#captainfern

[captainfern]

Please please please Aerion smut where its a jousting tourney and he sees you (a Lords daughter) give your favor to a knight going up against him, he beats the shit out of said knight, steals your favor from the ground and steals your favor from the bested knights lance like an insane person. Finding you after and confronting you about why you gave favor to someone else

he is insane for you like actually

Knights Earn, Dragons Take

Aerion Targaryen x noblewoman!reader

✿ aerion is obsessed with you, so when you give your favour to another knight, he has to take matters into his own hands and show you who you belong to (or, aerion steals your favour from another knight and fucks you) ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 6.6k ✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n and reader is an undefined baddie, SMUT, a smidge of plot, unprotected piv, light breeding, fingering, oral (f!receiving), one (1) pussy slap, pussy pronouns, praise, light degradation but not a lot bc he’s obsessed with you, aerion being himself but also maybe slightly ooc, possessive!aerion, threats of violence so maybe not that ooc, tourney violence, strong language, reader is from an unnamed but influential House with non-specific colours, mention of reader having older brothers but her father is a girl dad and reader can do no wrong lol

You have always drawn eyes.

Beautiful, intelligent, the perfect lady. You were admired by commonfolk and nobles alike for your amicability and wit. Your lord father was a loyal ally to the great House Targaryen and a valiant support during the Blackfyre Rebellion, not to mention a loud and magnetic personality. His parties and tourneys drew thousands from across Westeros—even luring nobles and merchants alike from across the Narrow Sea.

Similar has happened today as you watch with bated breath, your ringed fingers interlinked upon your lap, as a pair of lordlings clash in a flurry of splintered wood from your position in your noble pavilion. Your father roars his approval, cheering loudly as one poor knight topples from his horse, a jagged shard of lance protruding from a joint near his shoulder in his plated armour. You can’t help but cup your hand to your mouth, watching as the poor felled knight is dragged from the tiltyard.

Your lord father takes a deep sip from his goblet, resplendent in the midday sun. He is draped in the colours of your House, as are you, with jewels strung around your neck and wrists, decorated like a shrine. He turns to you, wine still glossy on his lips as he eyes your uneasy expression which does little to match the glittering of your jewellery. You’re now fidgeting with a wreath of flowers, an intricately woven ring of heartseases, carnations and lilies, finished with ribbons of your House’s colours.

“What is troubling you, my dear?” Your father asks, reaching across to place a gentle hand atop your own, the metal of his rings cool against your knuckles.

You exhale and then give him a meek smile. “Nothing, father. I apologise—”

“You are my daughter. Do you believe I do not know when you are lying?” Your father interrupts, giving you a pointed look.

Embarrassment claws within your chest as you drown out the cheers from the large crowd beyond the pavilion, realising that there are likely to be dozens of eyes glued to you. You calm yourself, ensuring your face remains as passive as possible, but you can feel the slightest tremble in your lower lip.

“I—what if I do not wish to give my favour away?” You say, fingers brushing the beautiful wreath in your lap. “I see no point in—”

Your father interrupts you again with a smooth and rather diplomatic confidence you’re sure he uses with everyone he speaks to. It usually gets him what he wants, and paired with the irreverent glimmer in his eyes, you realise why he and Lyonel Baratheon get along so well.

“Do not view this as giving your favour away,” he says carefully, drumming his fingers against your hand as he speaks. “View it as lending your favour to a poor, desperate lad who wishes to impress you. You are helping the needy, which all ladies care to do, do they not?”

You can’t help but scoff, your father battering his eyelashes in an attempt to make you smile with his humoured tone.

“These men are not needy. They are knights,” you reply.

“Ah, but they are still men,” your father utters, withdrawing his hand to pick up his goblet and take another drink. He tips his goblet in your direction before he drinks. “And all men, no matter their strength or their status, are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.”

You mull over your father’s words for a while as he gets to his feet and shuffles towards the entrance to the pavilion. You hear him speaking to someone, you hear the thunderous cacophony of the crowd, the stamping of hooves, the blaring of bugles. And you’re not sure how much time passes before you hear a beckoning call of your name. You look to your side, placing your flowered wreath upon an adjacent pedestal, and see that your father is welcoming a pair of men into your pavilion dressed in black and red.

Your heart stammers in your chest as you hurry to your feet, Baelor and Maekar Targaryen appraising you as you drop into a perfected curtsy.

“Seven blessings,” you utter, tone light and airy, your flower-sweet perfume lingering around you as you dip.

Your father introduces you, a beaming smile split across his face, both by name and a proud declaration, “my little dove, my pride and joy.”

Humour sparkles in Baelor’s eyes as he turns back to your father, settling onto a chair on his other side. “You have sons, do you not?”

Your father lets out an annoyed puff at the mention of his sons, then shakes his head as he sinks back into his own seat, Maekar settling with a grunt on the other side of his brother. “My sons are… spirited. My daughter, however, is perfect.”

Something like relatability crosses across Maekar’s face, the subtle hint of a smile as warmth grows in your chest. He’s put you on a pedestal with his praise, and now you can feel even more eyes on you as you settle back into your seat.

—✿—

Across the tiltyard, Aerion Targaryen watches you from the flap of his tent as servants and smiths attend to his intricately plated armour. His violet eyes trace the lines of your face from afar, the curves of your body beneath your dress and skirts as you sit, mostly obscured by the low walls of the raised pavilion. He watches the way you join politely into conversation with your father, his uncle and his father, and he can imagine that you’re saying all the right things. That pretty little mouth of yours would say all the right things, wouldn’t it? Would it plead and beg sweetly too?

“My prince,” some kind of servant says hesitantly as he approaches, cloaked in the colours of your noble House. “Your mount is ready.”

Aerion acknowledges him for the briefest of moments with a bored look, before his eyes find you once more. Your father and Baelor are laughing at something you’ve said, and you dip your head like the polite lady you are to hide most of your smile. He sees, too, the cute little wreath you are now toying with, and he realises, with something sick and sharp building in his gut, that it would look perfect around his lance.

With purpose, the prince strides away from his tent, finding his steed at the edge of the tiltyard. Servants help him into the saddle, before he’s securing his feet into the stirrups and urging his warhorse forward through the sawdust-thickened mud of the tourney grounds. Another knight, already arranged against him at the ruling of your father—“It is my tourney, in honour of my nameday, so I can do as I please,” the lord had announced—canters towards the pavilion.

Aerion pulls his horse to a stop as he watches with narrowed eyes as the knight—a knight from somewhere in the Reach, he thinks he remembers—requests your favour. Or at least, Aerion assumes he does, for he cannot hear anything over the angry rush of blood in his ears as jealousy rips raw through his chest.

You bow your head and rise to the edge of the pavilion, and gods, you look a dream—the material of your skirts flowing around you as you dip, the curve of your breasts and neck on full display as you slip your wreath onto the knight’s lance. Aerion faintly hears the roar of the crowd as the Reach knight says something to you that makes you beam, your smile splitting widely across your face as your father claps.

Then, the knight takes your hand in his and fucking kisses it. Plants a gentle kiss to the back of it before he’s turning his horse away with a triumphant smirk.

Aerion is seething. Anger boils hot inside him, and with an angry, too-hard thrust of his hips, he urges his horse towards the knight, and the pair meet in the middle of the field for a brief moment. Aerion’s eyes drop to the wreath around the knight’s lance, his jaw flexing, violet eyes flashing with an unbridled fury that has him wishing he could drive his lance through the other man’s throat.

Maybe he will.

“It seems the lady has given me her favour,” the Reach knight says with a sickening smile that makes Aerion want to punch him in the face. “Best of luck, for I intend to honour her virtue greatly and de-horse a dragon today.”

Aerion scoffs. “You impudent little rat. If I do not kill you today, I will slit your throat on the morrow for use of such words.”

The Reach nobleman does not look put-off in the slightest, which, admittedly, takes Aerion by surprise. The knight simply smiles and then pulls down his visor, cantering back to the edge of the tiltyard, leaving Aerion alone in the middle, swamped suddenly by the sounds of a jeering crowd of commonfolk. Anger burns in his veins as he turns with a curse, trotting back to where his squire awaits him, his lance primed and ready.

He’s going to kill that fucking knight. And then he’s going to have you.

—✿—

You watch the knights ready themselves as the trumpeting of bugles pierce the clamour of the crowd. Your fingers are crossed against your lap as you watch the young knight you had bestowed your favour on roll his shoulders and clutch his lance and shield, ready. Your father offers you a side-long glance.

“Are you happy now, my dear?”

You don’t turn your head to speak with him, eyes on the tiltyard. You can’t help the way they fall from your favoured knight to the opposing side, where the imposing Prince Aerion is being handed his shield and lance. “Happy may be too strong of a word.”

Your father chuckles. “Well, these men are certainly needy for your favour.”

You huff. “Yes, as you have said.”

“Yes, but I failed to mention,” your father begins, clearing his throat. “That when a needy man does not earn a lady’s favour, well…”

Your stomach squeezes tightly as you watch the dangerously beautiful face of Prince Aerion vanish behind his helm as he shuts his visor with a rough hand.

Your father shakes his head, chuckling again. “They become quite dangerous.”

With a blare of a horn and a surge of noise from the crowd, both knights take off galloping towards one another. You grip the arms of your chair, watching with your heart in your throat as they get closer and closer, lances poised, before they clash—wood chips flying, metal grinding on metal.

You gasp when Aerion forces his lance through the Reach knight’s shield, shattering it completely. The end of the other knight’s lance makes impact with Aerion’s shield, but the now-jagged tip of Aerion’s lance drives through a gap in his plated armour. You hear the Reach knight let out a sharp shout of pain as the lance drives into the flesh beneath his armpit, and he tips sideways off of his horse.

“What a charge!” Your father remarks to Baelor and Maekar, the three men watching, transfixed, as the Reach knight’s horse gallops away and Aerion whirls his around, hounding for a second run.

The black steed takes off again, and Aerion dips his lance low, much to the detest of the crowd, who jeer and curse and throw stones, as Aerion’s lance lands a decisive blow to the staggering nobleman’s armoured back. He is thrown forward into the mud, winded, piece of wood protruding from his side.

You raise a hand to your mouth as you watch Aerion dismount his horse, dragging the tip of his lance through the mud. He’s not stopping, you realise, as he stomps through the muck to kick the fallen knight onto his back. Then, tossing his lance aside, he brings two hands to his shield and slams the heavy base of it down atop the knight’s helm, the visor denting with the impact. Aerion brings the shield down again, and you find yourself shooting a hand out to grip onto your father’s.

Sensing your concern, your father nods to a man near the edge of the pavilion. The man quickly blows into his bugle, and relief washes over you as Aerion, body heaving, pulls away from the unmoving knight. However, terror quickly seizes you when the prince stalks a few feet away to pick the fallen knight’s shattered lance from the ground. He snatches the favour—your favour—from the broken lance and then lifts his visor.

His eyes find yours as he clutches your favour, bringing it to his chest as he stares up at you. The crowd shouts at him, but he ignores them. You can see the way he ignores them, eyes transfixed on you, the dainty garland engulfed by his hand, crushed in a vice-like grip.

You continue to hold onto your father, who angles his head to whisper to you, “See, my dear? Dangerous.”

—✿—

That evening, you successfully manage to avoid Aerion by locking yourself away in your chambers, informing your father that you feel unwell and intend to retire early. Of course, he knew you were lying, but noticing the dullness in your eyes and the unease that seemed to seep from your pores, he let you go with a kiss to your forehead. Now, as the sun sinks beyond the horizon, and your father and the visitors dine across the castle, you light the candles around your chambers until the room is bathed in a soft, golden light, shadows flickering against the wall. You calmed yourself with a bath, and now sit before the fireplace in your soft linen chemise, a book in your lap.

The flames light the pages well and warm the bare skin of your arms and legs.

The quiet is punctuated, however, by a sharp knock on your door. It is much too forceful to be one of your servants, and for the briefest of moments, you wonder if one of your guards has something to ask of you. You pad towards the door, standing just behind it as you unbolt it and open it a crack.

“Open up, little dove,” Aerion utters, and you yelp in fright as his strong fingers curl around the edge of the door and shove inwards.

You jump back, heart in your throat, as he enters your chambers, violet eyes alight and reflecting the flickering flames of the fire and surrounding candles.

He looks you up and down, the point of his tongue running along his bottom lip. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You shake your head, hugging your arms around your body. The heat of his gaze burns through the thin material of your chemise, and despite the trepidation rooting deep in your gut, something warm gathers at the base of your womb, your nipples hardening.

“No,” you whisper. “No, my prince, I’ve just—”

“I won your favour,” he interrupts you quickly, stalking forward after slamming—and bolting—the door shut. “And you’ve been hiding from me.”

Some semblance of courage seizes you in that moment as you remember what your father had told you. You lift your chin a little as he crosses the room, predatory like a lion. Or perhaps a dragon.

“You did not win my favour,” you hiss at him, but you find yourself backing up in response to his movements. “You stole it. No proper knight would steal another’s favour.”

A dark smile splits across his serpentine features as he creeps closer to you. He wears his House colours, blacks and blood-reds, his tunic and doublet dark and fitting against his strong chest and lean torso. The pale skin of his hands and throat are a stark contrast.

“It was always supposed to be mine, little dove, whether you knew it then or not,” Aerion says, stopping only when your back hits one of the wooden posts of your canopy bed. “I simply saw an opportunity to take it back.”

You scoffed, but it came out more as a breathless sigh. “Knights do not—”

“No, they do not,” Aerion whispers, stepping forward once more to pin you to the post, his chest flush to yours. One of his hands seizes your chin, forcing you to look at him, and your hands fly out to rest against his forearm. You don’t push him away. He continues, “Knights earn, my sweet girl, but dragons take, don’t they?”

“I…” You can’t speak, your tongue heavy in your mouth as he maintains eye contact. Your body heats beneath your chemise, blood honey-thick in your veins as you attempt to form a sentence, but your words fail you.

“I am a prince of the realm, blood of the dragon,” he mutters, trailing a finger across your jaw, up along your cheek before cupping your face. The press of his rings are cold to your heated skin. Your lips part, a feather-light sigh escaping you. “And I will take whatever I want. Do you understand me?”

You find yourself nodding, the warmth of his body against yours pulling something tight in the base of your tummy. Your hands squeeze at his forearm, feeling the soft skin and the sparse blond hair there. No scales, no fire.

“So, from this moment forward, you will not grant your favour to anyone but me,” he tells you, hand back on your jaw. He grips you tightly, and a meek yelp leaves you, his hold bruising, the back of your head knocking lightly on the wooden post. “And if you do, I will sever the head of whomever is brash enough to seek your favour, and mount it to the post of your bed for you to look at whilst I fuck you. Do you understand, or shall I repeat myself?”

“I understand,” you say quickly, voice squeaky with both fear and the restriction of your jawbone. “I understand, my prince.”

Aerion approves, for his eyes flash brightly and a purr escapes his chest as he dips forward and presses his lips to the corner of your mouth. It is soft, tender, and he trails his mouth over the curve of your jaw and down onto the slope of your neck. His other hand rubs over your hip, and your breath hitches in your chest as his hand smooths down your front. It trails over the material covering your mound, before slinking beneath the short hem and brushing against the airy linen of your smallclothes.

The heat of his fingers and the gentleness of his touch has your hips bucking involuntarily, eyelids fluttering as he sucks at your pulse which thrums heavily in your jugular.

“I’ve heard whispers about the sweet little dove that nests within this castle’s walls,” Aerion breathes against you. The coarse pads of his fingers press against your clothed core and a quiet sigh is coaxed from your chest. “I never imagined she’d be such a good girl—such a good listener.”

