#asoiaf musing

CW: Unspecified age gap. Incest. Intox. MDNI

CW: Incest. Omoroshi/wetting. Chastity device. Implied grooming. MDNI

You have a problem with holding it.

It's the hassle of dealing with the belt is all - the embarrassment of asking for it to be removed, or the mess when you don't. So you put it off as long as possible, a bad habit that often leaves you wiggling in your seat, rocking side to side to relieve the mounting pressure.

Unladylike, you can admit. But you don't think about the unseemliness of it until your farher makes you.

but on a serious note, i wonder how the queens and nobility managed to stop having kids at 2 or 3, like did they take moon tea all the time, wouldnt that be bad for their health or something

Senator I don't recall writing Baelor came back wrong noncon... It does sound like me but it's not ringing any bells. Perhaps this was meant for another writer?

If it WAS me I can say it is not my design that a wight can have kids lmao. He can have some Maegor syndrome as a treat because fruitless/doomed breeding kink is a very specific combination of ingredients that makes me nearly as crazy as it'll make him, but much like Maegor, a reanimated corpse is fathering no more children. He'll have to outsource that (<- that one I did write lmao)

Baelor with ED, who just cannot produce an heir. Even when he manages to finish, it's thin and watery and he doesn't need a maester to tell him he's the problem. And yet, without a proper successor, who will be king? Sickly Rhaegel, Aelor after? A young boy more worried about his sister's cunt than actually learning statecraft? Aenys on the other end of the spectrum, spending his nights in his study away from his wife?

Or Maekar, and the drunkard after? Or worse, Aerion?

No. Baelor needs an heir he can shape on his own, even if 'his own' must be subjective. His wife will hate him for it, but needs must, and it's not like she'd dare say anything lest he deny any involvement in the affair - and that's what it would be. An affair. Royal, too, and mores the trouble. Baelor may not show much of it himself, but Targaryen blood is distinctive, has been known to resurface generations on. The same lords that whispered about his own Dornish blood would only grow bolder with a dark haired heir. Or worse, some unaccounted for Tully auburn if he wasn't careful.

You've been trying to get cbf!Dunk's attention for what feels like forever. Sharing his bed, making a show of how comfortable you feel around him by changing into his oversized shirts right there before him. Hell you've even 'conserved water' after swimming once by sharing a shower (outdoors, with your waterlogged bikini hanging on by a literal thread). He only ever turns his back, the tips of his scarlet ears the only indication you get that's he's not outright disinterested - just patently obtuse.

But you're too stubborn to give up hope, so when you stop by to visit one afternoon to find him sprawled on his couch in nothing but a black, tight fitting pair of boxer briefs to fend off the heat wave currently battering the city, you don't hesitate to slump down next to him, your head propped on one meaty thigh.

"What are you watching?" You ask absently, too distracted counting the fine gold threads dotting his quad to listen to the answer. You hum in recognition when he gives one anyway, cuddling even closer just to feel the way the muscle bunches under your cheek, wary. You wait until it relaxes again before sitting up. "It's hot in here," you observe, pulling your shirt overhead to leave you in nothing but the cami you'd risked wearing today. (No one wanted the extra layer in this heat until it provided one more layer your sweat would have to work its way through.)

"Mmhm," Dunk grunts, his parched throat catching on the sound. He clears his throat when you catch him staring, a cute blush blooming on his cheeks. He stammers, motions to himself vaguely. "T-that's why -."

"Right," you laugh, sinking back into position. He's very tense now, enough so that you risk a peek up at him to gauge if you should stop. But with his glazed eyes and the splotchiness running down his thick neck to make the gold threads of his chest hair stand out, you're only encouraged to nuzzle closer. The thin cotton of his boxers does little to hide his interest.

You can smell him easily now, with your face nearly tucked into the crook of his hip. There's the faintly lingering traces of the body wash you'd given him for his birthday, but the tang of salt is stronger, twining with a musky scent that has saliva pooling in your cheeks, chasing after it even closer. Dunk grunts when he feels your chest press against his thigh.

"What are you -?" Breathless, like he's already worked up.

"Just cooling you off," you supply, letting your drool leak past your lips.

"Wh -? How?"

But you just lick a fat stripe over the crest of his hip and blow over the affected skin, marvelling as his dense stomach jolts hard enough to knock you further down his thighs.

"S-sorry," he stammers, but you only laugh, letting another string of drool dangle from the tip of your tongue to distract him as you hook your fingers into his waistband.

His cock is still mostly soft when you hook the elastic behind his balls, but Dunk gets on board rapidly when you lick another fat stripe up the underside.

"Fuck," he hisses, big hands coming up to cradle the back of your head, hook over your shoulder. You suckle at his tip until he's fully hard just so you can take his measure before you even attempt fit him in your mouth.

"Gods, you're big all over," you breathe, but Dunk catches the note of apprehension in your voice. (Of course he does, this is why you've been trying to get his attention for so long.)

He apologizes again. "You don't have to -? Oh, fuck."

It's like he's been waiting for it just as much as you have after that. With his jaw hinged open around and endless stream of audible gasps and vague niceties - helpless pleas when you manage to take his breadth into your throat alternating with apologies neither of you seem able to heed when his brawny arms pin you in place against twitching hips he can't quite control.

He cums with a throaty groan, head tipped over the back of the sofa. You pull back in time to let him paint your face, watching as comes down after, his throat bobbing around words he doesn't quite let loose.

