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horrorslashergirl

Slasher OC Masterlist

Richard Firewood🎶

Jackson Jasper🐴

The Hacker💻💙

Bambi Miller🐊

Dave Anthony🐙

Samuel Grayson🐕

Gerome and Axel (Miami Murderers)🏝️

Damiano Liberato💎

Azment💜

Mitch Carson🐾

Azol🎃

The Shadow💉

Bahini Talibah🐍

Xaviera Lah-Mo🐱❄️

Akshay Lah-Mo🐻❄️

Decebal Avram Chirilă🐯⚔️

Nadia Nikolina Chirilă🐆🖌️

Alexander Chirilă🌸

Ambros Abendroth 🥀

Nikita Piotr Volkov 🐉

🦅My Slashersona Genderbend-Self Masterlist

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imnotcryingyouare1

The favourite

Au where Aegon was named heir when he was born and the dance doesn’t happen.

Just a cute little thruple fic. You’re Rhaenyra’s daughter but no description of what you look like.

Someone wasn’t happy with my treatment of team green so here’s happy Helaena and not evil Aegon with a side of Daemon x Rhaenyra x Alicent

“I can’t believe he’s mother’s favourite.” Aegon whines storming into Helaena’s chambers, your shared wife sat on the floor with her insects while you embroider Aegon’s new doublet. Not able to move as much given how far along you are in your pregnancy. “He’s such a prat.”

jxerv

would you do Rhaenyra x fem!reader where the reader is married to Rhaenyra but attends her wedding to Daemon. The reader is either the daughter or sister of Cregan Stark, and therefore a Stark; the marriage, even if to another woman, did not cause any problems or disputes in the kingdom. Rhaenyra deeply loves the youngest, who is the same age as her son Jacaerys, and adored that she was great with little ones, children in this case. Therefore, Rhaenyra learned of her desire to be a mother, and even her suggestion to sleep with Daemon, though somewhat hesitant, remained solely for the purpose of having a Targaryen child. Rhaenyra didn't like it and internally grew jealous and possessive; she doesn't want you to sleep with anyone else but her. It would be interesting and intriguing if you could develop a way for the reader to become pregnant with Rhaenyra's biological child. idk something like that... perhaps with the help of the maesters and ancient Valyrian books?!

(reader gives birth to a girl, and since Rhaenyra always wanted a daughter and the tragedy that followed, the reader names their daughter Visenya! 😭)

my wife | r.t

Pairings: Rhaenyra Targaryen x Stark!Wife!Reader

Summary: you watched your wife marry another man.

WARNINGS: angst, hurt to comfort, allusion to sex, slight homophobia (literally just mentioned)

A/n: I’m sorry it took me forever to write this and it’s not even good😭

masterlist | wc: 2.9k

MISIC FILLED the great hall of Dragonstone, vibrating through the mighty black stone columns and dispersing beneath the high vaults like an echo. The melodies of lutes intertwined with the deeper sounds of drums, while the clinking of goblets and the laughter of the guests blended into a single symphony of celebration. To your eyes, however, everything seemed distant, muffled, almost unreal, as if an invisible veil separated you from that festivity. Torches fixed to the walls cast a golden light that danced across the stone, making the reddish reflections of the polished floor gleam. From the wide-open windows came the salty breeze of the Narrow Sea, carrying with it the scent of water and the cliffs surrounding the island. It was a mild evening, and yet you kept clutching the gray fur cloak you had brought from the North years before, as if the chill of Winterfell had remained trapped inside you and no southern sun had ever managed to melt it.

Before you, surrounded by lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, Rhaenyra Targaryen smiled beside Daemon as those present raised their cups to their union. Goblets lifted into the air, voices wished prosperity to the future queen and her prince consort, and every face seemed lit with enthusiasm. Everyone saw what they wished to see: a princess consolidating her power, a dynasty strengthening, a family destined to rule. No one seemed to notice the woman seated a few places away, silent, composed, her eyes fixed on the couple before the altar with an intensity no one could have interpreted. No one, except perhaps her.

You. The eldest daughter of Lord Stark, raised among snow and the stern walls of Winterfell, far from dragons, court intrigues, and the strange customs of House Targaryen. Years earlier you had arrived at Dragonstone as the betrothed of the Princess of the Realm, a union that had outraged the Faith and set the entire nobility whispering. Many had murmured it was an insult to the gods, an act of depravity; others that it was merely another display of Targaryen arrogance. Yet no one had dared oppose it. Dragons had imposed their will for centuries, and this was but another of their eccentricities. The marriage had strengthened the bond between the North and the Crown, a valuable alliance in increasingly uncertain times, even though everyone knew what no one ever said aloud: two women could never produce heirs for the succession.

You had accepted it. Not because it was your duty, but because you had loved Rhaenyra long before the marriage had been sealed before the gods. You had learned to love every facet of her: her fiery nature, her stubbornness, the way she could appear proud before the world and fragile only when you were alone. For that reason, witnessing this second marriage felt like having your heart slowly torn from your chest. You knew perfectly well that Daemon was a political choice, a necessity to solidify her claim to the Iron Throne, and yet reason could not silence the pain. Every smile she gave the guests, every word exchanged with her new husband, every formal gesture required by the ceremony seemed to carve a new wound within you.

You had never protested. You had never raised your voice, nor demanded explanations. When Rhaenyra had confessed what she intended to do, you had simply opened your arms. You still remembered that night clearly. She had entered your chambers without her usual pride, her eyes reddened and her face tightened by a rage that seemed to consume her from within. She had dropped her cloak to the floor and taken refuge in your arms as if they were the only safe place left in the world. She had wept silently against your chest, confessing how much she hated having to marry Daemon, how she loathed the idea that politics would once again dictate her life. You had not tried to convince her to rebel, you had only stroked her hair, kissed her forehead, and promised that nothing would change what you felt for each other. It had been a promise made with your heart, but keeping it was proving far more difficult than you had imagined.

When Rhaenyra lifted her gaze toward the guests, she seemed to ignore every other face in the hall. Her eyes immediately searched for yours, as they always did. It was a habit she had never lost over the years you had spent together. Wherever she was, amid a crowd or during a council meeting, her gaze would inevitably find you. And that evening was no different. For a moment, time seemed to slow. The murmur of the hall faded, the music receded into the background, and only her amethyst eyes remained fixed on yours. A small smile appeared on her face, faint, gentle, and tinged with sadness. You returned it with effort, forcing your lips to curve slightly, more to reassure her than out of genuine feeling.

“Does it bother you, doesn’t it?”

Jacaerys’s voice broke that fragile moment like glass. You slowly turned your head toward the boy seated beside you. His dark hair fell messily across his forehead, his large eyes studying your face with a maturity surprising for his age. Though still a child, he possessed that rare sensitivity that allowed him to perceive emotions adults pretended not to see. He watched you without malice, with the simple sincerity of someone who wished to understand.

You sighed softly, swirling the wine in your goblet before bringing it to your lips. The red liquid briefly reflected the torchlight, almost taking on the color of dragon blood. “Your mother does what she must to strengthen her position. Who am I to stand in her way?”

“You are her wife.”

At the young prince’s words, you lowered your gaze to him. His head was tilted upward to look at you, dark curls falling into his eyes. A faint, melancholy smile softened your expression as you placed a hand in his hair, gently stroking his curls with affection. “Sometimes that is not enough to free us from our duties.”

In the years spent at Dragonstone, you had learned to love those children as if they were your own. You had watched them grow day by day, taught them to read the ancient chronicles of the North and to hold a quill with the same confidence with which one day they would wield a sword. You had wiped away tears after nightmares, tended to scraped knees from games in the castle courtyards, told them stories of the ancient Kings of Winter before the hearth when the wind rattled the windows. They called for you when they were afraid, sought your embrace when Rhaenyra was occupied with the council, and without anyone ever saying it aloud, you had become a second mother to them. It was impossible not to love them.

It hurt. Every time you saw a lady of the court place a hand on her rounded belly, you felt a silent pang cross your chest. You had often wondered what it would be like to hold a child born of your own blood, to see Rhaenyra’s eyes reflected in a child’s face. But you had relinquished that dream the very day you chose to marry her. It had never been a sacrifice forced upon you, it had been a decision made with clarity, fully aware of the price it would carry. And yet some renunciations continued to hurt, even after years.

When the feast finally ended and the guests began to retire to their chambers, you walked the long corridors of Dragonstone wrapped in silence. The stone walls still held the warmth of the torches, while from the open windows came the steady sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below. You reached the chambers you shared with Rhaenyra and slowly closed the door behind you. The room was lit only by the fire burning in the hearth and a few nearly spent candles. You wore a thin ivory nightgown, soft against your skin, while your hair was gathered in a loose braid falling over your shoulder. You sat on the edge of the bed, letting the silence fill every corner of the room.

Rhaenyra was not there. She was likely with Daemon, as protocol required, consummating the marriage that would convince the entire realm of the strength of their union. That thought alone was enough to tighten your stomach. You tried to convince yourself it was only a duty, that her heart was still there with you, but the bed felt too large, and the room suddenly too empty for that certainty to hold. So you remained seated in the darkness, listening to the crackling fire and the distant sound of the sea, unconsciously waiting for footsteps that might not come before dawn.

The bed still held Rhaenyra’s scent. It was a faint, delicate aroma, of dried lavender, candle smoke, and that unmistakable fragrance you had learned to recognize over the years, one no other person in the world possessed. You had lain down on her side of the mattress almost without realizing it, unconsciously seeking a closeness you knew you could not have that night. The pillow still seemed to hold the warmth of her body, as if only a short time had passed since she had risen from the bed. You slowly drew it into your arms, closing your eyes tightly and burying your face in it, breathing in deeply in the futile attempt to convince your heart that she was still there beside you. It was a lie that lasted only a few moments, because all it took was opening your eyes to find the emptiness of the room again. The stone ceiling felt impossibly distant as the fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting trembling shadows along the walls. The sound of the sea drifting in through the windows was constant and monotonous, and it did nothing to quiet the turmoil within you. Sleep felt unreachable. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind conjured images you wished to banish: Rhaenyra and Daemon together, their hands entwined, duty forcing them to share the same bed. You tried to remind yourself that it was politics, that it was simply the price of the crown, and yet jealousy continued to consume you slowly, coiling in your stomach like a silent poison. It was a feeling you were ashamed of, because you knew how much the situation hurt her as well, but you could not prevent it from existing.

You let out a long breath, almost a stifled moan, clutching the pillow even tighter against your chest. At that precise moment, the faint creak of the door broke the silence of the chamber. You turned your head slightly, and your heart seemed to stop for an instant. Rhaenyra’s figure appeared in the doorway, illuminated only by the flickering candlelight. Her long silver hair fell loosely over her shoulders, strands escaped from the elaborate styles of the ceremony framing her tired face. Her eyes, slightly reddened and glassy, betrayed a weariness that belonged not only to the body. She too seemed to carry the weight of that day, as if every smile given to the guests had cost her a tremendous effort.