He rubs two fingers back and forth over your clothed slit, the gusset of your smallclothes growing damp with your slick. The heat of your core against his fingers makes him groan into your neck, his sharp teeth skimming your sensitive skin as he sucks at the junction of your neck and shoulder. 

You hold on to his forearm as it rocks with the movements of his hand, but you should be wrenching him away, cursing and screaming and begging for your guards to seize him, to haul him away for attempting to corrupt your virtue. But you don’t. Your brain is fuzzy, your heartbeat heavy in your core, nipples catching on the linen of your chemise and brushing against his doublet. You can’t believe how your fear has turned into lust as the Targaryen prince works two of his fingers against you, his lips suckling at your neck while he grips your jaw tightly still.

The hands you have on his forearm trail up, caressing the bare skin, then dancing across the sleeve of his tunic. He groans against you at your touch as you wind your fingers over his shoulder, then flatten across his chest, caressing his pectorals beneath the padded doublet. His mouth withdraws as he pants against the curve of your shoulder, one of your hands threading along the back of his neck, nails scraping through the short hair that grows at his nape. You grab a fistful, stroking his scalp, before tightening your fingers and tugging gently.

Aerion pulls back and growls, then slams his mouth to yours. The kiss is harsh, more teeth and tongue than anything you’ve ever experienced, his lips burning hot against yours. The fingers he pushes against your clothed slit dip against the fabric, pressing against the puffy bud of your clit, pinching before rubbing a heavy circle. It makes you stutter out a moan against his mouth, which he uses to curl his tongue against you deeper, sliding across your teeth. He tastes of wine and ash, and something metallic, the richness of blood on his snake-like tongue. A sound of deep pleasure, a loutish grunt from the back of his throat, knocks against your teeth as he kisses you, the hand he has on your jaw forcing you to be completely pliant beneath him.

Aerion pulls back after a long moment, pressing a wet, saliva-slick kiss to the corner of your mouth once more before speaking lowly into your ear, “Are you going to be good for me, little dove? Are you going to give me what I want?”

“Yes,” you whisper, pleasure a firm knot in the base of your belly already as he continues to slide his fingers back and forth against you, the fabric of your smallclothes soaked through, tacky against your folds.

The prince tuts at you, his fingers vanishing from your core. You whimper at the rush of cool air that hits you, but he quickly closes the space when he taps four fingers roughly against you—a measured smack against your covered cunt, which rips an embarrassingly loud moan from your chest, head falling back against the post.

“You are a lady,” Aerion chastises you whilst he acts more unlike a prince than any nobleman you’ve ever met. His palm cups your core now, soothing the dull ache caused by the smack. “Answer nicely.”

You pant, eyes watering as you meet his, lips swollen from the force of his kiss. “I–I’ll be good, my prince. I’ll be good for you.”

He smiles. “Of course you will.”

Then, his palm shifts, two fingers looping through the band of your smallclothes and tugging. The material all but tears as he pulls it down your legs with such aggression it makes your hips buck. Your slick cunt is bared to the tepid air of your room, the fireplace dwindling now, and you squeeze your thighs together as you kick your undergarments away. His other hand leaves your face to join his other in pulling your chemise over your head, tearing it away from you and tossing it across the room. It disappears into the shadows and you’re left bare before him.

He groans at the sight, eyes dropping to where he kicks your legs apart with his foot, trailing his hand over your mound and dipping into the silken wet heat of your folds. Fingers slide over your puffy clit, and he groans again at the way your body jolts against him. His other hand squeezes one of your breasts tightly beneath strong fingers, nipple crushed beneath his palm, making you moan.

“Oh, my poor girl, you’re soaked,” Aerion whispers, almost in disbelief, as he runs two fingers through your slit, gathering slick between your folds. “Pretty little pussy’s drooling for her prince, isn’t she?”

His middle and ring finger find your hole, slick and warm and too empty. You huff out something that sounds like his name, but the syllables are lost as the pads of his fingers trace circles around you. You lean your head back, baring your throat to him, allowing him to swoop down and attach his mouth to a soft patch along the column of your trachea. As he does this, he—with surprising restraint—works the blunt tips of his fingers past the entrance of your cunt. He pushes, and pushes still, until your silken walls open around the intrusion, the bump of his knuckles rubbing against your posterior wall, sending electric shocks into your womb.

“She’s taking me so well,” Aerion lifts his head to utter against your cheek, and he nearly smiles when he feels how hot you are there.

He curls his fingers and presses further until the top of his palm rests against you. Quickly, he retracts his fingers before plunging them back into you, and the wet squelch that fills the space between you makes you suck in a breath, ears ringing. 

The prince hums darkly, kissing your cheek. “Oh, she’s mouthy too, is she? Pussy’s got something to say?”

He repeats the movements, the wet plap-plap-plap of his fingers rutting into you, and his palm hitting your wet folds, makes his cock twitch painfully in his breeches. You whine out, embarrassed, pleasure as heavy as an anvil in the base of your stomach, Valyrian steel threatening to sever the cord of tension that withheld your release.

“Please,” you find yourself begging as your hands grip his shoulders. The contrast of Aerion being completely clothed while you stand before him, naked with slick dribbling down your inner thighs, has a sort of drunkenness washing over you.

His other hand, kneading your breasts still, shoots up to slap a palm across your mouth as he works his fingers in and out, pace quick and unrelenting. He angles his head down to watch where his forearm flexes as he shoves his fingers into you—he pulls out, lines up to add a third, and then forces them in, and the stretch makes you yowl against his palm.

“Easy, little dove,” he utters, pulling his fingers away only to hike one of your legs around his hip, giving him a deeper angle to drive his fingers back into you. Three fingers stretch you open and curl deep inside you, pressing against the gummy spot inside that forces a tremor through you. You moan against his hand, breath coming in quick pants, eyelids fluttering as he fucks his fingers into your cunt. 

The pace is animalistic, rushed. Aerion grunts as his arm works, the other gripping the lower portion of your face so he can listen to the way your pussy takes him. He can feel dribbles of slick running down his wrist, smearing across your inner thighs. Your walls clench him tightly as he nails the best spot inside you, and he marvels in the way your leg trembles against his hip, your nails digging into the thick material at his shoulders as he urges you towards release.

You say something against his palm, but it is muffled. He wrenches his hand away and finally looks at your face as you manage to puff out, “M’gonna… come…”

Aerion pulls his fingers from you, your pussy clenching around nothing. You curse loudly, and then moan his name, eyes springing open when he drops your leg. He hides his smile as he sinks to his knees before you, hands grasping the doughy flesh of your inner thighs to spread your legs. His head slots between them, and he exhales a forceful blow onto your soaked cunt. The air makes you keen, hand shooting out to grasp his hair.

“Gods, just look at her,” he voices from below you, hands moving across your thighs. His thumbs find your folds and he spreads you open for him, slick webbing between them. The feeling makes you whine—and then the feeling of his tongue, pointed and firm, curling into your hole has you whining even louder.

The narrow slope of his nose rubs perfectly against your puffy clit as he works his tongue inside you, curling between your walls, slick and warm. His hand is wet against you as he holds you open for him, a series of soft, dragon-like huffs suffocated in the heat of your pussy as his tongue coils inside you.

The stretched cord of your release is pulling taut in your abdomen once more, and you find yourself rocking your hips against his face in chase of it. Pursuing a hare through the long grass, adrenaline mounting, hound’s teeth closing in.

“My prince,” you whine, hips twitching. “Gods, I’m going to—ah—”

He hums against you and the cord in your lower belly snaps and splinters inside you. Your orgasm racks through you, pleasure white-hot in your chest and womb, spreading through your veins as your pussy clenches around his tongue. You moan his title loudly, pelvis stuttering against the rigid lines of his face as he works you through your release. Your hole spasms around his tongue, clit thrumming with your heartbeat.

He hums again when some of your release dribbles down from the corners of his mouth, running down his chin, and when he pulls away, a string connects his lips to you. It snaps when he runs his tongue over his lips, sitting back on his haunches to admire the glossiness of your pussy and the way your hole clenches around nothing.

“Pretty girl…” Aerion muses, leaning forward to press one last kiss to your clit before getting to his feet.

His cock is painfully hard, pressing against his breeches and the seam of his trousers. Grinding his hips against your pelvis, Aerion drags his hands up your sides, caressing you softly, before placing them either side of your face. He kisses you, lips slick atop yours. A sinful thrill runs up your spine as you taste the faint musk of yourself on his tongue, an earthy-sweet ichor that Aerion will fist himself to the memory of for months to come.

“Your favour is mine,” the prince says against you, before the warmth of his mouth disappears and he’s spinning you around. Still fully-clothed, he pushes his body against your back, keeping you warm. “You are mine.”

You suck in a breath as one of his hands brands you between the shoulder-blades, rings biting against the skin as he forces you to bend. You curl over the end of your bed until your chest presses flat to the sheets, your arse bare against the tent in his trousers. You breathe out an “o-oh fuuuck” as he grinds his clothed cock—the imprint thick against the cleft of your arse—in firm, teasing thrusts.

After quickly ripping his doublet from his body, suddenly too hot, Aerion keeps one hand to your upper back, pinning you to the bed while his other works in unfastening the ties and clasps of his trousers. He nudges your legs wider apart with his feet as his trousers loosen finally, and he can dip his hand into his breeches, shucking them down enough to fish his cock out. He hisses quietly behind you as he fists himself, tip red and ruddy, beads of precum wetting the slit. He chokes on a groan when one slips down his frenulum and along a prominent vein on the underside.

“Gods, little dove, what are you doing to me?” Aerion groans, angling his hips forward to drag the head of his cock down the split of your arse before tapping it against your pussy. He spreads your folds with the blood-flushed tip as you mewl out, incapable of giving him a properly-worded answer.

He chuckles at that, and you are surprised when he bends to press a line of kisses down your sweat-dampened spine. You arch for him as he tongues the dip at the base of your spine, teeth nipping at the skin.

“So good for me,” he breathes against you, and groans as he pulls back to stand a bit straighter.

Still grasping the base of his cock, he runs the head up and down your folds once more, pressing firmly to your clit—“there we go, this sweet girl gets a little kiss,” he says under his breath—before he lines up at your entrance. He says louder, “I deserve this, little dove. This is my prize.”

And then he’s thrusting into you in one deft movement. Your eyes roll, fingers gripping the sheets as you cry out, an echoing moan causing the flames of nearby candles to flicker. An animalistic growl tears from Aerion’s chest as he buries himself to the hilt inside you, the silken walls of your cunt moulding like clay around him. The ridges of his cock slide against you just right, and the prince grips your hip and glues you to him.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so tight,” Aerion grits out, canines gnashing as he bites down the pleasure crawling up his diaphragm.

“Please,” you call out to him, cheek to the sheets, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. “Please, my prince, please move.”

Aerion grunts, but doesn’t chastise your begging. Instead, he does what you ask of him, withdrawing until the head of his cock is just nestled inside you, before rutting back in. You whimper out a pathetically meek string of gasps—“ah–ah–ah,”—as he sets a pace, his hips smacking against your arse, the fat rippling. He grunts and groans, the sounds have your pussy tightening along with his movements.

He keeps you anchored to the bed. The hand between your shoulder blades is strong and unmoving, and the hand on your hip clenches around the softness there with a vice-like grip, forcing your arse back onto him as he moves. The pace is quick and rough, packed full of desperation as he stuffs your wet cunt over and over. His cock stretches you open, splits you apart, curls up towards the plug of your womb. Desperation is translated through the way his deep grunts end with the lightest lilt, a slight whimper at the end.

All men are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.

“Hgnh—fuck, come on, sweet girl, that’s it. Y-yeah, that’s it, stay just like that,” Aerion mutters, rambling as his eyelids droop low, sweat beading high on his forehead and at the hair on his temples.

You can’t do much but bend and take it, cock filling you perfectly, the angle driving him deep against a spongey spot inside you that punches whimper after whimper from your throat. He groans when your back arches further for him. “That’s my good girl, that’s my girl—pretty little dove taking my cock like a dirty fucking whore.”

You moan in response, clit pulsing and body starting to shake. You tremble against the sheets of your bed, pleasure building like the rush of water beneath your skin. Rising and rising, suffocating you as the head of his cock drives you closer and closer to release.

Aerion knows you’re close.

“I know, sweet girl, oh, I know,” he coos down at you, caressing your back as he plows into you from behind. The bed creaks with the force, the sheets bunching beneath you. “Let me feel you. Give me your favour, little dove.”

The ball of tension in your belly grows tighter and tighter as your body grows hotter and hotter. Small moans of his name fall from your lips. Not his title, but his name. He doesn’t reprimand you for it, too obsessed with your soaked cunt wrapped tight around his cock, but he’ll be sure to scold you later. For now, he maintains his pace, watching the way your hips bounce against his pelvis, sweat still building in a light sheen along your spine.

“Aerion.” Then, with a realm-shattering moan, you come around him, legs locking up tightly, fists clenching the sheets.

Your eyes snap shut as stars burst behind them, your second orgasm crashing over you. Your lower belly pulls taut, pussy clenching around his cock as the pleasure crests, and Aerion takes it with a groan of your name, pace faltering slightly as he pushes deeper into you.

You’re boneless against the bed now as the prince uses you, his cock twitching, thrusts becoming shallower. He’s rutting into you, humping the curve of your arse, cock barely leaving the drooling sheath of your cunt as his high rears like a hissing serpent inside him.

Knights earn, dragons take.

Aerion groans your name, collapsing half-way on top of you, the hand on your back moving to the side of your head to hold himself up as he grinds his cock into you.

“I’m going to spill inside of you,” he mumbles, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Yeah, m’going to fill you, little dove. Fill this pretty pussy with my seed. Every—uh, fuck—everyone’ll know who you belong to i-if you’re round with my babe.”

You whine, screwing your eyes shut, overstimulation leaking into your gut like molasses, but you know he’s not going to last. You can feel his cock jerking inside you with each sloppy thrust.

“Uh-uh, none of that, m’lady,” Aerion murmurs, words drawing together now: pussy-drunk. “You’re mine—your favour is mine. You belong to the dragon.”

Then, with one last growl of your name between clenched teeth, Aerion comes inside of you, release filling you in hot ropes as his cock twitches. He’s buried to the hilt, a wanton groan leaving his lips as the warm walls of your pussy milk him, take him. The heat that fills you, the sensation of growing full, makes you hum out a pleased moan.

Slowly, the prince pulls his softening cock out of you and wipes his shaft along your arse cheek. The stickiness makes you huff out at him, and he laughs as he tucks himself back into his breeches, drawing his trousers back up.

His seed leaks out of you as you attempt to pull yourself onto your bed, turning to lay on your back and watch as he retrieves his doublet from the floor and begins pulling it over his head. You didn’t expect aftercare, but the absence of his warm body against you makes your heart contract beneath your ribcage.

Aerion notices the brief expression of discontent that passes over your face. He rolls his eyes, smoothing his hands through his hair, clearing the strands that stick to his skin with sweat.

“I left your father’s feast for this,” he says, bending down and placing his arms either side of you. He cages you against the bed, nose brushing yours. “I will finish my meal and make your father happy, and then I will return and fuck you to sleep.”

The prince presses one last lingering kiss to your mouth, a surprisingly sweet gesture, before he retreats and heads for the door. He unbolts it and looks back over his shoulder, watching as you reach blindly for your chemise, limbs pleasure-lax, eyes tired. He sighs loudly, stalking back across the room and scooping your chemise from the floor. Pale fingers snap around your wrist and he pulls you into a sitting position.