Dunk cups your face when he's able, pulls you up so he can lick his spend up.

"That's gross," you chastise, but you can't help laughing when he does.

Baelor's not above paying for it.

He's a busy man, long days spent running his father's company and rearing heirs. Keeping investors happier than a wife at home who takes more pleasure in his bottomless bank account than his company. He's long-since given up trying to coax companionship from her, his free time too limited to be spent on such a hopeless errand. But divorce - and further, dating - seem an even bigger imposition on his time, so he doesn't bother with those, either.

The problem is, while he's not above paying for it, he's entirely above being taken for a ride. Built a veritable empire upon it.

So, discretion. And nothing face to face. It's not ideal but at least it's easy. The world is full of men who would rather remain anonymous while paying whores to fuck themselves on camera and it's no great effort to find you, commission a few personal scenes and hide in his home office biting through his own fist as your moans in his headphones drown out the sound of his wife stumbling around the kitchen.

What is surprisingly difficult, however, is quelling the loneliness that has only seemed to have gotten worse since starting this tryst (It's not a tryst. Calling it one only furthers his delusions, he tries to remind himself.) because the thing is, he and Jena weren't always unhappy. He's not one of these men he deals with everyday who've replaced genuine connection for shared meals that invite more social media attention than they do conversation. His needs run deeper and sometimes, he thinks yours do too; when you go outside your own terms of the contract he pays for which outline something akin to a relationship experience just to ask him how some meeting he'd lied about being nervous about went.

(Because, while he doesn't believe in being taken for a ride, he's incapable of feeling attraction for someone who isn't clever enough to take advantage of sad old sods like him - but that doesn't mean he can't manipulate some extra attention from you either.)

Or when you open your latest presents on camera and he sees that flicker of apprehension mar your face when you eye the expensive new phone, MSRP proudly displayed on the box.

(It's gauche but you only accept gifts from a trusted third party supplier so clients can't request your information. Again, smart, but they do not offer gift packaging.)

Mostly, though, he feels it when he pulls up the app on his own phone which mirrors your gift, watches you move about your modest life, just a working girl doing her best. He imagines bumping into you on the corner by your place of (daytime) employment, or queuing up before you at your preferred coffee spot just so he can pay for it. A proper meet-cute, the kinds that spawn happy, lasting marriages.

You may know anything you want my beloved 💛

This one is straight SanSan smut, under the flimsy premise of Joffrey rewarding the Hound with a bath given by his own betrothed. It's written right up until the smut itself but I suddenly realized the other week that it's just not very good and have shelved it for the time being. Here's a snippet:

"Well, you could stand there looking like the empty-headed bird you are, or you could hand me that soap." Sansa turns on her sopping heel, temper rising to rival his. "Don't call me that! You're no dog, and I'm not an empty-headed bird!" "Could have fooled me," he snarls, surging upright to meet her. Even sitting at floor level like this he comes up to her elbow, an advantage he presses when she makes to turn away by clutching the crook of it tight. He tries to pull her back around but misjudges his strength when combined with the speed of her own movements, pivoting back toward him so she can yell at him again.  Momentum takes her, carrying her closer to him with enough force she hinges over the side of the tub, falling unceremoniously into his lap in a confused tangle of limbs.  Sandor is quick to make sense of things. "Watch it," he growls, hands wrapping around her upper arms to yank her away from himself. Sansa sputters as she gets her knees planted under herself, one hand planted on his chest for leverage as the other pushes her wet hair from her face so she can orient herself. "Don't touch me," she shrieks when she makes sense of her position, shaking him off forcefully. But the Hound just laughs. "That's good, girl. More of that and they'll think I'm doing my job proper," he assures, nodding toward the door which separates them from the guards likely left there. Sansa cringes at the reminder, vowing not to let herself lose her temper again. It wouldn't do to have half the court wondering why Sansa Stark felt she was free to yell at the Hound without repercussion.  "I hate you," she pouts instead, but she can't look him in the eye when she says it, gaze dropping to inspect where his gnarled scars knit themselves neatly into unblemished flesh. It reminds her of hoarfrost, she decides, creeping fractals too cold to touch.  The Hound sneers. "Of course you do." He shoves her further down his legs. Sansa makes as if to stand up, but too late she realizes she's kneeling on her own hem and the skirt begins to tear itself free with a limp, soggy sound.  She stops suddenly, glancing down to assess the damage, and for the first time she sees herself: kneeling over the Hound's lap, her soaked smock made transparent, clinging to her breasts. Sansa gasps, clutching her own chest. Stupidly, her eyes dart to Sandor's as if to check if he's seen, but of course he has, gray eyes glued to the flesh that spills between her fingers.

PS I have very spotty service and I never know what goes through so lmk if you didn't receive my anon and I'll resend 💛

Thank you!!!

No honestly I'm glad you're here, I have to cull this sudden influx of Pitt fans and what better way to do that than with some dadsonswap?

Like it's so easy for them to picture their hands in place of their own kid's, Baelor taking it personal when Aerion manages to pin Valarr on his back while their cocks slot within his grasp.

"Look how hard he is," Maekar breathes almost to himself, eyes locked on the peek of Valarr's leaky tip he gets every time the young prince rocks his hips up.

Baelor tuts, stretches out his leg to prod Valarr's shoulder where they're sprawled on the ground before their fathers.

"You going to let him take that, son?" He asks, but his gaze is already raised to meet Aerion's when the little dragon tilts his chin up.