𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚏

𝖓𝖊𝖜 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 She/her, 19

[whyamihere666]

Welcome ── .✦

Hi!! my names Lucy and im still pretty new to tumblr. there is nsfw content on my blog so it’s gonna be 18+! id love to go get to know knew people and geek out so please don’t hesitate to dm me! anyway yeah- also im SUPER open to any requests you may have<3 thank u for checking out my page !!

MASTERLIST

Fandoms I will write for:

-game of thrones

-akotsk

-hotd

-marvel

-harry potter

-bridgerton

-peaky blinders

-DC comics

-supernatural

[whyamihere666]

would any of u be interested in a maekar x reader fic where reader is a secret scandal writer? (sort of like lady whistedown from bridgerton)

i need this NOW

not rlly…

Remaining time: 2 days 6 hours

also!! for those of u who are interested, comment and I’ll tag you once it’s posted :))

[whyamihere666]

i’ll be good

daeron x wife!reader 18+ MDNI

Summary: you and your husband are having trouble producing an heir. luckily, daeron is given a remedy in the midst of his drunken stupor.

Warnings: mentions of infertility, brief mention of somnophilia, sex pollen, needy daeron, kinda sub!daeron, body worship, established relationship, drinking, heavy breeding kink undertones, no first name mentioned/ no use of y/n, daeron and reader are VERY in love

WC: 2.7k

Nearly a year had passed since your vows were spoken beside Daeron. Your union was one of rare harmony, for affection dwelled between you faithfully. You both found joy in one another‘s company, and understanding flowed as naturally as a gentle stream. No harsh words dared linger, and your hearts remained inclined toward one another.

Especially considering Daeron is no easy man to love. Despite his challenges you made them your own and restlessly helped him overcome his burdens. It was no easy feat, and there was still much to be done. There was a time he feared your children would be plagued by his visions, or he would forsee something unforgivable about the child.

The unlikely, complicated beauty of your marriage was well known to the realm. However, the royal cradle remained empty. The bed prepared for young dragons remained untouched, gathering silence where laughter ought to dwell. 

Throughout town and country-side alike, tongues wagged with endless conjecture. Whether sickness had plagued you or Daeron, whether the Seven themselves had simply denied you the fruitful blessing or some other mystery pertaining to your husband‘s fondness of wine. 

Yet all who beheld the two of you deemed your devotion true and steadfast. 

Your love endured through idle speculation, yes, but that didn‘t stop Daeron from feeling like a poor excuse of a husband. You reassured him relentlessly, told him how the vision that besieges his thoughts does not make you love him any less. And he believes you, rightfully so. 

At times wine would soften his spirit and draw forth tears he would sooner have hidden. All that he despised about within himself rose from the depths of his heart and stood plainly before him. Daeron sought to drown such thoughts beneath yet more wine and ale, but on one fateful night his sorrow left him stripped of all defenses.   

“Easy, my Prince. Another glass and you‘ll drink yourself into the grave.“ 

The barkeep tutted Daeron as he draped himself over the counter, finding himself in another stupor. Demeaning thoughts taunted his mind as he sat, I‘m not the husband she deserves, and father would be happier with me in a tomb. 

“Just one more, then I‘ll leave. Swear it.“ 

Daeron mutters through slurred words and half promises. Before he‘s given the chance to reach for his fresh new glass, he‘s met with another barkeep sliding it across the counter. 

Barkeep was a bit of a strong statement. She was a frail older woman, age resting lightly upon her spirit. Though her body bore the marks of many winters. Deep lines framed her face, yet her keen eyes sparkled with knowledge gathered from herb, root and star. 

Daeron could‘ve sworn his dreams were melting in with reality, unsure of where the other man left and when she had replaced him. 

“No wine in your great castle, my Prince?“ The woman croaked, offering him a snide grin from where she stood, hunched. 

“Or does the princess not like it when you indulge?“

Her grin deepens and she watches her bold words unfurl in his mind. Daeron would never be the sort of prince to inflict harm on an old woman for such words, especially not in his state. 

“She doesn‘t mind. ‘Jus want to leave her to her own peace. I have given her little enough already. A rightful husband is to give a wife a family and future. I have given her neither.“ 

Daeron was slightly surprised at how fast the words left him, unmindfully tumbling from his wine-stained lips.

“You‘ve got it all backward, princeling. The question isn‘t whether you‘ve given her those things. The question is whether you‘ve shown her they still matter to you. Ain‘t much romance in a man sleeping on a tavern stool.“ 

He digests her words in his clouded, drunken mind. It all pieced together for him then, and he had newfound conquest to prove his devotion to you.

“Well? How do you reckon I can?“ 

The woman is already reaching for a small vile kept away from the neat rows of wine bottles. The vile clinks as it meet the rings on her fingers, 

“This should do handsomely.“ 

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

There were very few comforts that surpassed reclining in a royal bed, a book nestled in your lap, whilst candles burn low and a warm mug steams beside you. It was one of those nights to yourself as Daeron scavenged a local village for their wine. You knew he took comfort being outside the confines of the keep, so these nights never had a way of bothering you.

Truthfully, you could die happily right there. Freshly cleaned hair, floral oils still fresh on your bathed skin and a clean silk chemise wrapped around your body. 

You held no disdain for the quiet, you cherished it. Such gentle moments were a rare blessing amid the endless demands of court. Few would ever dare speak it aloud, but the burden of a princess‘s station was heavier than most could fathom. Thus, the solitary hours felt nothing short of perfect, 

That was, until you heard your bed chamber door groan as it opened.

“Daeron? Are you back, my love?“ 

You don't spare him a glance from your book as he shuffles into the room, his steps sounding heavier with each one he took. Even in great splendors of drunkenness, the cadence of his steps seemed highly unusual.     

You hear him groan as he approaches the bed, kicking off his boots with a sluggish tug.

“Are you well?“ 

You behold him as you glance up from your book, searching his face. An angry red hue flushed in cheeks and ears as sweat began to bead at his forehead. His once lilac eyes were nearly black with how blown his pupils had become. His lips were parted just slightly, taking in desperate hitches of breath as he stared at you with half-lidded eyes. 

“My sweet wife.“ He murmurs with a horse voice as he begins crawling toward you on the bed. His behavior was something you hadn‘t seen before. Surely the both of you enjoy a tiresome fuck when you are nearly taken with sleep and he is drunker than a sailor. But this was different.

This had vigor. 

You had little time to set your book aside as he draped himself on top of you. As your mouth opened anticipating a question, you felt how hot his skin was. Scolding, really. He was a flushed, sweating, restless mess of a man disheveled by the need for his wife. 

You bring the back of your palm to his forehead and cheek, nervously checking for fever. Daeron whines at the contact, nuzzling into your touch. With a vexation worn plainly on your face, you swipe the sweat-slicked hair from his face. 

“Are you well, husband? You feel quite warm.“ 

Your nervous chuckle is caught in your throat as you feel his painfully hard cock nudge into your thigh. 

“Daeron, explain to me what you have done.“ 

You sit up, crossing your arms across your chest awaiting explanation. Daeron symptoms only grow as he gawks at you, mindlessly pawing the covers for your touch. 

“Please, sweet girl, my beautiful, sweet, wife, please just touch m-“

“I‘m not lifting a finger till you explain to me what‘s happened to you. Was it a brothel? Hm? Someone slip you something there?“  

“Mm-mm, no, my love, I swear to you. I did not step foot into one of those.“ 

His slurled words offer you comfort, allowing you to slowly inch back down the bed to where he laid. Your nails begin to scratch the expanse of his back in comforting motion. Daeron let out a groan as you touched him, despite the act being purely innocent. 

“Please, talk to me, Daeron. You‘re worrying me.“ 

“H-hurts…“

“What hurts, my love?“ 

He lets out a whine and begins to buck his hips into the mattress. The friction draws a broken groan from him as he continues to babble and listlessly beg. 

“A witch- she…she gave me something.“ 

“You took something from a witch. Please be joking.“

“She said it‘d give us an heir.“ 

Despite his disordered, wanton state, your heart softened at his words, picturing him drinking a mysterious liquid for the sake of blessing you with a child. Your lips softened into a smile as he peered at you through glassy, desperate eyes.

“Well, how does it work then, what she gave you? Am I to wake already with child?"

You offer your hand to lovingly stroke his cheek, though Daeron takes hold of it, lathering it with sloppy kisses. Your palm, wrist, forearm were being devoured with open-mouth pecks. 

“Mm, not until I‘m through with you. Not until you make me better.“

“And…how am I to do that, sweet boy?“

With the same grip on your wrist, he tugs you. In a blink of an eye, you‘re on top of him, straddling his engorged cock. Daeron looks up at you with eyes that worship, eyes that are peeling off your clothes before he could rip them off you. You stifle a chuckle at the sight. 

Your hand slides down his stomach at an agonizing pace, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

Soon, your hand palms his rigid cock, earning you a strangled whine from deep in his throat. He bucks his hips into your touch, writhing with fervid pleasure.

“Please, my love, ‘nough teasing. I need you. Need you more than anything, please. I‘ll be good.“

“Mm, will you? You want to pound me into the mattress till I can‘t say anything but your name? You want this whole keep to know how good you fuck your wife? How good you make her feel? How wet you make her? And how wet she‘ll be when you cum and fill her up?“ 

Daeron moans at your lewd words, partially frustrated by you enjoying this the way you are. You roll your hips into his clothed cock, earning an open mouthed groan from him. With keen hands you fumble with the ties of his breeches, while he listlessly pleads for you to go faster.

