aiya

The way he fucks you: Slow and controlled. He's a man who's been denying himself for years (in many contexts) and now that he has permission to have one thing he's wanted above all else, he's going to savour every second. He maps your body like territory he's conquering inch by inch. He learns what makes you gasp, whimper, beg, and then he uses it. A merciless commander of his favourite battlefield. With the same brilliance he brings to the tourney field.

Pet names: "Little wolf" (only in private, only in bed, and it makes you feral every time), "my lady" (even when you're naked and begging, because the formality is part of the game), "sweetling" (rarely, and when he does use it you know he's feeling extra soft toward you)

High Valyrian: He uses it sparingly because he knows the power it has over you. The intimacy of a language you don't fully speak, the intimacy of it. He waits until you're close, until you're trembling, and then he switches: "Gevie" (beautiful), "Ñuha zaldrīzes" (my dragon, ironic and possessive because you're the wolf but he's claiming you in dragon-tongue), "Māzīs syt nyke" (come for me).

Post-sex: He holds you like you're something precious he's afraid will disappear. Traces your face with his fingers like he's memorising you. Whispers things into your hair: "I've wanted you so long," "You undo me," "I would burn the realm for you and I know I shouldn't." The vulnerability lasts maybe five minutes before he rebuilds his walls back to the prince (because he still feels ashamed to want you this much), but every one of those moments is yours.

MAEKAR:

Competence + control exchange (he's furious that he wants to submit to your authority outside the bedroom—you're his wife or his political equal and you command respect he has to give, and it makes him feral—so in bed he takes it all back, pins you down, makes you yield, forces the power dynamic back into his favour)

Possessive marking (bites and bruises in places only he'll see, but also places that will show, just barely, under your gown's neckline, so every man at court will know you're claimed)

Restraints (his belt, your own clothes, his bare hands—he doesn't need silk ties, he needs you helpless and teeth bared)

Rough silent dominance (the sex is almost wordless sometimes, specially in the beginning, just commands: "Turn over." "Spread your legs." "Breathe." and the silence makes every sound you do make sound ten times filthier)

The rare praise (he almost never praises, so when he does, a muttered "Good girl" or "Perfect, just like that", it hits like a physical blow, and he knows the power those rare words have so he rations them like a miser)

Reclaiming his wife (after social events where you have to be polite to visiting lords, where other men look at you with appreciation, or even want, he'll pull you into your chambers and fuck you still half-dressed, possessive and intense.)

Aftercare denial (he makes you wait, trembling and aching, before suddenly pulling you against his chest and the tenderness hits harder because he made you earn it, left you on the edge before claiming you with his strength)

Scent fixation (burying his face in your hair/neck and just breathing you in before he fucks you, like he's trying to get drunk on you)

The cold prince warming (Winterfell's cold draws something out of him; he runs hot naturally and in the Northern winter that contrast is more stark, he's your personal furnace, and he'll warm you with his body deliberately, strip you down and press skin-to-skin in the furs: "Let me warm you, wife, let me—" and the service aspect gets him off)

The awkward tenderness (he doesn't know how to be soft, so when he tries it's clumsy; his fingers too rough when he tries to be gentle, his words stilted when he attempts praise, and the awkwardness is somehow more intimate than smoothness would be)

Authority kink (he gets off on giving orders and having them obeyed ("Spread your legs," "Don't move," "Stay quiet") and watching you comply makes him harder than the actual acts themselves)

Duty-bound breeding (he frames getting you pregnant as duty, as obligation—"We need heirs, this is necessary"—but really he's obsessed with the idea of you carrying his children, of permanent claim)

The northman's endurance (winters are long in the North and so is he; he'll fuck you for HOURS on long winter nights, nothing else to do but tend the fires and tend to YOU, and his stamina becomes legend between you)

The crack (very rarely, after particularly intense sex, his mask will slip; his hand will tremble when he touches your face, or he'll pull you closer with something desperate in the movement, and you'll see the sheer need underneath the iron)

Praise starvation showing (he's spent his life as the overlooked fourth son, so when you praise him genuinely, tell him he's good, tell him you want him, he goes absolutely still, and then something ignites and he's on you with desperate hunger: "Say it again")

Throat-holding (his hand on your throat is about control, about feeling your pulse race, about the trust it requires. He doesn't squeeze, just holds, and it's more intimate than any kiss)

Wedding night do-over (months into the marriage, when he's actually in love, he'll recreate your wedding night, but THIS time with passion instead of duty, and the contrast destroys you both: "I want to do it right this time, want you to want me this time")

The Lord's hand always on you (in the great hall during meals his hand is on your thigh under the table, possessive and constant, and sometimes his fingers will slip higher, reminding you what's coming later, and you allow the touch grounds him)

Seasonal intensity (winter makes him MORE possessive—something about the isolation, the darkness, the need for warmth—he'll keep you in bed longer, fuck you more frequently: "Nothing else to do but keep you warm, keep you satisfied, keep you full")

Possessive sleeping (he cannot sleep unless you're in his arms, will wake if you try to move away, drag you back unconsciously, and the need for physical contact even in sleep betrays how deeply he's fallen)

Hate-fucking his own desire (sometimes he fucks you angry—angry that he wants you, angry that you make him weak, angry that he can't stop wanting you—and it's rough and desperate and he won't look at you until after)

The way he fucks you: Hard and controlled, especially initially. He's not trying to make love to you; he's trying to do his duty to you, prove something to himself while he's at it. But underneath the roughness is a desperate need he won't name. He'll pin your wrists above your head and fuck into you with mechanical precision, but his eyes are wild, burning. He'll bite your shoulder hard enough to bruise and then his tongue will trace the mark like an apology he can't voice.

Pet names: He doesn't use them. You're "Lady Stark" even when he's three fingers deep. You're "wife" (bitten off like a curse), then like a claim. The closest he gets to softness is a muttered "woman" that somehow sounds like "beloved" in his mouth every time.

High Valyrian: Rare. Cold and commanding. "Kostilus" (please, but it sounds like an order), "Māzīs" (come, snapped out when he's losing control), "Ñuha" (mine, branded into your skin like he's claiming territory).

Post-sex: He doesn't speak. Just pulls you against him with a grip that borders on bruising, buries his face in your hair, and holds. Sometimes his hands shake. Sometimes you feel his breath hitch like he's fighting something bigger than desire. He'll never say "I love you," but the way he clutches you in the aftermath speaks volumes. Nothing could take you from him. Nothing.

AERION:

Blood play (he bites until you bleed, licks the wound clean, mixes your blood with his—it's not about pain, it's about mingling, about becoming indistinguishable, about love as cannibalism)

Hair-pulling (your hands in his hair, yanking his head back, making him gasp—he's bratty and vicious until you pull hard enough and then he goes pliant)

Exhibitionism as claim-staking (he wants them to watch, wants them to see you choose him, wants everyone to hear you scream his name, wants the realm to know the wolf chose the mad dragon)

Degradation (call him "pretty," call him "desperate," call him a "temperamental little dragon" and watch him fall apart; he's been called brilliant and terrifying his whole life but no one's called him pretty like it's an insult and a caress)

You shaped Breeding kink (he's never wanted children with anyone else, the thought disgusted him, but you? He's obsessed with putting a child in you specifically, has spent years fantasising about it, wants to see you swollen with his seed, wants to bind you to him in the most permanent way possible—"You'd be so beautiful round with my babe," "Want everyone to see what I did to you," "Going to fill you until it takes"—it's possessive and primal and he can't think about anything else when he's inside you)

Humiliation play (making him perform, making him beg, making him prove he deserves you—he needs to earn it or it doesn't feel real)

Orgasm denial (he hates how much he loves being edged, being told when he can come, being controlled, but he's also achingly hard the entire time)

Oral fixation (his mouth is always on you—biting, sucking, licking, tasting—he needs his tongue on your skin like he needs air, will spend hours just kissing and biting his way across your body, sucking bruises into your thighs, your breasts, your throat, and when you're on your knees for him he nearly blacks out, watching his cock disappear between your lips is a straight up religious experience)

