naia

when your very apologetic boyfriend promised he'd properly make it up to you for lacking the time to see you, and then for what had happened during his second task, where you were his special person to save — you didn't expect this.

cedric's steady fingers undid the blindfold around your eyes, and you were met with a beautiful view: lanterns scattered around the astronomy tower's floor and a small picnic blanket in the middle, atop it a small basket.

"what did you do?" you gasp softly, walking closer to examine the heartfelt gesture.

cedric gently took hold of your hand, whirling you around into his chest with a soft thud.

"i am currently making amends with you, my heart."

he kisses the top of your head,

"if you'll allow me to, that is."

you nod eagerly, letting him walk you to the blanket. your shoes come off with a light sound against the stone floor, followed by the rustling of school uniforms as you two settle.

you laugh as cedric pulls out a bottle of what is clearly butterbeer.

he quickly covers your mouth with his free hand, his strong eyebrows softening as you look into his eyes guiltily.

"shhh. we do not wish to alert filch." his hand leaves your soft lips. "there's only so much power i have as a prefect."

"where did you get this?" you take the bottle from him.

he shrugs,

"from hogsmeade. well, i didn't get it. but i did have a few students who owed me favors for their past late-night adventures around the castle."

you blink, then break into light giggles

"—you had some underclassmen smuggle butterbeer from hogsmeade??"

your giggles are broken by his certain lips meeting yours, his hands make their way to you.

one grasps the bottle, the other your waist.

he uncorks the drink with his free hand, securely moving you into his lap with the other.

he breaks the kiss, only to bring the bottle's lips near your now slightly damp ones.

"i told you i'd make it up."

you take a sip, "well," then another, "it's a start."

he takes a swig himself before putting it down.

"i am aware, my heart. but don't forget the night is still young, and if we play our cards right—"

he lowers you onto the soft wool, the sound of his belt unbuckling echoing into the quiet night.

"i shall make it up to you from start to finish, thoroughly."

your breath hitches, propping yourself on your forearms to look at cedric as he lowers his trousers and boxers just enough.

he guides you back down by your shoulders.

"i know it's been a while. i'll be gentle."

he begins to litter kisses from the back of your ear down to your collarbone, only stopping to unbutton your blouse.

his eyes take in your bared skin, the soft curve of your breasts underneath your bra, before resuming his kisses.

his lips move slowly, reverently, tenderly — mapping you out like the stars that rest peacefully above you.

cedric's steady hands move to your shoulders, reaching under your blouse to begin to pull your bra down by the straps first, letting the undergarment rest around your stomach instead.

"oh—mmmh"

a soft moan leaves you as his mouth encloses around one of your pert nipples, while his free hand moves to circle the other.

you feel it, feel the dampness growing between your thighs. your boyfriend promised he'd be gentle, even whilst preparing you for him after such a long time apart.

"you are so beautiful," he murmurs against your breast, slowly moving upwards with his kisses, breath gently fanning the side of your face as he continues,

"forgive me. please. for everything. for not telling you about the egg, the tournament holding us back—"

you shush him with a finger against his lips.

"don't say that. you being in this tournament changes nothing between us. i am so proud of you, cedric. you deserve this more than anyone i know."

his lips break into a smile against the pad of your finger, then he kisses it softly before playfully pouncing on you.

his laughter is muffled against the crook of your neck, and his hands resume movement, now finding your skirt.

he gently peels the pleated garment down to your ankles and takes a sharp breath when he sees the outline of your pussy through your panties.

"i don't mean to boast—"

"not a word."

cedric's soft blue eyes meet yours, softening around the edges as the corners of his lips quirk up playfully.

his fingers make a motion of locking his mouth and throwing the key away.

he moves once more, both hands securing around the sides of your panties, and begins to pull them down agonizingly slow.

to you, it's embarrassing how his gaze examines every inch of the arousal between your legs — but to him, it's everything.

it's months of quick kisses and short but heartfelt letters piling up to this moment, you and him in the sea of stars.

a groan slips from his lips as his cock head nestles between your glistening lips, catching on your hole and entering you for the first time in months.

cedric's body elopes you completely; he's on his forearms now, you between as he thrusts into you to the hilt, the intensity of it all pulling a breathy moan from your lips.

soft sounds of your coupling fill the open sky around you; a soft breeze picks up, slightly moving your boyfriend's hair in front of his eyes.

he laughs breathlessly, wiping a sweaty forearm across it; your laugh follows, just as mellow, as you help him remove the bothersome strands.

