✿ baelor is ‘blessed’ by a travelling herb-woman, and after two weeks away from his wife, he is desperate to have her (or, a sex pollen fic with the hand of the king).
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 5.6k
✿ cw: fem!reader/secondwife!reader, reader is not physically defined but she sexyyy, no y/n, sex pollen, SMUT, unprotected piv, unintentional rough sex initially, clothed sex (kinda), baelor is desperate asf, pet names (sweet girl, little dove, etc), praise, lowkey hyperspermia, strong language, baelor being the people’s princess <3
The red and black banners of the royal Targaryen caravan draws a significant crowd, and when Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne and Hand of the King, dismounts his black stallion, the crowd ripples with voices. It’s a great clamour: common people reaching for him, calling his name, begging for his attention as he’s flanked by his loyal kingsguard.
He has been away for two weeks. Travelling from Kings Landing to Sunspear and back again, stopping in various towns and villages on his way. He spoke kindly with vendors, purchased goods from travelling merchants, discussed the state of the realm with minor lords who frequented trailside inns.
He was a man of the people, but in truth, he only wanted to be the man for one person. He wanted to be your man, and he had been away for two weeks too long.
His pretty wife, no doubt sitting alone within the walls of the Keep. Waiting for the return of your dear husband, biding your time lost between the pages of Valyrian literature or nosing around the quiet observatories.
He smiles to himself as he thinks of you.
One of his guards, Ser Donnel, stoops low to whisper in his ear as he waves to the surging crowd, who respond with shouts of praise.
“We need not stop here, your grace,” Donnel informs. “We are but three hours from the royal residence. We can make landing before midday if—”
Baelor swishes his hand through the air, polite but dismissive. “Do not fret, ser. I will only spend a moment here then we will depart once more.”
Donnel says nothing more as Baelor approaches some of the commonfolk. He extends his arm and shakes the hand of a young man, no older than his eldest son. The boy beams at the prince, his handshake firm and confident.
“Seven blessings, your grace,” the young man says, dipping his head as he shakes Baelor’s hand. Baelor smiles softly at him, and the young man brings a hand to his chest in a display of respect. “I have the means to become a knight.”
Baelor smiles still. “Then I wish you all the best. We are always in need of good men and good knights.”
The young man continues to beam as Baelor moves through the crowd, flanked by the shining white armoured men that comprise his kingsguard.
The village is small and very simple. A scarce few buildings stand amongst crudely made wooden houses, but nevertheless, Baelor winds his way through the wide streets, greeting people who peer out their windows and doors curiously.
Once he has done a lap of the village, shaking hands and offering kind smiles, he returns to where he had started. With one final wave to the people, he mounts his steed and the royal caravan presses on. Cantering beside him, Donnel, his white armour gleaming in the mid-morning sun, casts him a sidelong look.
Baelor meets his gaze. “Yes, Ser Donnel?”
“You assume everyone you meet has good intentions, your grace,” Donnel speaks plainly, and this makes Baelor shake his head, chuckling softly.
“I’d rather assume the good intentions of the people than the bad,” Baelor replies, the Targaryen procession winding through the countryside now, surrounded by endless rolling hills, coloured a patchwork of brilliant greens. “If I assume everyone has bad intentions, Ser Donnel, I would not make a good prince.”
Donnel huffs. “You’d make my job significantly easier.”
Baelor tuts, humoured. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
An hour passes beneath the bright sun, and Baelor finds his lower back growing stiff with his continued straight riding posture. But he does not complain, nor does he ask for a break: he has kept his entourage from their homes for long enough, and on the distant horizon, King’s Landing juts from the hills, the ocean glittering beyond.
The well-ridden path ahead of them stretches and coils between the rolling hills like a serpent, and way ahead, the guards alert Baelor to a fully-stocked wagon pulled by a gangly old mule. A shawled figure walks beside the mule, and Baelor smiles to himself as he sees the figure patting the creature gently, heading away from King’s Landing.
“I intend to dismount,” Baelor tells Donnel, who can scarcely react before the prince’s horse sidles up beside the wagon.
The shawled figure, revealed to be an elderly woman of perhaps seven and ninety, stops at the sound of thundering hooves. She leans into a stiff bow as Baelor leaps from his stallion, stretching his hand to stroke the nose of the old mule.
“Your grace,” the woman greets kindly, her eyes darting nervously to the two imposing kingsguard who dismount their own horses and stand beside the prince. Their hands rest on the pommels of their swords, and they eye both the woman and her wagon skeptically. She gestures to the wagon, which is draped in dark blue material and smells of lavender. “I am a travelling herb-woman.”
Baelor assesses the woman with his mismatched eyes. “Well, it has been many years since I have met someone of your specialty.”
The woman smiles, and the kingsguard bristles as Baelor continues to pet the mule. The prince speaks with a disarming kindness that constantly has them on edge. He was considerably more difficult to guard compared to his younger brother, who spoke to no one unless he really needed to.
“I have been travelling for far too long,” Baelor continues, allowing the mule to butt his hand in search of more strokes. “Might you have something to ease my aches?”
Donnel clears his throat behind him. “Your grace, I don’t recommend—”
The woman splits into a deep smile and turns to her wagon, her dark cloak moving around her like the blackness of night. She smells rich of lavender and road dirt, and Baelor shoots Donnel a pointed look as he waits. The woman peels back the covering of her wagon and rifles through the contents she can reach. After a moment, she spins around with a small vial. She holds it up, the liquid inside a milky-white.
“A tannic tea made from the bark of the white willow,” she says, holding it out to the prince. “Used to relieve muscle and joint aches.”
Baelor goes to reach for it, but Donnel beats him to it, snatching the vial from the woman, who jumps slightly at his roughness. Baelor peers curiously at his guard, who inspects the bottle thoughtfully.
“You cannot take something of which you do not know its origins,” Donnel says in response to Baelor’s stare. “It could be poison.”
The woman gawks. “Oh, no! No, your grace, I do not—I do not carry poisons. I am a simple herb-woman, gods believe me, and—”
Baelor lifts his hand, and the mule snorts in discontent at the lack of contact. “Please, you owe us no explanation. Ser Donnel is simply being thorough,” Baelor says the last part pointedly, and casts Donnel a sidelong glance that makes Roland, on his other side, snort around a poorly hidden laugh.
Donnel frowns. “Your father would not forgive me if I allowed you to drink strange liquids from strangers. Not to mention, your wife—”
Baelor gently takes the small vial from Donnel, interrupting his tirade. The prince carefully uncorks it, smells it—it smells of willow tannins, something he is familiar with from his many travels across the realm—and then drinks the entire small bottle. It’s bitter to the taste, with a subtle honey-sweetness used by many experienced healers to remedy the acridness of many bark-based tannics.
The woman smiles softly, taking the vial back. “It should begin to work within the hour.”
The prince returns the smile, allowing the old woman to clasp one of his hands in two of hers. The kingsguard watches her like a pair of hawks as she retreats, but not before exclaiming aloud, pulling a small pouch from within her thick cloak.
“May I bless you, your grace?” She asks.
Donnel frowns. “No—”
Baelor ignores his guard, stepping forward and presenting himself to the herb-woman, thus putting some space between him and his guards. She smiles, opening the pouch. Between her thumb and forefinger, she produces a pinch of bright pink powder.
“How long have you been from your wife?” the woman questions, tucking the pouch back within her cloak and sprinkling the powder onto her outstretched palm.
Baelor chuckles softly, watching the woman. “Too long. Weeks now.”
“You must desire her embrace then, I assume,” she says, and Baelor ignores another poorly-hidden laugh from Roland at the woman’s open words.
“Desperately,” Baelor speaks plainly, also ignoring the fact he could feel Donnel’s scowl pressing into the back of his head.
“Well,” the woman begins, running her finger through the pink powder on her palm and drawing a circle in it. “I bless you, your grace, with the passion and the desire to make up for such lost time.”
The woman raises her hand and blows the pink powder directly into Baelor’s face. He closes his eyes, the dust settling across him like a mist, tickling his skin as it settles. It takes a second for the smell to calm around his head, but as he inhales, everything he smells is strikingly familiar. He smells his childhood in Dorne: hot, sun-bleached sand, rain-soaked yew trees, spiced wine and pomegranate juice; he smells the ash of Dragonstone, fresh wax seals, blood on Valyrian steel beneath a stormy sky; and then he smells you.
That makes him freeze.
You, as if he had his nose pressed to the crook of your neck.
The musk of your skin, the rose-water of your baths, the cinnamon in your perfume. He smells the lilacs you pick in the gardens, and the ink you so often spill across your fingers as you write. He smells the honey wax soap you wash your hair with, and the rich apple cider you so often treat yourself to during times of celebration.
Baelor opens his eyes and gapes at the woman. “What is—?”
“Blessed be you and your wife, your grace. Travel safely,” she says with a knowing smile, dipping into another stiff curtsy before taking the rope at her mule’s neck and leading him on, pulling the cart away.
Behind the prince, Donnel places a hand on his shoulder. “Your grace, are you—?”
“Let us continue,” Baelor interrupts, slightly too loud. He quickly mounts his horse as Donnel and Roland exchange a strange look. Baelor beckons his knights. “Come, sers. We must not delay our arrival any longer.”
He can’t wait to see you.
Your face flits through his mind and he has to physically press the back of his hand to his mouth to stop himself from groaning as he nudges his horse into motion. When he pulls his hand away, he can see something iridescent dusting across the black leather of his riding glove, but it quickly melts into the hide, leaving behind only a dull shimmer.
He doesn’t feel as though he has been poisoned, but now more than ever, with King’s Landing looming in the distance, his mind is plagued with thoughts of you. Thoughts, which were once wholesome, now diverge—images of you spread out on his bed, a hand between your legs; or the whiny little breath you suck in each time he enters you.
His thoughts are unbecoming of a man of his standing.
But he cannot rid his mind of them.
Images—memories—of you hiking up your skirts as you perch on the edge of his desk, cunt glistening as his mouth lowers, or the way you arch and bend yourself over the edge of your tall bed, gripping the soft furs and sheets, begging him to take you.
“Your grace, are you well?” Donnel asks, catching the light glaze falling across the prince’s eyes.
Baelor nods, clearing his throat. He’s fine. If he ignores the way his cock is currently twitching in his breeches, he’s fine.
“I am,” he replies convincingly. “I must admit, my back feels better already.”
Donnel scoffs, but says nothing more.
If not for the horde of people around him, Baelor would have taken off. No doubt he would have gotten to the Keep in record time, even if he did run his poor stallion into the ground.
—✿—
The sun hangs high in the sky as Baelor hurriedly dismounts his steed and waves Donnel and Roland away. The Red Keep is alive with servants and workers, but amongst the sea of people he does not see you.
The hours that went by were torturous, and on several occasions the prince found himself screwing his eyes shut and willing himself not to burst through the seam of his trousers. Your scent clogged his sinuses, and he could almost feel some phantom of your touch trailing along the back of his neck, rustling the cropped hair of his beard, fiddling with the clasp of his cloak.
He strides purposely through the glowing halls of the Keep, pulling his riding gloves off and tossing them to a servant who hurries after him. He unclasps his cloak too, letting it drop to the ground behind him. The servant squeaks, scooping the cloak up before sprinting forward in an attempt to keep up with the heir.
The servant clears his throat nervously. “Your grace, your presence is requested in counsel at the turn of the hour, and the Lord of Riverrun is awaiting your letter in reply to—”
“I have been absent for weeks,” Baelor snaps, but although his tone is short, he is not cruel. “It will not hurt to miss one more meeting. And as for the Lord of Riverrun, he can wait even longer unless he’d rather a reply from my brother, who he is not fond of.”
The servant nods. “Of course, your grace, but—”
“Where is my wife?” Baelor voices, his doublet too hot and too restrictive around his chest. The halls of the Keep seem particularly warm today.
“Your chambers, as far as I’m aware,” the servant replies. “But—”
“Thank you, you are dismissed,” Baelor says as he rounds a corner, the door to your shared chambers coming into close view. His heart leaps in his chest envisioning you waiting patiently for his arrival.
The servant, arms struggling to hold onto Baelor’s thick, luxurious cloak, frowns deeply. “Your grace—?”
Baelor whirls around, and the servant yelps as he is forced to an abrupt stop. The prince gestures to the closed door of his chambers with a quick flick of his hand.
“Please make it aware to all of the workers that I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the day,” he says, voice low. “Tell the entire Keep for all I care, but under no circumstances is anyone to call for me, understood?”
The servant nods.
Baelor spins and pushes his door open, closing it and bolting it behind him with a resounding clank. He rests his forehead on the rough wood for a moment, catching his breath. His heart hammers wildly in his chest, as if his journey through the Keep had been miles longer than it actually was. It almost pains him, the way it clatters against his ribs as his breaths grow more ragged. His head is swimming too, a dizzy sort of euphoria overwhelmed by everything relating to you.
You.
He groans, eyes screwing shut as his cock presses painfully to the front of his breeches. He has half the mind to simply stick his hand into his trousers and jerk himself into the linen.
“Baelor?”
Your voice is angelic in the quiet of the chambers, and it makes another groan split from between Baelor’s lax jaw.
He turns, eyes opening, blinking blearily as he stares into the sunlight streaming through the windows. You sit up in the large canopy bed, your white chemise sitting loosely on your shoulders, revealing the curve of your neck. The furs and sheets pool around you in a mass of browns and blacks, and you rub at your eyes with the heel of your hand as you take in the sight of your husband across the room.
“You’re home,” you smile lazily at him, pushing yourself from the bed and padding your way over to him.
Your voice is so soft that it makes Baelor fold forward, the weight of his arousal dragging him towards you. You have him on an invisible leash, tugging him across the room until you can wrap your arms around his waist and press your face into his chest.
“No one informed me you were returning today,” you tell him, voice muffled against the thickness of his doublet. He presses two trembling hands to your lower back, pulling you tighter against him. You nuzzle him, the feeling making his stomach swoop. “I’ve missed you.”