Bratty submission (his submission is never easy; he fights, he mouths off, he tests boundaries constantly, because he needs you to take it from him rather than have it given)

Mirror sex (he needs to watch himself break for you, needs to see his own degradation, needs the visual proof that you've undone him)

Jewellery/adornment fixation (he wants you dripping in Targaryen gold and jewels while you're naked and he's marking you; it drives him insane)

Temperature play (ice and dragonfire, he's obsessed with contradictions, with things that shouldn't coexist but do, his perfect balance)

Scent obsession (he steals your clothes when you're not looking, sleeps with them pressed to his face, gets hard just smelling you on fabric, sometimes he'll bury his face between your legs and just breathe you in for minutes before he even starts using his tongue)

Marking obsession (your marks on him are trophies he displays; he'll wear shirts that show the scratches down his back, he'll turn his head just so to make sure people see the bite on his throat, but his marks on you are apologies written in bruises and love bites, proof that you let him touch you)

Cum play (he's obsessed with his seed on you, in you, loves watching it drip out and pushing it back in, loves smearing it across your skin, loves making you taste it off his fingers, "Look what you do to me, look how much, it's all for you")

Aftercare craving (he'll never ask but he needs you to hold him after, needs skin-to-skin contact, needs to be told he's good)

Praise kink from you specifically (criticism from others bounces off like its nothing; praise from you destroys him. Tell him he's beautiful, tell him he did well, watch him come undone)

Cockwarming (keeping him inside you after, just holding him there, because proximity isn't close enough, he needs to be inside)

Object fixation (anything you've touched becomes precious; he'll drink from your cup, steal your handkerchiefs, press his face into pillows you've slept on)

The way he fucks you: Desperately and messy, especially in those early days. Like he's trying to crawl inside your skin. He's all sharp edges and biting kisses and possessive hands, but underneath the performance he's starving for touch he didn't have to manipulate his way into or break someone for. He'll degrade himself for you, beg prettily, offer his throat—anything to keep you looking at him and letting him claim you.

Pet names: You don't give him any and it makes him lowkey insane. He tries everything—aggression, sweetness, manipulation—to earn one. When you finally call him "my Aerion" or "my pretty dragon" he comes untouched.

High Valyrian: Starts as armour. "Ñuha dāria" (my queen, possessive and desperate), "Kostilus, kostilus" (please, please, all pretence gone), "Sylugon nyke" (use me, the most honest thing he's ever said), "Jorrāelagon ao" (I love you, whispered against your skin like a secret).

Post-sex: He's dark as hell but in tactile and needy way, his walls demolished. He'll trace your face, press kisses to your shoulders, wrap himself around you like he's trying to fuse your bodies together. This is when he's most honest: "Don't leave," "Tell me you want me," "Say I'm yours." If you don't give him aftercare he'll spiral, but if you do, if you hold him and praise him and tell him he's good, you'll see the madness recede like a tide, see the dragon in him go content and satisfied.

DUNK:

Size difference (his hands engulf yours, his body dwarfs yours, and he's obsessed with the visual—you're this fierce Northern lady and you look tiny in his arms and it makes him want to protect you and ruin you simultaneously)

Gentle giant dom (his whole existence is "what do you need and how can I provide it?" he'll spend hours learning your body, cataloguing what makes you gasp, whimper, arch)

Praise kink (receiving) (he's never been called beautiful, never been told he's good at something besides hitting people, so when you praise him he goes still and quiet and real damn desperate)

Body worship (he wants you to kiss and lick every inch of his massive frame, wants you to appreciate the body he's always seen as too big, too rough, when you worship his cock and balls specifically he nearly breaks)

Accidental overstimulation (he makes you come three times before he even gets inside you because he's so focused on your pleasure he forgets his own)

Accidental marking (handprint bruises on your hips, bite marks he tries to kiss better, fingerprints on your thighs; he doesn't mean to but he's so strong)

Voice kink (your command voice makes him stupid-hard—when you moan or talk dirty in that low, authoritative tone he'll do anything)

Light breeding talk (he's terrified to say it out loud but the idea of you round with his child, of his lowborn seed taking root in noble womb, makes him kinda insane, he's too nice to ever say it though)

Strength play (lifting you effortlessly, holding you against walls, manhandling you into position, but gently, always checking you're okay)

The way he fucks you: Like you're something precious. He'll work you open with his fingers (so much thicker than any lordling's), murmuring reassurance: "That's it, you can take it, you're doing so well." When he finally pushes inside he goes slow, watching your face for any sign of discomfort, and the restraint costs him. You can literally see him shaking with the effort of holding back.

Pet names: "M'lady" (always, even in bed), "little one" (size kink goes brrrr and makes him melt), "my heart" (when he's being devastatingly sincere and doesn't realise how loving he sounds)

High Valyrian: He doesn't know any and feels insecure about it. You're highborn, educated, you probably expect courtly sophistication. When you tell him you prefer the Common Tongue from him, that you prefer his rough Flea Bottom accent, it makes him dizzy with relief.

Post-sex: He holds you like you're made of glass. Peppers your face with kisses. Asks if you're alright at least seventeen times. Fetches water, cleans you gently, tucks you against his chest just to have you close. The aftercare is instinctive—he's taking care of you the way he takes care of his armour, his horse, anything he values because he has so little. Sometimes he'll whisper: "Can't believe you let me touch you. Can't believe you're mine."

LYONEL:

Impact play (hard spanking that leaves your marked, but he's laughing while he does it, drops an open mouthed kiss against the mark, clearly having the time of his life, "You can take it, wolf, I know you can, there's my girl")

Loud dirty talk + booming laughter (he doesn't whisper, he proclaims, "Going to fill you so full you're dripping for days," "Listen to those sounds you're making, fuck," and sometimes he just laughs, delighted by your body's responses)

Primal breeding (hair-pulling while he fucks into you from behind, biting your shoulder, holding you down; pure animal dominance, he knows better than to try and tame a wolf)

Public risk/semi-exhibitionism (fucking in tents during campaigns, against walls at feasts where someone might walk by, in the godswood where the risk of discovery makes it better and someone always hears you)

Cum play as marking (he loves smearing his seed all over your body—your breasts, your thighs, your face—or making you wear it under your gown at court dinners, loves the secret knowledge that you're marked, you can see his eyes twinkling every time he looks at you)

Strength play (lifting you effortlessly, fucking you against walls, holding you up while you're impaled on his cock)

Competitive (how many times can he make you come, how loud, how wet—he's keeping score and he's winning)

Exhibitionist breeding talk ("Everyone's going to know I fucked you," "You're going to walk into that council meeting with my seed dripping down your thighs," "Going to put a black-haired babe in you and let the realm wonder")

The way he fucks you: Hard and fast. He approaches sex enthusiastically, messily, and with full-body commitment. He'll throw you onto the bed and laugh at your indignant yelp before covering your body with his, all muscle and heat. He doesn't make love; he celebrates you.

Pet names: "Storm Queen" (his favourite, said with open pleasure), "my she-wolf" (possessive), "gorgeous creature" (when he's being appreciative), "there's my girl" (when you do something that particularly pleases him)

High Valyrian: He knows like three phrases and uses them all wrong but with such confidence you can't even correct him 😭 He'll try to dirty talk in Valyrian and completely butcher the grammar and you're too busy laughing/coming to care.

Post-sex: He's really affectionate, pulls you against him, plays with your hair, traces the marks he left on your skin with obvious satisfaction. Sometimes he'll sing, some tavern song or Storm's End ballad, while you're trying to catch your breath. He has no concept of embarrassment or vulnerability; this is just another form of intimacy to him.

VALARR:

DM Verse context: He's in love with Daeron's betrothed. Or Aerion's lover. Or the woman caught between one or both of his cousins in a toxic dance that's going to consume all of you (and likely kill someone). And he's the fool watching from the outside, wanting in, knowing he'll burn if he touches but reaching anyway.

Modern AU context: He's in love with his father's girlfriend. His father's fiancée. The woman who smiles at him over breakfast and sleeps in Baelor's bed and is going to become his stepmother. He's so thoroughly fucked it's almost funny. Except nothing about this is actually funny.

