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The way that you write angst just absolutely scratches my brain just right. I would love to read your version of Baelor being caught being unfaithful and having to yearn for reader back. Any other detail is up to you. We just see him as this moral compass and I think seeing him caught not being perfect would be sooooo satisfying to read. Especially if reader ran to Lyonnel, Maekar or bloodraven for comfort. π
In the four years of your marriage to Prince Baelor Targaryen, you have never once questioned his devotion to youβa fool's hope, you'd come to realise when you stumble upon him in a passionate moment with another woman, you do not yell, you do not scream. You have known that this marriage was not one born from love, but rather duty, and in the act itself, this unfaithful act sends you into the arms of another.
ππππππππ; infidelity, cheating, age gap (reader is in her late twenties, baelor in his early forties), sexual content, possessive behaviour, jealous behaviour, so much yearning, guilt, use of blood magic, brief maekar x reader, but no cheating on the reader's part, oral (male receiving and female), breeding kink, plot with porn.
In the four years of your marriage to Prince Baelor Targaryen, the Red Keep had become a cage of silk and duty. You were still young enough that the court whispered about the years between you and your husband, who had passed forty with the quiet dignity of a man who had already buried more than most.
His hair, once dark, now held strands of white at the temples that caught the light like frost on steel. The lines at the corners of his mismatched eyes deepened when he smiled, which he did rarely in public and never quite fully when alone with you.
Those lines told stories of battles fought before you had even flowered into womanhood, of losses you could only imagine in the abstract.
You had never once questioned his devotion. That was the foolβs hope you carried like a hidden coin, polished smooth by every courteous touch of his hand at the small of your back during feasts, every night he came to your bed and took you with careful, almost reverent thoroughness.
His hands, large and calloused from years of sword work, would map your body as if committing each curve to memory.
Duty had bound you both, an alliance sealed with vows spoken before the Seven and the court.
Love, you told yourself in the quiet hours before dawn while listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing beside you, might still grow if you tended it carefully enough.
You studied the way candlelight played across the planes of his face, and you allowed yourself to believe that the careful way he held you afterward meant something more than obligation.
It shattered on a humid evening in the seventh moon, when the air itself felt heavy with the promise of storms.
You had gone looking for him after the small council ran late, your slippers whispering over stone that still held the dayβs heat.
The corridor outside his solar smelled of burning incense, rose and honey, your favourite, the faint metallic tang of old blood from the training yards below, and something sweeter, jasmine, perhaps, or a perfume that should have been familiar and yet was not quite right.
The door stood ajar by the width of a hand. Soft sounds drifted out, wet, rhythmic, the low creak of the heavy desk, punctuated by a womanβs broken moan that rose and fell like a tide.
Your fingers froze on the carved wood. For a moment you considered turning away. Instead you pushed the door wider.
Baelor had the woman bent over the edge of his desk. His dark tunic was open, the pale column of his throat arched, his hips driving forward in a relentless rhythm.
Her black hair spilled across the polished wood; her olive-skinned hands braced against the surface, one of his large hands gripped her hip hard enough to leave marks; the other was tangled in her hair, holding her in place as he fucked her with a force you had never seen from him in four years of careful, almost reverent nights.
His head swivelled toward the sound of the door.
For a single suspended heartbeat his eyes met yours across the space of the solar. Recognition flared, then something far darker. His head snapped toward the woman still bent beneath him. Horror flooded his features so completely that it transformed him into a stranger.
The colour drained from his face until the pupila of his eyes stood out like fresh bruises. His hips stuttered to a halt. His hands jerked free of her as if her skin had burned him.
βNoββ The word tore out of him, raw and pained, nothing like the measured voice you had known for four years. βGods, no. This is notβ look at me. Look at me.β
He was speaking to the woman now, but his eyes kept flicking back to you, wide and desperate. βWhat have you done? What have youββ
You did not yell, you did not scream. The air left your lungs in a single silent rush that left your ears ringing. Something cold and precise settled behind your ribs, a blade of ice that did not yet hurt because the shock had not fully arrived.
You watched long enough to see the way his body recoiled from the figure on the desk, the way his mouth shaped your name without sound, the pure desolation that replaced whatever pleasure had been there a moment before.
Then you stepped back, closed the door without a sound that might have betrayed the fracture opening inside you, and walked away.
Your slippers made no noise on the stone. The tapestries of Aegonβs Conquest blurred past in a wash of red and black and gold. You passed a pair of guards who bowed; you inclined your head as if nothing inside you had cracked open.
Only when you reached the quiet gallery overlooking the Blackwater did the first tremor start in your hands. The river below moved black and endless. Distant ships bobbed like black pearls. You gripped the stone balustrade until the edges bit into your palms and the pain gave you something solid to hold.
Duty, not love. You had known it and yet the knowing had never felt like this, like swallowing glass.
He found you before the hour was out.
Baelor came into the gallery with the look of a man who had run the length of the Keep. His tunic was still open, his hair disordered, his eyes wild. The moment he saw you he stopped as if struck.
βPlease,β he said, the word cracking. βPlease listen to me. I do not know howβ I thoughtβ gods, I thought it was you.β
You turned your face away. The river kept moving. Your silence was the only weapon you had left.
βI know how this looks,β he continued, stepping closer, voice low and urgent and already fraying. βI know what you saw. But something is wrong. The moment I looked at her after I saw your face in that doorway, it was as if a veil lifted. The hunger that had been driving me, it felt like mine until the second it broke. Please. You must believe me. I would never choose another. Not after four years of waiting for you to look at me as if you might one day mean the soft things you sometimes say when you think I am already asleep.β
You still said nothing. The glass in your throat made speech impossible.
He reached for your hand. You pulled it away. The rejection landed on his face like a physical blow.
βDo not do this,β he whispered. βDo not shut me out. Let me explain. Let me try. I will get on my knees in this gallery if that is what it takes. I will beg until the words lose all meaning. Only do not walk away from me while believing I chose that woman over you.β
You left him standing there among the stone and the dark water.
The days that followed were a study in quiet, relentless ruin.
Baelor did not force his way into your chambers. He waited outside them in the early mornings, voice low and careful through the wood. He waited in the corridors after council, always a few paces behind so that you could choose whether to acknowledge him.
He came himself, again and again, and every time the same raw plea lived in his mouth.
βPlease listen. I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but something was done to me. I felt it the instant I saw your face in that doorway. The hunger that had been in me was not mine. Please. I am begging you.β
You walked past him. The court watched, but there was nothing for the whispers to seize upon beyond a marriage grown suddenly cold.
In your grief you turned toward the one person who had always stood at a careful distance and yet never seemed entirely closed.
Maekar.
You began to seek him out in the quiet hours. Not in hidden chambers or behind locked doors, simply in the places where the Keepβs noise thinned.
The library in the late afternoon, where he sat among treatises on siegecraft and the histories of forgotten wars. The covered walk that overlooked the training yard at dusk. The small garden near the sept where the scent of night-blooming jasmine hung heavy in the air.
He never asked what had happened. He never pressed for details you were not ready to give. He simply made space for your silence and, when the silence became too heavy, offered the steady weight of his presence instead. You walked the length of the covered walk beside him without speaking.
You sat across from him in the library while he read and you pretended to, the turn of pages the only sound between you and sometimes he would set the book aside and look at you with those darker violet eyes and say, quietly, βYou do not have to carry it alone if you do not wish to.β
You never told him the full truth of the solar, you never needed to. The knowledge lived in the careful way he watched you, in the way he never allowed the conversation to drift toward Baelor unless you brought the name yourself.
The time you spent with him became a small, steady harbour and nothing more passed between you than the brush of hands when he passed you a book, the shared quiet of two people who understood that some wounds did not require words to be witnessed. No rumours stirred.
The court saw a good-brother offering quiet company to a good-sister whose marriage had grown strained, and found nothing scandalous enough to feed upon.
Baelor saw it anyway.
He saw the hours you spent in the library. He saw the way your shoulders loosened a fraction when Maekar was near. He saw the small, unguarded moments of ease that had once belonged only to the careful nights in your shared chambers. And the yearning in him deepened into something almost unbearable.
On the third evening he found you in the small sept. Candlelight flickered across the faces of the Seven. He stood in the aisle and did not come closer than the first row of benches.
βI keep waiting for the day youβll look at me and finally mean it when you say you hate me,β he said, voice quiet enough that it almost disappeared into the stone. βIβm not sure which of us will break first when it happens. But I would rather break than let you believe I chose that woman over you. I did not choose her. I cannot make the memory of her leave me, and I hate that more than I have hated anything in years. Please. Let me speak. Let me try to make this right before the silence between us becomes something that cannot be crossed.β
You left without answering. The silence you gave him was deliberate. Part of you wanted him to keep begging. Part of you wanted the sound of his voice to stop so the wound could begin to scar. Neither part was kind. Both felt necessary.
He kept coming.
On the fourth morning, outside your door: βI know you are spending time with Maekar. I am not asking you to stop. I am only asking you to hear me. I am asking you to let me tell you what I have learned. I am asking for the chance to show you that the man you saw in that solar is not the man who has spent four years learning the map of your body and still finding new places that make you sigh.β
On the fifth evening, in the corridor after the evening meal: βI yearn for you. Not for the duty. Not for the alliance. For the way you look at me when the court is gone and the candles are low. For the soft sound you make when I am inside you. For the chance to earn back even a fraction of the foolβs hope you once carried. Please. I am begging you.β
The words sat in the air between you long after you had walked away. You felt the weight of them in the quiet hours, in the spaces where Maekarβs steady presence could not quite reach.
The yearning in Baelorβs voice had been so raw, so stripped of every courtly shield, that it had left a mark of its own.It was on the sixth day that the truth finally rose to the surface.
A serving girl who had been tending the solar the night of the discovery came to you in private, eyes wide with fear. She had seen the woman, Lady Saera, a minor court beauty of Lyseni blood, leave something behind when she fled in haste after the glamour broke: a small vial of dark liquid and a scrap of parchment marked with symbols that made the girlβs stomach turn.
Blood magic, the old women of the kitchens whispered when the girl repeated the tale. The particular kind that did not merely cloud the mind.
You took the information to Baelor yourself.
He listened in silence, the colour draining from his face until the grief in his eyes stood out like bruises and when you finished he rose, crossed to the window, and stood with his back to you for a long time.
The city sprawled below under a late afternoon sun.
βI thought I chose her,β he said at last, the words quiet and raw. βI thought the hunger was mine. I looked at her and I saw you, every feature, the exact shade of your hair in the firelight, the shape of your mouth, the way you hold your shoulders when you are trying not to show what you feel. I felt the hunger I have only ever felt for you, and I did not question it because it felt like truth. Until the door opened and the real you was standing there, and the glamour shattered, and I saw what I had done while believing I was with the only person I have ever wanted that way.β
He turned.
The sheer anguish in his expression stole the breath from your lungs.
βShe made herself look like you,β he said. βBlood magic. Old. Designed to let the caster wear the face of the one the target already yearns for. The moment the magic broke, the thought of her became abhorrent. I have not been able to close my eyes without seeing the look on your face when you found us. I have not been able to sleep without hearing the silence you have given me every day since. And every hour you have spent with Maekar, every quiet walk, every shared silence in the library, I have watched and known that I drove you there. That my failure put that particular distance between us.β
You stared at him.
The memory of his face in that doorway, the way his head had swivelled toward you, the horror that had flooded his features, the way his head had snapped toward the woman on the desk, the pained and broken sound of his voice, rearranged itself around the new information until every piece fit with a terrible, clarifying precision.
βWhy?β you asked, the single word thin.
βShe wanted a child of Targaryen blood. Or leverage. Or simply the satisfaction of taking something that belonged to the dragon. The maesters are still examining the exact nature of the binding. What matters is that the desire was never mine. The moment the magic broke, all that remained was the knowledge of what I had allowed to happen while under a glamour I did not see until it was too late.β
Silence stretched between you, thick with everything that had been said and everything that still needed saying, with the six days of begging and the quiet hours spent with Maekar and the particular grief of nearly losing each other to a stolen face.
Baelor took one careful step closer, then stopped, the choice of the remaining distance still entirely yours.
βI have spent six days certain that day had already arrived. If it has, I will carry it. But if there is any part of you that can still hear me, any part that remembers the nights before this, the way I held you as if you were the only solid thing in a world of shifting alliances, then I am asking you to let me try to earn the right to stay. I yearn for your love the way a drowning man yearns for air. I always have. I only never knew how to say it until I thought I had lost the chance forever.β
You looked at him for a long time and the foolβs hope you had once polished so carefully stirred somewhere beneath the wreckage, fragile and almost unrecognisable, but still alive.
βCome here,β you said.
He crossed the remaining space as if the floor might open beneath him at any moment and when he reached you he did not touch you at once. He waited until you lifted your hands to the open collar of his tunic and drew him down.
The kiss that followed was nothing like the claiming violence of other nights. It was slow, almost trembling, full of apology and the particular terror of a man who had nearly lost the one thing he had not known how to fully value until the moment he thought it was gone forever.
When he lifted you and laid you back against the pillows it was with a care that made your throat tight.
He undressed you piece by piece, pausing to press his mouth to every newly bared inch of skin, the hollow of your throat, the underside of each breast, the soft curve of your belly, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.
When he finally settled between your legs his tongue was gentle at first, tracing the folds of you with languid thoroughness, tasting the evidence of your earlier tension and the heat that had begun to gather the moment he touched you.