“And I you,” he responds quietly, and he stiffens when he feels you go still. His voice is throaty and hoarse, hauled through gravel.
Slowly, you look up, and he realises you can feel the press of his clothed cock against your stomach. He groans, a pathetic little bellow as you gape up at him, eyes sparkling as they take in the state of his fevered face. You raise a hand, placing it against his cheek. He closes his eyes, and like a puppy, leans into your touch with a small sound of pleasure.
“You…” You begin, but falter. Your fingers trail along the neat line where the hair of his beard meets his cheek. He wonders, as he finally opens his eyes, if you can see every one of his pores glistening. He wonders too if the sweat that collects along his forehead is tinted pink. You frown. “You smell of… well, I’m not sure.”
He whines at the timidness in your voice, his hands circling to your hips. He grips you tightly, pulling your pelvis flush to his. It takes all power within him not to grind his cock against you. He doesn’t want to scare you off.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he says before you can open your mouth. Your hands continue to flutter over his face, and it makes his cock jump in his breeches when your thumb slides over the bow of his top lip. “Being away from you has been torture.”
You hum, slightly distracted. Your hands continue to shift across his face, and your brows knit together once more when you slowly pull one of them away. Baelor watches you examine your fingertips before your eyes find his again. He can feel the hot pressure of tears behind his eyes—not because he is sad, but because he needs you so badly he feels his heart will implode against his sternum.
“Gods, I need you,” Baelor declares gently, strong hands lifting to cup your face. He leans forward to press his lips to yours, but you resist, turning your head so his mouth lands against your warm cheek. He whines, frustrated, as he scatters kisses over your cheekbone. “No, no, sweet girl, please don’t—”
“You’re sparkling like a silk-street whore,” you quip, voice light with humour, but Baelor doesn’t hear it that way.
“No, no, never,” he rambles, nose pressing to your cheek. “I’d never, sweet girl, gods no. I’d first open my throat before I ever—”
“Baelor,” you stop him with a small, breathless chuckle, slightly overwhelmed.
He’s burning hot against you, he knows it, and you’re just as warm against him. It makes his head swim as he inhales, your skin slightly tacky with sweat from your midday nap, but smelling of roses and cinnamon.
“I’ve been blessed,” he says quickly, trying to turn your face, but you resist. He kisses your chin instead. “A herb-woman blessed me.”
“Ah,” you reply, knowing what he’s referring to. Not only have you met a few of these travelling healers in your time, but you’ve also read much about them.
Baelor leans his weight into you, and you stumble back until you collide with one of the thick posts of your canopy bed. He groans, pinning you to it as he kisses along your jaw, strong hands cupping your face. Your fingers find the hem of his doublet and you rub along the dense seam. As you do that, his hips rut forward and you gasp at the thick print of his cock against you, hot and hard in his trousers. Your hands drop, finding the cool metal of the clasp.
You hear him suck in a breath as he kisses the tender skin beside your ear. Then, he whispers, “Yes, take them off. Please take them off, little dove.”
You unbuckle the clasp.
He groans. “Yes, yes.”
Your fingers peel the front of his trousers open, and he finally manages to pull your mouth up to his. His hands are burning hot against the side of your head as his mouth slots against yours. The kiss is tender to start with, but one beat of your heart later and he’s whining against you, tongue sliding across your lips.
“Let me in,” he pleads against your mouth, before delving back in.
You do, opening your kisses for him to press his tongue in, finding yours. Everything about it is warm, your proximity burning hotter than a Dornish summer sun.
The tent of his cock nudges your palm as you finally shuck his trousers down. You feel for the ties of his breeches next, pulling at the knots as his tongue skims across your teeth. When he feels his breeches begin to loosen around his hips, he breaks away to groan, head tilting down slightly, your foreheads bumping together. He watches your fingers draw his breeches undone before they drop alongside his trousers.
You hesitate.
Baelor groans. “Touch me. Touch me, please, I need you to—”
You clasp the base of his cock with a warm, gentle hand. He groans again: this time, louder, and he lifts your head with his guiding hands and slams his mouth back to yours. There’s a subtle bitterness on his tongue, like a medicine of some sort, but it’s overwhelmed by an apple flavour that has you searching for more. Your tongues tangle as you grasp his cock, giving it a few tiny strokes as he pulls you away from the canopy post and pushes you down onto the mattress.
The kiss disconnects and you yelp as you fall flat onto the furs. Your husband’s hands find the hem of your chemise now and push it quickly up your body.
“There’s my pretty girl,” he utters, finding you bare of any smallclothes beneath your sleepwear.
He stares down at your cunt with a misty gloss across his mismatched eyes. His hands drag down your sides, then onto your thighs, massaging the fat there before he’s prying them apart.
One of his hands grips the base of his cock, replacing your own. “You have no… no idea how badly I need this.”
Baelor steps forward and tugs you towards him at the same time. You yelp once more as your arse practically hangs off of the bed as he settles between your spread legs. The thick head of his cock presses right against your clit, and you yowl his name as he taps it there roughly. His eyes snap up to take in your expression, and that’s when you notice a tear slip from his dark-hued eye.
“Oh, Baelor,” you whisper, pussy fluttering around nothing at the unbridled need in his face. There are a million butterflies in your tummy too.
He whimpers deeply, then drags his cock through your silken folds. He collects the slick that gathers there with a small moan before he speaks. The tear disappears into the hair of his beard. “My sweetest girl, please let me have you.”
You’re nodding straight away.
Baelor sucks in a breath, and you see something like regret flicker through his eyes. “Gods, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” you tell him, noting the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his eyes rake down your body. They linger on the peaks of your nipples through the thin material of your chemise. “You could never hurt me.”
“No, no, sweet girl, I can’t—” Baelor slurs, then cuts himself off with a low whine as he notches the head of his cock at your hole.
You’re wet and glistening for him, but his mind is split in two: conflicted, overrun with the effects of whatever he had been ‘blessed’ with, but still anchored to his princely values.
He huffs, desperate as he rubs the tip of his cock in tight circles around your entrance. “Oh, fuck.”
You angle your hips and the leaking tip sinks into you. He chokes on his moan, the apple in his throat bobbing as he swallows around it. He watches, eyes nearly the same colour with the way his pupils dilate, as your pussy splits apart for him and sucks the head in. Then, his entire body trembling with need, he pushes even further, shoving his cock all the way inside you, giving you no room to adjust.
It punches a pained noise from your chest that you tried to keep at bay, and you can’t help but wriggle away from him at the intrusion. It’s instinctive, your body reacting to the sudden pressure that fissures both pain and pleasure deep in your gut. Your body writhes against the furs as you whimper, somehow feeling the tip of his cock all the way in your chest, the sensation of being filled suffocating after over two weeks without him.
Your body flees his, and the moan that leaves his mouth is nothing short of heart-breaking. It’s stretched and whiny and nothing you’ve ever heard before.
“No, no, no, please, don’t run from me,” Baelor stammers, eyes wide, hands tight on your hips. He tugs you back down, spearing you on his cock and you howl as he buries himself to the hilt inside you. You fist the sheets, wriggling. Baelor whines. “Stop, s-stop, no, I’m sorry, sweet girl, please don’t—please don’t cry.”
You hadn’t even noticed a few hot tears slipping from your eyes. He bends then, kissing them from your face. His eyelashes flutter against you and the hair of his beard scratches against the skin of your cheek. He whispers to you as he rolls his hips, stretching your pussy around him.
“M’sorry, need—fuck, tell me to stop and I will.” His lips ghost across your earlobe as he pins you beneath him, the angle slightly awkward, hips trapped beneath his.
You gasp softly as he ruts his hips again. “Don’t stop, jus’ keep going.”
“Thank you,” Baelor says, kissing your cheek once more before he rights himself. He holds your hips tightly, pulling himself out and then back in. The drive is deep, and he’s moaning louder than you as he bottoms out again and again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”
His trousers and breeches rustle against his thighs as he fucks you, your arse hanging off the bed, the wood of the canopy creaking with his feverish movements. You take it, the sting of the stretch slowly dissipating with each thrust. Your cunt clenches around him as he thanks you repeatedly, growing more and more desperate as he moves. You can see the sweat on his forehead, and you can only assume he’s drenched beneath his doublet and tunic.
The sounds of your union bounce through the chambers, moans and whimpers and curses ricocheting off the stone. He’s murmuring your name like a prayer, strung beautifully between rambling sentences of High Valyrian as he ruts into you.
Not only is this little blessing working, but the white willow tea surely did. His back no longer pains him, and he feels like he could go on forever as he fills you. His eyes linger on where your pussy takes him, sloppy and wet and so fucking loud that his ears burn red. And you’re loud too, whimpering and gasping as your body is rocked roughly against the silken sheets and plush furs.
With a long-winded groan, Baelor takes one of his hands and presses it down on your lower belly. The added pressure has you keening, eyes almost rolling.
“That’s it,” Baelor speaks in a tone heavy with pleasure. “That’s it, little dove. Feel me filling you. Feel the way you take me.”
His words are so foreign yet so familiar. In bed, he’s no stranger to telling you how well you’re doing, how well you take him, how good of a girl you are. But this? The pink powder is thick between his teeth, clogging up the blood vessels in his brain, and he’s spitting out sentences that have you clenching tight around him. He groans as your pussy flutters, and the knot of pleasure in your tummy grows tenfold. A heavy pressure begins to build in the base of your cervix too, hips twitching as he slams into you.
He must see it in your face, because he’s panting now, eyes taking in every little expression that flits before him.
“I know, I know,” he affirms gently, noting what you could not articulate into words. “I know you’re feeling good. I know you’re feeling real good, little dove, but you just need to h-hang on—don’t want you coming u-until I do.”
You whimper, pouting a little.
“Can you do that for me?” Baelor pants, forcing your hips down. By the way he’s moving, the speed in which he fills you and the whines that begin to replace his groans, you know he’s close. But the pressure in your tummy is so heavy that you can’t answer him. He coos at you. “You can do it, sweet girl. I’m almost there. Just hold on for me.”
You moan his name, arching off the bed as the knot in your stomach pulls taut. He responds with a moan of his own, leaning forward as if he’s beginning to lose his balance. He ruts into you like a starving man, the bed shaking, his body silhouetted by the window behind him. His mouth is agape, his breathing erratic and strained.
“Baelor,” you call for him. You’re teetering on a very high cliff, your entire body alight with your impending orgasm. There’s a scream trapped in your throat and your legs pull painfully tight either side of him.
“Okay, okay, okay,” he rambles, his knuckles white where he holds you. “Okay, fuck, s’okay, little dove. You can come for me. M’right here, m’right here.”
You whine, almost pained.
“S’alright, sweet girl,” Baelor continues to coo down at you. “Let me feel you. Want to feel you come around me while I fill you.”
His cock jerks heavily inside you, and his thrusts falter just as you release around him. Gripping the sheets, you sob his name as the knot of pleasure splinters apart. Your release is intense: you shake beneath the warm hold of his big hands, legs seizing tightly as you wrap them around him. His name and his title tumble from your lips, and they only increase when you feel his cock nudge up against your cervix as he spills inside you.
Baelor groans your name. His hips stutter to a stop as he spills, and he’s panting and shuddering as his pleasure peaks. It’s the strongest release he’s ever experienced, his eyes snapping closed as his entire body shakes and his heart leaps into his throat.
And he’s still spilling. Thick ropes of seed that seem never-ending as he hunches over you, cock jolting over and over until the point of pain.
He whines deeply, then pulls out, just for a few hot spurts of cum to splatter across your mound and your lower tummy.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Baelor whimpers, and you gasp out as he rests his cock against you. You feel it give one last jerk, dribbling at your navel, before you watch it slowly begin to soften, blood steadily seeping away from the head. Baelor notices the mess he’s made when his vision finally clears, still slightly dizzy with pleasure though. “M’so sorry, little dove, I didn’t—gods, I didn’t mean—”
You lift a tired arm and seize him by the doublet, tugging him down beside you. You capture his mouth in a heated kiss, and he melts into it straight away. His hands smooth down your sides as your fingers comb through his beard.
When you pull apart, you kiss the tip of his nose. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Baelor frowns slightly, and you can’t help but raise your head to kiss the divots in his brow. He huffs. “I… I was too rough, I shouldn’t have…”
There’s a slight ache deep in your womb, but nothing significant. All you’re focusing on, anyway, is the way his seed leaks from you like honey from its dipper.
“Please, Baelor,” you interrupt him softly, stroking his face. “Like I said, you could never hurt me.”
He goes to speak again, but you kiss him to shut him up.
“I missed you so much,” you say against him, and he grunts, agreeing. You laugh, pulling back a little, examining the bright pink in his cheeks. “And although I… enjoyed this, I must implore you not to take strange blessings from strange people—”
Baelor rolls his eyes, and now it’s his turn to kiss you to shut you up.
three moons, valarr had told himself. three moons of propriety, and the marriage will be consummated. he truly believed he could endure, even though you were the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on.
it takes his restraint—and yours—a mere three weeks to falter.
under the cover of midnight, his strong hands roam your body, clad only in your airy nightdress; his back is pressed to the heavy oak door of your bedchamber, your spine flush against his taut abdomen as he peppers wet kisses along the slope of your neck.
still in his black and crimson garbs, he’d spent all day warring with his conscience. he had hoped the dying of the day would steady him; perhaps his desire would subside in the stillness of the evening.
it did not.
his fingers hook around the delicate straps of your nightdress, and you shiver as the fabric pools at your feet; valarr’s clothes feel rough against your skin, but his hands are warm, and you cannot hold back a soft whine of his name. this is not dishonour, he reasons unconvincingly, feeling your nipples pebble beneath his touch. not yet.