“Arms up,” he orders, and you do as you’re told. He shoves the chemise roughly down your arms and then over your head. His fingers brush your softening nipples as he lays the fabric back over you. He shakes his head as you blink up at him like a doe. He grumbles, “Pathetic.”

But you’re sure he doesn’t really mean it, especially when he cups your cheek and caresses your cheekbone for a fleeting moment, before he’s heading back towards the door. He opens it and vanishes without a look back, closing it with a firm slam. But even with his abrupt exit, you can’t help but smile as you sink beneath your sheets, his seed and your slick leaking out between your thighs.

All men, no matter their strength or their status, are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.

———

is he obsessed with you? yes. is he going to give you aftercare after you gave his your favour to someone else? no. he’s moody like that smh

[luvit]

elli my luv how are you doing ?? <33

me when fern

also i'm doing good!!!! :D i hope you are doing good too omg hello i love you and i am barry pointing at you bc i'm so :) <3

[ohcaptains]

my darling leah, how have you been ? i hope all is well <3

hey baby! you’re so cute for always checking in! i’ve been okay, plodding along with work. you okay? <3

[ohbo-ohno]

hiiiiiii bo !!! it is me !!! how are you !!!

FERNNNN can you feel how much i love you through the screen............ ilyssssssssm

i'm still in iwtv hell, BUT i've started writing kinktober stuff, so i'd say i'm doing pretty well :) i hope you are too!!!!!!!!!!!

[captainfern]

fern i need you to write the most nastiest smut for daddy baelor like toe curling, sweat inducing, cum loading smut i need to ride him like a dragon

toe curling… sweat inducing… cum loading…

Ride Your Dragon

Baelor Targaryen x wife!reader

✿ after your husband dismisses your words of comfort, he works hard to win back your favour the best way he knows how (or, you ride your dragon to feel better). ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 3.6k ✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n and reader is undefined but hot (you), baelor is obsessed with you, SMUT, not a lot of plot i'm gonna keep it real guys, unprotected piv, riding, praise, strong language, the softness and desperation we all need from a man like him (so not super duper nasty i'm sorry 😔)

The golden light of the sinking sun illuminates your path through the Red Keep as you hurry through the vast network of halls, your heavy skirts whipping against your ankles as you move. Servants stop when they see you, bowing their heads or casting their eyes downwards in respect, and ever the dutiful princess, you respond with the same kind smile that has earned you quite the positive reputation across the kingdoms.

A kind, amiable consort to match the justness and integrity of the great Baelor Targaryen. A gentle hand beside him to lessen the load, to calm him of his day’s struggles and guide him tenderly through the reddened corridors of the royal residence. Whispers whirl of how your smile can subdue any man, really––lesser lords notice the relief that seems to wash off of Maekar when you enter any room, and the ladies-in-waiting spot how tension leaves the faces of Valarr and Matarys when you place your hands upon their shoulders in comfort.

Some say it is magic. Some say you are an enchantress, primed with the ancient knowledge of some kind of dark ritual that enables you to calm even the most tempestuous of storms (these rumours began when you calmed the raging Aerion one night, several moons ago, and he, to everyone’s utter shock, listened and obeyed).

But it is not magic.

Nor are you always successful.

You continue briskly down the warmly lit hallway, head level and eyes fixated onto the opening space in front of you. You can hear equally hurried footsteps behind you, and you huff to yourself, making it to your favourite wing of the castle and throwing open the door to your chambers. You slam it shut behind you and it seems the bones of the castle rattle with the force, the heavy wood appearing to rock on its hinges. With an exasperated sigh, and in a considerably unladylike manner, you fling yourself down onto the furs of your bed.

There is a gentle knock on your door.

“No,” you respond simply.

“I have yet to speak a word,” the voice of your husband travels quietly through the thick wood. Despite these being his chambers too, he did not open the door. Instead, when greeted with your silence, he continues with a gentle, “My love?”

“Leave me be,” you say loudly, lifting your faces out of the plush furs.

“I do not wish to,” Baelor replies quickly. “May I enter?”

He asks for permission to enter his own chambers. The chivalry of it all makes you sigh as you roll onto your back, picking yourself up to sit on the very edge. You let him wait for a few long moments, watching sunlight dance through the large, reticulated windows adjacent to your bed.

“My love,” he says again, somehow even more gentle than before. His tone has something twisting bitterly inside your stomach, something tasting of guilt when it rises like bile into your mouth. You shake away the feeling, pressing the tip of your tongue to the backs of your teeth as you withhold a pout. Baelor continues, “I will leave if you––”

“You may enter,” you say quickly before you regret it. Not that you ever would.

The door creaks open slowly and your husband enters your shared chambers. He closes the door softly behind him before he remains adjacent to it, mismatched eyes finding yours across the room, a deep crease in his brow. There’s something heavy there, in the way he holds your gaze, his own guilt manifesting itself in the space between you like some kind of spectre. You yearn to bat it away and make him feel right again.

He takes one step closer. “I did not mean to speak to you in such a way.”

His curt words from earlier echo around your skull as if he were shouting them at you right at that moment. Frustrated and tired, Baelor had dismissed you tersely from his solar when you attempted to peel the stress from his body with your kind words. Paired with a flick of his hand through the air in obvious dismission, his words cut through you like a knife––and he knew it. You were offering him such sweet words, such (usually) welcomed comfort and support, and he had all but cleaved your heart in half for it. A short moment after the words had been said, he looked up in surprise––surprise and shock at himself––as you withdrew from him, hands leaving his shoulders and warmth vanishing, extinguished like a candle. You had backed away and then fled the room, leaving Baelor to fumble over the papers before him, inkwell toppling over and splashing ink across the parchment as he moved quickly to get up from his desk.

You notice the ink stains on a couple of his fingers, black smudged into the crevices of his skin. His face appears calm, but he fidgets with a large silver ring on his ring finger.

“Yet you did,” you mutter in reply, crossing your arms over your body. “You spoke to me as if I was little more than… than a servant.”

You pause, then scoff out: “Actually, you are always so courteous to our servants, so I believe you spoke to me with even less courtesy. Perhaps you would speak to a hound like that, or perhaps a Blackfyre––”

Baelor huffs loudly, but he wasn’t angry. “Do not pain me, my love.”

You raise a brow in his direction.

“I apologise for the way I spoke to you. It was unbecoming and unjust of me, and I stand here before you, as your husband, to ask for your forgiveness,” Baelor says carefully, taking another couple of steps towards you. He stops, just out of arms reach. “From sunrise to evenfall I have been continuously called upon, but I know that does not excuse the insolence of my actions.”

“No,” you whisper. “It does not.”

“Please, my love.” Baelor steps forward once more and brings a large hand to the side of your face, cupping your cheek and touching his thumb to your cheekbone. “I am deeply sorry. May you forgive me?”

You notice the glassiness of his mismatched eyes and immediately melt beneath his gaze, a surge of remorse flowing through you as his other hand finds the other side of your face, cradling you. His eyes scan over you and you let your frown slip away.

“You are forgiven,” you begin.

Baelor smiles, the lines around his tired eyes deepening. “Thank––”

“On one condition.”

Baelor cuts himself short, slowly closing his mouth. You smile innocently at him as he continues to cup your face in his warm hands. He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead and you feel butterflies in your stomach as if you were some simple maiden.

“Anything,” he whispers against you.

You take a step back (which requires considerable strength considering the warmth and gentleness and familiarity of his hands on your face). His arms drop to his sides and he peers at you curiously. You point at the bed behind you.

“No more work for the rest of the evening,” you say. “And you’re going to get on that bed and not move unless I tell you to.”

Baelor opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it. Not wanting to spurn anymore wrath from his wife, he keeps eye contact while he discards himself of his royal wear, his tunic falling away to reveal the strong expanse of his chest. Silently, you turn and he understands immediately––your clever, observant prince––and makes slow, careful work of the intricate knots on the rear of your dress.

You feel him against you. So warm and solid, his hands skim the heavy fabric as he unravels the backing with deft fingers. His breath fans over your shoulder too, which you can feel when it bares to him, the sleeve of your dress slipping down as he works. Warm lips press to warm skin. Over and over, Baelor takes the time to trail tender kisses along the shoulder, over the junction of your neck and up the side of your throat. He peels your dress down past your waist as he kisses the pulsepoint right below your ear, and you are aware that it is practically jumping out of your skin to meet him.

You lean your head back against his shoulder, your skirts hitting the solid ground with a resounding thump as his hands find the soft linen of your shift, clutching your waist. 

His nose bumps the shell of your ear as he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Then, his hands move, and you sigh out wistfully as his hands cover your breasts, palms burning-hot even above the thin material. He kneads you there as he sucks the skin at the curve of your neck, humming quietly to himself. You reach a hand behind you to loop into the band of his trousers, pulling him closer, feeling the imprint of him against your backside. You arch into the feeling and his quiet hum turns into a low groan.

You step forward and bring him with you with your finger hooked into his trousers still. He followers willingly, hands reaching for you as you spin out of his grasp, laughing. You stop at the edge of the bed.

Baelor quickly makes work of his trousers, and you can’t help but giggle at the desperation he shows in rucking them down his legs and then ridding himself of his breeches like a lovesick lord. You bite your lip as his already hard cock bobs out, and you have a moment where you wish to reach forward and grasp it (but you realise that would likely end up with you on all fours on the ground––good in any other situation but this).

You nod to the bed.

“So demanding,” he chuckles warmly, clambering onto the bed before turning to rest against the multitude of pillows at the top. He puts one arm beneath his head, smiling over at you as you slowly begin to remove your shift.

He watches you as if he’s being rewarded, free hand wrapped around the base of his cock. The head is ruddy with blood already, precum pearling at the slit as his eyes darken.

Your shift finally, finally––taking too fucking long, Baelor thought––hits the floor, leaving you exposed to the cool air of the room. Golden sunshine illuminates your body in such a way that Baelor’s mouth drops open: you were a vision from the gods themselves.

“Seven above…” He mutters, fisting his cock. The pearl of precum drops and rolls alongside a dark vein prominent on the underside.

You crawl towards him, breasts on full display as you settle up between his legs, and you hear his breath quicken, see the paced rise and fall of his chest. You make a point of swooping in low as you slink over his abdomen, the flushed head of his cock brushing between the swell of your breasts. Baelor groans loudly, the look of victory on his face mere moments ago completely gone. His pupils are blown wide with lust and his cock twitches as he rucks his hand shallowly over the base.

“My love,” he breathes out. “Gods, please, I need you.”

You straddle his hips, cock a hair’s breadth away from the heat of your core. You lift yourself and ignore the slight tremble in your thighs.

“Do you know how wet you make me?” You ask him in a whisper, and the groan that elicits from his chest was as strong an aphrodisiatic as anything you could find in Lys. You continue, “How soaked I am, simply from your touch?”

Baelor swallows thickly. “Show me––”

“How much I ache for you?” You lift yourself higher until the head of his cock, flushed a painful, bruising red, presses softly to your slick core.

“Oh fuck––” Your husband draws in a sharp breath.

But you don’t sink down. You simply begin to rock yourself back and forth, nudging the head of his cock through the wet folds of your cunt while you whine and whisper questions at him that he most definitely cannot answer. He could reach forward and take your hip in one large hand, slamming you down onto him. He has the power to do it, the nerve to do it, but he holds firm. Doesn’t move. Obeying his princess while she takes what she needs.

“Do you know how often you work late into nightfall, leaving me here, alone? How I have to touch myself to the thought of you because you are not here to satisfy me.”

The prince curses again and screws his eyes shut, relishing in the wet heat coursing down the length of his cock. He imagines you lying in your shared bed, your fingers crooked deep into the silken warmth of your cunt, moans drawing from your lips including a loud lilt of his name into the emptiness of the chambers. He envisions the pads of your fingers working desperately over the swollen bud of your clit, your back arching, nipples straining against the thin white fabric of your shift, pussy bared to the room and clenching around nothing.

His cock twitches and he groans.

“Let me taste you, my love,” is all he can think to say as he opens his eyes. He lets go of his cock to reach for your hip, squeezing gently and caressing the skin, as if that would help strengthen his case. 

If you were a weaker woman, it would have.

Instead, you angled yourself to pry his hand away from his cock. He held you still, but let you move his fist away, watching with hooded eyes. All thoughts of work left his mind as you dragged his cock back and forth along the dripping seam of your cunt, nudging your clit and pressing against your hole. Again, and again, and––

“Gods, sweetheart, please,” Baelor whispers, tone strained, his free hand gripping the furs of the bed tightly, knuckles white. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m––”

It takes the power of all Seven above for you not to smile in victory at his incessant pleas before you’re slowly sinking down onto his cock. His head falls back against the pillows and he moans your name, loud and clear into the golden glow of your chambers as his free hand snaps to your hip to mirror the other.

Your cunt opens perfectly for him and you whimper at the stretch. He splits you open, sinking deep inside you in one fluid motion like a sword into its scabbard. The perfect fit. And he lets you know it, too––

“That’s it, that’s it, so good,” Baelor mutters his praises when he finally opens his eyes to look at you again. “So good for me, my love. So good––yeah, there we go.”

You start to move, your thighs tightening as you lift yourself and shift back down, cock rutting deep towards the plug of your cervix. The angle is torturous, and you can feel the vein on his cock inside you. It makes you moan, and then whine when his hands brace against the flesh of your hips. He’s pulling you down onto him before he can stop himself, panting as he watches your pussy take him like something out of a dream.

A spark ignites deep in your belly, your body heating. That fierce, intense heat that seemed to roll off most Targaryen men was the same heat that settles now inside you––inside your womb as you ride a dragon. Your dragon.

And he was never one to play on that too much. Never one to flaunt the fire that ran wild in his veins. Until, of course, he had you over top of him like this. Riding his cock so well, taking him so deep, drawing growls from a hidden part within him.

“That’s a good girl,” he says darkly, his cold rings a biting presence against your waist. “Keep going––ride your dragon, sweetheart.”

You moan, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to care that the sound probably penetrated the castle walls around you. You focus on the blooming pleasure in the bottom of your belly, the tingle building in the base of your spine, and the heat of his gaze on your face and breasts as you ride him.

Sweat builds up on the back of your neck and down the curve of your spine. You’re panting like a hound, toes curling against the soft furs, hands gripping at the softness of his stomach and chest, feeling the hair there. Baelor’s hands are strong on your hips, rolling you against him, his own hips shifting upwards with each of your movements, meeting you in the middle and thrusting himself deeper inside you. Your cunt is drooling out from around him, and he can’t help but stare at the thin, white ring that is slowly building at the base of his length. Maybe you are magic.

“Baelor,” you whine.

The wooden bedframe is creaking, the candles on a nearby table are flickering, and the setting sun has morphed from a resplendent gold to a blood red. Your chambers were bathed in the colour, your skin drenched in it, matching the ruby that sparkled on one of Baelor’s rings.

He huffs deeply. “My love?”

“I’m…” You taper off on a whine, head flopping forward as your legs begin to cramp and the tension in your belly grows tighter, pulling taut like a bowstring. You manage to whisper out a desperate, “Oh gods, please…”

“I know, I know,” Baelor shushes you gently. “Feels so good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” you whine. You lasted in your conquest for a good amount of time, but ultimately, you can never stay strong when your husband is involved.

He feels you clench around him and he almost loses his sanity, his next words dying on his tongue. They were honey-sweet, though, and so he quickly conjures up, “Need to feel you come around me,” before a low moan rips from his chest.

The hair at his temples has darkened with sweat, his chest flushed. He can feel the desperate tension in his cock, his balls tightening with every wet thrust into the tight clutch of your cunt. He’s fucking you roughly now, chasing the highs that crest upon an imagined horizon like the blazing sun beyond the Keep’s walls. It feels like there is smoking billowing from him, his grunts deep and bordering animalistic, eyes swimming in a red haze as night creeps into the room. The red streaming in is dying out, slowly, slowly––

He moans your name. “Come on, sweetheart, let me feel you.”