You arched, fingers tightening in his hair and he hummed against you, the vibration travelling straight to your core, and then he focused, lips sealing around the swollen pearl, tongue flicking in tight, relentless circles until your thighs shook and a soft, rolling climax washed through you.
Only then did he rise and allow you to push him onto his back.
You took him into your mouth with a different hunger, slow, savoring, learning the weight and the taste of him without the earlier desperation of anger. βTell me, husband,β your tongue traced the thick vein along the underside, as you glanced at him, βwas she better than me?β
βGods, no, fuck, never. If the Stranger himself possessed a mortal body of flesh and bone, he'd sooner beg the Gods themselves to return him to his immortal state at the touch and feel of you,β something warm fluttered through your heart and then you returned to making him come undone, tongue swirling around the head until his hips twitched and a low groan tore from his throat.
You hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, the head brushing the soft palate, your hand stroking what your mouth could not reach.
Baelorβs fingers threaded through your hair, not guiding, only holding, as if the contact alone grounded him.
When you finally climbed over him and sank down onto his length, the stretch was familiar and deeply welcome. You set a rolling rhythm while his hands mapped your hips, your waist, the soft undersides of your breasts.
He watched your face with an intensity that made heat climb your throat, every time you clenched around him his breath hitched.
βStay with me,β he murmured. βNot duty. Not the alliance. Just stay. Choose it. Choose me. I have spent six days yearning for the chance to hear you say you might still want me, even after everything.β
You leaned down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue, and whispered against his mouth, βI am already here.β
The pace deepened as Baelor sat up, wrapping your legs around his waist so you were chest to chest, the new angle letting him grind against that sensitive place inside you with every upward thrust.
One of his hands slipped between your bodies to stroke the swollen bud of your sex in time with the movement. The dual pressure built again, slower this time, richer.
When you came it was with a long, shuddering sigh, your forehead pressed to his, eyes open so you could watch the way pleasure transformed his features.
He followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt and holding there as he spilled, pulsing deep, the words he spoke half-lost against your collarbone: βMine. My wife. The only one I want to fill. The only one I will ever choose. The only one I have ever yearned for like this.β
You held him through it, arms locked around his shoulders, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against your own.
Afterward you lay tangled in the sheets, the late light painting gold across the planes of his chest and the soft curve of your hip where his hand rested as Baelorβs fingers traced idle patterns on your skin.
βThe woman is in a black cell,β he said quietly. βThe maesters have confirmed the nature of the magic. The court will know the truth, that she used blood magic to wear your face, that I was not the man who chose betrayal. I will not make a spectacle of it, but neither will I allow the story to remain as it currently stands.β
You turned your face into the hollow of his throat. βAnd Maekar?β
βHe is my brother. He offered you the quiet you needed when I could not. I will speak with him. Honestly. I will thank him for the care he showed you when I had given you every reason to turn away from me.β A pause. βI have spent too many years speaking in half-truths. It is time I learned a different language.β
You nodded against his skin. The guilt was still there, a low ember, but it no longer burned quite so hot.
Baelorβs arm tightened around you and his voice, when it came again, was soft enough that the words nearly vanished into the fading light.
βI look at you,β he said, βand I mean every quiet thing I have never known how to say. I mean the wanting. I mean the fear of the years between us. I mean the way I have spent four years learning the map of your body and still finding new places that make you sigh. I mean that I will keep choosing you, even when duty no longer requires it. Even after I nearly lost you to a glamour and six days of silence. I yearn for your love the way I have never yearned for anything else. I always have. I only needed to nearly lose you to learn how to say it.β
You closed your eyes and let the words settle into the spaces the earlier silence had left and outside the window a raven called once, twice, and then the evening swallowed the sound. Inside the chamber the only remaining noise was the slow, shared rhythm of two people who had finally stopped waiting for the day hate might arrive, and had begun, instead, to build something that might outlast it.
I am so fucking sorry, I couldn't for the life of me write that he was sane in the mind during his act of unfaithfulness, so I hope you are happy with this ending, I have another version written where the reader cheats back on Baelor with Maekar, so if you want that version, I'll post it in the coming days.
The wolf had teeth and Maekar Targaryen, with a reluctance that threatened to undo him, found that he didn't mind at all.
ππππππππ: arranged marriage, political smack talking, angst, fenrir becomes an absolute menace, aerion is a little shit, sexual innuendos, maekar threatens someone with bodily harm.
I will be making a masterlist for all of my work soon. I apologize that this one is a bit shorter.
I am so sorry this took so long, hopefully this makes up for it.
You had heard enough of Prince Maekar Targaryen to last you a lifetime, and yet standing before him was an entirely different matter.
He stood with the impatient stillness of a man who would rather be anywhere else, arms folded, jaw set, the very picture of reluctant duty.
Something in you answered that reluctance with equal force.
Rodrikβs warning still hung in the air between you, but the longer you looked at the Anvil, the harder it became to swallow the bitterness rising in your throat. This was the man your father had bargained you away to.
This was the future that had been decided without your consent. And he stood there looking as though the very idea of you was an insult.
The dark-haired prince stepped forward first, his mismatched eyes crinkling at the corners and even without introduction you would have known him.
Prince Baelor Targaryen, the one the realm called Breakspear, the Hammer to Maekar's Anvil.
There was a gravity to him, a quiet authority that did not need to raise its voice. When he spoke, his tone was measured, almost gentle, carrying easily across the courtyard.
βMy lords. My lady. On behalf of King Daeron and House Targaryen, I bid you welcome to Kingβs Landing. The road from the North is long. We are grateful you have made the journey.β
Rodrik inclined his head with the proper respect. You dismounted carefully, boots striking the stone with more force than necessary.
Fenrir pressed close to your side, a low sound vibrating in his chest. The southerners eyed him with poorly concealed unease. Good. Let them.
Baelorβs gaze moved to you with genuine courtesy. βLady Stark. It is an honour.β
You returned the courtesy with a shallow curtsy, the kind that acknowledged rank without surrendering pride. βPrince Baelor.β
Then your eyes found Maekar again, he had not moved, had not spoken, other than the small shift in his gaze as your words lingered.
He simply watched you with that same hard, assessing stare, as though waiting for you to prove every unflattering assumption he had already formed. The silence stretched and around you, the courtyard held its breath.
Rodrik shifted uneasily at your shoulder.
You felt the weight of every northern expectation pressing down on your spine.
You felt the memory of Winterfellβs quiet halls, the scent of snow and pine, the freedom that had been traded away for alliances and banners.
And still Maekar said nothing, so you spoke once more. βPrince Maekar.β Your voice carried clearly, cool as the wind off the Wall. βI see the rumours of southern hospitality were exaggerated, or perhaps you simply could not be troubled to change out of your training clothes for the arrival of your future wife, as I have previously noted, that I understand, better than most.β
A muscle jumped in his jaw. The violet eyes narrowed.
βAnd I see the North still teaches its daughters to speak before they think,β he answered, voice low and rough, carrying the edge of a man who had already decided this conversation was a waste of his time. βOr is it simply that you rode so long you forgot the difference between a greeting and a complaint?β
Rodrik made a small, strangled sound behind you and you ignored him.
βA complaint would imply I expected better,β you replied, stepping closer so that Fenrirβs bulk remained a dark shadow at your side. βI expected an Anvil. I did not expect one that had already decided the metal was not worth the striking.β
Maekarβs mouth tightened and for a moment something almost like surprise flickered across his scarred face, then it was gone, replaced by the familiar scowl. βCareful, my lady. Some metals crack under the first true blow.β
βAnd some anvils are so brittle they break themselves before the work even begins.β
Baelor cleared his throat, the sound gentle but firm. βPerhaps we might continue thisβ¦ spirited exchange inside the walls. The day grows warm, and our guests have travelled far.β
Maekar did not look away from you. βI am not finished.β
βNeither am I,β you said.
βYou come south with a wolf at your heel and a tongue sharper than most swords I have faced. Do you think that will serve you here? This is not the North. Men here do not suffer insolence simply because it wears a pretty face and a direwolf sigil.β
βAnd men in the North do not suffer princes who greet their betrothed as though she were a particularly unpleasant duty to be endured and then forgotten. If that is the measure of southern courtesy, I will keep my northern manners.β
His eyes flashed. βI did not ask for this marriage.β
βNeither did I.β
The words left you sharper than you intended, edged with every mile of the long road, every sleepless night spent staring at the ceiling of a tent and wondering what kind of man waited at the end of it.
βYet here we stand. Perhaps if you spent less time resenting the arrangement and more time attempting not to look as though the very sight of me offends you, we might both survive the afternoon.β
Maekar took a half-step forward. Fenrirβs growl deepened, a warning that rolled across the stones. Several of the southern guards tensed. Maekar did not so much as glance at the wolf.
βYou think I look offended?β His voice had dropped lower, rougher. βI look like a man who has been told he must bind his life to a stranger for the sake of banners and blood. If that sits poorly with you, take it up with the men who made the bargain. Not with me.β
βI have taken it up with every god I know,β you answered. βIt has changed nothing. So forgive me if I choose not to smile prettily while you stand there in your practice clothes and decide whether I am worth the effort of a proper greeting.β
Baelorβs patience, though vast, was not endless. He stepped between you with the ease of a man long accustomed to standing between his brotherβs temper and the consequences of it.
βEnough. Both of you.β His voice remained calm, but there was iron beneath the courtesy now.
βThe courtyard is no place for this. Maekar, inside. Lady Stark, allow me to see you to the Red Keep. There will be time enough for further conversation once the dust of the road has been washed away.β
Maekarβs jaw worked, for a moment you thought he would refuse and then he gave a short, sharp nod, turned on his heel, and strode toward the inner gates without another word. The set of his shoulders was rigid with barely contained fury.
You watched him go, something complicated twisting beneath your ribs. Anger, yes, resentment. But also a reluctant, unwanted spark of recognition. He had not tried to charm you. Had not offered empty flatteries or southern sweetness.
He had met your bite with his own, and for all the bitterness of it, there had been a strange honesty in the exchange. No pretence. No courtly lies. Only the raw, uncomfortable truth of two people trapped in the same cage.
Rodrik exhaled beside you. βSeven hells, sister. I told youββ
βI know what you told me.β
Baelor offered you a small, almost apologetic smile. βMy brother isβ¦ direct. He has never found the softer arts of court easy. But he is not without honour. Come. The Keep is cooler within the walls.β
You allowed yourself to be guided. The party moved inward, past the outer gates and into the shadowed corridors of the Red Keep. Red stone rose on every side, ancient and imposing, the air thick with the scent of incense, old blood, and power.
Servants bowed, guards straightened and everywhere there were eyes, curious, assessing, already whispering.
A lean servant in Targaryen livery fell into step beside you, murmuring directions. You followed, Fenrir padding at your heel, Rodrik a solid presence at your other side.
The corridors twisted, climbing, the light shifting from the harsh glare of the courtyard to the cooler glow of high windows and flickering torches.
You were still turning the confrontation over in your mind, the flash of Maekarβs eyes, the rough edge of his voice, the way he had not looked away even when Fenrir growled, when a new figure stepped into the corridor ahead.
He was younger than Maekar, handsome in the way Targaryens so often were: silver-gold hair falling in careful waves, violet eyes bright with something that was not kindness. His clothing was richer than his fatherβs practice tunic, deep crimson embroidered with black dragons, rings on several fingers, a smile that did not reach his eyes. There was a cruel elegance to the way he carried himself, as though the world itself existed for his amusement.
Prince Aerion. Even without introduction, the stories had reached the North. The third son. The one they called Brightflame in softer moments and far less flattering names when they thought no one of royal blood could hear.
He stopped when he saw you. His gaze travelled from your travel-stained riding clothes to Fenrirβs massive form and then back to your face. The smile widened.
βWell. The northern wolf arrives at last.β His voice was smooth, almost pleasant, yet every word felt like a blade drawn slowly across silk. βI had wondered whether the cold would keep you. Or whether Fatherβs new bride would prove too delicate for the southern sun.β
The servant beside you stiffened. Rodrikβs hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword. You kept your expression carefully serene.
βPrince Aerion,β you said, inclining your head with measured respect. βI have heard much of you.β
His eyes glittered. βHave you? And what do the wolves of the North say about the Brightflame?β
You let the silence stretch just long enough to be noticed. Then you smiledβthe same cool, polite smile you had practised in the halls of Winterfell when dealing with men who thought themselves cleverer than they were.
βThey say a dragonβs fire is brightest when it burns for its own glory,β you answered softly. βAnd that those who mistake that brightness for true strength often find the flame turns inward in the end.β
Aerionβs smile did not falter, but something colder moved behind his eyes. He stepped closer. Fenrirβs ears flattened. A low warning rumbled from the wolfβs chest.
βYou speak of dragons as though you understand them, my lady. How quaint. The North has always beenβ¦ limited in its vision.β
βAnd the South has always been generous with its assumptions.β You kept your voice light, almost gentle, the reverence of a woman speaking to a prince of the blood, even as every word turned his own arrogance back upon him. βI am told you believe yourself closer to a dragon than to a man. If that is so, then you will understand why a wolf does not bow her head simply because the fire is bright. Fire burns. But it also consumes. I would not wish such a fate upon any son of House Targaryenβ¦ no matter how brightly he shines.β
For a heartbeat the corridor was utterly still. Aerionβs expression had gone very smooth, very dangerous. Then he laughed, a short, sharp sound that held no warmth.