As his cock springs free you inspect his hardness. The tip was a bruised, painful looking purple. While his reddened length twitched with each beat of his heart. His cock was already soaked with precum before you even laid a hand on it. 

“Poor baby, so needy for me.“ 

You pepper his tip with sloppy kisses as he writhes beneath you, watching you intently with his lips parted. As you finish with your torment, you shift yourself onto your stomach, arching your spine. Your tits press into the mattress, still clothed by the chemise, as you feel Daeron bunch the fabric right above your ass. 

He gives one firm smack to the flesh, watching it pinken from the act. You stifle a moan into the sheets as his hands draw you back toward his cock. Without warning, he thrusts, filling you completely in a moment‘s notice. 

You let out a whorish moan into the covertures, feeling yourself already go dumb on his cock. He sets a fast, agonizing pace as he seeks relief from the pleasurable pain the potion had plagued him with. Your fists curl into the sheets in hopes of grounding you from his brutal thrusts.

Daeron pants above you, shallow heaving breaths accompanied by strangled moans. You feel his urgency in the way he slams into you, the way he is so desperately claiming you with each jerk of his hips. It‘s something almost primal, something so intoxicating about his need to mark you. To give you a child, to solidify the profound beautiful love you share into something you can raise. 

As Daeron brutishly fucks you, he envisions your stomach round with child, breasts heavy and swollen with milk. Providing for your child, being a good mother. It‘s as though his purpose dawns on him. It only makes his need to prove his love to you stronger. 

“Seven fucks- what have I done to deserve you, sweet wife? All mine, hm?“

“I…mphh yeah- I‘m yours, Daeron. I am all yours…“ 

The words are broken by rugged movements, but they reach you and Daeron‘s ears all the same. Muttered proclamations of devotion all clouded by the fevorous love-making, so enraptured with one another. 

A sweet moan tore through your throat as his pace deepened, hitting the spot that made drool begin to pool in your mouth. You thoroughly enjoyed fucking your husband in the past, but this was entirely foreign. It was something blissfully won, a filthy coupling of two people who would do anything for each other. 

You could smell the honeyed wine on his breath as he panted into your ear like an animal, so enveloped by the addicting feeling of being inside you. That delectable suck of your cunt around him, how it drools with the sweetest nectar enticing him further. 

Your bed chamber attained a string of echoing plap-plap-plaps, as Daeron‘s bare hips drove into the plump of your ass with vigor. His lips suckled and kissed your neck and below your ear as you whined into the sheets. You were nearly as unraveled as he was. 

“Mm-mhm, that‘s it, my love, that‘s a good girl. Feels so good doesn‘t it.“ 

“Yes-yes-yes, fuck, Daeron!“

At your pleasing cries his pace gains speed, drawing breathless wanton gasps from your throat. Daeron takes a fistfull of the hair at your nape, pulling it slightly in order to raise yourself from the mattress. You rose, forgetting what it was like to breathe. 

“Y‘gonna cum for me, sweet girl? Gonna cum all over my cock while I fill you up?“

“Y-yes, fuck, please, Daeron,“ 

The loud moans escaping you and Daeron‘s lips was nothing short of pure impropriety. The smack of his hips against your ass, the ridges of his cock rubbing against your walls and the loving firm grip he had on your hair sent your orgasm thrashing through you. It came in blissful waves, leaving you a quivering, writhing, moaning mess in Daeron‘s hold. He soon follows, releasing hot thick ropes of cum deep inside your pussy. 

The fatigue soon overtakes you, collapsing onto the bed stripped of all energy. Like orgasm, Daeron is soon to follow, tumbling beneath his own weight beside you. He scoops you up into his arms before you could utter a word. The disquiet world of your lives finds silence as he holds you against his heaving chest, coveting you like your all that matters to him. You nuzzle into his embrace, purring gently at the feeling of his hands running through your hair.

“So, feel any better?“ You murmur in a hushed voice, mindful of the peaceful quiet that fell upon both of you. 

“Much, much, better, my love.“

“I‘m very glad to hear that.“

You hum, gently peppering kisses along his jaw as you drink in the sight of his normal face. His eyes flutter shut, content with the feeling of your body in his arms. 

“And how do you feel, my beautiful wife?“ 

“Mm…good. Very good. A bit different.“

“Different how?“

“Just different from the other times. This one felt significant.“

You peered into his eyes.

“Like…something may come of it.“ 

A smile spreads across his lips as he watches yours grow, basking in the solace of newfound hope. Perhaps the witch had done you a favour after all, granting you something you and your husband wanted desperately.  

“Wait.“

“Hm?“

“I have yet to kiss you.“

You laugh at his remark, recalling the events in your mind. He leaned over with a soft reverence, grasping your chin in his palm. Daeron‘s lips intertwine with your own, not in haste but in silent adoration. The touch was gentle, yet it carried the weight of vows you had spoken before Gods. Your lips lingered for a moment, neither claiming nor retreating. But meeting in a stillness that felt older than language.    

“You are a fool.“

“Any man would be with you as his wife.“ 

[whyamihere666]

Right Here

Ser Duncan x Targaryen!reader

Summary: After being on the road with your sworn protector and younger brother, Egg, you find yourself burdened by the events of a few nights prior, after a group of men from a tavern attempted to kidnap you

Warnings: Vague mentions of kidnapping, no mention of sexual assault, in depth depiction of trauma, nightmares, panic attacks, angst with LOTS of comfort, sfw

WC: 1.8k

Unbidden and most unwelcome, the memory of that dreaded eve lingered within your mind, circling your thoughts like a starved vulture. Whenever you sought peace, your mind recited the cruel remembrance hidden behind your eyes. Several weeks had fled into the past since the mischance befell you. Yet the recollection remains as fresh as newly spilled wine upon snow.

 You would tell yourself many women have endured such tribulations, and that your burdens were not singular beneath the moon. Though the more your gaze rested upon the wound in your thoughts, the deeper it ached. And Seven knows no flesh is healed whilst one keeps watch upon the bleeding. 

Though your mind bore heavy burdens, still one truth stood firm against the storm. Your sworn defender remained the only man worthy of your trust. Ser Duncan. A hulking, fumbling brute to outward eyes, forever tripping over his own words and apologizing for imagined offenses. He would sooner beg forgiveness for breathing loudly than raise his voice in anger at you. 

Yet many a knave and cruel bandit had fled limping from his grasp, their courage shattered alongside their limbs. It troubled your understanding of how a man so mighty in violence could be so soft in spirit.

He had saved you, just some weeks ago from a few rogues who had caught a glimpse of the silver dragon adorning your finger. You fought tirelessly for your survival. Thrashing, clawing, screaming. Though it only exhausted you, turning into a futile attempt of escape.

Before they could haul you into their wagon, your sworn knight fought them till blood sputtered from their lips. You weren‘t certain what had scarred you more. The feeling of their hands, or the pulp-like beating they received. 

In Dunk‘s words, what truly matters was that you, and your brother Egg were safe. Dunk carried the guilt of not saving you sooner like a wet cloak. He kept vigilant watch upon you with unwavering eyes, ever mindful of danger and how it lurks. Dunk would not subject you to further harm with him absent from your side. 

You were grateful for such devotion, yes, for his protective nature had only deepened since that dark affair. Yet still the memory weighed heavily upon your thoughts. And no matter how often you convince yourself of your own safety, your heart remains unpersuaded.   

Rain lashed the inn with savage fury , no different from the cursed night your suffering began. Upon the thin glass of the window the storm drummed and thundered without mercy.

At the sound, a tremor seized your form, as though your soul had been dragged unwillingly back into the memory of that harrowing moment. That terrible, dreadful moment which still haunted your waking thoughts. 

You maintained a cumbersome distance from Dunk in the creaky inn bed. Egg slept next door, most likely already taken by sleep. Dunk laid rigid at the far side of the bed. You both were aware of the impropriety in the circumstance. A sworn hedge knight, and the princess he took an oath to protect.

Though, given the change in weather, you insisted Dunk would‘ve frozen sleeping on the floor, and invited him to join you in the comfort of a termite bitten bed frame and straw mattress. 

“Goodnight to you, Ser. Sleep nicely.“ 

You offer a timid smile before rolling over, trying to nestle deeper into the scratchy covers.

“Don‘t shy to wake me, should you need me.“ 

He answers in a fond, gruff voice. One which he manages to balance exceptionally. His words bring a faint smile to your lips and you squeeze your eyes tight, eager to be met with sleep. You begged the Seven for a peaceful, deep slumber to distract you from who laid next to you. 

Dunk slept like a soldier. One palm cradling the back of his head as he laid on his back. He was always easy to wake, so vigilant even in sleep.

Even in moments like these.

 You woke to the feeling of coarse palms shaking your bare shoulders, coaxing you from sleep. You had been screaming, crying. The ache of your throat and the slick of your cheeks made that clear. Breathing came in shallow, jagged pants as Dunk searched your face. It was the middle of night, when the moon was hung highest. You grasped his hands, desperate for an anchor, something to ground you to reality.

Your mind remained outside that tavern, welcoming being kidnapped for all to see. Before you could stop it, raspy choked cries escaped deep from your chest. For the first time, through the blur of hot tears, Dunk seemed scared. Frightened, even. And that alone terrified you beyond measure.