"i can see the stars reflecting in your eyes, i cannot tell which is more beautiful."

you playful inquiry follows, "as opposed to...?"

"the stars or their reflection in your eyes," he explains, "it's not a you versus them, because in that case, you'd win by a landslide."

his stomach rumbles against yours as another happy laugh tumbles out of his lips, his movement in you never stopping.

he kisses each of your eyelids softly, and it is only then that you notice the intense feeling in your lower stomach that's building up.

"i missed you. i missed you so much, my heart."

his words undo the knot in your stomach, and your back arches off the floor as you come around him.

a light sigh leaves your lips as he follows after you.

when the strong feelings subside, he slowly retracts his softened cock from your mound and lies down next to you.

you sit up slowly, despite his tired grumble of protest.

"what?" you raise a brow, reaching for the forgotten butterbeer. "i need to rehydrate."

he sits up as well, fighting the sleep from his eyes as he rests his cheek against the slope of your shoulder.

you smile to yourself as you feel him begin to doze off on you.

©𝐃𝐄𝐖𝐘𝐏𝐎𝐔𝐓⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

dewynote (っ'-')╮💌 :: first hp ff on this account! yay! i hope that the anon is happy with the fic...caring bf cedric could fix me.

𝐗. 𝐕alarr 𝐓argaryen

least kinky and by choice.

he has heard of newer, more exciting forms of pleasure, but he just doesn't believe that's something that is currently needed in his marriage bed.

he believes he's satisfying you enough in the old-fashioned, deeply passionate way.

however, he is not opposed to taking you in the bath.

if the two of you happen to be too exhausted from respective duties the night prior, the next day he'll let you climb into his morning bath and ride him.

𝐈𝐗. 𝐃aeron 𝐓argaryen

unsolicited description freakiness.

the freak in the bedchambers is mellow compared to how he babbles about it when drunk.

you could have the most romantic, vanilla sex with a sober daeron, and he'll drink the next day and start lewdly describing the intimacy to his unsuspecting father during luncheon.

maekar has learned to cover his ears when his eldest son starts talking about you, just in case.

yes, that's it, that's his freak; drunkenly describing last night's sex, getting aroused because of it, and repeating.

𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐑aymun 𝐅ossoway

his only kink is loving you.

in other words, he'll do anything you tell him to, and/or allude to wanting.

if you ever say you desire he let go of his restraint, he will.

he's definitely into food play, so i'd call him light to medium kinky if he does it nastily that night.

his strongest desires never went further than eating lemon cake off your bosom, licking the cream down to your stomach, and then eagerly burying his face between your thighs and connecting his mouth with your equally sweet and messy cunt.

𝐕𝐈𝐈. 𝐀erion 𝐓argaryen

kinky in theory only.

i've said it before, and i'll say it again — aerion is all talk. he gets overstimulated when you ride him; he'd implode if true kink entered the chat.

though he does imagine many things (besides being a dragon).

he's imagined his older brother or cousin watching as he makes love to you. though he'd always push those thoughts away when his own mind would make valarr and daeron try to join. you're only for his hands.

another fantasy of his is you edging him and denying him to come. and he's imagined you both mating as dragons. multiple times.

maybe, just maybe, his desires will override logic one day.

𝐕𝐈. 𝐃uncan the 𝐓all

match his medium kink.

duncan never believed he could be a thorough lover. not because he didn't desire it, but because sex was a luxury to a hedge knight (much like everything else, really).

few of them ever experience cunt that wasn't bought with coin, even fewer marry.

but then duncan obtained that luxury and became obsessed with marking it. he wants his freak matched.

if he's taking you in missionary, his hands will shakily guide yours to wrap around his shoulders and beg you to scratch his back until it's all red and stinging.

oh, and he bites.

𝐕. 𝐑oland 𝐂rakehall

he's super kinky for mild exhibitionism.

he just wants a bit of freaky riskiness without being caught and stripped of his knighthood or beheaded for it.

he's dragged you off to the woods and gardens more times than either of you recall.

another place, but slightly riskier, that he likes to take you in is your bedroom, when he knows your maids are supposed to arrive soon.

he'll continue moving in you from the back, a slight smirk on his face as you excuse the clueless women through the door in a shaky voice, then clasps his hand around your mouth as the footsteps begin to fade, and he picks up his pace.