βFather chose an interesting bride. We shall see how long the interest lasts.β He inclined his head with mocking courtesy. βWelcome to the Red Keep, Lady Stark. Try not to freeze.β
He swept past you, the scent of expensive oils trailing in his wake. You did not turn to watch him go. Your heart was beating harder than you cared to admit, but your face remained calm. Rodrik let out a slow breath.
βThat one is poison,β he muttered.
βI know.β
The servant cleared his throat nervously and gestured onward. You continued through the corridors, the encounter with Aerion settling like a cold weight in your stomach. Kindness as a weapon. Reverence as a blade. You had used his own words, his own vanity, and turned them against him without raising your voice. It had felt necessary. It had also felt dangerous.
At last the servant stopped before a heavy oak door banded in iron. βYour chambers, my lady. The Prince of Summerhallβs household has prepared them. Hot water will be brought shortly. If you require anything furtherββ
βThat will be all. Thank you.β
The man bowed and retreated. You stepped inside.
The chambers were larger than you had expected, and finer, tapestries depicting dragons in flight covered the stone walls. A great canopied bed stood against one wall, hung with deep red curtains.
A hearth already burned, chasing away the chill that clung to the southern stone.
Windows looked out over the city, the Blackwater glittering in the late afternoon light.
There was a sitting room, a small solar, and an adjoining chamber for a maid. It was a prison of silk and privilege, but a comfortable one.
Fenrir paced the length of the room once, then settled near the hearth with a heavy sigh, chin resting on his paws. You unfastened your riding cloak and let it fall across a chair. The weight of the day settled into your shoulders.
You stood at the window for a long time, staring out at the sprawling city that was to be your new home. Kingβs Landing. The Red Keep. Maekar Targaryen.
His face rose unbidden in your mind, the scars, the hard mouth, the violet eyes that had met your challenge without flinching. He had been angry. He had been rude. He had looked at you as though you were a burden he had not asked to carry. And yet there had been no false sweetness.
No attempt to pretend the arrangement pleased him. In a court built on lies and smiles, that honesty had been almost startling.
You hated that you noticed it.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Servants entered with steaming basins and towels, filling a large copper tub behind a screen with hot water scented faintly with lavender and something sharper, perhaps southern herbs you did not recognise. They worked quickly and quietly, then withdrew.
You had just begun to unlace your riding boots when the door opened again without ceremony. Rodrik stepped inside, closing it firmly behind him, he looked tired.
The lines around his eyes were deeper than they had been that morning.
He leaned against the door for a moment, studying you. Then he pushed off and crossed the room, dropping into a chair near the hearth.
βWell,β he said at last. βIt could have been worse.β
You gave a short, humourless laugh. βCould it?β
βHe did not order you thrown from the walls. That is something.β Rodrik rubbed a hand over his face. βGods, sister. When you opened your mouth I thought Baelor might have to separate the two of you with a sword. Maekar looked ready to throttle you where you stood.β
βHe looked ready to throttle the entire arrangement,β you corrected quietly. βI simply gave him a convenient target.β
Rodrik was silent for a time. The fire crackled. Fenrirβs breathing had settled into the deep rhythm of a wolf at rest.
βHe is not what I expected,β Rodrik said eventually. βHarsher. Moreβ¦ honest, perhaps. The stories make him sound like a man of stone. Stone does not argue back.β
You turned from the window. βI do not need him to be kind. I need him to be bearable.β
βAnd is he?β
You thought of violet eyes and a voice like gravel, of the way he had refused to look away even when your words cut. Of the unwilling recognition that had sparked somewhere beneath the resentment.
βI do not know yet,β you said. βBut he is not indifferent. That may be enough to begin with.β
Rodrik studied you a moment longer, then rose. He crossed to you and rested a heavy hand on your shoulder, the same gesture he had used when you were children and the world had felt too large.
βWash the road off. Rest. Tomorrow will come whether we are ready or not.β He paused at the door. βAnd try not to declare war on any more princes before supper.β
You managed a faint smile. βNo promises.β
The door closed behind him. You stood alone in the quiet chamber, the scent of hot water and lavender rising from behind the screen, the bells of the city continued their endless tolling and somewhere within these red walls, Maekar Targaryen was no doubt still pacing, still angry, still carrying the same unwilling burden you carried.
You stripped out of the travel-stained clothes and stepped into the bath.
The heat sank into your muscles, loosening the knots of the long ride. You closed your eyes and let the water hold you, and for a little while you allowed yourself not to think of dragons or anvils or the sharp-tongued man who would one day share your name.
Only for a little while.
In a private solar high in the Red Keep, the air still hummed with the aftermath of the courtyard confrontation.
Maekar stood with his back to the window, arms folded tightly across his chest, the plain black tunic still dusted with the yardβs grit. His jaw was set so hard the muscles stood out like cords. The violet eyes that had met the challenge in your eyes without flinching were now fixed on nothing, burning with a cold, contained fury.
Baelor closed the door quietly behind him and regarded his younger brother in silence for a long moment.
βWell,β Baelor said at last. βThat went about as smoothly as I expected.β
Maekarβs head snapped around. βDo not start.β
βI have not begun.β Baelor moved to the sideboard and poured two cups of wine, the motions unhurried. He offered one to Maekar, who ignored it. Baelor set the cup down within reach and took a measured sip from his own. βShe has a sharp tongue.β
βShe has a fucking insolent one.β Maekar pushed away from the window and began to pace, each step heavy, deliberate. βShe arrives in my city, looks me in the eye, and decides the first words out of her mouth should be a criticism of my clothing. My clothing. As though I owe her a performance.β
βYou greeted her looking as though you had just come from beating a training dummy into splinters, you refused our pleas to dress appropriately. I found you sharpening a blade.β
βBecause I had.β Maekar stopped pacing long enough to glare. βI will not put on silks and smile for a stranger simply because Father decided the North needed a dragon in its bed. She can take me as I am or she can take the next ship back to her frozen wastes.β
Baelorβs expression remained calm, but there was a quiet intensity beneath it. βShe is not a stranger to the weight of duty, Maekar. You heard her. She did not ask for this any more than you did.β
βThen she should have kept her mouth shut and played the part. She said I fucking look like I was carved from stoneβand gods, fucking gods help me, she imagined me fucking taller!β
βWould you have respected her if she had?β
The question hung in the air. Maekarβs pacing slowed. He turned fully to face his brother, and for the first time since the courtyard the fury in his face was joined by something more complicated, something reluctant and unwilling.
βNo,β he admitted, the word scraped out like a confession. βI would have thought her weak. Or false. Or both.β
Baelor nodded once, as though the answer confirmed something he had already known. βShe met you steel for steel. She did not simper. She did not flee. She looked at me and decided she would not be the soft thing that broke against it.β He paused. βThere is a kind of courage in that, even if it is an inconvenient one.β
Maekar made a low, disgusted sound and resumed his pacing. βCourage or not, she has a tongue that will make enemies of half the court before the week is out. And that wolf of hers, Seven hells, Baelor, the beast nearly took my hand when I stepped too close.β
βFenrir, I believe they call him. He is loyal to her. That, too, is not nothing.β
Maekar stopped again. He dragged a hand down his face, the scars catching the light. For a moment the hard mask slipped, and beneath it there was only a man who had been given a duty he did not want and a bride who refused to make it easy.
βI do not know what to do with her,β he said, quieter now. The admission cost him. βI expectedβ¦ I do not know what I expected. Tears, perhaps. Or silence. Or some soft northern girl who would look at me with fear or resignation. Instead I get a wolf with a mouth like a whetted blade.β
Baelorβs voice gentled. βThen meet the blade with honesty, as you already have. She will not thank you for pretence. Neither would you thank her for it.β
Maekarβs eyes narrowed. βYou sound as though you approve of her.β
βI approve of anyone who can stand in front of you and not wither. The realm has need of strong alliances. This one may prove stronger than either of you currently wish to admit.β
Maekarβs temper, never far from the surface, flared again. βDo not lecture me on the realmβs needs, brother. I have bled for this realm. I have stood as the anvil while you played the hammer and took the glory. I will not now be told that I must smile and play the dutiful husband simply because it suits Fatherβs plans.β
Baelor set his cup down with deliberate care. βI am not asking you to smile. I am asking you not to make an enemy of the woman who will share your name and your bed. There is a difference.β
βAnd if I prefer the enemy I can see?β
βThen you are a greater fool than I took you for.β
The words landed.
Maekarβs face went very still. For a long moment the only sound in the solar was the distant cry of gulls beyond the window and the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth.
When Maekar spoke again, his voice was low and dangerous, stripped of all pretence.
βBe careful how you speak to me, Baelor. I have endured your counsel, your calm, your endless fucking patience. I have stood in your shadow and been grateful for the shade. But if you continue to stand there and tell me how I must feel about the cage Father has built for me, I will put my fist through that calm face of yours and see how patient you remain when you are spitting blood.β
Baelor did not flinch.
He did not raise his voice. He simply looked at his brother with the same steady, unflinching regard he had always offered.
βThen do it,β he said quietly. βIf it will ease the weight you carry. But when the blood is wiped away, the marriage will still stand. The girl will still be here. And you will still have to decide whether you will meet her as an enemyβ¦ or as the only other person in this keep who understands exactly how unwilling this bargain truly is.β
Maekarβs hands had curled into fists at his sides. The threat hung between them, raw and real. For a heartbeat it seemed he might make good on it, might close the distance and strike the brother who had always been the better loved, the more graceful, the one the songs remembered.
Then the moment passed.
Maekar turned away, breathing hard, and braced both hands against the stone windowsill, the city sprawled beneath the fading light, indifferent to the tempers of princes.
βShe has a sharp tongue,β he muttered, almost to himself. The fury was still there, but beneath it something else had begun to take root, reluctant, unwilling, and impossible to ignore. βGods help meβ¦ I almost respect it.β
Baelor said nothing as he only watched his brotherβs rigid back, and in the quiet of the solar he allowed himself the smallest of smiles, sad, knowing, and edged with the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the anvil and the wolf might yet find a way to strike true without shattering each other.
The bells of Kingβs Landing continued to toll, marking the hours of a city that had seen a thousand such bargains and would see a thousand more, but within the Red Keep, two unwilling souls had finally met and neither would emerge unchanged.
You had bared your teeth.
And with a reluctance that threatened to undo him, Maekar found that he didn't mind it at all.
the despair I felt when I couldnβt find your blog. the joy I felt when your name showed back up in my following list. donβt leave me again. the last couple of days have been most distressing. iβm so happy youβre back<333
Oh, are you alright? I hope you are okay too! I am here if you want to vent, I always listen. I promise I will not leave again.
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ππππππππ: sexual content, manipulation, gaslighting themes, minors dni.
Simon clocks your softness the second he meets you. That easy kindness, the way you apologise for things that arenβt your fault, the way your eyes go soft when someone needs something, it registers as opportunity. He never frames it that way out loud. He just starts testing how far a carefully chosen compliment, a tired sigh about his βlonely evenings,β or a quiet βyouβre the only one who actually listensβ will get him. You fold almost every time, even when the little voice in your head is already muttering that something feels off.
Your temper is the one thing that unsettles him. Most people he can soothe or stonewall. You go from gentle to sharp in under a breath. One moment youβre making him tea and asking if heβs eaten; the next youβre calling him a selfish bastard because he βforgotβ plans again or left you waiting. He likes the contrast more than he should. The flash of fire makes the eventual apology, yours, always yours, taste better.
He learns the pattern quickly: push just hard enough that you get angry, then go quiet and wounded. You hate the silence more than the argument. Within an hour youβre the one texting first, voice softer, offering to come over, offering to make it right. He lets you. He always lets you.
Simon is excellent at making you feel chosen. Late-night calls where his voice is low and tired, telling you he canβt stop thinking about the way you looked when you were angry with him. Heβll say things like βmost people would have walked away by nowβ in a tone that makes it sound like a compliment to your loyalty rather than a confession about how much he tests it. You believe him. Youβre kind enough to want to.
The first time he fucks you after youβve properly lost your temper with him, itβs deliberate. Youβd stormed out of his flat after catching him in another half-lie. He let you go waited and then texted a single line: Come back. You did. He barely lets you get the door shut before heβs got you against it, one hand in your hair, the other already shoving your skirt up. Heβs rough in a way that feels like punishment and reward at once, biting your shoulder, fucking into you hard enough that the door rattles, murmuring against your ear how good you are when youβre still shaking with leftover anger. You come with his name in your mouth and your nails in his back, and afterwards he holds you like youβre the only soft thing heβs allowed himself in years. You stay.
He uses your kindness against you in bed constantly. If youβre tired or on the edge of another argument, heβll go quiet and look at you with that exhausted, almost vulnerable expression until you crack and climb into his lap. Heβll let you ride him slow, hands gentle on your hips, praising how warm you are, how wet you get for him even when youβre still mad. The second you soften, he flips you onto your back and takes what he actually wants, deeper, harder, less careful. Youβre usually too far gone by then to care that you started it as an apology.
Your temper during sex is something he deliberately provokes. Heβll edge you until youβre snarling at him, calling him names, trying to shove him off or drag him closer depending on the second. He pins your wrists, laughs low against your throat, and keeps going until the anger breaks into broken little sounds. Afterwards he always cleans you up himself, kisses the inside of your wrists where the marks are, and tells you youβre perfect when youβre like that. You believe that part too.
