A/n: I love fun asks like these! Header is not all-inclusive of who I write for, FYI.
Warnings: none really, suggestive at most
DO NOT USE MY HEADER WITHOUT PERMISSION. ALL ART BELONGS TO KEI URANA.
°.â§ ęŠ Gachiakuta men boobs vs butt...
°.â§ ęŠ Enjin : Ass. And probably thighs too. He likes having things to grab onto.
°.â§ ęŠ Zodyl : Boobs. They're right there and hard to miss for this sharp eyed bird man.
°.â§ ęŠ Gris : Boobs. They're comforting to him, so soft, and the best pillow to catch up on some sleep.
°.â§ ęŠ Tamsy : Also boobs. They're easier to access than your ass though he's fond of it too.
°.â§ ęŠ Jabber : Ass? Boobs? Why are you trying to torture him? He likes all of it and he's loathe to choose.
°.â§ ęŠ August : Ass. It's easier to watch discreetly when you walk by without you noticing.
°.â§ ęŠ Bro Santa : Ass. Loves hauling you over his shoulder and giving you a playful smack.
°.â§ ęŠ Arkha : Boobs. He's dignified, but he ain't blind. A good pair of tits any day.
Š unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating
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Hi can I request a dean X reader where the reader is not as experienced in intimacy and he helps show her what to do
pairing: Dean Winchester x inexperienced!fem reader
WC: 1.3K
CW: 18+ MDNI, language, both are in their early 20s, oral sex (m & f receiving), pinv mentioned, cum eating, reader is inexperienced but not a virgin, Dean talks you through everything, soft dom!dean, sub!reader
a/n: this is one of my favorite tropes! đŤŚ
Itâs no secret that Dean Winchester is a giver. Taking care of others is engrained in his DNA. Whether that be rescuing his baby brother from a burning nursery, or, now that heâs all grown up, making sure youâre satisfied.
Everyone else always comes first (literally).
Even before he was experienced, he had consumed enough pornography to make Hugh Hefner blush.
You, on the other hand, were not that way. Dean wasnât your first, but it was still fresh enough to be awkward and unnatural. Enough so that it didnât even feel good.
That was, until you met Dean. He talked you through everything almost like he was tutoring you.
You didnât even know that a g-spot was real until he hit yours.
He smiled down at you while your back arched off the bed when he rolled his hips just right.
âYou feel that? Feels good, right? I bet you canât reach that spot with your skinny little fingers.â
You were hesitant to let him eat you out because why any man would want to do that was beyond you. Heâd talk you through the whole thing and tell you how much he loved it. Coaxing you to relax and let go.
Heâd start by pushing his fingers inside you first and reaching the spot you didnât realize existed.
âFeel better when I bend my fingers? Think you can take another one?â
In between little praises and affectionate coaching, heâd reward you with his tongue flicking against your puffy clit. His broad shoulders keeping you spread for him even when your legs try to close around him.
âYouâre getting so wet. Tastes so sweet when youâre gettinâ close.â
Ever eager to please him, you always smiled and nodded. Grateful for every opportunity for pleasure he handed you. Studying you to figure out what feels best. Pushing you to try new things when you were ready.
It was like he was trying to make up for any bad sexual experience youâd ever had and then some.
It didnât seem fair that he spent so much time on making you come. Sometimes you noticed him gently stroking his leaking cock while he had his head between your thighs. Desperate to sink himself inside of you. So naturally, you did some research.
Porn. You watched porn.
You were overwhelmed by the experience of those women, but you noticed some trends.
They suckled on the head, drooling around him and working it down their length with their hands.
They paid special attention to the spot right under the tip. Flicking their tongues with little kitten licks. The men always twitched and groaned when they did that.
Some of them even cupped and sucked on their ballsâtaking one in their mouth at a timeâall while continuing to stroke them. That seemed to be a very popular technique.
You were intimidated by the woman who just let their throats be fucked raw. A little bulge forming at the dip where their jaw meets their neck. That had to be painful. But their thighs were always soaking wet when they were done.
With your mental notes handy, you decided to surprise Dean one night.
As soon as he shut your bedroom door, you sank to your knees in front of him.
He shook his head in shock and confusion.
âWhatâre you doing down there, baby?â
You hummed while a nervous smile tugged at your lips. Then you clumsily pulled his belt loose and started unbuttoning his jeans. All while the tiny pink tip of your tongue poked out between your lips while you focused on pretending you knew what you were doing.
