1. The court holds Google responsible for statements made by its AI, considering them Google's statements (search engines have limited liability for results in their engine as they're the words of other sites/companies/people), meaning when their AI lies/hallucinates they're liable for the defamation/harm resulting from those statements.
2. Google's defense that customers are generally aware of the lack of reliability and are responsible for fact checking was dismissed. As the court pointed out, that would "significantly diminish" AI Search's stated purpose and it can't be distinguished from Google's business practices/statements as a search tool.
3. Studies have found about 91% of Google's everyday AI responses are accurate, leaving millions of searches per HOUR with potential liability for falsehoods. 56% of correct responses weren't supported by the sources the AI listed. Both of which mean Google is now liable for a LOT more AI "errors."
4. Google was held liable for 80% of court costs in this case and this precedent is expected to reverberate around the world. This is a massive shift from the 3rd-party search provider role Google has previously played and it comes right as they've tied ALL searches to their AI search.
Additional source and more details below. Absolutely thrilled to say that this is real. And yeah, it's huge.
For all the reasons above AND ALSO because this particular lawsuit is a defamation case
Privacy lawsuits are hard because most privacy laws are super super weak, and there's very rarely a lot of money or enforcement backing privacy laws for...twenty million reasons, really...
But defamation suits? Those have teeth.
(In large part because, at least in some countries and including in the US, defamation laws protect public figures the least - and "public figures" legally includes most if not all politicians, and a hell of a lot of other rich ppl too)
A Munich court ruled Google's AI Overviews are its own words, making it liable for false claims, a decision that, if it holds, could reach e
A German court has ruled that Google can be held directly liable for false claims made by its AI Overviews, a decision that could put a serious legal dent in the whole “the AI made me do it” defense.
According to The Next Web, the Regional Court of Munich issued a temporary injunction after Google’s AI Overviews wrongly tied two Munich publishers to scams, subscription traps, and dubious business practices. The court treated those AI-generated summaries as Google’s own statements, not just ordinary search results pointing to third-party pages.
That distinction matters. Search engines have traditionally had more protection because they index and link to other people’s content. AI Overviews changes the machinery. Google is not just showing the web anymore. It is summarizing it, rewriting it, and sometimes apparently hallucinating a tiny legal grenade into the results page.
hi hi hello i love your writing i want to eat it. i have a request/scenario? so basically its maekar x secondwife! reader, he didn’t want to marry her but had to for political reasons. he doesn’t even bother consummating the marriage. baelor presses reader about it and once he knows he’s exasperated, taking matters into his own hands, so he’s basically sitting maekar and reader die in their bed chambers and giving them (mostly reader) directions, ie “now give your husband a kiss” because the heir to the iron throne will not let this important strategic marriage be vulnerable to annulment or anything. and because he enjoys watching. maybe participating a little? idk. but Yeah.
The ink had barely dried on the marriage contract before the argument began. Maekar's voice was a low thunder, vibrating through the stone. "It is a farce, Baelor, and you know it. I do not want it. There are a dozen other ways to secure the loyalty of her father's bannermen that do not involve chaining me to someone I have never met."
Baelor's response was calmer. "We all must serve our duty to the realm, brother. Some things are not about wanting."
Two weeks later, you were married in the Great Sept of Baelor. The ceremony was a blur of incense and chanting, the heavy velvet of your cloak a physical weight on your shoulders. Maekar recited his vows, his grip on your hand firm but entirely devoid of warmth. When he leaned in to kiss you, it was a perfunctory press of lips, dry and quick, as if he were wiping a smudge of dirt from your face.
That night, the door to your chambers opened with a heavy thud. You stood by the bed, wearing a sheer silk shift that left nothing to the imagination, your heart hammering against your ribs. Maekar entered, already stripping off his doublet, the scent of wine clinging to him. He did not look at you or speak. He simply climbed into the bed and turned his back to you.
You stood there for a long time, staring at the expanse of his shoulders, waiting for him to turn, to say something, to do anything. But his breathing soon slowed, deepening into the rhythmic cadence of sleep. You extinguished the candle and curled up on the very edge of the mattress and cried yourself into a fitful, lonely slumber. By the time you woke, he was gone.
Two and a half moons passed in pitiful existence at the Red Keep. The court was a pit of vipers, the ladies sharp-tongued and cruel in the way highborn women perfected. They jockeyed for position with poisoned words and sidelong glances, and you, with your husband's obvious disdain, were an easy target.
"Look at her," a lady whispered loudly enough for you to hear as you passed a cluster of women in the garden. "Standing there like a lost puppy. Prince Maekar hasn't shared her bed since the wedding night, they say. He can barely stand to look at her."
You kept your head down, your eyes fixed on the gravel path, your cheeks burning. You had few friends here. Maekar was consumed by his work. He spent his days in council meetings, in the training yard, or simply avoiding you with a dedication that would have been flattering if it were not so humiliating.
Baelor, however, was different. He was kind and gentle. He asked you about your home, about your favourite books, about the family you missed so dearly. You found yourself disarming him without trying, his demeanour melting into a soft, easy smile whenever you stammered through an answer or blushed at a compliment.
It was late one afternoon, the sun dipping below the walls of the Red Keep and casting long shadows across the library, when he found you. You had tucked yourself into a narrow alcove behind a stack of dusty scrolls, your knees pulled to your chest, sobbing quietly into your skirts.
The footsteps you heard were soft but purposeful. You looked up, wiping frantically at your eyes, expecting a scolding from a maester. Instead, you found Baelor standing there. He sat down on the floor beside you, leaning his back against the stone shelves, and waited.
"I hate it here," you whispered, your voice cracking. "I hate the noise, and the people, and the way they look at me. I do not know how to be... this."
Baelor nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on a tapestry across the room. "It is a hard place for the gentle."
You let out a shuddering breath, your fingers twisting the fabric of your sleeve. "My husband does not know I exist. He has never once touched me..." You trailed off, shame burning your throat.
"Never once?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.
You shook your head, tears tracking hot paths down your cheeks. "On the wedding night, he came in, climbed into bed, turned his back to me, and fell asleep. He was gone before I woke up, and he has not visited my chambers since. I am... I am just a piece of furniture to him."
"Excuse me, my lady, I am late for an urgent matter," he said, his voice formal, distant.
You sat there for a long time, your heart pounding, wondering if you had made a terrible mistake.
That evening, there was a knock at your chamber door. You opened it, still dressed in your evening gown, a cup of tea cooling in your hands, and froze. Baelor stood in the doorway. Behind him, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world, was Maekar.
"May we come in?" Baelor asked. It was not really a question.
You stepped aside. Baelor entered first, his presence filling the room, commanding and immediate. Maekar followed, his jaw set so hard you could see the muscle twitching beneath the skin of his beard. He stopped just inside the threshold, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes not meeting yours.
You moved to the fireplace, needing the warmth, needing something to ground you. Baelor followed, sitting in the chair opposite yours, leaning back. Maekar remained standing, a silent, brooding statue.
"Two moons," Baelor said. He looked at you, then at Maekar. "Two moons, and this marriage has not been consummated."
Maekar stiffened. "Baelor."
"I am speaking," Baelor said, cutting him off without raising his voice. "I allowed you to forgo a bedding ceremony believing you would fulfil your duty. Instead you have left this union vulnerable."
"I am aware of the situation," Maekar snapped. "I do not need you to explain it to me in front of my wife."
"Is that so?" Baelor asked, ignoring him completely. He looked at you, his eyes softening, though the intensity remained. "You understand what is at stake, do you not?"
You swallowed hard, your mouth dry. "Yes, your grace."
"Good. Go to your husband. Give him a kiss."
You stared at Baelor, your heart skipping a beat. "Pardon?"
"You heard me," Baelor said, his tone patient. "Go to him. Kiss him."
Maekar let out a harsh breath through his nose. "This is beneath us, Baelor. Forcing a—"
"Go," Baelor said, looking only at you.
You set your cup down on the small table with a trembling hand. You walked across the room, the distance between you and your husband feeling like a vast, uncrossable ocean. He was so much bigger than you, a wall of muscle and tension.
Maekar would not look at you. His violet eyes were fixed on the stone lintel above the door, his jaw clenched tight.
You rose onto your toes, your hands hovering awkwardly at your sides, then reaching up to rest lightly on his chest. You could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric. You leaned in, trying to bridge the gap, but you could not.
He was a stranger, a man who despised you, who had ignored you for ages, who had made you feel small and unwanted. You could not force your lips to touch his.
"Forgive me," you whispered, tears stinging your eyes as you stepped back and turned from Maekar. "I cannot."
Baelor stood up, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps, stopping right in front of you. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, then glanced at his brother.
"Fine," Baelor said softly. "If neither of you will."
And then he kissed you.
It was not the dry, mechanical press you had received on your wedding day. It was slow, thorough, and devastating. His lips were warm and demanding, tasting of mint and authority. He claimed your mouth, his tongue sweeping past your lips to explore you with a deliberate, sensual rhythm that made your knees buckle.
You gasped against his mouth, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders for support. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of approval, and pulled you closer, his other arm wrapping around your waist, crushing you against his chest.
Behind you, Maekar made a sound like a growl caught in a throat, a mix of shock and something darker, something volatile.
Baelor drew back just enough to look you in the eye, his breath mingling with yours. His gaze was dark, hungry. "Relax, sweet girl. I am going to take care of you."
His hands moved to the laces of your gown. Your eyes darted nervously to Maekar, who was still standing in the same spot, his chest heaving, hands fisted at his sides.
"Do not look at him," Baelor commanded gently, his fingers deftly undoing the knots at your back. "Look at me."
You obeyed. The bodice of your gown loosened, falling away. Baelor pushed the fabric down your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet. You stood there in your shift, shivering, your skin flushing under his gaze.
"You are beautiful," Baelor said. He glanced over your shoulder at Maekar, a smirk playing on his lips. "And you, brother... are a blind, neglectful fool."
Maekar did not speak. He just watched, his violet eyes so dark they looked black, tracking every movement Baelor made.
Baelor took your hand. "Come."
He guided you to the bed and sat you on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat beside you.
"Lie back."
You hesitated for only a second before obeying. Baelor moved over you, bracing himself on one arm, looking down at you with a hunger that made your belly pull tight in response.
He hiked your shift up, baring your legs to the cool air. You gasped, your hips twitching involuntarily.
"Shh," he soothed, his fingers brushing against the damp silk of your smallclothes. "Let me see."
He hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled them down. You lifted your hips to help him, feeling exposed, vulnerable. The air hit your wet folds and you bit your lip, fighting the urge to close your legs.
Baelor settled between your thighs, pushing them wider, opening you up completely to his gaze and to Maekar's. You looked over Baelor's shoulder. Maekar had moved closer. He was standing at the foot of the bed now, his hands gripping the wooden post, staring at your exposed cunt.