“please, my prince,” you beg, arching against him.
his hardened length nudges your lower back, and heat pools in your womb, seeping between your legs, demanding relief. you are certain you’ve taken leave of your senses—to be caught like this would be to disgrace your family name—but the embers of lust burn too hot for you to care.
valarr’s hand dips between your legs to trace your silken slit, and your wetness sheens his fingers instantly. seven above. he wants nothing more than to fill you any way he can, to stretch you and make you his, but he cannot allow himself to sully you out of wedlock. you are too precious—to the seven kingdoms, to him.
and yet, he can feel his tip leaking through the confines of his breeches. fuck, can he truly deny you? you are to be his wife, joined for all your lives before the old gods and the new; does that not absolve this…this small indulgence?
“valarr,” you huff, bucking your hips against him. “please.”
“shhh. alright, darling,” he concedes finally, pressing his lips to your temple in a soothing kiss. “i have an idea.”
his free hand loosens the ties of his trousers, and his cock springs out, the tip flushed and sticky with his arousal as he slides between your thighs. your breath hitches; he’s thick and hot and velvet-smooth against your skin. his rosy head prods your entrance, and you instinctively grind down with a whimper, but your betrothed tuts in your ear.
“not yet, sweet girl,” he says, his voice laboured at the contact. he cups your mound, rings glinting in faint candlelight, and presses his fingers to his base to trap himself flat against your slit. he rocks his hips so that you glide over him from root to tip, and the sound you emit is divine.
“on our wedding night, hm?” he murmurs into your hair, feeling your fluids coat him. “i’ll fill you then, my bride, as many times as you please, alright? i swear it.” by the seven, he means it.
you nod weakly, hardly able to think with his manhood slotted between your legs. your moans grow louder each time the ridge of his head bumps your aching pearl, tightening the hot coil deep in your belly. your hand finds the nape of his neck, and your fingers weave themselves into his cropped hair, pulling softly. you whisper his name, and it sounds like music on your lips.
“you’ll be mine soon, darling,” he says, his voice ragged, “in truth and in name.” a dragon’s bride, guarded like gold. his cock is sensitive against you, and he feels you begin to tremble in his grasp; his arm wraps around your waist to keep you steady, his hips working tirelessly to coax out your release.
“that’s it,” he manages, his own peak drawing close as your throbbing cunt thrums against him. “let me hear you, my dove.”
with a sob, the coil in your belly snaps, and your climax seeps out of you, coating his cock like warm honey. you slump against valarr, his arm around you the only thing keeping your body upright. heat blankets your cheeks, your head spinning at the vibration of his moans against your back.
his release follows yours almost immediately. with a strained utterance of your name, valarr’s seed paints the inside of your thighs white in sticky, hot ropes, and he sorely wishes he’d spilled inside you instead. the prince’s forehead drops into the crook of your neck, and you feel his breath fanning out on your skin.
he stays sheathed between your thighs, his cock twitching, pressing kisses to your shoulder until your body softens in his hold. he knows what has transpired teeters dangerously on the edge of transgression, yet guilt evades him as your remnants trickle down his shaft.
he picks his head up, his two-toned eyes glancing out at the round moon glowing through the window, and a smile ghosts over his pink lips.
is this a safe space to admit i’ve been thinking about aerion fucking reader with the hilt of his dagger or no
18+ (fem!reader, smut, tw: aerion being himself, degradation but not huge, a little bit of praise, he is obsessed with you)
(for terminology in case you’re unsure^)
it started with you watching him fidget with it. his slender fingers moving over the black-hide hilt, tapping against the rounded silver of the pommel.
aerion looked up and over the table at you, following the path of your transfixed stare. he couldn’t help but smirk to himself as you watched his fingers work up and down the hilt in a state of boredom, occasionally skimming against the sharp, glinting blade.
now, here you were.
“this is what you wanted, right?” he asks you quietly, voice razor-sharp. “this is what you needed?”
the blade of the dagger is within it’s leather sheath, and he holds it there as he runs the cold pommel up and down the soaked slit of your cunt. you’re spread for him across his bed, chest heaving as he holds you open for him.
wet now, aerion taps the rounded pommel against your clit and it makes you yelp. it’s heavy and solid, electric-shocks springing from your nerves and making your fingers grip the silken sheets.
the pommel returns to your dripping hole and, his violet eyes watching closely, aerion slowly pushes it inside you. your pussy opens up around the hilt, the hide grip ridged and drawing a deep moan from your chest as it pushes into you.
when it’s in just an inch or two, aerion pulls it out and watches the way your pussy flutters around nothing. he hums, pleased, before slowly pushing the hilt of the dagger back into you again.
“greedy fuckin’ pussy…” he mutters as your cunt grips the grip of his dagger, stretching open so easily to take more. his other hand is splayed out over your tummy, holding you still. he groans lowly as he watches a trickle of slick dribble out of you and around the dagger. “gods, you’re wet. got all worked up watching me play with it, huh?”
soon, the biting cold steel of the dagger’s cross-guard presses tightly to your core and you cry out, fisting the sheets. aerion watches your body writhe as the hard steel pommel settles right up against that perfect spot inside you.
he can almost see your pulse jumping out of your jugular as you tip your head back, exposing your throat as tears prick in the corners of your eyes, pleasure a deep nagging in the base of your belly. his eyes drag back down your body to where your pussy clenches around his dagger, and he pulls out a few inches, then thrusts back in.
you moan loudly, and aerion feels the movement of contracting muscles beneath the softness of your belly where his palm rests.
“such a fuckin’ whore,” he utters darkly, watching himself fuck the dagger into you. each time he pulls it out, he admires the thick gloss over the ink-black grip. “takin’ the hilt of my dagger like it’s a fuckin’ cock. pussy’s made for it—look at her takin’ it all.”
his words make you moan again, and his pace increases. the sounds are obscene—wet and loud, timed audible squelches as your hole leaks out around the steel. aerion watches in amazement, the curve of your arse sticky with slick, your clit swollen and pumping hotly with blood.
“aerion,” you say across a moan. “my prince, please.”
the thrusts are quick but deep. he’s got his eyes on you, watching the way you take his dagger, before finding your face momentarily to gauge your reaction. he relishes in the glassiness of your eyes and slight tremble of your lower lip.
“what would the realm think?” he questions, ignoring your pleas. he twists the dagger slightly with the cross-guard flush to your folds and the movement makes you yowl. he continues with a dark smile, “if they saw a lady like this? spread out on a prince’s bed with her pussy full of his dagger, moaning for it like it was his cock. what would they think?”
his words are biting and condescending, and you feel yourself clench down around wrapped steel. your breath leaves you in dog-like pants, high-pitched and whiny as he continues to fuck you with well-timed thrusts.
but then, he pulls it out—all the way, and the cold emptiness makes you call out his name around a choked sob. his smile is vicious and victorious, and he pushes the pommel back to your hole, drawing circles around it.
“what would they think?” he repeats in a whisper, the rounded pommel toying with your slick opening. he marvels at the wetness that coats the grip, and his hard cock twitches within the confines of his breeches and trousers. slowly, he presses the pommel back inside you, watching your cunt swallow it.
“o-oh, gods,” you whimper.
“they’d think you were depraved,” he says, his movements torturously slow. the handle edges inside you, stretching you open. “taking a prince’s dagger like this. gods, no better than a common whore, huh? cunt fuckin’ drooling for it, making a mess of my sheets.”
“my prince,” you call for him as your tummy draws up tight, but he ignores you. or perhaps he just doesn’t hear, his violet eyes transfixed on where he feeds his dagger into your pussy.
“it makes me wonder,” aerion begins, bottoming-out the dagger before drawing it out again. he settles into a rhythm once more and you keen into it, hips twitching. his tongue darts out like a snake as if tasting your pleasure in the air. “if you could take the hilt of my broadsword? it’d be a big stretch, but i think you could take it.”
you shake your head and moan loudly, the thought of his sword, the pommel large, the grip long, the cross-guard jagged, makes your stomach clench. he laughs at that.
“my prince,” you try again, pleasure building inside of you. “my dragon, please.”
that seems to get his attention. the prince looks up at you, arm moving with the force of his thrusting into you. he’s still got a hand over your stomach, enjoying feeling the way it shifts with each bout of pleasure.
“begging for your release already?” aerion chides, cocking his head and appraising you with vivid eyes. his pupils are blown wide with lust, though, and you can see his cock straining in his trousers. “gods, you’re needy. so desperate for me.”
“please…” you whimper, back trying to arch off the bed but his hand keeps you weighted down. “feels so good.”
the corner of his mouth twitches into some semblance of a smirk, and he presses the tip of his tongue there. “what feels good?”
he maintains the thrust of the dagger, handle filling you over and over. the ridged leather drags against your silken walls, punching air from your throat as the pommel hits the best spot inside you again and again. the hand on your stomach slowly trails down, over your mound, to press a thumb to your puffy clit. the touch is heavy and unmoving and it makes you sob out for him.
“your—” you gasp. “the—fuck—”
“say it,” he hisses, eyes flashing. “what’s making you feel good?”
you moan. “your—your dagger. your dagger’s making me—fuck—feel good, my prince.”
“i know it is,” he coos, but his tone is harsh. “valyrian steel, sweet girl. the best in the known world.”
the switch to softness in his tone at the end gives you whiplash, but it also has you screaming his name as he drives the dagger’s hilt deep into you one last time before you’re releasing around it. your entire body trembles, shakes, as your pussy clenches around the warm steel, slick dribbling from you as the prince fucks you through it.
aerion watches you, pleased, fizzle down from your orgasm before he slowly pulls the dagger out. it makes you whimper, and then whimper again when he drags his tongue along the grip, eyes never leaving yours. he collects your slick on his tongue, tasting.
“always so sweet for me,” he murmurs, and then begins slinking up your body like an animal. prowling, watching.
he brings the wet hilt of his dagger to your mouth, the pommel skimming over your lips.
“open,” he orders.
you do. your lips part, jaw slacking as he slowly, surprisingly gently, guides the hilt into your mouth. you taste yourself on it, as well as a slight metallic bitterness and an earthy musk. you whine, eyelids fluttering. you wrap your tongue around it, sliding it up and down, allowing your teeth to touch the leather-wrapped grip without fear of hurting him.
or so you thought.
“mind your teeth,” he quips darkly, and your eyes grow wide. you nearly gag as you bring your teeth away from the hilt and he dips it further into your throat.
he watches you intently, lips parted, eyes unwavering.
“that’s a good girl,” aerion mutters, bending down to place a kiss to the corner of your mouth—where you are stretched around the handle of his dagger. he licks your cheek too and you whimper around the steel. he grins, “you always take me so well.”
summary: taking a beautiful, young bride has proven a greater challenge than maekar anticipated. it seems the anvil must stake his claim and remind you where you belong.
maekar targaryen x second wife!reader
warnings: smut, p in v, doggystyle, missionary, praise, creampie, age gap, possessiveness, mild exhibitionism.
masterlist
maekar notices everything. every lingering touch, every lord whose gaze travels too far down your body, every whisper that a young wife demands a vigorous husband. the court circles you like vultures, and even his own blood forgets their place; daeron has the wit to disguise his awed stares, but aerion…he watches you like a bloodhound. hungry.
he lets it pass at first. it is not her fault, he tells himself; you are young and vibrant, and men are predictable beasts. he has seen it all before, and reassures himself that the novelty will fade eventually. but maekar is not known for his patience—you are his, and by the seven, he will not let you forget it.
your fists are balled into the rich cotton beneath you, the sheets muffling your moans as his hips snap into you from behind, his cock filling you to the brim with each thrust. strong fingers clutch your hips hard enough that you know bruises will have bloomed by morning, but the ache only makes your cunt wetter.
“maekar,” you plead, your voice a high-pitched whimper. you scarcely know what you’re begging for, but your husband’s name is the only word you can muster, and it’s all he needs to hear.
he pries one hand off your body, snaking it between your legs to rub circles on your swollen clit, and the sound you make sends fire burning across his skin. your cries echo against the stone walls of his bedchamber, and he’s certain the guards outside can hear what he’s doing to you.
good. let them.
his fingers on your sensitive button have your walls fluttering around him helplessly, and he feels his cock twitching, his peak drawing dangerously close. still, he resists, determined to send you over the edge first. his eyes are dark and famished as he takes in the sight of your ass bouncing off him, your slick coating his length each time he buries himself in you.
“fuck, good girl,” he hisses, his voice ragged as your grip on him tightens. “take me just like that.”
your whines get louder as your legs begin to tremble; under his touch, you fall apart with a desperate moan, your release turning your vision white as your body sinks into the bed beneath you. fuck, all of king’s landing must have heard that.
the thought pushes maekar to his limit; he hooks a muscular arm under your waist, turning you onto your back with his cock still inside you, and his hands spread your thighs so that he has an unobstructed view of your glistening pussy swallowing him whole.
“seven hells,” he growls, his thrusts growing irregular. “look down. see what a mess you’ve made for me.” it’s a command, and you obey, prying your teary eyes open to see where your bodies meet; the glossy remains of your climax cling to his pelvis, sheening his pale skin and catching the light each time his taut muscles ripple.
“all for you, my prince,” you breathe, your voice soft and dreamy as you come down from your peak. “i’m yours.”
your words sink into him like valyrian steel, and he spills inside you with a low groan and a string of profanities, his hips staggering to a halt. finally, he collapses beside you with a heavy sigh, pulling out of you carefully.
no words are exchanged, but you curl into his side, your body pliant and spent and your breathing heavy. his arm locks around you, keeping you close, and in the candlelight of his chambers, maekar allows himself the faintest curl of a smile.
the realm can desire you all they like; you are his all the same.
Mommy kaaaatt can we know how often do our beloved men prefer it rough sex vs soft and gentle?
⟡ 𝒂𝒌𝒐𝒕𝒔𝒌 𝒎𝒆𝒏 + 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕 𝒗𝒔 𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒔𝒆𝒙.