 His hands seemed hesitant upon your skin, unsure of how to comfort the woman he calls Princess. You watched as he fought angered words of vexation, gruff shouts from a tender place of worry. He opened his mouth yet no sound escaped, not even a stutter. 

Dunk was no stranger to nightmares. Phantoms besieged his thoughts, his younger years stalking the halls of his memory. The harrowing vision of your attack lingered behind your eyes, the tremble of your bones refusing to ease.

A cold dread crept through your veins, thoughts scattered like startled crows. Each rapid thump of your heart struck you as the tolling of a funeral bell. Air grew thin and cruel. You gasped like a drowning man cast into a black fathomless sea, yet no breath brought me comfort.   

Muffled inquiries of assurement sat muffled in your ears, incapable of hearing Dunk through the throb of blood. You could feel each drop being pumped in thick spills, as though it was preparing itself to never pump again. Your breathing soon turned into shallow quivering whimpers, fighting the jerk of tears in your throat. Amidst the blackened veil of nightfall, you stretched forth and laid your trembling body upon his chest.

Beneath your vise-like embrace, you feel him stiffen, hands lingering aloft as though he was uncertain where they ought to rest. You clung to him like an anchor cast into troubled waters, binding you steadfast to the moment. With much hesitation, one arm rests across your back, the other clutching your head as he holds it against him. 

“Shhh, shhh, you‘re safe, sweet girl. I‘m here. I‘m here, princess.“ 

You can taste the worrisome quake in his words, panic stricken by your state. At his comfort you surrender to the whirlwind of emotion, letting raw, thick cries rack through you.

You cling to him tighter allowing your cries to unmindfully spill. The sound devastated Dunk. It tore something tender in his heart, the part of him that cherishes seeing you happy. The part of him that turns red pondering your laugh. It was all his fault, he told himself. 

His calloused knuckles stroked your wayward hair, whispering comforting words into the crown of your head. 

“I‘m so sorry…I- shhh, breathe, breathe.“ 

Your wails only grow louder against his chest, unable to shake the visions plaguing your mind. It was the rain. The same deluge that soaked through your gown as you were nearly taken from everything you love. Your hand cupped your ear in an attempt to shield yourself from the noise. And just like anything, Dunk noticed.  

He gently pushed your hand aside, replacing it with his own. His palm managed to muffle the noise far better than your own, allowing you to succumb to a newfound ease. 

“I know, I know. You‘re safe now,“ He brings you closer to your chest, dwarfing you as you lay against him. His whole torso had swallowed your form entirely, shielded from the world by his frame. Dunk had gathered you in his arms, bestowing gentle kisses upon the crown of your head. His hand stroked your quivering back tenderly, doing anything he could to provide you with ease.

Your desperate gasps began to slow, your tear-slicked cheeks beginning to dry. You felt your bearings return to you as you melted into Dunk‘s hold. 

“You‘re alright, sweet girl, I‘m sorry. Gods, I‘m so sorry for everything, princess. But I‘m here now, aye? I‘m here…“

 His soothing words are followed by more gentle “shhh‘s“, as he listlessly continues running his fingers through your hair. Once your cries had ceased mostly, you pulled away from his chest with a sniffle, raising your head to meet his eyes. 

You peered at him through the veil of tears coating your eyes, where you witnessed his fright tempered by aching affection. Dunk summoned all the strength he had to bring you solace. Though every sob that tore from you undid him. 

He shifted slightly, taking your flushed cheeks into his palms, in a comforting hold. Dunk raised your face closer to his with a wounded love-sick grimace on his face. As he brought your face closer, he closed the gap by placing slow, soft kisses on your tear-stained cheeks, your forehead and your nose. Your sorrowful pout remained as his warm lips brushed your skin, though your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling.

The act was profound in its tenderness, so full of devotion in each peck. Dunk’s heart was bent toward two sacred purposes. To keep you from harm’s way and cherish you beyond measure. 

With one final kiss to your forehead, he brought your hand to the broad expanse of his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palm. Dunk gazed at you in understanding, watching as you tried matching his calm breaths. 

“There we go, much better. Such a brave girl.“

Your heart fluttered in your ribs at his praise, to a newfound calmness that eased the distress in your bones. You nodded at his murmured encouragements, features softening into a content exhaustion. 

“Thank you.“ 

You hardly manage to croak with a strained voice, offering Dunk a weak smile. He brought your forehead to rest against his, his breaths still deep and prolonged in an attempt to soothe you.

“There‘s no need, princess. It is my greatest honour protecting you. I would rather see myself dead than do nothing to ease your pain. From the very pit o‘ my chest, I mean it. Every word.“ 

You nod weakly at his words nestling yourself back into his warm chest. With a heaved sigh you surrender to the feeling of his hold. A soft, stable anchor in an ocean of vast cold waters. 

“Get some rest now, I‘m right here if you wake. Right here for you, sweet girl.“

Dunk whispered into the crown of your head. He knew you had exhausted yourself, fatigued by your own sobs. But his promise was not made in falsehood. He was always going to be there when you wake.

note: this was entirely self indulgent cus let’s face it we all wanna be comforted by Dunk !! i hope u guys enjoyed it and to those of you who struggle with PTSD like me, felt seen :))

[whyamihere666]

thinking at maekar and blindfolds…

༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺ ༻ ☽ ⊱⋆⊰ ☾ ༺

18+ MDNI

i think he’d suggest it, partially from a place of insecurity. we damn well know maekar is emotionally stunted, severe and war hardened. in no way does this man deem himself desirable (especially not in the eyes of his young, gorgeous lady wife) and he’d think there’s no way you could enjoy yourself in your marital bed when having to look at him. mhm yup LOUD AND WRONG

and ofc, despite the root cause, it’d turn into something you really enjoy. the anticipation, of being completely vulnerable and at his mercy? wetter than narrow sea lemme tell u

bonus points if your wrists are bound, but the feeling of him drinking you in, deciding how hes gonna make you feel good is intoxicating.

he’d wrap his strong fingers around your neck, not applying force, but just keeping you grounded amidst your pleasure. or maybe the way his tongue would linger on your skin, making you wonder where he’ll lick you next.

you can feel his gruff, labored breathing in the crook of your neck. you can feel him, his presence. yet, you are clueless to how he plans to take you

BONUS:

after being with you for a while longer, he’d grow prouder in his skin. after your relentless reassurance ofc. you’d caress him, purring sweet nothings like, my big, strong, sexy husband

hed start to miss those glossy, pleading eyes of yours and want to try something different

a new pleasure of his would be gagging you with panties. (or smallclothes ig? idk)

the sight of you writhing in his lap while he spanks you, your whiny cries muffled by your panties, unravels him.

this is also very common practice when you both visit another keep or go on a hunting trip- to avoid waking every soul in the damn building

anyway yeah those are my depraved thoughts…

[whyamihere666]

MASTERLIST `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

hi everyone!! welcome to my masterlist, I plan on expanding it more soon :)) thanks for visiting !!

CROSSED OUT BLOGS ARE 18+

AKOTSK:

Baelor Targaryen

Parchment

Ser Duncan

Fetch me a stool…or perhaps a a ladder

Squeamish

Right here

Daeron

ill be good

Drabbles:

Maekar and blindfolds

also im totally open to any GOT/AKOTSK requests!!

[whyamihere666]

Fetch me a stool…or perhaps a ladder

sub!dunk x fem!prostitute reader

18+ MDNI!!

Summary: Ser Arlan takes Dunk to a brothel for the first time, insisting it’s where he’ll truly find manhood. When he falls into readers service, she decides to teach him what it means to be good

Warnings: sub!dunk, inexperienced!dunk, use of sweet/good boy, prostitution/brothel work (obviously), handjobs, oral (m!receiving), riding, begging, gentle!dom reader, fem reader, fem anatomy, typical GOT/medieval misogyny

WC: 4.5k

note: not proofread- also, sorry if this is an inaccurate depiction of a medieval brothel, idk I wasn’t there LMAO- Also, im sorry the spacing is so weird, it turned into a huge pain in the ass so I hope it’s not too weird, thx!!

“You‘ve the body of a man, but not the spine of one, aye? Bit of stubble doesn‘t make you grown.“ Ser Arlan barked into the night air, Duncan in tow. Despite his squire being the age of twenty and…something, Ser Arlan insisted he had yet to be a man. Pretty adamant on the matter, actually. Perhaps it was because he still looked upon the same hunger-ravaged lad Duncan had once been. Or maybe the youthful glimmer that lingered in his gaze. 

Regardless, Duncan was at his wit‘s end. After being berated with phrases like, you‘ve a man‘s height and a child‘s wits or, you‘re green as spring wheat and twice as foolish, what Ser Arlan deemed manhood was a riddle so thorned, not even the wisest minds could make sense of it. 

Beneath the weeping heavens, they journeyed side by side. One wandering, one bound with purpose. They marched beneath the moonless rain as one debated in the chamber of his thoughts, where the seven hells are we going? And the other debated if he‘d spend his coin on a ginger or a blonde. 

“Well now, this is where the realm stops coddlin‘ ya. Where men are forged.“ Ser Arlan remarks the brothel before them as though it was a gilded throne, eager for him to warm it. As the matter became plain to Duncan, he found himself stricken with unease. His nerves twist, restless with dread. He had been riddled with quiet torment as his eyes widened at the shelter ahead. Never had Duncan wielded a honeyed tongue nor the gleaming riches that women tended to favor. Still, coin in this establishment could succeed where his words failed. If he had any coin…  

“Ser we- I mean no disrespect but, I‘m uncertain we can afford such…service.“ Verily, Duncan was ignorant of how heavy the coin purse was. But, it‘d make a fine plea to wait outside with the horses. 