He never fully stops lying, I mean fuck, what did you expect? Little things at first, where he was, who texted, why he was late. You catch him sometimes. You raise your voice. He lets the silence stretch until the guilt eats you alive and youβre the one softening, the one offering forgiveness before heβs even asked for it. He accepts it every time with a quiet βthank youβ that sounds almost grateful. It keeps you.
On the rare nights he stays the whole way through, heβll wake you with his mouth between your legs, slow and thorough, like heβs trying to make up for something he hasnβt admitted yet. You come soft and shaking, fingers in his hair, and he climbs up to kiss you with the taste of you still on his tongue. For a little while it feels like love. Youβre kind enough to let yourself believe it is.
hi would you consider writing for adam dangliesh or even finn kirkwood?
Yes! I have an entire series for Adam already written, four parts, where he gradually falls in love with the reader who's mannerisms and personality is like that of Patrick Jane from the Mentalist, and then a one-shot for Finn.
You, my beautiful person, have made me the happiest. I honestly didn't think anyone would have noticed my absence, and I honestly did not think when (not that I ever do when alcohol is running through my system) I deleted basically everything that had to do with my (just a few more procedures to be done) ex-husband, and I was so angry and sad when I realised I deleted my account. Will not do that again, so thank you my love!
Hi sorry for bothering but I saw from your other blog, the fandoms you write for that you also write for Marvel. I just watched BND a few days ago and I was hoping you'd write something for Peter Parker? I had this idea that maybe you are an arachnologist and Bruce wants you to monitor Peter? I leave the rest to your imagination as I absolutely love how you write for Baelor, especially the Blood and Ruin one. I didn't choose a dialogue prompt, but I did send another request for 6. and 39. for Baelor. Hope you are okay and thank you! Love your work and love you!
Oh, certainly. I watched it on Sunday with a friend, and I absolutely love the idea of the reader being an arachnologist. I hope you are happy with what I wrote.
The amount of time I spent googling the correct terms, a spider's anatomy, how they work, damn, it had me pooped. The scientific terms, fuck me, I don't even understand half of these words, but here you go.
βBut Iβm also standing here looking at you, and I canβt pretend I donβt feel this. Whatever this is. Itβs real. And itβs getting harder to ignore.β
ππππππππ; porn with plot, fingering, p in v, romantic tension, sexual tension, rough sex, use of organic webs, a shit ton of scientific words I never thought I'd have to google, as this is the first time I am writing for any character in the MCU, minors dni.
You did not expect the call to come from Bruce Banner.
You are an arachnologist.
Your world is silk proteins, vibration-sensitive setae, the quiet architecture of webs spun in the dark corners of laboratories and forests.
You have published papers on the tensile strength of major ampullate silk and the neurological mapping of spider sensory systems.
You have stood for hours in climate-controlled rooms photographing the geometric perfection of an orb-weaverβs overnight construction.
You have never, not once, considered that your expertise would place you across a metal examination table from the man the city calls Spider-Man.
Banner owes you a favour from years ago, something involving a shared grant application and a late-night conversation about radiation-induced morphological change that neither of you has ever spoken of again.
When he contacts you, his voice is careful, measured, the voice of a man who has seen too many experiments go sideways.
βThereβs a young man,β he says. βHis physiology isβ¦ evolving. Faster than any of the models predicted. I need someone who understands arthropod systems at a level most medical doctors donβt. Someone discreet. Someone who wonβt treat him like a specimen first and a person second.β
You agree before you fully understand what you are agreeing to and the laboratory he arranges is private, reinforced, tucked beneath a nondescript building in Queens that looks like every other industrial address on the block.
You arrive early the first day, tablet in hand, mind already cataloguing the equipment: high-resolution dermal scanners, vibration sensors calibrated to frequencies no human ear can detect, a centrifuge modified for organic polymer analysis, and find yourself wondering whether you are in way over your head, but you tell yourself this is simply another consultation, unusual, yes, high-stakes, most certainly, but still science.
The first time you meet Peter Parker, he is already seated on the edge of the reinforced examination table.
He is younger than the news footage suggests, early twenties, perhaps, and thinner, the kind of lean that comes from too many nights without proper meals and too many mornings spent healing from injuries no ordinary person could survive.
The red-and-blue suit is nowhere in sight. He wears a faded Columbia hoodie, dark jeans frayed at the hems, and a look of polite wariness that does not quite hide the exhaustion carved beneath his eyes.
βDr. Banner said youβre the spider expert,β he says. His voice is light, almost playful, but there is a careful distance in it, the sound of someone who has learned not to trust new adults too quickly. βI hope that means you wonβt try to put me in a jar.β
You set your tablet down and meet his gaze directly. βIβm here to help you understand whatβs happening to your body. Nothing more. No jars. No cages. Just data, and whatever answers we can find together.β
He studies you for a moment longer than is strictly professional. Something in your tone seems to settle him. Then he nods, as if deciding something important. βOkay. Letβs do science.β
The first sessions are clinical by design, you take baseline readings with methodical care, heart rate at rest and under mild stress, reflex measured to the millisecond, dermal conductivity across the spinneret sites at his wrists, the strange new organic webbing that now extrudes when the mechanical shooters fail or when his emotional state spikes.
You document the accelerated healing that closes lacerations in hours instead of days.
You map the hyper-acute sensory processing that lets him track a conversation through three walls and you note the occasional black-eyed aggression that flares when his stress hormones crest above a certain threshold.
Peter endures it all with a stream of self-deprecating jokes that never quite reach his eyes. He calls the blood draws βvampire hour.β
He asks if you plan to name any newly discovered proteins after him, he makes light of the way his body sometimes produces webbing without conscious command, as if the whole thing is a mildly inconvenient party trick rather than a fundamental rewriting of his biology.
You notice the things he does not say.
He checks the exits the moment he enters a room, a quick, almost unconscious sweep of doors and windows. His shoulders carry a tension that never fully releases, even when he is sitting still.
When you ask about pain levels after a particularly intense fight the night before, he answers too quickly, too smoothly, the practiced ease of someone who has been minimizing his own injuries for years.
The bruises across his ribs are already fading to yellow-green by the time you examine them, but the way he flinches, barely, almost imperceptibly when your gloved fingers brush a deeper contusion tells you the pain is still there, sharp and present.
One afternoon, while you are calibrating a vibration sensor against the skin of his forearm, he goes quiet for a long stretch.
The lab is filled only with the soft hum of equipment and the distant, muted sound of traffic filtering down from the street above.
You can feel the heat of his skin through the thin barrier of the sensor pad. You can smell the faint metallic trace that clings to him after nights spent swinging between buildings, ozone and city dust and something uniquely his.
βYouβre staring,β he says eventually, not looking at you.
βIβm observing,β you correct, keeping your voice even. βThereβs a difference.β
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, almost reluctant. βIs there?β
You do not answer immediately. Your fingers rest lightly against the inside of his wrist, feeling the steady, too-fast pulse that never seems to slow to ordinary human rates.
You are aware of the warmth of his skin, the way the fine hairs on his forearm rise slightly under the cool air of the lab. You pull your hand back a fraction sooner than the protocol requires.
Professional courtesy, you remind yourself. Nothing more.
It is during the third week that you begin to see the grief clearly.
Peter does not speak of the people he has lost. He does not need to. It lives in the way his eyes sometimes go distant mid-conversation, the particular quality of silence that falls whenever the subject of family or close friends surfaces.
You know that the people he once called family no longer remember him at all, that a spell cast to save the multiverse erased Peter Parker from every mind that had ever loved him, this he told you himself, and it had left you burdened with guilt that you did not wish to carry.
You know there is a young woman named Michelle Jones whose name he never says aloud in your presence, though once, when a news alert flashed across his phone with a photograph of her at some MIT event, his entire body went still for three full seconds.
The stillness was more revealing than any confession.
You do not ask. You have learned, in the quiet hours of these sessions, that pressing him only makes the walls go higher.
Instead, you leave a cup of black coffee on the edge of the lab bench one evening because you have noticed he forgets to eat when the data becomes interesting. He finds it, looks at you with something unreadable moving behind his eyes, and says, quietly, βYou didnβt have to.β
βI know,β you reply. βDrink it anyway.β
He does. The next session, he brings two cups without comment. The gesture is small. It lands harder than it should.
The conversations begin to stretch beyond the boundaries of pure data. Scientific questions bleed into quieter ones. He asks about your work with actual spiders, the ones that do not wear masks or swing through midtown traffic.
You tell him about the orb-weaver whose web you once spent three hours photographing under controlled light, about the way the silk catches illumination like liquid, about the almost meditative patience required to observe without disturbing. He listens with a focus that makes the rest of the room fall away.
When you speak, he watches your mouth as much as he listens to your words.
βYou talk about them like theyβre people,β he says one night, after you have described the way a particular species adjusts its web in response to vibrational feedback from prey.
βThey are living systems,β you answer. βComplex, adaptive, worth understanding on their own terms rather than forcing them into the categories we find convenient.β
His gaze holds yours a moment too long. βYeah. I get that.β
Something shifts in the air between you. You feel it in the careful way he looks away first, in the way your own pulse has quickened without permission.
You return to your notes with deliberate focus, writing measurements you already know by heart simply to give your hands something to do. The numbers blur slightly. You blink them back into clarity.
You are aware, painfully, constantly aware, that Peter Parker still loves Michelle Jones. It is written in every careful silence, every time his phone lights up with a notification and he does not reach for it, every time the conversation drifts toward the future and he goes quiet. You tell yourself that your role is scientific.
That the growing warmth in your chest when he laughs at one of his own terrible jokes is irrelevant. That the way your eyes track the line of his throat when he tilts his head back in exhaustion means nothing that cannot be set aside at the end of a session.
You are lying to yourself, and the lie is becoming harder to maintain.
Weeks turn into a month. Then six weeks. The organic webbing stabilizes somewhat under your guidance; you help him understand the neural pathways that control its extrusion, the way stress and unresolved emotion feed the process the same way they once fed the mechanical shootersβ reliability.
He begins to trust the data you give him. More than that, he begins to trust you.
He starts lingering after the formal examinations end. He invents questions about silk protein folding and beta-sheet crystallinity that he already knows the answers to. You answer them anyway, standing closer than necessary under the cool fluorescent lights, the scent of coffee and ozone and his skin filling the small space between you.
Sometimes your shoulders brush when you both reach for the same instrument. Neither of you comments on it. Neither of you moves away as quickly as you should.
One evening the power flickers during a late summer thunderstorm.
The backup generators take a full eight seconds to kick in.
In the brief darkness you hear his breath catch, not in fear, but in the heightened sensory overload that storms sometimes trigger for him.
The rain against the buildingβs outer shell becomes a thousand separate impacts. The distant traffic becomes individual engines and tire patterns and when the lights return, he is closer than before.
His hand is braced on the edge of the table beside yours. You can feel the heat of him through the narrow gap of air that remains.
βYou okay?β you ask softly.
He nods, but his eyes are darker than usual, the pupils dilated wide. βYeah. Justβ¦ a lot of input all at once. The rain. The electricity in the air. You.β He stops, as if the last word escaped without permission.
You do not move away and neither does he. The moment stretches, fragile and charged. You can see the pulse at the base of his throat, just as much as you can smell the rain that still clings to his hair from the rooftop he must have crossed to get here.
Your own body is answering in ways that have nothing to do with science, heat low in your belly, a tight, restless awareness of every point where you might touch if either of you shifted even an inch.
Peterβs gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second and the look is open, hungry, and immediately shuttered.
Then he steps back, running a hand through his damp hair. βI should go,β he says. βEarly patrol. The cityβs restless when it rains like this.β
You nod, throat dry. βBe careful.β
He pauses at the door, one hand on the frame. βYou always say that.β
βI mean it every time.β
The smile he gives you is small and real and devastating in its quiet sincerity. Then he is gone, and you are left alone with the hum of the equipment and the knowledge that the professional boundary you have been so carefully maintaining is beginning to fray at the edges.
You sit on the edge of the examination table he just vacated and press the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to will the heat in your blood back into something manageable.
It does not work.
You try harder after that night. You keep the sessions shorter, more rigidly structured. You focus on the data with almost aggressive precision.
You stop bringing coffee. You stop lingering over questions that are not strictly necessary. You become, for a week, the model of clinical detachment.
Peter notices immediately.
βDid I do something?β he asks one afternoon, after you have spent twenty minutes discussing dermal regeneration rates and cellular turnover without once meeting his eyes for longer than a second.
βNo.β You keep your voice even, professional. βWeβre simply being efficient. Thereβs a lot of data to process.β
He is quiet for a long moment. You can feel him watching you. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, stripped of the usual humor. βYouβre pulling away.β
The honesty of it startles you into looking up. He is watching you with an expression that is equal parts concern and something hungrier, something that has been building in the quiet spaces between your conversations for weeks.
βPeterββ
βI know,β he interrupts, soft but firm. βI know this is complicated. I know Iβmβ¦ not free. Not really. Thereβs someone I stillββ He stops, swallows, forces the words out. βThereβs someone I still love. Someone who doesnβt remember me. And I carry that every day. But I also know that when Iβm in this room with you, I can breathe for the first time in a long time. And I donβt want to lose that because weβre both too scared to admit somethingβs changing between us.β
Your heart is beating too hard. You set the tablet down carefully, as if sudden movement might shatter the moment.
