𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ this has been ready for the past 11 hours im sorry
cw: frotting, handj-bs, bets, sexual euphemisms, size difference
When Daemon Blackfyre claimed an inherited right to the Iron Throne, he claimed Caraxes for himself and rode him to war. All of Westeros knows how the rest of the story goes: Daemon was ambushed, thus unable to ride Caraxes, and was then defeated by Baelor Breakspear.
It was never Caraxes' fault that Daemon claimed him. Daemon was an illegitimate child, sure, but his blood was real and it allowed him to claim.
This is generally understood between Valyrians... but, Caraxes had become taboo, anyway. He was serviced like an Old God, but neglected. No one will ride Caraxes again, on purpose, until the memory of the rebellion is far gone.
Aerion didn't know of the taboo in his youth, though regardless, Syrax had become his and he wouldn't have it any other way, but he never understood why Caraxes was off-limits in the first place. Dragons are smart, Aerion will go to the grave defending that one, but they're also loyal to a fault.
When a dragon is claimed, they'll never be claimed by another as long as their rider is living and breathing. They're monogamous, in that way.
You were young when you claimed Caraxes, though not so young that you didn't know what you were doing. You knew what it meant when Caraxes allowed you to ride him: you had just earned a dragon and, in turn, you would become a black sheep.
But you're legitimate, you have a dragon of legend, you've all the luxuries you want. You're bored, sure, but not bloodthirsty. The only family feuds you incite are petty.
"Have I told you before, Caraxes, that sometimes I wish you were blue? I'd look more fitting up there in my Velaryon garb if so." You muse, running your hand under Caraxes' eye. You wonder if it annoys him to only be able to see you on one side. "Then again, I'm hardly "fitting" at all, right?"
Aerion's no stranger to talking to Syrax, though, talking to your dragon while in company? Ignoring your Prince? It makes him huff, and you hear it.
"What was that, Your Grace?"
"Nothing." Aerion shakes his head, continuing to attend to Syrax. He wished to ride her today, but no matter. The dragonkeepers say he rides her to exhaustion and that he must give her breaks, so he will.
Aerion in his youth and Aerion now—or Aerion before and after his dragon—are still much the same. The only difference is that Aerion devotes much more time to Syrax, thus saving hundreds of men from his torment. Your father says he would be more violent without, but what would you know? You've always been the bigger bull.
"I bet my dragon is bigger than yours."
"Bet?" Aerion scoffs. The two of them are right there, you could take measurements right now. You manage to goad him in, anyway, "Sure, Caraxes has a long neck and a wider wingspan, but body? I'm sure Syrax is bigger."
"What makes a dragon bigger if not its wingspan?" You argue, "The neck, I'll give you. Not every dragon has such a neck, thus we argue for what is general about a dragon. Caraxes has bigger footprints."
"Bigger feet, then? That's ridiculous. Surely, Syrax has bigger feet." Aerion doesn't know what is making him so irritated. Perhaps it's your longstanding history of rivalry, second sons of younger fathers, fighting with egos to amount to something, if not becoming monarchs. Though, he's got you beat there. You'll never be a monarch under any feasible circumstance.
That's never stopped you. "Let us go test that. Let us fly to the forest. The sands of the dragon pit shift too quickly for easy judgements. The forest shall have fresh mud for our dragons to sink their claws into—but wait, Syrax is not fit to fly, is she?"
"Not fit to fly?" Aerion scoffs once more. "Syrax is perfectly fit to fly–"
"The dragonkeepers have bid you not to fly her, though, so I shall not condemn her to a flight, as eager as you are." There you are, feigning care. You've always had the ability to quickly shift emotions over him.
You're calm while he seethes, visibly. Aerion clicks his tongue, levels himself, "We shall settle this another time."
"Tonight." You say, quickly. "In my chambers. I shall show you my dragon is bigger."
...
Aerion is not stupid enough to think that you meant your actual dragons when you said that, though he's sure you are. So he presents himself at your chambers that night.