Forbidden fruit (every touch is stolen, every kiss is betrayal, and the wrongness makes it better in ways that shame him)

Guilt kink (he hates himself for wanting you and the self-hatred makes him desperate; he fucks you like he's trying to purge you from his system and fails every time)

Voyeurism (he's seen you with them; through cracked doors, across courtyards, and it's destroyed him, burned the images into his brain so he can't escape them)

Touching himself to memories of you with them (this is the WORST part because he'll replay what he saw, you with Baelor/Aerion/Daeron, and he'll hate himself while he strokes his cock to the memory, imagining it's him instead, and the self-loathing after he comes is crushing)

Stolen moments (quick and desperate in shadowed hallways, gardens at midnight, anywhere you won't be caught because discovery would ruin everything but the risk makes his hands shake)

Teasing/edging as delayed gratification (if he's already damned, he's going to make it last—he'll edge you for hours, make you beg, draw it out because these stolen moments are all he gets)

Comparative worship (he kisses you softer than they do, fucks you slower, gentler, because he needs you to know he'd treasure you if he could have you. DM: softer than Aerion, gentler than Daeron; Modern AU: more tender than his father)

Marking he'll have to hide (he wants to bite, to bruise, to claim (he's still a dragon even if others don't see him as one) but he can't, so he settles for kissing places no one else will see, leaving ghost-marks only you'll know about)

Praise kink as vulnerability (when you call him "my perfect prince" or "so beautiful when you fuck me" he melts, goes molten; he's been good his whole life and hearing it from your mouth makes it hit ten times better)

Light bondage (silk ties, leather belts; he needs you to restrain him, needs the choice taken away so he can pretend he's not choosing this)

Perfectionism in bed (he wants to be PERFECT for you: studies your reactions obsessively, adjusts technique, asks what you like, and the desperate need to be good enough bleeds into everything he does)

The confessor's burden (DM specific) (if you ever confide in him about problems with Aerion or Daeron, he'll comfort you appropriately, but later he'll replay the conversation and get off on your vulnerability, on the intimacy of you trusting him)

Slow sensory teasing (prolonged foreplay with fingers, tongue, silk, feathers; he's savouring you because he doesn't know when he'll get this again)

Modern AU specific:

Age-gap reversal (you're older, sophisticated, his father's equal, and he's the college kid who can't control himself)

Household proximity torture (you're always there: in the kitchen in the morning, on the couch in silk pyjamas, in the pool in a bikini that makes him want to gnaw his own arm off)

Forbidden fantasy (he jerks off thinking about fucking you in his father's bed, in his father's shower, against his father's desk, then nearly throws up from how guilty he feels over it)

Good boy corruption arc (he's never been reckless until you, never lied until you, never wanted something absolutely forbidden until you—you're unmaking his careful golden-boy persona and he's letting you)

Listening through walls (he's learned which walls are thin, where he can hear—and when you're with his father he'll press his ear to stone and listen to the sounds you make, hating himself, aching, hard and horrified in equal measure)

Scent obsession (he'll get close enough to smell your perfume, your hair, and later he'll try to remember it exactly while touching himself, and once he passed you in a hallway right after you'd clearly been with his father and he could SMELL sex on you and he nearly came untouched from shame and want)

Overstimulation seeking (he'll ask you to keep going even when he's too sensitive, even when it almost HURTS, because the overwhelming sensation grounds him in reality, proves this is really happening)

Mirror to his father (he's aware he looks like young Baelor, same dark hair, same build, and he uses it, styles his hair the same way, dresses sharp, anything to make you see the resemblance and want)

The way he fucks you: Like he's trying to memorise you through his skin, tender and desperate. Every thrust is "I love you," every kiss is "I'm sorry," every whispered praise is "Choose me." He can't fuck you without emotion bleeding through, it's physically impossible for him to separate the mechanical from the meaningful.

Pet names: He doesn't dare. You're "my lady" (DM) or just your name (Modern AU) and the formality/distance is armour that doesn't work. Sometimes, when he's breaking, he'll whisper "beloved" (DM) or "baby" (Modern AU) like a confession.

High Valyrian (DM only): Whispered sins he shouldn't speak—"Jorrāelagon ao" (I love you, and he does, and it's destroying him), "Kostilus henujagon" (please stay, even though you can't), "Ñuha mittys" (my mistake, said against your mouth like he's apologising to the gods themselves).

Post-sex: Guilt tastes sooo good. He holds you too tight and won't meet your eyes. Sometimes his eyes burn after tears (mostly due to guilt). He'll press his face to your shoulder and breathe you in like he's drowning. Sometimes he'll whisper things he shouldn't: "I'd give up the crown for you," (DM) / "I'd walk away from everything for you" (Modern AU), "I dream about you every night," "I'm going to the Seven Hells and I don't care."

DAERON:

Wine-sharing as intimacy (he'll take a mouthful of wine and kiss it into your mouth, or pour it across your skin and lick it off, the alcohol making everything hazy and warm, and sometimes he'll get you drunk WITH him so you can exist in that floating space together where nothing hurts quite as much)

Self-destructive exhibition (when he's spiralling he'll fuck you where someone might catch you—against the door while a feast happens outside, in the godswood where guards patrol, anywhere with risk—because part of him wants to be caught, wants the scandal, wants to burn it all down)

Lazy oral fixation (he'll spend hours between your thighs, drunk and dedicated, because focusing on you means not thinking about visions)

Light somnophilia (sleepy morning sex, half-awake and gentle, the only time he's soft because his defences are down)

Praise desperation (he's starved for affirmation, for being told he's GOOD, he's worthy, he matters; when you praise him during sex he falls apart, will bury his face in your neck and shake, and he needs the words as much as the physical pleasure)

Body worship from below (he loves lying back and letting you ride—his face, his cock—while he lazily praises you, because it means he can just receive for once instead of carrying the world)

Temperature seeking (he's always cold—the visions leave him chilled to the bone—so he seeks your warmth obsessively, will press his icy hands to your warm skin, bury his face against your neck, wrap himself around you like he's trying to absorb your heat, and the contrast makes you gasp)

The gift of laughter (on rare good days when the visions are quiet and the wine has him pleasantly buzzed instead of miserable, he's actually playful: tickling you, making you laugh, smiling against your skin, and the sex is light and sweet and you treasure these moments because they're so rare)

Reversal of caretaking (he spends so much time being taken care of—helped to bed, monitored, pitied—that when you're the one who needs comfort or care, he becomes almost manic about providing it, and he'll eat you out for an hour or fuck you exactly how you need, completely focused on your pleasure because it's the only time he feels useful)

Cum eating (he'll lick his own seed out of you or off your skin, because it's intimate and it grounds him)

The prophet's resentment (he resents that he needs you, resents that you're the only thing that quiets the visions, and sometimes he'll fuck you like he hates you for it, rough and graceless and mean, and he'll spit accusations: "This is your fault, you made me want this, I was better off alone")

Melancholy intimacy (the sex is tender and sad, like he's trying to memorise you before the visions come true and take you away)

Neediness masked as anger (he'll pick fights specifically so the makeup sex is intense, will say cruel things he doesn't mean just so you'll prove you won't leave, testing your loyalty through manufactured conflict)

Cum denial for himself (sometimes he'll fuck you and deliberately not let himself finish, will pull out before he comes and just stop because denying himself pleasure is another form of self-punishment, and you have to coax him or sometimes physically force him to let himself have good things)

Vulnerability (when he's drunk he sometimes cries during sex, clings to you, whispers prophecies he shouldn't, "I saw you burning," "I can't save you," "Stay with me, please stay")

The way he fucks you: Like every time might be the last time because in his visions it always is. He'll cup your face and stare into your eyes like he's trying to burn the image into his brain. He'll whisper your name like a prayer. And sometimes he'll just stop mid-thrust and hold you, because the weight of knowing is crushing him.