βI am trying to keep this professional,β you say. The words taste like ash. βBecause if I donβt, if I let myself want more than data and careful distance, then I donβt know how to stop.β
βIf you donβt, what?β His voice is rough.
You do not answer, you cannot, because the truth is too large and too dangerous: if you stop holding the line, you will cross it, and once you cross it, there may be no returning to the careful, safe distance of scientist and subject.
There will only be this, the heat, the wanting, the knowledge that he still carries another womanβs name in the quietest part of his heart.
Peter steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to hold his gaze. The air between you feels charged, thick with everything neither of you has said.
βIβm still in love with her,β he says, quiet and raw. βI wonβt lie about that. I wonβt pretend the spell made those feelings disappear just because her memories did. But Iβm also standing here looking at you, and I canβt pretend I donβt feel this. Whatever this is. Itβs real. And itβs getting harder to ignore.β
The air between you feels electric. Your skin prickles with awareness. You can see the faint scar along his jaw that has almost finished healing, the way his pupils have expanded, the careful control he is exerting over every muscle in his body. You can smell the clean scent of his skin beneath the residual city dust.
βPeter,β you whisper. βWe canβt.β
βI know.β His voice is rough. βBut that doesnβt make it go away.β
He leaves shortly after and you stand in the empty lab for a long time, hands braced on the cold metal table, trying to slow the frantic rhythm of your heart. The fluorescent lights hum. Somewhere above, the city continues without either of you. You tell yourself that tomorrow you will reassert the boundaries. That you will be clinical and distant and safe.
You already know you are lying again. It happens on a night when everything goes wrong at once.
Peter arrives late, still in the suit, the mask pushed up to his forehead so that his face is bare and open and exhausted.
There is blood on the fabric, his own, you realize quickly from the pattern and the way it has already begun to dry and a wildness in his eyes that you have only seen in fragments before.
The black-eyed aggression is closer to the surface tonight, the evolutionary edge of his mutation sharpened by stress and injury and the chemical cascade of a fight that went on too long.
His hands shake as he peels the gloves off and drops them on the nearest counter.
βBad night,β he says, voice hoarse. βDamage Control got aggressive. Hand operatives mixed in. Jeanβs safeβI got her outβbut it got messy. I needββ He gestures vaguely at the examination table, at you, at the equipment. βI need you to check the webbing systems. Somethingβs wrong. Theyβre overproducing. I canβt shut it off properly. Itβs like the valves are stuck open.β
You move on instinct, the scientist in you taking over even as the rest of you registers the blood, the tremor in his hands, the way his pupils have already begun to expand. βSit. Top half of the suit off. Let me see the spinneret sites and the surrounding musculature.β
He strips the upper portion of the suit with efficient, almost angry motions. The body beneath is a map of fresh trauma, bruises blooming dark and wide across his ribs, a shallow but ugly laceration along one shoulder that is already trying to close, the faint sheen of sweat on skin that runs hotter than any ordinary humanβs.
You step between his knees without thinking, the better to examine the spinneret glands at his wrists. Your fingers are careful, clinical, pressing lightly to assess swelling and heat.
The organic webbing is indeed hyperactive. Fine strands keep emerging even as you work, sticky and strong, responding to the elevated stress hormones still flooding his system.
You murmur observations under your breath, trying to keep your voice steady while your mind catalogues the elevated heart rate, the dilated pupils, the way his breathing has gone shallow and quick.
βPeter. Look at me.β
He does and the irises are almost completely swallowed by black. The careful control he usually maintains is slipping, eroded by exhaustion and pain and the sensory overload of a night spent fighting at the edge of his limits.
βI can feel everything,β he says, low and strained. βThe city. The vibrations in the floor from the subway three blocks over. The electricity in the walls. Your heartbeat. Itβs too much. I canβt filter it the way I usually can. I canβtββ
Your hand is still on his wrist and he turns his hand and catches your fingers, holding them with a strength that is careful even now, as if some last thread of control is still trying to protect you from him.
The contact sends a jolt straight through you, heat and want and weeks of denied tension crystallizing into a single point of contact.
βI need you to stay still,β you tell him, though your own voice has gone unsteady. βLet me try to regulate the neural feedback with the sensor array. If we can dampen the inputββ
You reach for the small sensor array on the nearby tray, but his other hand comes up and stops you.
His palm is warm against your waist, the pressure light but unmistakable, fingers spreading against the fabric of your lab coat as if he needs the anchor.
βI donβt want the sensors,β he says. The words are rough, almost broken. βI wantββ
He does not finish the sentence and instead he pulls you forward in one smooth motion until you are standing fully between his thighs, your bodies nearly flush. The heat of him is startling after the cool air of the lab.
You can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours, the hard line of muscle and the residual tremor of adrenaline.
βPeterββ
βTell me to stop,β he whispers. His forehead rests against yours. His breath ghosts over your lips, warm and uneven. βIf this isnβt what you want, if Iβve misread everything, tell me right now and Iβll let go. Iβll walk out and we can pretend this never happened.β
You should, every professional instinct, every careful boundary you have drawn over the past weeks, demands that you step back.
You are supposed to be the scientist. He is supposed to be the subject, there is a woman he still loves, a city that needs him whole, a future neither of you can fully map.
You do not tell him to stop.
Instead you close the last inch of distance and kiss him.
The sound he makes is raw, almost broken, a low, wounded noise that vibrates against your mouth. His hands tighten at your waist, then slide up your back, pulling you harder against him with a strength that is carefully leashed even now.
The kiss is not gentle.
It is weeks of denied tension breaking open all at once, hungry, desperate, tasting of adrenaline and copper and need. You feel the faint stickiness of webbing against your sleeve where his wrist presses, the thrum of his pulse under your fingertips when you cup his jaw and hold him there.
He stands in one fluid motion, never breaking the kiss, and turns you so that your back meets the edge of the examination table.
His body cages yours, broad and hot and trembling with the effort of restraint. You can feel the hard line of his cock already pressing against your hip through the remaining fabric of the suit, thick and insistent, and the evidence of his arousal sends a fresh wave of heat flooding through you.
βIβve wanted this,β he breathes against your mouth between kisses. βEvery time you touched me to take a reading. Every time you looked at me like I was something worth understanding instead of something broken or dangerous. I tried so hard not to want it. I told myself you were just being kind. That I had no rightββ
You silence him with another kiss, deeper this time, your tongue sliding against his. Your hands map the planes of his chest, the ridges of old and new scars, the tight muscles that jump under your palms when your nails skim a particularly sensitive spot just below his ribs. He shudders hard, a full-body tremor, and the black in his eyes expands further.
The last of his control frays.
Peter lifts you onto the table with effortless strength. The metal is cool beneath you; his hands are burning hot as they push your clothing aside with single-minded focus. Lab coat first, shrugged from your shoulders and discarded. Blouse next, buttons dealt with more carefully than the urgency in his movements would suggest.
The soft fabric of your bra is unhooked and drawn away. When your bare skin meets the cool air of the lab he makes a low, almost pained sound and lowers his mouth to your breast.
The sensation is electric. His tongue is hot, wet, his teeth carefully sharp as they graze your nipple before he sucks hard enough to draw a broken moan from your throat.
You arch into him, fingers threading into his hair, and he answers with a deeper pull that sends sparks racing down your spine, one of his hands slides down your stomach, finds the waistband of your trousers, and works them open with the same focused intensity.
He tugs them down your hips along with your underwear in one motion, and then you are bare from the waist down on the cold metal table while he is still half-dressed in the lower portion of the suit.
When his fingers slip between your legs and find you already wet, slick and ready, he groans against your skin.
βFuckβyouβre soaked.β The words are rough, almost disbelieving. βAll those weeks of careful distance. Were you thinking about this too? When you were taking my pulse? When you were measuring the webbing?β
You can only nod, hips shifting restlessly against his hand. He strokes you with devastating precision, two fingers sliding deep into the heat of you, thumb circling your clit in tight, perfect pressure.
The dual sensation makes your thighs tremble. You can feel the organic webbing beginning to spin from his free wrist in earnest now, fine strands that catch against the table and your skin like living silk, warm and slightly elastic.
βPeterβpleaseββ
He kisses you hard, swallowing the rest of the plea, and works a third finger into you. The stretch is intense, perfect, filling you in a way that makes your head fall back against the table.
You rock against his hand, chasing the friction, while his mouth moves to the sensitive join of your neck and shoulder.
Every sense is heightened, the scent of him, the taste of his skin when you turn your head and bite lightly at his jaw, the low continuous sound of need he cannot seem to stop making, the faint sticky pull of webbing as it anchors and releases against the metal.
When he finally withdraws his fingers you make a soft, involuntary sound of loss. He answers by shoving the remaining lower half of the suit down his hips with impatient force.
His cock springs free, thick and flushed dark and already leaking at the tip. The sight of it, of him, bare and desperate and looking at you like you are the only solid thing left in a collapsing world, makes your mouth go dry and your cunt clench around nothing.
He does not ask again.
He positions himself between your thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging against your entrance, slick with your wetness and his own precome, and pushes in with one long, relentless thrust.
The stretch is overwhelming.
You cry out, head falling back, nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. He seats himself to the hilt in a single continuous motion and holds there, trembling, forehead pressed to yours as he gives you time to adjust to the sheer size of him.
You can feel every pulse of his cock inside you, the way it twitches against your inner walls, the heat of him flooding every nerve ending. The fullness is almost too much and somehow still not enough.
βOkay?β he manages, voice completely wrecked.
βYesβmoveβPeter, please, I need you to moveββ
He does.
The first few strokes are controlled, almost careful, the last remnants of restraint trying to protect you from the full force of what he is.
Then something in him snaps cleanly.
The black of his eyes expands until almost no color remains. A low, animal sound tears from his throat, and he begins to fuck you in earnest, deep, powerful thrusts that rock the reinforced table beneath you and drive the breath from your lungs in sharp, punched-out sounds.
Each impact sends bright sparks of pleasure racing up your spine and down into your toes. You wrap your legs around his waist and meet him thrust for thrust, the wet, filthy sound of your bodies coming together obscenely loud in the quiet of the lab.
Webbing spins freely now, anchoring his hands to the table on either side of your head, holding him in place as he drives into you with relentless force.
The silk is warm, slightly elastic; when you test it with your fingers it holds firm, a living restraint of his own making.
He has trapped himself above you, and the knowledge that he cannot easily pull away only heightens the intensity of every thrust.
βYou feelβgodβyou feel perfect,β he gasps against your ear, the words broken by the force of his hips. βBeen wanting to be inside you for weeks. Every time you touched my wrist to check the glands. Every time you looked at me like I was more than the mask or the mutation or the mistakesββ
Your answer is a broken moan as he shifts the angle of his hips and hits a place deep inside that makes your vision white out at the edges.
He notices immediately, of course he does, with senses that sharp and adjusts to pound that same spot again and again, relentless, precise, until you are shaking apart beneath him.
The orgasm crashes through you without warning, sharp, overwhelming, your cunt clenching hard around his cock in rhythmic pulses as you cry out his name and dig your nails into the webbing-anchored muscle of his arms.
He does not slow.
If anything the tight flutter of your climax drives him harder. He fucks you through it and beyond, chasing his own release with a single-minded intensity that borders on feral. Sweat slicks both your bodies.
The table creaks under the force of his thrusts. Fine strands of webbing catch in your hair and across your bare shoulders and the soft skin of your inner thighs. You dig your heels into the small of his back and urge him deeper, wanting every inch, every desperate snap of his hips, every low broken sound he makes when he bottoms out inside you.
The words seem to undo the last of him. When he comes it is with a guttural, almost pained sound that is pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips snap forward one final time and he buries himself to the root, cock pulsing hard and thick as he empties into you in long, hot spurts.
You feel the flood of him, the way his body shudders and locks above you, the full weight of his enhanced strength held carefully so he does not crush you even in the depths of release.
For a moment he is completely unguarded, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open against your neck, the webbing at his wrists creaking under the tension of his grip.
The silence that follows is broken only by the ragged sound of your shared breathing and the soft creak of cooling webbing as it begins to lose some of its immediate elasticity.
Peterβs eyes, when they finally open, are still darker than usual, but the pure black has receded enough that you can see the familiar warm brown again. He looks at you as if he is only now fully remembering where he is, what he has done, the line that has been crossed and cannot be uncrossed.
One hand carefully dissolves the webbing anchoring him to the table; the other stays cupped against the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone with a tenderness that is almost painful after the intensity of what just happened.
βI lost control,β he says quietly. There is no regret in the wordsβonly a kind of stunned, honest recognition. βI didnβt mean to take it that far. I meanβI did want it. Iβve wanted it. But not like I was going to break something.β
You silence him with a soft kiss, slower this time, tasting the salt of sweat and the residual copper of the nightβs earlier violence. When you pull back you keep your forehead against his, breathing the same air.
βI know,β you murmur. βI didnβt stop you. I didnβt want you to stop.β
He searches your face for a long moment. Whatever he finds there seems to ease something tight and frightened in his expression.
He eases out of you carefully; the sudden emptiness makes you both hiss softly. For a moment neither of you moves. Then he helps you sit up, finds a clean soft cloth from the supply cabinet, and tends to you with a care that is almost reverent, wiping the evidence of his release from your thighs, checking the faint red marks left by the webbing, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist where his fingers had held too tightly.