You gasp out. “Fu-uck!” And then come around his cock with a drawn-out moan.

Your pussy draws tight around the thick of him, squeezing and pulsing with your rapid heartbeat. It leaves you breathless, heart hammering against your ribcage as you slump forward, arms liquifying as your pleasure rocks through you. But Baelor catches you, presses you firmly to his chest with one hand while the other retains its grip on your hip, fucking you down onto his cock. He kisses you like this. When you’re pliant in his arms, the qualms of the day banished from your pleasure-hazed mind, he places wet kisses across your face, your throat. He sucks at your neck and tastes the salt of your sweat, and then he licks into your mouth and tastes the saccharine remnants of blood oranges imported from Dorne.

Laying here with you, moving together, his mouth on yours, his cock inside you, Baelor forgets about everything he needs to complete today. He forgets about what had stressed him, and forgets the inkwell likely still dripping onto the stone floor of his solar.

His thrusts become sloppier, less coordinated. He pants into your mouth, kissing the corner with a surprising tenderness in contrast with his manic thrusting.

“Baelor––” You sob out through a tired whimper.

“S’alright, my love, just be good for me,” he replies quickly, and you can hear the tension strung between each word. “Be good for me––fuck, yeah, that’s––oh gods, take it for me, sweetheart, take it––”

With one last rut of his hips, Baelor pulls your arse tightly onto him, practically melding you to his hips as his cock twitches once, twice, and then spills inside you. The sensation draws a strained groan from the prince, and the feeling of his cum filling you shoves an involuntary gasp out of your parted lips.

The two of you lay together, heaving chests pressed against one another, your raging hearts falling into sync, sweat slick between your burning bodies. Like glowing embers, the heir to the iron throne and his beloved wife settle and fizzle out just as the sun finally vanishes behind the distant horizon.

Now only a few candles cast light on where the two of you remain intertwined, Baelor’s softening cock still nestled inside you, your combined slick and cum slowly dribbling out and onto the furs.

Baelor presses another characteristically tender kiss to your forehead as he strokes your back with his large, worn hands. “I am truly sorry for the way I spoke to you earlier, my love. I will never cause you such distress again, gods believe me.”

He nuzzles against your cheek as you reply, “I forgive you, my prince. I know how much of a dragon you become when you are overwhelmed.”

He grunts against you, but says nothing more, knowing that, once again, you’re right. And being with you has extinguished the day’s burdens and he feels utterly content.

Maybe you are magic.

———

brooo i know dada i need him so bad

[captainfern]

Blessed

Baelor Targaryen x wife!reader

✿ baelor is ‘blessed’ by a travelling herb-woman, and after two weeks away from his wife, he is desperate to have her (or, a sex pollen fic with the hand of the king). ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 5.6k ✿ cw: fem!reader/secondwife!reader, reader is not physically defined but she sexyyy, no y/n, sex pollen, SMUT, unprotected piv, unintentional rough sex initially, clothed sex (kinda), baelor is desperate asf, pet names (sweet girl, little dove, etc), praise, lowkey hyperspermia, strong language, baelor being the people’s princess <3

The red and black banners of the royal Targaryen caravan draws a significant crowd, and when Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne and Hand of the King, dismounts his black stallion, the crowd ripples with voices. It’s a great clamour: common people reaching for him, calling his name, begging for his attention as he’s flanked by his loyal kingsguard.

He has been away for two weeks. Travelling from Kings Landing to Sunspear and back again, stopping in various towns and villages on his way. He spoke kindly with vendors, purchased goods from travelling merchants, discussed the state of the realm with minor lords who frequented trailside inns.

He was a man of the people, but in truth, he only wanted to be the man for one person. He wanted to be your man, and he had been away for two weeks too long.

His pretty wife, no doubt sitting alone within the walls of the Keep. Waiting for the return of your dear husband, biding your time lost between the pages of Valyrian literature or nosing around the quiet observatories.

He smiles to himself as he thinks of you.

One of his guards, Ser Donnel, stoops low to whisper in his ear as he waves to the surging crowd, who respond with shouts of praise.

“We need not stop here, your grace,” Donnel informs. “We are but three hours from the royal residence. We can make landing before midday if—”

Baelor swishes his hand through the air, polite but dismissive. “Do not fret, ser. I will only spend a moment here then we will depart once more.”

Donnel says nothing more as Baelor approaches some of the commonfolk. He extends his arm and shakes the hand of a young man, no older than his eldest son. The boy beams at the prince, his handshake firm and confident.

“Seven blessings, your grace,” the young man says, dipping his head as he shakes Baelor’s hand. Baelor smiles softly at him, and the young man brings a hand to his chest in a display of respect. “I have the means to become a knight.”

Baelor smiles still. “Then I wish you all the best. We are always in need of good men and good knights.”

The young man continues to beam as Baelor moves through the crowd, flanked by the shining white armoured men that comprise his kingsguard.

The village is small and very simple. A scarce few buildings stand amongst crudely made wooden houses, but nevertheless, Baelor winds his way through the wide streets, greeting people who peer out their windows and doors curiously.

Once he has done a lap of the village, shaking hands and offering kind smiles, he returns to where he had started. With one final wave to the people, he mounts his steed and the royal caravan presses on. Cantering beside him, Donnel, his white armour gleaming in the mid-morning sun, casts him a sidelong look.

Baelor meets his gaze. “Yes, Ser Donnel?”

“You assume everyone you meet has good intentions, your grace,” Donnel speaks plainly, and this makes Baelor shake his head, chuckling softly.

“I’d rather assume the good intentions of the people than the bad,” Baelor replies, the Targaryen procession winding through the countryside now, surrounded by endless rolling hills, coloured a patchwork of brilliant greens. “If I assume everyone has bad intentions, Ser Donnel, I would not make a good prince.”

Donnel huffs. “You’d make my job significantly easier.”

Baelor tuts, humoured. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

An hour passes beneath the bright sun, and Baelor finds his lower back growing stiff with his continued straight riding posture. But he does not complain, nor does he ask for a break: he has kept his entourage from their homes for long enough, and on the distant horizon, King’s Landing juts from the hills, the ocean glittering beyond.

The well-ridden path ahead of them stretches and coils between the rolling hills like a serpent, and way ahead, the guards alert Baelor to a fully-stocked wagon pulled by a gangly old mule. A shawled figure walks beside the mule, and Baelor smiles to himself as he sees the figure patting the creature gently, heading away from King’s Landing.

“I intend to dismount,” Baelor tells Donnel, who can scarcely react before the prince’s horse sidles up beside the wagon. 

The shawled figure, revealed to be an elderly woman of perhaps seven and ninety, stops at the sound of thundering hooves. She leans into a stiff bow as Baelor leaps from his stallion, stretching his hand to stroke the nose of the old mule.

“Your grace,” the woman greets kindly, her eyes darting nervously to the two imposing kingsguard who dismount their own horses and stand beside the prince. Their hands rest on the pommels of their swords, and they eye both the woman and her wagon skeptically. She gestures to the wagon, which is draped in dark blue material and smells of lavender. “I am a travelling herb-woman.”

Baelor assesses the woman with his mismatched eyes. “Well, it has been many years since I have met someone of your specialty.”

The woman smiles, and the kingsguard bristles as Baelor continues to pet the mule. The prince speaks with a disarming kindness that constantly has them on edge. He was considerably more difficult to guard compared to his younger brother, who spoke to no one unless he really needed to.

“I have been travelling for far too long,” Baelor continues, allowing the mule to butt his hand in search of more strokes. “Might you have something to ease my aches?”

Donnel clears his throat behind him. “Your grace, I don’t recommend—”

The woman splits into a deep smile and turns to her wagon, her dark cloak moving around her like the blackness of night. She smells rich of lavender and road dirt, and Baelor shoots Donnel a pointed look as he waits. The woman peels back the covering of her wagon and rifles through the contents she can reach. After a moment, she spins around with a small vial. She holds it up, the liquid inside a milky-white.

“A tannic tea made from the bark of the white willow,” she says, holding it out to the prince. “Used to relieve muscle and joint aches.”

Baelor goes to reach for it, but Donnel beats him to it, snatching the vial from the woman, who jumps slightly at his roughness. Baelor peers curiously at his guard, who inspects the bottle thoughtfully.

“You cannot take something of which you do not know its origins,” Donnel says in response to Baelor’s stare. “It could be poison.”

The woman gawks. “Oh, no! No, your grace, I do not—I do not carry poisons. I am a simple herb-woman, gods believe me, and—”

Baelor lifts his hand, and the mule snorts in discontent at the lack of contact. “Please, you owe us no explanation. Ser Donnel is simply being thorough,” Baelor says the last part pointedly, and casts Donnel a sidelong glance that makes Roland, on his other side, snort around a poorly hidden laugh.

Donnel frowns. “Your father would not forgive me if I allowed you to drink strange liquids from strangers. Not to mention, your wife—”

Baelor gently takes the small vial from Donnel, interrupting his tirade. The prince carefully uncorks it, smells it—it smells of willow tannins, something he is familiar with from his many travels across the realm—and then drinks the entire small bottle. It’s bitter to the taste, with a subtle honey-sweetness used by many experienced healers to remedy the acridness of many bark-based tannics.

The woman smiles softly, taking the vial back. “It should begin to work within the hour.”

The prince returns the smile, allowing the old woman to clasp one of his hands in two of hers. The kingsguard watches her like a pair of hawks as she retreats, but not before exclaiming aloud, pulling a small pouch from within her thick cloak.

“May I bless you, your grace?” She asks.

Donnel frowns. “No—”

Baelor ignores his guard, stepping forward and presenting himself to the herb-woman, thus putting some space between him and his guards. She smiles, opening the pouch. Between her thumb and forefinger, she produces a pinch of bright pink powder.

“How long have you been from your wife?” the woman questions, tucking the pouch back within her cloak and sprinkling the powder onto her outstretched palm.

Baelor chuckles softly, watching the woman. “Too long. Weeks now.”

“You must desire her embrace then, I assume,” she says, and Baelor ignores another poorly-hidden laugh from Roland at the woman’s open words.

“Desperately,” Baelor speaks plainly, also ignoring the fact he could feel Donnel’s scowl pressing into the back of his head.

“Well,” the woman begins, running her finger through the pink powder on her palm and drawing a circle in it. “I bless you, your grace, with the passion and the desire to make up for such lost time.”

The woman raises her hand and blows the pink powder directly into Baelor’s face. He closes his eyes, the dust settling across him like a mist, tickling his skin as it settles. It takes a second for the smell to calm around his head, but as he inhales, everything he smells is strikingly familiar. He smells his childhood in Dorne: hot, sun-bleached sand, rain-soaked yew trees, spiced wine and pomegranate juice; he smells the ash of Dragonstone, fresh wax seals, blood on Valyrian steel beneath a stormy sky; and then he smells you.

That makes him freeze.

You, as if he had his nose pressed to the crook of your neck.

The musk of your skin, the rose-water of your baths, the cinnamon in your perfume. He smells the lilacs you pick in the gardens, and the ink you so often spill across your fingers as you write. He smells the honey wax soap you wash your hair with, and the rich apple cider you so often treat yourself to during times of celebration.

Baelor opens his eyes and gapes at the woman. “What is—?”

“Blessed be you and your wife, your grace. Travel safely,” she says with a knowing smile, dipping into another stiff curtsy before taking the rope at her mule’s neck and leading him on, pulling the cart away.

Behind the prince, Donnel places a hand on his shoulder. “Your grace, are you—?”

“Let us continue,” Baelor interrupts, slightly too loud. He quickly mounts his horse as Donnel and Roland exchange a strange look. Baelor beckons his knights. “Come, sers. We must not delay our arrival any longer.”

He can’t wait to see you.

Your face flits through his mind and he has to physically press the back of his hand to his mouth to stop himself from groaning as he nudges his horse into motion. When he pulls his hand away, he can see something iridescent dusting across the black leather of his riding glove, but it quickly melts into the hide, leaving behind only a dull shimmer.

He doesn’t feel as though he has been poisoned, but now more than ever, with King’s Landing looming in the distance, his mind is plagued with thoughts of you. Thoughts, which were once wholesome, now diverge—images of you spread out on his bed, a hand between your legs; or the whiny little breath you suck in each time he enters you.

His thoughts are unbecoming of a man of his standing.

But he cannot rid his mind of them.

Images—memories—of you hiking up your skirts as you perch on the edge of his desk, cunt glistening as his mouth lowers, or the way you arch and bend yourself over the edge of your tall bed, gripping the soft furs and sheets, begging him to take you.

“Your grace, are you well?” Donnel asks, catching the light glaze falling across the prince’s eyes.

Baelor nods, clearing his throat. He’s fine. If he ignores the way his cock is currently twitching in his breeches, he’s fine.

“I am,” he replies convincingly. “I must admit, my back feels better already.”

Donnel scoffs, but says nothing more.

If not for the horde of people around him, Baelor would have taken off. No doubt he would have gotten to the Keep in record time, even if he did run his poor stallion into the ground.

—✿—

The sun hangs high in the sky as Baelor hurriedly dismounts his steed and waves Donnel and Roland away. The Red Keep is alive with servants and workers, but amongst the sea of people he does not see you.

The hours that went by were torturous, and on several occasions the prince found himself screwing his eyes shut and willing himself not to burst through the seam of his trousers. Your scent clogged his sinuses, and he could almost feel some phantom of your touch trailing along the back of his neck, rustling the cropped hair of his beard, fiddling with the clasp of his cloak.

He strides purposely through the glowing halls of the Keep, pulling his riding gloves off and tossing them to a servant who hurries after him. He unclasps his cloak too, letting it drop to the ground behind him. The servant squeaks, scooping the cloak up before sprinting forward in an attempt to keep up with the heir.

The servant clears his throat nervously. “Your grace, your presence is requested in counsel at the turn of the hour, and the Lord of Riverrun is awaiting your letter in reply to—”

“I have been absent for weeks,” Baelor snaps, but although his tone is short, he is not cruel. “It will not hurt to miss one more meeting. And as for the Lord of Riverrun, he can wait even longer unless he’d rather a reply from my brother, who he is not fond of.”

The servant nods. “Of course, your grace, but—”

“Where is my wife?” Baelor voices, his doublet too hot and too restrictive around his chest. The halls of the Keep seem particularly warm today.

“Your chambers, as far as I’m aware,” the servant replies. “But—”

“Thank you, you are dismissed,” Baelor says as he rounds a corner, the door to your shared chambers coming into close view. His heart leaps in his chest envisioning you waiting patiently for his arrival.

The servant, arms struggling to hold onto Baelor’s thick, luxurious cloak, frowns deeply. “Your grace—?”

Baelor whirls around, and the servant yelps as he is forced to an abrupt stop. The prince gestures to the closed door of his chambers with a quick flick of his hand.

“Please make it aware to all of the workers that I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the day,” he says, voice low. “Tell the entire Keep for all I care, but under no circumstances is anyone to call for me, understood?”

The servant nods.

Baelor spins and pushes his door open, closing it and bolting it behind him with a resounding clank. He rests his forehead on the rough wood for a moment, catching his breath. His heart hammers wildly in his chest, as if his journey through the Keep had been miles longer than it actually was. It almost pains him, the way it clatters against his ribs as his breaths grow more ragged. His head is swimming too, a dizzy sort of euphoria overwhelmed by everything relating to you.

You.

He groans, eyes screwing shut as his cock presses painfully to the front of his breeches. He has half the mind to simply stick his hand into his trousers and jerk himself into the linen.