He carefully caught your wrist with a concerned look. His chest heaved slightly as his breathing quickened and his cheeks had a rush of color.
âYou donât have to do this, sweetheart.â
You frowned.
âButâŚI want to. I wanna learn what you like.â
He felt his cock twitch at the words. So precious and eager.
âOnly if youâre sure.â
He did his best to contain his excitement and heart throbbing.
One thing the videos didnât prepare you for was how intimidating his cock was at face level. Thick and blushed pink with a shiny bead of precome that glistened at the tip. You swallowed hard trying to hide your nervousness and quietly wondered how many people die from choking on dicks every year.
Your eyes flicked up towards him as you wrapped your fingers around him. Watching his eyelids flutter but keeping his gaze on you. His skin was surprisingly soft for how big and heavy he felt in your hand. You were afraid of squeezing too hard so you kept your grip weak.
His big hand covered yours while he squeezed it a little tighter.
âPerfectâjust like that. Your pussy squeezes me tighter than that, girl.â
You shared an awkward laugh while you increased the speed of your strokes while applying more pressure. Watching more precome leaking out of the tip. You gathered it up and started working it down his shaft. Noticing how it started to glisten.
Your eyes flicked around nervously as you wrapped your lips around the head eliciting a moan he kept caged in his chest. Forgetting the mental notes youâd taken, you tried taking all of him in your mouth. The salty taste of him combined with the weight on your tongue made you choke and gag around him.
His hand gently gripped your hair to stop you.
âEasy, just take it slow, sweetheart.â
He caught a stray tear from the corner of your eye before brushing your hair away from your face. The simple gesture made you hum around him.
You worked your spit down with a gentle twisting motion while you focused on the head of his cock. Sticking your tongue out a little bit to give attention to the silky skin underneath. That seemed to work. The hand threaded through your hair tightened slightly and he groaned curses quietly under his breath. Showering you in tiny praises.
âFuck youâre doinâ so good.â
His husky voice made you press thighs together, rocking them slightly to get some kind of relief.
He could tell you were trying to take him deeper but getting frustrated by your gag reflex.
âStick your tongue out a little and breathe through your noseâsee? Thatâs better.â
He was losing the battle of willpower as he tried not to thrust down your throat. Remembering that it was your first time and he didnât want it to be your last.
Not with a mouth that perfect.
He was right. Of course he was. Your throat was more relaxed to allow him more space. Even with him in your mouth you felt full. You still gagged when he hit the back of your throat but there was something satisfying watching him lose control.
The way your throat fluttered around him had chipped away at his resolve. The filthy squelching sound of saliva pooling in your mouth while he fucked it was enough to make your cheeks blush.
He slowed and his hips stuttered when he felt your soft hand gently cup his balls.
âDirty girl, where did you learn that?â
You answered with a shrug of your shoulders and a wink while you continued to massage him.
His balls started to tighten in your hands so you shot him a confused look.
âMeans mâgettin close. You wanna stop?â
To his surprise, you hummed in protest. Bringing him even closer to the edge.
âIâm gonna go really deep when I do okay? Just relax the way we talked about.â
He thrust himself deeper than he ever had up to that point. Nuzzling your nose against his pelvis, you coughed and sputtered at first but relaxed your throat when you felt the warmth of his release. There was some around the corners of your mouth that you quickly wiped away when he finally pulled out.
He gazed at you with a look of surpriseâmore like amazementâwhile his breathing slowly returned to normal.
âDid I do okay?â
You laughed weakly, but the question was sincere.
âDid you âdo okayâ?â He asked while guiding you up to your feet and backing you towards the bed. Finally laying you down while looming over you. âSweetheart. That was the best Iâve ever had.â
oh we need a fic where mommy!reader spanks the shit out of homelander until hes crying and sobbing, that last episode got me WILDING
mdni, u will be blocked
this is a gr8 idea i just donât know why i have so much trouble writing something like this lmaoo. like i canât visualize it. i did have an idea where u can slap him lol. lightly. letâs say maybe he didnât listen when u told him heâs not allowed to touch himself while u were away for work all day. and the guilt eats him up after he inevitably breaks, maybe after swiping through pictures of you on his phone. even the innocent ones make his cock stiff because he knows he canât. itâs forbidden today.