𝐈𝐕. 𝐁aelor 𝐓argaryen

he doesn't know it, but he's definitely one of the freakiest akotsk men. and it's in the form of overstimulation.

his princely restraint snapped when he remarried, and you came into his life.

although he understands that his own cock sometimes gives way mid-nightly torture, he doesn't truly feel it.

to him it's just a matter of waiting to be erect again and continuing — the flame of passion in his soul never dims, not even by the small sting his red cockhead was experiencing, or the ache in his thighs.

did he like the pain? was he enjoying overstimulating his cock raw in your cunt? he didn't have an answer for that, just lots of ointment for after.

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐌aekar 𝐓argaryen

freakiest breeding kink in all of westeros.

it's not some out-of-worldly kink; any man who had any lands whatsoever wanted a child that could one day inherit them — but maekar takes it up a notch.

he breeds for the love of the cunt, not so much the nuisance of another babe (he adores his children).

he cannot have you be empty whilst he can easily fill you. he finds it torturous for your cunt to not be overflowing with his seed each eve, then finding the remnants of it spilling out on the sheets next morn.

at some point, a maester suggested protection, and maekar forbade him to ever consult with him again.

𝐈𝐈. 𝐃onnel of 𝐃uskendale

yearns-to-breed kind of kinky.

forbidden romance + an old knight with a breeding kink, oh you're in for a rough and loooong night.

you ignite a flame of forbidden desire donnel never allowed himself to have until now, so of course he's a menace about it.

and if you, logically, do not allow him to release his seed in you? he takes you more lengthily but pulls out each time he is close to his release.

he himself didn't know the depths of his passion until he started to obsessively fuck melons when you weren't around. he'd carve a hole in the fruit, and thrust and release his semen into it until the whole thing was 90% cum and 10% fruit.

and you had the right to be cautious, because this seasoned knight is far from shooting blanks.

𝐈. 𝐋yonel 𝐁aratheon

yeah, no surprise here.

he sings about pegging in one of the episodes; this man yearns to be a bottom.

and he doesn't think of it as shameful, not at all. by your second moon of marriage, you are well aware and informed about what he desires.

you did it once. one time that you fulfilled your husband's request, and he was never the same after.

he'll ask and beg to repeat it during the most inconvenient times. you could be having supper, and he'll turn to you and, in a normal-volume voice, ask if you can make him try to take three fingers that night.

he tries to get touchy under the tablecloth, too. one time he accidentally grabbed one of his advisors by the thigh.

rip lyonel, you would've loved strap-ons.

©𝐃𝐄𝐖𝐘𝐏𝐎𝐔𝐓 ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

dewynote (っ'-')╮💌 :: we have to be mindful that this is set in olden times, and kinks were not that explored whatsoever. aerion could easily move to one of the top spots if he just left reason behind. will you help him with that? ;)

also, yeah...protection existed in those times, which was made out of sheep intestines or bladder...

on a less disgusting side note...all the older men are the kinkiest 🫦

Shame. Survival. Pleasure.

Fickle, that is what the hope that nestled deep in your heart has become.

Since the overthrow of the Greens, your family scattered — Aegon, now proclaimed Usurper, ran to whichever godforsaken corner a rat such as he could, your husband Aemond had ridden out Vhagar the same morn you were captured and failed to return. And your mother, in a frantic attempt to save Helaena, fled with the innocent queen.

The shame that now shackles you is strong, stronger than the actual shackles that bound you when you were taken prisoner. Remnants of the day of and after your capture pass through your mind:

How you were dragged through the keep like a stray hound, your royal dress tearing and catching each imperfection on once-perfect castle floors. When a guard took your prayer beads, they tore, the marbles chattering like water droplets. It reminded you of the heaving of tides, the severing of families, and the breakage of promises.

What awaits you now is survival. You pleaded with the guards that stood by your small chambers, "Have I ever wronged you?" "Was I ever unkind to you?" but it was as if speaking to ghosts. When maids brought supper, your knees gave way and scraped against harsh ground as you crawled to each one who brought the meal. Your weak hands grasped at the maid's skirt like a thirsty man grasping at the well bucket.

More often than not, the uncomfortable soul's breath would hitch as she pushed your hands off of herself and fled, leaving you alone once more.

You were more in your thoughts now, given they were the only thing you had left between these four pitiful walls, which often led you back to your days spent in the Great Sept of Baelor. Growing up, you visited it daily, usually early on, garnering courage from the skies to face whatever new misery the day had brought.