You immediately pulled yourself upright, letting the pillow fall beside you. The movement was so sudden that your braid slipped down your back. Surprise was written plainly across your face as you continued to stare at her, unable to comprehend what you were seeing. “Rhaenyra. What are you doing here?” you asked, unable to hide the astonishment in your voice.

She let a small, faint smile curve her lips. It was a tired smile, almost amused by the simplicity of your question. She slowly closed the door behind her and crossed the room with unhurried steps, the fabric of her gown brushing softly against the stone floor. “These are my chambers. Where else should I be?” she murmured with a quiet chuckle, stopping beside the bed.

You lowered your gaze for a moment to your hands, intertwined together, searching for the right words. The knot in your throat made it difficult even to speak. “I don’t know, I thought you and Daemon…” The sentence lingered unfinished in the air. It did not need to be completed. You both knew exactly what you meant.

I thought you and Daemon would’ve fucked.

Rhaenyra slowly sat beside you. The mattress dipped slightly beneath her weight as one of her hands reached your hair. Her fingers began to move with infinite gentleness through the chestnut strands, careful not to undo the braid you had woven before lying down. It was a familiar gesture, one she made almost without thinking whenever she wished to reassure you. “You know why we did it.”

You rolled your eyes faintly toward the ceiling, letting out a bitter smile that never reached your gaze. “Of course I know. I am no fool.”

A long silence followed. Rhaenyra continued to look at you without speaking, and you felt the weight of her gaze settle on your face. When you finally found the courage to meet her eyes, you saw the same sadness that had accompanied you throughout the day. They were glistening, filled with a despair held back with effort, and acceptance.

You could not hold that gaze for long. With a slow movement, you let yourself slip down onto the bed, resting your head on her lap to avoid looking at her directly. The fabric of her gown was soft beneath your cheek, while her fingers continued to stroke your hair with infinite tenderness. You closed your eyes, seeking comfort in that simple gesture, but the pain remained, stubborn. Every time your thoughts turned to Daemon, your stomach tightened. It was not only the fear of sharing her with someone else, but the awareness that from that night onward, the entire world would recognize another man as the husband of your wife.

After a long while, you finally found the courage to speak. “Do you intend to have children?” you whispered softly, almost afraid of the answer. “You and Daemon, I mean.”

The caress in your hair slowed almost imperceptibly. “I don’t know.” Her voice was barely more than a breath. “Do you?”

A small laugh escaped your lips, more incredulous than amused. “What?”

She slowly lowered her gaze to you. “Would you like to have children?”

You opened your eyes suddenly. For a moment, you thought you had misunderstood. You lifted your face just enough to study her expression. There was no irony there, no attempt to lighten the mood. You slowly sat up in front of her. Your back remained perfectly straight, your hands clasped tightly on your knees as you drew a long breath. “You know I do.”

Rhaenyra lowered her eyes. Her lips parted slightly before she took a deep breath, as though what she was about to say cost her more than any coin of gold. “I could ask Daemon to help you, if that is what you wish.”

The room suddenly felt colder. Those words carried a bitter taste. She could not even meet your eyes as she spoke them. It was enough to watch the way her hands were clasped in her lap to understand how heavy that offer weighed on her. The same jealousy that consumed you was devouring her as well, yet she was willing to set it aside to give you what she believed might make you happy.

You slowly shook your head. “I don’t want Daemon.” She finally lifted her gaze to yours. “I don’t want any man. If I ever have a child, I would want it to be yours.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. A smile filled with melancholy appeared on Rhaenyra’s face. Her eyes glossed with tears she stubbornly held back, while one hand rose instinctively to brush against your cheek.

“I wish I could give you everything you desire.”

Those words were sincere, you could hear it in her voice. She would have faced wars, dragons, and entire kingdoms just to make you happy. And yet there were desires that not even a future queen could fulfill.

You smiled, lifting both hands to cradle her face between your palms, gently brushing your thumbs along her cheekbones. You could feel the warmth of her skin, the faint tremor of her breath, and all the fragility she tried so desperately to hide behind the strength she showed the rest of the world. “You are everything I desire.”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes for a moment, releasing a deep sigh. When she opened them again, all distance seemed to vanish. She leaned closer until her forehead rested against yours, and soon after, she sought your lips in a slow kiss, filled with that tenderness that belonged only to the two of you. In that silent embrace, you found again, if only for a moment, everything that politics had tried to take from you.

Long after that night, when you had both nearly stopped hoping, Rhaenyra still did not give up searching for an answer. She was determined to give you what you wanted. Through ancient tales, healers, maesters, and women from the most remote corners of Essos, she continued to pursue any legend that spoke of fertility, blood, and magic. After countless attempts, she finally found an old witch whose knowledge seemed to belong to a forgotten age. Neither of you could ever truly explain what force had acted that night, whether it had been magic or a miracle of the old gods and the new. What mattered was only the result. A few months later, against all logic and every certainty of the world, your desire came to life, and little Visenya was born.

fanfic-the-wish-your-heart-makes

House of the Dragon Characters Letting You Ride Their Dragons 🐲

Character: Helaena Targaryen

<-chapter 1: Rhaenys, Daemon, Rhaena

Reader: gender-neutral, not a dragon rider, can be seen as platonic

Warnings: flying (heights), small mention of war & killing, flying the reader to safety Author's note: I did my best to use the dragons' correct pronouns, but keep in mind that multiple websites had different ones ❤️ Some of them probably guessed 😆 Word count: 632 ____________ /also on AO3 without pictures

Helaena Targaryen listens to you primarily: if you have no wish to do it, there is no reason for it. She sees dragons as more than mere fighters, so Dreamfyre getting to know you via flight seems like a hasty way of doing so. But if necessary, she'd rather try to save you than let you die in King's Landing.

"She's sleeping," Helaena states before you even see her dragon. She sets her privisions on the ground for now and takes your hand and guides the way, slow but sure steps in the darkness, as if there was a light shining only for her eyes to see.

Finally, you see her too: light blue scales, not unlike the color Helaena often wears. "We're not here to go to war, Dreamfyre" she stresses, reaching out a hand to softly stroke near her head. "Come on," she tells you more quickly than expected, and tugs you in front of her, introduces you as she would to a handmaiden she likes particularly. "Will you fly us to safety?" Helaena gives her an intent look. "The both of us?" Dreamfyre rises, throwing shadow over you and making you want to grab Helaena's hand and leave. Then the dragon sniffs softly. Lays down again.

"I think she likes you." Helaena's voice carries more cheer than it did the last months. "Now quick." She takes her bag and steps to the dragon's side, inspects the saddle for a moment, then climbs up and fastens the buckles. "Come up." You remember and nod, climbing up cautiously the first steps...the dragon doesn't throw you off. Alright. And you're up. Helaena makes sure you're tightly secured and breathes in deeply herself.

"I may not...be as good at this as my brothers are." "You're worried about this right now?" She shakes her head. "The wind...it's distracting." "I'll try not to distract you." She bits her lip, nods. "Good." You hope you can. What if you scream? She's got sensitive ears. Her hand is touches yours. "It will be alright."

Suddenly there are shouts. "They went to the dragon pit!" Guards. You look at Helaena. "We most go. Now." She takes the reigns and pats Dreamfyre, hastily commanding her to fly.

And fly she does. For a dragon so soft-looking compared to the others, she manages to almost float directly into the air, and knocks the air out of you. Helaena's hair is braided, but the bottom part of it swings into your face.

She's sucking in air quickly and you can imagine her eyes are shut. The sky is bright around you and you need to close them too. Dreamfyre is flying upwards, up, you don't want to know how far you are. You wouldn't survive the fall.

Helaena's breathing worsens. If Dreamfyre doesn't tilt more horizontally soon, you might lose consciousness. "Does she always do that?" you yell and have to repeat yourself. Helaena gasps and suddenly shouts in High Valyrian, "Daor do jēda vestri!" (Do not let us fall.) Seconds later, you're upright again, Dreamfyre beneath you, clouds beneath you.

King's Landing is...there's a bit of tower, but...you're so high. When you look straight ahead again, you realize Helaena has calmed down. "Are you feeling better?" she asks. "Yes," you answer full of relief and breathe a few times just to savor the feeling. "Much better." You gaze at her from behind, pale hair fluttering in the wind. Her hand rests on Dreamfyre's back.

"Thank you for flying us," you say, and Dreamfyre cranes her head. The sun illuminates her scales and finally you can see that some parts of her are silver. "Vezof ao sytis jorrāel," Helaena translates in a light tone. Dreamfyre seems to nod, and continues her flight, steadily on and on.

_____________ Author's note: Helaena gets her own post instead of being in a collection.

->next chapter?

fish189

Girl next door

Modern!Helaena Targaryen x neighbour!fem!Reader

Summary: Helaena is your next door neighbour and dear friend. You both call one night to get her mind off of things, but the conversation quickly changes. Not that she minds.

Warnings: phone sex!!!, teasing, undressing, voyeurism, mutual masturbation, jilling instructions/guided masturbation, confessions, fingering, breast play, a lot of fluff. MDNI.

4.5K

The second her light flicked on, it drew your attention. Her bedroom, facing yours, was lit up by a small lamp on her bedside table. You swirled around in your deskchair, until you spotted her. She was walking around, having dropped her bag next to the door. She removed her sweater, before plopping down heavily on her bed.

You saw she sighed deeply.

You huffed, before grabbing your phone.

>> long day?

You texted her. You noticed she kept staring up at her ceiling, ignoring her phone. You knew her for long enough now to not take that personally. And after fifteen minutes, she dragged herself back up, and grabbed her phone. You heard the soft ding moment later.

Don’t even get me started..<<

•18+ Adults Only

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thegentleswan

──── ୨୧ ────

I'm Tired

──── ୨୧ ────

Summary: how would the HotD characters handle a partner who's autistic?

Includes: Rhaenyra Targaryen, Alicent Hightower, Daemon Targaryen, Aegon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen, and Helaena Targaryen

Warnings: reader has autistic symptoms, reader is genderneutral

Notes: I know everyone else's experience is different but I did my best to show my experiences and other autistics I know for this

──── ୨୧ ────

imnotcryingyouare1

If you are still taking fluffy requests, Helaena showing you her favorite bugs please. Make sure to drink water today. Thank you!

Tell me more

Thank you 🩵🩵 I did actually forget to have water this morning so thank you for the reminder, I’m having some now 🩵🩵

This is really short and can be read as platonic (you still think she’s pretty though) but we love a girl who info dumps

“That’s a dragonfly, right?” You ask Helaena, sitting down next to her as an insect flys around her chambers. The girl looking away from her crocheting to look at you.

tismfanatic

A Meal So Tasty

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Pairing: Various!HOTD x Fem!Black!Reader

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Genre: smut

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Summary: Royal or not, nothing will stop them from doing what they do best. Bring you to bliss.