Baelor:
60% soft / 40% rough. Baelor’s sex life is a reflection of his public image: the perfect prince who must always be controlled and honourable. Soft sex feels like love—long, sensual sessions where he can worship you properly with his mouth, hands. Rough sex only comes out when you stroke his ego and/or darker edges (“Claim me, my prince”) and he lets the Targaryen fire slip through the cracks. As the heir who carries the realm’s hopes, rough sex is his private rebellion; a space where he doesn’t have to perform perfection and can let himself go.
Maekar:
75% rough / 25% soft. Maekar channels every ounce of his frustration and duty into intense, almost punishing sex. Rough missionary, throat-holding, and deep, determined pounding is how he releases the pressure of being “not the heir" and being an afterthought most of his life. Soft sex is rare and usually preceded by a battle, distance or when he’s exhausted. Then he becomes surprisingly tender, holding you close and grinding slow while pressing his face into your neck. He’s spent his life proving he’s as strong as his brother; gentle sex is the only time he lets himself stop proving anything.
Aerion:
55% rough / 45% soft. Aerion is the wildcard. He starts rough and theatrical almost every time. Frantic pace, hair-pulling, “feel the dragon’s fire” dirty talk, exhibitionist energy. But the moment you hit his hidden soft spot (gentle, mocking praise, “my sweet boy/prince/dragon,” stroking his hair), he flips hard. The rough façade cracks and he suddenly craves slow, intimate, almost clingy sex while hiding his face in your neck and biting down on your pulse. His unhinged “Brightflame” persona is armour; the 45% soft side is the real Aerion underneath, desperate and hateful for tenderness he’ll never admit he craves. The contrast is why the switch feels so intense for him.
Dunk:
70% soft / 30% rough. Dunk’s default is overwhelmingly gentle because he's terrified of his own size. At nearly 7 feet tall with a cock that’s basically a weapon, he’s haunted by the fear that he could accidentally hurt you. Every soft session is slow, deep, and full of constant eye contact and murmured praise (“Tell me if it’s too much…”). He only lets himself get rough when you explicitly beg and keep reassuring him, even then he starts careful and only ramps up because he trusts you completely. His lowborn hedge-knight life taught him to be careful with everything he touches; he never wants to be “the big brute” in bed.
Lyonel:
80% rough / 20% soft. Lyonel is pure storm energy—he fucks like he laughs and lives in general: loud, powerful, and unrelenting. Spanking, praise, hair-pulling, and hips slamming so hard the bed shakes is his natural state. The rare soft moments happen only after a major victory or when he’s feeling unusually protective and/or jealous; then he’ll surprise you with deep, slow thrusts and gentle kisses while still chuckling softly at every needy sound you make. Baratheon blood runs hot and loud; softness feels almost too vulnerable to him, so he saves it for when he feels truly safe with you.
Valarr:
65% soft / 35% rough. Valarr is the pretty young prince who thrives on control and sensuality. He prefers long, luxurious, teasing sessions where he can edge you and watch your face, so soft and slow is where he feels most in his element. Rough sex only happens when you flip the script and take charge; then he lets himself be used harder and has his own ways of asking for more. Growing up in the Red Keep taught him courtly perfection; soft sex is his way of staying in control while still feeling desired.
Daeron:
75% soft / 25% rough. Daeron is the ultimate lazy prince. Wine-soaked, half-asleep sex is his love language—slow, sloppy, gentle thrusts while he’s still buzzed and murmuring sleepy praise into your skin. Rough sex basically only happens when he’s completely sober and you rile him up (which is rare, but not impossible), but you have to dig deep and dig mean to really set him off. He’s spent his life avoiding responsibility and pressure; soft, lazy sex is the ultimate escape where nothing is demanded of him which is why he prefers it.
summary: the realm’s dragons may be gone, but you’re a dragonrider nonetheless.
aerion targaryen x reader
warnings: aerion is a warning on his own, smut, p in v, cowgirl, light breath play (m receiving), creampie, bratty aerion, reader matches his freak.
masterlist
aerion recalls the exact moment he overstepped. you’d been your poised self all evening, nodding politely at the mindless chatter in the banquet hall as was your duty; your husband, on the other hand, had remained insolent as ever.
he’d spent a better part of the night regaling his captive audience with stories of his favourite ancestors, entirely aware he was surrounded by families whose allegiance to house targaryen was thin at the best of times.
“maegor,” he mused, swirling his wine. “now there was a great targaryen. he understood the importance of legacy.”
the lords and ladies around the table tensed visibly at mention of the cruel king. aerion’s blue eyes shifted to you, and a wicked smirk curled his lip.
“he kept many wives. a testament to his ambition, i think.” he noticed the way your jaw tightened at his words, delivered like a blow of valyrian steel. “a sensible precaution, wouldn’t you agree? dragons are known for their…appetite, after all.”
silence befell the table as your guests glanced between you and the princeling with unease, goblets and forks stilling in half-raised hands. eventually, your eyes met your husband’s; to the courtiers watching on, your expression seemed bafflingly serene.
to aerion, it was a promise that he would yet answer for your humiliation.
your nails carve crescents into the prince’s chest, drawing a pained hiss from his lips as you pin him to the tufted bed beneath you. his fingers dig into your hips with intent to bruise, but you do not relent, grinding down onto him forcefully until his cock is fully sheathed inside you.
aerion moans, the sound deep and rumbling as his head lolls back. a snide smile blooms on his face when his eyes meet yours again, your expression caught between contempt and lust.
“all that composure, gone in an instant,” he coos, his voice tight from the feeling of you on top of him. “i much prefer you like this, little wife.”
you roll your hips against him, gasping at the girth stretching you open, but your pace only quickens.
“you forget yourself, husband,” you spit, biting back a whine as the head of his cock grazes the sensitive spot in your walls. “i am not some lowborn whore for you to toy with.”
“no?” aerion’s hand slips between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit to rub circles in time with your thrusting. “you certainly fuck like one.”
a breathless whimper escapes you at his touch, but you refuse to yield; your fingers weave through his silver hair, tugging harshly until another low moan rattles out of him.
“tell me, my prince,” you hiss, lowering your lips to his ear, your hips never once stilling, “if you are a dragon, what does that make me?”
your head dips lower until your teeth are grazing his throat, and you feel aerion tense beneath you, a satisfied grin settling on your lips. now you’ve got him.
“answer me,” you command, releasing his hair to wrap your hand around his neck. you level your face to his, taking in his blown-out pupils that gaze up at you through pale lashes.
“fuck—a dragonrider,” he manages at last, his voice wavering as you squeeze his throat gently. “you’re a dragonrider.”
you feel him twitch inside you at his own words, his fair skin flushed and his voice thick with desire; his hands clutch at the flesh of your ass, desperate for purchase as you ride him closer to his release, the pressure around his neck increasing his sensitivity tenfold.
“and dragons obey their riders, do they not?” your voice is firm, but your cunt clamps down on aerion’s cock, signalling your own impending climax. you sense him resisting, but the words tumble out of him anyway.
“y-yes, my princess,” he breathes, his eyes fluttering shut. with a final snap of your hips, aerion spills into you, swearing loudly in high valyrian as his body jolts beneath yours.
you come undone soon after, collapsing on top of the dragon prince in exhaustion. moments pass in silence, aerion’s fingers absently tracing your spine as he catches his breath. finally, you lift your head, taking in his dazed expression. he looks at you, and his face is laden with something new—not quite affection, but recognition, perhaps, of an equal at last.
“shall i expect you to begin collecting wives, then?” you ask, resting your chin on his chest. you don’t miss the amused smile that ghosts over aerion’s lips as he speaks.
“i have not known a dragon to have more than one rider at a time, princess.”
summary: prince valarr knows his duty as baelor’s heir is to secure the targaryen line and its claim to the iron throne for generations to come. a pretty wife like you has only made the responsibility easier to bear.
valarr targaryen x reader
warnings: smut, quickie, fingering, p in v, mating press, creampie, slight breeding kink.
masterlist
you’d always known your husband to be a dutiful prince, even before you wed; still, valarr’s devotion to siring an heir takes you by surprise. for the second time since morning, he’s sought to have you, seeking you out between his other less…titillating commitments.
he’d given you time enough only to disrobe before he laid you on your marital bed, his lips pressed against yours in a hungry kiss. his palms roam your skin freely, tracing a path down your body to where you truly need him.
“but, my prince, the small council meeting—” you’re silenced by your own gasp as his hand slips between your legs, circling your most sensitive spot. you feel the length of his hard cock pressed against your thigh; his urgency clear.
“they’ll wait,” he mumbles, trailing his lips down your neck.
his finger slides into you with ease, and he works you open gently, until a second digit is met with no resistance. you moan quietly, tangling your hands in his hair and pulling lightly at his silver streak. the prince smiles against your skin, grazing your throat with his teeth as he braces himself on either side of your body with his strong arms.
he aligns himself at your entrance and sinks into you in one graceful motion, his muscles rippling with strain. almost instantly, his head drops into your shoulder, his eyes screwing shut as your warmth envelops him.
“gods, you feel good,” he groans, rocking his hips steadily. your breathing is shallow, hampered by the fullness inside you. the prince quickens his pace as your walls relax around him, biting back another moan when he sees you reach between your bodies to touch yourself.
“i’ve been told it can…help the pregnancy take,” you tell him cautiously, your cheeks hot.
valarr’s mismatched eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide with lust as he watches your self-pleasure. fuck. careful to stay sheathed inside you, he hooks his hands under your thighs and pushes your legs back until you’re completely exposed to him. you whine at the newfound depth, feeling your cunt pulse around him rhythmically.
the new position sets fire coursing through the prince, whose thrusts become harder, unrestrained. your fingers move faster and your soft whines of his name melt into pleas as your belly tightens, your release building dangerously fast. valarr can’t help the smugness that tugs at him at the sight of you trembling at your own touch, so visibly overwhelmed by the size of him and his strong hands holding your legs open.
“wait—valarr, i’m—”
you cry out abruptly, unable to finish your thought as an orgasm tears through you fast and hot, burning you up from within. your cunt squeezes around him with abandon, the haste of the moment only adding to your arousal.
“fuck,” he rasps, his voice raw and his skin sheened with sweat. he’s fighting his own climax, but the feeling of your walls clamping around him, milking him, is almost too much to bear. yet, you give him no respite; you have a duty to him, after all.
you lock your ankles around his waist and pull him closer to you by the nape of his neck, your fingers coiling through his soft hair. “please,” you breathe, “come inside me, my prince. make me yours.”
those words are all it takes; with a deep groan, valarr throws his head back, spilling his seed into you in hot, thick spurts. you feel him twitch inside you as his sensitivity mounts, and when his hips finally stagger to a halt, his body drops onto yours.
his limbs feel molten and his heart rattles in his chest; the temptation to stay like this—buried inside you, with his face tucked into the crook of your neck and your hands running through his hair—is almost too strong to deny. still, a foggy memory of the small council meeting, to which he was now inexcusably late, drags him out of his bliss.
he sighs heavily and presses a loving kiss to your neck, lifting himself off you with care. you whimper when he slides out of you, the sudden emptiness unfamiliar. tucking your knees to your chest to keep his release inside you, you follow valarr with your eyes as he dresses himself with haste.
“do you think it worked?” you ask after a moment.
“time will tell,” he says, fastening his belt. he conceals it, but a smirk pulls at his lips.
the prince makes his way to you again, peering at your exposed cunt and the small droplet of his seed that seeps out of you. there’s a hint of pride on his face—something he oft tries to suppress, though you know it simmers just beneath the surface.
“until then, we will try again. and again. and again. as many times as it takes.” his voice is gentle, but you see fire behind his eyes.
“you’ll carry the blood of the dragon soon enough.”
─ content: 18+ MDNI | Fluff | A little angst | Implied smut | Oblivious hardheaded men
Dunk: A full day
The thing about Dunk is that he doesn't know he's done anything wrong. That is, in fact, the entire problem. There was a woman at the inn, all smiles and entirely too familiar. Dunk stood there with those oblivious blue eyes and did nothing to discourage it. Not because he wanted the attention. Simply because it never occurred to him that he ought to put a stop to it.
So you are not speaking to him. He thinks you are tired.
He gives you space because that's what he would want. He brings you food without fuss, sees to the horses, leaves the door open. A full day passes. You grow more furious by the hour at how unbothered he seems.
It is Egg who intervenes. Looking between the two of you with barely concealed exasperation. "Ser? She is not tired. She is cross with you."
Dunk turns to look at you. He genuinely had no idea. He sits beside you, asks what he has done, and you tell him. To his credit the confusion on his face gives way almost immediately to understanding, then guilt. His apology is clumsy and sincere. Somehow by the end of it you are the one offering comfort. You are not entirely sure how that happened.
Aerion: 15 Minutes
Aerion knows exactly what he has done. He knew the moment he did it. That doesn't stop his first reaction from being affronted, the sheer indignity of being ignored by anyone, least of all you. This is beneath both of you.
He says as much to the wall of your silence. Receives nothing in return.
Ten minutes. That is all his pride manages before the unbearable fact of not hearing your voice becomes too loud to ignore. He finds you, wherever you have gone, and says your name in that particular way, low and slightly undone, the version of it kept only for you.
He will not say sorry in so many words. But he will say he was wrong. He will say he cannot bear the quiet you leave behind when you are cross with him. "Please look at me" he begs.
Aerion Targaryen, "dragon reborn," defeated in under a quarter of an hour.
He nurses his wounded pride for a week. Not against you, never you, but against himself, against the part of him that came undone so quickly. He broods on it, cannot forgive himself the ease of his own surrender. You find it quietly amusing. When you find him like that you go to him, sit beside him, let him pull you close. He buries his face against you. Says nothing. Neither do you. That is enough.
Maekar: 4 Days
Your first real quarrel as husband and wife is the kind that shakes the walls. It is about his sons, the severity with which he drives them, the distance he keeps when they need their father near. You say so plainly because you have never been the sort to hold your tongue on things that matter. He doesn't receive it well. By the time it is spent the air between you has gone cold.
You stop speaking first. He gives you silence right back. Neither of you will yield.