Pet names: "Darling girl" (sometimes teasingly if he's sober, lovingly if he's drunk), "my salvation" (because you are—you're the only thing keeping him sane), "sweet thing" (when he's eating you out, tasting you in some capacity)

High Valyrian: Mostly slurred but rather poetic, "Jorrāelagon ao" (love you, said like he's confessing a crime), "Kostilus henujagon" (please stay, even though the visions say you won't).

Post-sex: He holds you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows. Traces your face with shaking fingers. Sometimes he talks—streams of consciousness about visions, fears, futures he can't prevent: "I saw Summerhall burning," "I saw Aerion's madness consume him," "I saw you and I wasn't there to save you." Sometimes he just cries, silent tears soaking into your hair. Truth is he's in love with you. Has been since the first vision where you appeared crowned in snow and ice before you began burning and he can't tell if you're dying or transcending. Every time he touches you he's trying to change the future, trying to make this real enough that it overwrites the visions. It never works but he tries anyway. In every vision, he loses you. You burn or you leave or you fade, and he's always reaching for you, always too late. So he treats every moment like borrowed time. Fucks you like he's trying to anchor you to this reality. Loves you like it's the last thing he'll ever do (because it is).

DAEMON:

Version One context: He knew you while you were betrothed to Baelor

This is the version where he watched you at court, saw you promised to the Baelor, and wanted you with a longing that predates any rebellion. This Daemon has context—he knows your laugh, knows how you take your wine, knows the way you argue in council. He didn't just want to take you from Baelor. He wanted you to choose him instead.

Competence worship (he's watched you negotiate, watched you ride, watched you command, and every display of capability makes him want you more, not as a prize but as an equal, as a queen in the making)

Stolen tenderness (in the rare moments when he's not performing conqueror, when it's just you in a quiet room, he'll touch you gently—fingers tracing your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone—like he's memorising something precious he was never meant to have)

Laughter during sex (with you specifically, because you knew him before the rebellion fully consumed him, you remember when he could still be light, sometimes mid-fuck he'll crack a joke or you'll say something cutting and he'll laugh, genuine and warm, before the bitterness crashes back)

Face-holding intimacy (he cups your face in both hands when he kisses you, holds you there like you're the only real thing in the world, like if he lets go you'll disappear back to Baelor)

Praise ("You're brilliant," "Gods, you're magnificent," "No one else sees the world like you do" said quietly, reverently, in the aftermath when his walls are down)

Slow morning sex (when you've spent the night together and woken tangled up, he'll fuck you slowly, lazily, with none of the usual conquest energy, just want and familiarity and something dangerously close to love)

Protectiveness masking as possession (he positions himself between you and danger, his hand at your back in crowded rooms, his body shielding yours, and he tells himself it's about owning you but really he just can't bear the thought of you hurt)

Confession intimacy (he tells you things he'd never tell anyone else. doubts about what he's doing, fears about failure, the weight of the name he carries, all whispered against your skin in the dark while he's moving inside you)

Naming (not "my queen" or "she-wolf" but your name, every time)

Version Two context: He takes you as conquest

This is the version where you're already wed to the enemy, where he has less history with you, where taking you is more about the statement than the person. This Daemon is harder, colder, more willing to hurt.

Conqueror roleplay (he wants you to resist so he can overwhelm you, the fight makes the submission sweeter, makes it feel like victory over Baelor)

Possessive territoriality (marking you as his even though you're not, even though you never will be—it's about claiming what the crown denied him)

Hate-fucking energy (anger and want tangled so tight neither of you can breathe; he's furious you're married to them, furious you make him want you anyway, furious he can't just take and keep)

Sword kink (Blackfyre stays in the room, propped against the wall, a third presence, threat and promise; sometimes he'll fuck you with the sheathed blade pressed to your throat, cold Valyrian steel a reminder of power and if/when you lean into it, he only laughs and fucks you harder, whispering how you're meant for a conqueror instead)

Exhibitionist (he wants Bloodraven to know, wants Daeron to hear, wants Baelor to know, wants the whole damn realm to whisper, "Did you hear? The she-wolf spreads her legs for the Pretender")

Degradation ("Does your prince fuck you like this? Does your king make you scream like I do?" every insult is aimed at the Throne through your body and pleasure)

Primal dominance (hair-pulling, throat-holding, forcing you to look at him while he takes you, "Eyes on me, I said.. on me")

Ownership through defiance (he'll fuck you in their colours, tear the Targaryen red off your body and replace it with nothing but his marks, and eventually his own colours)

The way he fucks you:

Version One (knew you before): There's a sick duality to it. Sometimes it's pure conquest—hard, commanding, relentless. He's the warrior-king in exile and you're territory he's claiming. But other times, when the walls come down, he fucks you like he's coming home. Slower. Deeper. With eye contact that lasts too long to be just physical. He'll pin you down and fuck into you with brutal precision, but then he'll press his forehead to yours and breathe you in like you're oxygen, like he's missed you so much it physically pains him. The contradiction is soul destroying for you both.

Version Two (pure conquest): Like pure warfare. He'll pin you down and fuck into you with brutal precision, and the whole time he's watching your face—cataloguing every gasp, every moan, proof that you want him more than you want anyone else. There's no softness here, just raw possession.

Pet names:

Version One: Your actual name (said softly in private), "my queen" (challenge but with genuine reverence underneath), "she-wolf" (affectionate despite the teeth, teasing)

Version Two: "My queen" (pure challenge—he's calling you what you'll be when he wins), "she-wolf" (with teeth, possessive and wild), "prize" (dehumanising and he knows it, and does it purely to see you bare your teeth at him)

High Valyrian: Usually commanding, "Tepagon issa" (give to me, not a request), "Ñuhon" (mine, over and over like a brand), "Kostilus jaelagon nyke" (please want me—the only time he sounds vulnerable, spoken only if he knows you don't understand what he's saying, and he hates himself for it—more common in Version One).

Post-sex:

Version One: He holds you. Actually holds you, not just claims you. His hand will stroke your hair, trace patterns on your back. Sometimes he'll whisper things he shouldn't: "If I'd won—" (he never finishes that sentence but you both know how it ends). Sometimes he'll just press kisses to your temple and pretend, for a few minutes, that you're his and there's no rebellion, no crown, no Baelor. Then reality crashes back and his jaw tightens and the tenderness evaporates, but for those few minutes he lets himself be soft, lets himself imagine what you could have been.

Version Two: He doesn't do tender. He'll drag you against him, possessive and silent, and sometimes you'll feel his heart racing like he's just fought a battle (and he has—against himself, against wanting you this much). Sometimes he'll trace the bruises he left and his jaw will tighten. Sometimes he'll mutter: "You should have been mine. The crown, the throne, you. You were meant for me, not him."

Thing he won't admit:

Version One: He's not just fucking you to claim territory or make a political statement. He's fucking you because he loves you—has probably loved you since before he should have, since before the rebellion, since you were just Barthogan Stark's daughter at court and he was the legitimised bastard watching you from across feast halls. That's more dangerous than any war. Because loving you means he's not fighting for a crown anymore, he's fighting for you. And if you ever chose him freely, without conquest or coercion, it would undo him completely because a part of him would want to give it all up for you.

Version Two: He's not just fucking you to claim territory or send a statement. He's fucking you because he wants you—genuinely, devastatingly wants you—and that's more dangerous than any political game. Because wanting means weakness and Daemon Blackfyre cannot afford weakness. "Say the word. Say you want me and I'll take the throne. I'll crown you queen and fuck you on the Iron Throne itself."

You never say it.

(He's still hoping.)