And there you are, a wine cup in hand, naked but for your trousers. Aerion's nose scrunches up. He's sure you think there is no shame in being naked between boys who grew up mostly together. He himself is not uncomfortable because you're half-naked, he's uncomfortable because he believes in decorum.
He'll have to admit, though: in terms of aesthetics, the moonlight upon your toned torso is better than any tunic.
"Would you like wine, Aerion?"
You pour him a cup before he even replies, so Aerion has no choice but to accept. When the cup is gone, you don't refill it. You're not a drunkard, not like his brother.
Aerion watches as you stand and as you stumble over to the chaise. He watches your body transition from moonlight to candlelight, cool to warm. You're different in the warmth. It's a summer night, and you're sweating visibly. Must be why you forwent a shirt tonight.
Why is he so caught up on how you look like in different lighting?
"Come. Undress."
Aerion sputters. You're usually a man of many words, but tonight? You've fewer, and the ones you do find are preposterous.
He's not afraid. It's just dick comparison, something any boy has surely done in his youth.
But this feels different.
Aerion blows out a breath as he approaches. The tensions is strong. You meet eyes for a moment, and then you look away.
Aerion's father warned him of you at some point in his life, after you'd claimed Caraxes. He'd never heeded the warning. His father said that any boy who dared to even try to claim Caraxes was a bad influence, a person who didn't learn from history.
Aerion never cared for history, either. When he looks into your eyes, he doesn't find evil or whatever his father might've claimed. He just sees... he doesn't know.
Half-lidded eyes, lust. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and his eyes track the motion. He can imagine, even though he's never cared for kissing at all, your tongue devouring his.
This isn't about dragons, no, he's not stupid. But he wants to one-up you, anyway.
Your hands find the laces of your pants, his own hands find his, and the clothing comes off.
Your dragon is bigger than his.
You wrap your hand around yourself and stroke, once, twice, more, working yourself up and getting harder so you can be bigger than what he's even looking at. You do this all like it's some inconsequential game—
—and Aerion scrambles to do the same. The pleasure that finds him is blindingly hot, hotter than if he were doing this alone, and he gets hard embarrassingly quick.
Stiff as a rock. You whistle. Even half-hard, you're bigger than him.
The neck is longer; the wingspan, wider; the claws, bigger, heavier—it's terrible, this obligation of look, don't touch; until you reach out towards him.
"Surely you can get harder." You whisper it at him, not sultry, but condescending, dirty, and dirty is hot.
Hotter still is the hand you wrap around him. Gods above, it feels like dragonfire. He wants to buck into your hand to get more of it, but no. That's weakness.
Aerion's lips part for a gasp. Just a gasp, he thinks to himself. Shock, not pleasure. His breaths grow faster.
You let go of him in a cruel swiftness, and his neck's not grown taller, nor his wingspan any thicker.
So now comes judgement. There's no measurements, no rules of thumb, just sight, because it is embarrassingly easy to notice the difference.
As if mocking him, you lean closer. Your breaths mingle, but your heads don't touch (the ones on top of your shoulders, at least). Side by side, the difference in size is stark. Your dragon is bigger than his, and unlike Caraxes and Syrax, there is no arguing here.
But this isn't about bets anymore, at least not to you. Humiliation sets in under Aerion's skin in a burning shame, but you seize it and turn it into pleasure.
Again, your hand wraps around him. There's more intent to it, more than "getting him hard", now also "getting him off". You lean closer, close enough to nip at his ear, which you do. "I won that bet."
There's no "what will you give me for it?" at Aerion's expense, because fuck, that hand you've got around him acts with a purpose. It's more of a reward for him, if anything.
"Shut up. What does it matter?" Aerion's hand finds your chest—your bare chest—as if to push you away. He doesn't, though.
"Oh, I don't know," You muse, "you'll never please your lady quite as well?"