For four days you pass each other like strangers. Meals without a word, separate chambers, the servants walking on eggshells.
On the fourth night the door opens without a knock. He comes in grumbling, cursing under his breath, muttering. You say nothing, rolling to face the wall.
The mattress dips. He lies down. Back to back, neither of you touching.
Then, roughly, into the dark. "You were not wrong. About the boys. I have known as much. I spoke to you poorly. That I am sorry for."
You know the difference between a man who means his words and one who merely says them; your husband is the former. You roll over as he does. His hand finds yours, rough and certain.
What follows is not gentle. It is rough and without apology, the last of the quarrel burning itself out the only way left to it. You take from each other what four days denied until there is nothing left of the anger anywhere. Then you do it again, and again. You have a lot of time to make up for.
Baelor: Half a Day
The weight of the realm makes him sharp sometimes, in ways he normally wouldn't permit himself. He spoke to you poorly, not cruelly but with an edge, and the apology came before he had even finished the words. You heard it. Turned away regardless.
He doesn't push. He gives you the morning because you are owed your feelings. But the sun will not set on it. He is firm about that.
That evening he comes to find you. He takes your hands in his before you can pull them away. Doesn't defend himself, doesn't mention the exhaustion or the pressure. He looks at you and says, "I was wrong to speak to you thus. You deserved none of it and I am sorry for it."
He waits. Patient as ever, his thumbs moving slow circles over your hands.
"Will you come to bed?"
You sigh. He knows he has you. In the dark, he says it again, the full weight of it this time. He kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Then properly, unhurried, thorough. As though he has something to prove and all night to prove it. Every kiss is its own small apology, every touch a reminder of what you are to him.
✧ a/n: Thank you always for likes, comments, reblogs, and kind messages. Requests are open
summary: it’s hardly your fault that you attract the attention of knights and noblemen across the realm, despite your betrothal to a certain silver-haired prince. but in accepting a young lord’s favour at a tourney, you have awoken the dragon.
aerion tagaryen x reader
warnings: aerion is a warning on his own, smut, jealousy, possessiveness, degradation, fingering, edging (f), general toxicity.
masterlist
you burst into aerion’s pavilion with such ire that his kingsguard scarcely had time to announce your entrance. lounging lazily in his chair with a goblet of wine in hand, the prince hardly blinks at your arrival. under the black silk drapery of his tent, illuminated by candles, he looks every bit targaryen, with silver hair that seems to glow and blood-red garbs that soak up the light.
“leave us,” you snap at the knight guarding the entryway. then, you turn to your betrothed. “i know what you did,” you tell him, jaw tight and fists balled into your gown. aerion glances at you coolly, blue eyes taking in your seething face.
“you’ll have to be more precise, my lady,” he sighs, looking down at his wine like it’s infinitely more fascinating than you. his feigned ignorance only stokes you further.
“the lord, my prince. the one from the tourney.” aerion’s expression remains blank, and your chest heaves with anger. “you broke his legs!” you spit, glaring at him. “the maester says he will never ride again.”
at this, the prince finally concedes a small smirk. “what of it?” he asks, setting his goblet down on the table before him. “he injured the honour of my house; i repaid him in like.”
you scoff incredulously. “you crippled a young man because he offered me his favour? are you completely mad?”
there’s a pause, and in it you realise you’ve raised your voice at a prince—one who has shown himself capable of great cruelty when angered. your wrath begins to give way to panic as aerion stands to meet you at eye-level.
“if i do nothing when a knight advances on my betrothed, my lady,” he begins, his voice eerily calm, “then he will think he is free to take anything that belongs to the dragon. and what will men fear if they do not fear dragons?”
you feel your resolve and all your righteous outrage abandon you now that his clear eyes are locked on you. the smell of sweet wine on his lips blends with warm spices and the faintest hint of smoke. he studies you closely, his brows knit in thought. suddenly, his hand clamps around your jaw, trapping you in place.
“did you enjoy it?” he asks, undeterred by your gasp or your fingers clutching at his wrist. “the spectacle? the attention of some lowly lord before the eyes of thousands?”
you whine as he walks you backwards, your jaw still firmly in his grip, until you’re pushed against the table and made to sit on it. finally, he releases your face, and brings his lips down to your ear.
“truth be told, i should have punished you both,” he says. “only a common whore debases herself for the affection of a lordling. is that what you are?”
aerion’s voice is gentle enough, but the words send blood rushing to your cheeks. as you attempt to stammer out a response, the prince pushes your knees apart, and his hand works its way under your skirts. you suck in a sharp breath when his touch trails up your inner thigh, cursing the warmth that pools deep in your core.
“answer me, my lady,” he presses, your title feeling more like a taunt than a formality. your eyes flutter shut as his fingers glide between your folds, already slick with arousal, but you answer him nonetheless.
“no, my prince,” you manage, your voice hardly a whisper. aerion smiles—cold, unforgiving—as his fingers work you, drawing out quiet moans from your lips. your free hand clutches at his bicep while you use your other to prop yourself up on the table, your breathing growing ragged.
“do you know what they’d say about you, had i let that indignity go unanswered?” aerion’s face hovers inches above yours, his eyes narrow. “they’d call you a slut across the seven kingdoms. they’d say any hedge knight could have his pleasure with you—the wife of the dragon—for the small price of a flower garland.”
his own words seem to invigorate him, quickening his pace between your legs. you cry out when he sinks a finger into you, hardly allowing you to adjust to the intrusion before adding another, and he laughs. it’s a sound devoid of warmth; you can see in his eyes the same look you imagine he gave the poor lord before shattering his legs. bloodlust.
aerion feels the way you tremble around him, he sees the blissful expression on your face; you know the message is clear. you belong to the dragon now. you cling to his arm desperately, burying your face in his shoulder as your spine arches toward him, an impossible tightness building in your belly.
“forgive me, my prince,” you beg, almost delirious as his fingers curl against a strangely sensitive spot inside you. your abdomen starts to contract and your moans grow louder, much to aerion’s delight; let the whole tourney hear who owns you.
and then, just as you’re about to reach your peak, he stills abruptly, withdrawing his hand from your aching cunt.
your eyes blink open in a daze, your thigh still twitching from your impending release. your wide eyes stare at him expectantly, pleadingly, your cheeks hot with desire; surely, he cannot not leave me like this? the prince leans over you and shakes his head, bringing his fingers to his lips to taste you. sweet as summer wine.
“forgiveness must be earned,” he tells you after a moment, his voice coated in mock sincerity. he lifts your chin with a single finger, forcing you to meet his icy eyes. “earn it.”
he gives you a final smirk—arrogant, like a knight who’s bested an a opponent—before retreating completely. he exits the pavilion without so much as a second glance, leaving you flustered and frustrated upon the table, your gown bunched around your hips and your core aching for relief. you breathe shakily, for the first time contemplating what life will be like alongside aerion targaryen, the volatile, cruel, possessive prince he is.
and yet…warmth floods your lower belly again, and you cannot resist the small grin that curls your lip.
Aerion Targaryen x Wife!Reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Chosen for your name, your look, and your blood, you become Aerion's wife by design. When an heir does not come quickly, his fixation turns sharper and far more obesssive.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, targcest (cousins), reader has typical targaryen features, obsessive behaviour, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, pregnancy themes, breeding, crazy stamina
A/N: i warn already this is FILTHY, and he's maybe a lil ooc in this (dont kill me pls). many people are writing him as being mean and harsh with his wife but i don't think he would be if he chose her (hes not like overrly nice lol but he doesn't hurt her yk) i don't think he even considers the possibility he could have chosen wrong.
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 4.5k
The fire has burned low, reduced to a bed of embers that glow like a watchful eye. His chambers smell of heat and smoke and something sharper; wine, maybe, or the faint metallic tang that never quite leaves the Red Keep.
Night presses against the windows, black and endless, but inside the room it’s too warm.
Aerion stands near the hearth, his back to you, silver hair catching the light. He hasn’t turned since you entered. He doesn’t need to. He knows where you are.
He always does.
“How long has it been?” he asks, casually. Almost idly. As though he’s commenting on the weather.
You don’t answer fast enough.
He tilts his head, just slightly. “Since your last bleeding,” he clarifies, voice smooth, patient in the way that makes your shoulders tense. “I keep asking and you keep hesitating. It’s an odd habit for a wife to develop.”
You swallow. “Two weeks.”
He hums, low in his throat, finally turning to face you.
His eyes flick over you with open ownership, your hair, your hands, the shape of you beneath the thin layers of silk. There is no shyness in it. There never has been. You were married before you had time to learn it.
“Months,” he says. “Married for months. Bedded properly. Regularly.” His mouth curves, faintly. “Faithfully.”
You feel the word settle on you like a hand at your throat.
“You were chosen carefully,” Aerion continues, stepping closer. Each measured stride eats the space between you. “Do you know that? I didn’t take just any cousin offered to me. I insisted.” His gaze lifts to your face, sharp and assessing. “Pure blood. The look of Old Valyria is written all over you. Silver-gold hair, violet eyes. No dilution.”
He reaches out, catches a loose strand of your hair between his fingers. Twirls it once.
“You were supposed to take quickly.”
Your breath stutters despite yourself.
Aerion notices, of course. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t look frightened. This is not an accusation.” A beat. “Yet.”
His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your face up whether you want it or not. His touch is warm, almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse.
“I’ve done my part,” he says quietly. “Night after night. I have not spared you effort. I have not spared myself.” His eyes darken, intent sharpening into something hungrier. “So we must ask why nothing has come of it.”
You stiffen. “These things can take time.”
He laughs. Soft and disbelieving.
“Time,” he repeats. “That is what men say when they fear the truth. That is what septons say when they have no answers.” His grip tightens just enough to remind you who he is.
“Dragons do not wait.”
He releases you abruptly and turns away again, pacing now. You track him without meaning to, the restless energy rolling off him like heat.
“My father sired heirs without difficulty,” he says. “So did his father before him. It is not in our blood to struggle.” He stops, glancing back over his shoulder. “Unless something is wrong.”
The word hangs there. You feel it settle in your chest, cold and heavy.
Aerion studies your reaction with unnerving focus. As if he’s already learned something just by saying it.
“Have you done anything,” he asks, voice low, “to interfere?”
Your heart jumps. “No.”
“No teas?” he presses. “No foolish advice from handmaids who think they know better than centuries of Valyrian truth?”
“No,” you repeat, firmer now.
Good, his expression seems to say. Because there would be consequences.
He returns to you, close again, crowding your space. His hand slides to your waist, possessive, grounding.
“You understand what you are meant to give me,” he says. “An heir. A living, breathing proof that the blood remains strong.” His gaze drops, lingering. “I did not marry you for only companionship.”
You don’t answer. You’ve learned that silence is safer than the wrong words.
Aerion leans in, his mouth near your ear, his voice dropping into something quieter and far more dangerous.
“Every night I lie beside you and think about it,” he admits. “About what should already be growing inside you. About how it will bear my name. My fire.” His breath ghosts your skin. “I won’t be denied that. Not by fate. Not by gods. And certainly not by a body that forgets its purpose.”
His hand flexes at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to bruise tomorrow.
For a moment, that is all there is.
Then his grip loosens.
Aerion exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, as if reining himself back from the edge of something sharp. His forehead comes to rest briefly against your temple.
“You were always my favourite,” he says quietly, like it’s a fact he’s just remembered. “Did you know that?”
You still. He hasn’t said anything like that before.
“When you were three and ten, and I came home from battle,” he continues, voice lower now, less performative. “You listened. You didn’t fawn, didn’t flinch. You looked at me like you understood what I was meant to be.” His fingers trace the seam of your sleeve, grounding himself as much as you. “That is why I chose you.”
He pulls back just enough to look at your face. His eyes search it, not for fear this time, but for alignment.
“I want this to work,” Aerion says. The words sound strange on him, unfamiliar, but no less intense. “With you.” A pause. “Not because I doubt myself. Never that.” His mouth tightens. “But because I will not have the realm whisper that I chose wrongly.”
His thumb brushes your jaw, almost reverent now, as though convincing himself of something.
“We are of the same fire,” he murmurs. “It will take. It must.”
Then the moment closes. The mask settles back into place, seamless.
“We will try again tonight,” he says, not as a question but as a decree. “And tomorrow. And the night after that, if we must.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes bright with conviction. “Until the realm has its proof.”
He straightens, already done with the conversation, already certain of the outcome.
“Go,” Aerion orders softly.
The summons comes at midnight, delivered by a servant who won't meet your eyes. "Prince Aerion requests your presence in his chambers, Princess."
You dismiss your handmaid with a wave, rising from your seat by the window where you've been pretending to read.
Your stomach tightens with the familiar mixture of anticipation and resignation that's become your constant companion these past months.
The walk to his chambers feels longer than usual. Your hair, unbound as he prefers it, cascades down your back. You're wearing a simple silk robe; there's no point in anything more elaborate.
He'll have it off you within moments anyway.
His door is already open when you get there. You step inside to find him standing by the window, backlit by the dying sun. He's removed his doublet already, dressed only in his shirtsleeves and breeches, and when he turns to face you, his eyes fix on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.
"Close the door."
You obey, and the soft click of the latch feels final, sealing you in with him and his purpose.
"Come here."
You cross the room, your bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. When you're close enough, he reaches out and catches your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb traces your cheekbone, then your lower lip, pressing against it until your mouth parts slightly.
You hold still under his examination.
You've learned that he likes to look at you like this, cataloguing your features as if reassuring himself of your worthiness. He releases your chin and begins unlacing your robe with deft, impatient fingers.
"Tonight we do this properly."
The silk slides from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you bare before him. His eyes rake over you with undisguised hunger, lingering on your breasts, your hips, your belly. Despite everything, heat blooms low in your belly.
"On the bed. On your back."
You move to obey, climbing onto the massive four-poster bed that dominates his chamber. The sheets are cool against your skin as you settle against the pillows, and you watch as Aerion strips off his remaining clothes with efficient movements. His body is lean and strong, all taut muscle and pale skin, and when he's naked, his cock is already hard, thick and flushed.