and maybe it doesnât count if he just humps the mattress? because technically he isnât touching himself. but then he sees the drool stains on ur pillow and the pool of cum on the sheets and his face burns bright red. heâd spring up and clean up as best as he can. maybe even replace the sheets, all while avoiding mirrors.
and then u finally come home and heâs vibrating with guilt and of course u pick up on it. ur both in bed and he can hardly look u in the eyes. u cup his cheek and his eyes are already watering as he leans into your palm. âyou were bad today, werenât you, Johnny?â and he just nods jaggedly, whimpering. so u do what any good mommy would. you pull your hand away just an inch and the next time it meets his cheek, itâs fast and stinging. a little slap, firm yet contained.
his face would crumple immediately, but he doesnât move away. by now heâs sobbing, rubbing his face into your hand, clutching the blankets in his fists with a mumbled whine. âHit me again, MommyâŚâ
but u pull him into a hug, ur hand slipping to guide his head into ur neck. heâd slump against you, crying hard and desperate, nuzzling your neck with whispered apologies while u just rub his back, shushing him. âshhh, shush, baby,â and he listens eventually.
then when heâs calmed down u pin him to the mattress and ride him for like an hour straight, forcing him to cum like nine times since he wanted to so badly before. and heâd absolutely whine and sob and groan and squirm under u, because it hurts and heâs messy, just taking it. and he could easily move his wrists from under ur hands as theyâre pinned to the mattress, push you off because heâs had enough⌠but doesnât. because he knows he deserves this and bc ur Mommy :)
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Hello, I have a request for our dear Natalie Scatorccio. I've been thinking of something like this: Natalie and the female reader have a secret relationship with lots of teasing between them, which they both claim is just casual. But after a party where the reader drinks too much, she pulls Natalie into the bathroom to have sex, and after all that, she asks Natalie to sleep at her house for the first time. Imagine Natalie marveling at the reader's enormous house and her bedroom.
summery : a secret hookup in a cramped party bathroom leads to an emotional shift when you invite nat back to your empty, massive family estate.
The dynamic between you and Natalie was a carefully negotiated disaster. To anyone else looking in, you were just two people who knew how to push each other's buttonsâexchanging sharp glances across crowded rooms, dropping low-voiced jabs that sounded like light banter to the people standing nearby, and pretending that the lingering eye contact didn't mean anything at all. Youâd both agreed early on to keep it simple, strictly casual, and completely secret. Neither of you wanted the complications, the questions, or the messy title that came with actually acknowledging what was happening when the bedroom door finally locked.
Except "casual" didn't account for the way Nat looked at you when she thought you weren't paying attention, or the way your pulse spiked every single time her hand brushed against yours in public.
By the time the party was in full swing, youâd had far too much to drink. The heavy bass from the speakers was vibrating right through the floorboards, making your head spin in slow, warm cycles. Every time you glanced across the room, Nat was thereâleaning against the kitchen counter with a plastic cup in her hand, her dark eyes tracking your every move through the dim, smoky haze. She kept teasing you with those small, knowing smirks, subtle enough that nobody else noticed, but sharp enough to make your throat feel completely dry.
You couldn't take the distance anymore. The alcohol had stripped away every last shred of your patience and whatever fake boundaries youâd both set up.
When Nat finally excused herself to head down the hallway, you didn't hesitate. You followed her, your footsteps slightly uneven from the liquor, catching up to her just as she reached the bathroom door. Before she could turn around, you grabbed her by the waist, slipped into the small room right behind her, and locked the door shut behind you both.
The noise of the party suddenly turned muffled and distant. In the cramped, dimly lit bathroom, the tension between you felt thick enough to suffocate on. Nat didn't even look surprised; she just turned around, resting her hips against the edge of the sink, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her lips as she took in your flushed face and heavy breathing.
"You're out of your mind," she murmured softly, her voice carrying that quiet, raspy edge that always sent a shiver straight down your spine. "Someone's going to notice you followed me in here."
"Let them," you managed to say, stepping right into her space until your knees were pressed against hers, completely closing the gap between you.
That was the lie you both lived inâpretending this was just alcohol, just convenience, just a quick thrill in a locked room. But as Nat reached out, her fingers catching the front of your shirt to pull you in closer, her dark eyes searching yours in the mirror light, it was obvious to both of you that neither one was playing by the rules anymore.