Aerion cannot scoff a combat because you push him against the chaise like he is but a fainting dame. His hand does push your chest this time, but you're bigger there too and you don't even budge an inch.
He's trapped there, then. Under the mercy of your strength and the size of your dragon. There's no fighting it; all he has is words and you've never been one to listen to him. As much as he'd like to dislike it, a sharp moan escapes him when your lengths slide together.
His words can fight, but his body cannot, and neither is he willing his throat to work. No, it spills moans of its own mind instead.
Your hand's gone, so there's no squeeze, but this is even hotter: your bigger dragon sliding over his—when your balls meet, there's no sight of Aerion's cock to be seen.
Fuck you. His father was right to warn him. Maybe he should've listened.
You're... you're making him complacent with him being smaller than you in stature and position. Fuck you. He's in line for the throne, you're not!
Gods be damned. He can feel every vein of yours pressed against every vein of his. It's so fucking dry but still so fucking good.
Then his eyes drift, and the way you move your hips? It's almost like you're fucking him. Would that be good? To take you up his asshole, to cram you into his guts? Would it make him scream?
His hand finds your shoulder and pushes, but it doesn't prevent the pre from your tip slides over his own length. Pushing again, protesting, because you're corrupting him.
The push doesn't prevent your hips from putting in their work. It only prevents your breaths from mingling, but lust finds him anyway.
Slowly he finds more bits of himself to pull from the mire of your spell. The toes that once curled now dig into your thigh to push again, and that does something.
You dig your knees further into the chaise. With fervor you put an end to his resistance by wrapping your hand around the two of your lengths. Aerion bucks into it, involuntarily, another cry at his tongue.
His eyes find yours. You stare at him with a fierce intensity, a dare to resist. No words.
He can't, not anymore, not when you give him a reward for losing the very bet you set. He bucks his cock into your hand with intent, like a dragon does with its stare. Come at me.
He shouldn't be getting off at another man's cock sliding against his, let alone yours, but he's accepted it now. The shame burns white hot, good hot.
The humiliation persists when you fuck into your own hand whilst looking him in the eye. As much as Aerion claims and wishes to have accepted it, the humiliation curls deep in his gut, intertwined with lust, as you keep the eye contact.
It's almost tender. You quit your bucking and flick your wrist, that's easier, sliding your palm around the two of you and squeezing tight.
Aerion's lips part. He shouldn't allow it, but he moans again.
He comes first. You spare him some mercy—mercy that you shouldn't be able to find, as the infamous Caraxes rider—after he's ridden out his high and pull away from him.
You're still hard, and now Aerion is actively softening. The difference is starker still.
Aerion yearns to test it out himself. His hand wraps around you, and finally he can knock you down a couple pegs. Whatever sounds you let out, he drinks in eagerly.
His hand gets to work: up, down, with a squeeze, it's what he does to his own dragon. That's the only reason he knows what to do.
You're big in his hand. Maybe he spoke in the name of experimentation, but no, he's definitely jerking you off because he wants you to get off. He doesn't know how you can irritate him and make him lose his character so easily, like:
You tip his chin up with your dirty hand, breaking Aerion's utter focus on your length to look you in the eye again. Aerion shudders when your eyes meet.
It's like you say, you're not just helping another man jerk off, you're helping me.
Despite the hand he's got on you, there's tension in the room. Quiet breaths, no words spoken, intense eye contact. It's not sexual tension from not touching each other due to courtly etiquette, it's sexual tension of years of knowing each other and yet not speaking.
He doesn't see it, but he feels you release into his hand. He can't think about how he'd want Syrax to burn it off it's that disgusting, he can only think about your eye contact.
The tension dissolves when you pull away, when you lean back. The proximity dissolves too.
You don't resemble Caraxes when you're bare. You're softer, no dragonscales. You're warmer and hotter on the surface. You breathe the same way, somewhat, you breathe heavily, like Caraxes about to breathe fire.