“Nonsense, boy, I‘ll buy myself the lowliest of the lot. You can spend the rest on a decent lady. The grimy ones are sold cheapest, and I‘d not shame ye with ‘em.“

To Ser Arlan, that phrase was even more endearing than “I love you“.  

A restless quiver stirred in Duncan‘s blood as he envisioned his own hand offering the coin. The notion sickened him, striking foully against the image he had long held of himself. It defied every principle, every virtue and every moral he had. Regardless of the coiling dread in his stomach, he was highly aware of the inevitability of it all. Duncan opened his mouth in protest then closed it, in hopes to find wiser words on his tongue. He had never laid with a woman before. And he didn‘t wish to humiliate himself before someone who does it for coin.

Without so much as another murmur, Ser Arlan advanced upon the entrance and strode toward the brightly lit dwelling. Well, it appeared bright amidst the veil of impossible nightfall. With unwilling feet did Duncan stagger after, his heart beset by mounting fear as the haze upon his mind faded.

His senses gained clarity. Beneath the shroud of eveningtide there stood the house as he approached. A house of ill renown and impropriety. Yet, it was garbed in such splendor that even a septon’s eye might linger upon it. The timbered walls were painted a deep crimson and wine-dark velvet hues, whilst lanterns of amber glass hung from iron hooks. It casted honeyed light upon the rain slick cobbles below. Silken banners stirred languidly from the upper balconies, and from within came the muffled strains of girlish squeals, soft laughter and the clink of silver goblets. 

Before Duncan knew what was hell and what was his reality, Ser Arlan pushed the heavy oaken door, amplifying every sight and sound from outside. The ceilings were draped with silk, sheer as a maiden‘s sigh. The gold thread glimmered like the eyes of the temptresses watching from their alcoves. Sweet perfumes of myrrh, rose and spiced wine wafted through the chill night air, entwining themselves with all who enter.  

The madame of the house was quick to greet the pair of them, yet she couldn‘t help to think it odd a father brings his son to such a place. 

“Cheapest you have.“ Ser Arlan grunts, placing coin in the madame‘s palm. Before Duncan could ask how much he ought to spend, he has nowhere to be seen, already escorted to the ‘cheapest accomodation‘. 

“I- sorry, M‘lady, I‘m new to these…dealings. What‘s the fee? And- where do I head?“ 

The madame was a mere stranger to men of gentle make and virtuous heart. At once she perceived what should be amended in him, and where he must be sent. Duncan handed her the appropriate coin with a trembling, clammy palm. The woman takes it as though it‘s life blood, nodding vaguely down the hall.   

“Eighth door to your right. Don‘t stray.“ Duncan nodded at her gruff words as though they were orders in battle. With a gulp, he began his death procession down the narrow hall. His ears were met with a growing symphony of skin against skin and restless pants. With eyes widened like silver platters, he cast his gaze from the gauzy curtains, behind which lurked filth scarcely shielded. 

“Three…four…five…six…“

He counted each curtain as his feet carried him closer to what he thought was his certain demise. After a rushed recounting, he found himself before the eighth curtain to the right. He needed to be certain it was the right one. He didn‘t want to end up with the “lowly lot“ Ser Arlan entertains. Without another moment to lose, he clears his throat, reluctantly ducking through the archway. 

The gruff sound from his throat alerted from where you lounged on your bed, tucked behind the silken canopies that shielded the bed from the rest of the room. Like muscle memory, you adjust the jewelry that sits heavy atop your skin. You then make sure your satin garment, (only worn for the sake of being taken off), sits right. Then came your speech, which also flowed from your lips like you had rehearsed it for years.   

“Right then, shed your breeches and leave your boots by th-“ Your unenthused instructions were interrupted by a sharp hitch of your breath. You finally assessed the man that stood before you, awaiting your service.

 A towering man of broad shoulders and abundant frame, fashioned strong as an oak yet fair upon the eye. His strength sat plainly upon him in the swell of arm and chest, though softened somewhat by a pleasing fullness around his mid section. His countenance was comely and warm, bearing the easy humbleness of a man often admired in tavern and hall alike. Even though Duncan found that far from the truth.

“Seven‘s bones…look at the height on you. I ought to tell someone to fetch me a stool. Or perhaps a ladder.”

You remark as you giggle at your own joke. He nodded politely at your crude comment, at an utter loss for words. Any would fail him if he tried. Still, there he remained, rigid and motionless, as though wit and will alike had abandoned him.

Tense in limb and uncertain in purpose, he obeyed what you instructed prior (only the second step), by removing his boots and leaving them by the threshold.

“You're quite the timid sort aren‘t you? May I have your name, Ser?“ You stood closer, radiant doe-like eyes peering up at him. The sight only made his words feel more scarce on his tongue. He opens and closes his mouth, anticipating sound. How would anything he say compete with your melodic, sing-song voice?

“Dunk…My name is Dunk, M‘lady.“ A flattered beam finds your lips as you blush at his formality. No man had ever addressed you as such. Somedays you were fortunate to even be referred to as “woman“.

“Please, spare me your fine formalities, Dunk, I am no lady. Unless, you have a knack for pretending…“ Your words trailed as he nervously interjected you.

“No, I do not wish to pretend anythin‘, M‘lady. You are a lady, so I‘d like to speak to you as one.“ Dunk managed to nervously choke out, to which you nodded in somewhat understanding. 

You stole a moment to gawk at the kindness he had already shown you, despite being in your room for nearly thirty seconds. As you beheld the man before you, he finally allowed himself to drink you in properly.

 You were fair in visage, (certainly the most beautiful woman he could‘ve bought his time with), radiant in youth. Your beauty was something gentle and natural, neither overworked or vain, but softly striking in its ease. Dunk thought the embodiment of grace had taken a particular liking to your form. Eyes bared bright, attentive life to them, keen as the morning sky. 

“So, Dunk, what would you have of me? Or shall I decide, since you don‘t seem forward sort?“

“Pardon my ignorance, but I am untried in these matters. Not certain what‘s…customary.“

“Well, these sorts of places don‘t demand practice. All the girls know plenty of their trade for the likes of you. So, just tell me what excites you.“

“I suppose I don’t quite know, M’lady.” He curtly replied with a chuckle on his lips. You shrug at his response, having a quiet debate in your head. What were you to do with him?

You hum, beginning to drag your nails and finger tips across his chest, spurring him on. The muscle stiffened beneath the touch, but he seemed to relish the sensation. Still, there was much more to be done.  

The idea took root in your mind, slowly lowering yourself to your knees. He appeared even taller from where you kneeled, and you appeared far smaller in comparison to his stature. Something foreign stirred in the pit of Dunk‘s stomach at the sight. 

A faint, knowing curve of your lips betrayed your feigned innocence, taking delight in his slow undoing. You shifted your attention to the hilt of the long sword that rested at his hip. It was an old iron thing, clearly worn with use and age. Your fist grasped the base of it as your face neared closer to the handle of his sword. 

“Does this excite you, Ser?“ Your sultry voice is followed by the breath stalling in Dunk‘s lungs, faltering as you drag your tongue up the expanse of the hilt. Through half lidded vision, you watch his brows furrow in what appears to be a wounded frustration. The drag of your tongue is met with the old taste of sweat from his palm, the masculine flavour going straight to the throbbing between your thighs. As he watched the lewd act, he couldn‘t help but picture the hilt of his sword as something much more…localized. 

You brought yourself back to standing, your body in closer proximity to his than before. With an audible gulp, his stare conveyed a captivated terror. As though something he had been dreaming for was coming true faster than he could make sense of it. 

“Or perhaps, this?“ You sang, eyes transfixed to where his stare lingered. As you began to fiddle with the clasps of your gown, the fabric bunched at your feet in one fell swoop. Leaving you completely bare before him, aside from the lavish jewelry adorning your form. 

Before he could reply, his rigid cock strained against his breeches as he practically drooled beholding you. You tilted your head in hopes of finding his gaze, but it proved to be futile. His eyes feasted upon the sight of your breasts, mind restless with image. How they‘d feel in his hands, how they‘d feel in his mouth. 

You took his rough hands into your own, guiding them to caress the tender swell of your breasts. The column of his throat bobs as he kneads the flesh in his palms, a muffled groan escaping him. His thumbs run across the pebbled buds of your nipples causing you tot shudder under his touch. 

As you noted his newfound pleasure, you took his hands back into yours, escorting him to your bed with an unyielding smile upon your lips. He complied, his eyes now enraptured by your own. 

You pushed him back onto the bed, surprising you slightly due to his size. He was entirely powerless under your gaze, pliant putty in your hands. His eyes peered up at you as though he was witnessing divinity. As though you were to pardon him from all worldly anguish. Unlike other men, who seek haste and efficiency, Dunk would not be hurried. He would have every fragment of time, and hold it close as though it were treasure beyond reckoning. 

You joined him amongst furs and silks in slow, calculated movements. What was once dread had now turned to fervent impatience, a yearning for only nearness. He would deem it a blessed passing to die with so much as your company, without having to lay a hand on you. 

In one swift motion your legs bracketed his, straddling him where he laid. The position somehow made him appear more helpless beneath you, completely at your mercy. Mercy you had, as you were inclined to be gentle and slow with the blushing giant underneath you.  Your nails found their rightful place a second time, mindlessly tracing lines into his tunic. 