“Baelor?”

Your voice is angelic in the quiet of the chambers, and it makes another groan split from between Baelor’s lax jaw.

He turns, eyes opening, blinking blearily as he stares into the sunlight streaming through the windows. You sit up in the large canopy bed, your white chemise sitting loosely on your shoulders, revealing the curve of your neck. The furs and sheets pool around you in a mass of browns and blacks, and you rub at your eyes with the heel of your hand as you take in the sight of your husband across the room.

“You’re home,” you smile lazily at him, pushing yourself from the bed and padding your way over to him.

Your voice is so soft that it makes Baelor fold forward, the weight of his arousal dragging him towards you. You have him on an invisible leash, tugging him across the room until you can wrap your arms around his waist and press your face into his chest.

“No one informed me you were returning today,” you tell him, voice muffled against the thickness of his doublet. He presses two trembling hands to your lower back, pulling you tighter against him. You nuzzle him, the feeling making his stomach swoop. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I you,” he responds quietly, and he stiffens when he feels you go still. His voice is throaty and hoarse, hauled through gravel.

Slowly, you look up, and he realises you can feel the press of his clothed cock against your stomach. He groans, a pathetic little bellow as you gape up at him, eyes sparkling as they take in the state of his fevered face. You raise a hand, placing it against his cheek. He closes his eyes, and like a puppy, leans into your touch with a small sound of pleasure.

“You…” You begin, but falter. Your fingers trail along the neat line where the hair of his beard meets his cheek. He wonders, as he finally opens his eyes, if you can see every one of his pores glistening. He wonders too if the sweat that collects along his forehead is tinted pink. You frown. “You smell of… well, I’m not sure.”

He whines at the timidness in your voice, his hands circling to your hips. He grips you tightly, pulling your pelvis flush to his. It takes all power within him not to grind his cock against you. He doesn’t want to scare you off.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he says before you can open your mouth. Your hands continue to flutter over his face, and it makes his cock jump in his breeches when your thumb slides over the bow of his top lip. “Being away from you has been torture.”

You hum, slightly distracted. Your hands continue to shift across his face, and your brows knit together once more when you slowly pull one of them away. Baelor watches you examine your fingertips before your eyes find his again. He can feel the hot pressure of tears behind his eyes—not because he is sad, but because he needs you so badly he feels his heart will implode against his sternum.

“Gods, I need you,” Baelor declares gently, strong hands lifting to cup your face. He leans forward to press his lips to yours, but you resist, turning your head so his mouth lands against your warm cheek. He whines, frustrated, as he scatters kisses over your cheekbone. “No, no, sweet girl, please don’t—”

“You’re sparkling like a silk-street whore,” you quip, voice light with humour, but Baelor doesn’t hear it that way.

“No, no, never,” he rambles, nose pressing to your cheek. “I’d never, sweet girl, gods no. I’d first open my throat before I ever—”

“Baelor,” you stop him with a small, breathless chuckle, slightly overwhelmed. 

He’s burning hot against you, he knows it, and you’re just as warm against him. It makes his head swim as he inhales, your skin slightly tacky with sweat from your midday nap, but smelling of roses and cinnamon.

“I’ve been blessed,” he says quickly, trying to turn your face, but you resist. He kisses your chin instead. “A herb-woman blessed me.”

“Ah,” you reply, knowing what he’s referring to. Not only have you met a few of these travelling healers in your time, but you’ve also read much about them.

Baelor leans his weight into you, and you stumble back until you collide with one of the thick posts of your canopy bed. He groans, pinning you to it as he kisses along your jaw, strong hands cupping your face. Your fingers find the hem of his doublet and you rub along the dense seam. As you do that, his hips rut forward and you gasp at the thick print of his cock against you, hot and hard in his trousers. Your hands drop, finding the cool metal of the clasp.

You hear him suck in a breath as he kisses the tender skin beside your ear. Then, he whispers, “Yes, take them off. Please take them off, little dove.”

You unbuckle the clasp.

He groans. “Yes, yes.”

Your fingers peel the front of his trousers open, and he finally manages to pull your mouth up to his. His hands are burning hot against the side of your head as his mouth slots against yours. The kiss is tender to start with, but one beat of your heart later and he’s whining against you, tongue sliding across your lips.

“Let me in,” he pleads against your mouth, before delving back in.

You do, opening your kisses for him to press his tongue in, finding yours. Everything about it is warm, your proximity burning hotter than a Dornish summer sun.

The tent of his cock nudges your palm as you finally shuck his trousers down. You feel for the ties of his breeches next, pulling at the knots as his tongue skims across your teeth. When he feels his breeches begin to loosen around his hips, he breaks away to groan, head tilting down slightly, your foreheads bumping together. He watches your fingers draw his breeches undone before they drop alongside his trousers.

You hesitate.

Baelor groans. “Touch me. Touch me, please, I need you to—”

You clasp the base of his cock with a warm, gentle hand. He groans again: this time, louder, and he lifts your head with his guiding hands and slams his mouth back to yours. There’s a subtle bitterness on his tongue, like a medicine of some sort, but it’s overwhelmed by an apple flavour that has you searching for more. Your tongues tangle as you grasp his cock, giving it a few tiny strokes as he pulls you away from the canopy post and pushes you down onto the mattress.

The kiss disconnects and you yelp as you fall flat onto the furs. Your husband’s hands find the hem of your chemise now and push it quickly up your body.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he utters, finding you bare of any smallclothes beneath your sleepwear.

He stares down at your cunt with a misty gloss across his mismatched eyes. His hands drag down your sides, then onto your thighs, massaging the fat there before he’s prying them apart.

One of his hands grips the base of his cock, replacing your own. “You have no… no idea how badly I need this.”

Baelor steps forward and tugs you towards him at the same time. You yelp once more as your arse practically hangs off of the bed as he settles between your spread legs. The thick head of his cock presses right against your clit, and you yowl his name as he taps it there roughly. His eyes snap up to take in your expression, and that’s when you notice a tear slip from his dark-hued eye.

“Oh, Baelor,” you whisper, pussy fluttering around nothing at the unbridled need in his face. There are a million butterflies in your tummy too.

He whimpers deeply, then drags his cock through your silken folds. He collects the slick that gathers there with a small moan before he speaks. The tear disappears into the hair of his beard. “My sweetest girl, please let me have you.”

You’re nodding straight away.

Baelor sucks in a breath, and you see something like regret flicker through his eyes. “Gods, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you tell him, noting the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his eyes rake down your body. They linger on the peaks of your nipples through the thin material of your chemise. “You could never hurt me.”

“No, no, sweet girl, I can’t—” Baelor slurs, then cuts himself off with a low whine as he notches the head of his cock at your hole.

You’re wet and glistening for him, but his mind is split in two: conflicted, overrun with the effects of whatever he had been ‘blessed’ with, but still anchored to his princely values.

He huffs, desperate as he rubs the tip of his cock in tight circles around your entrance. “Oh, fuck.”

You angle your hips and the leaking tip sinks into you. He chokes on his moan, the apple in his throat bobbing as he swallows around it. He watches, eyes nearly the same colour with the way his pupils dilate, as your pussy splits apart for him and sucks the head in. Then, his entire body trembling with need, he pushes even further, shoving his cock all the way inside you, giving you no room to adjust.

It punches a pained noise from your chest that you tried to keep at bay, and you can’t help but wriggle away from him at the intrusion. It’s instinctive, your body reacting to the sudden pressure that fissures both pain and pleasure deep in your gut. Your body writhes against the furs as you whimper, somehow feeling the tip of his cock all the way in your chest, the sensation of being filled suffocating after over two weeks without him.

Your body flees his, and the moan that leaves his mouth is nothing short of heart-breaking. It’s stretched and whiny and nothing you’ve ever heard before.

“No, no, no, please, don’t run from me,” Baelor stammers, eyes wide, hands tight on your hips. He tugs you back down, spearing you on his cock and you howl as he buries himself to the hilt inside you. You fist the sheets, wriggling. Baelor whines. “Stop, s-stop, no, I’m sorry, sweet girl, please don’t—please don’t cry.”

You hadn’t even noticed a few hot tears slipping from your eyes. He bends then, kissing them from your face. His eyelashes flutter against you and the hair of his beard scratches against the skin of your cheek. He whispers to you as he rolls his hips, stretching your pussy around him.

“M’sorry, need—fuck, tell me to stop and I will.” His lips ghost across your earlobe as he pins you beneath him, the angle slightly awkward, hips trapped beneath his.

You gasp softly as he ruts his hips again. “Don’t stop, jus’ keep going.”

“Thank you,” Baelor says, kissing your cheek once more before he rights himself. He holds your hips tightly, pulling himself out and then back in. The drive is deep, and he’s moaning louder than you as he bottoms out again and again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

His trousers and breeches rustle against his thighs as he fucks you, your arse hanging off the bed, the wood of the canopy creaking with his feverish movements. You take it, the sting of the stretch slowly dissipating with each thrust. Your cunt clenches around him as he thanks you repeatedly, growing more and more desperate as he moves. You can see the sweat on his forehead, and you can only assume he’s drenched beneath his doublet and tunic.

The sounds of your union bounce through the chambers, moans and whimpers and curses ricocheting off the stone. He’s murmuring your name like a prayer, strung beautifully between rambling sentences of High Valyrian as he ruts into you.

Not only is this little blessing working, but the white willow tea surely did. His back no longer pains him, and he feels like he could go on forever as he fills you. His eyes linger on where your pussy takes him, sloppy and wet and so fucking loud that his ears burn red. And you’re loud too, whimpering and gasping as your body is rocked roughly against the silken sheets and plush furs.

With a long-winded groan, Baelor takes one of his hands and presses it down on your lower belly. The added pressure has you keening, eyes almost rolling.

“That’s it,” Baelor speaks in a tone heavy with pleasure. “That’s it, little dove. Feel me filling you. Feel the way you take me.”

His words are so foreign yet so familiar. In bed, he’s no stranger to telling you how well you’re doing, how well you take him, how good of a girl you are. But this? The pink powder is thick between his teeth, clogging up the blood vessels in his brain, and he’s spitting out sentences that have you clenching tight around him. He groans as your pussy flutters, and the knot of pleasure in your tummy grows tenfold. A heavy pressure begins to build in the base of your cervix too, hips twitching as he slams into you.

He must see it in your face, because he’s panting now, eyes taking in every little expression that flits before him.

“I know, I know,” he affirms gently, noting what you could not articulate into words. “I know you’re feeling good. I know you’re feeling real good, little dove, but you just need to h-hang on—don’t want you coming u-until I do.”

You whimper, pouting a little.

“Can you do that for me?” Baelor pants, forcing your hips down. By the way he’s moving, the speed in which he fills you and the whines that begin to replace his groans, you know he’s close. But the pressure in your tummy is so heavy that you can’t answer him. He coos at you. “You can do it, sweet girl. I’m almost there. Just hold on for me.”

You moan his name, arching off the bed as the knot in your stomach pulls taut. He responds with a moan of his own, leaning forward as if he’s beginning to lose his balance. He ruts into you like a starving man, the bed shaking, his body silhouetted by the window behind him. His mouth is agape, his breathing erratic and strained.

“Baelor,” you call for him. You’re teetering on a very high cliff, your entire body alight with your impending orgasm. There’s a scream trapped in your throat and your legs pull painfully tight either side of him.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he rambles, his knuckles white where he holds you. “Okay, fuck, s’okay, little dove. You can come for me. M’right here, m’right here.”

You whine, almost pained.

“S’alright, sweet girl,” Baelor continues to coo down at you. “Let me feel you. Want to feel you come around me while I fill you.”

His cock jerks heavily inside you, and his thrusts falter just as you release around him. Gripping the sheets, you sob his name as the knot of pleasure splinters apart. Your release is intense: you shake beneath the warm hold of his big hands, legs seizing tightly as you wrap them around him. His name and his title tumble from your lips, and they only increase when you feel his cock nudge up against your cervix as he spills inside you.

Baelor groans your name. His hips stutter to a stop as he spills, and he’s panting and shuddering as his pleasure peaks. It’s the strongest release he’s ever experienced, his eyes snapping closed as his entire body shakes and his heart leaps into his throat.

And he’s still spilling. Thick ropes of seed that seem never-ending as he hunches over you, cock jolting over and over until the point of pain.

He whines deeply, then pulls out, just for a few hot spurts of cum to splatter across your mound and your lower tummy.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Baelor whimpers, and you gasp out as he rests his cock against you. You feel it give one last jerk, dribbling at your navel, before you watch it slowly begin to soften, blood steadily seeping away from the head. Baelor notices the mess he’s made when his vision finally clears, still slightly dizzy with pleasure though. “M’so sorry, little dove, I didn’t—gods, I didn’t mean—”

You lift a tired arm and seize him by the doublet, tugging him down beside you. You capture his mouth in a heated kiss, and he melts into it straight away. His hands smooth down your sides as your fingers comb through his beard.

When you pull apart, you kiss the tip of his nose. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Baelor frowns slightly, and you can’t help but raise your head to kiss the divots in his brow. He huffs. “I… I was too rough, I shouldn’t have…”

There’s a slight ache deep in your womb, but nothing significant. All you’re focusing on, anyway, is the way his seed leaks from you like honey from its dipper.

“Please, Baelor,” you interrupt him softly, stroking his face. “Like I said, you could never hurt me.”

He goes to speak again, but you kiss him to shut him up.

“I missed you so much,” you say against him, and he grunts, agreeing. You laugh, pulling back a little, examining the bright pink in his cheeks. “And although I… enjoyed this, I must implore you not to take strange blessings from strange people—”

Baelor rolls his eyes, and now it’s his turn to kiss you to shut you up.

———

this might be a little ooc but oh well he’s hot

———

tag list 🌿

@ghostlybfgf @breakspearz @sem-ra @bitterrfruit @dododix @fandom4always @hannisreading @through-the-looking--glass @all-men-are-knights @kittiowolf210 @ildico-the-golden @cheesecakepersonvet @julez-5

[captainfern]

The people yearn for more Baelor smut 😮‍💨

i am a woman of the people

No Ordinary Love

Baelor Targaryen x noblewoman!reader

✿ the heir to the iron throne is a man of great honour and virtue, but he can't help the feelings that overtake him when he meets you (or, baelor falls for you during your nameday tourney). ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 8.8k (damn) ✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n and reader is not physically described, reader from an unnamed but powerful House with non-specific colours, age gap (unspecified), SMUT, guys there's a bit of plot in this one! but also porn bc what else do you expect, unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving), fingering, praise!!, multiple orgasms, baelor is down baddd, lowkey possessive baelor, yearning, reader is THAT girl, strong language, alternating povs, title taken from the beautiful sade song :)

part two here !!

Two days before your nameday, when the sun swam amongst an ichor of oranges and reds along the line of the horizon, your father informed you that Prince Baelor Targaryen was to attend your nameday tourney.

You had stared at him, utterly dumbfounded, from the reflection in your mirror as you readied yourself for bed. The hand of the king, heir to the Iron Throne, the Baelor Breakspear was to attend your nameday tourney? You weren’t sure whether to be thrilled to have such an esteemed guest attending your event, or petrified that a prince of the realm—the prince of the realm—was to be within your castle upon the morrow.

At daybreak, you still weren’t sure how to feel, let alone several hours later, when you stand before the lush gardens of your home as the unmistakable black and red banners approach from between a pair of willow trees. Nerves twist in your stomach as the convoy comes to a stop before you, your father standing just in front. Sweat builds out of fear along the back of your neck as the prince dismounts his horse and approaches your father like an old friend.