"Look at this," Baelor said, his voice a low rumble. He ran a finger through your slick folds, gathering your wetness. "You look delicious."
Baelor lowered his head. You cried out as his tongue replaced his finger, licking a broad, wet stripe up your slit. His tongue circled your clit, flicking against it, then delving deep inside you to fuck you with the wet muscle.
"Oh," you moaned, your hands tangling in his hair, your back arching off the bed. "Please... Baelor..."
He hummed against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core. He slid one finger inside you, then two, stretching your tight channel, curling them to find that spot that made you see stars. You were panting, moaning uncontrollably, your hips bucking against his face. The pleasure was intense, overwhelming, building higher and higher with every thrust of his fingers and every swirl of his tongue.
Baelor groaned, lifting his head for just a moment to look at his brother. "You have no idea what you have been denying yourself."
He returned to his task, sucking your clit into his mouth, his fingers pumping into you relentlessly. The pressure coiled tight in your belly, a white-hot knot of tension. You looked at Maekar again. His eyes were wide, almost wild. He looked devastated and jealous, like he wanted to tear Baelor off you and take his place.
The sight of him, so undone, watching you being pleasured by another man, pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you, your pussy clenching around Baelor's fingers as your whole body shook.
Baelor worked you through it, his tongue lapping up your release, his fingers slowing but not stopping until you were a limp, gasping mess. When he finally drew back, he sat up, bringing his fingers to your lips.
"Suck," he commanded softly.
You obeyed, opening your mouth and taking his fingers in, tasting yourself. You licked him clean, your tongue swirling around his digits, maintaining eye contact with Baelor.
Baelor pulled his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop. He stood up, smoothing down his tunic, and turned to face Maekar.
Maekar was still gripping the bedpost, his eyes fixed on the wet, swollen mess between your legs. He looked completely wrecked. Baelor looked at him for a long moment until Maekar finally dragged his gaze up to meet his brother's.
"Shall I continue?" Baelor asked, gesturing vaguely toward the bed, toward your spent, trembling form. "Or are you capable of completing what comes next on your own?"
Maekar seeing how well you do with his kids and wanting to add another Maekarling
and you don’t need much convincing
18+ (smut, breeding duhhh)
he watches you from across the courtyard where you sit on a low stone bench, surrounded by blooming spring flowers and a gaggle of excitable children that are not made of your blood. but someone of lesser understanding would not have known that.
the deep crimson of your skirts pool out around you, an unfurling magnolia with velvet petals, as you perch on the seat with rhae curled in your lap, head tucked beneath your chin. aemon sits beside you, his head on your shoulder as he reads softly aloud, and daella sits at your feet, fingers running up and down the smooth expanse of your skirts. aegon stands on his toes behind you, pushing yet another small flower into your hair.
maekar pauses in the doorway, leaning against the stone arch as he observes. his children speak kindly to you, and you speak to them much the same, and as you soothe rhae with one hand, pet daella’s hair with the other, whilst listening to aemon’s muttering and allowing aegon to turn your hair into a garden, maekar realises something. he realises he wants this life with you.
and when he corners you that evening, his children put to bed and tucked out of sight, he realises you want the same thing.
he’s not gentle.
it had started gentle, as it usually did, but after pulling you apart on the flat of his tongue, followed by the stretch of two thick fingers, he knew exactly what he wanted and how he was going to get it. good thing you liked it like that.
maekar curls you over the edge of the bed, your body completely bare as you bend and lay amongst the silks and furs. a strong, calloused hand holds the back of your neck, anchoring you to the feathered mattress as he stretches your pussy open around the thick of his cock.
he groans, feeling your pussy pull tight around him as he ruts in. silk walls draw inwards, heavy against the ridges along his shaft and the vein, pumping hot with blood, that runs along the underside. his other hand is a vice on your hip, dimpling the flesh as he forces you back onto him, the slapping sounds of skin-on-skin loud in the evening silence of your chambers.
you mewl into the sheets beneath you, a string of saliva already catching out the side of your mouth as your husband thrusts into you, the movements deep and far-reaching. heavy balls nudge against the swollen pearl of your clit, and you mewl again, startled, when the head of his cock punches up towards the plug of your cervix.
“don’t fuss,” maekar grumbles, rutting into you, eyes trailing down the line of your spine and over the curve of your arse as he holds you down by the nape. your pussy drools around him, his flushed shaft slick as he pulls out, then shoves back in. he groans, “fuck, you always take me so well, don’t you?”
he doesn’t really want a response when he questions you like this, cock splitting you open as he pins you to your shared bed. you gape, breathy moans falling free of your throat as your fingers tangle in the silken sheets and sweat builds tacky down your back and thighs. he listens to you gasp and mewl, a crooked smile on his face as he kneads the fat at your hip.
“how many times…” maekar begins, sentence breaking momentarily as the wet squelch of your cunt becomes audible in the flame-soaked silence, the open hearth flickering nearby. you whimper, and your husband groans. “will i have to spill in this tight cunt before you’re full, huh? how many times will she have to take me before you’re round with my child?”
you let out a pathetic sound, some mix of a gasp and a moan, the syllables showing some semblance of his name, but it’s lost in the heat of your pleasure. a third orgasm sparks at the ends of your nerves, flames flickering across the walls of your womb, deep in your pelvis.
maekar grunts, strands of white hair falling loose over his forehead, cheeks hued with pink beneath the candlelight. he palms the flesh of your arse now as the hand on your neck pushes you deeper against the bed.
“is that what you want, little dove?” he asks as his hips rock, the leaking head of his cock pushing right up against that perfect spot inside you. your back arches and you cry out his name, pussy fluttering as heat fills the base of your tummy. he grunts, continuing as you squirm. “you want me to fill you? spill deep inside this tight cunt ‘til she makes a right mess of herself, yeah?”
“maekar,” you manage out, and it’s low and tense and strung across a high-pitched moan. you fist the silks and furs for support as he rocks against you, bed creaking.
“i’m right here,” he whispers, barely audible over his hips slamming against your arse. the fingers on your neck give you a gentle squeeze, and you suck in a shallow breath. then, he groans, the thick of his cock sucked in tight as your pussy flutters around him. “oh, she wants it, little dove. wants me to fill her—wants me to make you a mother.”
you cry out at his words, your release strung taut across your sparking nerves. it’s right there, your entire body growing rigid beneath him as he spears you apart on his cock. you grow hot, and hotter still, tension deep through the lines of your pelvis as you angle your hips to meet his thrusts, heartbeat heavy in your clit.
maekar huffs and grunts behind you, his voice breaking across a poorly hidden whine. “fuck, fu-uh-ck, oh, little dove, here we go, here we go…”
he coaxes you through your orgasm as it ignites and overwhelms you. your body shakes, trembles like a picked flower, as heat bursts through your pelvis and the depths of your womb, your pussy squeezing tight around him. you moan, his name and his title up in the air around you, as stars burst behind your lowering lids and your legs threaten to give out.
but he’s not far behind you—as you come, he groans his praises, guiding you through the fissuring of pleasure with “that’s it, there we go” and “good girl, just like that” as he ruts his cock towards the base of your womb. with each thrust into you, slick dribbles out around his shaft, and he feels it along the seam of his balls as they draw up, visions of you fat with his child at the forefront of his mind.
maekar groans loudly. “gods, you’ll look perfect round with my child—fuck, i’ll be good to you, little dove, an’ i’ll keep you full all—the—fucking—time—” thrust, thrust, thrust, with each word, before he’s letting out a hoarse moan of your name and shoving himself to the hilt inside you.
he rolls his hips, sliding against you in lazy movements as he spills right against your cervix. still fizzling down from your own orgasm, you let out a shaky moan as he fills you, seed too warm in the base of your pelvis. his cock twitches, jerks inside you as your walls flutter, then pull him in even tighter as his seed fills you, fills you still, then settles.
he doesn’t pull out, but he collapses half way on top of you—the hand on your neck moving to bracket your head. you shift a little, panting as he plants a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth. you whine, turning your head to slide your lips to his. he grunts into your mouth as your tongues meet, and you taste yourself on him as your heart begins to slow beneath your ribs. he pulls away, resting his dewy forehead against your temple.
“it’ll take,” he says like he’s sure of it. like he knows it will.
“and if it doesn’t?” you counter through a mumble, limbs lax as you melt into the silks and furs, his body a firm press atop yours.
maekar chuckles. it’s a deep, low sound that vibrates through his chest, and it makes a little whine slip past your lips.
“then we keep trying,” he mutters, rolling his hips and nudging his cock deeper. you whimper, a shudder racking through you in response. he kisses your warm cheek. “i’ll fill you again and again, every fucking night, until you’re too full to even move… understood?”
you nod, words evading you as he noses your cheekbone, kissing you softly there too as his cock twitches where it sits deep, plugging you full of him.
Your writing style is so good, and I love how you manage to capture Baelor and Maekar respective softness towards reader differently!
How would they react if their wife or betrothed survived an assassination attempt? Happy ending of course, but I'd love to see how over protective they both can get when their beloved is hurt
oh, oh, this was so delicious to write. something about watching Baelor and Maekar go feral out of instinct to protect you? i am IN
the dragon bears its teeth
Includes: Baelor x betrothed!reader / Maekar x betrothed!reader
Warning(s): slight mentions of violence, minor angst, happy ending (let me know if I missed anything, please)
The solar smelled like ink and dried flowers.
You had learned, in the months since your betrothal was announced, that it was the safest room in the Red Keep. Not because of the guards posted outside — though there were always guards now, ever since your name had begun appearing in the same sentences as Targaryen and heir and threat — but because of what the room was. Baelor's space. Ordered and deliberate, every object placed with intention, the kind of room that felt like its occupant even when he was absent.
You had taken to spending afternoons there when he was in council. You read. You wrote letters home that grew less frequent as the Reach began to feel farther away and the Red Keep began to feel more like your home. Sometimes you left small things behind without thinking — a ribbon marking a page in one of his books, a sprig of dried lavender pressed between the leaves of his notes, the cup you always used left on the same corner of the desk. You did not do these things deliberately. They simply happened, the way warmth happened, the way light found the corners of a room without being asked.
Baelor had never mentioned the ribbon or the lavender. But the cup was always clean when you arrived.
This was how you had learned to read him. In the things he did not say.
You were in a good mood that day, which was perhaps why you did not notice sooner.
The morning had been kind: a letter from your youngest sister, full of news about the harvest and a new foal and three paragraphs about a boy she swore she did not like, and you had laughed alone in your chambers in a way that made your handmaiden smile. At breakfast you had made the Queen Mother laugh — genuinely, not the polished court-laugh — with something you said about the pigeons on the windowsill, and Queen Myriah had looked at you across the table with those dark, perceptive eyes and said, very quietly, you are good for this house, and you had felt it like sunlight between your ribs.