“Do you touch yourself, Ser?“ Your keen gaze flicks to him as your lip catches between your teeth. The filthy question was spoken so innocently, so softly, he began to think he had misheard you. The question was a handy way of allowing your inexperienced clients to open up. Dunk turns a crimson that matches the silks the pile of you lay on top of. 

“Most men do, M‘lady.“ Dunk nervously chuckles beneath you, still unsure where to put his hands. For now, they would lay tensely beside him. 

“And… that means you do as well?“ The tease brought another wave of flush to his neck and ears, only making your smile grow wider. 

“Show me.“ Your order finds his ears in a silvery whisper, to which he begins to fumble with the laces of his breeches. To save him the embarrassment, you place his hand aside, shifting your attention to the tangled prison. As your fingers work the strings, his hips buck into your hand as he suppresses a whine. 

“Eager are we?“ You giggle in amusement, pushing his breeches to his ankles. For a moment, you deem yourself disoriented, that your eyes have betrayed you. You gulp in astonishment, unsure what to make of his…length.

“Your knight, Ser Arlan, you‘re certain he is not your father?“ 

“No, M‘lady.“

“Right then.“

You deny yourself a witty remark like your cock would do a better job impaling me than that sword on your hip, or perhaps, so men can just carry lances however they please? You did not wish to subject him to further embarrassment, considering it was his first time in a brothel. You wanted to give him a reason to return, you thought. 

 Dunk kicks them off, instantly taking his cock in his fist. With eyes half-lidded in languor, he keeps you vigilantly in his sight, as his hand squeezed amidst his clumsy strokes. You shifted where you laid, positioning yourself to replace his hand. His breath came in sharp exhales through his nose, cheeks redder than a field stained by battle. 

“Dunk,“ the name crawled off your tongue, “you‘re blushing in front of a whore.“ You remark with an amused tone, watching as he tries to shield his face from you. Gently, you grasp his wrist, pulling his hand away. 

“Allow me, sweet boy.“ You purr into the shell of his ear, taking his length into your palm. His breath hitches in his throat at the feeling, head thrown back against the furrs. He‘s sensitive, you note mentally. You start working him in slow, languid movements, his mouth falling open into an ‘o‘ shape. He feels heavy in your hands, finger tips just barely touching due to his size. 

“M‘not a boy.“ He grits through his teeth as you continue stroking him exactly how he showed you. To his comment, your hand hastened in speed only slightly, watching his heaving breaths grow more laborious. You remarked every twitch, every stiffening muscle. As he lost himself in the abyss of his own pleasure, he became far less mindful of his sounds. It was a pleasure to bear witness to his unraveling.

“Forgive me, Ser. It‘s a fair assumption to make, when you're so needy for me, like a good boy.“ Despite his best efforts, he seems to cherish the title, a needy groan escaping him. You buried yourself against the crook of his neck, leaving a lingering path of kisses upon his skin, as though you were marking him with the memory of your closeness. The dual sensations draw needy whines and groans deep from his chest. Your fist quickens at the sound.

“D-don‘t stop, M‘lady, mmph, feels so g…“ His words trail off as he loses himself in the sensation, pleading eyes finding your own. 

“Does my hand feel better than yours, Dunk? Am I making you feel good? Such a big strong man…so handsome when he‘s begging.“ 

The pad of your thumb drags over his slit, his hips bucking at the feeling. He nods and agrees listlessly, so enraptured by your touch. You maneuver yourself down the bed, your hand still working Dunk through his pleasure. His eyes snapped open as he felt your breath on his tip, your face a dangerous proximity to his cock.

“You musn‘t- I‘ll s-spend too soon.“ His empty plea draws a breathy laugh from you. A lumbering giant who could surely break firewood with his palms, reduced to a writhing mess beneath your touch. 

“I won‘t tell a soul.“ You whisper, swearing yourself to secrecy. To your assurement, Dunk nods vigorously, eager to feel your lips around his cock. You began by placing sloppy kisses on his reddened tip, gently licking ever so often. It was pure anguish for Dunk, growing even needier as you continued. The tip of your tongue dragged right along his slit, causing him to nearly cry out. 

“Shhh, ‘gonna take such good care of you. Just relax for me, sweet boy.“ He nods again at your assurance, watching intently as your soft lips wrap around him. It was rather challenging to deny such an offer when faced with your tempting, darling eyes. His lips part as he feels the warmth of your mouth, smothering him so sweetly. 

The feeling was intoxicating, a surge of bliss coursing through him. He whined at the sensation, carding his rough fingers through your hair. Not with the intent to force or push, solely to ground himself to the moment. 

You peered up at him through your glossy eyes, meeting his gaze, clouded with pleasure. A wistful part of his mind wished he could be subjected to the view of you every day. His reasoning warned him that such fantasies were but folly. He thought of your sweet kindness as purchased, not something he had rightfully earned. 

Through the chamber resounded the lewd strains of your mouth, rich with sinful delight, until Dunk felt his senses reel. It was wicked indulgence, yet incredibly tender. 

You grew bolder in your efforts, taking him deeper into your throat. The act was followed by wet sounding gawks coming from the walls of your mouth. His cock twitched and pulsed against your tongue, signalling you he did not make his claim in falsehood. He really was about to spend too soon. You hummed against his length, a pleased purr from your throat as his breathing grew more erratic.

“I can‘t-fuck- I‘m gonna…Gods I‘m so sorry, M‘lady,” His pleas are followed by strained groans that rattled in his chest, earning him another content hum from you. The vibration of your voice, the wet eyes boring into his, the soft tousled hair tangled in his fist, was enough to send him over the edge. He came with a hoarse, whiny moan, hips involuntarily bucking further into your mouth. Dunk had never felt such invigorating bliss in all of his days. 

As you swallowed each drop of his release, your eyes never dared to leave him. You watched as he convulsed with each spurt, his eyelids fluttering with a pleasure he didn‘t think achievable. His chest rose and fell with each quivering breath. There was something so enchanting about a man who has entirely surrendered. As his breathing slowed and stalled in his lungs, your bare form crawled up the furrs to run your fingers through his wayward hair. 

“So good for me, Dunk. Such a good boy for me, hm?“ He nuzzled into your touch as you tenderly caressed his head. Your other hand finds his flushed cheek, stroking the feverish skin as he regains his bearings. 

With one elbow propped on the mattress, you lean into his chest as you touch him. You feel the raw heat of his body as one of your bare tits press into his tunic. With a newfound courage, his palm kneads your exposed breast, groaning at the contact. A few gentle squeezes then turns into him maneuvering you on your back. 

The angle grants him access to both, nuzzling his face between the swells of supple flesh. To Dunk, air was a trifling matter. He could suffocate between your tits without a single lament on the matter. Your fingers continue gently stroking his scalp as he explores the skin. Open mouth kisses and nudges with his nose sends a pleasurable hum through your veins.

“Want t‘please you, M‘lady. Wanna be so good for you.“ He murmured with a strangled voice still buried between your tits. You gently tug on his sandy hair in hopes he‘d speak clearer. 

“That‘s sweet of you, Dunk, but I can fetch us wine in the meantime. It is not my intent to overwhel-“

Your words are cut off by a soft gasp as he begins to suckle on the tender peaks of your nipples. His tongue flicks and sucks the skin as you feel yourself writhing beneath him. Your fist tightens in his hair as he bathes them in wet heat, the suction of his lips sending blood straight to your throbbing clit. And to your astonishment, he‘s hard again. Hard as stale bread. 

The slavering sounds of his mouth on your tits fill the room, accompanied by your gentle sighs of bliss. His mouth left your tit in a wet pop, eagerly latching to your other one. In the midst of his movement, you clasp your arms around his torso, flipping him onto his back quicker than a flea on a farm dog. 

He makes a vexated, wounded sound as you find yourself straddling him again. Your tits gleamed with the slick of his mouth in candlelight, bestowing a delicious vision unto Duncan‘s eyes. You drag a finger over his lips, hushing his confused pleas. 

“Y‘wanna make me feel good, Dunk? You want this brothel to hear me cry your name?“ 

Dunk keenly nodded at your words, partial to that last suggestion. You tugged at the hem of his tunic, implying you wished to see it on the floor. Drool pooled in your mouth as you watched him comply. His muscles bulged from his flesh with every movement. 

Dunk writhes beneath you, his chest heaving as he stared at you intently. With your eyes fixed on his, you lean back slightly, your hands finding the mattress behind you. You bare your dripping cunt to his gaze, watching his pleased grin turn to a wounded pout. As he watches your slick pussy, you begin rubbing your slickness across your folds, displaying how wet he makes you. 

“See what you do to me? Need you to fill me like a good boy. Need you to fuck me so good, Dunk. You can make me feel good, can‘t you, baby?“ 

“Uh-huh, I can please you, M‘lady. Please- let me be good for you.“ 

You nod, humming at his words. Your leaking pussy hovers above his eager cock, practically begging you to sink down on it. Who were you to deny it such pleasure?

In slow, deliberate movements, you lower yourself onto him, feeling your walls accommodate him in a delicious stretch. His mouth falls agape as you sink further, a low groan rattling his throat. 

“Gods above…“ He loses the thought on his tongue as your bare hips meet his, feeling himself entirely buried inside you. A sweet moan leaves your throat as you feel him reach places none of your customers could. So thick and deep, you were completely full with him. 