AEGON I:

Prophetic obsession (he dreamed of you before he knew you, saw your face in flames and frost, your body crowned in stars, your womb as the forge for the prince that was promised, and when he finally touches you it felt like his entire life led to this moment)

Mythological breeding (this isn't about heirs, this is about fulfilling ancient Valyrian prophecy—the dragon and the wolf, fire and ice, the song that will save the world—he fucks you like he's writing fate itself)

Sister-wives trifecta (Visenya's fire—fierce and deadly; Rhaenys's warmth—soft and sweet; your ice—cold and burning—he needs all three elements to be complete, needs the contradiction you embody)

Sacred ritual (sex with him feels like religious rite; you're being consumed, worshipped, on an altar of dragon-bone and/or Northern weirwood)

Dream-sharing (he whispers what he's seen while he's inside you: "I saw our son on the Iron Throne," "I saw you crowned in ice and fire," "I saw the Long Night and you were the dawn" essentially prophecy as foreplay)

Dragon-bond (he wants to take you flying on Balerion, something of old Valyria, because wants you to feel the power he commands, wants the dragon to accept you as he has. He takes you flying, lands somewhere remote—a mountaintop, an empty beach, or simply the open sky—and fucks you against the dragon's flank while Balerion's heat radiates through you, the beast's breathing steady and enormous beneath you, and Aegon whispers, "He accepts you, he knows you're mine" while you're impaled on his cock with a living god at your back)

Claiming through titles (he doesn't just fuck you, he enthrones you; even before any official ceremony, he calls you queen, treats you as equal to his sister-wives, seats you at his councils, to him the political is inseparable from the personal)

Three queens, one king (he'll fuck you in front of Visenya and Rhaenys, not as humiliation but as inclusion—you're the third point of the triangle now. Sometimes it's not just witnessing, either, Visenya will hold you down while Aegon fucks you, her strong hands on your wrists or your throat, and Rhaenys will kiss you through it, touch you with eager hands, and Aegon orchestrates it like a battle: commanding, knowing exactly where everyone should be)

The Crown stays on (he wears the Conqueror's crown while he fucks you, makes you ride him while the Valyrian steel circlet sits on his head, and sometimes he'll place it on YOUR head mid-sex and watch you with something feral in his eyes, "This is what you look like as queen, this is what the realm will see")

Throne sex (he fucks you on the Iron Throne before it's even finished, you astride him while he sits on the half-built seat of swords, and the danger of the blades adds edge, just one wrong move and you'd both bleed, but he holds you steady, controls every movement, keeps you safe while making you understand the throne is as much yours as his)

Verbal dominance (he gives commands but frames them as questions: "You'll take me deeper, won't you?" "You want my seed, don't you?" "You'll give me a son, yes?" and the phrasing implies choice but his tone makes clear there's only one answer, and you give it more than willingly)

Orgasm denial (he'll edge you for HOURS, bringing you to the brink over and over, making you beg in Common Tongue and then Valyrian, teaching you the words for "please" and "mercy" and "I need you" in his language, and he won't let you come until you can ask properly, and if you turn those lessons back on him, and make him beg, on the rare moment his guard is lowered, even better)

Forced relaxation (you're both creatures of duty and vigilance, but he'll make you submit to pleasure, hold you down and eat you out until you stop thinking about politics or the North or anything but his tongue, and he's relentless about it, "You'll learn to take pleasure like you take everything else I give you—completely")

The way he fucks you: He'll position you exactly how he wants you (on your back, legs spread, open to him like the realm opened to dragons), and he'll watch constantly—how his cock disappears inside you, watches your face, watches fate happen. But there's reverence in it too. He touches you like you're something holy, something precious. Fucks you like you're the answer to every question he's ever asked the gods.

Pet names: "Northern star" (navigational but also his one true purpose), "my winter flame" (fire and ice in one), "the answer" (said with religious gravity, because you are), "ice-that-burns" (paradox made flesh), "ñuha brōzio" (my destiny, used more than your actual name)

High Valyrian: Used it often. "Ñuha brōzio" (my destiny, possessive and absolute), "Se dārilaros bona iksos kivio" (the prince/princess that was promised—he's not sure if he means your child or you, perhaps both), "Sagon sȳz syt nyke" (be good for me, because even destiny requires your cooperation), "Māzīs, ñuha jorrāelagon" (come, my love—the only time he uses a term of endearment and means it carnally).

Post-sex: He holds you like you're sacred. Traces your face like he's memorising constellations. Sometimes he'll talk—stream of consciousness about visions, prophecies, futures: "I saw a throne of swords and our son sitting on it," "I saw winter coming and you standing against it," "I saw us—centuries from now, in songs they'll sing forever." Sometimes he's silent, just staring at you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows. He'll pull you against his chest and you'll feel his heartbeat—steady, like the turning of the world—and you'll realise this is the only place the Conqueror allows himself to be simply Aegon. You're the only answer that matters. He's been searching for you across a lifetime (in dreams, in visions, in prophecy). You're the reason he conquered Westeros at all—because he knew you'd be here, waiting, the missing piece of something vast and terrible. He can't separate desire from destiny. Can't fuck you without thinking about prophecy. Can't touch you without seeing visions—your belly swollen with the prince that was promised, your hand holding Lightbringer, your face illuminated by dragonglass as you stand against the darkness. You're not just his lover. You're his prophesied queen. The ice to his fire. The song itself.

MAEGOR:

Pain/pleasure blur (he genuinely can't tell the difference and doesn't care to, biting that draws blood, gripping that bruises, fucking that feels like violence and transcendence in equal measure)

Combat arousal (if you argue with him, if you fight back verbally with genuine fire, he gets HARD. He doesn't want you broken and meek, he wants you fighting, and the sex after an argument is intense and almost equal, like he's fighting you into submission and you're fighting back and you both get off on the struggle)

Ownership through fear (you should be afraid and you are and it makes the wanting worse—for both of you)

Jealousy sex (when another man looks at you too long, when someone at court speaks to you with too much familiarity, Maegor will fuck you that night (likely after punishing, if not killing whoever it was) with barely controlled violence. Not to punish YOU, but to reassert his claim, to erase the other person's existence from your thoughts, "You think he could make you feel like this? You think anyone else could handle you?")

Breeding obsession (he wants heirs and he wants you destroyed making them; wants you swollen and aching and marked as his, wants the realm to see his seed took root in Northern womb)

Ownership through adornment (he commissions jewellery for you, usually heavy Northern pieces in silver and sapphire, but designed so they feel like shackles: a thick torc that sits on your collarbones like a collar, rings that connect with delicate chains, and he'll fuck you wearing nothing BUT the jewellery, getting off on how thoroughly you're marked as his)

Temperature play reversal (he'll heat stones by the fire and press them against your cold skin, watching you gasp and arch, obsessed with warming you, making the ice melt or he'll drag ice across your overheated skin after he's fucked you brutal and sweaty, and the care in the cooling is the only softness he can manage)

Degradation (he'll call you "wolf-bitch" and "Northern savage" but his hands are too gentle for how violent you've seen them be with others, and you both know there's a reluctant thread of respect at your refusal to break)

Claiming through destruction (he'll rip your gowns off, tear Northern furs, destroy anything that marks you as not-his because you're his now and the realm will know it)

Sleeping vulnerability (he only truly sleeps when you're in his bed, and he'll pull you against him unconsciously in sleep, hold you with a tenderness he'd never show awake—you've woken to find him curled around you protectively, his face pressed to your hair, and if you move he tightens his grip without waking)

Size and strength dominance (he's massive, built for war, and he uses it; he'll pin you with one hand, lift you effortlessly, manhandle you like you weigh nothing, and the casual display of power makes you clench even when it terrifies you)

Forced eye contact (he grabs your jaw and makes you look at him while he fucks you, "Look at me. Look at who's ruining you. Remember this." he needs you to see him, needs to be SEEN)

Hair worship (he's fascinated by your hair, he'll will bury his hands in it, wrap it around his fist while he fucks you, brush it himself sometimes in the aftermath with rough, unpractised strokes, and once you woke to find him just running strands through his fingers, watching the light catch in it like he's never seen anything so fine no matter how ordinary)

Battle-high fucking (he'll come to you straight from the training yard or from sentencing someone to death, or actual battle, still in armour, still bloody, and he'll fuck you with that violence still singing in his veins, using you to burn off the excess)

Possessive scarring (not just bruises—he wants permanent marks, wants his initials carved into your skin, wants you branded as his in ways that can never fade—he hasn't done it yet but you see him thinking about it)

Scent marking (he'll fuck you and then send you to court without letting you bathe, wants everyone to smell him on you, wants your hair to reek of sex and sweat and HIM, and when you walk into the throne room dishevelled and marked, his eyes track you with open possession)

Silence as dominance (sometimes he fucks you without saying a word, just watching you with those cold eyes, and the silence is MORE intimidating than any threat, but with him, also far more intimate, too)

Forced orgasms (he'll make you come over and over, overstimulate you until you're sobbing, prove that your body obeys him even when your mind resists, "See? Even this is mine. Even your pleasure belongs to me.")