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Warnings: 18+, minors do not interact!!, purely self motivated work about the HOTD men and women eating you out, cunnilingus, fingering, dirty talk, any Valyrian used will be translated directly after using it. BOLD is the Valyrian and ITALICS will be the translation

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Word Count: 12.4k

𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ A/N: Not a request, just tryna write about people other than NCT Dream XD, requests are open! Please request if you’d like, i appreciate any and all interactions with my work!

⤑ Rhaenyra Targaryen

The fire had burned low in her chambers, flames licking lazily at the last of the wood. You worked in silence, as you always did, undoing the jeweled pins from Rhaenyra’s hair. Each one slid free into your palm, cool against your skin, before you set it carefully on the dressing table.

It had begun like this years ago, when you were first appointed to her household. You had been a nervous young girl then, hands trembling as you learned to tame her wild silver hair, your tongue tripping over each “Princess” that left your lips.

But she had always watched you with those sharp, curious eyes, amused by your devotion, even in the smallest tasks.

Over the seasons, you two had grown accustomed to the rhythm of eachother—combing her hair, unfastening her gowns, hearing her secrets that she whispered to you in the hush of late night.

You had seen her joy, her fury, her heartbreak. And though you knew your place was to serve, a dangerous longing had begun to taken root between the both of you, deeper with each passing year.

She tilted her head slightly now, allowing you better access to her hair, but her eyes caught yours in the mirror. They lingered, too long for comfort.

“Do you ever tire of this?” she asked, voice smooth yet gentle. “Tending to me? Listening to me? Watching me undress each night?”

Your lips parted in an attempt to answer her, but you found no words. The truth sat heavy in your chest. You did not tire—you yearned.

Her smile curved, knowing, as if she had pulled the thought straight from your heart. She reached back suddenly, her fingers brushing yours where they hovered in her hair. The touch was deliberate, lingering, as though testing whether you would flinch.

You did not.

“Ñuha gevie ābra,” she murmured, almost too soft to hear. My beautiful woman.

The words seared through you. Before you could summon an answer, she stood, turning to face you fully. The shift of her gown loosened at her shoulders, and you couldn’t help the shudder that drifted through your body. She saw it. She always saw.

“You’ve looked at me this way for years,” she said, stepping closer. “Did you think I did not notice?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, shame and want tangled together. But Rhaenyra only cupped your chin, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet her gaze.

“You’ve served me faithfully,” she murmured, her thumb brushing across your lips. “Tonight, I will serve you.”

The declaration left you stunned. You barely realized she was guiding you toward the bed until the silken covers touched the backs of your thighs. She eased you gently, her movements unhurried, commanding without words.

She made quick work of the ties at your gown, her fingers deft, practiced from years of being undressed before your eyes. Only now, it was you who was laid bare, her gaze heavy on your exposed skin.

“Lie back, love.” she instructed softly.

You obeyed, your heart hammering as she slid onto the bed, settling between your knees. Her hands pressed against your thighs, parting them with a certainty that made your breath falter.

Her silver hair brushed your skin as she leaned forward, lips grazing the inside of your thigh. The soft kiss made you tremble. Another followed, higher, lingering. She was taking her time, savoring, and you realized she was taking you apart piece by piece, just as surely as she might dismantle an enemy in court.

“Ziry syt ao,” she whispered against your skin. This is for you.

Her mouth found you at last, her tongue warm and sure. The first sweep of it drew a gasp from your lips, your hands clutching the sheets. She held your thighs firmly, pinning you down as she worked with devastating patience.

Her lips wrapped around your clit, sucking gently, lips curling at the edges at the beautiful noises you were gracing her with.

Every stroke of her tongue against your entrance, every flick against your clit was measured, controlled, as if she had mapped your body long before tonight.

When you shifted, desperate for more, her grip tightened, keeping you exactly where she wanted you.

“Patience,” she murmured, pulling back just long enough to let her breath ghost over you. Her lips curled into the faintest smirk before she descended again, this time slipping her tongue into your hole, piercing eyes watching the way your back arched and your hips rocked against her face.

The pleasure built in waves, her tongue and lips coaxing sounds from you that you had never made before. She hummed against you, the vibration sparking through your core, her eyes lifting once to meet yours. That gaze—dark, intent, claiming—made your chest seize with something far deeper than lust.

“Nyke jorrāelagon ao,” she breathed, her voice muffled but certain. I want you.

The words broke you open. Your climax swept through you sharp and shattering, your cry muffled against your hand. Still, she did not let you go, drawing out your pleasure, drinking down every tremor until you lay spent beneath her.

At last, she rose, her lips glistening with your essence. She crawled up the bed, her body sliding over yours until her mouth claimed yours in a deep, lingering kiss. You tasted yourself on her tongue, and the intimacy of it made your head spin.

She pulled back only enough to whisper against your lips:

“Ñuha gevie ābra. Ao issi ñuhon.” My beautiful woman. You are mine.

⤑ Daemon Targaryen

The first time Daemon Targaryen looked at you as though you belonged to him, you had been standing behind your sister.

Rhaenyra laughed at some quip, her silver hair catching the torchlight, but his eyes slid right past her to find you. It should have been fleeting, but Daemon Targaryen never lingered idly.

That gaze followed you in the years that came — across halls, across feasts, across every moment you thought yourself unseen. You were the eldest, the dutiful one, and you told yourself the fire would pass. But fire, once stoked, cannot be ignored. And Daemon was nothing if not fire.

For a while you believed he wanted your sister, often spending time with her. But you were blissfully unaware at the way he’d pester her with questions about you, constantly trying to work his way to you but because you believed he wanted your sister you stayed away.

That lead to him cornering you in nothing less than Daemon fashion, pinning you to the wall as he kissed you breathless, your mind running with a million questions but all were overtaken by the thought that he tasted so good.

An exchange of adorations and emotions lead to you pulling him to your chamber, ignoring the eyes of the guards that were lingering longer than they were supposed to.

In the low glow of your chamber, he stripped you bare with practiced ease, every knot and tie undone by his deft fingers. When he pushed you back into the pillows, his smirk was sharp as a blade.

He pressed a kiss to your lips, just as passion filled but it held a softness that gave away just how much he loved you.

His mouth moved lower from your mouth, grazing your throat, lips tugging at your breast, marking a path down your stomach until he was knelt between your thighs. He spread them wide, holding you open with a grip that brooked no refusal, his eyes locking with your glistening cunt.

“Ñuha ābra,” he murmured, like he was reminding himself. My woman.

Then his mouth descended.

The first slow lick dragged a gasp from you, his tongue stroking up your folds from base to peak before flicking lightly against your clit. He lingered there, teasing, circling but never settling, until you squirmed beneath him. Only then did he close his lips around the swollen bud and suck, sharp and deliberate.

Your moans filled the chamber, your hands clutching the sheets and his hair. Daemon growled low in approval, the vibration sending jolts through you as he worked you with his tongue and lips, alternating between slow, indulgent pressure and sharp, devastating flicks.

When you bucked against him, desperate, his grip only tightened. “Easy, sweet girl,” he muttered against you, his tongue flicking lazily. “I’ll take you apart piece by piece.”

He proved it—shifting slightly lower, his tongue pressing at your soaked entrance. He teased you mercilessly, dipping in shallowly, swirling, retreating only to press in again. The sensation made your thighs quake, the intimate intrusion more maddening for how he refused to give you more.

Then he switched—plunging his tongue deep inside you, fucking you with slow, obscene strokes while his thumb rolled over your clit. The double assault made your back arch, whimpers filling the air, your hips jerking against his face as your hand tugged a bit harder on his hair.

He hummed in satisfaction, sending more vibrations through your core, before pulling back with his mouth slick, his chin wet.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, his fingers stroking you open as he spoke. “I could drown in you.”

He sealed his mouth over your clit again, sucking hard while two of his fingers pushed inside you, curling until sparks shot up your spine. His tongue flicked rapidly now, in time with the relentless thrust of his fingers, dragging you to the brink only to ease off when you were seconds from falling.

You whimpered his name, pleading, tears pricking your lashes. He only smirked against you, licking you slow and deep before sucking hard enough to make your vision blur.

“Look at me, sweet girl.” He commanded, pulling back just enough so his eyes met your own tear filled ones. His tongue flicked across your clit again, deliberate. “I want to see you when you come apart.”

And when he finally allowed it, tongue and lips latching onto you with ruthless precision, fingers pounding deep into you until your body broke, it was overwhelming.

Your climax tore through you with a scream, your thighs shaking around his head. Still, he did not stop, drinking you down, tongue flicking until you sobbed from the overstimulation, pushing at his head.

Only then did he withdraw, licking his lips slowly as if savoring the taste. He crawled up your body, pressing his mouth to yours, forcing you to taste yourself on his tongue.

“You did so good for me,” he rasped, his breath hot against your lips. “Ao issi ñuhon. You are mine.” And you had no desire to fight him on that, knowing you were right where you belong.

⤑ Jacaerys Velaryon

When you were first promised to Jacaerys, you had braced yourself for duty.

Betrothals were not forged from love but from blood and loyalty. Yet with Jace, the weight of obligation became something gentler, warmer. He sought your company when no one else looked, listened to your thoughts as though they were rare treasures, and smiled at you in a way that made the rest of the world fade.

What began as duty had turned, slowly, into devotion.

And now, lying in the soft glow of your shared chamber, you saw it burning in his eyes. Not political alliance, not duty, but love so fierce it left you trembling.

“You are mine,” Jace whispered as he hovered above you, brushing a lock of hair from your face. His lips brushed yours, soft and reverent, before he kissed you more deeply, the taste of wine and want mingling between you. “And I am yours. Always, in this life and the next.”

The words made your heart warm, your hands clutching at his tunic. He smiled against your lips before pulling back, his gaze roving over you with awe.

He eased you down into the pillows, tugging at the ties of your gown with careful hands. There was no haste in him, no hunger that rushed — only the steady devotion of a man intent on savoring.

Technically you two weren’t wed yet but after too many nights of yearning, you two could not wait any longer.

He peeled the fabric of your gown away until your body lay bare to him, and he looked at you as though you were something sacred.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “As if the gods themselves created you.”

His mouth moved lower, scattering kisses across your chest, your stomach, each one deliberate, worshipful. His hands smoothed over your hips, gentle but firm, guiding your legs open. When he settled between them, his eyes lifted to yours, waiting for permission as one of his hands found your own, lacing your fingers together.

“Let me love you,” he said softly. “Let me show you what you are to me.”

You nodded, breath catching in your throat as you gave him the consent he needed.

The first brush of his lips against your inner thigh made you shiver. He lingered there, kissing softly, then nipping, then soothing the spot with his tongue. Slowly, reverently, he kissed his way higher until he hovered over your cunt.

When his tongue finally slid through your folds, you gasped, your hips jerking as your hand tightened its hold on his. He groaned in response, as though the taste of you was a gift he had long craved. He licked you slowly at first, savoring, tracing the length and shape of your cunt with unhurried devotion.

His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently, coaxing pleasure with soft flicks of his tongue. You moaned his name, and he smiled against you, redoubling his efforts. Every motion was tender but purposeful, a steady rhythm that had your body arching into his mouth.