He joins you on the bed, kneeling between your legs. His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wide, exposing you completely to his gaze. You feel yourself flush under the scrutiny, but you don't look away.
His hand slides up your inner thigh, and when his fingers reach your centre they stroke through your folds without preamble. This is preparation, nothing more, making sure you're ready to take him. But your body responds anyway, growing slick under his touch.
He pushes one finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with methodical efficiency. His fingers curl and thrust, finding that spot inside you that makes your breath hitch. Your hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction, and a soft sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.
Aerion's eyes snap to your face, a slight smirk gracing his features.
He withdraws his fingers, and you watch as he brings them to his mouth, tasting your arousal on them. His eyes never leave yours as his tongue slides along his fingers, and the sight makes something clench deep in your belly.
Then he's positioning himself over you, his cock heavy and hard against your entrance. He hooks his hands under your knees, pushing your legs up and back, folding you nearly in half. The position leaves you completely open, vulnerable, unable to do anything but take what he gives you.
"Dragons breed dragons," he says, his voice rough. "Our children will be worthy of our blood."
And then he's pushing inside you in one long, brutal thrust that fills you completely. The angle is so deep it borders on painful, and you can't stop the sharp cry that tears from your throat.
Your hands clutch at the sheets as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside you.
He doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a deep, punishing rhythm. Each thrust is deliberate, angled to go as deep as possible, and you can feel him everywhere; the thick length of him stretching you open, the blunt head of his cock hitting something deep inside that makes sparks shoot up your spine.
His fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise as he holds you in place, using you. The wet sounds of him fucking into you fill the room, obscene and unmistakable. You can feel yourself growing wetter, your body opening for him despite the intensity, despite the way he's taking you like you're nothing more than a vessel for his seed.
"You'll take it," he grits out, his hips snapping against yours. "All of it. You'll give me an heir worthy of our name."
The words wash over you as he continues to drive into you, relentless.
Your body responds despite yourself, or maybe because of yourself, because some part of you has learned to find pleasure in this, in being wanted so intensely, even if it's only for what you can give him.
The pressure builds low in your belly, coiling tighter with each thrust. You bite your lip to keep from making more noise, but small whimpers escape anyway as he fucks into you harder, faster.
One of his hands releases your thigh, sliding between your bodies to find your most sensitive spot. He circles it with his thumb, rough and insistent, and the added stimulation makes your back arch off the bed.
"Come," he commands. "Now."
It's not a request, and your body obeys.
The pressure explodes and you shatter around him, clenching rhythmically around his cock. Your mouth opens in a silent cry as waves of pleasure crash over you.
Aerion hisses, and his thrusts become harder, more erratic. He buries himself as deep as he can go and stills, and you feel the hot pulse of his release flooding you. His cock jerks inside you as he empties himself, filling you with himself. His head drops forward and for a moment the only sound is both of you breathing hard.
But he doesn't pull out. Instead, he carefully lowers your legs, then shifts his weight, rolling you both so that you're on your side, still joined. His hand slides to your hip, holding you against him, keeping everything inside you.
"Don't move. Don't let any spill."
You obey, feeling the warm fullness of him inside you, his seed deep in your womb. His hand splays possessively over your lower belly, and you can feel his cock still twitching occasionally inside you, still half-hard.
His hand moves from your belly to your face, turning you so he can look at you. His violet eyes search yours, and for a moment, you see something beyond the obsession, something almost like satisfaction.
"We'll keep trying. As many times as it takes."
You feel him beginning to harden again inside you, his cock swelling and lengthening. Your eyes widen slightly, and he sees your reaction.
A small, satisfied smile curves his lips.
"Did you really think once would be enough?"
He begins to move again, slow shallow thrusts that make you gasp. You're oversensitive from your first release, and every movement sends sparks of almost-painful pleasure through you. But he doesn't care, doesn't stop. He pulls out only to push you onto your stomach, his hands gripping your hips and hauling them up.
"This way. Deeper."
He enters you from behind in one smooth thrust, and the angle is entirely different. You cry out into the pillows as he fills you again, his cock hitting new places that make your toes curl. His hands grip your hips bruisingly tight as he begins to move, fucking into you with renewed purpose.
The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, along with your muffled whimpers and his harsh breathing. One of his hands slides up your spine, then tangles in your silver hair, gripping it tight and pulling your head back.
"You'll swell with my child," he pants, his hips snapping against yours. "Everyone will see. Everyone will know you carry the dragon's heir."
His words are filthy, possessive, and yet they make you clench around him, make fresh wetness gather between your thighs.
"Touch yourself."
You slide one hand beneath your body, finding your sensitive clit. You're so swollen, so oversensitized, that even your own touch makes you whimper. But you obey, circling the bundle of nerves in time with his brutal thrusts.
His grip on your hair tightens, and he uses it to pull you back onto his cock with each thrust. The pleasure builds again, impossibly, and you can feel yourself climbing toward another release.
"That's it," he growls. "Come on my cock again. Your body knows what it needs."
Your second release crashes over you without warning, somehow even more intense than the first. You muffle your cries in the pillow as your body convulses around him, your inner walls clamping down on his length. You feel him swell inside you, his rhythm faltering, and then he's coming again with a guttural groan, flooding you with more of his seed.
This time when he pulls out, you feel the warm trickle of his spend beginning to leak from you. But before more than a drop can escape, his fingers are there, pushing it back inside roughly.
"Can't waste it. Every drop stays inside you."
He manoeuvres you onto your back again, then reaches for one of the pillows. "Lift your hips."
You obey, and he slides the pillow underneath, elevating your lower body. Then he presses his palm against your entrance, as if he can physically keep his seed inside you. You can feel it—the warm, wet fullness of his release deep inside you, more than you've ever felt before.
"Stay like this. Don't move."
You nod, your body limp and trembling, and watch as he rises from the bed. He pours wine from a carafe on the side table, drinking deeply. His cock is still semi-hard, glistening with your combined pleasure, and you can't help but stare at it, at the evidence of what he's done to you.
He brings a cup to you, helping you drink without letting you lower your hips. The wine is cool and sweet on your tongue, a stark contrast to the heat still coursing through your body.
He sets the cup aside and returns to the bed, stretching out beside you. His hand returns to your belly, splaying possessively over the flat plane.
"Not much longer now, I can feel it," he says quietly.
There's something almost desperate in his voice now, beneath the command. As if his entire sense of self, his entire purpose, rests on seeing you pregnant with his child.
"Sons," he says. "Strong sons with the blood of the dragon in their veins." His hand moves up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, making it harden. "Though daughters would be acceptable. If they have the proper features. If they look like you."
He's hardening again against your thigh; you can feel it.
The man's stamina is almost inhuman, driven by his obsession. His hand trails back down your body, fingers dipping between your legs to feel where you're swollen and wet with his seed.
"Still so much inside you. Good."
He strokes gently, almost idly, his fingers sliding through the mess he's made of you. Not trying to bring you pleasure, just touching.
Reminding you both of what you are to him.
The hour passes slowly. He doesn't let you move, keeping you positioned with your hips elevated, his seed deep inside you. Sometimes he talks about the children you'll have, about their dragon blood, about the legacy you'll build together. Other times, he's silent, simply watching you with those intense violet eyes, his hand possessive on your belly.
When he finally deems enough time has passed, he removes the pillow and immediately moves over you again.
"Once more."
You're sore now, tired and oversensitive, but your body still responds to him. Still opens for him as he pushes inside, filling you once again with his thick length. You can feel how swollen you are, how tender, but he doesn't care.
He needs this.
This time he's slower, more controlled. He fucks you with deep, measured strokes that seem designed to reach as far into you as possible. His eyes never leave your face, watching every expression, every reaction.
"Pure and perfect. You were made for this. Made to carry my children," he murmurs, voice low and hypnotic.
His words should horrify you, should make you feel like nothing more than a broodmare. But you're too far gone, too lost in the sensation of him moving inside you. Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, and despite your soreness, despite everything, you find yourself meeting his thrusts.
His hand slides between your bodies again, and you whimper at the touch, but he's insistent, circling with his fingers.
"One more time. Come for me one more time."
You're not sure you can; you're wrung out, exhausted, overwhelmed. But his fingers are relentless, and his cock is hitting that perfect spot inside you, and somehow, impossibly, you feel the pressure building again.
You arch beneath him when you peak again, a broken cry tearing from your throat, and you feel him follow you over the edge, his seed pulsing into you once more. There's so much of it now, so much that you can feel it leaking out around his cock even as he's still buried inside you.
He collapses onto you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and for a long moment neither of you moves. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, his breath hot against your neck. His cock is still inside you, still twitching occasionally, and you can feel the warm wetness of his seed pooling beneath you.
"It will take this time," he murmurs against your skin. "It must."
He rolls off you but immediately pulls you against his side, arranging you so that you're still on your back, still keeping his seed inside you. His hand returns to your belly, possessive and protective.
"Sleep. But don't move. Stay just like this."
You're too exhausted to do anything but obey. Your eyes drift closed, your body heavy and sated despite the soreness, despite the ache between your thighs. His hand remains on your belly, and the last thing you're aware of before sleep claims you is his voice, quiet and determined:
"You're mine. You'll give me heirs worthy of our blood. Worthy of dragons."
And in the darkness behind your eyelids, you can almost see them; the silver-haired children you'll bear him, the legacy you'll create together.
Morning comes slowly, like it’s unsure whether it’s welcome.
You surface to awareness in fragments, heat first, then weight, then the dull, echoing ache threaded through your hips and thighs. The bed smells like smoke and skin, and your body feels heavy, overused, tender in places you don’t want to think too closely about yet.
You try to move and hiss quietly instead.
Aerion stirs beside you.
You’re naked. So is he, stretched out on his back, one arm flung carelessly above his head. The sheet is tangled around your legs, useless. There are marks on you. You can feel them without looking.
Dark bruises blooming along your inner thighs, your waist, the soft underside of your arm where his hand lingered too long.
His eyes open.
They’re already focused.
“Don’t,” he says immediately, voice rough with sleep. Not angry. Not gentle. Just certain. His hand comes down, firm on your hip, holding you still. “You’ll make it worse.”
You freeze, breath caught.
He looks you over openly, assessing. There’s no embarrassment in his gaze, no softness, but there is satisfaction.
“You pushed yourself,” Aerion murmurs, almost to himself. “I told you not to tense like that.”
You swallow. “You didn’t stop.”
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.
“No, you are right, cousin,” he agrees. “I didn’t.”
He shifts then, carefully, rising onto one elbow. The movement makes you more aware of your own body, how sore you are, how every small motion pulls.
Aerion notices your wince immediately.
“Hmh.” His thumb presses into your hip, not unkindly, testing. “You’re not injured.”
It isn’t reassurance. It’s a verdict.
Still, he reaches for the bell without asking, gives it a single sharp ring. When the servants come later, he dismisses them just as quickly, taking the basin himself. You watch from the bed, dazed, as he wets the cloth and returns.
“If I ruin you, you’ll be no use to me.”
The cloth is warm. He cleans you with deliberate care, efficient, thorough, avoiding nothing.
His touch lingers where it doesn’t need to, thumb brushing bruised skin as if cataloguing it. You feel him pause once, just long enough for his breath to change.
“Good,” he murmurs. “They suit you.”
Your stomach flips.
When he’s finished, he sets the cloth aside and smooths the sheet back over you, palm resting briefly on your abdomen. Possessive. Thoughtful. As though imagining something beneath his hand that isn’t there yet.
“You’ll rest today,” Aerion says. “No walking the galleries. No visits to court. You stay here.” He looks at you, eyes bright with quiet certainty.
He lies back beside you, close enough that you can feel his heat again, his arm settling around you like it belongs there.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Just Aerion Targaryen, ensuring that what is his remains intact and ready.
By the time you realise it, Aerion already has.
It’s in the way his questions change, less accusatory, more precise. The way he watches you when you think he isn’t. The way his hand lingers at your wrist when you grow light-headed, his thumb pressing there as if counting something only he can feel.
“How many days?” he asks one evening, voice deceptively calm.
You hesitate. He looks up from where he’s seated, expression sharpening instantly.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Aerion says. “You know what I’m asking.”
“…Nearly three weeks,” you admit.
The room goes very still.
Aerion leans back slowly, eyes flicking to the fire, then back to you, already doing the math. You can see it happen behind his eyes, neat and ruthless. When he stands, he closes the distance between you in three strides.
“You’ve been nauseous,” he says. Not a question. “In the mornings. You haven’t touched wine. And you’ve been tired.” His fingers tilt your chin up, possessive but controlled.
“You should have told me.”
“I wasn’t sure,” you say quietly.
His grip tightens.
"I am"
The maester is summoned the next morning. You sit on the edge of the bed while Aerion paces like a caged animal, every movement coiled with tension.
The old man finally clears his throat, "It is without doubt, my Prince. The Princess is with child."
For a heartbeat, you think he hasn’t heard.
Then he laughs.
It’s low and incredulous, like something has finally aligned in the world. He turns to you, eyes bright.
“You see?” he says, almost triumphant. He crosses the room and takes your face in both hands, thumbs warm against your cheeks. “I told them. I told them all.”
The maester is dismissed with a wave and the door shuts. Silence falls, thick and charged.
Aerion doesn’t let go of you.
“My heir,” he murmurs, then corrects himself, “Our child.”
He studies you like he’s seeing you properly for the first time, pride written openly across his face. His hand slides to your abdomen, reverent now, protective in a way that feels startling on him.
“You did well,” he says. Praise, bare and unguarded.
You look up at him. “Was it ever in doubt?”
Something flickers in his expression, something almost like fondness.
His forehead rests briefly against yours. When he kisses you, it’s not hungry. Not demanding. It’s slow, claiming, deliberate, like a seal pressed into hot wax.
When he pulls back, his hand never leaves you.