Later, when the lab is quiet again and the worst of the physical evidence has been cleaned away, he sits beside you on the edge of the table, bare shoulder pressed to yours.
The city hums beyond the reinforced walls, sirens in the distance, the low continuous thrum of traffic, the thousand ordinary lives continuing as if nothing in this room has changed.
Somewhere out there is a woman he still loves, a city that still needs its Spider-Man, a future neither of you can fully see or promise.
Here, in the fluorescent quiet of the lab, there is only the residual heat of what just happened and the careful way his fingers eventually lace with yours.
βI donβt know what this is,β he says eventually, voice low. βI donβt know how to hold both things at onceβthe way I still feel about her, and the way I feel when I look at you.β
βNeither do I,β you answer honestly. βBut Iβm not sorry it happened. Iβm not sorry weβre sitting here.β
He turns his head and presses a lingering kiss to your temple. The gesture is soft, almost shy, a stark contrast to the way he took you only minutes ago, the way he lost every careful boundary and fucked you senseless against the metal table while his webbing held him in place.
βNeither am I,β he whispers against your skin.
Outside, a brand new day is already beginning to thin the darkness at the edges of the city, but inside the lab, for a little while longer, the two of you simply sit in the aftermath, scientist and subject, arachnologist and spider, two people who never meant to fall into each other and did it anyway, thoroughly and without restraint.
And neither of you is ready to let go of the otherβs hand.
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Warning: fluff, you teasing Maekar, wholeee bunch of kissing, and suggestive themesπΊπΊ
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Steps echoed throughout the halls of Summerhall, one heavy and one light, but both side by side.
Maekar had no idea what you were talking about, his mind only now focusing on the maids and such that roamed the halls, their eyes looking at the couple as the walked arm in arm past them,
To many who knew him and even those who didnβt, it would seem like a weakness for a man such as himself to be walking around or even SEEN like this, him with a woman at his side as they took a measly stroll of the mansion, yep, that doesnβt even sound like him,
How did you even convince him to do thisβ¦
βMy lord husband, do you ever smileβ you asked blatantly, your free hand from your arm that wasnβt intwined with his rubbing up and down his biceps with each step you take,
βI have no desire toβ He said gruffly, his eyes still staring down everyone and anything that moved in yβallβs way, βBut that must be boring, ok? When was the last time you smiled?β You teased, looking over at him as you took in the stoic expression he wore,
βI donβt remember,β he said plainly, looking to the side of the hall where the window was, his brows furrowing at the sunlight that shone brightly, βGods, that sun could fucking blind me if im not carefulβ he said, his grumpiness showing,
βI mean, this place is called summer hall for a reasonβ you responded, βI know, but this fucking sun feels like it wants to burn me aliveβ You couldnβt help the chuckle that escaped you, Maekar was a grump man yes, but he was your grumpy man,
And you loved that.
βThereβs some shade over here, comeβ you said, a hint of laughter still in your voice as you led him into a more dimly lit part of the castle hallways, an air of happiness filling you as you both tried to hide from the sun,
Well, thatβs what Maekar thought you were doing, boyyy was he wrong.
βWhat are you doing?β Maekar said bluntly, his voice coming out roughly as you pushed him against the cobbled wall of the dimly lit hallway,
βSomething newβ he rolled his eyes at your words, he was too old for whatever the hell this was, βYou really ar-β he could barely finish his words before you smashed your lips against his, your hands pressing against the muscles of his chest as you leaned into him.
Surprised wasnβt even a word he could use to describe this, he was an old man for fucks sake, not some adolescent boy who couldnβt control his hormones, plus, this was a public space, what the hell were you doi-
His eyes widened suddenly, his internal monologue coming to an abrupt end as he felt your tongue enter his mouth, your arms now wrapping around his back as feeling began to arise inside him with each slow movement of your lips.
He, unknowingly began to close his eyes, his hand going to hold onto your face as he dominated the kiss. Was this your plan all along, to get him like this so you could have your way with him he wondered.
You smiled into the kiss as felt the hand that wasnβt on your face begin to wonder, but then, a gasp escaped you as he gripped your ass, your eyes flying open at the connect, βWa..aitβ you gasped out, moving away from the kiss as you realized how far you too were going, suddenly remembering where you were,
βWhy?β he asked, his eyes staring down into yours with deep hunger inside them, βWe could be seen, let us go back to our roomsβ you whispered, looking up into his eyes,
He seemed reluctant at first, his blood already running hot within him, but he knew you were right, it would be very compromising to be discovered like this, plus, he wanted no one but himself to see you in a state like this, so he knew he had to agree, βHmmβ he said, taking your hand into his and beginning to lead you back into your rooms,
Totally just sent you an ask about unfaithful Baelor and forgot my prompt. I think prompt 46 Would be perfect for that.
Gotcha, though I am not entirely sure which dialogue prompt. From the 69 Entwined Shadows or the 1001 prompt list?
46. βYouβre my weakness and my greatest pleasure. Let me prove it.β
46. βI keep waiting for the day youβll look at me and finally mean it when you say you hate me. Iβm not sure which of us will break first when it happens.β
There was nothing gentle about Maekar Targaryen, this you would come to learn with haunting realisation. He was fire and you were ice, and together you made even the sharper edges worth the blood it paid.
ππππππππ: explicit sexual content, possessive behaviour, rough sex, multiple sexual positions, maekar loves your sharp tongue, maekar (my love, you are whipped for your stark!wife), minors dni.
πππππππππ: Yes. I am still waiting to get my account back, so this blog will be dedicated to answering requests.
You first saw him across the great hall of the Red Keep during the feast that marked the arrival of the northern envoys.
Prince Maekar Targaryen stood near the high table, tall and broad shouldered, his hair cropped short in the manner of a soldier rather than a courtier.
His eyes, violet and piercing, scanned the room with the same intensity one might use to survey a battlefield.
You had heard the stories, the fourth son of King Daeron, a man forged in the conflicts of the Blackfyre rebellions, known more for his stern command than for any courtly grace.
Your father had sent you south with your brother to strengthen ties, or so the official word went. In truth, the North needed eyes and a voice that would not soften under southern silk.
You had never been one for softness, as the cold of Winterfell had taught you to speak plainly, to cut through pretence the way a northern wind cuts through wool.
When the introductions came, you met his gaze without lowering your eyes. He inclined his head slightly. βLady Stark,β he said, his voice low and rough edged, as if unused to the formalities of such gatherings.
βPrince Maekar,β you answered. βI had expected a dragon with more fire and less stone in his expression.β
A flicker crossed his face, not quite a smile, but something far more sharper. The men around him shifted, uncertain whether you had given insult, but not once did he look away.
βStone endures longer than fire,β he replied. βThough I see the North prefers its own kind of edge.β
That was how it began. Not with poetry or soft words, but with a recognition of something hard and unyielding in each other.
In the days that followed, the court moved in its usual patterns of intrigue and dance. You found yourself in his path more often than chance alone would allow.
During a hunt in the kingswood, when the party had spread thin among the trees, your horse stumbled on uneven ground.
You recovered with the ease of long practice, but Maekar was already there, one gloved hand steadying the bridle.
βYou ride as if the land itself answers to you,β he said.
βIt does, in the North. Here it merely tolerates me.β You looked at him fully. βAnd you, my prince? Do you tolerate the North, or do you simply measure it for usefulness?β
His jaw tightened, and you watched the muscle work beneath the skin, as most men at court would have offered some polished deflection, he however did not.
βI measure what must be measured. The realm needs the North. That does not mean I pretend to understand its winters or its women.β
βGood,β you said. βI have little patience for pretence.β
He released the bridle. For a moment his hand lingered near yours on the reins, close enough that you felt the heat of him even through the leather. Then he stepped back, courteous, controlled, the tension between you was a living thing, but he made no move to claim more than what you offered in words.
You drove him to the edge of his patience often. In council chambers, when the southern lords spoke of the North as a distant and half wild place, you corrected them with a bluntness that made more than one advisor flush.
Maekar would sit silent through most of it, but you felt his attention like a weight, and once after a particularly sharp exchange in which you had dismantled a proposal that would have taxed northern timber beyond reason, he found you in a quieter corridor.
βYou speak as if every word is a blade,β he said.
βAnd you listen as if every silence is a strategy. We make a fine pair of weapons, do we not?β
He stepped closer, the air between you thickened. You could see the faint scar that cut through one eyebrow, the way his eyes narrowed when he studied something that interested him. His hand rose, then stopped, hovering near your cheek without touching.
βI have known many who carry blades,β he said quietly. βFew who know when to sheath them.β
βAnd do you think I should sheath mine for you, prince?β
βNo.β The word was firm. βI would not ask it.β
He lowered his hand. The restraint in him was as palpable as the desire. You felt it then, the knowledge that he wanted more, that the sharp exchanges fed something in him, yet he would not take what you did not freely give. It made the air between you burn hotter.
There were tender moments amid the clashes. One evening, when rain lashed the windows of the keep and the court had grown restless, you found him alone in a smaller solar, maps of the realm spread across a table. He did not look up at once when you entered.
βThe North is poorly drawn on these,β you said, moving closer. βThe Wolfswood is larger. The rivers run differently.β
He gestured to a chair. You sat. For a time you corrected the maps together, your fingers tracing lines beside his. When your hands brushed, neither of you pulled away at once. He spoke of the campaigns he had fought, not with boastfulness but with a soldierβs plain accounting of cost and necessity.
You told him of winters that killed the weak and tempered the strong, of the old gods and the weirwoods that watched in silence. He listened as if every detail mattered.
At one point he poured wine for you both. When he handed you the cup, his fingers covered yours for a moment longer than needed.
βYou are not what I expected of a Stark,β he said.
βNor you of a Targaryen. I thought dragons breathed only fire. You seem more inclined to hold it in until it forges something harder.β
A rare almost smile touched his mouth. βPerhaps we both disappoint expectations.β
You stayed longer than was strictly proper. When you finally rose to leave, he walked you to the door. In the shadowed corridor he paused.
βIf I knew how to offer gentleness,β he said, voice low, βI might try. But I was not made for soft things.β
You met his eyes. βI did not come south looking for soft things.β
He nodded once, as if that settled something between you, and let you go without another word.
The restraint held, the tension remained.
Word of a possible betrothal reached you through your brotherβs careful warnings, the king sought to bind the North more firmly.
A match between a Targaryen prince and a Stark daughter would serve that end.
You expected Maekar to resist, or at least to treat it as pure politics, but instead, when the formal proposal came, he requested a private audience with you before any answer was given.
You met in the godswood of the Red Keep, the sparse trees a poor imitation of the heart tree at Winterfell, yet still a place of relative quiet.
βThey will call it duty,β he said without preamble. βAlliance. Strength for the realm.β
βAnd what do you call it?β
He looked at you for a long moment. βI call it a choice I would make even without the realmβs needs. You speak in ways that cut through the fog of this court. You stay when most would retreat from what I am. I would have you as my wife, if you will have me.β
The honesty of it struck harder than any polished speech. You felt the weight of the North on your shoulders, the knowledge of what this union would mean for your house, yet beneath that lay something more personal.
The way he looked at you, as if your sharp edges were not flaws to be smoothed but qualities to be met in kind. βI will not become soft for you,β you said.
βI would not want you to.β
βAnd I will not pretend that every day will be easy. You are not an easy man.β
βNor are you an easy woman. That is part of why I ask.β
You studied him. The stern lines of his face, the controlled power in his stance, the way he waited without pressing. Sexual tension had hummed between you for weeks, a current neither had fully acknowledged in words. Yet he stood there now, offering a vow rather than a claim.
βThen yes,β you said. βI will marry you.β
The betrothal was announced with the usual ceremony. Court gossip painted it as a clever political move. Those who watched more closely saw the way Maekarβs gaze followed you across rooms, the way you answered his rare questions with the same unvarnished truth you gave everyone else.
The sharp tongue that drove him to the edge of his composure never softened, and he never asked it to.
In the weeks before the wedding there were more moments of unexpected care. When a southern fever passed through the keep and left you weakened for a day, he sent the maester without fanfare and later appeared himself with a cup of something bitter that he claimed would help.
He sat with you in silence for a time, reading from a campaign journal, the sound of his voice steady and low. When you teased him for playing nursemaid, he only raised an eyebrow.
βEven stone can offer shelter,β he said. βIf it chooses.β
You laughed, the sound surprising you both, and the tension eased into something warmer for a while.
On another afternoon he found you in the training yard, practicing with a blunted sword against one of the guards.
You had always preferred to keep your skills sharp. Maekar watched for a time, then dismissed the guard with a nod and took up a practice blade himself.
βShow me what the North teaches,β he said.
You sparred. He was stronger, more experienced in true combat, yet he matched his force to yours rather than overwhelming.
The exchange was fierce, precise, and charged. When the bout ended with your blade at his throat and his at yours in a mutual stop, both of you breathing harder than the exercise alone required, he lowered his weapon first.
βYou fight as you speak,β he said. βWithout apology.β
βAnd you allow it.β
βI do more than allow it.β His eyes held yours. βI want it.β
He stepped back again, courteous to the last, though the heat in his gaze left little doubt of what simmered beneath the control.
The sparring in the yard became a regular occurrence after that first match. Sometimes you trained with the guards, sometimes he joined you.
The physical contest mirrored the verbal ones. Each clash of practice blades carried an undercurrent that left you both flushed and aware.