When your fingers tangled in his dark curls, he let you guide him closer, eager to please you. He slid his tongue lower, teasing at your entrance, dipping inside shallowly before retreating, making you whimper with need. Then he returned to your clit, circling and flicking until your thighs quaked.

“Sweetest girl,” he murmured between licks, his voice full of awe and love. “All of this is mine to cherish.”

His words undid you almost as much as his tongue. He alternated his paces—sucking softly, then harder, licking slow, then fast—keeping you teetering at the edge of bliss. When you finally whimpered out to him that you were close, he only kissed your thigh and whispered, “Not yet, my love. I want to savor you longer.”

He teased you cruelly sweet, bringing you near release and then slowing, drawing it out until tears pricked at your lashes. His hands stroked your hips soothingly as he murmured against you: “I will spend my life learning every way to love you. Let me start tonight.”

At last, when you were trembling with need, he gave in. His lips sealed tightly around your clit, sucking firmly as his tongue flicked with precision. He worked you with focused devotion, determined to bring you higher. The pressure built swiftly, unbearably, and when he urged, “Let go for me, sweet one, please,” you broke apart with a cry.

Your climax tore through you in a rush of pleasure, your body shuddering as he held you open and carried you through it. He did not stop until you were writhing and begging, pushing his head away, your thighs weak against his shoulders. Only then did he pull back, his mouth glistening, his eyes soft with triumph and love.

He crawled up your body, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice shook with the force of his feeling.

“Ñuha jorrāelagon ābra,” he whispered. My beloved woman. “I will never tire of loving you this way.”

And you knew he meant it.

⤑ Lucerys Velaryon

Lucerys Velaryon had always seemed quiet, almost fragile, in the world of nobles and knights. To the court, he was a boy still learning his place.

But you knew the truth — behind those wide violet eyes burned a hunger, untested and raw, desperate to learn, eager to please.

You, older and more experienced, had felt it immediately. You weren’t of noble blood, but in the ways that mattered tonight, you were his teacher, his guide.

“Luke…” you murmured with a fond smile, running your fingers through his dark curls as he knelt before the bed, eager to please you. “So eager. I want to show you… I want you to learn.”

His lips parted, a soft intake of breath. “I…I want to make you feel good. I’ll do anything if you—”

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his brow, soothing. “Shh… you already please me by wanting to. Now, come closer.”

You guided him between your thighs, lifting your skirts just enough, letting him see and taste you. His hands trembled, but you placed them gently on your hips, guiding him, giving permission.

“Start slow,” you whispered. “Let your tongue explore. Taste me.”

His first tentative flick made you gasp softly, and he froze, wide-eyed. You hummed, threading your fingers through his curls. “It’s okay… just like that. Go slow, gentle.

He obeyed, clumsy but earnest. Each flick, each press, each soft suck drew moans from you as you guided him to the bundle of nerves that heightened your pleasure.

When he faltered, you encouraged him, tugging his hair lightly. “A little more pressure… yes, just there… perfect.”

Every motion seemed to thrill him — every gasp and moan from you was a lesson he memorized. You guided him further: “Curl your tongue, press and circle at the same time… yes… feel how I respond.”

He groaned, tongue sliding over your clit, lips closing around you, soft suction following your guidance. You tasted better than anything he’d ever tasted in his life.

His fingers traced your hips, then pressed lightly between your thighs, exploring under your gentle instructions. “Deeper… yes… right there…” you whimpered, feeling your climax approaching.

The first wave of your pleasure made him stiffen in excitement, and yet he continued patiently, flicking, sucking, curling, learning your rhythms. You held him close, murmuring praise: “You’re doing so well, Luke… so good for me.”

After your first release, shivering and trembling, you guided him up, brushing your lips over his flushed face. “You’re not done yet,” you whispered, smiling. “There’s more to teach you.”

He swallowed what he had left of you in his mouth, eager and flushed, and lowered himself again, lips and tongue returning to your sensitive folds. This time he was bolder, fingers tracing inside you as his mouth worked in tandem. You cooed instructions softly: “More pressure with your tongue… curl your fingers… yes, right there… slow, slow…”

He moaned softly at the feel, and you urged him on, your hips rocking into his face. “Yes… that’s it… suck and flick together… harder, gentle at the same time…”

His eagerness was intoxicating, a mix of inexperience and devotion that made each sensation sharper, more vivid. When you began to shake again, he hesitated. “Did I…?”

“You’re perfect,” you gasped, clutching his hair. “You’re learning… keep going, don’t stop.”

He obeyed, alternating between slow, deep licks and quick flicks, curling his fingers inside you in time with each movement of his tongue. Your moans filled the chamber, your body arching into him as he became more confident, more assured.

By the third orgasm he brought you to, he had mastered a rhythm, and you could feel his pride as he worked. Every press of his tongue, every suck, every curl of his fingers was deliberate, precise, attentive. You whispered encouragement, guiding him with your words as much as your body.

“You’re amazing, Luke… so perfect for me… yes, just like that… suck and swirl together…”

And then, when you were trembling, quivering, shivering with need, he pulled back for a moment, flushed and breathless. “I… I want you to come…once more…please…”

“Yes, my sweet prince,” you moaned, arching your back as his fingers pressed on your sweet spot inside you, “right there… don’t stop…”

He pressed his lips to your clit, tongue and fingers working in perfect tandem, sucking and curling and flicking, devoted, desperate to learn and to give. When your final climax hit, sharp and shattering, he held you through it, drinking you down, lips and tongue and fingers unrelenting, until you were trembling and spent.

Finally, he pulled back, lips glistening, chest rising, wide-eyed and proud with the slightest hesitation of insecurity. “Did… did I do well?”

You smiled, pressing a loving kiss to his lips. “You did more than well, Luke. You pleased me completely… and with each lesson, you’ll only get better.”

His grin was boyish, radiant, flushed with triumph. “Then I’ll practice every night, if you let me.”

And who are you to diminish his determination?

⤑ Alicent Hightower

The soft glow of lamps warmed Alicent Hightower’s chambers, reflecting off the polished wood and the sheen of silk drapes. You had often admired her composure from afar, the way she carried herself in court, precise and unshakable, every word deliberate.

But here, alone with you, that poise held a different weight. It was commanding, confident, and utterly intoxicating.

Her green eyes met yours, steady and unreadable, yet full of intent. “I’ve watched you, watched the way you watch me.” she said, voice low and measured, each word deliberate as she gently held your hands in hers. “And tonight… it’s time you learned what it means to be truly attended to.”

Before you could think to respond, her hands were on you, sliding over your body with practiced precision. She removed your gown slowly, letting her gaze linger over every line and curve, memorizing the way you trembled under her touch. You shivered, caught between anticipation and something sharper—a thrill at her calm, complete control.

“Relax, my love,” she murmured, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “Tonight is all about you. Every shiver, every gasp… mine to draw out.”

She guided you to the bed, kneeling between your thighs with a grace that was intimate yet commanding. Her fingers traced along your hips and thighs, teasingly lingering, before sliding between your folds. The first touch was light, exploratory, and your breath hitched. Then her tongue followed, brushing against your inner lips, circling lightly, tasting, teasing.

Your clit was her next target—delicate flicks, gentle suction, her tongue coaxing soft gasps from your lips. She moaned softly at the taste of your juices, vibration brushing against you, and when your hips instinctively lifted, her fingers pressed against your thighs, holding you still. “Do not move, love,” she murmured, eyes locked on yours. “Every sound, every tremor… I want to feel it all.”

Two of her fingers slid inside you, curling expertly, pressing in rhythm with her tongue, almost naturally, as if she had mapped your body out already. She alternated between slow, worshipful licks and deliberate flicks, teasing your entrance with the tip of her tongue before returning to suck gently on your clit. Every combined motion drew new shivers from you, making your hips arch instinctively, a trembling invitation she controlled completely.

“You are exquisite,” she whispered, voice soft yet commanding. “Every gasp, every shiver… I want it all. All of it belongs to me.”

She continued with meticulous precision, switching patterns, sometimes sucking your clit, other times circling it with her tongue, fingers curling inside, brushing over your most sensitive spots. Occasionally she’d pull back just slightly, letting you catch your breath, only to press forward again with measured, deliberate intent. Every tease made your body tense, every flick of her tongue pulled you closer to the edge.

Her hands didn’t remain idle — light caresses along your stomach, soft kneads of your hips, fingers stroking and pressing inside you as her tongue worked in harmony. She whispered encouragement, murmured praises between licks and flicks: “Yes… just like that… perfect… you respond so beautifully…”

The slow build made every touch sharper, every sound you made more precious. She let you writhe under her, teasing your clit and entrance, circling, flicking, pressing, curling, until your thighs shook with need. Occasionally she would kiss your inner thighs softly, a contrast to the intensity of her mouth below, reminding you of the deliberate control she held over your body.

“Let go,” she whispered finally, her fingers curling deeper, tongue pressing firmer. “Do not hold back. Every shiver, every gasp… belongs to me.”

Your body trembled as waves of pleasure built, higher and higher. She slowed her movements, teasing, prolonging the anticipation, before redoubling her efforts. Her tongue flicked and swirled, lips sucking, fingers curling expertly inside you. You gasped, moaned, and arched toward her, completely undone by her skill and deliberate attention.

When your climax finally struck, it came hard, shuddering and overwhelming, and she held you through it, lips and fingers unrelenting, coaxing every last gasp, every tremor, until you were entirely spent. Her green eyes never left yours, watching with satisfaction as your body melted under her command.

Even after your breath returned, she lingered between your thighs, brushing light kisses along your folds, her fingers tracing over you again, ensuring every quiver and sigh was captured. Her touch was teasing, deliberate, worshipful. You shivered anew, utterly undone, completely seen, and entirely surrendered.

She finally lifted her head, brushing a finger across your lips and smiling with calm authority. “Every part of you is beautiful,” she whispered. “And entirely mine to attend to.”

Even as you lay back, still trembling, her presence remained, confident and commanding, a reminder that in her hands, every gasp, every shiver, every breath belonged entirely to her.

⤑ Criston Cole

The Kingsguard’s white cloak was meant to be a shield — purity, discipline, vows unbroken. To the realm, Ser Criston Cole was duty embodied. To you, he had always been distant, untouchable, a man forged into steel by his oaths.

But the way he looked at you tonight was not that of a sworn shield. It was of a man starved.

The door had barely shut before his mouth was on yours, fierce and desperate, as though his hunger had been caged too long. The kiss was hard, teeth clashing, breath ragged, and when he tore away, his forehead rested against yours.

“Seven forgive me,” he whispered hoarsely, though the burning in his eyes betrayed no remorse. “I cannot stop myself from wanting you.”

Armor fell piece by piece, hitting the floor in sharp clatters that echoed in the chamber. When at last he stood bare, he gathered you into his arms, laying you back upon the bed as though you were something precious — even as his hunger betrayed him. His cloak came last, folded once before tossed aside, and then he was upon you again, kneeling between your thighs like a penitent before an altar.