Even the walk to the solar had been good. A kitchen boy had shown you a stray cat he'd been feeding. You'd spent ten minutes crouched in the corridor making friends with it, and arrived at Baelor's rooms with grey fur on your sleeve and no particular urgency about anything.
The day had felt like a gift. You had thought I am happy here. I did not expect to be happy here.
You should have noticed sooner that there was something wrong with one of the servants.
The hands were the thing, in retrospect. Too still. The posture too practiced — the way he moved through the room without the particular learned invisibility of someone who had spent years trying to become furniture. You noticed it the way you noticed a wrong note in a familiar melody. Not a conscious recognition. Just a small wrongness, registering somewhere below thought.
You were still registering it when he moved.
There was a blade.
There was the sound of your own breath, caught and held, and the desk's edge finding the small of your back, and a cold so complete it felt almost like clarity. Your mind did something strange — sharpened, narrowed, cleared entirely of everything that was not this room, this man, this moment.
You did not scream.
Later you would not be able to explain why. Some instinct older than thought, maybe. Some understanding that noise spent breath you might need, that stillness bought seconds, that seconds were the only currency that mattered right now.
He stepped toward you.
You stepped sideways.
It was not graceful. It was not brave. It was pure animal refusal, your body deciding before your mind caught up, and your hand found the ink pot on the desk — heavy, solid, completely by accident — and you threw it.
It caught him on the shoulder. Not hard enough to stop him. Hard enough to make him stagger, to break the straight line of his advance, to buy you the half-second you needed to get the desk between you. Ink bloomed across his clothing, across the floor, across the corner of your sister's letter, and you were already moving — shoving the chair into his path, sending the stack of books sliding — creating noise, chaos, the beautiful unglamorous mess of someone who did not know how to fight but understood, distantly and desperately, that the guards outside needed a reason to open the door.
"Help—"
Not a scream. Your voice came out sharp and flat, the single word, and it was enough.
The door opened. Two guards. The ugly, brief, necessary violence of it, and then he was on the floor and the blade was beside him and you were standing at the far end of the room with your back against the bookcase and your chest heaving and ink on your hands and the grey fur still on your sleeve from the kitchen cat.
You looked at the man on the floor. He looked back at you with eyes so full of rage that they did not resemble something human. You did not understand — and perhaps you never would — how someone could hate with such depth. It was like he carried it in his bones.
"Bind him, please," you said, and your voice was steady. You did not know from where.
You held yourself together through the wait.
It did not feel like bravery. It felt like a door held shut by both hands, all your weight against it, and you knew very well what was on the other side but you could not open it yet because there were still things that required you to be upright. The guards. The questions.
You stood at the window. You watched the courtyard below. You counted the pigeons.
Baelor arrived in eleven minutes.
You knew because you counted those too.
He did not make a sound when he came through the door.
You had expected something. Command. The controlled authority he wore so naturally, sharpened into purpose. Some version of Baelor Targaryen, Hand of the King, managing a situation with the same quiet efficiency he brought to everything.
He was silent.
He took in the room in one sweep — the guards, the man bound on the floor, the blade, the ink spreading its dark stain across the stone — and the silence was not composure. Not quite. It was something that wore composure's shape, the way a fire wore a grate.
Then his eyes found you.
He crossed the room. His hands came up to frame your face before he had finished closing the distance, that particular gesture, hovering just short of touch.
"Are you hurt," he said. Not a question. The space before one.
"No," you said.
He looked at you anyway. His mismatched eyes moved over your face with the focused attention of a man checking for damage he could not allow himself to find — your face, your throat, your hands, the ink stains, the grey fur on your sleeve, back to your face.
"Certain," he said.
"Baelor," you managed a smile, just for him, "I promise I am not hurt."
He exhaled. His hands settled, finally, barely — fingertips at your jaw, your temple, lighter than they had any right to be for hands that size. You felt the careful in them. The tremendous, effortful careful.
"You fought back?" he said.
It was not quite a question, even if posed as one.
"I threw the ink pot," you said. "It wasn't—"
"Thank you," he answered, and you didn't really know why. Something moving through his expression that you did not have a full name for. Something that looked, underneath the relief, like it was being filed away somewhere permanent and important.
Then he turned, and you watched it happen.
He stepped back from you — one step, deliberate, a boundary drawn between what you were to each other and what he was about to do — and he looked at the man on the floor, and the fracture happened.
Not loudly. Not visibly, to anyone who did not know his face. But you knew his face. You had spent months learning it, the careful version and the rare unguarded version and every gradation between, and you saw the single clean line that ran through his composure now, and through it — brief, absolute, unmistakable — something that was not Baelor the Hand, not Baelor the principled, not Baelor the deliberate and restrained.
Something older than all of that.
He crouched down beside the man on the floor. And then — unhurried, without heat, with the particular calm of something that had never needed heat to be dangerous — he took a fistful of the man's hair and turned his face up.
The man made a sound.
Baelor looked at him the way you might look at a problem you had already solved. Patient. Absolute. Completely without the performance of menace, which was so much worse than menace, because performance implied there was something to prove and there was nothing here that needed proving.
"You came into my house," Baelor said, quietly.
The man said nothing.
"You came into my house," Baelor repeated, in the same tone, "and you dared to raise a blade to her."
A pause. Long enough to be deliberate.
"I want you to understand something," he said, softly, still holding the man's face up, still meeting his eyes with that fractured calm. "Not as a warning. Warnings are for situations where the outcome is still uncertain. I want you to understand it simply as a fact." His head tilted, slightly. "There is no version of what happens next that does not take everything from you. There is no mercy available here. There is no appeal." A breath. "What you chose to do in this room today — you will spend the rest of your life regretting it. However long that is."
He released him.
Stood.
The composure sealed itself back over the fracture like water closing over a stone. So complete you might have imagined it.
He turned back to you, and he was Baelor again — careful, deliberate, the mismatched eyes quiet — and he said, to the guards: "Get him out of my sight," and to the empty room, to the ink-stained floor, to the ruined afternoon: nothing at all.
You held yourself together through all of it.
Through the maester who confirmed you were unharmed. Through the questions, which Baelor deflected before they could overwhelm you, placing himself between you and everyone who entered with unhurried, immovable certainty. Through the hour of necessary proceedings — the Hand of the King resuming, fractionally, the work of being the Hand of the King, because it did not stop, it never stopped, and you watched him manage it from the window with the part of your mind that was still observing from a slight remove.
You held yourself together until the room emptied.
Until it was only you and him, and the light had gone gold and thin, and the solar was quiet again — except it was not the same quiet, it would never quite be the same quiet — and your sister's letter was ruined under the ink, and there was grey fur still on your sleeve from a kitchen cat you had met that morning when the day still felt like a gift.
Your legs stopped participating.
You sat down on the floor.
Not gracefully. Not deliberately. The stone was cold and real, and you pressed your palms flat against it, and the first breath shook, and the second one broke entirely, and by the third you were crying in a way you had not cried since you were small — the kind that had been waiting in your chest since the moment you saw the blade and threw an ink pot because it was all you had.
Baelor was beside you before you had completed another full breath.
He sat — this careful, composed man, in his court clothes, on the floor — and he put his arm around you, and you turned into it with complete gracelessness and no embarrassment whatsoever.
He held you through all of it.
His hand moved in slow deliberate strokes down your hair. His chin rested against the top of your head. He said nothing because you did not need words yet. You needed the solid fact of him. The reality of his heartbeat under your ear, steady and present and real.
You cried until you could not anymore. Until you were wrung out and still, and the light through the windows had shifted, and his arm had not moved.
"I should have—" he began, and stopped himself.
You felt the breath he took. The way he made himself start again more honestly.
"I knew there was still risk," he said. "I told myself the precautions were sufficient."
"It wasn't your fault," you said, into his chest.
"No," he agreed, quietly. "It was theirs." A pause. "I intend for that to be made very clear."
The mildness of it. The absolute, bottomless mildness.
You lifted your head and looked at him.
"I saw it," you said, trying to fight against your runny nose. "When you turned to him. I saw how you looked at him."
He looked at you steadily.
"I'm not frightened," you told him. "I want you to know that. I'm not frightened of you."
Something moved through his expression — that nameless thing, between relief and grief, the shape of a man who had spent a very long time being careful about what he was. What he was truly capable of being.
His forehead dropped to yours.
"You threw an ink pot at him," he said, very quietly, after a beat.
"It was within reach," you simply said with a slight shrug.
A breath. Warm against your face.
"Within reach," he repeated. And there was something in his voice that was not quite a laugh and not quite undone and was entirely, helplessly fond. "Of course it was."
His arms tightened around you. Not carefully. Not with his usual deliberate lightness.
Fully. Like something that had stopped pretending it needed to hold back.
"You can rest now," he murmured, into your hair.
So you did.
You stayed on the floor of his solar until the light failed completely, and he stayed with you, and his heartbeat was steady under your ear, and outside the pigeons were still on the windowsill, and somewhere down the corridor there was a stray cat waiting by a kitchen door, and you were here, and you were safe, and the man who held you would have — you understood this now, completely and without question if it came to it — burned everything down to keep it that way.
The thing about you, Maekar had decided sometime in the second month, was that you did not know you were doing it.
That was the part he could not account for. He understood deliberate charm — had grown up watching it deployed at court, had learned early to recognise the difference between warmth offered as currency and warmth offered as itself. He had become, by necessity, very good at spotting the seam. The moment where the performance showed its stitching.
With you there was no seam.
You had smiled at his squire on your third day at court — not the careful measured smile of a girl learning which relationships would be useful to her, but the full unguarded thing, because the boy had said something that struck you as funny and you had simply laughed, and the squire had stood there looking like he'd been lit from the inside. You had learned the name of every guard on your rotation within a fortnight. Not strategically. You had just asked, and then remembered, and then asked after their families, and Maekar had watched his own men become devoted to you with a speed that should have alarmed him.
It did not alarm him.
This was, precisely, the problem.
He had spent his entire life under no illusions about what he was. The fourth son. A sword. An anvil. Useful in the specific way that instruments of force were useful, which was to say when something needed breaking, and set aside after. He had made his peace with it — or something he had mistaken for peace, which held its shape well enough if you didn't press on it. He did not reach for things. He had learned not to. Reaching was for men who had been told the world held something for them, and no one had told Maekar that, and he had decided, quietly and finally, sometime in his adolescence, that it was simpler not to want.
And then you had sat down in his armoury.
Not in a calculated way. In the exact opposite of a calculated way — you had wandered in by accident with a book under your arm and a slightly lost expression, and when he'd looked up from the whetstone you had said, very politely, oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise you were here, and then simply stayed. Sat on a crate in the corner and opened your book and said nothing else, and the silence had been — he had not known what to do with it. He had waited for the agenda to reveal itself. For the reason behind the staying.
There was no reason. You had just stayed.
He had let you, and told himself it meant nothing, and the next afternoon you had come back.
That had been three months ago.