“No one touches you now,” he says softly. “No one questions you. You are carrying fire.”
And for the first time since you became his wife, Aerion Targaryen looks at you not just as a means, but as something precious he intends to guard.
Aerion Targaryen x reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Your uncle guards the royal family with his life, and yet when the prince turns his attention to you, it derails your whole life. What happens behind closed doors becomes a pattern no one names, and a claim no one dares to challenge.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, coercion, unprotected sex, fingering, loss of virginity, she's like incredibly innocent and inexperienced, corruption (!), dub-con/non-con vibes, this is DARK so reader discretion
A/N: i apologise i got very carried away with this fic, its like dark af. ive been sat watching the olympics marinating in my Aerion obsession, so yeah theres been plenty of time for writing <3
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 6.0k
The hall is loud in the way it always is when the court gathers. There are too many voices layered over one another, silk brushing stone, the faint clatter of cups and plates as servants move through the crowd.
You stand where you are meant to stand, just behind your uncle's shoulder, hands folded neatly before you.
This is familiar ground.
You have learned how to make yourself small in rooms like this, how to take up as little space as courtesy allows.
Your uncle speaks to another member of the Kingsguard, you listen without really hearing, eyes drifting over banners and torchlight, the gold-threaded dragons that catch the glow and throw it back. The heat of the room settles against your skin.
You think, distantly, about how long you will be expected to stand here before you are dismissed.
Aerion Targaryen has also been bored for most of the evening.
The faces blur together from his vantage at the high table; lords too eager to be seen, ladies too careful with their smiles. He watches them with the faint disdain of someone who has learned the shape of courtly games and found them wanting. His attention drifts, idle, over the room.
It snags on you by accident.
Not because you are loud. Not because you are remarkable in any way the court would name. You are standing half a step behind your uncle, head inclined, eyes lowered in the practised manner of someone who has learned where to place herself.
It is the ordinariness of the gesture that catches him, the way you seem to exist as an extension of another man’s duty.
He knows your uncle well enough. Knows the shape of his loyalty, the steadiness of his service. He has bled for the crown; he has knelt for it. The thought that this, too, belongs to that service; your quiet presence at his shoulder, settles into Aerion’s mind with a peculiar weight.
You glance up at the banners and then away again, attention already moving on. Your face holds no awareness of him. The lack of recognition is almost refreshing.
Aerion leans back in his seat, gaze lingering.
He notes how young you look in the soft torchlight, though not a child, grown enough that the court would not question your presence here, grown enough that your name might one day be spoken in negotiations and favours.
He imagines it spoken now, just to himself. He already knows it, of course. He knows where you come from. He knows what family you are an extension of.
You shift your weight slightly as the crowd moves, a small adjustment to keep from being jostled. Your uncle's hand comes up briefly, a quiet, unconscious check that you are still there. The gesture is so ordinary it almost goes unnoticed.
Aerion’s mouth curves, faintly.
He looks away after that, attention drawn back to the hall, to the murmur of the court and the empty words traded in his presence. But the image of you settles into him and does not quite leave.
That night, you think you are alone.
The fire has burned low, leaving your chambers wrapped in a soft, wavering half-light. You have already unpinned your hair and changed into a thin shift meant only for sleep. The quiet is heavy in the way it always is when the castle settles for the night, the Red Keep sighing around you with distant footsteps and murmured guards.
You are brushing out the last of the tangles when you feel it.
Not a sound or movement.
Just that sudden, pricking awareness of being watched. Your breath catches. You turn slowly, heart stuttering in your chest.
He stands just inside the door.
Aerion Targaryen does not look as though he has crept in. He stands with the easy confidence of someone who has never learned to fear being anywhere he wishes to be. The door is closed behind him.
You do not remember hearing it open.
For a moment, your mind refuses to make sense of what your eyes are telling you. This is not a place princes come. Not unannounced, and definitely not unguarded. Your first instinct is that you are about to be reprimanded for something you cannot name, that you have somehow done wrong without knowing it.
You drop the brush, and it hits the floor with a soft thud.
“My prince,” you breathe, the words coming out thin. You sink into a hurried, awkward curtsy, pulse roaring in your ears. Your thoughts scatter; your uncle serves the crown, your house is loyal, you have never even spoken to him before. You have done nothing wrong.
His eyes move over you in an unhurried sweep. Not leering. Not hurried. But assessing. You are acutely aware of how little the thin fabric hides, how undone you are, hair loose around your shoulders, no jewels, no silks, nothing that marks you as courtly or prepared to be seen.
“So this is where they keep you,” he says mildly.
The words land wrong. Not cruel. Not kind. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach tighten.
You do not know what to say. You have been taught how to speak to princes in daylight, in halls full of witnesses. You have not been taught how to speak to one who appears in your bedchamber after dark.
“I- if you need something, I can fetch my uncle-”
He takes a single step forward. The room seems to shrink around him.
“No,” Aerion says softly. “You won’t do that.”
Your breath stutters. The command is not loud. It doesn’t need to be. There is something in his tone that suggests refusal is not a thing that exists between you and him.
He comes closer, slow, deliberate. You find yourself backing up without quite meaning to, until the edge of the bed presses into the backs of your knees. Your heart is pounding so hard you are certain he must be able to hear it.
“You don’t look like you expected a visitor,” he remarks.
You swallow. “I didn't.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “You will learn.”
His gaze lifts to your face at last. It is sharp, unsettlingly intent, as though he is trying to read something in you. Fear, perhaps, or innocence.
The shape of how easily you might bend.
You have the terrible sense of being seen in a way you never have been before, not as someone’s niece, not as a polite presence in the background of court, but as something singular.
“You don’t even look at me,” he notes.
You realise you have dropped your eyes again without meaning to. You force yourself to raise them, meeting his gaze for the briefest moment before it feels too heavy to hold.
He notices that too.
“So sheltered,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “They keep you all soft and unknowing, don’t they?”
Your hands curl in the fabric of your shift. You are not sure whether you are being insulted, or something else entirely. The room feels too warm.
He steps close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, the solid reality of his presence. You are acutely aware of the difference between you, his height, his certainty, the way he fills the space without effort.
“I noticed you tonight,” he says, simply.
Your chest tightens. You do not remember doing anything to be noticed.
“You stood where you were told. You kept your eyes down. You didn’t even realise I was looking at you.” His mouth curves. “That is either very wise or very foolish.”
"I meant no disrespect, my prince"
His hand lifts.
For a second, you think he is going to strike you. The thought flashes bright and terrifying through your mind. Instead, his fingers catch a loose strand of your hair, lifting it, letting it slide through his hand.
The touch is light, but the effect is not.
“You will learn to look where I tell you to look. To stand where I place you. To understand what is expected of you.”
“You belong,” Aerion finishes, eyes dark on yours, “to me now.”
The silence stretches between you like a drawn blade, and in that terrible quiet, understanding finally crashes over you like a cold wave.
His eyes, those pale violet eyes that have been watching you with such unsettling intensity since he entered your chambers, drop deliberately to your mouth, then lower still, tracing the line of your throat and neckline of your nightgown.
When his gaze returns to yours there's something preying in his expression, something that makes your breath catch and your heart hammer harder against your ribs.
"You've only just realised," Aerion says softly, and there's dark amusement threading through his voice. "How innocent you truly are."
You take an instinctive step backward, but there's nowhere to go. He remains perfectly still, watching your retreat with the patience of a predator who knows his prey cannot escape.
"My prince, I-" Your voice emerges barely above a whisper. "It's late. If someone were to find you here-"
"No one will disturb us." He says it with absolute certainty, and you realise with a sinking feeling that he's right.
He's a Targaryen prince.
Who would dare question his presence anywhere in the Red Keep? Who would dare protect you from him?
"You're trembling," Aerion observes, taking a single step toward you. You force yourself not to retreat again, though every instinct screams at you to run. "Are you frightened of me?"
The honest answer catches in your throat.
Yes, I'm terrified.
But you can't say that to a prince, can you? You've been taught your whole life to be gracious, obedient, and respectful to your betters.
"I'm... uncertain of your intentions, my prince," you manage, trying to keep your voice steady.
His mouth curves into something that might be a smile if it reached his eyes.
"Uncertain." He repeats the word as though tasting it. "Such a diplomatic answer. You've been well-trained." Another step closer. "But I think you know exactly what my intentions are. You simply don't want to acknowledge them."
"The crown has been generous to your family," Aerion continues, his voice soft and terrible. "Your uncle serves in the Kingsguard. Your father holds his lands by royal decree. Everything you have, everything you are, exists because the throne permits it."
He's close enough now that you can see the silver-gold of his hair in the candlelight, feel the warmth of his body. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
You do. You belong to the crown as surely as any piece of property, any holding or title. And he is the crown's son.
"Yes," you whisper, because what else can you say?
"Yes, what?"
Your throat tightens. "Yes, my prince."
"Good," the word is almost gentle. His hand rises, and you flinch involuntarily, but he only traces one finger along your jawline, tipping your face up to meet his gaze. "You're lovelier up close."
"Thank you, my prince," you manage to answer, mostly because you're scared of the consequences if you don't.
"So innocent," he murmurs, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "So sheltered. Tell me, has anyone ever touched you?"
The question sends mortification burning through you. You try to look away, but his hand on your jaw prevents it. "Answer me."
"No." The word emerges small and ashamed. "No, my prince."
"No one?" His eyes gleam with something dark and satisfied. "Not even yourself?"
"My prince, please-"
"Answer the question."
Tears of humiliation prick at your eyes. "No. I- I wouldn't. It would be sinful."
"Sinful," he repeats, and now he does smile, sharp and cruel. "Oh, my sweet, obedient little dove. The things I'm going to teach you tonight will make you reconsider your definition of sin."
Your breath comes faster now, panic rising in your chest. "Please. I'm not- I don't-"
"You don't what? Want this?" His other hand settles on your waist, possessive and sure.
You shake your head against his hand, "No, of course not, my prince, I would be honoured but-"
"It's irrelevant. You belong to me now. I've decided it. Do you think your wants matter against a prince's claim?"
"Someone will hear," you try desperately. "Someone will know-"
"And they'll say nothing." His certainty is absolute. "Because I'm Aerion Targaryen. Who would risk my displeasure to defend you from dishonour?" His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer. "Your uncle? He's sworn to obey the royal family. Your father? He's too far away and too dependent on the crown's favour."
The terrible truth of it settles over you like a shroud. He's right. You're alone with him, and no one will help you, and he knows it.
"But perhaps," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "you don't want to be saved. Perhaps there's a part of you that's curious. That wonders what it would be like to be touched by a prince, to be claimed by dragon's blood."
His hand moves up your spine, and despite your fear, despite everything, your body responds with a shiver that has nothing to do with cold. "There it is. Your body knows, even if your mind hasn't accepted it yet."
"I don't-" But your protest dies as his mouth descends to your throat, pressing against the pulse point there. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever experienced, warm and wet and intimate in a way that makes your knees weaken.
"Don't lie to me," he murmurs against your skin. "I can feel your heart racing. I can feel you trembling. Fear and desire aren't as different as you might think."
His teeth graze your throat, and a sound escapes you, half gasp, half whimper. Shame floods through you at your body's betrayal, but you can't control it. You've never been touched like this, never even imagined being touched like this.
"That's better," Aerion says approvingly. "Stop fighting. Accept what this is. You might not believe it, but I'm not here to hurt you." His hands move to the ties of your nightgown, and your own hands fly up instinctively to stop him.
"Please," you whisper, one last desperate plea. "Please, my prince. I'm not ready. I don't know-"
"I know." He catches your wrists easily, holding them in one hand while the other continues its work. "That's what makes this perfect. You're mine to shape, mine to teach. No one else has touched you. No one else ever will. Only me."
The ties come loose, and cool air touches your skin as he draws the nightgown down your shoulders. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to watch your own ruin, but his voice cuts through the darkness.
"Look at me."
You don't want to, you do not know how.
"Look. At. Me." Each word is a command, and you find yourself obeying despite everything, opening your eyes to meet his gaze.
"Good girl. You're going to watch. You're going to see exactly what I do to you, so you never forget this night."
The nightgown falls away completely, pooling at your feet, and you stand before him naked and exposed. His eyes travel over you with undisguised hunger, possessive and thorough.
You've never felt more vulnerable in your life.
"Perfect," he breathes. "Absolutely perfect. And all mine."
He releases your wrists to touch you properly, and you stand frozen as his hands map your body; shoulders, collarbones, the curve of your breasts. When his thumbs brush over your nipples, you gasp at the shock of sensation, and he makes a satisfied sound.
"Sensitive. I thought you might be." He does it again, watching your face as you struggle not to react. "Your body is honest, even when you try to hide. See how it responds to me? How it knows what it was made for?"
"My prince, we should not be doing this. It is wrong," you whisper, even as heat pools low in your belly.
"This is inevitable." He lowers his head, and his mouth closes over one breast, hot and wet. Your hands come up to his shoulders, to push him away, you tell yourself, but instead you find yourself gripping the fabric of his doublet as your knees threaten to give out entirely.
He takes his time, lavishing attention on your breasts until you're gasping and shaking, until the fear has tangled so completely with sensation that you can't separate them anymore. Then he straightens, and his hands move to his own clothing.
"Help me," he commands, and when you hesitate, "Now."
Your fingers fumble with the fastenings of his doublet, clumsy and inexperienced. He watches you struggle with that same dark amusement, making no move to help, forcing you to participate in your own undoing.
When you finally get the doublet open, he shrugs it off, then guides your hands to the ties of his shirt.
"You've never undressed a man before," he observes. "Never even seen one naked, have you?"
You shake your head mutely, face burning.
"Another first I'm taking from you. Another thing that will always be mine."
When his chest is bare, he catches your hand and places it flat against his skin. His body is warm, solid, real in a way that makes this all undeniably happening. You can feel his heart beating under your palm, steady and sure where yours is racing.
"Touch me," he says. "Learn what a man feels like. What I feel like."