“Seven blessings, your grace,” your father says, bowing politely before clasping Baelor’s hands firmly. 

The pair share an amiable smile before Baelor gestures to the beautiful stone castle you call your home. It is not the largest, but it is clean and warm and dry, and that’s all that matters to you.

“I appreciate both your invitation and your hospitality,” Baelor tells your father, diplomatic and courteous. Exactly the man you have been told he is.

You watch the exchange timidly, hands balling at your sides in an attempt to prevent yourself from fidgeting. Fidgeting is unladylike, your father had told you once. You were able to distract yourself, however, by slowly appraising the prince as he engaged in conversation. You had seen him once before, many years ago, when you were much younger and your memory was blurred at the edges. It was from a distance then, but now you could see him so much closer.

There were always whispers of his Dornish features that differentiated him from the typical Targaryen, and seeing them up close, they made him even more handsome than you can begin to describe. The dark hair, wisped with grey, and the mismatched eyes. A subtle confidence in his posture, a pride in his broad chest, an undeniable strength in his arms and hands—you see the rings there, and the veins that run along the back, and find yourself feeling slightly light-headed.

You hear your name.

You jump slightly, blinking yourself from your daze to find that your name was spoken by Baelor himself. He is facing you, his entire body turned in your direction. You grow warm as you drop into a curtsy, one you have tediously practised, and set your gaze on the ground as you do so.

When you rise, Baelor is still looking at you. His gaze is as soft as the early morning sun, and you find yourself wondering if this Targaryen is as much a dragon as the rest of them are.

—✿—

You are the prettiest thing he has ever seen.

And it makes his chest swell tightly with shame because you are so much younger than him—too many years younger than him.

But yet, his eyes linger from his position at the window of your father’s solar. He can see you through the pane’s lattices, ambling slowly through the gardens with a couple of your ladies. Your skirts flow like water around your heels, your face pressed into a serene smile as one of your ladies says something to you. From this angle, too, he can see the lines of your shoulders and the top of your breasts, the curve of your jaw as you tilt your head, peering at something further afield.

“Your grace?”

Your father’s voice forces Baelor to turn from the window, shaking his head slightly. What baser instincts have overtaken him that he is spying on a young woman through an upper-floor window?

“Your daughter,” Baelor begins casually, leaning himself against the stone lip beneath the window. “She is unbetrothed?”

Your father makes an annoyed face, and Baelor suddenly sits up a little straighter. There is something heavy—like disappointment—in your father’s eyes. Baelor clocks it immediately, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he awaits a response.

“I have attempted to find her suitors, but she is rather… recalcitrant. I blame that on her mother,” your lord father says from his desk, reclining back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest, an exasperated look on his face. “I had no problem securing betrothals for her siblings, but she is proving to be more difficult.”

Baelor responds calmly. “How so?”

Your father sighs. “She spends too much time with the commonfolk for her own good, she is much too engaged with political discourse, and she spends most of her time engaging in activities I explicitly tell her not to do. Not to mention her needlework is unrefined—”

“What do you mean by that?” Baelor continues, spinning one of the rings around on his finger. “What kind of activities, I mean.”

The prince was thankful his younger brother wasn’t here, for he was certain that Maekar would have picked up on exactly what it was he was trying to achieve.

Baelor wanted to get to know you. He wanted to know why exactly a young woman as stunning as yourself remained holed up within this castle. Why there were no suitors clamouring around the halls in pursuit of you. He places his hands on the stone lip of the windowsill to stop himself from playing with the garnet-encrusted ring on his finger.

“I have caught her gambling, using dragons, in local inns, participating in mock sword fights with her cousins, using real blades. Gods above, she has recently taken a penchant for archery, of all things,” your father says almost embarrassed. He looks over at Baelor. “But, I will not give up. I hope that whoever the victor of this little tourney will make an appropriate match for her.”

The grip Baelor has on the stone turns white-knuckled.

—✿—

That afternoon, you successfully avoid your father and return to the fields at the rear of your home. Here, a stack of hay bales sit across the grass, fashioned into a crudely made target. You grab your bow and bundle of arrows, hidden in a nearby shrub, and align yourself with the target, the middle of the topmost bale painted with a couple of red rings.

You knock your arrow with shaky arms, elbow dropping too low as you aim, fire, and proceed to watch the arrow fly high above the bales.

“Seven give me strength…” You mutter, annoyed but undeterred.

You take a deep breath, rolling your shoulders as you prepare to notch another arrow. You find it difficult to keep your elbow bent the way it’s supposed to, and all the help you received from your father’s best archer was nothing, other than informing you he was a right cunt. Women aren’t natural archers, it’s a man’s weapon, he had said.

“Fucking idiot,” you say angrily to yourself and let the second arrow fly. It wobbles as it zips through the air, but manages to clip the corner of the top bale, sending a puff of straw into the air.

“Ah, what did the hay ever do to you?”

You whirl around with a yelp at the unexpected voice behind you. Baelor chuckles at the fright that passes over your face as he approaches, footsteps dulled in the soft grass. You blow out a breath, quickly gathering yourself and bowing your head as he reaches you.

“My prince,” you say quietly. “I apologise, I did not mean—”

“No, no, do not apologise,” Baelor interrupts you gently, then gestures at the bow clutched in your hand and the pile of arrows at your feet. “I did not mean to intrude on your practice.”

You grow warm, stomach fluttering as you poorly attempt to hide the bow behind your back. Bashful, you stutter, “I’m not–it’s not–”

Baelor laughs quietly and reaches a strong hand in your direction. He gently takes your forearm and slowly pulls it back around until the bow rests before you once more. His touch is warm atop the soft fabric of your sleeve, but you flinch when his thumb presses against a bruise forming beneath your skin.

He notices this, eyes dropping. Then, he tuts. Tuts, like you were a child suddenly caught stealing cakes from the kitchens.

“M’lady, you must wear a bracer for such activities,” Baelor tells you, bringing his other hand to push away your sleeve and reveal your forearm. His fingers brush against the inside of your wrist with a tenderness that makes your legs weak.

You pray that he cannot feel your pulse quicken. “I do not need one.”

There’s a sparkle in Baelor’s mismatched eyes when he meets yours. Then, his thumb presses just a little bit harder on the tender flesh of your arm’s ventral side. You hiss out as he blindly pinpoints a steadily blooming bruise from the previous days’ practice, and you withdraw your arm from his hold.

His hands drop. “Every good archer needs a bracer because every good archer has arms in need of protecting.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, head turning to look at the untouched hay bale target several dozen yards away. “I am not a good archer, your grace.”

Baelor peers at you curiously. He notes the dejectedness in your tone, and the subtle sadness in your beautiful eyes. He has always wanted to help, to solve, to be of service, but the feeling triples as he rakes his eyes over you, a honey-thick possessiveness filling his chest. He takes another step closer.

“You are practising,” he says. His tone is so soft. Even softer than the way you hear the stableboys easing the skittish mares. Baelor continues, “The best archers in all the realm were not simply born as such. They had to practise.”

You chew your lip thoughtfully, turning back to face him. You feel slightly embarrassed, not just at the fact that the heir to the Iron Throne is being so candid with you, but also because you are finding it so hot. The butterflies in your stomach increase tenfold.

“Here.” Baelor lifts his arms. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll direct you.”

Tentatively, you allow the prince to guide you into position—slotting an arrow into place and holding the bow and arrow like you usually would before release. This time, however, Baelor places his palm to your elbow and lifts it. His fingers reach over to brush against your shoulder too, forcing a subtle change in your posture.

“Here we go,” he says, circling you. You can feel the warmth of his chest against your back as one of his hands finds the bow, altering your aim, whilst the other skims over your ribs, guiding your body to change direction just slightly. “Keep an open stance, shoulders straight—yeah, there we go, that’s a good girl.”

You’re sure he doesn’t mean it like that, but you have to bite your lip hard to stop yourself from whimpering involuntarily. It also takes the strength of an entire army to keep you from squeezing your thighs together.

“And we want to keep our core engaged,” Baelor finishes, and suddenly his hand is pressing lightly against your tummy. Big palm, wide-spread fingers, pushing enough for your breath to hitch. His voice skims past your ear. “This keeps a solid foundation. Now, try pulling back and taking a shot.”

You take a deep breath and set your eyes on your target across the field, acutely aware of his hand still ghosting across your stomach and the heat of his body against your back. You wonder, just briefly, what would happen if you stepped back into him.

Focus.

You pull your arm back just a little bit more and then let go. You don’t bother wincing at the pain that snaps across your exposed forearm, instead watching as your arrow splits through the air with a light whistle before penetrating the second red ring of the target. You push away from Baelor to jump up in victory, skirts bouncing around you as you pump a fist into the air like an excited child.

“Yes!” You exclaim, breaking off into a sprint across the field.

Baelor smiles as he watches you examine the arrow embedded in the hay bale. However, the cool air that hits him makes him miss the warmth of your body, the smell of your skin.

“Seven forgive me…” He mutters to himself as he watches the way you bend, the curve of your arse rounded by the heavy fabrics of your skirts.

—✿—

As the sun sets, you find yourself sneaking out through a servant’s entrance—like you so often do—and heading down into the tourney’s encampment yonder. Colourful tents are pitched, crowded beside one another, with people milling about, talking and shouting and drinking. There are banners that you recognise fluttering softly in the breeze, and there are some you have never seen before. The market is bustling too, and oil lanterns light the faces of vendors selling their goods.

“M’lady!” One of the vendors calls to you as you wind your way through the crowd.

You approach with a smile, and the older woman who had called to you gestures at the array of fruits stacked along a wooden table. “Apples and peaches, fresh from the Reach, or ‘ve got the more exotic choice ‘ere: pomegranates, from Dorne.”

You pluck a round, brilliantly red pomegranate from a small crate. “When I saw you in the village a moon ago, you didn’t have pomegranates. How did you get these?”

The older woman points at you, grinning. “I have my ways.”

You shake your head, passing the woman a few coins and taking a sack of pomegranates and peaches. You then make your way through the market, still humming with people even as the sky steadily darkens and the shadows beneath the nearby trees grow larger.

Soon, you find yourself in front of a stall lined with daggers, the blades glinting in the light of an overhead lantern. You spy a few with handles carved from bone, others made of steel and wrapped in leather, even one chiselled into a serpent’s head with rubies for eyes.

“First it was bows and arrows, now it is blades? You have dangerous pastimes, m’lady.”

You flinch at the sudden noise, turning to find Baelor sidling up beside you. Only now do you notice the hush that has fallen over the nearby crowd, and how the vendor of the stall you stood before stands up straighter. You notice, too, the presence of the kingsguard lurking amongst the shadows in your peripheral vision.

“Your grace,” you greet, bowing your head.

You don’t curtsy, but offer him a small smile instead. He returns it, and then peers down to where your fingers brush over the ornately carved hilt of a silver dagger. You withdraw your hand.

He chuckles, hands behind his back. “Do not fret.”

You swallow, nervous. “Is my father—?”

“Not here,” Baelor says immediately. Then, he nods back to the daggers. “Go on. Choose one.”

You grip the sack of fruit tightly in one hand, your other hand fidgeting with the softly braided belt at your waist. You can feel his eyes on you as you look between the daggers laid out neatly on the table before you. Hesitantly, you reach for one with a smooth, straight-edged blade. The hilt is simple, wrapped in ridged leather that matches the colour of your house, but the pommel flares out a little into a sphere, a small gemstone glittering in its centre. It’s a solid, comforting weight in your hand.

“Beautiful,” Baelor remarks, but his eyes haven’t left your face.

You can’t help but smile as you spin the dagger slowly against your palm. You look up at Baelor after a moment, gesturing to the daggers with the point of your own.

“And you?” You query.

He shakes his head, hand moving to rest at his side where a dagger sits comfortably in its sheath on his belt. “No, I’ve my own.”

You hum, eyes dragging back down to the table. They immediately find the dagger with the serpent-head pommel. You place your dagger down to pick up that one, examining it beneath the lantern light, the rubies in the eyes sparkling. Baelor watches you curiously as you hold it out towards him, a warmth in your eyes he hasn’t seen in a woman in a very long time. It just about renders him speechless.

“Now this,” you say quietly. “Is very Targaryen, don’t you agree, your grace?”

He eyes the dagger, mouth curving into a smile. “Certainly.”

“And do you like it?”

“I do.”

“Then consider it a gift,” you say finally, urging the prince to take the dagger from you. He does, his fingers brushing yours, and you feel butterflies returning to your stomach. 

However, before you can speak any further, he is shaking his head and reaching for a small coin purse hidden on the other side of him and handing several dragons to the vendor. The vendor gapes as he gratefully takes the coins, and then you gape at Baelor as he gently leads you away from the market stall, grabbing the dagger you had placed down before doing so.

“That is not how gifts work,” you comment with surprise.

In the shadows of a towering willow nearby, Baelor stops and turns to you. Carefully, he hooks a finger into the braided belt at your waist and pulls you forward slightly. Your heart skips a beat as the distance between the two of you narrows, the heat and masculine smell of him engulfing you. With great tenderness, Baelor slots your blade into the belt, hand brushing across your hip as he does so.

“That is exactly how gifts work,” he utters, voice rich and dark. “I gifted the dagger to you, and you have accepted it.”

Your eyebrows draw together. “But—”

“I am prince of the realm,” Baelor interrupts you easily. His hand is resting on your hip now, and his tone makes the words in your mouth dry up instantly. “I have gifted you this dagger, and you have accepted it, haven’t you?”

You can’t speak. Words fail you, throat closing up around a soft whimper. So, you nod. And then Baelor, Prince Baelor Breakspear, reaches up and pats one large hand against one of your warmed cheeks, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“That’s a good girl.”

Fuck.

—✿—

In the middle of the night, you find yourself tossing and turning amongst the soft sheets of your bed. Your chambers are dark around you, cooled since your fire died out, but you were too hot. Sweat clung to the backs of your knees, the base of your spine, up along the nape of your neck. It was almost feverish the way your body thrums with heat, and you sit up in your bed, sleep evading you.

Maybe a drink of water and a cake of some sort will quell your restlessness.

You push yourself out of bed, rubbing your eyes as you pad across your chambers. From a table near the door, you grab your chamberstick, light it, and head out your door.

The corridors of your castle are lit with the soft orange glow of mounted torches, and it is rather quiet save for the distant clanking footsteps of guards on patrol. Your footsteps are muffled against the carpet that rolls through the middle of the hallway as you make your way down the large, winding staircase and towards the kitchens.

You find the large kitchens empty save for one maid, Marla, who is sweeping the floor beside the oven’s hearth. She looks up as you enter, then curtsies with the broom still in her hand. She has worked here since before you were born.

“You need not greet me as such at this hour,” you tell her as you approach the large table in the centre of the room. You gesture to yourself as you walk, dressed in your thin nightgown. “Especially when I look like this.”

Marla laughs softly, then nods towards a foot-long wooden box on the table. “You are still the lady of the house, even at this hour.”

“Ha,” you laugh, slightly spiteful. You place your chamberstick nearby, the flame adding to the low glow from the torches on the upper walls. “Do not remind me.”

You open the lid of the box and find neatly lined rows of honeycakes, dusted with sugar. Excitedly, you take one, still slightly warm to the touch, and take a large, rather unladylike bite, groaning blissfully as you chew. Marla shakes her head in amusement, smiling softly at you as she stores the broom away.

“Leftover from supper,” she tells you as you finish your honeycake. It’s perfectly sweet and soft and reminds you of your childhood. 

As you help yourself to another cake, Marla disappears momentarily and returns with a cup of water. She places it in front of you.

“Thank you,” you say through a mouthful of cake. Then, you point at the box with sugar-coated fingers. “Will you have one?”