“I serve dutifully,” he murmured, voice rough, thick with something darker than devotion. His mouth lowered, his breath hot on your skin. “But tonight, I serve you.”

The first stroke of his tongue stole the air from your lungs. He groaned the moment he tasted you, a sound that vibrated against your folds as he pressed deeper, hungrier. His tongue dragged slowly at first, savoring you, but the restraint snapped quickly. He sealed his lips around your clit, sucking hard, and your gasp made him growl against you.

You jerked, but his grip tightened — hands like iron on your thighs, holding you wide and helpless. He devoured you with a fervor that bordered on violent, licking and sucking with merciless rhythm, his beard scraping faintly against sensitive skin.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” he muttered between licks, his voice muffled, raw. “I’d fall to my knees a thousand times if it meant I could taste you like this.”

Two fingers drove into you, thick and sure, curling against your walls as his tongue lashed your clit. He pumped them hard, his pace unyielding, relentless, every stroke driving deeper as his mouth sucked and flicked in perfect tandem. His rhythm was merciless. Not coaxing, not teasing, but claiming.

You cried out, twisting, but his hands pinned you down. “Don’t fight me,” he rasped, his voice ragged between licks. “Take it. Let me hear you break.”

And you did.

Your climax ripped through you sharp and violent, your body anrching off the bed as you moaned his name. Still, his mouth did not leave you. He held you down, tongue and fingers unrelenting, dragging you through the peak, wringing every tremor from your body until you were shaking.

Only then did he slow, licking softer, reverent. He eased his fingers free, pressing wet kisses along your thighs, whispering like a man at prayer: “I have broken my vows for you. And I would do so again.”

But before you could catch your breath, he surged forward once more. His tongue flicked your clit, sharp and fast, and you gasped, body jolting with overstimulation.

“Criston—” you pleaded, but his grip only tightened. His voice was low, urgent, fevered: “Again. I need to hear you again.”

His mouth sealed over you, sucking hard, tongue circling mercilessly as his fingers plunged back inside, pumping faster, rougher. Your body writhed, torn between sensitivity and rising heat, your thighs trembling as the pressure built again. He devoured every sound you made, growling when your hips bucked, groaning like a man possessed.

The second climax came quicker, sharper, nearly painful in its intensity. You sobbed his name as it hit, clenching around his fingers, shaking violently beneath him. Still, he did not relent until you collapsed back against the bed, utterly undone.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were glistening, your juices running down his chin, his eyes dark and wild with hunger. He pressed one last kiss to your thigh, then looked at you as though you were both his sin and his salvation.

“I swore vows I cannot keep,” he said hoarsely, voice ragged from breath and want. “But understand this — I would break them all for you. Again, and again, and again.”

⤑ Aemond Targaryen

The night you told him of your betrothal, something in Aemond broke.

You had found him in the training yard, alone with his sword, his strikes precise and ruthless even in solitude. When the words left your lips — Alicent’s plan to wed you off to another — the silence that followed was heavier than any fury. His lone eye fixed on you, cold and burning, his jaw tight.

“No,” he said simply, his voice like steel drawn in the dark. He sheathed his blade with a sharp click. “You are mine. Always.”

That night, he came to your chamber.

The door shut softly behind him, but the sound carried finality, like a seal upon fate. He crossed to you with deliberate strides, his hands cupping your face as though to steady himself. His eye drank you in, fierce and unyielding, and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

“You love me?”

You nodded, heart pounding. “I do. Always.”

The kiss that followed was fierce, almost bruising, his restraint unraveling in a rush of need. He kissed you like a man starved, then tore back only long enough to breathe, to whisper, “Then tonight, you are mine.”

Your gown fell from you under his skilled hands, each fastening undone with startling care.

He did not rush — he stripped you like a man committing each layer of your body to his memory. When you were bare at last, he looked at you with adoration so sharp it made your breath hitch.

Then he lowered himself to his knees at the edge of the bed.

“Ao issi ñuhon,” he murmured, his voice trembling with conviction. You are mine. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Ñuha ābra.” My woman.

And then his mouth was on you.

The first touch of his tongue was slow, savoring, as though he wanted to taste every secret of you. He parted your folds with his fingers, licking softly, dragging his tongue in languid strokes that made your toes curl. His lips closed gently around your clit, sucking tenderly, teasingly, before releasing to circle it again with unhurried patience. He was taking his time. Showing you exactly what you were worth.

You gasped his name, your fingers tangling in his silver hair, and he groaned against you — a sound that sent a hot vibration through your core. His hands held your thighs open, steady but gentle, keeping you wide for him, his to worship.

“Ao sȳz riña,” he murmured between licks. My sweet girl. His tongue pressed firmer, circling your clit before flicking against it with increasing focus. His fingers slid inside you, slow at first, curling with deliberate precision as he learned the way your body clenched around him.

The rhythm was steady, unrelenting — tongue at your clit, fingers working deep — until the pressure inside you tightened unbearably. When you broke, crying out his name, he did not falter. He drank every shudder, licked every tremor from you until your climax left you trembling against the sheets.

You panted for breath, but he did not stop.

When your thighs twitched to close, his grip tightened, spreading you wider, his eye flashing up at you. “Lykirī, ñuha jorrāelagon. Issi ñuhon.” Stay open, my love. You are mine.

Then his mouth was on you again, hungrier now, rougher, sucking hard at your swollen clit while his fingers pumped faster, curling with perfect pressure. The pleasure was sharp, almost too much, and you twisted beneath him, but his devotion was relentless. His groans spilled against your skin as though your taste alone was sustenance.

The second climax hit you harder, tearing through you, leaving your thighs shaking violently. Still he did not relent. He growled into you, his lips dragging roughly over your clit, his tongue lashing fast and merciless. You couldn’t help but think it was very Aemond.

You sobbed his name, writhing, but his eye locked on yours, blazing with obsession. “Again,” he demanded, his voice muffled but urgent. “Give me another.”

His pace grew ruthless — fingers plunging, tongue circling, sucking until the pressure built impossibly quick. Your body convulsed as the third orgasm ripped through you, your cry breaking into ragged sobs. Aemond groaned into you, devouring your release, his devotion unyielding.

At last, when your body sagged limp and trembling, he slowed. His tongue softened to gentle licks, kissing your folds reverently, your thighs, the hollow of your hip. Then he rose over you, his lips wet, his eye wild and alight.

He kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged.

“Ñuha jorrāelagon,” he whispered fiercely. My love. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking tenderly. “Ñuha ābra. Ñuha ābrazȳrys.” My woman. My queen.

And then, with a vow that sounded more like a prayer, he sealed your fate:

“They will not take you from me. Not while I draw breath.”

⤑ Aegon Targaryen

Aegon Targaryen was never good at being subtle. He didn’t creep into your chambers with the careful steps of a thief; he strolled in with a grin, as though he belonged there, as though the whole world conspired to place him in your bed each night.

“Gods, you’re a sight,” he said as he shut the door, already unfastening his tunic. His smile was roguish, wine-sweet, but his eyes softened as they landed on you, bare and waiting on your bed, looking at him with such love. “If Mother ever finds out, she’ll kill me. Or you. Or both of us.”

“And yet you’re here anyways,” you teased, reclining against your pillows.

“Of course I am.” He crossed the room in quick strides, collapsing onto the bed beside you. His arm looped around your waist, tugging you close with boyish ease. “Where else would I rather be than with the one person who doesn’t think I’m a chore.”

Before you could answer, he kissed you, eager, playful, and yet achingly tender beneath the grin. His lips moved against yours with unpracticed intensity, as if he couldn’t get enough, as if he wanted to steal every breath you had to give.

When he pulled back, he laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I love you,” he murmured, uncharacteristically bare. Then his grin crooked again. “Now let me show you.”

He shifted down the bed until he was kneeling between your thighs. He kissed your knee first, then higher, then higher still, peppering your skin with playful affection. Each press made you shiver, and he chuckled low in his throat.

“Impatient already?” he teased, lips grazing the inside of your thigh. “I’ve barely started.”

The first lick of his tongue was feather-light, barely a touch, enough to make you whimper. He hummed in delight, smirking up at you. “Gods, I love that sound.”

Then he licked again, slower, a deliberate drag that made your breath hitch. He nuzzled against you, warm and eager, then pulled back to blow a teasing stream of cool air against your slick folds. You twitched slightly, and he laughed outright.

“Oh, you’re too easy to ruin,” he said, voice husky with amusement. “I’ve barely touched you, and you’re already falling apart.”

You whined his name, tugging at his hair, and he groaned in answer. “Alright, sweet thing,” he said, his tone shifting into something softer. “No more games. I’ll give you what you need.”

His mouth returned to your cunt with purpose now. He parted your folds with his tongue, lapping in long, greedy strokes, before closing his lips around your clit and sucking firmly. The sudden intensity made you cry out, and he moaned against you, the sound vibrating hotly through your core.

He worked with a rhythm all his own — messy, eager, but devastatingly effective. His tongue flicked quick and sharp, then pressed broad and flat, then circled with maddening persistence. Each change made you writhe harder, and each sound you made only spurred him on.

When he slid two fingers into you, the pleasure sharpened. He curled them perfectly, stroking deep as his mouth sealed over your clit, sucking harder, flicking his tongue in fast, relentless motions.

You moaned his name, and he groaned like it was the sweetest thing in the world. “That’s it,” he murmured between licks. “Say it again. I’ll never get tired of hearing you cry for me.”

The pressure coiled tighter, unbearable. His fingers pumped faster, his lips sucked harder, his tongue flicked mercilessly until the pleasure broke, shattering through you in a cry.

Aegon moaned into you as you came, devouring every twitch, every tremor, until you were left trembling beneath him. Only then did he slow, licking you softly, coaxing the aftershocks, pressing lazy kisses to your thighs.

When he finally crawled up to kiss you, his lips were wet with your taste, his grin softer now, warm. He kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself, before pulling back just far enough to look into your eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered again, earnest and unguarded. “More than crowns, more than wine, more than the whole bloody realm. Just you.”

And as he flipped you around, laughter and tenderness mingling in the air as you delved into another round, you believed him.

⤑ Helaena Targaryen

The gardens were quiet at dusk, lanterns swaying in the warm breeze. Helaena sat cross-legged on the bench, a book half-forgotten in her lap, her fingers idly plucking at the sleeve of her gown. She looked up when you came, her lips curving in the faintest of smiles.

“You always find me,” she said softly, as though it were a secret. “Even when I’m trying to disappear.”

You sat beside her, brushing your hand over hers. “I could search the Seven Kingdoms, and still, I would know where to look. Always with the flowers. Always with your thoughts.”

She tilted her head, considering. “Thoughts are dangerous things. They slip, they wander. But you…” She turned her palm to lace her fingers with yours. “You anchor me.”

That was how it always was with Helaena — strange words, half-dreams, and then, suddenly, a clarity that took your breath away.