Once, after a particularly close exchange that ended with him pinning your sword arm and your free hand braced against his chest, the world narrowed to the space of a breath. His mouth was inches from yours.
You felt the hard line of him against your hip. For a heartbeat you thought he might close the distance. Instead he released you and stepped back, chest rising with controlled breaths.
βNot here,β he said, voice rough. βNot until you are mine by every right, and not until you say it is what you want.β
The words only fed the fire. You answered with a sharp smile. βThen you had best make certain the waiting does not dull your edge, prince.β
He laughed then, a short, rare sound. βWith you near, dulling is the last danger I face.β
Another tender stretch came during a formal supper where a visiting lord from the Reach made the mistake of speaking dismissively of northern customs.
You answered him with a precision that left the table quiet. Maekarβs hand found yours beneath the cloth, a brief, firm pressure of solidarity that no one else saw. Later that night, in the relative privacy of a balcony overlooking the blackwater, he stood beside you in silence for a long while.
βYou never soften the blow,β he observed.
βWould you prefer that I did?β
βNo. The truth is cleaner, even when it cuts. I have spent too many years among those who wrap every knife in silk.β
You leaned slightly against the stone rail. The night air carried the scent of the river and distant smoke. βThen we are alike in that. I have little use for silk around blades.β
His hand covered yours on the cool stone. The touch was simple, almost careful. βI am learning that some edges are worth the blood they draw.β
You turned your palm upward so that your fingers could lace with his. The contact grounded the simmering tension into something steadier, though no less intense. When you eventually returned inside, the court saw only the formal distance required of a betrothed pair. What passed between you in private remained yours alone.
The days leading to the wedding blurred with preparations. Dress fittings, discussions of the ceremony, the arrival of northern guests who brought the scent of pine and cold with them.
Your brother watched you with careful eyes, seeking any sign of reluctance. You gave him none. Whatever political weight the match carried, the personal truth of it had settled into something solid.
On the morning of the wedding you walked the godswood once more, alone this time. The thin trees offered little of the comfort of home, yet the act itself steadied you.
When you returned to the chambers, Maekar was waiting in the outer room, already dressed in black and red, the Targaryen colors stark against his severe features. He looked at you as if memorizing the sight.
βAre you certain?β he asked, one last time.
βI have been certain since the moment I told you yes. Do not ask me again as if I am made of doubt.β
A faint curve touched his mouth. βThen let us be done with waiting.β
The sept ceremony passed in a haze of incense and formal words. You spoke your vows clearly. He spoke his with the same unflinching tone he used in command.
The public kiss was measured, yet the private one that followed in the brief moment between the sept and the feast was not. He drew you into an alcove, pressed you gently against the wall, and kissed you as if the hours until nightfall were an eternity he could no longer abide.
When he released you, both of you were breathing harder.
βTonight,β he promised, the single word carrying every restrained hunger of the preceding months.
The feast was long.
You endured the toasts, the dances, the watching eyes. Maekar remained at your side, a solid presence, his hand occasionally brushing yours or settling at your waist during a turn of the dance. Each contact sent a fresh spark through the carefully banked fire.
By the time the you both were finally escorted to the chambers with the traditional songs and laughter fading behind the closed door, the air between you felt charged enough to spark on its own.
He dismissed the servants with a few quiet words. Alone at last, he turned to you fully. The fire in the hearth cast long shadows across the stone floor and the wide bed. The scent of woodsmoke and the faint sweetness of the wine from the feast hung in the air.
You stood near the center of the room, still in the heavier wedding gown, the weight of silk and embroidery suddenly too much against your skin. Your pulse beat hard in your throat.
βCome here,β he said, not as a command but as an invitation. His voice had dropped lower, roughened by the long evening of restraint.
You went.
His hands rose to the fastenings of the gown, working them free with a patience that belied the heat already darkening his violet eyes. Layer by layer the fabric fell away, pooling at your feet until you stood in the thinner shift beneath.
Cool air kissed your bare shoulders and the tops of your breasts. Your nipples tightened against the fine linen. He paused, looking at you as if the sight alone was a claim he intended to honor with everything he had.
βYou are beautiful,β he said, the words plain and therefore more powerful. βAnd still sharp enough to cut. Do not change that for me. Not tonight. Not ever.β
You reached for him in turn, helping him out of the formal tunic and the layers beneath until the scars and hard planes of his body were bare to your hands. His skin was warm, almost hot beneath your palms.
You traced one long mark that ran along his ribs, feeling the slight ridge of healed flesh. He allowed it, watching your face with an intensity that made your pulse quicken and a low heat gather between your thighs.
βBattle,β he said simply.
βI know.β You leaned in and pressed your mouth to the edge of the scar, tasting salt and clean skin. βI would not have you unmarked either.β
That broke the last of the careful distance. A low sound left his throat, almost a growl. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, the strength in his arms effortless, and carried you to the wide bed.
The mattress gave beneath your back, soft furs and linens cool against your heated skin. His mouth found yours first, deep and hungry, tongue sliding against yours with none of the earlier restraint.
He kissed like a man who had been holding himself back for months, claiming your mouth thoroughly, teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to sting in the most delicious way.
Then he moved lower. His mouth trailed down your throat, open and wet, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin just above your collarbone. You arched into it, fingers threading into his short hair.
The scent of him filled your lungs, warm skin, the faint metallic note of the ceremonial steel he had worn, and something deeper that was purely male and purely him. His hands pushed the shift up and over your head in one smooth motion, and then you were bare beneath him. The firelight painted your skin in gold and shadow.
His gaze raked over your breasts, the soft curve of your stomach, the dark thatch of hair between your legs. You felt no shame under that look. Only a rising, aching need.
βLook at you,β he murmured, almost to himself. His large hand cupped one breast, thumb brushing over the peaked nipple. The contrast of his rough calluses against the sensitive flesh made you gasp.
He lowered his head and took the nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to send sharp sparks of pleasure down your spine. You cried out softly, back bowing off the bed.
He gave the same attention to the other breast until both nipples were wet and tight and throbbing.
His hand slid down your stomach, fingers spreading, until he reached the heat between your thighs.
He found you already slick, the evidence of how long the tension had been building. Two thick fingers parted your folds and stroked through the wetness, gathering it, then pressed inside you slowly. You clenched around the intrusion, hips lifting to take more.
He worked his fingers deeper, curling them, finding a spot that made your vision blur and a broken sound leave your throat.
βSo ready for me,β he said against your breast, voice thick. βAll these months of sharp words and restraint, and you are dripping for it.β
βYes,β you managed, the word half a moan. βI want you. No more waiting.β
He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and tasting you without looking away from your eyes.
The sight alone made another rush of wetness gather between your legs. Then he shifted, settling fully between your thighs. The heavy, hard length of his cock pressed against your entrance, thick and hot.
He rubbed the broad head through your slick folds once, twice, coating himself, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top until your hips jerked and you made a desperate sound.
Still he waited, eyes locked on yours, the last thread of courtesy holding.
βTell me,β he said.
βFuck me,β you answered, sharp and clear and needy. βI am your wife. Take what I am giving you.β
The last of his restraint snapped.
He thrust into you in one long, powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch was intense, almost too much, the thick girth of him forcing your body to open around him. A sharp cry left your lips.
He groaned low and deep, forehead dropping to yours for a single heartbeat as he held still, letting you feel every inch of him filling you completely. You could feel the pulse of him inside you, the heat, the overwhelming fullness.
Then he began to move.
There was no gentleness left in it. He fucked you hard and deep, each thrust driving the breath from your lungs, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the chamber.
His hands gripped your hips hard enough that you knew there would be bruises in the shape of his fingers by morning. He pulled nearly all the way out and slammed back in, over and over, the force of it rocking the bed.
You wrapped your legs around his waist and met every thrust, nails digging into the hard muscle of his back and shoulders. The friction was exquisite, the thick length of him dragging against every sensitive place inside you.
βGods,β he gritted out, voice raw. βYou feel like you were made for this. Tight and wet and taking every bit of me.β
You could only moan in answer, words lost under the onslaught of sensation. The scent of sex rose between you, rich and musky. Sweat began to slick your skin where your bodies met. His mouth found yours again in a messy, open kiss, all tongue and teeth, while his hips never slowed.
One of his hands slid between your bodies and found the swollen bud of your clit, rubbing firm circles in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation built fast and sharp.
You came hard, the climax crashing through you without warning. Your body clamped down around his cock in rhythmic pulses, a broken cry of his name torn from your throat.
He fucked you through it without mercy, the wet sounds growing louder as your release coated him, the tight flutter of your cunt only driving him harder.
Before the last waves had fully faded he pulled out, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. Strong hands flipped you onto your stomach. He dragged your hips up until you were on your knees, chest still pressed to the mattress, then slammed back into you from behind in one brutal stroke.
The new angle let him go even deeper. You cried out into the furs, fingers twisting in the sheets. He set a relentless pace, one hand planted between your shoulder blades to hold you down, the other gripping your hip as he pounded into you. Each thrust forced a soft, punched-out sound from your lips. The head of his cock dragged against that perfect place inside you on every stroke until your arms trembled and your second climax built like a storm.
βCome again,β he ordered, voice rough with strain. βI want to feel it while I fill you.β
His hand snaked around your hip and found your clit again, rubbing hard and fast. You shattered with a muffled scream, body locking up around him, walls fluttering and squeezing.
He growled and drove into you three more times, then buried himself to the root and came with a deep, guttural sound. You felt the hot pulses of his seed flooding you, the slight jerk of his hips as he spent himself as deep as he could go. The sensation of being filled so completely, of his cock throbbing inside you while your own orgasm still rippled, left you shaking and boneless.
He stayed buried in you for long moments, breathing hard against the back of your neck, one arm wrapped around your waist to keep you upright. When he finally eased free, the thick slide of him leaving your body made you moan at the loss. His seed immediately began to leak down your inner thighs, warm and slick.
He rolled you onto your back again and looked down at the mess he had made of you: flushed skin, sweat-damp hair, the faint bruises already forming on your hips, the glistening wetness between your spread legs.
A dark, satisfied sound left him. He leaned down and kissed you, slower this time but no less thorough, tasting the salt of sweat on your upper lip. Then he settled beside you and pulled you half across his chest.
His heart hammered under your ear, one heavy hand stroked down your spine, then lower, cupping the curve of your backside before sliding between your thighs from behind.
Two fingers pushed into your spent, sensitive cunt, feeling the combination of your release and his. You twitched and gasped, overstimulated, but pressed back into the touch all the same.
βStill so wet,β he murmured against your hair. βTaking everything I gave you.β
You turned your face and bit lightly at the skin of his chest in answer. He huffed a quiet laugh that turned into a low sound of renewed interest when you shifted and threw a leg over his hip. His cock, still half hard and slick with both of you, twitched against your thigh.
βAgain,β you said, the word sharp with remaining need.
He needed no further invitation. In one smooth motion he rolled you beneath him once more and thrust back into the wet heat of you. This time there was no buildup. He fucked you without restraint from the first stroke, deep and hard and possessive, the wet filthy sounds of it loud in the quiet chamber.
You clung to him, legs locked around his waist, meeting every powerful snap of his hips. The oversensitive drag of his thick cock through your swollen tissues was almost too much and yet exactly what you needed. He kissed and bit at your throat, your jaw, the soft place beneath your ear, leaving more marks that would show above the neckline of any gown tomorrow.
When you came a third time it was with a broken sob of pleasure, your body clamping down hard around him. He followed almost immediately, driving deep and grinding against you as he emptied himself into you again, a low, continuous groan vibrating against your skin. The second rush of heat inside you felt even more intense than the first.
Afterward he did not pull away at once. He remained buried in you, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing in the same heavy rhythm. Sweat cooled on your joined skin. The sheets were a wrecked tangle. The air smelled of sex and woodsmoke and the faint metallic note of the marks his mouth had left on you.
When he finally eased free, the thick mess of his seed spilled out of you onto the sheets. He watched it for a moment with a dark, possessive satisfaction, then gathered you against his chest again. His hand stroked slowly along your side, gentler now, though the strength in it was still unmistakable.
βI would have given you gentleness if I knew how,β he said into your hair, the words quiet and unguarded. βInstead I gave you everything sharp I had, and you stayed anyway.β
You pressed a kiss to the damp skin over his heart and felt it beat strong and steady beneath your lips. βI stayed because the sharp things were honest. And because you never once tried to take what I had not offered. That is rarer than gentleness in this world.β
He held you tighter, and beyond the chambers, the keep the night continued, but inside the chamber the world had narrowed to the two of you, edges still intact, yet fitted together in a way that felt inevitable.
Later, when the fire had burned lower and the first edge of exhaustion had begun to ease, he stirred again. His hand slid down between your legs, fingers slipping through the wet mess of his seed and your own release.
You were still sensitive, and the touch made you flinch and then press closer.
βOne more,β he said, not quite a question. The hunger in his voice had not fully banked.
You answered by turning in his arms and guiding him back to your entrance. He entered you slower this time, but only for the first few strokes and once he was fully seated the restraint vanished once more.
He rolled you onto your back and fucked you with the same unrestrained hunger, the wet sounds louder now, the scent of sex thicker in the air. You came a fourth time with his name on your tongue and his teeth against your shoulder. He followed soon after, driving deep and staying there while the last pulses left him, filling you until you felt marked from the inside out.