You would always pass by your twin brother, Aemond, who would wake with dawn to spar or ride his great dragon, Vhagar. You'd greet one another, perhaps even ride your dragons together if time allowed. But then, your mother announced that you two were to wed, and all the fragile peace you two had built was shattered.

You knew Aemond wouldn't complain; he'd never betrayed duty, but his withdrawal was enough of a complaint. Gone were the affable greetings and pleasant takes to the sky, and the brother you once knew and trusted most became a stranger because of one vow forced by obligation.

So even before you were taken captive, the Sept lost its allure, knowing you'd have to cross paths with your uncaring brother-husband to reach it.

Now, morn has become your only source of comfort — it reminds you of the warmth that spilled through the great windows of the holy space each new day when you knelt for prayer, minus Aemond's unacknowledgement. There was hope, after all; the sun rose and shone for all, reaching wherever and whomever it could, if only you'd known so before following duty so blindly.

Another day has passed—the fifth of your captivity, the last of the sun's rays setting behind the scenery. The door cracked open. Without another thought, you knelt, a recurrence now, your hands reaching for worn skirt fabric of a maid's dress, only to grasp hard, cold leather.

“So passionate about a simple meal? Did the maids forget to feed the little dove?”

Despite every instinct warning you, your eyes shot up, light violet meeting dark violet that belonged to none other than a man you least expected to see: Prince Daemon Targaryen. Your hands retracted as if burned, the jumpy reaction making Daemon's smirk more prominent as he knelt in front of you, setting the silver tray aside with a defeating clank.

"Did I surprise you, princess?"

Your throat works to answer, but all that comes out is a broken breath of a word Daemon doesn't catch. Your silver hair sways along as you muster a meek nod. His hand moves from his thigh, its back nearing your bleak face.

A small flinch happens when the coldness of his knuckles and rings grazes your cheek. Your eyes flicker as they take in the man in front of them. It was unmistakably your uncle, in all his Targaryen glory, stroking your cheek as if he wasn't one of the reasons your whole life collapsed around you.

"Uncle..."

Daemon tsked softly, pale lips pressing into a thin line as you addressed him as uncle, trying to find your voice and ask for answers or plead for mercy, whichever came first. "I prefer my name on your lips...amongst other things."

Before you could ask what he meant by the latter, not that you believed he'd elaborate—he showed you. His lips enclosed around your smaller ones passionately.

A breath tore from your mouth, traveling into his rough, eager one.

What should've felt wrong, what should've felt like a great dragon piercing its claws into the skin of a bystander sheep — didn't feel so cruel at all.

In all the loneliness, the abandonment, and feelings of being too unworthy to save, Daemon's lips felt like sunlight breaking through the clouds, destroying doubt and replacing it with something much more unstable and complicated.

Your hands tremble as they clench around his half-buttoned tunic, grasping the thin material tightly as Daemon's strong hand moves from your cheek to the back of your neck, reeling you closer.

He angled your face, molding your lips together more efficiently as a quiet hum left his throat. His free hand wrapped around your lower back, pulling your body to rest against his.

"We shouldn't—" You push, but all the beast in him feels is false resistance, abandonment wrapped in property — carried by a soul deserving of better.

"Let me be here for you. For a night, a fortnight, as long as you need me."

The steadiness of his voice made you falter. This was wrong in many ways. You were married, and a woman of faith — he was married as well. Whatever was happening shouldn't. But his words...they were like honey.

So even if it was all poison — as long as it was hidden in honey, you'd take it.

You let him pick you up without another word, your back nestling against the hard mattress of the bed. Daemon's lips find the column of your neck, making you gasp and arch into him. A flame of desire lit in the pit of your stomach.

Pleasure was nothing but a fairytale to you. Your mother explained to you what sex was before you were wedded to Aemond. But she made one thing clear: this was duty. Duty you had to fulfill, just as she had hers, and the rest of the world theirs.

But now, as your body was burning for a man it shouldn't — like a match lighting against rough surface — you realized how little duty truly mattered.

You dutifully married Aemond. Dutifully read your scrolls and clasped hands to the seven-pointed star — but none of it saved you. You were betrayed and captured; regardless of it all. And you were now being touched by the one man you never imagined touching you.