Your hands take hold of his wrists, pinning them beside his head. The act startled him, his eyes widening in sweet bewilderment. You were a hair‘s length from his face, his ragged pants fanning your cheeks. The grip on his wrists tightened as you rolled your hips, feeling his tip rub against the spot inside you that made your knees limp. Your lids fluttered shut as he bucked into, feeling deeper than you had before. 

Your chamber rings with the sharp, wet slaps of skin against skin, and strangled moans. With aching knees you bounced atop him, one hand groping your tit, the other scraping its nails down the plane of Duncan‘s chest. You were pleased by the helpless groans that escaped him, hypnotized by the sight of before him. You were even more pleased by the new red marks marking his pec.

“Fuck- Dunk, it‘s so fucking big- filling me so perfect. Such a good boy for me.“ You choke out through the haze of your pleasure. Shameless moans left your lips as you bounced with a newfound vigor, taking him from tip to base every thrust. Dunk began to meet your hips each thrust, brushing your sweet spot each time. The mounting pleasure in your stomach began to coil, threatening to snap. 

“Oh Dunk, I- I‘m…mm…“

  You listlessly warned as your pleasure thrashed upon you, igniting every vein in your body. Your aching pussy clamped down on his length, a surge of wet slick coating his cock. You were slightly humiliated by how fast you managed to finish. The feeling lessened as you felt Dunk coat your insides with hot ropes of cum, a shudder racking his body. He came with a groan more strained than the last, surrendering to his pleasure. 

Soon, the only sounds that remained were your uneven breaths and the muffled commotion from the other rooms. You gaze upon the man, so spent, yet so swallowed by pleasure. 

In a rare, defiant act of your morals, you leaned down to claim his lips with your own, tenderly kissing him. His hands clasped your jaw and he clumsily reciprocated the kiss. Duncan‘s inexperience was clear, but his enthusiasm was a force of nature. 

Perhaps you didn‘t need a stool or a ladder, to take such a man

another note: sorry for the rushed ending, I had a bit of a writers block at the end- hope u enjoyed !!

[whyamihere666]

Parchment

Baelor Targaryen x Maid!Reader

18+, MDNI

Summary: as a new maid at the red keep, you find yourself distracted by the lord of the house. when you begin to form a bond, he makes it his mission of rewarding you for being his most dutiful maid

Warnings: Fem!reader, reader has female anatomy, power imbalance, slightly ooc Baelor, smut, oral (f-receiving), vaginal fingering, little aftercare, slight angst if you squint, no use of y/n or name

WC: 4k

The Red Keep stood loftily, like a mountain wrought by giants. Walls of pale red granite veined with ivy, banners whipping proud against the morning wind, and gleaming windows that cast pools of ruby and sapphire light upon the halls.

You remembered the day you arrived as though it stalked the halls of your memory. The keep appeared daunting as you stood before its gate. A vast heap of stone, crawling with venerated royals, who deemed themselves Gods. Dragons, even. How ridiculous, you thought.

Despite its vile inhabitants, your labours became fairly simple as moons passed. Hauling steaming water in copper basins, beating dust from velvet draperies, polishing silver until it shone bright enough to mirror the faces of the Seven themselves. Your hands harbored an unrelenting ache, your back began to weary, and yet you held little resentment for the duties of your station. 

At night, exhausted beyond measure, you would climb into your quaint servants’s bed beneath the rafters, where the wind sighed through the stone. Yet even there, wrapped in rough wool sheets, you often stare from the narrow window at the torchlit battlements and feel your soul overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all. Your upbringing was scarcely noble or opulent in any measure. No sovereign hand to guide you through youth, no monarch’s blood throbbing in your veins. Not even a lord’s, at that. You proclaim a humbler lineage, something that showed just how successful you were in your pursuits. 

Though you were raised far from the reach of courtly refinement, you carried your burdens with such poise that even lords mistook you for one of their own. With discipline and gentle conduct, that is. You answered every duty through honor, decorum, earning the respect of an unkind world. It was unheard of, to serve the house that warmed the throne, being raised in the plagued alleys of Flea Bottom. 

You attended to your station with utmost diligence, yet the King‘s eldest son unraveled the discipline you so carefully maintained. His stare tested your composure. His silvery voice compromised your restraint. His kindness surpassed those of his kin, he was a man who carried himself with a quiet intensity. It made your knees buckle beneath your own weight. The way in which he fiddled with his rings, how he‘d sigh into the embrace of his chair after a strenuous day of court.  

No labor seemed burdensome if it meant avoiding services in his chambers, study, or wherever else he tends to linger. The notion of speaking with him, even if it was solely for the sake of duty, horrified you beyond words. The few times you have spoken, he treated you kindly, looked upon you fondly. It was enough to fuel the delusions you shook from your thoughts.

And now, to your utter dread, you were bound for his study. The maid who customarily tended to Prince Baelor‘s study had been struck by sickness. Every footstep rang as a silent plea to the heavens, each fall of your foot a burial bell. Your slow procession could be mistaken for a march toward certain death, or an early pyre. Though as your trek continued, your steps did not falter. Quivering breaths racked your chest as you envisioned him awaiting you in his study. Seven above, slay me now, you think. 

You hear a gruff, “you may enter“, through the heavy oak door, beckoning your entrance. With a final huff, you gently push the door, making your way inside. 

“My Prince,“ you manage, gulping nerves as he spares you a glance. He offers you a fleeting smile, returning to the work before him. Seems like he wished to leave you to your work as well. 

You began your labours in earnest pursuit. Smoothing fine leather, arranging tomes and straightening parchment with a careful hand. Still, he taps his quill in a soft cadence, breaking your focus like a distant bell. The subtle clink reminded you of the company you found yourself in, as well as your surroundings. 

“Forgive my boldness, but I don‘t recall I‘ve seen you before.“ You whip around at the velvet hush of his voice, trying hard to suppress the scolding red finding your cheeks. It is considered unseemly to banter with servants regarding topics not revolving of duty. Still, you decide to entertain his attempt of friendliness, perhaps even familiarity. 

“There is no need for forgiveness, your Grace. The maid who often tends to your study has fallen ill, I‘m afraid. I can request another servant if it would pleas-“

“That won‘t be necessary, thank you.“ You nod, opening your mouth yet no sound escapes. As you begin to pivot on your heels, he speaks again. 

“Might I inquire who you formerly served? I take it you are newly arrived, seeing that I cannot recognize you. Unless I have failed as a prince to know all who labour in my keep. A troubling thing for any prince who would claim diligence over his household.“

“I assure you, my Prince, you are faultless in such matters. I arrived here after serving House Mormont as a ladies maid.“

“I am sorry this keep is without any daughters, otherwise I‘m certain you would do an exceptional job as theirs“ You fight a breathy laugh at his words, as you quickly give the prince your name in a rushed manner. Baelor nods, allowing you to resume your duties.

“Surely you must long for cooler winds, yes? The heat in these lands can prove rather relentless.“ You turn to face him a second time, bewildered by his fascination. None of the maids had ever mentioned Baelor being so talkative. 

“A small price to pay, your Grace. I hold this position in high esteem.“ The remark earns a small grin from him, eyes darting back to the quiet chaos of his desk. 

“The honour is mine.“ He insisted, the words finding you like a hand between your legs. Your heart fluttered like a captive bird as your knees threatened to give way beneath you. Never had you been acquainted with such temptation. Unfamiliar, insidious and lingering upon your skin like fevered touch. Perhaps Baelor is the sickness that struck the first maid. 

***

Weeks came and went since that fateful meeting in his study, and no longer did he make himself distant from you. He became a frequent presence throughout the keep, appearing where he thought he may earn but the briefest glance from you. You, well, you were bewitched beyond remedy. Beyond any maester‘s repair. Rendered weak every time your eyes snagged on his as you passed one another in the halls. You remained servicing his study intermittently through the week, earning you witty, frivolous exchanges with the prince. You cherished every moment like a popper covets gold in his pocket.

 That was until, you received word from another servant as you scrubbed the flagstone. You‘re knobby knees throbbed beneath you as your rag dug into the surface of the stone floors. A mess of suds, grime and a disregard for being on the floor.

“Sorry to interrupt, but the Prince requests your services.“

“Mine? Whatever for?“

“Well, his Grace mentioned somethin‘ about the way you arrange his parchment.“

You scoff as you set your scrubbing aside, pausing to shake your head in disbelief.

“He‘s askin‘ for yo-“

“Aye, I got that, great, thank you.“  

He withdraws himself, hands thrown aloft defensively. As he makes his trek down the corridor, you rise to your feet with a weary breath. It was the first time he had ever called for you specifically. Apprehension began to rack your body, yet it had been accompanied by a foreign warmth that coiled in your stomach. In bordered between pride and adoration for the man you call ‘prince‘. 

Your steps carried with mounting haste, carrying you onward. A joy unfurled across your features, till your cheeks burned sore from grinning. There was a rare exhilaration in basking in the prince‘s company. You were to earn yet another treasured exchange with him. A volley of wit and hushed laughter. 

The moment began the same as the last, a gentle knock to the oak door, and a grant of entry. To your dismay, your beaming smile had yet to subside. 

“Ah, there you are, I began to think you had lost your way.“ He rose from his seat upon your entrance, reciprocating the smile upon your lips. 

“Please excuse my punctuality, my Prince, I came the moment you requested me.“ You winced at the words in your mind hearing them leave your lips. Yes, you would cum if he asked you to. 