He did not know what to do with you.
This was the blunt truth of it, the thing he turned over in his mind in the early mornings when the yard was empty and the work of the day hadn't yet crowded everything else out. He did not know how to hold the fact of you — this girl from the Reach with her unguarded laugh and her genuine questions and the way she looked at him, straight on, like she was not afraid of what she found there. Like the scars beneath his beard were simply part of the landscape. Like the sharpness he aimed at everyone was something to be waited out rather than fled from.
Nobody waited him out. In his experience, people did not do that.
You did. Patiently, warmly, with apparent total serenity, the way sunlight waited out a cloud — without effort, without agenda, simply continuing to be what it was until the obstruction passed.
He was not accustomed to being the cloud in this metaphor.
The betrothal was not his doing — nothing in his life was entirely his doing, his life had been arranged by other hands since birth — but he had looked at you across the table after your arrival at dinner and you had looked back with those clear eyes, not calculating, not performing, just looking, and he had thought that this is either the best thing that has ever happened to me or it will ruin me entirely.
He had not, at the time, understood that these were the same thing.
He was in the yard when the messenger came.
Drilling. The repetitive honest work of it, the thing that had been the fixed point of his life since he was old enough to hold a practice sword — this, at least, was simple. His body knew what to do. There was no ambiguity in a blade, no subtext, no bewildering warmth that required him to exist in ways he had not been prepared for.
He was mid-form when the man crossed the yard at a run, and that was the first alarm he noticed.
Maekar was trained to read approaches — speed, posture, the quality of urgency in a man's movement — and this one read as wrong before the messenger had covered half the distance. Something in Maekar went very still before a single word was spoken. The way it went still before a battle. Not calm — the opposite of calm, every sense sharpening to a single point.
The man said your name.
He said solar and blade and unharmed, my lord, she is unharmed and Maekar was already moving before the sentence finished.
He did not remember crossing the yard.
He did not remember the corridors, the stairs, the guards stepping aside. He remembered only the thing that had replaced thought, which was not quite rage and was not quite fear and was something underneath both of those, older than both of those, the part of him that had been the sword of this family since before he chose it, turned now toward a single point with a focus that was total and absolute and not entirely human in its quality.
She is unharmed had been said. He heard it. It did not change anything.
Because she could have been. Between the sending of the messenger and the saying of those words there was a distance, and in that distance someone had decided to put a blade near you, had decided that you — you, with your face full of joy and your laughing at his squire and your patient unhurried presence in his armoury — were a target. Had decided that what was beginning, quietly and terrifyingly, to be the only good thing in his life was a variable to be eliminated.
That was what boiled in him as he ran.
Not injured pride. Not political calculation. Not the cold strategic fury of a Targaryen prince responding to an act of aggression against his house.
Something much simpler, much less governable.
He filled the doorframe and took in the room the way he always took in rooms — all of it, instantly, the threat assessment automatic and immediate — and found: guard, man on floor, blade, overturned ink, scattered books, a slightly crooked candlestick, and you.
Standing.
Ink on your arm. A careful stillness to the way you held your left side that told him immediately, with the eye of a man who had catalogued a thousand injuries, that something had caught your ribs. Your expression — and this was the thing, this was the thing that did something he could not account for — was not the expression of a girl who had been helpless and then rescued.
"Step away from him," he said to the guards that were pining that man, that wretched man, to the ground
"My prince—"
"Step away."
He crossed the space in an unhurried pace. Did not crouch. Did not negotiate with the geometry of it. He reached down and took the man by the collar and lifted, one hand, and felt nothing about the effort because there was no effort, because every piece of him that was not focused on you had narrowed to this, to the man in his grip and what was going to happen now.
He held him up and looked at him.
And the thing that lived in the Targaryen blood — the thing that had not died with the dragons, that had no outlet left except this, the cold and total and absolutely merciless thing that was not cruelty because cruelty required emotion and this was beyond emotion, this was simply the oldest part of him stating a fact about the world — looked back.
The man in his grip understood. Maekar saw the moment he understood.
"Who sent you," he said.
The man refused to tell Maekar anything, just decided to stare at him with a smug grin painted on his lips. You noticed, from where you stood, that it was a deliberate thing, that taunting. Even if the man — you could see it in the way both his hands tried to relieve the pressure from Maekar's hand on his neck — was trembling as a leaf.
You couldn't hear what Maekar said to him then, because his voice sounded as if he were underwater. You made out something about rotting and cells. Maekar called the guards back in and gave his instructions and they moved fast, the way men moved when they had felt what was in the room and wanted very much to be on the right side of it.
Then he turned to you, and all of it — every cold ancient terrible thing — had only one place left to go.
He looked at you for a long moment. You looked back, steady, chin still up, ink drying on your arm.
The shaking started in his hands first.
He had not expected that. He was not a man who shook — had not, in thirty-odd years of soldiering and sparring and riding into things that ought to have killed him, experienced his hands as anything other than reliable. They did what he needed. They did not develop opinions.
They were shaking now.
He crossed the room and his hands came to your face before he had decided to do it, both palms, tilted up to look at him, and he felt the tremor in them and knew you felt it too and could not find it in himself to care.
"You are not hurt," he said. Rough. The wrong way round — statement when it should have been question, because he needed to say it, needed to hear it in the room, needed to make it real with sound.
"A bruise," you said. "The desk caught my ribs. The blade did not—"
"Show me."
The words came out before he'd dressed them in anything acceptable. Raw need, that was all, no armour on it, and the back of his neck went hot and he knew his ears were red and he looked somewhere past your shoulder for a moment because he could not currently manage your expression on top of everything else.
"Maekar." Your voice, gentle. "It is only a bruise. I promise."
He made himself look back at you.
Your eyes were clear and steady and you were not afraid of him, had never been afraid of him — not of the scars, not of the sharpness, not of whatever had just been in this room with you — and the thing that did to him, the specific unbearable thing—
"I know," he said, roughly. "I know. I just—"
He didn't finish.
He stepped back. Turned away, one hand at the back of his neck, and stood there looking at nothing, breathing, doing the slow effortful work of becoming something other than what he'd been for the last several minutes.
"You could have been killed," he said. To the wall.
"I was not."
"You could have been." He turned back. His jaw was very tight. "Someone decided that you were expendable. That you were—" His voice did something he did not sanction. He pushed past it. "You are not."
He said it the way he said things that were simply true. Flat, final, not up for interpretation.
You looked at him, and something in your expression softened, and you said, quietly: "I know."
"I am not certain you do," he said.
You held his gaze. "Then perhaps you should keep telling me."
The silence that followed was very loud.
Maekar looked at you — this girl, this unbearably warm impossible girl, who had sat in his armoury and asked for nothing and come back the next day and remembered the names of his guards and laughed with her whole face and made him feel something shift in him. Permanently. The way foundations shifted.
He had spent his life not reaching.
He crossed the room and his arms went around you and he held on.
Not gently. Not with the careful tentativeness of a man who was uncertain of his welcome. He held on the way he did everything once he'd decided, which was completely, which was without reservation, which was with the full weight of a man who had been keeping himself at arm's length from good things for thirty years and had just run out of reasons.
Your arms came around him, and he breathed, and the solar was quiet.
The rest of it came out sideways. In the wrong order. The way things always did with him.
He did not say: I have not known how to want things and then you sat on a crate in my armoury and I have been undone since.
He said it in the arms that did not loosen. In the chin tucked against your head. In the six guards he would assign in the morning — six, and then when he thought about it longer, more, and he did not care if it was excessive, he did not care at all.
He did not say: the thought of losing you turned me into something I do not entirely recognise.
He said it when he pulled back enough to look at your face, and looked at it, and said nothing, and looked anyway.
You had hit a Blackfyre loyalist with a candlestick, he came to know.
You had stood with your chin up and told him that what sat on your ribs was a bruise, only a bruise, with the same serenity with which you did everything, as though the world could throw you whatever it liked and you would simply remain warm through it.
"You did well," he said, finally. Into the quiet. Roughly, like the words had cost him something.
Your smile, when it came, was small and real and did what your smiles always did to him.
"Thank you," you said.
He looked away. His ears were red again.
"Six guards," he said, to the middle distance. "Starting tomorrow."
"All right," you said.
"Possibly more."
"All right."
He nodded. Looked back at you, and there was something in his face — not open exactly, Maekar was never quite open, but the layers so reduced that what was left was simply him, the unarmoured version, the one he almost never let into the light.
"You will tell me," he said. "If anything—"
"I will tell you," you said. "I promise."
And that was, for now, enough.
The sun went long and amber through the window, and somewhere down the corridor something settled into quiet, and Maekar Targaryen — the anvil, the one who had learned not to reach — stood in your solar with the candlestick still crooked in its place and understood that reaching had happened anyway.
That it had been happening for three months.
That it was, now, irrevocable.
And found, to his own considerable surprise, that he did not want it any other way.
summary: where your betrothed takes you to meet his dragon.
pairing: maekar targaryen x betrothed!reader
warning(s): just fluff, maekar being a little shit, dragons live au!!
a/n: this is the maekar version of the baelor drabble!! and i did give maekar meleys because they’re my babies thank you
You were uncertain of it all. Not only the predicament you had found yourself in, but that if your betrothed.
He’d hardly spoken to you more than mere niceties amongst others and the courtesy of greeting you, and yet he insisted to watch you carefully. Studying almost, so much so it looked as if it aggravated him. You were unsure if he had been content with your union at all. Of course it was strange to you both, the marriage for the youngest Prince did not warrant nearly as much fanfare, but it was a celebration.
The good King Daeron was as welcoming as was his wife, Queen Myriah, and even his eldest brother the Crown Prince Baelor encouraged you both with small smiles and harmless jest.
But he had only stood at your side.
Close, dutiful, and quiet.
And now suddenly he had taken you here. Right in the very mouth of the Dragonpit facing the Red Queen herself.
Meleys, he had called her, though you supposed it had long been her name from the legends of her previous riders. A beautiful ruby red she was, with horned crowns of three at either sides of her head, beautiful indeed, in the most terrifying way.
“She cannot reach you from there you do realise.”
He muttered whilst tugging his gloves away, shoving them into the pocket of his doublet as he glanced your way. Maekar had stepped out into the walkway, lit only by the open mouth of the cave, hundreds of feet into the air, just below the sky. And though he had asked to escort you, you had hoped it would be a turn about the gardens, or something rather placid and gentle, not this.
Your fingers remained curled around the brick of the archway into the cave, sand and grit planting at your slippers where you pressed the tightly to the ground. Smoke filled your nostrils just as it consumed the air, dragon smoke.
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
He tutted, deep and nonsensical at your sarcasm, though it was the truth, none of it had felt safe, not when you saw the great figure behind him.
“Come here.”