Corruption kink (he's obsessed with the idea of breaking you down, taking the proud Stark wolf and turning her into something that begs for him, that NEEDS him, and he's patient about it, methodical)

Contrast fixation (you're everything he's not—Northern ice where he's Valyrian flame, ice where he's fire, merciful where he's cruel—and he wants to see how much of that he can corrupt, how much ice can melt before it's just water in his hands)

Bathing (this is the closest he gets to tender; he'll wash you after he's fucked you raw, rough hands surprisingly careful, and he won't speak but you'll see something complicated in his eyes every time)

The way he fucks you: Like conquest. Like war. Brutal and unrelenting. He'll pin you down with a hand on your throat (squeezing just enough to make you gasp), and he'll fuck into you with no gentleness, no mercy. But his eyes—his eyes are wild with something that looks like desperation. Like he's trying to anchor himself in you. Like you're the only thing real in a world he's burned to ash. He's heavy and huge and overwhelming, and he knows it, uses it. Every thrust says "mine," every bite says "stay," every bruise says "I was here."

Pet names: None. You're "woman," "wife," "Stark," "wolf bitch" (when he's angry). Endearments are weakness and Maegor the Cruel is not weak. (But sometimes, very rarely, he'll whisper "mine" like it's a prayer and a curse. And once, ONCE, in the absolute depths of vulnerability after you nearly died in childbirth, he called you "ñuha perzys" (my flame) and then he never said it again.)

High Valyrian: Used as weapon. "Henujagon" (stay, barked like an order), "Dohaeragon" (serve/obey, because you will), "Ñuha" (mine, branded into your skin with teeth and nails), "Tepagon issa" (give to me, not a request but a demand), "Sagon sȳz" (be good, and the threat in those two words could level cities).

Post-sex: He doesn't hold you gently. He claims you, drags you against him, possessive and silent. Sometimes his hands will shake and he'll hate himself for the weakness. Sometimes he'll trace the bruises he left and his jaw will tighten. Sometimes he'll mutter: "You're mine. Say it. Say you're mine." (It's the closest he gets to vulnerability.)

Very rarely—so rarely you almost think you imagined it—he'll press his face into your hair and breathe like he's drowning and you're air. His arms will tighten almost painfully. And you'll feel him shake. Just for a moment. Then it's gone and he's shoving you away and getting dressed and the king is back.

The thing he won't admit: He needs you. Not wants—needs. You're the only thing that doesn't flinch when he enters a room (anymore, you learned not to), the only thing that fights him (when you're brave or stupid enough), the only thing that makes him feel alive instead of monstrous. He'll never say it but you're not as breakable as he expected. He's broken queens before, gentle flowers who withered under his attention. But you're Northern, and the North is hard. You bend but you don't shatter. And that fascinates him. Enrages him. Makes him want you MORE. Every time he thinks he's finally broken you, you get back up. And he doesn't know if he wants to crush that entirely or preserve it forever.

BRYNDEN:

Omniscient voyeurism (he's WATCHED you for months before he ever touched you—through his network of spies, through his greenseeing, through birds and whispers—he knows how you touch yourself when you're alone, knows what makes you gasp, knows your tells when you're aroused, and when he finally gets you in his bed he uses all of it with devastating precision, and you realise with creeping horror that he knew, he's always known)

The weirwood witnessing (he'll fuck you in the godswood, pressed against the heart tree, and he swears he can feel the old gods watching through the carved face, that they approve, that this is sacred, and whether it's true or he's just insane doesn't matter because the blasphemy of it makes you come harder)

Prophecy pillowtalk (he sees futures while he's inside you; his eye goes distant and unfocused and he'll narrate what he sees: "I see you heavy with my child, I see you standing over my enemies, I see you crowned in weirwood leaves and raven feathers" and you can't tell if he's fucking you or the future of you)

Information as foreplay (he'll tell you secrets while he's fingering you—state secrets, dangerous knowledge, things that could get you killed for knowing—and the combination of his fingers curling inside you and his voice reciting treason in your ear makes you come so hard you forget half of what he said, which was probably the whole point)

The birds are watching (his ravens are ALWAYS present, perched around the room, watching with their black eyes, and he insists they stay, says they're part of him, extensions of his sight, and you're being fucked under the gaze of a dozen birds and Bloodraven's one red eye and you don't know which is worse)

Marking with meaning (he doesn't just bite randomly; every mark is placed, deliberate, forming patterns across your skin that mean something in old magic you don't understand, and he'll trace them afterward murmuring in the Old Tongue, and you think he might be binding you to him through sex magic and the terrifying part is you don't want him to stop)

The thousand eyes penetration (he'll blindfold you and then describe in EXACT detail what you look like from every angle—above, below, beside—because he's watching through the birds, through the shadows, through eyes you can't see, and he narrates your own body back to you: "Your thighs are trembling, you're so wet it's dripping onto the sheets" and you're disoriented and overwhelmed because how does he know)

Corruption through knowledge (he teaches you things you shouldn't know—blood magic, greensight techniques, secrets of the old gods—and every lesson ends with sex, classical conditioning until you can't separate learning from arousal, until forbidden knowledge makes you wet, until that Stark magic in your blood becomes another binder between you)

The three-eyed crow (sometimes during sex his personality shifts—becomes something older, stranger, less human—and he'll speak in riddles or prophecy, his voice layered like multiple people talking at once, and you're being fucked by something that's only wearing Brynden Rivers, and it should terrify you but you come anyway)

Forced confession through pleasure (he'll edge you for HOURS, making you tell him every secret, every thought, every tiny rebellion, and he already knows but he wants to hear you say it, wants you to confess while you're desperate and aching, and only when you've told him everything will he let you come)

The whisper network as dirty talk (he'll tell you what your enemies said about you today, what lords are plotting, who wants you dead—all while he's inside you—using state intelligence as pillow talk, making you paranoid and aroused in equal measure)

Artistic torture (he approaches your pleasure like a problem to solve, methodical and brilliant, and he'll bring you to the edge and stop, making notes (actual notes, he keeps a journal), testing variables: does this angle work better, does this pressure, does this word, and you're a study to him and it's dehumanising and so intensely hot you can't think straight)

The inverted (he's obsessed with contrast; his pale hands on your skin, his white hair falling across your face, the red of his eye against whatever colour yours are, and he'll position you in lamplight specifically to watch the shadows, the interplay of light and dark, making art of you fucking)

Magical stimulation (he swears he can use greensight to stimulate you mentally, that he can make you feel phantom touches, can reach into your mind and trigger arousal without laying a finger on you, and whether it's real magic or just psychological manipulation you've definitely come untouched while he sat across the room staring at you with that red eye)

Possessive documentation (he sketches you—obsessively—in margins of reports, on scraps of parchment, elaborate drawings of your body, your face, anatomically precise studies of exactly how you look when you come, and you found the collection once and it was extensive and deeply unnerving and also kind of flattering?)