The memory of what happened against the cool, tiled wall of that cramped bathroom was a blur of heat, slick friction, and sharp, hushed gasps. In the hazy aftermath, the details felt heavy and bruisedâthe way Natalie had held you pinned by your wrists, the low, dirty whispers sheâd scraped into your ear as she took you apart, and the desperate, frantic way your body had surrendered to her right over the sink. It had been fast, messy, and completely uninhibited, the kind of raw, breathless sex that left your knees shaking and your heart hammering against your ribs long after the initial shock wore off.
Now, the sharp edge of the alcohol was beginning to dull into a heavy, slow ache in your head.
The quiet click of the bathroom lock felt unnaturally loud as you both stood in front of the mirror, trying to assemble yourselves back into something that looked presentable. Natalie was zipping up her pants, her breath still coming out in shallow, even hitches as she adjusted the collar of her top. Her dark eyes met yours in the reflection, watching you struggle with the buttons of your shirt with slow, fumbling fingers.
"Here," she murmured softly, her tone dropping that sharp, teasing bite it usually had. She turned to you, stepping close to brush your hands aside and finish the buttons for you with deft, gentle fingers. "You're a complete mess, you know that?"
"I know," you muttered, leaning your forehead against her shoulder for just a second, letting the clean scent of her wash over you.
As she pulled her hands back and smoothed out your jacket, you swallowed hard, the quiet room suddenly feeling a lot heavier than it had a few minutes ago. The liquor was giving you a false sense of courage, pushing a thought to the surface that youâd normally keep buried under three layers of quiet pride.
"Hey, Nat?" you asked, your voice barely carrying over the muffled bass of the music coming from the hallway.
"Yeah?"
"Are you... do you wanna come back to my place tonight?" You kept your eyes fixed on the floor, your fingers nervously picking at the seam of your denim jacket. "My parents are out of town. Work trip."
Natalie paused, her hand hovering over her bag. She knew what "work trip" meant when it came to your family. It was the same script every time: empty fridges, locked doors, and a house that stayed dead quiet for days on end while your parents drifted in and out of your life like background noise. They didn't call to check if you were eating, and they certainly didn't care where you were on a Friday night, as long as you didn't make a mess of their reputation.
She looked at youâreally looked at youâtaking in the slight slump in your shoulders, the tired, glassy look in your eyes, and the subtle way you were trying to pretend it wasn't a big deal.
Natalie knew how sensitive you were about it, how hard you worked to cover up the quiet neglect with a casual, indifferent attitude. The last thing she wanted to do right now, especially with you already half-drunk and vulnerable from what just happened between you, was make you feel small or pitied. She wasn't going to bring up the empty house, or the way her chest ached every time she realized how alone you actually were.
Instead, a soft, easy smile crossed her face, softening the sharp angles of her features.
"Yeah," she said quietly, her hand sliding up to rest against the back of your neck, her thumb softly stroking the sensitive skin right behind your ear. "Yeah, I'll come home with you. Let's get out of here."
The drive over was quiet, the kind of heavy, loaded silence that only exists between two people who have just wrecked each other in a locked bathroom.
Natalie kept one hand on the wheel of her beat-up beaters, her knuckles pale against the worn leather wrap. The engine rattled under the hood, making that low, familiar clack-clack sound every time she shifted gears, a noise that usually grounded her. Her mind was racing, trying to shake off the lingering, electrical buzz of skin-on-skin and the scent of you still clinging to her clothes.
She wasn't used to this side of you. She was used to the sharp-tongued, defiant version of you at school and at partiesâthe version that could match her bite for bite and pretend nothing mattered. But right now, slumped in the passenger seat with your head resting against the cold window pane, you just looked exhausted.
When Nat pulled through the massive stone pillars at the entrance of your neighborhood, her foot eased off the gas automatically. The streetlights here weren't flickering or burnt out like the ones on her block; they cast a smooth, amber glow over pristine lawns, high iron gates, and winding driveways that looked like they belonged in a magazine.
She turned into your driveway, and the headlights swept across the front of your home.
Natâs breath hitched in her throat, her hand freezing on the gearshift. She knew you were well-offâsheâd seen the clothes you wore, the effortlessly expensive jacket you tossed onto chairs without thinking twiceâbut seeing it like this hit her like a physical blow. The house wasn't just big; it was a sprawling, multi-story estate made of dark stone and towering glass windows, wrapped in manicured hedges and dead silence. It looked more like a private hotel than a home.