“Pay it no mind, I insist. It was my intention you would aid me in arranging the parchment cluttering my desk. Seems I have a talent for misplacing them. And I was rather delighted by the work you carried out some days ago.“ 

“Thank you, your Grace, I‘d be happy to assist you.“ With faltering steps you approach where he stood, feeling the throbs of blood in your ears grow louder. He separates himself a good distance from the desk, allowing you to insert yourself in between. A nervous huff of laughter left your lips as you felt him tower behind you, making sense of the skew of papers. 

“Just, tell me what to put where, my Prince. I‘ll arrange it in a way that will make it easier for you to find.“ He hums in approval from behind you. In truth, you had a vague idea of how this work was to be done. Scribbles upon parchment were merely illuminated by a flickering candle, the rest of the study shrouded by nightfall. You began by taking one in your grasp, raising it towards your face. 

“That one is for-“

“Trading, I presume?“ 

He falters behind you, ashamed of himself he was under the impression you were incapable of reading. Especially the cry for help he calls handwriting. He makes a small affirmative sound, encouraging you to place it in a separate pile. 

Baelor gave a silent thanks to the Seven that his visage was hidden from your sight. You had utterly undone him, reducing him to putty in your grasp. Before him stood a woman most dutiful, wise and fair, and in her presence he felt himself wholly powerless. 

“I would not willingly encroach upon your privacy, your Grace. Rest assured, I will not read any contents.“ 

“Nonesense. All trifling matters, to be sure.“ 

You nod as you continue your pursuit. All the while, Baelor feels himself emboldened by the late hour and goblet of wine he drank prior to your arrival. He was the next in line, the crown prince, hand of the king. Yet, your softness tempted him like no gold or whore could.

“The court is in dire need of a smart woman like you. I‘d like to see you prove them all fools.“ Heat crept from your neck to your ears at his praise. Similar to Baelor, you also began thanking the Gods he was incapable of seeing your face. As moments wore on, you began to grow restless as you stood. The scent of wine upon his breath crept close to your nape. And the nearness of him— Gods. Watching, waiting, left you weak upon your knees. It was near enough to wrestle with all restraint, longing to whip yourself around, claiming his lips with your own. 

“Hm. A smart prince isn‘t enough for them, I see? Or does he also happen to be a fool?“ You wished to flee from where you stood, profusely apologize for addressing him so improperly, yet the words that tumbled from your lips felt anything but shameful. Still, before you could apologize for forgetting your station, he spoke. 

“In your company, yes. The biggest fool.“ He hushes the quip on your tongue as his hands begin to snake around your middle. A claiming, tender touch, moving in closeness, rather than lustful seduction. 

“Your Grace, I-“

“Do you wish to leave? You have my sanction, if that is what you wish.“ 

All you could muster was a clumsy shake of your head, denying his claim. There was nowhere else you longed to be in all of Westeros, but the closing distance between the eldest prince and the desk of his study. As your mind grew clouded by wanton desire, you strove against the notion of yielding to such temptation. You were a maiden, yes, one with honor and steadfast virtue. You did not consort with the likes of princes, or entertain perilous engagements. 

“I must continue, my Prince, your parchments-“ Your pleas fell upon deaf ears as he swept every paper from his desk in one swift motion. In the parchments' wake, he hoisted you onto the oak desk, your dangling legs brushing against his.

“Are you aware of your own goodness? Hm? So faithful, so true of heart. I cannot recall the last time these halls were graced by a maiden of such spirit.“ 

“My Prince, you are drunk.“ You manage, eyes darting around the study to avoid meeting his blown pupils. You were weary of him bearing witness to your own, making it clear just how much you want him. 

“Only a glass. What you are seeing is not wine, it is how you affect me.“

“And how is it I affect you, your Grace?“ 

“Mm. Those eyes, when they look up at mine, eager to be of service. Your lips, and how they snag between your teeth when you are deep in focus. Or perhaps your neck, when your hair clings to it from the heat.“ You got the picture as his words trailed on, drawing nearer with each syllable. You did nothing to halt his advances, nothing to withdraw yourself. 

“Just tell me to stop,“ He murmured, a hair‘s length from your ear. His breath was warm against your neck as you reveled in the quiet debate of restraint. Your knuckles grew whiter than a sailboat as you fought against the idea of touching him. Once again, you shook your head bashfully, earning a small chuckle from Baelor. 

“Tell me with words. You‘re a smart girl, I'm certain you can.“

“Please, do not stop…please.“ 

Your words were a broken plea, a prayer against your better judgement. It was as though your restraint rang in your head like a cracked bell, and only would he relieve you of that sound.  

“Good. Now…tell me how much you need it.“ His silvery, hushed tone nearly made a mockery of you. You whined at the question, too undone by pleasure that has yet to even find you. Baelor took note of your lack of response, spurring him further.

“Shy so soon, hm?“ He hummed, maintaining his closeness to your neck, his chest flush against your heaving one. 

“Do you even know all the ways a lady can be seduced?“ The question came as a hot whisper against your ear, feeling slickness gathering between your thighs. His lips began to trace the expanse of your neck, not quite kissing, just lingering upon your skin with faint caress. The teasing wears your patience thinner than a beggar‘s purse after market day. You prevailed against your submission, and claimed his lips with yours with a fervor unbridled and dire. He groaned into your mouth as your hands made their way around his neck, beckoning him closer. It was as though a thousand unspoken vows gathered at once upon your lips, and spoken in a silence more thunderous than war drums. 

The kiss was not merely touch, but a claiming and a yielding, like crown and kingdom finding their rightful union after exile. It was a dance between two unrestrained forces. Nipping, sucking, licking, devouring. A passionate act of devotion between two souls who lost the battle of restraint. Your breath grew short in your lungs, your lips swelling entangled with this. 

You pull away panting, resting your forehead upon his. The study is a symphony of shallow breaths and the rustle of fabric. 

“May I- may I reward you…for your service?“ He pleaded through quivering breaths, eyes shut as he reclaimed his bearings. It was a rarity from him to fumble the words on his tongue, yet here he stood. The request vexated you, making your flustered mind dissect every possible act he may speak of. 

“Reward me how, your Grace,“ you paused to continue panting, “what do you wish for me to do?“ Your need for instruction draws a soft laugh from his chest. You amused him far more than he‘d care to profess. 

“I wish for you to lean back,“ he whispered hoarsely, planting a gentle hand on your stomach to recline you against his desk, “and enjoy yourself.“ He finished his thought, positioning you how he pleased. Though he provided you with simple instructions, your confusion remained the same as it was. He did not reach for the laces of his breeches, or fumble with the waistband. Instead, tentative fingers began to trail themselves from your calves to your thighs, drawing your skirts closer to bunching at your waist. The procession of his touch was agonizingly slow, a maddening pursuit of unraveling you as he pleased. With the faintest force, he beckoned your legs apart. They spread before him as you complied. You grew red at the thought of being in nothing but small clothes, quivering thighs spread before your prince. 

Before you could protest the closeness of his face to your core, he nipped at your plush thighs in gentle pinches. The mild bites drew stifled whimpers from your throat as you familiarize yourself with the foreign sensation. You were certain this act was a means of working you up, making you grow needy under his touch to prepare you. Your suspicion then worsened as he removed your small clothes, his teeth drawing the waistband down your thighs. They made a gentle sound as they became a drenched pile beside the desk. 

He drew closer to where you laid bare before him, to where you could feel his breath against the sensitive skin. You squirmed at the feeling, and also the vulnerability of the compromising position. His movements did not falter, growing closer and closer. Baelor was a refined, poised, crown prince. The next in line for the throne. Surely he was not going to-    

Yes, he did. He licked a stripe across your folds, earning him a startled gasp from you. He chuckled in response, sending vibrations down your spine. One lick turned to three, lapping at your pearl as your fingers carded themselves through his short dark hair. The feeling brought a warmth to the pit of your stomach, spreading your thighs further to his seeking. The lip between ur teeth had begun to bleed from your stifled moans. The pleasure was foreign, unbearable. 

“Mm, that‘s it,“ he rasped against your folds, “be a good girl for me and tell me how good my tongue feels.“ The last bit of your restraint dissolved through your fingers as you gasped and whimpered at the feeling. You were a squirming, wanton minx with his tongue on you, licking as though it was the only thing he knew. The joints of your knee soon met the broad expanse of his shoulders, smothering your leaking pussy against his tongue. 

“Please, Baelor…please—mmph, don‘t stop. Feels so good, baby, please.“ You listlessly pleaded into thin air as your words spurred him further. Fist tightening in his hair as his tongue worked your clit faster, you felt your eyes roll back in unadulterated bliss, unmindfully moaning at his reward. You paid no mind to how quiet you were, how you sounded. 

Just as you nearly felt the warm tension in your stomach snap, he prodded a slender finger through your neglected core, curling right against your sweet spot. The sensation made you cry out, a shiver racking through you in a wave. One finger became two as he continued suckling your clit, working you through the pleasure. You felt his mismatched eyes on you, the sight making you squeeze his thighs against his head in pleasure. 

“Your prince is good to you, isn‘t he?“ He murmured against your swollen clit as he worked his fingers with a new vigour. In response, you let out a needy, broken whimper, squirming in his hold. 