The breeding obsession (he wants a child with you specifically to see what the genetics produce. Will your colouring dominate or his, will the child have his gifts, will they be beautiful or monstrous, and he talks about it clinically while breeding you, analysing probability like you're a fascinating experiment)

Sensory deprivation with narration (he'll blindfold and gag you, bind your hands, remove all your senses except touch and hearing, and then he'll narrate everything he's doing in that quiet, clinical voice: "I'm going to touch you here, you'll gasp, your pulse will quicken" and he's always right, he's studied you, and the predictive accuracy is horrifying and arousing)

The master of whisperers (in the early days, he'll orchestrate scenarios to make you need him, arranges for you to be threatened so he can protect you, creates problems he can solve, manipulates you into his bed through elaborate social engineering, and when you figure it out he doesn't even deny it, just smiles that slight smile and says, "And yet you're still here")

Ancient bloodlines (he's obsessed with the idea of mingling bloodlines; his ancient Targaryen/Blackwood blood with your Stark/First Men heritage, talks about it like alchemy, like you're creating something NEW, and he'll murmur genealogies while he's inside you, tracing your ancestry like it's foreplay)

The loyal hound routine (in public he's the King's servant, bows and scrapes and plays the loyal spymaster, but in private he's ruthless, dark and feral, and the contrast gets him off, the idea that the court sees him as one thing while you know the terrible truth of him)

Rewarding intelligence (when you figure something out, when you demonstrate strategic thinking or cleverness, he gets visibly aroused—his pupil dilates, his breathing changes—and he'll praise you lavishly while fucking you: "So clever, Lady Stark, I've taught you well", sapiosexual to a disturbing degree)

The way he fucks you: With unnerving precision and complete control. He's not passionate in the traditional sense, he's FOCUSED. Every touch is deliberate, calculated for maximum effect. He watches your face constantly with that red eye, cataloguing every micro-expression, adjusting his technique in real-time based on your responses. It's like being fucked by someone who's already read the manual to your body and memorised it. But sometimes (rarely) the control cracks. And then he's desperate and almost human, clinging to you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows, fucking you with something that looks almost like simple human need.

Pet names: He doesn't use them in the traditional sense. You're "my lady" (formal, distancing), "clever girl" (when you've pleased him intellectually), "mine" (stated as fact), and once, in absolute extremis, "my only truth" (and he looked shocked he'd said it).

High Valyrian + Old Tongue: He uses both—High Valyrian for commands ("Gaomagon" - do it, "Sagon sȳz" - be good), Old Tongue for the weird magical shit (words you don't understand, phrases that make the air feel THICK, and once he spoke something that made the candles flicker out and you came so hard you blacked out briefly).

Post-sex: He doesn't cuddle so much as arrange you. Positions you exactly how he wants, your head on his chest, his fingers in your hair, and then he'll talk. Not sweet nothings, he'll discuss philosophy, magic, the political situation, prophecies he's seen. He treats pillow talk like a debriefing. But his hand is gentle in your hair, and sometimes you feel him press a kiss to your temple so lightly you might have imagined it.

Sometimes he'll sketch you in the aftermath, your body relaxed and sated, and he's surprisingly talented, and the sketches are intimate in ways that make you feel more exposed than the actual sex did.

The thing he won't admit: You're the only person in the world he can't fully read. His birds tell him your actions, his spies report your words, his greensight shows him futures, but your thoughts, your interior world, remains slightly opaque. And that fascinates him, gives him something to obsess over. You're the one mystery he can't completely solve and it's driving him insane in the best way.

He's definitely used greensight to watch you across time—has seen you in the past, in potential futures, in moments that haven't happened yet or happened years ago. And he'll reference them during sex: "I saw you do this three years ago, you were alone in your chamber," "I've seen you pregnant with my child in six different futures," "There's a timeline where you killed me, you were magnificent." It's violations of consent across the space-time and your brain can't even process the ethics of it.

But for all his power and knowledge, he's lonely. Desperately, crushingly lonely. Everyone fears him or uses him and no one knows him. You're perhaps the second person who's seen the man beneath the legend and hasn't run. He knows every possible future. He's seen the timelines where you betray him, where you leave, where you die, where this ends in blood and tears. He knows the odds. He's the man who calculates everything.

He sensed it, the minute you tossed your head into the pillows and released the most ear-aching groan you attempted to have sound believable, he stopped. There was no shouting, no groaning or fuming like he usually did—he simply pulled out with a loud slick, the look of pure dissatisfaction on his face, and climbed off the bed to stand at the foot. There was a sharp gleam in his eyes the longer he looked at you, contemplating what punishment to dish out—so many options, a lot of time to execute them all, which one came first. He chose to say nothing, instead grabbing you by your calves and dragging you to the foot of the bed.

Before you could properly react, he snatched you by the arm and spun you around, planting your face into the mattress with a hand gripping the back of your neck to firmly keep you rooted. A high-pitched squeal left your throat, but it wasn’t from the sudden roughness of his actions, it was from the loud crack of a hand across your ass, followed by the immediate dragging of his fingers through your folds to harshly rub your clit. “Feels good doesn’t it? So good you could cum all over my fingers right now,” he muttered in your ear, pressing more weight against your sweet spot once he found it, causing a string of gibberish to leave your lips. “Then why don’t you cum right now. Fake another one if you dare.”

“F-Fea…nor—shit—was just a—ngh—joke,” you cried out as you wiggled your hips against the thrusting of his thick and calloused fingers.

“A joke,” he gasped lightly with humour in his tone before continuing, “then I too should give you one as well.” Then, he withdrew his fingers an inch away, listening to you crying out from the loss of pleasure. “Let me give you the best joke in the history of the Noldor—so good, that you’ll remember it forever and even learn a lesson from it.”

Maedhros — what can I say. Best rough fuck of your life? This man had his own sense of humour, and he was about to display how funny he could be during a crucial act since you wanted to play games.

The moment your lips parted to gasp, fingers digging into his biceps and legs tightening around his waist, he smirked. The hands on your waist slid downwards to grip your thighs and curl them into your chest, flush against your breasts while pressing his weight upon you, essentially pinning you beneath him. The new position had his heavy cock pressed deeper within your walls; you were scrambling to find purchase along his sweaty back. “Nggh, fuck—too deep, Mae,” you whined with a pout, brows furrowing and lip biting as he doubled the pace, making the bedframe shake.

“Hmm, I’m as deep as I should be,” he purred against your lips while one hand from your thigh reached up to grip your chin, forcing you to keep eye contact. He chose to roll his hips, his flared tip rubbing against your sweet post, prompting your eyes and walls to flutter as you genuinely came around his cock, a warm gush of your juices coating his length. “That’s more like it. That’s how you should look when you’re about to cum all over my cock,” he grinned and pecked your lips swiftly. “All fucked out, not that phoney performance.”

“M-Mae…please, ’s too much.”

“Uh-Uh.” He was having fun with this, giving your face a small shake while his grip on your jaw tightened. You could feel him deep in your stomach—getting deeper—and the loud squelching sounds of your cunt gushing around his length telling you that he didn’t plan on stopping. “I’m having just as much fun as you faking your orgasm, melda. Why should I stop when all you have to do is lie there and take my cock?” he whispered cynically with a wicked grin. “Or do you want to fake another orgasm again?”

You shook your head, struggling to keep up as another orgasm was approaching after he fucked you through the recent one.

“Good,” he hummed and lifted his body slightly off you, releasing your chin. “Now be a good girl and cum for me again.”

Maglor — the gentle poet isn’t always as gentle as everyone considers him to be, you know? Kano has his tricks up his sleeves, and one of them is ensuring that you’re not leaving this bed unsatisfied, no matter what it takes.

He didn’t even wait for you to finish before he came to a complete halt, staring at you with all the restraint and disbelief. And then, ever so slowly, he broke into a smile—a cunning, wicked smile. “My, my, my, princess. You didn’t tell me that we were performing. Had I known—” he growled and suddenly pulled out to flip you onto your knees, pushing your face into the pillows and sinking your back into a beautiful arch. “—I would have put on an equally, captivating performance as well.”

Whimpering, your excuses falling short when you felt his fingers trail down your spine to dip between your folds, spreading your wetness around to rub lazily circles around your clit. “I hope you know how great of an improviser I am—one of the best. So, I hope you can keep up. It would be a shame—a real shame if you were unable to…” That was all Maglor needed to do to have you falling apart under his touch. Those skilled fingers, working you to the brink and bringing you back down, edging you as if he was playing his harp and plucking strings of cries with each pinch or flick.