That night in her chambers, she kissed you with the same softness she spoke with. Tentative at first, almost curious, her lips pressing gently to yours, tasting, learning. But soon her hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, her breath warm as she whispered, “I want to try. To know what it feels like… to have you undone beneath me.”

Usually you would be the one to take the lead but she was adamant on making you feel as good as you make her.

Her voice trembled with nerves, but her hands were sure as she guided you back onto the bed. She touched you everywhere — over your breasts, down your ribs, over your stomach — as if she were committing every line and curve to memory. When she spread your thighs, she did so slowly, reverently, her gaze soft and wide.

Her lips brushed your knee, then higher, her kisses scattered like falling petals until her mouth hovered at the heat of your core. She hesitated, looking up at you. “Tell me if I do it wrong.”

“You won’t,” you assured her, voice already rough with anticipation.

The first flick of her tongue was feather-light, a careful taste. She stilled when you gasped, eyes searching your face, until she saw the truth written there. Her smile bloomed, small and shy. “You liked that.”

She licked again, slower, firmer this time, tracing you with patience, as though savoring every reaction. The more you writhed, the more she learned — her tongue circling your clit carefully, then teasing your entrance, then plunging shallowly inside you. Each experiment she tried brought her closer to what made you cry out for her.

Her hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open as she grew bolder. Her mouth pressed closer, her tongue stroking with steady rhythm, then shifting to quick, teasing flicks that had you moaning her name.

Helaena moaned in return, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh. “Sweet,” she murmured softly between strokes, “you taste so sweet.”

She sealed her lips around your clit then, sucking firmly, her tongue flicking fast in relentless rhythm. Your back arched, a cry tearing from your throat, and she whimpered with you, as though your pleasure was hers too.

“Helaena—” your voice broke, and she only held you tighter, desperate, devoted, her mouth refusing to let you go until your climax tore through you.

It hit suddenly and overwhelming, your body trembling, your thighs clenching around her shoulders. She moaned against you as you came, lapping eagerly through every wave until you slumped back, boneless.

When she finally pulled away, her eyes were wide, her expression luminous, as though she had seen something sacred. She crawled up to lie beside you, curling into your side with a practiced grace.

“I did it right,” she whispered, almost to herself, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your skin. Then, with that sudden clarity of hers, she pressed a kiss to your temple. “I made you fly.”

You turned to her, brushing her damp hair back, and she smiled dreamily, resting her cheek against your chest. “I’ll do it again,” she murmured as her eyes drifted shut. “As many times as you’ll let me.”

And in that quiet moment, wrapped in her beautiful strangeness and tenderness, you knew you would never want for anything else.

⤑ Laenor Velaryon

The sea had always been Laenor’s solace. Its vastness, its constant motion — there, he felt free, unbound. But tonight, as the waves whispered against Driftmark’s shore, his solace was you.

He found you waiting in his chambers, the candlelight throwing a golden halo over your skin. His smile was soft, full of love, as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“You’re here,” he breathed, relief in his voice. “I wasn’t sure if you would be.”

“Of course I would.” You rose to meet him, cupping his face in your hands. “I told you, Laenor. I chose you.”

Something in him eased at your words, his arms circling you tightly, as though you might vanish if he let go. He kissed you then — slow, lingering, a promise in every brush of his lips.

When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours. “I want to make you feel good,” he whispered, almost shy. “I may not always… be what others expect. But this, with you, I can give all of me.”

And he did.

Laenor laid you back on the bed with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He undressed you slowly, carefully, his hands brushing reverently over each new inch of revealed skin. Every movement felt like worship, as though he were unwrapping something sacred.

He kissed down your body, from your collarbone to your stomach, pausing to linger at places that made you shiver. When he reached your thighs, he pressed his face against your skin, breathing you in.

“Tell me if I falter,” he murmured, gaze flicking up to meet yours.

“You won’t,” you reassured him, threading your fingers into his silver hair.

His tongue touched you for the first time, tentative, soft — and your soft moan lit a spark in his chest. His lips curved against you in a fleeting smile before he licked at you again, slower this time, savoring the sound he drew from you.

He learned quickly. Each sigh and moan taught him what you loved, and he followed eagerly, almost reverently. He stroked you with broad licks, circled your clit carefully, teased your entrance with his tongue until your body arched, silently asking him for more.

Two fingers slid inside you, stretching you slowly, curling just right as his mouth sealed over your clit. He sucked gently, then harder when you moaned, his tongue flicking in rhythm with the steady thrust of his fingers.

“Laenor—” you gasped, your voice breaking, and he groaned at the sound, burying himself deeper into the task of unraveling you.

Your orgasm came fast, sharp and overwhelming, your body trembling around his fingers, your thighs clenching against his head. He held you through it, mouth and hand relentless until you finally broke apart in a cry.

But Laenor didn’t stop.

As your hips fell back against the sheets, he slowed only for a moment, licking softly through the aftershocks of your release. Then he pressed his mouth back to your clit, more insistent this time, more confident in your pleasure as his fingers curling deeper inside you.

Your body jolted at the overstimulation, but his voice soothed you between licks. “One more, sweet girl. Let me give you one more. For me.”

You whimpered, caught between too much and not enough, but the way he moaned into you — desperate, devoted — made it impossible to deny him. His tongue worked in quicker circles, his lips sucking harder, his fingers thrusting steady and deep.

The pleasure built again, slower this time but fiercer, until you were clawing at the sheets, gasping his name, begging. He hummed low in his throat, relentless now, until the second climax tore through you with blinding force.

Your cry broke into a sob as you shuddered against him, the intensity leaving you shaking. Laenor held on, tasting you through it all, his fingers easing only when you tried to push weakly at his shoulders.

He finally lifted his head, eyes shining with something raw. Crawling up beside you, he gathered you into his arms, kissing your temple, your cheeks, your damp hair.

“Did I do right by you?” he whispered again, almost trembling with the need for your approval.

You cupped his face, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his lips. “You did more than right,” you whispered back. “You gave me everything.”

His smile was small, shy, but luminous. He tucked you against his chest, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Then that is all I will ever need,” he murmured. And he held you as though he’d found his harbor at last.

⤑ Harwin Strong

Harwin Strong carried the kind of presence that filled a room before he ever spoke. The clank of his armor, the measured weight of his footsteps, the breadth of his frame — all of it made men stand straighter and women stare a little longer.

Yet beneath that, beneath the hardened name of Breakbones and the commander’s mantle of the City Watch, was a man who softened only for you.

You had known him long enough to see it. The warmth in his gaze when he sought you out in crowded halls. The careful brush of his fingers at your back when he guided you through the chaos of King’s Landing. The way his voice lowered, gentled, when it was only the two of you.

That night, as the city slept beyond the high windows of his chambers, you found him there at last, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. He’d pulled off his breastplate but still wore the weight of the day. His hair was damp at the temples, his jaw shadowed with stubble, his eyes shadowed with more than just fatigue.

“Harwin,” you said softly, rising from the chair by the fire.

He looked up and the sternness melted instantly. His lips curved into a tired but genuine smile. “You shouldn’t wait up for me. It’s late.”

“I don’t mind.” You crossed to him, your hand brushing his arm, feeling the solid strength beneath. “I’d wait all night if I had to.”

A low sound rumbled in his chest, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. He caught your hand, kissed your knuckles, and held them there against his lips for a long moment.

“You’ll ruin me with that kind of devotion,” he murmured, eyes closing as though he were drinking you in.

“Then let me,” you whispered. “Let me ruin you.”

His eyes snapped open, darkened, and for a heartbeat you thought he’d lose control right there. But instead, Harwin moved with deliberate care. He set his gauntlets aside, shed the rest of his armor, and took you in his arms. His kiss was hungry, yes, but measured — deep, tender, as though he were afraid to bruise something precious.

When he guided you onto the bed, you felt no fear, no hesitation. Only safety. Only the steady thrum of being cherished.

He undressed you slowly, reverently, kissing each newly bared inch of skin until you were gasping his name. His mouth lingered at your breasts, your stomach, the soft curve of your hips, as though he needed to memorize you.

When he spread your thighs, it wasn’t rough or hurried. His large hands pressed against your skin with such gentleness that your heart ached. He pressed a kiss to the inside of one knee, then the other, then lower, lower, until his breath was hot against your core.

“You’re safe with me,” he rasped, his voice rough but steady. “Always.”

Then his mouth was on you.

The first lick was slow, deliberate, tasting you fully. He groaned deep in his chest, as though the flavor itself undid him. His tongue dragged up your folds, broad and heavy, before circling your clit in teasing swirls.

Your back arched, a sharp gasp spilling free. His beard scratched faintly against your skin, grounding you in sensation, and his hands anchored your hips as though he couldn’t bear to let you slip away.

“Gods, you taste—” His voice broke, his lips brushing against you as he groaned. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever known.”

He buried his face deeper, licking with slow, hungry strokes, his mouth sealing over your clit to suck, then easing off to flick his tongue in quick, teasing taps. The rhythm shifted, built, then broke again, until you were trembling with need, unable to predict how he’d touch you next.

And then his fingers.

Two of them pressed inside, stretching you perfectly, the girth of them making you moan aloud. He groaned again, low and rough, as your heat clenched around him. “You’re so tight. So good for me.”

He curled them just right, dragging against that spot that made you cry out, while his tongue worked your clit in relentless circles. His grip on your thigh tightened when you tried to squirm away, holding you steady against his mouth.

“Stay with me, love.” he muttered against you, sucking harder. “Take what I give you.”

The pressure built quickly, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as your body shook beneath him. His beard, his tongue, his fingers — all of it overwhelmed you, pulling you tighter and tighter until release snapped through you like lightning.

You screamed his name, thighs closing around his head, your body clenching hard around his fingers as waves of pleasure tore through you. Harwin didn’t stop. His tongue kept stroking, his lips kept sucking, his fingers kept curling, holding you at the peak until you were sobbing with the intensity.

Only when you pushed weakly at his head, trembling and whining, did he slow. He withdrew his fingers carefully, licking them clean with a groan before kissing soft patterns up your thighs, your hips, your stomach.

But he wasn’t done.

As you lay gasping, limp against the sheets, he kissed his way back down, settling between your thighs again. You shook your head weakly, but he only smiled, warm and wicked.

“One more,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your hip. “Let me take you again. I want to see you fall apart twice.”

His mouth was on you before you could protest, softer this time but no less consuming. He licked slowly, coaxing, teasing, until your body betrayed you, hips arching up for more. His tongue circled your clit lazily, his fingers stroking along your folds but never quite entering, driving you wild.

It built slower, deeper this time, until you were clutching the sheets, moaning his name like prayer. When his mouth sealed over your clit and he sucked, you shattered again, this climax rolling through you with aching intensity.

Harwin held you through it, gentling you down with soft licks and murmured praise, until at last you slumped against the bed, spent.

He crawled up, pulling you into his arms, his chest warm and broad beneath your cheek. He kissed your hair, your temple, your cheeks, whispering into your skin.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, voice thick with devotion. “Not as a claim. Not as a prize. But because I will spend every breath I have keeping you safe. Keeping you loved.”