You don't want to, but your hand moves anyway, exploring tentatively. His skin is smooth over hard muscle, so different from your own softness. He watches your face the entire time, reading every flicker of emotion, every hint of reluctant curiosity.
When he begins unlacing his breeches, you look away, but his hand catches your chin.
"Watch," he reminds you. "You don't get to hide from this."
So you watch, heart in your throat, as he reveals himself completely. The sight of him, fully aroused and clearly intent on you, sends a fresh wave of panic through your system.
"Don't look so frightened," he says, though there's satisfaction in his voice, some twisted part of him that enjoys your fear. "I'll make it good for you. Eventually." He steps closer, and you feel him against your belly, hard and hot and impossible to ignore. "But first, you need to understand something. This-" his hand slides between your legs without warning and you whimper in shock, "-belongs to me now. Your innocence, your body, your pleasure. All of it. Mine."
His fingers explore you with a kind of confident familiarity. The sensation is overwhelming, too much, and you try to close your legs, but he prevents it easily.
"Stay still," he orders. "Let me feel you. Let me see how wet you are for me despite all your pretend protests."
Shame burns through you as his fingers slide through your folds, discovering the evidence of your body's betrayal. You are wet, despite your fear, despite your hesitation, and he makes sure you know he's noticed.
One finger circles your entrance, teasing, and you tense in anticipation of invasion. But he doesn't push inside yet, just continues that maddening exploration, building sensation despite your resistance. "I could take you now. Throw you on that bed and claim you quickly, get it over with. But where's the pleasure in that? No, I want you desperate first. I want you begging."
"I won't," you gasp out. "I won't beg you for this."
His smile is cruel. "We'll see."
He walks you backward until your legs hit the bed, then pushes you down onto it. You land on your back, and he follows you down, covering your body with his. You turn your face away, and he allows it this time, his mouth finding your throat instead.
"I'm going to touch you until you're trembling," he murmurs against your skin. "Until you're so desperate for release that you forget to be afraid. And then, when you're ready, when your body is ready, I'm going to take your maidenhead and make you mine in truth."
His hand returns between your legs, and this time his touch is more purposeful. He finds a spot that makes you jerk and gasp, and he focuses there, circling and stroking with maddening patience. The sensation builds despite your attempts to resist it, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.
"That's it," he encourages darkly.
You bite your lip, trying to stay silent, but small sounds escape anyway, whimpers and gasps that you can't control. Your hips move without your permission, seeking more of that terrible, wonderful friction.
"Look how quickly you learn," Aerion says with satisfaction. "Stop fighting it."
His finger finally pushes inside you, and the intrusion makes you tense. It's strange, uncomfortable, foreign. But he works you patiently, adding a second finger, stretching you while his thumb continues its work on that sensitive spot.
The dual sensations war within you, discomfort and pleasure, violation and need.
"So tight," he breathes. "So perfect. You're going to feel exquisite around my cock."
The crude words make you flush, but your body clenches around his fingers in response, and he laughs softly.
"You like that. You like hearing what I'm going to do to you." His fingers curl inside you, finding some spot that makes you cry out. "There it is. Your body has so many secrets, and I'm going to learn every one of them."
He works you with skilled precision, building the pleasure higher and higher until you're writhing beneath him, until the fear has been consumed by sensation, until you're making sounds you've never made before.
Your hands clutch at the bedding, at his shoulders, seeking anchor in the storm of feeling.
"Please," you hear yourself gasp, though you're not sure what you want.
"Please what?" His voice is dark with triumph. "Please stop? Please continue? Please make you come? You need to be specific."
You can't answer, can't think, can only feel as he drives you higher. The pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, "Come for me," he commands. "Just let go. Let me feel it."
Your body obeys him as though it belongs to him already, and the release crashes over you in waves. You cry out, back arching, inner muscles clenching around his fingers as pleasure whites out your vision. "What was that you said about not begging?"
He works you through it, prolonging it, until you're gasping and oversensitive and trembling. "Beautiful," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers. "Absolutely beautiful. And that was just my hand. Imagine what it will feel like when I'm inside you properly."
You're still floating in the aftermath, mind hazy, when you feel him position himself between your legs. The blunt pressure of him against your entrance brings reality crashing back.
"Wait," you gasp. "Please, wait-"
"No more waiting." His voice is firm. "You'll be fine."
He pushes forward, and the stretch is immediate. You cry out, hands flying to his chest, but he catches your wrists and pins them above your head.
"Breathe," he instructs. "Don't fight it. Accept it."
But it hurts, the invasion too much, too large, splitting you open. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as he continues his steady advance, claiming you inch by inch.
"That's it," he soothes, though there's possession in his voice, not comfort. "Take me. Take all of me."
When he's fully seated inside you, he pauses, letting you adjust to the fullness. You're breathing hard, tears on your cheeks, and he leans down to lick them away.
"You're mine now," he whispers against your skin. "Completely, irrevocably mine. No one else will ever have this. No one else will ever know you like this." He begins to move, slow withdrawals and deep thrusts that make you gasp. "Say it. Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," you whisper, because it's true now, because he's made it true.
"Again."
"I'm yours, my prince."
"Good girl." His pace increases, and the pain begins to fade, replaced by a strange fullness, a building pressure. "Such a good, obedient girl. Taking your prince's cock so well."
His words should shame you, but instead they send heat through your system. Your body adjusts to him, accepts him, the pleasure begins to build again.
It shouldn't feel good, shouldn't feel like anything but violation, but your body responds to the friction, to the fullness, to the way he angles his hips to hit that spot inside you.
"You feel it, don't you?" He reads your body like a book. "You're going to come on my cock. You're going to come while I take your maidenhead, and you'll never be able to deny that your body wanted this."
"No," you protest weakly, but he's right. The pleasure builds despite everything, despite your shame, despite your fear. His body moves over yours with practiced skill, taking you with deep, possessive strokes that claim you utterly.
"Yes," he counters.
One of his hands releases your wrist to slide between your bodies, finding that sensitive spot again. The added stimulation is too much, and you feel yourself climbing toward that peak again, helpless to stop it.
"Come," he orders. "Come for me while I'm inside you. You can do it."
Your body obeys, clenching around him as pleasure crashes through you again. You hear yourself cry out his name and his answering groan of satisfaction as your body milks his.
"That's it," he gasps. "That's perfect. You're perfect."
His thrusts become harder, more erratic, chasing his own release. You lie beneath him, overwhelmed and oversensitive, as he uses your body for his pleasure. When he finally reaches his peak, he buries himself deep and spills inside you with a groan, marking you internally as surely as he's marked you in every other way.
He collapses over you, breathing hard, and you lie there stunned and trembling, trying to process what just happened. What you just did. What you just became.
After a long moment, he withdraws, and you feel the evidence of your lost innocence between your thighs. He looks down at it with dark satisfaction.
"There," he says softly. "Now it's done. You're no longer an innocent maiden." He traces a finger through the mess on your thigh, then brings it to your lips. "Taste it. Taste what we made together."
You turn your face away, but he's insistent.
"Taste it, or I'll take you again right now, while you're still sore and sensitive."
Reluctantly, you part your lips, and he slides his finger into your mouth. The taste is strange, copper and salt and something else, and you feel tears slide down your temples at the degradation of it.
"Good girl," he praises, withdrawing his finger.
He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you against his body in a mockery of tenderness. You lie rigid in his arms, mind reeling.
"This is just the beginning," Aerion murmurs into your hair, hand sliding possessively over your hip. "I'll visit you whenever I please. I'll take you whenever I want. And you'll accept it, won't you?"
You close your eyes, unable to answer. Your body still tingles with the aftermath of pleasure, even as your mind recoils from what happened.
And the worst part, the part you'll never be able to admit aloud, is that some dark, hidden part of you loved it.
Wanted it.
Wants him still.
"Sleep," he commands softly. "You'll need your strength. I'm not nearly done with you yet."
You belong to Aerion Targaryen now, in every way that matters.
And there's nothing you can do about it.
It becomes a pattern.
Not announced nor acknowledged. But inevitable, the way storms are inevitable once the air turns heavy enough.
Aerion comes to you at night.
Sometimes he arrives when the Keep is still loud with distant laughter and music, when courtiers linger too long over wine and secrets. Sometimes he comes when the halls have gone quiet, when even the servants have learned to walk softly.
You never hear him approach. You only ever realise he is there when the door is already closed and the air in the room feels different.
Your uncle stands guard in the corridor.
The knowledge sits in your chest like a stone. You know the sound of his boots. You know the rhythm of his breathing when he pauses at the far end of the hall. You know that he believes he is protecting you from intruders, from drunken lords, from the careless dangers of court.
He does not know he is guarding the door against a prince.
The first time it occurs to you, really occurs to you, you feel faint with it. The wrongness. The way duty and betrayal sit side by side, impossible to untangle.
You lie awake one night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet shift of movement beyond your door, and you wonder what it would mean if he ever knew. If you would be ruined. If your house would be.
Aerion laughs when you finally whisper your fear to him.
“They would thank me,” he says lazily, as though you have said something amusing. He is seated at the edge of your bed, boots still on, crown discarded somewhere you cannot see. “You are safer with me than with any number of old men with swords.”
It is the way he says safer that unsettles you.
“You don’t want them to know,” he tells you, fingers idly tracing the line of your wrist. “The court is cruel. They chew soft things to pieces. I am sparing you that.”
You think of the way eyes linger on you during the day now. The way conversations falter when you enter a room. The way someone laughed too sharply behind their hand when you passed last week. You do not know what they know, but you know they sense something.
Being chosen leaves a mark, even when no one can name it.
And then there are some nights when you tell yourself you should refuse him, but the thought never survives the sound of his voice at your door.
There is a terrible relief in the regularity of it.
In knowing when the world will narrow to the size of your chambers, to the weight of his presence, to the certainty of his attention.
“It suits you,” Aerion remarks one evening, watching you with that sharp, considering gaze. “This waiting. This quiet obedience.”
You bristle at the word obedience, but he only smiles, smug and unrepentant.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like being kept,” he adds. “I see the way you look when you hear my steps.”
It is humiliating, how true that is.
“You should be grateful,” he tells you, not unkindly. “I could leave you to the mercy of rumour. Instead, I keep you close.”
You always feel guilty in the quiet hours before dawn, when the Keep is hushed and your thoughts have room to turn on you. Guilty for the ease with which you let this become your reality. Guilty for the way part of you thrills at being singled out by someone so dangerous, so untouchable. Guilty for the strange, unwanted comfort of knowing exactly where you stand with him, even if that place is beneath.
“You are mine,” Aerion repeats, he does so every time you see him, as though it is the simplest truth in the world. “And I take care of what belongs to me.”
The arrangement settles into something that feels almost… stable.
It is dangerous. But it's also intoxicating.
A couple of weeks later, the hall is too bright for secrets.
Torchlight glints off gold and polished stone, off goblets raised in careless toasts. Music spills across the floor in slow, measured rhythms meant for noble couples and careful steps. You stand at the edge of the crowd, doing what you have learned to do best; be present without being seen.
It does not work tonight.
You feel the shift before you see him. The way conversations falter. The way heads turn, then turn away too quickly.
Aerion enters the hall like a disturbance in still water, and the court parts around him without thinking. He is dressed for spectacle, black and gold, the dragon stitched into his shoulder, every inch a prince.
His eyes find you immediately.
The look is not subtle.
Your stomach tightens. You tell yourself not to react, not to let the heat of his attention show on your face. You lower your gaze, as you have taught yourself to do, but it does not seem to matter. He is already crossing the floor.
When he reaches you, he does not bow. Does not offer polite words. He takes your hand.
The contact is casual to anyone watching. Familiar enough to be remarked upon, not scandalous enough to be protested. Your fingers curl around his, breath catching as he draws you out of the safety of the shadows and into the open space of the dance floor.
“You’re hiding,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear. “That no longer suits you.”
The music swells. The dancers part for you both, forming a loose circle of watching faces. You feel every eye on your back, on the way his hand settles at your waist as though it has always belonged there. The placement is deliberate. Possessive.
Too intimate to be mistaken.
Your heart is hammering. “People are watching.”
“Good,” Aerion says lightly.
He guides you into the dance without asking. His hand is firm at your lower back, fingers splayed. You move because he moves you, your steps falling into rhythm with his as the court looks on. You have never been this visible in your life.
The taboo hums in the air between you.
It is not forbidden, not truly. Your blood is noble. Your house stands high enough that no one can cry scandal without inviting dangerous questions of their own.
There are rules, yes, but rules bend for princes. The wrongness of it is softer than rumour, sharper than law. No one can say it is wrong.
They can only watch.
Aerion’s thumb presses into your side as you turn, a subtle reminder of where you belong in his orbit. He draws you closer than the dance requires. Too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through layers of silk and brocade.
“You feel them staring,” he says, a smile in his voice. “You always do.”
You swallow. “This isn’t discreet.”
He laughs quietly. “I’m tired of discreet.”
The word is a dismissal of the small mercy he once pretended this was.
You catch your reflection in the polished surface of a nearby goblet as you turn, a flash of your face, too flushed, too aware, his hand too sure at your waist. The visual of you together is stark. Prince and girl. Dragon and something caught in its shadow.
You see the way it must look to them, the imbalance written into the very way you stand.
Aerion does not care.
He guides you through the final turn of the dance and does not release you when the music softens. His hand remains at your back. His gaze lingers on you, unapologetic, daring anyone to speak.
Let them see, the look says.
Let them understand what cannot be undone.
The whispers start before the music has even faded. You feel them like a current, brushing past your skin, carrying your name on mouths that do not dare speak it too loudly.
Aerion leans in, close enough that his breath warms your ear.
“You’re done being hidden,” he tells you. “Anyone who has eyes can see what you are to me.”
The claim is not shouted. It does not need to be.
The court has already heard it.
idk what happened here i like blanked lol, im working on like 2 fics atm, one is a part 2 to 'marked by gold' which seems to be in high demand <3
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