Marla hesitates, peering over her shoulder through the shadowed doorway that you know leads to the servants quarters. “I shouldn’t…”

You swallow your mouthful then push the box towards her with your free hand. You drum your fingers against the side as she looks between you and the door.

“As you said, I am the lady of the house,” you tell her pointedly. “Have a cake… please.”

Marla smiles timidly, but approaches the table anyway. She brushes her hands across her flour-dusted apron and plucks a golden honeycake from the box. You offer her your half-eaten one, and she laughs as she taps hers against it before taking a bite. The moment is quiet before she speaks again.

“It is your nameday.”

“Not until the morrow.”

“It is the morrow, my lady.”

You stop chewing. “Gods, what hour is it?”

“We have long since passed the hour of ghosts.”

“Oh.” You swallow, then suck on one of your fingers in thought, cleaning it of sugar. “Then I shan’t keep you any longer—”

“Oh, my apologies, m’lady.”

You whirl around, finger still in your mouth, to find Baelor in the doorway of the kitchens. You faintly hear Marla squeak behind you as she drops into a deep curtsy, her mouth stuffed full of honeycake. The sound makes you snort as you take your finger from your mouth, shooting her a look as she hurries to swallow.

“Don’t choke,” you joke, and she gives you a stern look.

You turn back to Baelor, who watches you thoughtfully, eyes shadowed where he stands beneath the warm light of a nearby torch.

“Archery, sneaking out, and now pestering servants for cakes? You really are troublesome, aren’t you?” Baelor chuckles softly, crossing into the kitchen.

You scoff, folding your arms over your chest. The movement causes your nightgown to rise slightly, the fabric fluttering near your knees. “I am not stealing. I was spending time with Marla.”

Baelor’s eyes find Marla for a split second. Marla hangs her head, slowly edging towards the servant’s door.

“At this hour?” Baelor cocks a brow at you.

You scoff again, then turn to Marla. Now, she’s in the doorway and giving you a pointed look. No longer bashful with Baelor’s attention away from her. She’s looking at you with a quirk in her brow and a subtle smile on her lips.

Then, she quickly says, “I’ll take my leave, your grace, my lady.”

She vanishes, and you turn back to find Baelor staring right at you and a lot closer than you had originally thought he was. So much so that you can see the colours of his eyes through the shadowed darkness. They shift downwards, and you realise you’re standing in your sleepwear, the material of the nightgown thin against the dips and curves of your body.

“The last time I checked, I was the lady of this house, meaning I can do whatever I want within its walls,” you tell him, returning to the earlier conversation. “You, on the other hand…”

Baelor takes a step forward, and you take a step back. The small of your back hits the large table, your chamberstick trembling beside you, the small pan rocking against the wood.

He looks around the kitchen. “Sleep evades me.”

“So you decide to wander a foreign castle on your lonesome?” You note the absence of the kingsguard following after the wake of his shadow.

He nods, looking back to you now. There’s a tenderness in his expression that makes you feel slightly dizzy. Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep, but you find yourself gripping onto the edge of the table in fear your legs will give way, knees weak.

“I do not usually have such freedoms at home,” Baelor tells you honestly, taking another step forward. 

A small bit of fear passes through you like a phantom—not fear of him, but the fear that he, a prince of the realm, is suddenly too close to you, a lady, dressed only in her nightgown and delicate smallclothes beneath. Out of instinct, you raise one of your hands and he walks into it, your fingers and palm pressing to his chest.

His tunic is warm with the heat of him, as if he’s only just rolled out of bed.

“Your grace…” You warn him as he stops, head cocking to the side as if trying to get a better read of your facial expression.

He watches you. You look angelic in the soft orange glow of the torches, the flickering flame of your chamberstick distorting shadows across the exposed skin of your neck and throat.

“Your father intends to wed you to the victor of this tourney,” Baelor says to you suddenly. The words make your mouth go dry with shock. He continues, “He says you are recalcitrant. Says you are difficult to manage.”

As he speaks, one of his hands encircles your wrist where your hand is still pressed to his chest. He holds you there, feeling the rhythmic thrum of your pulse beneath his fingers.

“I am,” you reply defiantly.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

You watch as he slowly lifts your hand away from his chest. His mismatched eyes examine your fingers, and your mouth drops open slightly when you realise you’ve pressed a few fingerprints of dusted sugar onto his tunic.

Mortification flushes through you. “My prince—”

“I think,” Baelor begins, raising your hand to his face. “You’re a young woman in need of some guidance. Need a firm hand to set you on the straight and narrow, hm?”

The prince presses his lips to the tip of your middle finger, kissing the sugar from the grooves of the print. Your lips part further, a breathless huff leaving you as he repeats the action on your ring finger, practically sucking the dusted sugar off of your skin. Heat blooms beneath the linen of your smallclothes, and you whine quietly, clenching your thighs together. His lips brush across the base of your fingers, then over the lines of your palm, before he finally presses a kiss to your wrist. Your pulse jumps to meet him, the heat there burning against the softness of his lips.

“Is that what you need?” He asks you softly as he turns your hand in his hold. He presses a kiss to the back, then your knuckles, then up to the joint of your wrist.

“Yeah…” You reply. It’s winded, quiet, desperate.

The heir to the Iron Throne is kissing your hand right now.

“And who’s going to do that for you?” Baelor lowers your hand but follows the movement, stepping closer and shrinking the space between you.

You look like a doe staring up at him.

“You,” you manage to whisper. “You, my prince.”

Baelor leans forward and your breath hitches heavily in your chest. Still gripping the table, you remain still as he crowds your space, head dipping. His lips, as warm as they were on your hand and wrist, skim across the curve of your cheek, and then press to the very corner of your mouth. You subtly angle your head, presenting more of yourself to him, but he pulls back, and you catch sight of a small bit of white sugar across his lips. He licks it away.

“Such a sweet girl.” He leans back in again, this time his mouth finds the curve of your jaw, accepting the way you shift your head for him. He nips at the skin as his hands find your hips, lips travelling to your ear, where he whispers, “Will you let me guide you?”

Your hands fly away from the edge of the table and circle around his shoulders, pressing him to you.

“Yes,” you say quickly. “Please, my prince, I need—”

His head moves, and suddenly his mouth is on yours. You whine the second his lips slot against you, the sound making him grunt as the hold he has on your hips tightens. You part your lips for him, his tongue pressing in the moment you do so. A warm, wet slide over your bottom teeth, licking across your bottom lip. You taste the tiniest sweetness of sugar on his tongue, as he tastes the honey-sweetness cloying across your own.

—✿—

The thoughts he has of you are unbecoming of a future king, but he can’t help himself. Not with you. Not when you look at him with glossy eyes and a little pout in your lips. Not when your pulse flutters with each brush of his hand against you. The Seven may judge him but he knows, deep within his psyche, something chiseling into his bones, that you are meant to be his. Why else would your body be reacting this way?

Why else would you be hoisting yourself onto the table to wrap your legs around his waist, the linen of your nightgown riding up your thighs? Why else would the heat of your core press against his hardening length, separated by barriers of material, grinding and pushing? Why would you be whining and whimpering into his mouth as his hands caress your hips, and why would your hands be gripping the muscles of his shoulders like a feral cat?

“My prince,” you call for him softly as his mouth drops to suck kisses down the supple skin of your throat—the same skin he had been admiring just moments before.

You taste of roses, of clean water and the musk of sweat. The softness of your voice and the sweetness of your skin seems to pull at his invisible strings, his hips rocking forward to nudge the tent of his trousers between your legs.

—✿—

He pulls back, hands shifting from your hips to rub down your thighs. You shiver at the touch, clutching his shoulders still, as the heat of his hands passes through your nightgown. His fingers find the hem, toying with the stitching there, as his eyes rise to meet yours in an act of consent. You nod, and the prince continues, pushing the fabric up towards your hips.

You groan, tone dulcet, as the soft skin of your thighs is revealed to the shadowy kitchens. Baelor hums low in his throat, and then he’s dropping to his knees before you. The action makes you gasp and teeter slightly at the edge of the table. Your hands find the ledge once more as the prince presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, one of his hands massaging over the fat of your thigh and dipping to the edge of your smallclothes.

“Please,” you whisper, and Baelor knows there are men out there who would go to war if a pretty lady like you begged them like this. He knows he would. “Please, my prince—”

“Baelor,” he corrects you gently, hooking his fingers into your smallclothes and pulling them. You lift your hips slightly with a moan, allowing him to pull the material down past your knees, then your ankles, and then away.

He tucks them into the pocket of his trousers as his eyes find your core, slick with arousal and already drooling. Another low hum leaves the back of his throat. Pressing forward with his large hands holding your thighs apart, Baelor places a kiss to your clit. You keen against the table, hips bucking, hand shooting down to thread your fingers into his hair.

“Oh, fuck, Baelor.”

His cock throbs heavily in his breeches at his name on your lips. He continues placing kisses down the wet slit of your cunt, spreading your folds open as he descends lower until he can push the tip of his tongue inside you. His eyes flick upwards to watch your reaction as he does this, and pride fills him as your head rolls back on your shoulders, a breathy whine escaping you, echoing around the empty room.

The prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Pleasure is already pulling back like a bowstring in the base of your tummy as Baelor, a prince of the fucking realm, curls his tongue into the wet heat of your pussy, the slope of his nose rubbing perfectly against your clit. Gods, no one has ever put their mouth on you like this, and as you grip his hair and rock your hips into his movements, you wonder how much practice he’s gotten over the years.

“Mmm,” you hum out, trying to suppress your sounds.

They’re loud as they bounce against the stone walls of the kitchens, and you’re aware that the castle beyond these walls is suffocated by the night’s silence.

Baelor’s movements are firm and quick, the perfect rhythm. His tongue curls and flicks deep inside you, and the heat of embarrassment lies beneath your skin as you can feel yourself dripping around him. The scratch of his beard against your thighs, the curve of your arse, against the sensitive skin of your folds is an added pleasure you didn’t know you needed. The sensation punches moan after breathy moan from you as the bowstring in your belly pulls tighter.

Your pussy clenches around him as his nose digs particularly hard against your puffy clit, and the sound it elicits from his throat makes the wood of the table creak in protest by how hard your hand grips it. The vibrations are rough against you, a pleasant buzz as white-hot pleasure continues to build up your veins.

“Baelor,” you call to him. “Baelor, fuck.”

One large hand drags away from your thigh, and just as you feel his tongue retract, two thick fingers find your entrance. They crowd into you, thicker than his tongue, pushing between the slick walls of your cunt as he wraps his lips around your clit—but not before mumbling out, “Such unladylike language.”

His fingers scissor inside you, the pressure forcing you to squirm against the table. Your chamberstick quakes as you roll your hips into his touch. His hair between your fingers is soft, clean, but the hair of his beard is coarse and continues to rub harshly against your inner thighs. The bowstring in your lower belly pulls tighter, and when he curls his fingers deeper into you, thick and blunt, you cry out his name once more.

“Baelor, m’gonna—oh, gods, m’gonna—”

Baelor feels the tight channel of your cunt squeeze around his fingers, your thighs tightening either side of his head, and he groans with his mouth on your clit as you come around the digits. He fucks you through it, tongue dipping low to join the movements, lapping the slick the drools from you in syrupy strings. You sob his name, your orgasm shuddering through you, the bowstring snapping and splintering the pleasure through your arteries.

But he continues. The prince’s fingers continue to move, thrusts lazier, less hurried, but he continues to curl them deep inside you, his tongue still furling through your folds. You finally look back down at him and tug gently on his hair, trying to get his attention. He grunts, eyes wrenching open and peering up at you, pupils so large his eyes almost appear the same colour.

“I need you,” you whisper, finally managing to pull his face away. His mouth and beard shine with your slick.

“Manners,” he replies simply, fingers still rucking in and out of your dripping hole.

The sound is wet and obscene and you can’t help the soft sigh that escapes, pin-pricks of overstimulation beginning to pierce the post-orgasmic veil draped over you. Slowly, Baelor gets to his feet, still fucking his fingers into you, pressing a kiss to your knee as he rises. He continues, “Good girls use their manners.”

You huff, hips twitching.

A flicker of a smile ghosts across the prince’s face. “And you’re a good girl, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

He adds a third finger, pushing it in torturously slow, and you choke on a gasp, keeling forward until your head rests against his chest. He kisses your temple, then the tip of your ear. His free hand moves to cup the nape of your neck, stroking his thumb as he holds you to him, three thick fingers spreading you open.

“Y-yeah,” you finally manage to stutter out, abdomen clenching, a mix of pleasure and overstimulation spreading through you. “Yeah, I’m a good girl.”

Baelor grips the back of your neck and pulls your head away, angling your face to get a good look at you. He leans down and plants his lips on your forehead.

“My good girl,” he utters against your skin, his fingers picking up speed.

You gasp at the change, and he seizes the opportunity to duck his head and slot his mouth back to yours. The kiss is messy: too much saliva as your tongues meet, your slick heavy on his. Your teeth clash as he drives his head forward, hand wide across your neck. Staking his claim, taking what he wants.

Quickly, another orgasm builds, the base of your spine tingling as your legs begin to shake. You attempt to hook them around his waist again, but you’re not strong enough. Baelor feels this though, and removes the hand from your neck to grab the back of your knee, hooking your leg around his hip. He drives his fingers deeper, and deeper still, as you clutch him tightly, balling the fabric of his tunic between your fingers.

“Let go for me, sweet girl,” Baelor pants against your mouth, your lips brushing.

Your entire body is trembling, a knot of tension too tight in your belly. You whine, a pathetic little mewl that bounces around the empty kitchen. “I can’t—”

“Uh-uh, none of that. Good girls do what they’re told,” Baelor interrupts your whining as your head tilts back. He presses a kiss to your chin. “And you’re a good girl—you’re my good girl. So let go for your prince. Let go for me.”

He’s corrupting you. He’s stealing your virtue. He’s a prince, you’re a lady.

But the sight of you coming again wipes his princely thoughts from his mind. They are replaced by you. You, you, you—your head falling back as your hands grip his tunic, your kiss-bitten lips parting as a moan of his name fills the space. A pleasure-strung Baelor! as he ruts his fingers into the dripping heat of your cunt. His name has never sounded so good.

Nipping lightly at the curve of your neck, beard brushing your skin, Baelor curls his fingers and slows his thrusts until you eventually unclench around them and your thighs quit their trembling. When you whisper his name, he pulls his fingers away and holds them up between the two of you. He spreads them, your slick interconnecting in glossy webs, and you pant around a whine, your chest heaving.

Baelor examines his fingers. The curiosity in his mismatched eyes fuels your embarrassment even further. The feeling whips through you even more when he takes two of them and slides them into his mouth.

“Baelor,” you groan, frowning and reaching for his wrist.

He lets you pull his fingers from his mouth, but not before he’s holding his ring finger in your direction. “Have you ever tasted yourself?”

Your jaw hits the floor.

Baelor chuckles, taking that for his answer. His left hand shifts from your leg, travelling over your abdomen, caressing your clothed breaths, before planting firmly on your jaw. He holds your chin as he presses his ring finger to your lips. You watch him with glassy eyes.

“Open,” he instructs simply.

You do.

Baelor smiles and feeds his slick ring finger into your mouth. Instinctively, you wrap your lips around his knuckle as the digit presses down onto your tongue. You suck then, tasting yourself, and you grip his wrist firmly as you moan around his finger. Baelor watches you carefully, the smile gone from his face. Your lips press to the cool metal of his ring, and the way your eyes stare up at him—glossy, expectant, so good—has his cock pressing even harder against the seam of his trousers.