You're not Caraxes, Caraxes is not Daemon Blackfyre. Aerion's father's warnings shall not go ignored, they shall be defied, because after tonight, Aerion wants more of you and your big dragon.
Dya have any tips how to write smut without gets embarrassed every 5 seconds? 😭
Get in the mood. I'm not saying jerk off, just get into a mindset. Lock the fuck in. I often go watch edits of the character whenever my attention span decides it doesn't want to write for the next 5 minutes.
Get inspiration. Think about what you want to write and set it in stone. Also, you may notice that in my fics I intertwine action with plot. Case in point:
That helps too. It expands the plot, so you end up writing for the plot more than the smut.
But if you're not a plot writer, it really is just the mood. Get horny, I mean it.
Do you think Aerion is a moaner, a screamer or a groaner?
Not a screamer, for sure. I think mostly a groaner when he's conscious about it. When he fucks brothel girls, he'll never see them again, so he lets himself let out whatever sound his body wants. I write him to be a whimperer, actually. I think whimpers are on the edge of a moan.
Hi! Just wondering if you'd be writing anymore for game of thrones? Specifically Robb.
You've actually become my favourite writer. All the other male reader stuff always feminizes the reader or is just poorly written.
Aw thank you so much! On the other spectrum of male reader stuff, the reader becomes some super big dominant alpha, even when the character is unnaturally big (take Konig or Dunk). I try to avoid that too, though I'll be honest, it is pretty hot on the occasion.
As for Robb, unfortunately since the Starks are the main characters and we see them grow up throughout the show, I'm not really attracted to them. That's my family yo! Robb is pretty, I'm just not super into him. The answer lies in whether the prompt/request is juicy enough, but I probably won't write anything on my own.
ur writing is genuinely so good oh my goodness gracious, can i request a dunk x reader where either reader or dunk is jealous? 👀👀👀👀
Do you want a bottom Dunk or a top Dunk? I quite like sub tops so thats where my writing is currently going, but I can change it just as easily (I've also got brat tamer reader and dunk being the jealous one)
one time, long ago and he's probably forgotten by now, you asked him if he'd suck you off for a million dollars. he said yes, in a heartbeat, and he also said he'd even do it for less.
you want to test that theory.
| suck me off for a redbull?
there he is, on his knees for you. he went down without a fight, just the sight of that ice cold energy drink in your hands was enough.
he dropped to his knees and began to undo your pants like it was his goddamn duty; and when he wrapped his lips around your tip, you dare say he was eager for it.
god, he's gotta be fucking crazy to do this. you grip his hair and pull his mouth on and off your cock. he takes it almost gratefully.
what's going on in that pretty little head of his?
he's not staring up at you, maybe he's ashamed, or maybe he's not thinking clearly. maybe you're fucking his brains out through his mouth.
his tongue does diligent work when you don't grip his hair and move his head for yourself. the way he sucks you off, it's almost like he wants to give you a blowie, and the redbull is just an excuse.
at this point, you don't doubt it.
you've stopped fucking his mouth just to look at him do it. soon enough, the tip of your cock prods his throat—something you'd been careful to avoid—and he gags.
"dude, careful."
he ignores you. a couple bobs of his head later, and your tip dips into his throat.
fuck. all those times you called him a slut, maybe it was true. he's sucking you off for a fucking redbull, after all, and he's pulling out all the stops.
he's fucking desperate, down there, knees raw on your carpet. if you weren't so delirious yourself, you'd see the little bulge he's sporting in his pants. but you don't.
so in your head, he's desperate for a redbull, whoring himself out, defiling his throat for his dentist to see, just for a little energy drink.
the fucking idea has you spilling in his throat without warning, and you know what? he takes it.
he swallows.
he keeps bobbing his head after that, and you wonder what it is that snaps him awake and makes him finally pull off. maybe it's the fact that you're soft.
god, he's shameless, looking up at you with a dopey little smile, your eyes finally meeting again.
he snatches the can without a word, without you offering it, because you're stunned.