Daemon's hand uncurled from your waist, moving to your bare legs as your shift gave way to the prince's exploration. You eagerly wiggle your hips as he pulls the white linen down your legs. Your heart lurches in your chest as he spreads you shamelessly, deep eyes taking in every inch of you, like worshipping you with them alone.

"Does my little dove wish to continue, or shall we—"

"Please! Please continue...Take me. I'm yours to take."

The desperation in your voice makes Daemon pause. He looks up at your panicked expression.

"Don't panic. I meant to say, shall we take it slower..."

His free hand moves to cup one of your flushed cheeks, thumb gently moving along warm skin; a man of his stature is comforting his niece as if it were second nature.

"As for the other, you may give me your body,"— he begins calmly. "whenever and however much you please. But you are far from mine. You stay your own person; free to order me to stop at any moment — and I will." His words should've reassured you, made the guilt less — that this was comfort you desperately needed and would later be forgiven for with enough prayer — but no.

You didn't want to pray, not now, not anytime soon — and certainly not for this. Not against this man who seemed to care for you in his own way — in ways no one else had before. You want this, you want him, and for every sinful touch of his to be engraved into your soft skin like a brand.

You shake your head, knuckles whitening as your grasp firms. "I need to be yours, Daemon. Make me yours. I do not care if it'll only be for ten minutes and if I'll burn for it eternally."

Daemon's carefulness evaporates like smoke.

Your head falls back as his long index and middle finger enter your cunt with an ease you've never felt with Aemond. A soft squelch followed his entry, making him close his eyes and take a sharp breath. Your eyes opened slightly, a small whimper leaving your lips as he completely retrieved his fingers, only to bring them to his mouth and wrap his tongue around them — watching you watch him enjoy your essence.

The queen dowager's words ring through your mind like stone dropping in a hollow well: duty, life is but a duty to fulfill. All you ever did was think of duty, and it never thought back of you — perhaps that is why abandoning it never felt sweeter.

Your thighs shut in a quiet ache as your violet gaze went over the older man lapping at his own fingers to taste you. Of all the women he chose to taste, of all the women he could've comforted — it had been you. Feeling chosen was better tenfold than damned duty. A soft sigh of relief left your lips as he parted your thighs once more, fingers re-entered you, gently pleasuring you through the softening resistance. His lips found yours again, and his fingers curled as they reached you furthest, pulling another soft sound from you.

Your hips began to chase his hand, lifting off the rumpled sheets and meeting his deep thrusts. The fire in your gut started to expand, your brows furrowing as he scissored his fingers through your velvet walls.

"Beautiful. You are devastatingly beautiful, princess."

Your hips still at his word. Praise. You've never received it. Not sexual praise, not like this; when all you were doing was selfishly taking everything he gave you — and that alone was enough to earn praise, in Daemon Targaryen's book?

Your breath hitches as the fire in your stomach threatens to escape, ready to light the whole bed aflame. A jolt runs through your body as his thumb brushes along the hard pearl that Aemond never bothered with.

"That is it...let go, little dove. Don't think, just feel. Don't be afraid, I am here. Fall. I will catch you. Nyke tepagon ao ñuha udra."

The world narrows to this moment — you, Daemon and this chamber barely contain two dragons as their desires spill over. The fire finally spills out of your gut and onto his hand. Your back arches off the mattress, a loud, foreign sound of pleasure leaving your trembling lips.

(I give you my word.)

You collapse with a soft thud, chest having as his fingers leave your overstimulated cunt. Your eyelids feel heavy; the ceiling blurs at every slow blink. With great exertion, you lift yourself on your forearms. A small smile paints your lips, looking every bit undone as Daemon's mouth curves to mirror.

"Ñuha udra? What word? What kind of word does an uncle have to uphold towards his woeful niece?"

Daemon's hand finds your head, thick fingers slothing into silver strands as he guides your head forward, planting a deliberate, reverent kiss to your temple.

"A word far greater than you seem to be aware of."

For a second, your heart stops, eyes widening as his words register in your brain. They pierce your soul like a sword armor. You knew your uncle well; a man of calculated actions and measured words, meaning whatever came from Daemon Targaryen's mouth, he meant.

Before you can swim further into your thoughts, the sound of discarding leather brings you back to reality. Daemon had moved away from you and was now amidst pulling his doublet and smallclothes down simultaneously.

Your throat bobbed, tracking Daemon's form as he shamelessly threw his garments near the door. His cock swung between his muscular thighs as he settled onto the bed. You instinctively move away, making room for his towering frame.