He called incredulously, though careful, extending his hand out as he stepped once toward you, as if to reach the large gap at once. Anxiety swirled in your head, your eyes focusing onto the silhouette moving through the darkness when a hesitant laugh escaped your throat. You stuck your hand out anyway on shaky breath stepping into the dim light.
He caught yours before you could fully reach, tugging you closer gently, just into his shoulder as violet eyes pierced yours, properly this time, and somewhat tenderly.
“She will not harm you.. I wouldn’t let that happen.”
You believed him, even in his gruff straight words, the look had had given you was nothing short of meaning. A screech rippled the air, low and eager, as he moved you in front of him, patterning your steps as he walked you every step closer toward the edge of the rock and toward the beast.
Your steps failed you, slowing every inch you closed in, your eyes squeezing shut as you attempted to fall back into the heavy press of muscle at your back. He stayed vigilant, huffing as he continued on, rather you both.
“Like this..”
Long fingers curled around yours, spreading them wide beneath his own as your arm extended with his. Tough crimson scale met your fingertips, jagged where you flattened your palm, feeling just above the curve of her mouth.
“Breathe.. unless you want to get eaten?”
“What?” Your hand retracted nearly as fast as your head spun, but he caught it, pressing it back as not to alert her.
“Seven.. it was a jest.. but you must calm, else she’ll startle. She may be a crone but she is still a battle worn one.”
Meleys huffed at that, just as he did it back, the remnants of a laugh escaping his throat as his eyes shut for a moment. You had caught it, just by a glance int your own panic, and the way his features seemed to ease even for a minute, his brow fell, his lips flattened, and for once the stern prince seemed.. relaxed.
As if their connection was stronger than what you knew it to be, it was communication.
“It seems she’s ready now.”
“Ready for what?” Your head snapped up, warmth spreading fast at your fingertips along her skin.
“To ride. She accepts you. Come on..” He pulled you with him, just as you protested the words circling in your ears. A ride.. in the sky, with him?
Nonsense.
But he gripped you all the way, fingers curled around your hip and the long fastened ropes that bound her body to the saddle. You eventually relented, stepping up every rig and knot of the wrappings until you had settled your legs either side, draping down to the endless cavern below.
She was warm, a deep rumble sounding throughout her body as a deeper warmth carefully slotted at your back.
“Are you certain this is safe?”
“I wouldn’t bring you if it meant danger.. I intend to keep you safe.” He replied, wrapping both arms at either of your sides and in front of you, where your hands tightly gripped the saddle.
Intends to.
His eyes fluttered as he blinked at you blankly, reading more than what he let on. And you wondered just exactly what.
But to Maekar he had already decided, even if he had not pronounced every vow and chivalry in the book like many would have, having you in his arms meant much more.
And were you, by the gods, to survive such a journey, he intended to keep just that.
summary: you have long wondered with your husband’s nature, just how he came to father six children. and its high time he proved it to you.
pairing: maekar targaryen x second wife!reader
warning(s): porn with little plot, rough sex, breeding kink (it’s maekar), fingering, hair pulling, biting, dirty talk, slight degradation, slight bit of spanking
word count: 3.6k
a/n: will i ever stop writing maekar with breeding kink? uhhh.. no :)) i hope you enjoy lovelies
If there was one thing more than anything else he’d been forced to endure, it was you.
Not that, but the things that had come with it, the questions and nonsense from others. And some, even worse, from you.
“For the way he acts it is a wonder.”
“Mayhaps he is just nervous.”
“Id wager he’d enjoy the idea of it.”
“But how exactly did you?” That one, was you.
Endless questioning. That was all he had heard, and it was just about enough to drive him crazy, past the point of insanity if possible.
You were no fool, he knew of it. He would not have stepped foot into another marriage let alone being forced to take a bride, if she was dimwitted. And you were far from it.
Callous, stern and prickly many called him, and yet you and what followed had wandered round him like a buzzing fly. Though it was not your company he despised, he liked that more than he could admit, but it was the mockery. For a man of his age, not old and yet not young with six children in his stead, you had been incessant in wondering exactly.
How.
He was handsome, far more than people had mentioned or cared to, striking in that fierce way. Hardened by battles and fatherhood alone. And you were captivated, and curious. And luckily for you, you were the thing, the creature, the pest that consistently managed to get under his skin.
The way you walked, talked, the way you made eyes at him across the feasting table, the way you’d so perfectly slotted into the family and how everyone, including the children adored you. For that he was thankful, truly, but it didn’t stop the fact you drove him mad.
“She is a new addition to the family, and she is fitting in quite well I should say.” Baelor countered as both men walked through the punctured halls of Maegor’s Holdfast.
“She has taken over.” Maekar muttered with a roll of his yes , stalking slowly beside his brother.
“Your senses perhaps.” Baelor replied coolly, an edge of amusement following.
Maekar slowed, squinting piercing eyes at his brother as they moved to stand over the edge, overseeing the court below where you and the children had played. Egg and Rhae had tugged at your hands, making you stand to play and duck behind the plant pots with them in small strides, with Daeron watching on. Even Valarr stood at the corner with a smile, whispering no doubt pleasantries and flattery about you. Some said you would have been more suited to one of the younger Prince’s, perhaps there would be more in common, a likeness, but even though he remained shadowed, the idea made his blood boil. A possessiveness over territory he had yet to claim.
Not a chance.
“What I mean is, she does no harm. It has been a long time since they have all looked like this.” Baelor reasoned, picking at the stone underneath his palm as he eyed Maekar.
“Around you she may not.” The grumble came fast, quick to override his brother’s words. But his throat felt dry, tacky and stuck like the words could barely come out. Like what he had heard was true.
His senses, overtaken his senses. How?
What with your cunning ways, your ability to charm and please, and weasel your way in without needing to, to be so beautiful and too good for him. It needled at him. The marriage both of you had been so blessed with was not necessity, not by anyone’s means, but yet it came anyway.
Swift and secure, as all things should be, strengthening alliance or something else they had bothered to give title.
The loss changed him, hardened him in ways that most wouldn’t be able to understand, but you had tried to. Endlessly. Attempts to break down the brick wall that was your husband became futile, and so you decided to go around him. For it was jsut as new to you as it was to him, and with him years your senior, you had expected him more forthcoming.
And yet he was not.
He was reserved and callous, moving through the halls of Summerhall like a gust of wind more than a steady hand, ignoring all of your questions insisting they were nothing but “nonsensical whims.”
But you had longed for something different. Perhaps not the chivalrous fanciful lords and their ways, but his own.. the longing looks he had given you across court, the fleeting touches at your lower back and arm when duty had warranted it. But you wanted more, you wanted him, not duty. And he had been rather intent on keeping it from you.
But one thing he didn’t deny, was that his brother may well have been right. None of them had looked like it in such a long time, nor had he felt the way he had in so long. So.. undone, having to pry himself from his thoughts, especially when you caught his gaze from across the din.
Your smile bright and curved, more like a smirk, knowing and tempting. His jaw ticked harshly, tongue pressing deep into his cheek, only for a fleeting moment before you had looked away, and his fingers had all but gripped the stone under his fingers enough to chip it.
Baelor had caught it, a single glimpse to his side and back onto you and the children again. The heat that burned from the man beside him was enough to scold and he had not lingered on the thought of what had wandered through his head.
Nor did he need to, because before pulling away, Maekar’s eyes barely left you.
His thoughts were, you.
——
The chamber was cool, years of aged stone encasing you more than you’d have liked. The day had .. wonderfully, breaking your fast with your ladies and the children, tending to them in the gardens and watching over some of their lessons, and retreating back to your ladies once more. For them you were thankful, able to wander the lower halls without question or prying eyes, and the ability to talk as freely as you wished.
“If only he wasn’t so prickly.”
“Careful, he is our Prince after all.”
“It is a miracle he has fathered children of his own at all, not near as pleasant as his brother.” Quickly followed by, “Apologies my lady, we only wish to see you happy..”
You had confided in them briefly, private chatter between you of how exactly to woo the prince, or rather atleast to accept his affections that so many had claimed to have seen. Also that so many had claimed the Prince did not have a heart to give.
But they were wrong.
Not with the way he looked you, so dark and delicate, like he could snap at any moment..
You must have made him feel green again, one had giggled, as you did.
You had asked him to visit your chambers many nights, and yet he did not, instead your maid came to you, always. She bathed you often, brought tea and a fresh pitcher of water, even sat with you a while when you had wanted it. Almost as if it had been sent for you, and for that you were thankful. But there was no sign of him.
And alas, you had had enough.
They were not wrong, you had noticed it too. Such fighting for restraint and the tension that lingered was inevitable, a livin thing that made you ache.
And so you had taken their advice.
If he will not make such a move, perhaps you should.
And you liked that idea, you liked it very much. Because out of all the talk and gossip, the questioning of your husband’s want for you was dwindling, and yet you did not give in.
Your chambermaid, Niamh, had just finished setting out the tray in the small table, a glass bowl of fruits beside a candle, a hand towel and your bodily oils. She stood straight backed and patient for what her ached body would allow, resting her arms at her middle with a small, expectant smile.
“I have run you a bath, should you require assistance, my lady?”
“That will be all thank you Niamh, you are dismissed.”
She nodded curtly, and with the turn of her heel the oak creaked behind her softly. You had waited a further few moments to let the echoes of her footsteps die out before you moved, stepping into the thinness of your laced nightgown with a devilish grin.
Because it was not the bath you were ready for.
Your steps patterned the lines of the corridors you’d mapped out for some time, every corner and shortcut that was hidden beneath stone. Maekar’s own chambers was not far from your own, a whole stretch of hall and a turn away. Every outline of jagged rock shadowed with a trail of sconces and the few tapered and coloured tapestries that hung from the walls.
Your heart thrummed harshly in your chest with adrenaline, your fingertips flexing as you clutched your arms around yourself from the cold night air. And once you arrived outside of his chambers, the feeling only seemed to grow, goose pimples trailing your skin. But with a single look, defiant and what confidence you could muster up, the two men standing vigil outside had stepped aside without protest for you.
Seemingly aware of the mission you had embarked yourself on.
The chambers were darker than your own, everything lined perfectly and sparse just as you had remembered it from your night together moons ago. The last time he had truly touched you. You stepped inside carefully, snaking yourself around the door before closing it shut with a heavy click.
The hearth warmed the room, dimming it in golds and oranges across banners of red and black. Your breath stuttered as you turned, so taken with breathing the space in you hadn’t known the figure staring right at you. And a look of confusion etching the striking, miserable features.
His robe was a dark and velveted crimson, one that wrapped to his shins and broadened his shoulders. His eyes glistened in that light, twinkling more tender than they had let on, almost enticing.
“Husband.” You greeted innocently.
“Who let you in?” Maekar spoke sharply, like the words were a bad taste on his tongue.
“Your kingsguard, very thoughtful of them.” You gestured behind you at the door as you moved further into the room, closing the gap between you as much as you could dare.