"thanks dude."
he thanks you. for the opportunity of sucking you off or for the redbull, you don't even know.
𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ it's not really smut it's an appreciation post for aging with a side of s-x
𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 858
cw: none?
You thought your passion would wane after the war. In that time, death was around every corner. Army camping grounds were chosen deliberately for safety, but the chance of an attack in the night was always possible. Tension took command of your brain; dread took your heart.
Victory quelled these anxieties. You could die tomorrow under the command of your general, your Targaryen prince, but tonight he brought you victory—so you lived it like it was your last. And they brought good wine for celebrations.
When times were hard, you sought the princely softness of his body to cushion yourself.
You sought his walls to sheathe your cock into and his body to warm yours by contact. Your energies should be better spent, but leftover adrenaline screams to be used.
You lose count of how many victories you celebrate, how many losses you grieve, and how many restless nights on the march you spend in the safety of Maekar's favor and the luxury of his bed.
Times grew soft, but after the war, Maekar's body grew harder. He has scars on his body, those you can count.
You thought your passion might wane, but it remains in this stare you share. Him on the bed, you on a chair.
It's early morning after another affair. You'd been watching the city and the Keep wake up from the window when Maekar woke up.
You hadn't noticed it at first, not until you felt his gaze burn a hole into your back, not until you looked back. He looks like a painting, like this, bare and spread upon his expensive sheets because he owns them. He's not shy about his body, but you don't stare too long, for his violet eyes have always captivated you.
There's no goodmorning spilled from your lips, not yet; there is only the stare exchanged between lazy, waking eyes. His violets convey a passion that only grew, taking their turn to drag over your body. You're naked on his chair acting like you own it, and his royal blood beckons him argue, but you'd captured his heart long ago: you own his heart, you own his everything.
His body is thicker. By sight, you can tell, but you feel it against you too when you press your bodies close to kiss. The kiss is slow, lazy, tired—the way you press closer is not. You feel his thighs enclose your body and his stomach press against yours.
In his youth, his skin was tighter, stretched across defined muscle. His figure was sharp, your hand could move in waves over his abs or biceps. He could run through a thousand men in one battle and still have the strength to fuck you once it was over.
He's gained weight, but you cherish it. War no longer requires rations, nor do sieges cause famine. For years, the royal family has sowed peace after winning the war, and the fruits of it have allowed him to live in the luxury of excess.
As your hands drag down his body and meld it like clay, you think about how you were a helping hand in the war, how, really, you're one of the reasons why Maekar can live in such a way.
You trail away from his lips to kiss lower down his body, jumping from scar to scar. As skilled a warrior as he is, one can never totally avoid injury.
Each scar has a story, but you can remember a time he didn't have any scars at all.
You were still apprehensive about your relationship. You were both men, he was far above your station as a royal prince, and you were but a soldier, and yet the passion that flowed through you...
You remember the guilt of forbidden love. You'd led entirely different lives, and by expectations of court, you should've been condemned to never cross paths, let alone form an affair.
The guilt washed away eventually, replaced by the knowledge that your love was right and mutual.
You remember kissing your own aimless path down his strong body in your youth, whereas now you have scars to guide the way.
You've less energy now, and that's a change for the both of you. It's not just that the war is over, that adrenaline has left you, it's that you're older.
So it's rather a surprise that you've the energy in this morning to fuck him once more, after the night you had.
It sort of makes you feel young. Maekar's hands scratch down your back, his beautiful voice releasing groans. Yours settle on his hips as you grind your cock into his hole strong and deep.
Sure, you'll never fuck like you're young again—that is, fast and hard and more than twice in a row—but you don't need that anymore, because you're sure now that Maekar is yours in an oath neverending.
You speak this oath against his lips, a soft "I love you", your first words of the day.
He returns them easily, just the same as you, with the passion you've been thinking about all morning, "I love you too."