“Mmph—ah, yes…so good, fuck- so fucking good to me.“ He let out a small chuckle into your folds, amused by your attempt at a coherent sentence. Without warning, his free hand reached up, dragging the linen fabric down your chest. He kneaded your tits as they bounced, bouncing from the motion of your hips bucking against his face. Your free hand placed itself over the one he had on your breast, anchoring yourself to him as the pleasure grew relentless. 

“Bael- fuck, it‘s too much…“ Your words trailed off into needy whimpers. Baelor knew you were nearing the edge. His fingers burrowed themselves inside you at an unrelenting pace, brushing so sweetly against the spot that makes you cry. He groaned into your clit as his tongue lapped it, eager to feel your release coating his tongue. 

“Let go for your prince, be a good girl and soak my tongue.“ His muffled commands shattered the tension in the pit of your stomach, sending your body into surreal ecstasy. You shook in his firm grasp, quivering through the pleasure that snapped inside you. Moans met the stone walls in desperate mewls. As he worked you through your high, there was a shared quiet of shallow panting and raspy throats.

You felt his calloused palms find your back from under you, scooping you flush against his chest. Not a whisper stirred through the study, the shared stillness grounding you from a lustful-driven high. Despite the realm‘s decree and all surrounding circumstances, there was no shame dwelling in your heart. You laid against him, spent in the afterglow of pleasure. Cradled deep in a gentle bliss, only he could provide. 

“I hope I did not overwhelm you, pretty thing.“ He whispered against the shell of your ear, drawing a sweat-soaked strand of hair from your face. You couldn‘t suppress a blissful smile at his words, so engrossed in the endeavor of making you feel good. You shook your head in response, allowing your breathing to slow in his hold. As your arms entangled themselves around his neck, you placed lazy open-mouth kisses down the column of his throat, drawing pleased hums from deep in his chest.     

“What are you planning to do with all that parchment?“ You jest against his neck, accompanied by his soft chuckle. You both glance at the heap of papers from askew, coating the stone floors. Then, your gaze meets one another‘s. A hitch of silence passes till you both share an exasperated laugh. It felt strangely domestic, for something so forbidden. For all he knows, you‘d arrange page, after page, if it meant a glimpse into the life you could‘ve had. 

note: this is my first time ever writing smut so I hope it’s not too terrible!! thank u for reading

[whyamihere666]

Squeamish

Pairing: Boxer!Ser Duncan x fem!reader

Summary: Modern AU boxer Dunk stumbles home after losing a fight, in need of mending from the worst person to ask (his squeamish girlfriend)

Warnings: Vague descriptions of wounds, stitching, bruises, vomiting (no one throws up) and boxing in general. No first name mentioned.

Word Count: 1.3k

note: first fic I hope u enjoy!! boxer dunk has me in a chokehold and I had do write a drabble on it- ALSO I have absolutely no experience with medical things whatsoever, so pls forgive my inaccuracy

Stumbling through the sleeping house like a bruised ghost, Dunk staggered through the entry with the slow sway of a fighter still hearing the crowd roar in his skull. Battered by invisible tides of ache, he made his way to your room, praying to himself that sleep had yet to take you. He needed you when his body felt like giving up. When he’s hair’s length away from crumbling beneath his own weight. You were the steady anchor he clung to, when he’s cast into troubled waters. Or in other words, the ring. Under the cold glare of arena lights, you remained etched behind his eyes, a reason to keep swinging when his body begged him to stop. The thumping in his ribs slows as you wrap his knuckles before each fight. Every cheer, every word of encouragement. You anchored him to reality whenever it threatened to dissolve between his battered hands. Except for when it involves the sight of blood. 

Sleep took you in ephemeral phases, never finding the stasis of slumber. It was arduous to sleep without him. Sluggishly, you grabbed an extra pillow, draping your arms across the cushion. You sighed, disappointed in the lack of warmth the pillow provided you with. Shutting your eyes once more, you anticipate the release of sleep. Instead, your senses are met with a clumsy attempt at stealth. Heavy footsteps, things falling. The room was shrouded by nightfall, though you had no need for light. You stirred slightly, rubbing your eyes. Before you could call out his name into the void of blooming midnight, you felt a fleeting kiss on your brow. 

“Dunk?”

”Go back to sleep, love. M‘alright.”

You pushed the heavy sheets askew, feet meeting the hard wood floor. You stand slowly, adjusting your slip. Your eyes soon adjusted to the thick, sightless dark, making out vague static images. You followed the light emitting from the bathroom, arms crossed tensely across your chest. 

”I can’t go back to sleep. I wasn’t to begin with.” You quip, approaching the doorway’s threshold. You watched as he prepared alcohol, needles and sutures with his back turned. It bore a map of dried blood and blooming purple. The sight disheartened you, leaving a frown on your lips. He paused upon finishing, hesitant to turn around. Dunk hated inconveniencing you, especially when you‘re meant to be sleeping. He carried the conviction that you belonged to gentler hands than his own, and the thought of burdening you curdled something inside him. As your relationship progressed, he became more and more acquainted with your aversion to blood. More specifically his, when it‘s leaking from places it shouldn't.  

”I’m not gonna throw up. Just turn around.”  

He turns gradually, broad shoulders slumped, anticipating a lecture and maybe some dry heaving. Your gaze finds a gash above his brow, not bloody enough to lose dinner, but enough to draw a wince from you. With a shallow sigh, you shake your head. 

°°°

Your legs bracketed the dense muscle of his thighs, a suture needle in one hand, the side of his head in the other. As you breathed through squeamish disgust, you stroked his cheek as you cradled his head. The act was more to comfort you than him, something he took note of as soon as you began. 

“You really don‘t have to, love. I mean it. I can jus-“

“No no, I…I can do this. Can‘t have you putting a needle to your face with those hands.“ You gestured to where hands grasped your waist, feeling the beaten quiver in his palms. With a defeated sigh, he reclined slowly, yielding his battered skin to your *also* shaking touch, as he watched you drift nearer in the dim light.   

“Just um…walk me through it. I’ll be careful.”

“Stick it in at the edge, then flip the needle through the skin, yeah? It should pop out the middle, and then you go through the other side.”

“Ok, right, yeah. I can do that.”

Through your terror, you comply, biting back sounds as you begin mending. You began to work the suture through the departed pieces of skin, engrossed in your pursuit. It was an added stressor you were fixing his face. Something you covet like heaven by the damned. Still, you couldn’t suppress a cringe every time the needle punctured the tender skin. But you’d take this over letting him bleed all over your sheets any day of the week. Your lip caught between your teeth, brows drawn together with something between repulsion and terror. Meanwhile, Duncan breathed through the agony with practiced grace, concealing every fraction of discomfort behind softened eyes. Any visible crack in his restraint would alarm you, in his eyes. As his hands rested on your waist, his fingers moved in small circles designed to calm your fear.

“Are you alright? How is it? Should I stop?“

“M‘fine, you‘re doing fine. Jus‘ breathe for me, love.“

The breath caught tight in your chest escaped, soft and trembling, as your shoulders slowly surrendered their tension. Your eyes bored into his swollen softened ones, and felt absurdly foolish to grieve pain he seemed to practiced at enduring. He loved being in the ring, cherished the feeling of gloves on his knuckles. And that was a pain you would have to endure alongside him.

“Did you win?“ You choke out through unwavering focus. He gives a small huff, accompanied by a wounded grimace. With a small huff, he shook his head.

“Came pretty close.“ His words came stained with disappointment, a bitterness that clung like ash on the tongue. You could see it in the way his shoulders dipped, in the subdued rhythm of his speech. He wore guilt strangely- rarely, but intensely. 

“Rigged.“ You murmur, swallowing disgust as you continue the gentle assault on his brow. He lets out a breathy laugh, planting a clumsy kiss on the inside of your wrist. As you neared the end of your pursuit, his eyes fluttered shut with a quiet tide, overcome by fatigue. The final suture tightened as you pulled the string, the wound making a uniform line. You tie it off, fulfilling the self imposed task as you exhale a restrained breath. Your chest eases from unadulterated focus, pausing, allowing your posture to go slack. A mix of relaxation and sleep depravity plagues your eyes. They settle on him, through half lidded vision. He opens one eye, checking to see if you had finished, watching as you gaze upon his features in the comfort of his lap. You met in a tender, exhausted stare, suspended in weary silence. The world around you fell into a deliberate hush, as though it had paused to witness you. Then his coarse hands closed around your back, drawing you into his chest and settling you beneath the steady rise of his breath.

“Y‘take such good care of me, sweet girl.“

“I try. I‘ll be a surgeon by the time you retire.“ You mutter into his neck, still fighting the nausea from the last fifteen minutes. He chuckles, running his finger tips along your sides. You hummed at the feeling, nuzzling into the salty skin of his neck. There were scarcely any lives you would have chosen over this one, if any at all. In the shelter of his hold, it became easy to feel sorry for those who measured existence only in money, never in closeness. What you shared with Dunk was a tender knot of ache and devotion, binding you in something quietly unbreakable.

“Let‘s get you to bed, hm?“ He rasps, as you whine out of somewhere between protest and acknowledgement. Despite being beaten to a bloody pulp, you feel yourself being scooped in arms, draping yourself across him in dramatic fashion. 

The two of you settled beneath the comforter as sleep drew you both under, you felt the quiet rhythm of each other‘s breath. Soft, steady, and entirely human. The relentless thrashing inside his skull faded into silence beneath your weight. The stadium's shrill cries and the echo of impact against his face went still. There was only you and him now, and in that small, still world, peace finally learned its name.