“You should be asleep,” His eyes raked over you for a single moment, rather all he could allow himself before he turned to his side, back facing you as he made for the bed, “in your own chambers.”
Your nightdress was of the finest silk, cream and a lightness that hugged your curves in the most torturous way, your hair clung to your shoulders and your skin bared.
Something he should not have seen, should not have wanted as much as he did.
“I have come to see you.”
You dared a foot forwards, planting it across the cool floor and onto the myriah carpet just at the end of the bed, a small smile peeking at your features. He had rested himself onto the edge of the bed, sitting hunched as his legs trailed far and long in front of him, shoulders sagged and tense.
“Well now you have seen. Now leave.”
But you did not, you couldn’t. He was far too close, and you had not yet begun.
You didn’t answer to that, instead you had crawled toward him on the edge of the bed, a mere arms length away.
“I have missed you.”
He only looked at you as he took a heavy inhale, a simple look, displeased and thrown. Why. You blinked up to the violets that bore into yours, a face like statue and stone. How could you. After all that was placed on you both, all the gossip and venomous words that spilled behinds backs, after how much he had attempted to keep from ruining you.
“What are you saying?”
“Well you hardly spend any time here.. with me.” You kicked your legs in front, swinging just beside his, close enough to knock together where yours didn’t meet the length of his own.
“Do not pretend to be so stupid.”
“It scares you.” You inched closely, carefully, arms reaching toward him, through the robe. And he allowed you to, legs spread wide and shamelessly as you settled yourself over him, a knee perched on either side.
“What?” He blinked up through lidded eyes, pupils blown and decisive, even if he would not speak as such. He would let you have your fun, amuse yourself and find out what you had so longed to have.
“The thought scares you.” You continued, fingers running along the collar of his robe, lining the silk just across the hem where his skin was bared. Few silver hairs littered his chest where the material opened, hard planes of pale muscle rising and falling sharply.
“What thought woman? Speak.” Maekar snapped through the quiet, impatience clawing at his skin like a fire.
“Surrendering yourself.”
He almost laughed, almost, a short incredulous huff bubbling from his throat.
“It is not my duty to surrender.”
“But it is your duty to put a babe in me is it not, the marriage was consummated moons ago and you had done so little as touch me.” Your fingers worked at his shoulders, taut muscle pulling between your nails. He stayed rigid, batting your hand away with a flick.
But you moved it back, placing it right back to where you had it.
“Do not test me.”
You could feel him there. The warmth of his breath, the burning glare that did not leave your face, the heat brushing between you through thin layers of fabric. Arousal flooded your core, and you had half the mind to bite back a moan. You had not had him like this, and he was not denying you.
“I’am not testing you.” You shrugged, hands slowly circling to meet around his neck. A brave move, even if not wise. He swore he could hear the hammering of your heart, and still see the curve of the smirk he had not from forgotten hours earlier, the one that plagued his mind.
The one he wished to wipe off of your face and take you over his lap in an instant—
“Perhaps it is more than duty you require..” Your fingers continued at his collarbones, humming dreamily at the thought. “Perhaps it is want.”
Your eyes met, bearing down into one another as your breaths mingled, your faces somehow rocked closer together on instinct, where your lips neared touching.
“Though if you do not wish for more, nor to consummate this marriage.. I wouldn’t be offended. Perhaps you are scared.. and after having so many it would be more than enough for an old man to—“
That was enough. The pure breaking point he’d sure he’d lost a long time ago. All resolve had seemed to snap with a heavy punch in his gut.
You didn’t have time to contemplate another word before he had shifted you both roughly. Long, thick fingers circled around your throat, your back shoved down into layers upon layers of silken sheets and furs. The tassels of his robe had fallen in his swiftness, bearing his chest completely leaving him only in his breeches and you had completely lost your breath.
You were pinned, folded with your legs pressed into his thighs as he kneeled over you.
“Do not anger me, girl.”
You blinked up at him, gasping at the pressure against your throat. You could smell him from there, more than before. And he was intoxicating. His scent, the smell of woodsmoke and pine, and need.
“You know well that is not it.” He gritted, glaring down at you with a gaze that made the pressure in your belly pinch hot.
“Then what is it.. mayhaps that you are older—“
The fingers tightened at your throat as he leaned down, body rising over yours as more weight anchored you down.
“Seven hells no. Tell me what you want. Say it, tell me you want this as I do, before I change my fucking mind.” The hand at your waist clamped tighter, stretching the seams of your nightgown. Your skin was ablaze, ignited under his touch and the aching deep in your core.
There was much you could have said, even struck him for making you wait so long, for denying himself of you for reasons he couldn’t even begin to name, but you had forgotten all else, raw need buzzing through your skin.
“Want you to put a babe in me husband.. want you to show me how well you fuck.”
You breathed out with a whine. And he growled, deep and beastly, like a primal instinct that could not be tamed. So guttural it sounded almost dragonlike.
His grip curled around the back of your neck, shoving you up to face him with bared teeth as he pressed himself further down, nose nudging harshly into yours.
“Good girl.”
His lips crashed to yours, fierce and unyielding, the force shoving you both back onto the bed as he bent over you. Your tongues swept together before his pushed his between your lips, tasting you, savouring and claiming all at once.
“You have driven me mad, wife.” With one hand he reached between you, unlacing the confines of his breeches in one heavy tug. They fell away down to his knees, the sharp ‘v’ of muscle trailing down to his cock defined and pulsing with vein. Even through lidded and lusted eyes you could see him, all of him. He was thick as he was long, the tip reddened with an aching blush and the beading sticky stream of precum.
Maekar waited a moment, slowing as he rose, releasing his grip on your neck, tracing his fingers over the bunched hem of your nightgown. He pushed it up, inch by inch until he brought it to your chest.
“Off.” Was all he called gruffly, and the command made you dizzy, raising your arms shakily as he snaked it off of you before tossing it somewhere to the floor where neither of you had cared to look for it.
He had longed for this sight. You had lingered long in his memory since the first time, the swell of your breasts and nipples pebbling under the cool air, the dip of your waist and curve of your stomach. The flush of your face under the firelight flickering behind you, silhouetted only by his shadow above you. Gods you did drive him mad.
And he was a fool to wait so long, to make you wait.
Hands brushed down your sides, callouses scratching along your skin as you shivered under his touch, fingers splaying over your belly and parting your thighs.
“All of this teasing.. and talk with your ladies who do not know fuck all.”
His fingers dug into the flesh of them, ignoring the way you inched downward to him, the hard press of his length just above your aching cunt.
“She must be so needy for me for being desperate like some common whore...” He tutted sharply, running a finger from your navel to your heat, slipping through the wetness that gathered over your clit and entrance. Flush crept your cheeks brazenly, hips arching instinctly as he curled two inside of you.
You moaned loudly, digits filling you at once as your cunt sucked them in greedily, rocking back onto them as he flexed them. He worked you open like that, scissoring as you bucked and humped yourself back onto his hand restlessly. And again he let you, urging you on, pumping his fingers deep while his thumb circled at your clit, letting your sticky sweetness coat his hand.
The sounds were lewd, a squelch against his palm where it filled you, motioning and massaging at your g-spot over and over until you had broke a sweat across the sheets, working yourself up with a desire that needed to be sated.
He didn’t let you finish, couldn’t, not even the satisfaction of having you come undone on him was enough. He had to have you, and there was only way it was going to happen, with having you wrapped around his cock and buried deep inside of you.
“Why the fuck did you—“ Your words caught on your tongue, dying as he angled himself, heavy length rubbing through your folds with a sickening tease. He slipped himself inside, thickness filling you with a burning stretch as you took him. His mouth moved back over yours, catching your whines and enduring the way your nails clutched at his back with a groan.
He stilled only to feel all of you, sheathed so far inside you swore you could feel him in the your belly. His cock punched deep, fingers gripped in a swarm around your hips to only anchor himself further, tongue sweeping over yours in a feverish haze. You could hardly breathe, the air punched from your lungs as he thrust inside of you, pulling out gently just to shove himself back deeper, and purposefully until stars blurred your vision.
Your thighs curled at his hips, muscle tensing and straining where he fucked into you like a man possessed, grunts muffled into the curve of your jaw as you begged and whined for him, wrapping yourself tight at his middle as he huddled himself over you. The hard bone of his knees braced at the bottom of your thighs, stretching you further for him to get more of you, your body on full display and all for him.
You tried to speak, to rise over the lack of words as your mouth parted, but it failed you, he was merciless.
“Take. It.” He rasped, rising over you to tug your legs upward, resting them onto his chest and up to his shoulders. Your husband was undone, completely. Silver flattened hair had fallen into his eyes, pale skin flushing with a sheen of sweat and desire, his eyes burning as he took you in. As if to study you so deeply and commit you to memory, finally having you in his arms, unable to spout those stupid questions and irk him further.
But it did not last long, not until he had you flipped again, this time with your face pressed into the furs, a heavy palm smoothed over your back.
“You want to know how hm?” His breath hit the shell of your ear, cock sliding over your arsecheek.
Your blood ran cold, a shiver wracking your body as fingers twisted into your hair, forcing you up along with his hips. He had you bent beneath him, his hips dragging into your arse as he lined himself up once more. You were arched up into him, breasts bunched into the mattress and your cries muffled into the sheets.
The angle there hit deeper, fuller, settling that spot inside of you with every snap of his thrusts. The sound of slapping filled your ears, punctuated only by his grunting and your moans. He tugged you back onto him where you fell completely boneless, his cock spreading you open as your arms spread wide, clutching and fisting at the pillows as you moaned into the mattress.
“This is what you wanted is it, to fuck you full..” A hand cracked down onto your arscheek and you mewled, arching your back to meet the stinging pressure. He fucked into you still, sinking in and out so deeply it was certain to kiss your cervix.
“Perhaps this will shut you up.. spilling inside of this cunt.”
Your whines became babbles, a plea of “yes yes yes” falling from your lips needily, and he gave you it, everything you desired, begged for, everything you deserved. His head fell, a hand moving over the trail of your spine, cinching at your waist to bring you closer.
You couldn’t take it.
The pair of your fell apart together, every slap of skin and pant sending you over the edge. His teeth bit into your shoulder from behind, tongue smoothing over the marks that punctured your skin.
“Please..” You whined, your walls spasming wildly around him as your climax crashed over you.
“Let go for me, my girl..” He groaned through gritted teeth, grabbing a harsh fistful of your arse as you clenched around him, your swollen cunt milking him dry as he chased his own high. He gave few more thrusts before spilling inside of you, fucking it back into you as you shook round him, legs limp beneath him.
He did not let go of you right away, pulling from you carefully, your wetness and his spend leaking from you as he rested your hips back onto the bed. A pillow was placed under your middle as he lifted you without fuss, tilting you ever so slightly downward. So it will keep. Your heart eased its hammering as your body began to rest, heavy warm arms tugging you upward and onto his chest.