He gently catches your wrist, bringing it to his mouth and planting a small kiss on your palm. He inhales softly, eyes opening to look at you through your fingers before quietly breaking the kiss.

"May I show you the length to which I'm ready to serve you?"

Like he already hadn't shown great length when his clothes were discarded.

"Show me, Daemon. Nyke jorepan ao."

Your hands move to his shoulders as he hovers over you, his long silver hair tickling your cheek. You nervously dig your nails into his shoulders as he guides his cock into your glistening hole.

(I beg you.)

He groans in your ear as he sheets himself inside you fully, a shudder running through your body as you feel the full length of his eagerness. He pulls out agonizingly slow, leaving only his reddened tip inside, before re-sheating — like a sword finding the perfect sheath.

The room soon fills with your sounds of pleasure and the wet sound of Daemon claiming you wholly. Your arms wrap around his neck, and his lips find yours for the third time this night. You can taste the remnants of wine on him; your hands curl into his soft locks as you pull him impossibly closer.

The flame of desire ignites in you once more, burning hotter than the first time. His piercing eyes dissect your figure: the flush on the apples of your cheeks, the sheen of sweat covering your trembling body, your breathing turning uneven— Daemon notices it all, and he's determined to make you feel ecstasy once more.

His hand moves to your stomach, making you look down. You notice the way your lower belly sloshes as he continues to penetrate you. When his palm gently presses to the movement, your whole body goes taut, before your second orgasm hits you like an angry dragon reaching fire, burning everything in its sight.

You bite his shoulder, hard, as your cunt flutters and spasms around his not-stopping cock. After a second, when your body begins to go pliant in his strong arms, Daemon lowers you onto the dampened sheets. Your tired orbs look on as he withdraws from you, a small crease appears between your brows,

"You may—"

"Not today, little dove."

"But I insist—"

Daemon's gaze hardens for a fraction, rough palm moving under your chin. He lifts your head with his thumb and index finger.

"Do you insist, or does your loneliness insist?"

His hand leaves your chin, moving along the side of your breast and stopping on your hip. Before a seed of doubt can form in your mind, he begins to move his hard cock against the outside of your stomach. You watch quietly; not even a minute later, his semen sprouts along your abdomen and ribs.

Your body subconsciously relaxes, and Daemon lies beside you, pulling you into his solid chest. He kisses your hair carefully, before murmuring into it,

"One day you will take my seed, and it will be because you begged for it, not insisted like it was a demand on my behalf."

All you can do is give one weak, final nod against his chest before sleep takes you. He leans forward, whispering into the silence,

"Rest, princess...I know how much you like waking with the sun."

©𝐃𝐄𝐖𝐘𝐏𝐎𝐔𝐓 ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒓 𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒚𝒆𝒏 ━━━ forearm

this targaryen prince loves being reliable, especially to his wife. what started as you grasping his forearm to steady yourself and not fall whilst stepping out of your carriage, turned into you touching him when you needed his reliability more enticingly. it became a cue of sorts. after a particularly long ball, with your feet aching from all the dancing and your mind buzzing from all the chatter, you reach for your husband’s forearm, looking up at him expectantly. not long after, he’s excusing himself from the attendees and leading you to your chambers. that night, he makes love to you sweetly, reassuringly, not wanting to overwhelm you even more. he’s taken you like this many, many times. the knowledge that you grasp onto him when you need him makes valarr more aroused than any nightgown ever could, than any flirtatious action ever did. your bond and trust are his undoing.

𝒔𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒍 ━━━ face

dunk is weak for closeness. he yearns for it, even without knowing what it fully means. nothing arouses duncan more than love. due to his height, rarely has anyone ever been close to his face out of loving reasons, and more so out of malice — until he meets you. the first time you cardle his big, bruised face between your gentle hands after the trial of seven, cleaning the blood from it, duncan’s breathing slows and all he can do is watch your tenderness through his good eye, knowing he’s in trouble. his hands reach out, situating themselves on your hips, pulling you closer to his seated form. the giant knight’s eyes roll back when your soft lips find his battered ones and he looks up into the clear skies, thanking the heavens for bringing you to him. he desperately pulls you closer, almost making you tumble. your body shudders nervously when your clothed core brushes against his growing erection, realizing to what extent your gentle cardeling has affected duncan.