Natâs chest tightened, a familiar, bitter knot forming in her stomach before she could stop it. Her mind flicked, completely unbidden, back to her own life. Back to the cramped, double-wide aluminum box tucked away at the edge of town. To the peeling linoleum floor in the kitchen, the rusted porch steps, and the constant, suffocating dread of walking through her own front door never knowing if her dad was going to be sober, asleep, or looking for a reason to throw something across the room. Her momâs tired, bruised eyes. The way the thin trailer walls rattled every time a semi-truck drove past on the highway, making her feel like one bad storm could tear the whole place apart.
She cut the ignition. The old engine died with a wet shudder, leaving only the quiet hum of the night.
"Jesus," Nat muttered, her voice barely audible as she stared up at the dark, imposing structure. "You live in a fucking fortress."
You blinked open your heavy eyes, pulling yourself upright with a quiet groan. "Come on," you mumbled, pushing your door open and stepping out into the cool night air.
Nat got out slowly, her worn boots sinking into the thick, perfectly manicured grass of your front lawn. She shut her car door with a dull clunk, feeling wildly out of place in her faded denim and scuffed shoes as she followed you up the wide stone steps toward the front porch.
You didn't even use a key for the front doorâjust tapped a digital code into a sleek keypad on the grand double doors. The lock clicked open with a soft, heavy thunk.
When you pushed the door open and stepped inside, Nat followed, stopping dead in her tracks on the threshold.
The foyer was massive, the ceilings stretching so high up into the darkness that her eyes couldn't even find the corners. Marble floors gleamed beneath her feet, so polished that she could see her own distorted reflection in them. The air inside didn't smell like old grease, stale tobacco, or the damp mildew that always hung around her trailer no matter how hard her mom scrubbed; it smelled like expensive wood, clean linen, and cold air conditioning.
It was completely, eerily empty. No voices, no TV hum, no dinner dishes left out. Just pristine, echoing space.
"Quiet," Nat said, her voice dropping to a cautious murmur as she closed the heavy door behind her. Her eyes darted around the grand foyer, taking in the floating staircase and the cavernous living room visible just beyond it. "Your parents really aren't here?"
"Told you," you said, tossing your jacket onto a glass entry table without even looking at it. "They won't be back till Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Whenever."
Nat swallowed hard, tracking the indifferent, casual way you said it. To her, a house this big with no one in it felt unnatural, like a museum after hours. Back home, privacy was an impossible luxuryâher family lived on top of each other in a space so small you could hear a floorboard creak from one end of the trailer to the other. Here, you could scream at the top of your lungs in one room and nobody in the rest of the house would hear you.
"Follow me," you said, already heading toward the floating staircase.
Nat followed behind, her eyes wide as she took in every detailâthe massive artwork on the walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a pitch-black backyard pool, the sheer volume of air and space. It felt ridiculous that one single person lived here.
When you reached the end of the upstairs hallway, you pushed open a set of double doors and stepped inside, flicking a dim floor lamp on.
Nat stopped right at the doorway, her mouth parting slightly as her brain tried to process what she was looking at.
Your bedroom wasn't just a room; it was a full-blown suite. It was easily larger than her entire fucking trailer.
Across the space sat a massive king-sized bed elevated on a low wooden platform, piled high with plush white duvets and accent pillows. On one side of the room, a grand velvet sofa and a low coffee table sat in a private sitting area, illuminated by a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the estate grounds. To the right, an open door revealed a private bathroom that looked bigger than her trailer's entire kitchen and living room combined, complete with a freestanding soaking tub and dual marble vanities.
Nat just stood there, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, staring around the room in absolute disbelief. Her whole lifeâevery fight, every bruised shoulder, every night spent hiding in her tiny, closet-sized bedroom listening to her dad slam doorsâcould fit inside the four walls of your bedroom, with space left over.
"You're fucking kidding me," Nat whispered, her voice echoing faintly against the high ceilings. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the dark hardwood floors, the plush rug under her boots, the endless space. "This is your room?"
"Yeah," you said softly, kicking off your shoes and walking over to the edge of the bed, dropping down onto the soft mattress with a heavy sigh. "It's just my room."