The sheets were pulled over you carefully in silence, only his ragged breaths and the crackling of the hearth filling the heavy silence in the room.
“Rest.”
A hand combed through your hair, smoothing over your face as you looked up at him, and this time he found yours, and really looked. Your arm wrapped over his as his hooked under your legs, sweeping you closer, together wrapped in your warmth.
He felt you looking, and he waited, expecting another quip as per usual.
“Are you done with the nonsense now?” He mumbled, resting his head back onto the wooden headboard.
“Mhm.. maybe.” You hummed, tracing the silver hairs at his chest.
“For fucks sake..”
“I believe you’ll have to do it again.”
There it was.
The mouth that drove him mad. His arm tightened around you, but he said nothing.
Though he didn’t need to, his exhales grew harsher, his spend still dripping from you as you rubbed your thighs together, and over the hardening of his cock.
Not as duty, not as requirement, but as your husband, and the pure unrestrained need for wanting you, and how he wasn’t to deny it again.
loving taglist: @targlocket (let me know if you want to be tagged for future reference, i’m accumulating a proper taglist) 💗
just a reminder that this blog is run by someone who:
— is anti ICE & fascism
— is pro-choice & feminist
— supports trans & queer people
— hates generative AI & capitalism
— supports immigrants & people of color
— is pro-environmentalism & social justice
— supports palestine & all other territories unjustly suffering
We have a chance to get more Firefly! At the panel today they've announced they are trying to bring back firefly with an animated series set between the show and Serenity
Joss's Blessing? They got it.
21st Century/Fox's Permission? They got it.
Showrunners? They got it. (Tara Butters and Marc Guggenheim)
A script? They got it
An animation house? They got it. (ShadowMachine)
The last piece they need? A home. And for that, they need us!
Like, Comment, Repost, Tell your mom, Tell your Neighbor!
Even if you don’t like animated shows, we need to support this and do our part so it does well and then maybe in the future we’ll get more content and could even get something live action!
#BringBackFirefly
Also, Star Wars has had massive success with animated shows, it can be done!
Exsqueze me? But are you talking trash about Darcy Lewis, Queen of Tasers?
It’s one thing to not want her in Ragnarok but she is one of the most complex female characters in a long time.
1) Darcy Lewis is the only character in any franchise that has any actual common sense.
At the beginning of Thor, Jane and Erik want to drive into a tornado but Darcy has enough sense to stand up to her friends and say no.
She only drives into the storm because Jane grabs the wheel, forcing her to turn.
Do you know how rare it is for any character to have even a shred of common sense? So few that the concept should be renamed rare sense.
I know I don’t have to scream at the screen for the character not to do the stupid thing because if Darcy Lewis is there, she has enough sense to tell people not to do the stupid thing.
How many other MCU characters can you say that about? If your answer is anyone other than Phil Coulson, you’re the one self inserting fan fiction.
2) Darcy Lewis is the only female character who UN-appologetically defends herself.
Thor, a man who is much larger and physically stronger, who could easily overpower two young women and a senior citizen, who seems drunk/on drugs, starts to act belligerent and hostile.
So she tasers him.
The scared woman trope has been used for eons: lone woman hears someone breaking in so she grabs a baseball bat/knife/feather duster to defend herself. The audience is scared for her safety because she’s a poor, helpless maiden and he’s a big, bad predator.
But we’re not scared for Darcy. Why? Because Darcy Lewis doesn’t second guess her instincts. She has the confidence to keep herself and her friends safe!
Later, at the hospital when Jane tries to deflect her own blame by pointing out that Darcy tasered him, what does she say?
Darcy Lewis is PROUD of her actions, she owns her decision to keep her friends safe from Schrodinger’s Rapist.
Our sexist society says that women should be nice, even to their own detriment but Darcy Lewis is an example of putting yourself and your own safety before men’s ego & comfort.
I hope that more women in the real world decide to take a page out of Darcy Lewis’ playbook.
3) Darcy Lewis speaks her mind.
You know you were thinking it. For once the everyman trope is played by a woman and she does a fabulous job of being the audience surrogate but let’s put that asside.
Darcy Lewis is honest and doesn’t care about society’s expectation that women should stroke an ego as if her life depended on it.
4) Darcy Lewis IS the backup plan.
Even though she’s a poli-sci major, Darcy decides to go for an internship in the “hard” sciences with Jane. Armed with nothing more than her common sense, bravery and honesty, Darcy decides to follow Jane to London.
At one point in Dark World, both Jane and Erik fall off the map and SHEILD doesn’t returning her calls. Darcy makes the most logical call in the history of the MCU!
Sidebar here: how many times did you ask why the Avengers never showed up in Iron Man 3? I bet it was more than zero.
Darcy is left to deal with the Convergence, an actual-sci problem, by her poli-sci self.
She doesn’t fall apart, she doesn’t let her male intern take over the decision making, she just goes about saving the world the best way she knows how.
Darcy finds Erik and hatches a plan to get him out of the hospital and when the battle starts she doesn’t run away to hide, she does her part.
5) Darcy Lewis is funny.
Men are funny and women laugh at their jokes. That is the pre-ordainded hierarchy of the world.
Only Darcy Lewis is having none of your chicanery. She is witty, sarcastic, dry, charming and knows she’s awesome. She doesn’t need your approval or support because at the end of the day she knows how to take care of business.
Darcy Lewis is the most realistic person in the MCU. She fell into something larger than her, made connections and kept them despite it not being her thing. She found something she’s good at and people who need her and stayed to help. She went through hell and reacted as civilians were likely to, she panicked and helped however she could. If you don’t like her don’t like her, but don’t say she’s useless. She’s (and Jane) are two of the most realistic women in the MCU, which is likely why so many people have so many issues with them.
She has a doctorate now (that too in Astrophysics, the subject she knew nothing about when she started her internship).
Darcy Lewis is extremely loyal to her friends (and she’ll stay, no matter what).
In Thor 1, she could’ve left Jane & Erik alone after that freak accident in the storm but didn’t. Even after the Destroyer episode happened, she chose to follow Jane to London in Thor 2. She could’ve left her anytime. She went to the mental institution where Erik was locked and retrieved him. Again, she could’ve left him at his worst but she didn’t. She realized his actions were consequences of being mind controlled via sceptre and chose to bail him out.
In Thor 4 (I dislike the film but I loved Jane and Darcy’s interaction), she’s literally present for Jane’s chemo.
Do you know how difficult it is to see a friendship like this esp. between women? And that too in the MCU?
Also, in WandaVision, she stayed behind to retrieve all the files which Hayward was hiding. She was literally gobbled up (sorry for using this term; I didn’t know the better term) by the Hex. She was cuffed to the vehicle (I hate that SWORD agent) and left alone. Yet in her next act, when freed from mind control, she helped Vision.
She is extremely petty (in a good way).
Have you ever seen anybody being as petty in the MCU as Darcy was when she slammed into Hayward? That was some MVP-level shit and she’s a queen to do it. (She had also called him out several times on his sus behaviour.)
Also, all the times when she complained about not getting paid as an intern. Haven’t we all been there and done that? Relatibility=100%.
She is extremely observant & resourceful (& knows her shit very well).
Let’s not forget that in Thor 1, it was Darcy who pointed out that Thor was in the middle of the Bifrost-generated storm when Jane and Erik were busy pondering over ERB (34:05). She also pointed out that ’a primitive culture like the Vikings might have worshipped (Asgardians) as deities’ (1:01:13). That became one of the main arguments (along with Jane’s constant nudging) that helped thaw Erik Selvig’s scepticism towards Thor *might* being an alien and not making up a story.
Also, in WandaVision, she was the one who actually found the breakthrough: the anomaly.
She also found that Hayward was hiding something.
She has a mean punch.
(Don’t worry, she punched that man because he cuffed her on the humvee and ran leaving her to be engulfed by the expanding hex.)
You can also watch this video for more Darcy awesomeness.
The Luthen obsession is real & all consuming. Please enjoy this smut filled one shot featuring Luthen brat taming you. 😮💨
The dinner at Mon Mothma’s estate dragged on with endless talk of credits, fleets, and supply chains. Luthen kept his mask in place, voice smooth and calm, but under the table your hand was testing his composure.
Your palm slid higher and higher on his thigh, brushing the edge of his cock. Every time, his fingers would close around your wrist in warning, squeezing tight. You’d stop for a moment, then smile sweetly at the senator across the table and start again.
By the time the last glass of wine was poured, Luthen was coiled so tightly he could hardly stand up straight. He kept his goodbyes brief, hand on your back guiding you out with just enough pressure to remind you who was in control.
The moment the door to the guest quarters clicked shut his mask cracked.
“You think you’re clever?” he growled, pressing you against the wall, caging you in with his body. “Making me sit through two hours of dinner and drinks while your hand…” he pressed his thigh between your legs, grinding you up against it, “…tested how much composure I had.”
You smirked, tilting your chin up. “ I never doubted your ability to remain composed.”
His hand shot to your throat, pinning you there with just enough pressure. “ You act as if I don’t give you enough attention. Is that the issue here? You want more attention?” His breath was hot against your ear.
“I was bored at dinner,” you whispered. “So I played with my toy.”
Luthen froze. His hand slipped from your throat, but not in mercy. He leaned back just enough to look at you fully. The smile never touched his lips, but his eyes… they burned with something dark, pent-up, and dangerous.
Without saying a word he grabbed you roughly by the hips and pushed you towards the bed.
The moment your back hit the mattress his hands jerked your dress up over your stomach.
“Luthen!” You gasped out in a mix of shock and surprise.
“Don’t you dare act surprised.” He said darkly. “ You know your actions have consequences.”
Before you could protest his fingers were in you. His thumb was pressing delicate circles around your clit as his fingers curled to hit you just right. His fingers were soon joined by his mouth, his tongue gently moving against you in rhythm with his fingers.
Your body began to tense under his touch and you could feel release coming. You clutched the sheets bracing for euphoria.
Then nothing.
He’d pulled away just as suddenly as he’d started.
“Luthen!” You panted. “What are you doing? I was right there!”
He licked his lips, smug. “I’m waiting for an apology.” He said simply.
Your hips bucked in desperation. “You bastard!”
He waited for just a brief moment and then was on you.
Once again, his fingers worked inside you, curling deep, thumb grinding your clit. Your back arched, pleasure building fast,and again, he stopped right before you tipped over, pulling his hand away.
He stood up slowly and brought his slick fingers to his cock, stroking himself once, smearing your wetness over his length. The sound of his low, guttural groan made your thighs clench.
“Apologize.” He said, voice like gravel, “Or I’ll use this on you without letting you come once. Not until you beg me for mercy through tears.”
You shook your head no in defiance. “ I told you already! I was just playing with what’s mine!”
“You really are an insufferable brat.” He said half impressed half annoyed.
“It takes one to know one.” You said sweetly, flashing him an innocent smile.