“Seven above,” he hisses too quietly for you to hear and pulls his finger from your mouth.

You’re about to complain when he’s driving hard against you, caging you atop the table edge as one of his hands shoots down to untie the knots of his trousers. Wrapping your legs around him, you’re eager to help: hands leaving his wrist to pull at the ties and help shuck the material down his hips. His breeches move with it, and his cock bobs free.

“Oh, gods,” you whisper as Baelor fists himself.

You admire the thick patch of hair at the base which narrows towards his navel, as well as the ruddy head bruised with trapped blood. He swipes his thumb over his slit, smearing away a pearl of precum.

The hand he has on your jaw moves back to the nape of your neck. The prince holds you there, forcing your head down to watch as he guides his cock to your drooling cunt. He runs the head up and down your slick folds as you bunch your nightgown further up your waist to get a better look, whimpering at the feeling. Finally, the head of his cock notches at your hole, and you suck in a breath as he presses in.

A low groan leaves him.

“Baelor,” is your whispered response as you hold him.

He’s a gentleman as he feeds his cock into you, but you’re so wet that he slides in languidly, bottoming out in seconds with a pained grunt.

“Ah–ah fuck,” Baelor mutters, hips twitching, cock pumping inside you.

“Please…” You lean forward to press a kiss to his neck as he lifts his head from where he had been transfixed on where your pussy swallowed him.

“Yeah, I’ve got you, sweet girl,” he says, both of his hands moving to your hips now.

He anchors himself to you as his hips pull back, dragging his cock out slowly, before thrusting back in. The table creaks as he repeats the action again and again, and you pull away from sucking a mark onto his neck to moan at the ceiling.

Your chamberstick rocks against the table, the pan clanking across the wood as the heaviness of his thrusts lurch your arse against the surface. Strong fingers hold you firmly, calloused by years of swords and reins. The thought has your mind wandering to a younger Baelor, with longer hair and less of a beard, with large hands and fierce eyes. You whimper at the vision of him wielding his longsword, or pulling at the reins of a rearing horse.

His grunts are brutish, unbefitting of the heir to the Iron Throne. But he can’t help it. You’re so beautiful and soft beneath him, your pussy so tight and warm and wet, the noises clearing from your throat so sweet and alluring. You call for him like you’re already his, and he can’t help but think as such.

“See? Such a good girl,” Baelor pants, watching as your face contorts with pleasure, eyes fighting to stay open. The sound of your wet cunt is loud over the creaking of the table, and sparing a glance down, he sees a thin, creamy-white ring building at the base of his cock. He groans as he puts his eyes on you once more. “Just need a little guidance, hm?”

You nod deliriously, not quite deciphering his words as your third orgasm begins to build in your belly. The bowstring is back, the fingers of pleasure notching the arrow and pulling. Tighter, tighter, tighter.

His cock is a thick stretch inside you, curving up to nudge towards the base of your cervix. The gummy walls of your cunt are tight around him, squeezing with each thrust against your g-spot, a blooming heat enveloping your lower body.

All thoughts of decorum gone, Baelor reaches a hand from your hip to the neckline of your nightgown. He tugs it down, allowing your tits to spill out, nipples soft in the heat between you. Groaning again, he dips his head to suck one into his mouth as he continues to rock his hips. An electric shock passes through you as his teeth scrape against the sensitive skin. He switches sides as you moan his name, one of your own hands finding the hemline of his tunic and pushing beneath the material. He lifts his head finally, slamming his mouth to yours as your hand moves up. You feel the softness of his abdominal muscles, the hair that trails softly there. The muscle shifts with each thrust of his hips.

He moans your name when you bite his lip. You never thought you’d hear the hand of the king say it like that. It makes you dizzy.

“Baelor,” you whine, as he fucks you towards your release. It’s tight and hot and he’s moving so fast that you barely have enough breath to speak. “P-please, my prince.”

“S’alright, sweetheart,” he coos, hands pulling you harder down to meet his hips. “You’re feeling good, hm? You want to finish for me?”

Bowstring pulling taut, it has nowhere left to go.

He slips a hand away to rub a firm couple of circles across your swollen clit.

Tension building, building— too tight.

“Are you going to be a good girl and show me how pretty you are when you come on my cock?”

It can only snap.

You cry out his name, hands scrambling for purchase as your third orgasm overwhelms you. It burns hot inside you—a feverish heat that spreads through your stomach and chest, delves down into your pelvis and courses through your legs. Your cunt draws in tightly, pulsing with your racing heart, squeezing around the thick of his cock as you sob his name. A couple of tears roll from your eyes as your entire body is overcome with tremors, and you faintly feel him lean forward and kiss them from your skin.

“That’s it, that’s a good girl,” Baelor whispers as his thrusts falter. He rolls his hips, movements sloppy and desperate. 

Clinging to control, the tight clutch of your pussy draws him in and his mind goes blank. His mouth drops open to release a strangled “ah—oh, fuck, sweet girl—” followed by your name, before he’s doing exactly what the heir should not do and spilling inside you.

He pulls you to him as he fills you, seed pumping hot against the plug of your cervix. His strong arms wrap around you, your nightgown sticking to your sweat-licked spine as he buries his face into your neck while he comes in warm spurts. Hips twitch, balls pulling up tightly as he empties himself completely into the tight clutch of your pussy (the first time he’s done so in what feels like eons).

Then, silence.

The kitchen is deathly quiet if you ignore the ragged panting leaving the both of you as you clutch each other. It remains like that for a moment until Baelor’s head clears, and he gingerly pulls back, cock softening and flopping out of you. You both look down and groan simultaneously as your cunt drools milky-white.

“Gods, what have I done…” Baelor mutters, but he doesn’t sound regretful. Moreso shocked as he takes two fingers and collects the seed that drips from you, preventing it from splattering onto the stone floor below.

“Exactly what I wanted you to do,” you sigh, seizing him by the jaw and bringing him forward. You kiss him, and it’s gentle. It reminds you of the kind of prince he is.

You’ll need moon tea, he should say. You’ll need to forgive me, and forget this ever happened, a good prince would say.

“I’ll speak with your father at daybreak,” he says instead, helping you off of the table after a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

He helps you fix the neckline of your nightgown and draws the fabric back down your thighs—which you squeeze together to prevent anything from leaking out onto the floor—as you reply, “About what? The fact you sullied his daughter’s virtue in his kitchens?”

He pats your cheek fondly as you help tuck his softening cock back into his breeches. 

“No, I fear that may cause a political incident,” Baelor says, only half-joking. “I will tell him you are to be betrothed to me.”

Your fingers freeze where you tie a knot against the waistline of his trousers. Slowly, you lift your head to look at him, throat suddenly dry. “What?”

“Your father wants to promise you to the winner of the tourney, but I’m sure he would hardly reject the offer of betrothal from a prince of the realm.”

“The prince of the realm…” You find yourself muttering.

Baelor takes your face in his hands and forces you to stay put. With this angle, you can see a small bruise forming at the curve of his neck. A mark you had sucked there. Pride fills you and you can’t help offering him a small smile.

“Will you have me?” He asks you tenderly, thumbs stroking your cheeks, still damp from tears and his kisses.

Of course you’re nodding before any other thought crosses your mind. “I’m already yours.”

Baelor’s eyes sparkle as he pulls your mouth to his again, your hands threading around his shoulders as the kiss develops. His tongue sweeps in, gentle and guiding, and you’re about to let out a whine when clanking footsteps pull you from the pleasure.

You rip yourself away from him, eyes flicking to the door. Guards, approaching from somewhere down the dimly lit hall. Panicked, you snatch your chamberstick with one hand. You take Baelor’s hand in yours and pull him towards the servant’s entrance.

“Quickly, your grace,” you say, tugging him through the narrow passageway. Your legs are unsteady beneath you as you lead him. “I know these tunnels well.”

Behind you, Baelor lets out a soft laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”

He lets you lead him through the dark, damp passage, and wonders whether you’ll remember to ask him for your smallclothes back.

—✿—

“I beg your pardon, your grace?” Your father stares at Baelor, dumbfounded.

Early the next morning, Baelor stands in the middle of the solar, his hands clasped in front of him. His presence commands the entire room, your father and a few of his closest advisors sit and watch, captivated.

“Betroth your daughter to me,” Baelor repeats calmly.

“You?” Your father takes a deep breath. “But, your grace, you are hand of the king, much older than—”

“She is beloved, is she not? Your people love her, and I am confident mine will as well. Furthermore, there will be no pressure for her to bear my child if she does not wish, as I have my two sons,” Baelor assures your father with careful composure.

Your father gapes. “But—?”

“You were considerably enthusiastic, m’lord, to vow your daughter to the winner of the day’s tourney, yet you seem hesitant to allow her hand to your future king.” Baelor was not one to brandish his titles as such, but annoyance was quickly building within him, veiled partly by jealousy.

Your father hurries to exonerate himself. “Not at all, your grace! I just didn’t think—I mean, my daughter is scarcely well-behaved, and does not conduct herself as a princess should.”

“You regard her with such poor consideration,” Baelor utters, tone hard. “Now, m’lord, I will ask only once more. May you grant me, the prince of the realm, your daughter’s hand?”

Your father nods quickly. “Yes, of course, my prince. She—yes, she is all yours.”

Baelor hums, pleased, hand resting comfortably on the snakehead dagger in a sheath at his hip. The bundle of your smallclothes are heavy in his pocket, and the red mark on his neck is obscured by his collar.

“Mine…” He whispers to himself.

He knows you are.

———

isn’t that just the best nameday gift ever

[captainfern]

Maekar headlock fucking? Anyone??

oh absolutely

18+ (smut, dirty talk, breeding!!!)

evening light came streaming in through the windows of your chambers, lighting the space in a soft yellow glow as the sun begins its journey behind the distant hills. dappled sunlight catches in your eyelashes as you blink from where you hunch over on the bed, writhing on your hands and knees.

your husband’s hands are tight on your hips, gripping the flesh as he splits you apart on the thick of his cock, grunting little obscenities as he ruts you deeper and deeper into the feathered mattress, your hands and knees pressing indents into the silk.

but you’re wriggling too much. you can’t help it. pleasure sits hot in the pit of your womb, a sticky sort of pressure in the base of your spine too, and you just can’t help the way you wriggle your hips to chase it away, or tremble on your hands and knees when it starts to be too much.

you can’t help it, but maekar can.

you pitch a whine from the back of your throat as his cock spreads the wet clutch of your pussy apart, dragging deep towards the plug of your cervix as he ruts into you, hips smacking against the flesh of your arse. but that’s when you feel it—the solid mass of his chest and abdomen as he leans over you, crowds you, then the thick, scarred column of his arm as it wraps around your throat.

you yelp when he hauls you up until you’re kneeling with him, your sweat-slick back flush with his chest. the corded muscles in his arm contract as he pins your neck into the crook of his elbow, his head coming to rest directly beside your ear.

you suck in a gasp at the new angle and the way the head of his cock pushes up deep inside you. the pressure makes you keen, moaning his name as he traps you against his chest. your hands find his arm, nails dimpling the sun-kissed skin, as he noses at the shell of your ear, his hips rucking upwards.

“you’re restless today,” maekar mutters, tip of his cock nailing that perfect spot inside you. you mewl, clutching his arm as your pussy flutters around him. he pants against the pulse point below your ear. “you just couldn’t kneel there and take it, could you? were you waiting for this, sweet girl?”

his cock hits deep, the velvet ridges along the length rubbing against the slick walls of your cunt. you take him so well, squeezing tight each time he thrusts in and out, slick dribbling from you as he takes what he needs.

you whine in response. “no, maekar, i’m—”

“s’alright, s’alright…” maekar coos, his other hand curling around your waist to press flat to the mound of your lower belly. “i’ve got you, sweet girl. can’t go anywhere now, can you?”

the strong mass of his arm presses tighter to your throat, and you suck in a sharp breath. you hold his arm too, anchoring yourself as he fucks you, your entire body shifting with each of his movements. he’s grunting in your ear, and a couple of damp, white strands of hair fall across his forehead and rub near your temple.

“that’s a good girl, that’s it,” he whispers, feeling your pussy flutter around him. he’s holding you firm against him, the space between you nonexistent and boiling hot. the hand on your belly presses in, the added pressure making you cry out his name. he kisses your cheek softly. “s’alright, don’t fuss, sweet girl. just take it—just fucking take it.”

you can’t do much but take it, really. you’re pinned to his body, heat radiating from him. the bed creaks softly as his hips slam up against you, and he groans right in your ear. you moan his name in response, the vowels stretched around a whine, and he kisses the heated skin of your cheek again.

“my sweet girl, my best girl,” your husband rambles, breathing harshly as his cock ruts in and out of you, the wet heat of your cunt sucking him in. he groans, “i think you’ll take my seed just as well as you take my cock, won’t you?”

you whimper, gasping through the sound as the head of his cock grinds up against that spot inside you that has stars exploding behind your eyelids. the heat in your belly and the pressure in your spine threatens to shatter within you, and you clutch maekar’s arm in support as he fucks you. he groans, revelling in the tight squeeze of your pussy and the way slick dribbles from you, wet across the seam of his balls as he moves.

“she’s begging me for it,” maekar utters, holding you tightly as you flutter around him. “she wants me to fill her, doesn’t she? she wants me to fill her, sweet girl, i can feel it.”

you moan. “maekar, please, please, please—”

“i know, i know, i’ve got you,” your husband mutters, kissing your cheek as the heat and pressure inside finally overwhelm you. he feels your body seize up, your cunt clenching vice-like around the thick of his cock, and he knows you’re on the edge. his hand on your lower belly presses down even firmer. “let me feel you.”

you splinter from the inside out, orgasm racking through you as heat bursts like stars in your veins, and the pressure in your belly dissolves into the marrow of your bones. you come with his name on your lips, moans filling your chambers as your body trembles against his, nails digging into the scarred skin of his forearm. he fucks you through it, trapping you against him as you tremble and whine, pleasure flushing through your veins.

“good girl, there we go,” he mutters, practically bouncing your spent body back onto his. your head rolls back onto his shoulder and he plants a wet kiss to the junction of your jaw. his hips snap, then snap up again, and he growls where he kisses you, his balls drawing tight. “gods above, you’re so fucking tight. she’s begging for a babe, isn’t she? cunt’s pitching a right fit—doesn’t want to let me go.”

you mewl softly, eyes closing as maekar barrels towards his own release. there’s a sharp pressure in the base of his spine, and you can feel the desperation of his movements as he chases that pressure towards its breaking point.

maekar groans, thick and rumbling. “i’ll spill inside you, alright, sweet girl? fill you with my babe—fuck, you always look so fucking good when you’re with child, when you’re round with my babe. yeah, fuck—fuck, my sweet girl, my perfect girl—”

he’s rambling now, and that’s when you know. maekar groans your name right against the shell of your ear as his hips stutter, the arm around your throat pinning you back as he spills inside you. the pressure in his spine snaps and spreads, and he moans deep from his chest as the heat of his orgasm crashes over him. his cock nudges deep inside, right at the base of your cervix, and paints you in thick, hot ropes.

being filled has you leaning back into his hold, whimpering across a sigh as he ruts a few more times, emptying himself completely as your pussy pulls tight, milking him. he kisses along your jaw, cradling you as his cock jerks, then softens where he’s buried, slick and seed drooling slowly from where you connect.

“there we go…” maekar whispers, large hand rubbing across your belly as if that’ll help the taking process. he kneads the soft fat there with calloused fingers. “nice and full, sweet girl.”

you whine, pliant in his arms, blinking the setting sunlight from your eyes.

he kisses your cheek. “always do so well for me—” another kiss, then another. “—i love you, sweet girl.”