You melted into him, wrapped in the strength of his arms, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

⤑ Gwayne Hightower

Gwayne Hightower was the very picture of composure. He bowed when required, spoke with measured tones, and never once let his family’s honor falter beneath his hand. To the court, he was a knight of quiet dignity.

To you, however, he was more than that. He was the man whose gaze softened when it found you, whose breath quickened in your presence, whose heart beat not for Oldtown, nor duty, but for you alone.

That night, he came to you stripped of armor, but not yet of tension. The day had been long, and though the city slept, duty always weighed on his broad shoulders. Yet the moment his eyes fell upon you—waiting by the fire, dressed loosely, a softness in your smile reserved only for him—his shoulders eased.

“You waited,” he said, voice low, almost reverent.

“I always do.”

Something flickered across his face then, a mix of longing and disbelief, as though he still struggled to understand how he had earned this — you. He reached you in three strides, cupped your face in his calloused hands, and kissed you with restrained hunger. His lips were warm, his beard rough, his sigh against your mouth raw with relief.

When he drew back, his thumb brushed your cheek as though you might vanish if he didn’t hold you. “Do you know,” he murmured, “that I would go to war itself for the right to have this? To have you?”

You smiled, soft and knowing. “You don’t need to fight, Gwayne. You only need to love me.”

And love you he did.

He laid you back on the bed with all the care of a man who had sworn oaths his entire life and found a new one in you. Piece by piece, he undressed you, his lips following the trail of loosened ties and shifted fabric until you shivered under his mouth. When at last he spread your thighs, he did so not with haste, but with reverence.

“You are the most sacred thing I have ever touched,” he whispered, his voice roughened with awe. He kissed your knee, your inner thigh, slow, deliberate, drawing your anticipation taut. “Allow me… allow me this service.”

Then his mouth was on you.

The first lick was gentle, exploratory, as though savoring his first taste of heaven. When your gasp broke free, his lips curved against you, and he licked again, slower, firmer, as though committing your every sound to memory.

His tongue traced your folds, broad strokes alternating with teasing flicks against your clit. He kissed you there — open-mouthed, reverent — before sucking softly, then harder when your hips shifted up to meet him.

You moaned his name, and Gwayne groaned into you, the sound vibrating through your core. His hands pressed firmly against your hips, holding you steady as his tongue worked, relentless yet precise. He alternated between circling your clit, flicking it in quick, devastating strokes, and flattening his tongue to drag long, wet licks that left you trembling.

Then his fingers.

Two of them pressed inside, slow at first, stretching you carefully. Then two became three. He groaned at the feel of you clenching around him, muttering half-formed prayers into your skin. “Seven save me, you’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

He curled them deep, stroking against the spot that made you cry out, his rhythm steady, deliberate. His mouth sealed over your clit, sucking in time with the thrusts of his fingers, drawing out gasps and moans that made his control falter. He ground himself into the mattress unconsciously, needing nothing more than the sounds of your pleasure.

“Let me hear you, love,” he rasped against you, sucking harder. “Let me know I’ve pleased you.”

You shattered then, climax tearing through you, your body trembling, thighs clenching against his head as waves of ecstasy broke over you. Gwayne held on, his fingers and tongue unrelenting until you were sobbing from the intensity, until every last shudder had passed.

At last, he slowed, easing his fingers free and pressing tender kisses along your trembling thighs. His hair brushed gently against the sensitive skin of your thighs, grounding you, reminding you it was him—always him.

When he crawled up beside you, his lips were wet, his eyes shining with awe and devotion. He kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, his breath uneven.

“You are all I will ever kneel for,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Not king nor father nor gods above. Only you.”

And when he gathered you into his arms, holding you against his chest, you knew the truth of it. Gwayne Hightower — knight, oathbound, unyielding — had found his truest vow in you.

⤑ Cregan Stark

The chill of Winterfell never truly left its stone halls, even when the fires roared high. Yet when Cregan Stark returned from the yard, hair damp with snowmelt, shoulders broad beneath his furs, the room seemed warmer for his presence alone.

You were already there, waiting by the hearth. He paused when he saw you, his grey eyes softening in that way they always did — a sight only you were granted. To others he was Lord of Winterfell, stern and unyielding. To you, he was simply Cregan.

“You’re still awake,” he said, his voice low, roughened by cold and command.

“I can’t sleep without you,” you replied, smiling softly.

Something in his expression cracked at those words. The fierce, hardened lord gave way to the man beneath — one who looked at you as though you were the first warmth of spring. He crossed the room in long strides, cupped your face with his large, calloused hands, and kissed you hard enough to steal the air from your lungs. His beard rasped against your skin, his breath hot, his sigh breaking into the kiss like a man undone.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his thumb stroking along your jaw. “Gods,” he whispered, “I spend my days ruling, commanding, fighting — and yet the only place I want to bow is here, before you.”

“Then do,” you teased, breathless. “Bow to me, Cregan.”

And he did.

He eased you onto the bed, his broad hands careful despite their size. Piece by piece, he undressed you, his mouth trailing reverent kisses over each inch of newly revealed skin. Your collarbone, your breasts, the soft curve of your stomach — each kiss lingered, his lips hot against your chilled flesh, his teeth scraping lightly when your gasp pleased him.

By the time he spread your thighs, you were trembling with anticipation. He knelt between them, grey eyes dark with hunger, but he did not rush. Instead, he pressed his lips to the inside of one thigh, then the other, slow and deliberate, his beard scratching against your sensitive skin.

“You are mine,” he murmured, his breath hot, his voice reverent. “Not as a possession. As my heart. My soul. And gods help me, I will worship you as such.”

Then his mouth found you.

The first stroke of his tongue was slow, broad, deliberate, dragging from your entrance up to your clit. He groaned the moment he tasted you, the sound low and rough in his chest, as though your pleasure was the sweetest thing he had ever known.

He licked again, firmer this time, and your gasp tore through the chamber. His lips curved against you in a fleeting smile before he circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing, coaxing.

Your hips lifted, but his strong hands pinned you down, keeping you steady as he devoured you. He alternated between slow, languid strokes and sharp, quick flicks, his mouth mastering you with the same precision he wielded a sword. He kissed your clit, sucked gently, then harder when your cry filled the room.

Then his fingers.

Two of them pressed into you, thick and stretching, making you moan his name. He groaned at the feel of you clenching around him, his tongue never faltering as his hand worked you open. He curled them deep, stroking that spot that made you writhe, his rhythm steady, relentless.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” he rasped against you, his beard scratching your inner thigh. “So tight. So sweet. Give it to me. Give me everything.”

Your climax tore through you, sudden and overwhelming. You screamed his name, your thighs shaking around his head, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure ripped through you. But Cregan didn’t stop.

His tongue and fingers remained relentless, sucking harder at your clit, thrusting deeper inside you as you cried and trembled. He held you down when you tried to squirm away, his growl vibrating against your core.

“Again,” he demanded, his voice rough, commanding but reverent. “One more. You can take it.”

And you did. The overstimulation burned, then melted into pleasure, building higher and higher until another climax shattered you, leaving you sobbing his name, clinging desperately to him as your body broke apart for him a second time.

Finally, finally, he eased. He pressed soft kisses to your thighs, your hips, your stomach, murmuring soothing words into your skin. His beard tickled, his lips calmed, until you could breathe again.

He crawled up your body, gathering you against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your ear, his arms wrapping around you like the strongest shield. He kissed your hair, your temple, your damp cheeks, whispering with raw devotion:

“You are my home. My hearth. My light in the longest winter. And I will spend every day of my life proving it.”

Outside, the wind howled against Winterfell’s walls, but in Cregan’s arms, you felt untouchable. Safe. Worshipped. Loved with a fierceness as enduring as the North itself.

⤑ Addam Velaryon

The sea had long been his home, but you had become his anchor.

Addam had been raised on salty air and fire, always with something to prove — to Driftmark, then House Velaryon, now to the crown. Yet when he was with you, there was no proving, no fighting, no weight pressing down on his shoulders. There was only the fierce beat of his heart and the ache of wanting you so deeply it shook him.

Tonight, that ache broke free.

You sat on his bed, moonlight spilling through the open shutters, salt wind stirring the furs beneath you. Addam stood at the foot of it, still half-armored from the yard, chest rising and falling as though he had run miles. His eyes devoured you in silence, so wide with awe that your pulse stuttered.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he confessed, his voice husky, rougher than usual. “Every night I’ve thought of what it would be like. But gods, none of it compared. None of it touched the truth of you.”

His hands shook when he came to you, not from fear but from the intensity of what he felt. He kissed you as though he’d been starving for years, teeth clashing against yours, his tongue desperate and sweet. By the time he pulled back, your lips were swollen, and his own were slick with you.

“Let me,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours. “Please — let me learn you. Let me worship you.”

You nodded, and that was all he needed.

He guided you back into the pillows, his big hands fumbling as he undid laces, tugged away fabric, baring you inch by inch. Every time a piece fell away, his mouth followed, planting kisses against your skin as though he couldn’t help himself — the slope of your collarbone, the soft swell of your breast, the curve of your belly. Each kiss grew slower, wetter, hungrier, until you were trembling before he had even touched between your thighs.

When at last he spread your legs, he froze, staring. His lips parted, his breath hitched. He looked as though he might drop to his knees right there and pray.

“Seven hells,” he breathed. “You’re… you’re beautiful.” His voice cracked with sincerity. “More than beautiful. You’re…” He swallowed hard. “You’re everything.”

Then he bowed his head.

The first press of his tongue was tentative, cautious — a slow, broad stroke through your folds that made you gasp. He pulled back at once, eyes darting up to you as though searching for approval. When you nodded, breathless, his whole face lit with something between relief and hunger.

This time, he dove back in with more confidence. He licked you slowly, deliberately, savoring the way you arched into him. He groaned when your taste hit his tongue, the sound vibrating against you. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open as though he feared you’d disappear if he let go.

At first his rhythm was a bit clumsy, but he paid attention to every gasp, every moan, every twitch of your hips. He adjusted, quick to learn, desperate to please. His tongue grew surer, tracing your clit in slow, teasing circles, then flicking it with quick, devastating strokes that made your breath catch.

When your thighs trembled, he groaned again, sucking gently at the swollen bud, then harder, pulling a broken cry from your throat.

“Yes…right there,” you gasped, and the words you gasped out undid him.

He murmured against you, voice hoarse, almost incoherent with want: “That’s it… gods, let me give this to you… let me have this.”

Two fingers slid into you then, thick and eager, stretching you as he pumped shallowly at first, then picking up speed as he slipped in a third. He nearly choked on his own groan when you clenched around him. His mouth never stopped its worship of your clit, tongue and lips working in relentless rhythm, while his hand grew bolder, driving into you deeper, curling just so.

Your hips bucked helplessly against his mouth, but he only held you tighter, his shoulders braced against your thighs, his whole body committed to your pleasure. The gentle scrape of his teeth against your clit made you cry out, and he soothed the sting with soft suction, lapping at you like a man starved.