𝒎𝒂𝒆𝒌𝒂𝒓 ‘𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒗𝒊𝒍’ 𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒚𝒆𝒏 ━━━ shoulders

after his second marriage to you, maekar believed it would be impossible to love you — his shoulders would tense at the mere thought of you, another burden on them, and another appearance to keep up. once you notice, you decide not to let him walk with that tension any longer. the first night that your palms find their way onto the firmly set muscles of his shoulders, undoing each of them like a silent reassurance of the sun rising again after the storm — the reassurance he thought himself far grown to need, he comes to realize no appearance would need keeping up, as he begins falling for you then and there. his hands move harshly, pushing the quills and papers off his table with urgency unbecoming of a seasoned prince like him, but maekar doesn't care, as all he needs now is his lady-wife, and desperately at that. he easily maneuvers you onto his desk, spreading you before his eager, violet gaze. when you lift your skirts, he wastes no time in lowering his head to your center and taking what he needs.

𝒃𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒓 ‘𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓’ 𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒚𝒆𝒏 ━━━ hands

somewhere along the lines of you telling him how safe you feel when he holds you and playing with his rings, baelor takes note of a much deeper feeling which your attentiveness to his hands provokes in him. you burst into his solar one busy evening, like all of the prince’s evenings were, but tonight you were insatiable. you gently grasp his hand, moving the quill out of it and setting it aside, then you guide it. baelor observes as you guide his hand to the nape of your neck, down to the swell of your breast, along your hip, and finally between your legs. it is tonight that your husband lets you be so utterly insatiable. a few minutes later, his kind eyes—now overflown with lust and love for you— observe how his thick fingers stretch you in the most filthy yet breath-taking manner. he makes you come a few times like that alone, telling you to take what you wanted without complaint, not fully realizing just what had awoken in him that evening, but knowing he’ll be doing this to you again very soon.

𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒎𝒖𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒐𝒘𝒂𝒚 ━━━ beard

raymun is on cloud nine whenever you praise him. what usually follows that praise is your nimble fingers brushing through his beard. you could just be happy, explaining how proud you are of his most recent accomplishment as he lay behind you, leaning into your hand like an obedient puppy, before you feel something very familiar begin to poke your backside. don’t you dare try to scoot away. he’s grasping your hips and pulling you tightly against him, slowly moving against your backside to let you feel what you do to him. he kisses your neck when he enters you from behind, but you hear the sound he muffles against it nonetheless. he lets you keep your hand on his beard, no, scratch that (haha get it? no…? okay…), he begs of you to keep touching it, keep praising your lord-husband. when did your puppy turn into such a dog?

𝒅𝒂𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒏 ‘𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓’ 𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒚𝒆𝒏 ━━━ hair

you did it once, unaware of what moving your husband’s dirty-blonde locks out of his face, paired with a quiet ‘i want to see my husband’s handsome face better’ as you gently move up and down on his lap might do to him, has done to him in that very moment. daeron’s never the same to hair touching after that. even if it may become inconvenient at times when all you truly want to do is handle his unruly hair. he’s pulling you into the nearest hallway and taking you most sinfully. he pleads with you to pull at it, and when you do, he’s spilling in you like a green boy. now, imagine sitting on his face and pulling on or removing his hair from his face? yeah, you cannot blame him when he tugs at your hard pearl with his teeth before thrusting his wet muscle into your hole, and making you scream out in the process. at times daeron might purposely want to make you touch his hair so he could take you away and escape a tiering gathering (he once told his father he had to leave an important social gathering due to an emergency and looked down to his groin; maekar was d i s g u s t e d.)

𝒍𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍 ‘𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒎’ 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒐𝒏 ━━━ thighs

you never brush your hand against your husband’s thigh by accident (you did once, which almost resulted in a public scandal). when your smaller fingers wrap around the flesh of your husband’s thigh, the stag just smiles in triumph before he’s even turned to face you, feeling his blood start to rush south. lyonel’s hands find your body in no time, bringing you onto his lap. he groans when you shift your clothed cunt specifically onto one of his thighs, moving up and down against it in a slow, torturous manner. lyonel loves it, it gets him off in a way he could never have known had it not been for his lovely lady-wife. he can finish numerous times like this, and he does. and if the two of you are completely naked and he’s already deep in you when you reach out to steady yourself on his thighs, accidentally scratching him, he’s filling you up with his seed in seconds.