His other hand rested at the centre of your back, applying just enough pressure to warn you of his warrior’s strength underneath while his fingers ran through your fold, circling your clit and then down to your entrance, doing everything but sinking inside. The needy whines you released only fuelled him to continue his ministrations as you begged him.

“Kano, quit playing—please, put it in,” you groaned, voice muffled as you pushed your face into the pillow to swallow your needy cries which he revelled in.

“Kano quit playing,” he mocked, laughing at the end as he pulled his fingers away to give your ass a solid smack, jolting you forward. “How demanding? What are you, a star actress who can’t play her part correctly?” In an instant, just as the response was at the tip of your tongue, his cock plunged into your cunt and immediately started moving without an inch of reprieve. “Why don’t you leave the improvising to me, sweetheart, and just do what you’re supposed to. Cum for me when I fuck you.”

Celegorm — gosh, you’re giving his man a game. A thrill. A chase. He’s a hunter—this is the type of game he’s into. Make him work for his prize, and you, my dear, were so kind to delectably present him with the best challenge ever. One neither of you would ever forget.

Coming down from your so-called orgasm, had you trembling in Tyelko’s hold. Ankles locked around his neck, nails curling into his meaty biceps and jaw slackened as you mimicked the expression of ecstasy, but that was never enough to fool the hunter. For in an instant, he leaned into you further, pressing more of his weight against you, squeezing your thighs against your chest, caging you in like some prey with those gleaming, green eyes. “Little bunny wants to make me work to earn an orgasm from her, huh? Acting as though I wouldn’t know what this pussy feels like around my cock,” he taunted with a sickeningly, sinful laugh.

“T-Tyelko, don’t—” Your attempted words were immediately cut off by an abrupt tumble as he rolled over to place you on top, adjusting your legs to straddle his hips, yet pulling you down, chest to chest.

“Shh, kitten. You don’t need to speak—you’ve told me enough.” His cock still buried deep within, started moving sluggishly at first—just for a few strokes to get you relaxed—while he gingerly took both your wrist and bound them with one hand behind your back. As slowly as he moved, it was enough to make your stomach flip. And like the predator he was, his feet planted into the mattress and instantly thrust upwards with much more force jerking you forward, save for the strong arms around your waist.

A loud crack of his hand followed against your ass, groping the flesh before sending another, matching the intensity of his thrust. “Just like that—feels so good doesn’t it? Nice and deep enough to fake another?” he growled, increasing his tempo for the sound of sweaty skin clapping against each other to ripple around the room.

“T-Tyel–…ko—fuck! ’m s-sorry…slow down—ah!” Sputtering his favourite chorus of gibberish, he merely grinned and sunk himself deeper into your cunt, purposefully rubbing his cock head against your sweet spot which had your nails digging into your palms and more juices dripping down his cock.

“Not at all kitten. I’m right where I need to be,” he purred and cracked another hand across your ass. “Chasing as many orgasms I can get all night long.”

Caranthir — he doesn’t do anything half-assed, so why would you make him feel like he wasn’t performing up to standards, huh? Don’t you think that you’re about to be reminded to never test his skills?

A hand pinning the back of your neck to the polished desk while the other torturously dragged its fingers through your dripping cunt—if you thought Moryo was about to let it slide with a fickle excuse of ‘I was just tired,’ you were fooling yourself. He didn’t appreciate the gesture and was fixated on ensuring that you never thought about attempting your foolish jest ever again. And judging from how his fingers glided so smoothly through your cunt, your juices coating his palm and wrists, and the obscenely loud echoes of your thirsty walls sucking him back in, he was making a point. All of this when it was your umpteenth orgasm for the night, and he wasn’t letting up. No amount of, ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘Please don’t tease me,’ or ‘It was just a joke,’ could reduce the number of times you’ve cum all over him.

“Have you learnt your lesson yet, melda?” he questioned with such authority, yet a distinctive quietness in his tone. His question was followed up by a sudden contracting off your walls, spasming around his fingers as they remained still and pressing against your sweet spot. Within seconds, another gush of your arousal oozed out, making his rings and bracelets glisten under the lamps. “Hm, not yet it would appear.”

“Moryo—”

“Silence. You had your chance to answer and missed the opportunity. It is clear to me that you still crave more, so I shall give you more. Enough that you will not attempt such foolishness again.” There was a faint smirk in his tone as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the centre of your back, the same time his fingers regained their pace and continued to fuck you through your orgasm, into the next one. The tremble of your legs as shivered with oversensitivity made him laugh airily, not slowly or increasing his pace, keeping you right there, and giving you want you clearly desired from the start. “You’re doing so well, darling.”

Curufin — nothing misses his eyes. Nothing misses his focus, and you thought it would be a brilliant idea to test the man who was cunning, perspective and undoubtedly harsh when it came to dishing out punishment? Good luck.

“Open—wider.” Just as swiftly as the command came, your mouth was filled with the sliding of his thick cock between your lips to rest heavily against your tongue. He wanted to silence those nasally cries you emitted earlier, calling it the regular sounds you made when you orgasmed, and listen to you gurgling on his cock, rethinking your options. “Just like that. You sound much better.”

All you could do was look up at him through your teary lashes while he tossed his head back, hands tightening in your hair as he held you still. He didn’t move too slow or too quickly, just at the right pace to satisfy him and leave you clenching around nothing in anticipation. A soft, muffled whine escaped your throat when he pulled back, leaving his tip to rest against your lips, causing him to finally open his eyes and look down at you—with disappointment. “What’s wrong? Finally ready to apologise so I can make you cum for your ridiculous stunt?”

You nodded, pouting up at him with your teary eyes, knowing the effect it always had on him. “I’m sorry…won’t do it again.”

Instead, he scoffed. You were so shameless. Fake your orgasm and then had the audacity to be wet while he fucked your throat, wanting his cock to quench your heat. If anything, it made him more irritable. “I’m not so sure that you are sorry,” he corrected, biting his lower lip. “You just want me to stuff you with my cock like the needy little thing you are.”

“You can do whatever you want,” you pleaded. “I just want to cum.”

Rolling his eyes as he tapped his cock head against your lips, signalling you to open up, he pushed into the warmth of your mouth again, exhaling deeply at the welcoming of your heat and wetness. “I am doing whatever I want, darling. And that’s making sure you don’t cum like you wanted from the start.”

Celebrimbor — okay, why would you even try this stunt on this pookie wookie? He’s trying his best to bring you the best pleasure you ever had in your life with passionate precision and you of all things to do…fake your orgasm. Go stand outside in the rain, for making him feel like his performance wasn’t good enough,

His hips stuttered the minute you started vibrating and clinging to him, giving him a world-altering performance of you orgasming. There was a look of sadness washing over you as he continued to observe your shaking figure under him—you were so caught up in acting to notice that he had stopped and slackened his hold on your hips, slightly sitting on his hunches. The way his brain was calculating what to do in the face of such an event he never thought would occur to him. Then, he recalled—a conversation between two of his Lords he overheard speaking about their wives pulling this same stunt.

So, it was a thing. Just you attempting to trick him. He was still saddened deep down, but with a fervour.

Gingerly, he pulled his cock out and shuffled off the bed, noticing how you watched him with curious eyes. “Where are going? You haven’t finished?” you worried, sitting upright and frowning as he slipped back into his trousers, keeping it loose around his waist.

He said nothing as he reached into the drawers for a pair of handcuffs, designed just for you. A little something he was working on for a while to surprise you with, and what a joyous occasion it was for him to introduce them to you because, in mere minutes, your hands were cuffed to the headboard and left sobbing—begging for release, overstimulated. Tyelpë’s mouth worked so fervently against your pussy, giving you all the orgasms in the world so you would never test his abilities again.

A languid drag of his tongue against your clit, followed but a sharp suck had your toes curling, yet, unable to move from the iron grip that held them apart. You were beyond sensitive, unsure if he could milk another orgasm from your thoroughly wracked body.

“Hmm, do you think you can give me one more?” he peered up at you through those gorgeous emerald eyes. How could you say ‘no’ even when this was punishment? And yet you found yourself nodding slowly. “Lovely, let us see if this would be the one to remind you to never try that trick again.”

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