The pressure built higher, tighter, until your moans turned into sobs of his name. He looked up at you then, his lips wrapped around your clit, his fingers driving into you, and his eyes were wild with devotion.

“Come for me,” he rasped against you, voice nearly breaking. “Please. Please let me taste you, love.”

That plea shattered you.

Your climax hit hard, violent, ripping through your body in a way that shook you to your bones. You cried out, clutching at the furs, at his hair, at anything you could reach, as he groaned and held on, sucking harder, thrusting his fingers deeper, dragging every last ounce of pleasure from you.

He didn’t stop until you went limp beneath him, gasping, shuddering, spent. Only then did he ease back, his lips and chin glistening, his chest heaving as though he’d just fought a battle. He looked ruined, undone — but radiant.

He crawled up over you, kissed your trembling mouth, let you taste yourself on his tongue. When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his words were raw and shaking.

“I’ll never stop trying to be worthy of you,” Addam whispered. “But if you’ll have me — gods, if you’ll keep me — then I’ll spend my life on my knees, giving you this.”

⤑ Laena Velaryon

Laena Velaryon had always been fire given flesh. Even as a girl, she had carried herself with the poise of a dragonrider, her laughter ringing louder than fear, her smile daring the world to try and tame her.

People called her bold, reckless even, but you knew better. She was free. And with you, she was soft in ways no one else ever saw.

The bond had grown over years of stolen hours—nights where she pulled you away from feasts just to breathe in the sea air together, mornings where you brushed dragon soot from her cheeks while she grinned at your fussing.

With Laena, nothing ever felt heavy. She carried life as though it were meant to be devoured whole, and she wanted to share every bite of it with you.

Tonight, she wanted more from you than you’ve ever thought to give her.

The lanterns in her chamber burned low, shadows dancing along her golden-brown skin as she pulled you inside and shut the door with a decisive click. Before you could ask, she had you pressed back against the wall, kissing you with a heat that stole every breath.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” she whispered against your lips, her grin wicked and breathless. “To taste you. To know every sound you’ll make for me.”

You barely managed to breathe her name before she laughed softly, catching your chin between her fingers to kiss you deeper. She kissed like she flew—fearless, commanding, all-consuming—until your knees nearly buckled. She guided you to the bed with a playful shove, the two of you tumbling into the furs together, your combined laughter bright as fire.

Laena straddled you for a moment, her curls tumbling down, eyes burning with mischief and something more tender beneath it. She leaned down, kissing along your jaw, your throat, her teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. Her fingers traced your side, feather-light, before tugging at your clothes with impatient little tugs.

“Off,” she ordered, though her smile softened it. “I wish to see all of you, if you’ll let me.”

By the time she slid down the bed, your heart was hammering. She kissed her way down slowly, unhurried, savoring every inch of you. She lingered at your breasts, sucking one nipple into her mouth while her hand caressed the other, until you were arching helplessly beneath her, making noises she filed away in her memory.

When she moved lower, her kisses grew softer, teasing, her lips brushing over your stomach, your hips, the inside of your thighs.

When her breath finally fanned hot across your aching core, you shivered.

She looked up once, eyes gleaming. “Beautiful,” she murmured, her voice reverent. “You don’t even know how beautiful you are.”

And then her mouth was on you.

The first stroke of her tongue was slow, deliberate—a single long drag that made your hips jolt. She hummed low in her throat, the vibration shuddering through you, before she sealed her mouth around your clit and sucked gently. The sudden rush of pleasure tore a gasp from you, your hand flying to her curls.

“So sensitive already,” she teased, her lips brushing you, her tone equal parts smug and tender. “I wonder how long you’ll last.”

Then she was merciless. Her tongue flicked fast and sharp against your clit, then swirled slow, then pressed flat in long, languid strokes that left you moaning. Every shift was calculated, designed to pull new sounds from you. When your thighs trembled around her shoulders, she only pressed them wider, her strength unshakable as her mouth worked you with relentless hunger.

You cried out when she sucked harder, her tongue flicking quick and precise, sending sparks racing up your spine. She moaned softly against you, as though tasting you was pleasure enough for her, the sound vibrating through your core.

When her fingers slid inside you, it was too much for you. She eased them in slowly, curling deep until you gasped her name. She set a rhythm that matched the stroke of her tongue—her hand thrusting deep, massaging your special spot while her mouth licked and sucked your clit with devastating precision.

Every squeeze, every tremor of your body only spurred her on. “That’s it,” she murmured between licks, her words hot against you. “Give it to me. I want all of it.”

The pleasure built sharp and fast, your thighs quivering, your body arching as though you could escape it. Laena groaned when you clenched around her fingers, her pace quickening, her mouth merciless.

Her tongue teased your entrance, then flicked back to your clit, alternating between sucking and swirling until you were nothing but ragged moans.

The climax broke like fire in your blood. You shattered with her name on your lips, your whole body trembling as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Still she didn’t let go—she drew it out, licking you through it, her fingers curling deep until you were writhing, breathless and undone.

Only then did she ease, slowing her touch, her tongue softer now, soothing, tasting, savoring. She pressed tender kisses along your thighs, up your stomach, until finally she crawled back up and kissed your mouth.

Her lips were slick, her smile smug and soft all at once. She kissed you long and slow, letting you taste yourself on her tongue, before whispering:

“You’re mine now. Just as I am yours. And gods, I’ll never let you forget it.”

And with Laena, you knew she meant it.

goonergigi

I look good from the balcony | MDNI

You distract your lover with your ample chest; big titty reader being obsessed over

Hotd team green x reader

Aegon, Aemond, Helaena, ormund, Alicent, Alys, Gwayne, Criston

Akotsk Team black

cw: sexual content, this is about boobs, knife kink, blood kink, lactation, drinking, etc

aemondsbabe

In the Soft Animal of Your Body

summary: in the quiet of the kingswood, helaena finds solace in you. for a little while, the world—and everything waiting beyond it—no longer matters.

pairing: helaena targaryen x fem!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni), no use of y/n, afab reader, canon-typical incest, twincest, wlw, oral sex (reader receiving/giving, helaena receiving/giving), 69, facesitting, praise, possessiveness, established relationship, technically public sex but they’re literally in the middle of the woods, tr(eat)ing our girl right, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 5.3k

a/n: title inspired by one of my favorite poems: “wild geese” by mary oliver. also, thank you to the sweet anon who asked for more helaena—i hope you enjoy it!

gif creds to @harwin-strong

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

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carmysdoll

𐔌 ⠀ 𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀ INTRO TO SWEETLING READER !

sapphires sleepless 𝓃ights in the library lilac and pinks moon crystals queen of love and beauty dragon jewelry horse riding rings lemon cakes furs voice of an angel dornish silks harpist the realms beauty

⠀﹙ 🕊️ ﹚

hyperfixatedimagines

Masterlist

Here are all the reader inserts I’ve done to date. More will be added as time goes. You can see who/what I write for here

Keep reading

gglouise23

Dating Trinity Santos

what’d it be like to date one of my fav Pitt girls!

♡ Trinity Santos who always lets you have aux, she doesn’t mind what music you play, she likes it all.

♡ Trinity Santos who loves thrifting dates. You two try to pick out the goofiest outfits for your date nights.

♡ Trinity Santos who kisses you whenever and where ever she can. You turn your head and leave your neck exposed? Covered in kisses immediately.

♡ Trinity Santos who takes pictures of you whenever she thinks you look cute. So she’s constantly taking pictures of you.

♡ Trinity Santos who gave you the nickname “sweetheart” your first day at the Pitt. It started sarcastic but quickly turned to a nickname full of genuine emotion.

♡ Trinity Santos who was afraid to get attached to you but can’t imagine life without you now. She now expects to see your shoes right beside the door and your toothbrush next to hers.

♡ Trinity Santos who is incredibly soft with you when no one else is around. When you first started dating, everyone thought she was far too distant for you but they soon found out she was soft around you.

♡ Trinity Santos who is shy with pda and blushes whenever you kiss her in public, even if it’s just on the check, but the minute you two are at home, her hand is on your ass and her lips are all over you.

♡ Trinity Santos who finally opens up to you after a few months of dating about her mental health struggles. When she feels like she’s gonna relapse, you’re the first, and only, person she tells.

♡ Trinity Santos who takes you to karaoke as your first date and you two scream your hearts out to Reneé Rapp.

♡ Trinity Santos who tells you she doesn’t want anything casual with you after your first night together.

♡ Trinity Santos who lets you cry on her shoulder after a hard shift. You let her do the same to you.

♡ Trinity Santos who says she hates cuddling, but immediately melts when you wrap your arms around her.

♡ Trinity Santos who takes you to watch the fireworks on the Fourth of July and on new years. on new years she kisses you right at 12 am.

♡ Trinity Santos who softly sings to you when you have trouble falling asleep. You love the soothing sound of her voice and it’s just what you need to have good dreams.

a/n: ugh I love her sm. If u like this, please consider liking, reblogging, commenting, and following!

midnightmayhem13

Only bought this dress so you could take it off

nsfw headcanons for the ladies! minors dni nd enjoy!🩶

midnightmayhem13

can you do headcanons for nebula with a strap?? i’m obsessed with your hcs for my fav gays

nsfw nebula, darcy, sharon (individual)

hehe finally ima have fun❕ minors dni and enjoy gays🩶 also i did darcy and sharon bc i'm a whore nd they don't have nsfw hcs😊

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions

Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

midnightmayhem13

Hey bby! Can I request in general headcanons for dating the marvel girls?

You Know I Adore You

trying to get back into it but here's more general headcanons for the girls! (scroll down my profile if u haven't seen the og ones🤫)

talesofesther

come home to her

➥ Lin Beifong x Fem!Reader

Summary: After a day that leaves you emotionally exhausted, you find yourself standing outside Republic City's police station, your feet having carried you to the one person who feels like home. Your relationship with Lin is still new, and you worry about interrupting her work, but one look is all it takes for Lin to realize something is wrong.

Requested by @rubyyworld

A/N: Guys I want Lin in my life right now. It is a NEED, I swear. I changed just a tiny detail from the request, but I hope you like this sweet little thing. I almost melted while writing it. 💞 (If you want more domestic Lin, let me know; I wouldn't mind writing a part 2 for this.)

Word count: 2,4k

*̥˚ Masterlist ☾ ⋆*

The metal doors of Republic City's Police Station seemed heavier than they usually did.

You hesitated outside for a long moment, fingers curled tightly around the strap of your satchel. The evening rush had begun to settle over the city, as grey rain clouds finally started to clear. The last orange rays of sunlight, which managed to appear just before the day ended, reflected off the glass windows and rain puddles, while police officers came and went through the front entrance with practiced efficiency.

You almost turned around and walked back to your home instead. You had already made it this far, yet guilt still twisted in your stomach.

She's working. I shouldn't bother her with something so futile. Those were the thoughts weighing inside your head.

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