come forward."
You go easily, eager to be led. A lamb ready to be stripped and shorn. He lets the hand on your shoulder slip down to the base of your spine, weighs the flesh of your flank the better to imagine it between his teeth.
It takes no pressure at all to get you moving again, tipping forward until your breath hitches and your hands shoot out before you, one on the edge of the table and the other on his own, begging for reassurance. He knits his fingers with your own, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"There. That's better, hm? Keep going."
And you do, sweet thing. Trusting him to take care of you as always. You find a rhythm that works, languid at first as you adapt to the increased pressure, but growing more insistent. Needy. Maekar lets the hand on your back drop even lower, fingers tracing the wrinkle in your dress where your belt bites into the plush of your hip. He hates it then, a sudden flash of jealousy flaring to life. It should be him bringing you this pleasure, touching you like this. He pulls on the belt as your pace gets desperate, causing the guard to ride up high and flush against your sensitive pearl. You cry out, no better than a common whore in your frenzy.
It has to hurt. He knows it does. But you simply collapse against his chest, clutching at his arms, your hips rocking - forward, against; back, away. Undecided. Slotted up flush against his aching cock regardless. He's not entirely sure when or how you got onto his lap. If he pulled or you squirmed. He has you trapped now, though, one arm barred across your belly to keep you in place with his grip clenched tight around your belt and the layers that prevent him from ripping it off. The other is cupping your mound through your pretty skirts, fingers pressing the edge of the guard against your clit - not too hard lest you shiver right out of his grip. He thinks you've already peaked once. Hard to tell when your cries straddle that line between pleasure and pain so perfectly. You shove at his arm, overstimulated, and he clamps down all the harder.
"Quit whining and enjoy it while you can," he threatens in the language of your kin, breath panting against your ear. "We'll get you refitted come tomorrow."
The prospect excites him almost as much as the situation at hand: sitting silent sentinel as the septas come to take your measure. He'll let you suffer in whatever crude device they have at hand for a while before commissioning something more befitting a princess, punishment for your unladylike behavior.
"Maybe we'll keep this one too though, hm? Hammer a cute little stud into it and let you keep yourself entertained while your papa tries to get some work done?"
But you shake your head, let it flop back onto his shoulder when even that proves too strenuous to maintain. With your hair tossed back he sees how you've got your face screwed up in concentration, trying to make sense of the sensation even as you chase it down, hips working themselves back into a rhythm he can accommodate, fingertips keeping the edge of your guard pressed right where you need it.
"No?" He hums, faux sympathy. "You'll still need your papa to do it?"
And of course you will, because there's no way you'll be able to do this for yourself: shrieking in embarrassment as your skirts wick rapidly, the stain of your sins blotting all the way down to your knees.
Maekar laughs. Can't help it. A terrible rumble building in his chest as you writhe in shame, soft hands sullying themselves as you try to cover the mess. "Looks like we'll need to fit you for more than just a new belt," he teases, already drafting what soft, pale silks he'll help you ruin next.
Been thinking all day about sitting at Prince Baelor's feet while he holds council.
Maybe you're a cupbearer but he doesn't like having you stand off in the corner with your little pitcher so he beckons you close and steals a pillow from the archmaester's chair, throwing it to the floor with a kind but expectant look. It's boring talk in peacetime and you've always struggled to pay attention to the needs of the lords at table, but it's especially hard when the prince's hand is curled around your neck, keeping you rooted to his thick thigh until the heat and the soft murmur of voices have you nodding off. When Bloodraven's cup runs empty, Baelor just slides the pitcher to him rather than wake you.