𝒔𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 ━━━ you don’t need to touch him, you just look at him

roland knows that the simplest touch between the two of you during daylight hours is able to cause a scandal. that is why a look is enough to entice him, over-entice him, even. like when he’s jousting, and you’re in the royal box with your family, looking at him through batted lashes and over your fan, roland knows he’ll soon have your beautiful eyes rolling to the back of your skull, and that is enough to heighten his desires to maximum capacity. soon, you and the knight are on each other like dogs, your hearts and bodies having been away from one another for far, far too long. he’s taking you from behind with deep, precise strokes, and he reminisces back on how your eyes followed him during the joust, making sure he was unharmed, and how proudly they shone when he won. he adjusts the flower crown on your perfect head as it threatens to fall, before resuming his thrusts.

𝒔𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒖𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒆 ━━━ palm

it was a quiet, mellow evening spent with your personal guard. rays of the setting sun flooded your grand bedroom, creating a serene atmosphere. ser donnel looks down at you as you bask in it from your luxurious chair, eating a piece of lemon cake. he smiles slowly, taking off one of the gloves from his hand. knowing the two of you are alone and cannot be barged in on, donnel has no qualms with wiping the crumbs off your face, that is, he never did, until you decided to reach out and grasp his retrieving hand, bringing it to your sweet lips and licking his fingers. your mischievous gaze meets his, and you enjoy watching the older man’s gaze turn darker when you kiss his palm, before biting into it like the vixen you secretly are. your eyes widen when his fingers pry into your mouth briskly, but you comply nonetheless, looking up at him as your tongue swirls around his digits, making the older man hiss through his teeth. well, no point in not enjoying this quiet evening to its full extent, no?

©𝐃𝐄𝐖𝐘𝐏𝐎𝐔𝐓 ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

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— aerion ‘brightflame’ targaryen ;; doesn’t realize at first

it was a night similar to others — your husband, tired after a proper round of lovemaking, let you please yourself on him, too exhausted to assist much, other than hold the supple flesh of your thighs and give them a light squeeze from time to time, silently encouraging his princess. when your head hits his chest, it hurts a bit, though aerion believes you just slipped, his chest, which you use to level yourself, has become quite sweaty, so it was understandable. but when you don’t get up, he looks down on your peaceful, albeit passed-out, expression. aerion removes himself from you with utmost care, laying you down on the cool, silk sheets. when you slowly begin to awake, your eyes land on a cup of steaming tea on the nightstand, with two sugar cubes beside it, and your husband sitting on the chair by the fireplace.

— ser duncan the tall ;; panicks

duncan is all about safe intimacy. which means he'll get extremely frightened if you pass out. his body is immediately leaving yours, large hands moving for the blanket nearby to wrap around your slumped figure. poor gentle giant dunk — he could’ve sworn he’s asked if you were alright, multiple times at that. you know the moment he realizes he’s signed up for jousting and throws up? that’s him now, holding your body tightly against his. his brow unfurrows once he feels your lips graze his neck, before gently nipping at it. hugs you even tighter, murmuring how you frightened him half to death. moans out in surprise when you reach for his still naked manhood, questioning why he’s stopped. you'll drive him mad, and the knight will gladly go mad for you.

— valarr targaryen ;; stays calm.

he is the most attentive husband you could’ve wished for. the prince has grown to know your body better than you, out of the bedroom and inside it. valarr feels as if his own heart has become entwined with yours. when your body turns limp underneath his, he lifts your chin, assessing your peaceful expression before smiling slightly. you wake to him cleaning you and reassuring you that all is well and that you should return to sleep. do not try to persuade this prince into continuation; it's futile. he may be calm, but he's not made of stone, and this occurrence does affect valarr beyond what he chooses to project on his princely face. though, if you do as he says now, he'll gladly attend to your needs on the morrow.

— lyonel ‘laughing storm’ baratheon ;; fully panicks

your husband is all but about to tease you for not being able to handle his stag-like vigor when he feels your arms go loose and slip from his neck, only to catch his breath as his eyes meet your closed ones. he quickly distances himself, making sure you are decent before beginning to yell for the guards outside your chamers, ordering them to fetch a maester. lyonel, to put it mildly, traumatizes the other man because he himself is still unclothed. the baratheon lord just ushers the bewildered maester into the room to check on you. your husband cares less that his family jewels scarred someone that night, as he greets your awakening figure with a derpy, lovestruck smile, before offering you a fruit tart.

── © dewypout

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