His face darkened and his eyes hardened.
“Say it!” He ordered.
“No!” You shouted back.
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a harsh, bruising kiss before pressing you back onto the bed. His hands gripped your hips, pinning you completely as he lined himself up and slammed into you in a single, brutal thrust.
You gasped, arching into him, nails digging into his shoulders as he didn’t give you a second to adjust. His hands held you firmly, one on your hip, the other tangled in your hair, dragging your head back just enough to expose your throat.
He fucked you hard, hips snapping into yours with relentless rhythm, every thrust driving you higher and higher. Your moans filled the room, ragged and breathless, but he kept you on the edge of utter surrender.
Seconds before you were about to cum he suddenly pulled out of you and stood up. You let out a loud whine at the loss of him.
“I can do this all night, sweet girl.” He said in a tone that sent a shiver down your body.
“So can I.” You whispered, breathlessly, but the cracks in your voice betrayed you.
Luthen’s eyes narrowed on you, a dangerous, almost predatory gleam flashing across them. He stood and circled the bed slowly, letting you watch, letting you feel the weight of what was coming.
Then it all started again. He was back on you, rough deep thrusts stealing the breath from your lungs. Tears began to stream down your cheeks. The pleasure had become too much. You were so sensitive, you didn’t know how much longer you could hold out.
Finally you broke. “I’m sorry!” You whimpered. “Oh Maker I’m sorry, please just let me finish!”
His smiled in triumph. “Good girl.”
Every thrust was punishing, all the tension from dinner finally released. He pinned your wrists above your head, body heavy over yours, driving into you until the bedframe rattled.
Your apology turned into moans, choked pleas, incoherent gasps. And when he finally let you cum,he didn’t stop, fucking you straight through it, forcing you to take every ounce of him until he spilled inside you with a guttural growl.
He collapsed against you, chest heaving, lips brushing your ear.
“Next time you try that stunt,” he murmured, “you won’t get to cum at all.”
You trembled beneath him, spent and ruined, whispering a hoarse, “Yes, sir.”
Summary: Aaron Hotchner x fe!Reader -> The last thing you can remember is collapsing in Hotch's arms and he stays by your bedside the entire time.
Disclaimer: Mention of injuries and fainting, secret relationship, but mostly hurt/comfort and a little fluff.
The last thing you could remember was collapsing into Hotch’s arms.
The unsub had been pulled from you by Derek who dragged him outside. Hotch made sure someone bagged the unsub’s knife, that lay at your feet, into evidence. Meanwhile, you tried to focus on something to keep your balance.
You registered the feeling of your vest pushing against the wall, and the feeling of your boots on the ground. But you were starting to feel lightheaded.
Somewhere in the distance, you could hear Hotch’s voice. It wasn’t until you could feel his grip on your upper arm that you realised he was right in front of you.
“Y/l/n.”
You seemed out of it, standing in front of him, swaying a little. Hotch watched you lift your hand, but it wasn’t still. It was shaking.
“You’re okay. You’re in shock.”
You nodded, hearing him. But there was a buzzing somewhere behind you. You felt like you’d just been punched in the gut. You wanted to puke. And then…
“Aaron…”
He’d only turned for a second to call out to one of the officers in the hall. You needed to see a medic. But the minute he heard his name; not Hotch, not Sir, but Aaron, he turned and felt a rush of panic.
“Whoa, hey-”
He caught you as you took a single step forward and started to collapse. You were out cold. And growing colder.
“What happened?” Dave asked as he ran over, spotting Hotch carrying you out of the building.
“I need a medic over here!” Hotch called out.
With a stretcher being rolled over, he lay you down and for a moment, he thought you’d woken up. But, before he could say anything to you, the medics took over.
“We need to get her to the ER now. Is one of you coming-”
“I am,” Hotch said, following behind.
“We’ll meet you there,” Dave told him. Aaron could only nod at his friend and team mate before he climbed into the back of the ambulance with you.
You were in the hospital for three days. The team took shifts, but the one that stayed the longest was Hotch.
“How long has this been going on?” Dave asked when he brought in two crappy coffees from the hallway. Hotch had sent the others home so they could get some decent rest – at the very least, a shower.
Hotch looked up to Dave, who just smiled lightly before he took the seat on the other side of your bed. “I’ve seen the way you look at each other. And, I also know Y/n never attended George Washington University."
From the look on Hotch’s face, Dave knew what he was thinking.
“Six months ago, that case in Texas, when we all rudely got woken up at two in the morning by the false alarm?”
“I remember.”
“Well,” Rossi folded one of his legs over the other. “When we all came down in our pajamas-”
Hotch chuckled a little. “Prentiss said she imagined you sleeping in only silk.”
Rossi nodded, smiling at the memory. “Well, Y/n came down in a ratty old G.W t-shirt and a pair of green cartoon pickle shorts.”
Hotch sat back in his seat, nodding a little. “Think the others know?”
Dave shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee. “I think the pickles distracted them.”
Hotch chuckled a little, his gaze wandering to your sleeping frame. “We got in a fight.”
“Over pickles?”
“No,” he shook his head. “Though, she has fiercely defended her cartoon pickle shorts before. Her sister got them for her as a joke gift at Christmas.”
“What was the fight about?”
Hotch shrugged. “Nothing specific. Which painting to hang in the living room, whether we finally get a dog–”
“A dog? How long have you two been together?”
“Almost two years.”
Rossi was a little struck. “I think I need to brush up on my profiling skills. Two years?”
Hotch chuckled. “She was wondering when one of you would figure it out.”
“And you?”
Hotch shrugged. “I didn’t mind the privacy, but I probably would have told you at some point.”
“Does HR know?”
He nodded. “I made sure they locked the files away from Garcia.”
“Ah,” Rossi nodded. “What painting? What dog?”
“I know what you’re doing.”
Rossi nodded, again. “I know. And I know that you know, if this was the other way around, she would be doing the same thing. So, I’ll ask again, which painting? What dog?”
Hotch took a breath. “She wants this old antique painting of a waterfall in Colorado. But, I liked the painting of the open fields that look out to this old ranch house. The one thing we both agree on, is that we don’t want the old haunted forest painting her Aunt gave her when we moved in together. It’s creepy and reminds us both of one too many cases. But, her Aunt is…well, it means whenever she comes over, we have to change the painting because Y/n doesn’t want to offend her.”
Rossi chuckled. “She’s mentioned this Aunt before. Is this the same one that–”
“That didn’t speak to Y/n’s sister for eighteen months when she threw out the broken, half-haunted chair?” Hotch finished before nodding. “Yeah. Same one.”
“I still don’t know how something can be half haunted.”
“It makes sense to Y/n. And her sister.”
“Just not the Aunt.”
Hotch nodded.
“And the dog?”
Hotch sighed a little. “She thinks I don’t want one because I said we should maybe wait. But I do, I want to get a dog. I just…think we should wait a few more months, that’s all.”
“Why?”
Hotch took a moment, his gaze watching you. The nurses had told him you were asleep. Talking to you would help, but they wouldn’t know if you could hear anyone just yet.
Either way, Hotch lowered his voice a little. “I’ve put a down payment on a house for us. We’ve been looking for a while and we thought we lost it to someone else, but the buyers pulled out.”
“And you want to keep it a surprise?”
Hotch nodded. “I just hope she can’t hear us right now.”
“And a puppy?”
“It would be difficult to care for whilst we move in and decorate.”
Rossi smiled, softly. “Well, I suggest when she wakes up, you tell her the truth. She’s probably more mad at you because she knows you’re keeping something from her.”
Hotch nodded. “I know.”
Rossi watched his friend for a moment. “She’ll wake up, Aaron.”
The tears were starting to become visible. “What if she doesn’t? The last thing we–”
“You had a fight. Couples fight. It’s normal. You both know what happens on jobs like this. And you know Y/n. She’ll probably fight you on the fact that you made it be the last thing that matters between you two.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Aaron said. “The only thing that matters is her.”
“She’ll pull through.” Rossi said. “The nurses and doctors are more than hopeful.”
And you did.
Three days later, you woke up feeling more rested than you’d felt in a long time, but also worse than you’d felt in a long time.
Sitting in the chair at the side of your bed was Rossi, reading…”
“Didn’t take you for a Cosmo Girl.”
Putting the magazine down, Rossi looked at you like you were a breath of fresh air. “Apparently I’m an ‘old soul’.”
“I could have told you that.”
Rossi chuckled. “How are you feeling?”
“Somehow better. Somehow worse.”
“The nurse predicted you’d feel something like that,” Rossi said as he stood up, before leaning down and pressing a light kiss to the top of your head. “I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll call Aaron, let him know.”
You watched Rossi as he walked across the room to his jacket that was lying across the bench.
“He told you,” you figured.
Rossi smiled as he looked in your direction. “He just confirmed it, that's all.”
Your eyes narrowed, both out of curiosity and because of the light. “What gave it away?”
“A case in Texas and a ratty old GW t-shirt.”
You laid your head back on the pillows. “I knew you had seen it.”
Rossi chuckled. “Nice Pickle shorts, by the way.”
Aaron must have answered his phone because barely a second later, Rossi was handing the phone over to you.
“Honey?”
You smiled at the sound of his voice. “Hey.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Can I get you anything? Tell Dave if you need anything and I’ll make sure–”
“I’m okay, Aaron,” you said. “Just get here. I want to see you.”
“I’m on my way. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
You handed the phone back to Dave who finished up his conversation with Aaron before Dave closed his phone and took his seat back beside you.
“It took both me and Morgan to get him to go home and take a shower.” Dave told you. “Morgan’s gone picking up some lunch.”
You just nodded and let Rossi fill you in on everything that happened after you passed out.
Fifteen minutes later, you heard the sound of Aaron’s boots running down the hallway and almost past your room.
“Hey, sorry I’m late-”
You reached out for him and he came and sat beside your legs in an instant. “It’s okay–”
“Every light turned red and–”
“Honey, it’s okay.” You smiled. “You’re here now.”
Rossi smiled as he saw both of you interact. “I’ll give you lovebirds some space.”
The minute the door closed, you pulled Aaron in and kissed him. You knew it shocked him, but it didn’t take long for him to melt against you.
“Slow–slow down, honey.”
Aaron held your head in his hands, his fingers threading under and through your hair. “You’ve been through a lot and–”
“I’ve been wanting to do that since before our case started,” you admitted.
You both knew when you’d told him ‘be safe’ before you all entered the building the unsub was hiding out in, was your way of kissing him despite being annoyed after the petty fights you’d been having with each other before the case even started.
“I love you,” you told him.
Aaron took in a breath as he leaned your head against his. “I love you, too.”
By the time the team entered the room again, starting with Rossi, you and Hotch had gone back to pretending to just be colleagues and friends.
And, three months later, when you and Hotch were finally moved into your dream home, you let him open up the front door as you carried your new puppy inside.