By the time true sleep claimed you both, the sky beyond the window had begun to lighten. You were sore in places you had not known could ache so sweetly, marked by his mouth and hands, thighs sticky with the proof of how thoroughly he had claimed what you freely gave. And still, when his arm tightened around you in sleep, you felt only the deep, quiet certainty that you had chosen well.
The days and nights that followed established a rhythm of their own, by day you remained the northern woman who spoke without polish, who challenged poor counsel in the presence of the kingβs advisors, who refused to become ornamental.
Maekar never rebuked you for it.
More than once you caught the ghost of approval in his eyes when your words cut cleanly through some tangled proposal. By night the tension found its release in the privacy of your shared bed or, on occasion, in other corners of the keep when the need grew too sharp to wait.
He took you against the wall of a shadowed corridor once, your skirts lifted and his hand covering your mouth to muffle the sounds while he drove into you hard enough that your toes barely touched the floor.
Another time he bent you over the table in the solar where the maps still lay, maps you had corrected together months before, and fucked you until the careful ink lines blurred in your vision and your cries were muffled against the parchment.
Always the underlying courtesy remained before the act.
He never assumed.
A look, a touch, a quiet confirmation was enough. Once that confirmation was given, however, the restraint fell away completely. He took you as thoroughly as his nature demanded, and you met him with equal fire.
There were softer hours as well.
Mornings when you woke to find his arm heavy across your waist and his face relaxed in sleep, the severity smoothed away. Afternoons when the demands of court allowed a brief escape to the godswood or the quieter galleries, where conversation ranged from the politics of the realm to the small details of northern life you still missed.
He listened and he remembered, as he has once arranged for a shipment of northern pine to be burned in the hearth of your chambers simply because you had mentioned the scent of home.
βYou notice more than you admit,β you told him that evening.
βI notice what matters.β His hand found yours. βYou matter.β
The simplicity of the statement, coming from a man not given to easy declarations, settled something deep in your chest.
As the seasons turned and the political weight of the marriage proved its value, the private truth of it only deepened.
You never became soft.
He never pretended to a gentleness that was not natural to him. Yet between the sharp edges a space had been carved where trust and desire and a fierce, unspoken loyalty could exist without apology.
When the time came that the crown passed to him and the realm looked to Maekar Targaryen for the hardness the age required, you stood at his side still, the woman who had answered his every edge with one of her own and stayed.
In the quiet moments that followed the weight of rule, he would sometimes repeat the words first spoken on the night you became his wife in every sense.
They had become a private vow of their own, a recognition that what bound you was not the absence of edges but the choice to meet them without flinching.
You answered each time in the same way, with honesty and the touch of a hand that had never learned to be anything less than true.
The North remained in your blood. The dragon blood remained in his. Together you forged a union that the court might call political and that the two of you knew was something far more enduring. Everything sharp you had given each other, and it had been enough. It had been more than enough.
Could someone please send me requests, because fuck me, everything I already wrote is still in my drafts on the other account, and because I have to fucking wait, I created a new Prompt List. Send them, please! I had just reached 1001 followers and fuck, my heart, I truly hope I can get my account retrieved.
I still canβt believe it, I remember creating this for my main blog, but as this one is solely going to be dedicated to answering requests, I decided to post it here instead.
FANDOMS I WRITE FOR;
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.
House of the Dragon.
Game of Thrones.
Stranger Things.
Jujutsu Kaisen.
The Boys.
Marvel.
DC.
James Cameron's Avatar.
Any characters played by Bertie Carvel and Sam Spruell.
The prompts below contain mature, and sexually explicit themes. So minors, dni. If you need further proof that I am indeed @/sintaera, you are more than welcome to send me a private message.
1. βYou can hate me all you wantβ¦ just donβt stop fucking me like you still love me.β
2. βI told you Iβd ruin you. Why do you look so surprised that I meant it?β
3. βSay my name when you come. I want the last thing you scream to be the person who broke you.β
4. βYouβre shaking. Is it because youβre scared of meβ¦ or because youβre already wet?β
5. βI shouldβve left you alone. God knows I tried. But then you looked at me like that and I remembered how good it feels to destroy something beautiful.β
6. βDonβt you dare look at me with those eyes. Not after what you let me do to you last night.β
7. βI love you. I hate you. I want to bury myself so deep inside you that you forget every soft thing that ever tried to save you.β
8. βBeg. Not because Iβll stop if you donβtβ¦ but because I want to hear how pretty you sound when you break.β
9. βYou think this is love? No, baby. This is me keeping whatβs mine. And you stopped being free the second you let me touch you.β
10. βI can still taste the blood from when you bit me. Do it again. Harder. Make it hurt the way I hurt you.β
11. βCry if you need to. Just donβt ask me to stop. We both know you donβt really want me to.β
12. βI ruined every soft part of you on purpose. Now look at youβ¦ still crawling back for more.β
13. βTell me you hate me while youβre coming on my cock. I want the lie and the truth at the same time.β
14. βYouβre allowed to miss the person I used to be. Just donβt forget Iβm the one who killed him.β
15. βI would burn the whole world down just to keep you in this bed, shaking and ruined and mine.β
16. βYouβre not allowed to leave. Not after I finally made you mine in every way that hurts.β
17. βKeep looking at me like that and Iβll fuck the defiance straight out of you.β
18. βI know you still dream about the night I took everything. Thatβs why you came back, isnβt it?β
19. βDonβt pretend you donβt like it when Iβm cruel. Your body gives you away every single time.β
20. βI could be gentle. I just donβt want to be. Not with you.β
21. βSay you belong to me. Say it while Iβm still inside you and you canβt lie properly.β
22. βYou look so pretty when youβre trying not to fall apart for me.β
23. βI didnβt break your heart by accident. I did it because I wanted to be the only one who gets to put it back together.β
24. βStop fighting me. Youβre already soaked and we both know how this ends.β
25. βIβll ruin every future version of you just so the only one left is the one who needs me.β
26. βYouβre allowed to hate how much you need this. Just donβt stop taking it.β
27. βI want you crying, shaking, and still asking for more. Thatβs the only version of you I love.β
28. βIf loving you means destroying you, then Iβll do it with both hands and zero regrets.β
29. βYou can leave when Iβm done with you. And Iβm never going to be done with you.β
30. βCome for me like you hate me. Make it messy. Make it real.β
31. βI marked you so deep last night that even if you run, youβll still feel me every time you move.β
32. βDonβt you dare apologize. I want the version of you that bites back and still spreads for me.β
33. βYouβre mine in the dark. Youβre mine when youβre bleeding. Youβre mine even when you wish you werenβt.β
34. βI love the way you look at me like Iβm the worst thing that ever happened to youβ¦ and still pull me closer.β
35. βKeep your eyes open. I want you to watch yourself fall apart on me.β
36. βYou can hate the way I love you. Just donβt pretend it doesnβt feel better than anything soft ever did.β
37. βIβll give you every piece of me that still worksβ¦ as long as you let me keep breaking the rest.β
38. βYouβre not allowed to come until you admit who owns this body now.β
39. βI ruined you on purpose. And Iβd do it again just to hear the way you say my name when youβre desperate.β
40. βStop pretending this is temporary. We both know youβre already too far gone.β
41. βI want the version of you that cries during sex and still begs for the next round.β
42. βYou can leave bruises. I can leave worse. Letβs see who remembers who longer.β
43. βTell me it hurts. Tell me you still want more. Lie to me if you have toβ¦ just donβt stop.β
44. βI donβt need you to love me clean. I need you to love me like youβre already drowning.β
45. βCome here. Let me remind you why you stopped fighting me in the first place.β
46. βI keep waiting for the day youβll look at me and finally mean it when you say you hate me. Iβm not sure which of us will break first when it happens.β
47. βYou were the softest thing I ever touchedβ¦ and somehow I still managed to leave you in pieces.β
48. βI loved you in the only way I knew how β like a wound that refused to close.β
49. βSome nights I still reach for you in my sleep, and every morning I hate myself a little more for missing the way you ruined me.β
50. βYou left fingerprints on every quiet part of me. I donβt know how to be untouched anymore.β
51. βI would have given you gentleness if I knew how. Instead I gave you everything sharp I had, and you stayed anyway.β
52. βThere are versions of us that never learned how to hurt each other. I think about them sometimes, and it feels like mourning people who never got to exist.β
53. βYou taught me that love could taste like blood and still feel like the only true thing Iβd ever known.β
54. βI keep the memory of your voice the way other people keep prayers β quiet, desperate, and never quite enough.β
55. βIf I could go back, I wouldnβt save us. Iβd just ask to break a little slower.β
56. βYou were the last soft place I ever rested, and I still donβt know how to forgive myself for what I did to it.β
57. βSome loves donβt end. They just learn how to ache more quietly.β
58. βI still wear the shape of your hands on my skin like a second skeleton. Some days it holds me together. Most days it just reminds me Iβm hollow.β
59. βYou left, but the damage stayed. Thatβs the cruelest part β how thoroughly you taught me to miss something that was never safe.β
60. βI loved you the way a house loves the fire that finally burns it down, completely, helplessly, and too late to stop.β
61. βThere are nights I still write your name in the dark just to feel the old hurt settle into place again.β
62. βYou were never mine to keep. I only ever borrowed the privilege of destroying us both.β
63. βIf love is supposed to heal, then what do we call this? This quiet, endless bleeding that still feels like home?β
64. βI would rather be the reason you cry than the memory you eventually forget. Selfish, I know. But I was never good at letting go of the things that hurt me most.β
65. βCome back. Not because it will be betterβ¦ but because some part of me is still waiting to be unfinished by your hands.β
66. βGet on your knees. I want to see how pretty you look when youβre choking on the only thing Iβll ever give you.β
67. βYouβre dripping all over my hand and still pretending you donβt want this. Keep lying. It makes me harder.β
68. βIβm going to fuck you until the only word left in your mouth is my nameβ¦ and then Iβm going to keep going.β
69. βBite the pillow if you have to. Just donβt you dare tell me to stop.β
70. βLook at the mess youβre making. All that wetness for someone who treats you like this. Pathetic. Perfect.β
71. βIβm not going to be gentle. Iβm going to take what I want and leave you shaking and full and ruined.β
72. βYou can fight me. You can cry. Just donβt close your legs. Those belong to me now.β
73. βI want to feel you clench around me when you realize youβre not getting away this time.β
74. βSay βpleaseβ like you mean it. Say it while Iβm stretching you open and making it hurt.β
75. βYouβre going to take every inch. And when Iβm done, youβre going to thank me for breaking you properly.β
76. βI love how your body betrays you. Soft and wet and desperate while your mouth keeps trying to hate me.β
77. βHold still. I want to watch you fall apart the second I push inside.β
78. βYouβre not allowed to come until I say. And I might not say it for a very long time.β
79. βFuck, look at you. Already so used and still begging for more. I made you this way.β
80. βIβm going to leave you so full of me youβll feel it for days. Thatβs the only reminder youβll need.β
81. βKeep your legs open. I want to see how ruined you look when Iβm done using you.β
82. βYou sound so good when youβre struggling to take it. Do it again. Louder.β
83. βIβm not fucking you to make you feel good. Iβm fucking you so youβll never forget who owns this body.β
84. βCrawl to me. I want to see how desperate you look when you finally stop pretending you donβt need this.β
85. βYour tears make me harder. Keep them coming while I bury myself deeper.β
86. βIβm going to fuck the fight out of you until the only thing left is the way you moan my name.β
87. βYouβre already so close. Donβt you dare come yet. Not until I decide youβve earned it.β
88. βFeel that? Thatβs me taking whatβs mine. And Iβm nowhere near finished.β
89. βI want you sore. I want you marked. I want you walking funny tomorrow and still thinking about how good it felt.β
90. βBeg me to ruin you. I want to hear how badly you need the thing thatβs going to break you.β
91. βYouβre going to take it until you canβt think. Until the only thing left is the way I fill you.β
92. βI love how you try to push me away with your hands while your hips keep rolling back for more.β
93. βKeep your eyes on me. I want to watch the exact moment you stop pretending this isnβt exactly what you wanted.β
94. βIβm going to use you until youβre empty of everything except me.β
95. βYouβre so fucking tight when youβre trying not to come. Donβt hold back. Give it to me.β
96. βI donβt care if it hurts. I care that you stay open and take every single thrust.β
97. βLook at the way youβre shaking. Thatβs what happens when someone finally fucks you the way you were meant to be fucked.β
98. βIβm not stopping until youβre crying and coming and completely mine.β
99. βYou can hate me in the morning. Right now youβre going to spread wider and let me finish what I started.β
100. βCome for me. Come like the ruined little thing I turned you into. And then thank me for it.β
Reblog if youβre taking any of these.
Tag me if you write something dark and messy.
And thank you again for 1k, but not on this blog, as I am still waiting to get my old, @sintaera back.
You absolute disasters, my pretty dragonlings, send them requests. You can send as many requests as you want, and I'll write for any character within the fandom. Hopefully I'll have a few in my inbox, as I am still cursing my rotten luck for deleting my main account.
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THIS IS WHAT IM GOING TO DO TO YOU IF I KEEP SEEING YOU PUT βx Readerβ UNDER YOUR, OC X CHARACTER FIC!!!
I do NOT CARE for skinny, blonde haired, 5 foot tall, Emily- who has the biggest tits, and ass, with little to no waist!!! Itβs ME who wants to kiss, cuddle, and hold the character!!! I AM THE STORY!! NOT EMILY!!!