Nat walked over slowly, as if she was afraid the floorboards beneath her boots might turn into glass and break. She stopped at the edge of the large velvet couch, looking over at you. The stark contrast between the sheer, ridiculous wealth of this room and the quiet, hollow look in your eyes made her throat feel tight.
It was huge. It was beautiful. And it was completely, desperately lonely.
You collapsed backward onto the sprawling king-sized bed, your body sinking deep into the mountain of plush white duvets with a quiet, exhausted groan. The ceiling above you felt miles away, spinning in lazy, warm circles as the residual heat of the alcohol and the sheer exhaustion of the night finally caught up to you. You threw an arm over your eyes, completely unmoving, letting the softness of the mattress take all the weight out of your limbs.
Natalie stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, watching the way you completely melted into the fabric. The sharp, guarded edge she usually carried seemed to soften, replaced by a quiet, grounded focus as she stepped around to the side of the mattress where you were sprawled out.
"Up," she said gently, her voice barely a murmur in the quiet expanse of the room.
When you didn't moveâonly letting out a low, muffled protest from beneath your armâNat let out a soft, breathy huff of a laugh. She leaned over, reaching down to gently tug your arm away from your face. Her hands were warm against your cool skin, her touch surprisingly delicate as she gripped the hem of your tight mini dress.
"Come on," she coaxed softly, her dark eyes searching your flushed face. "You're not sleeping in this tight thing. Sit up for a second."
She worked with slow, methodical patience, easing you up into a sitting position until you were slumping against her shoulder. You could feel the steady beat of her heart through her shirt, a comforting, heavy anchor while the rest of the world felt unsteady. Nat reached behind your back, her fingers finding the thin zipper of your dress and drawing it down with a faint, smooth track. The cool air of the bedroom hit your bare skin, making you shiver slightly, but before the chill could set in, Nat was already peeling the tight fabric down over your shoulders, sliding it smoothly down your arms and off your wrists.
She tossed the dress onto the foot of the bed without a second thought, completely unbothered by how expensive or delicate it was.
"Where are your shirts?" she asked quietly, her hands resting lightly on your bare waist, her thumbs tracing small, soothing circles into your skin to keep you warm.
You gestured vaguely toward the massive walk-in closet across the room with a lazy, heavy movement of your hand. Nat gave your hip a gentle squeeze before slipping away for just a few seconds. You heard the soft rustle of hangers before she walked back, holding one of your oversized, soft cotton t-shirtsâsomething worn-in and comfortable, completely stripped of the stiff formality of the rest of the house.
She gathered the shirt up in her hands and carefully guided the neck hole over your head, letting the soft, lightweight fabric cascade down over your torso. She pulled your arms through the wide sleeves one by one, smoothing the cotton down over your hips until it draped comfortably past your thighs, replacing the restrictive dress with loose, airy warmth.
"There," Nat whispered, her fingers lingering for a second at the collar of the shirt to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
She eased you back down against the pillows, pulling the heavy duvet up over your chest and tucking the edges around your shoulders. Standing beside the bed, looking down at you in the quiet, dim glow of the lamp, the sheer size of the room seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the steady, quiet warmth settled between the two of you.
Nat stood at the edge of the bed for a moment longer, taking a slow breath as she looked down at you curled up beneath the heavy duvet. Slipping out of her scuffed boots and stripping off her thick denim jacket, she tossed them onto the floor next to her bag. She didn't bother changingâjust pushed back the heavy duvet on her side and climbed onto the bed beside you.
The mattress hardly dipped beneath her weight, but the moment she settled in, you instinctively shifted across the soft sheets toward her warmth.
Nat let out a quiet exhale and opened her arm, pulling you flush against her chest. You rested your head in the hollow of her neck, breathing in the familiar, grounding scent of her skinâa mix of cold night air, faint smoke, and clean soapâcompletely burying yourself in her presence. She wrapped both arms around you, locking you in tight against her, one hand sliding up to nestle into your hair, her fingers making slow, gentle strokes against your scalp.
In the vast, overwhelming quiet of the massive room, surrounded by empty hallways and acres of cold stone, the space suddenly shrunk down to just the heat of her body pressed against yours.
"I've got you," Nat whispered into the top of your head, her chest rising and falling in a deep, steady rhythm against your cheek. "Go to sleep."
You closed your eyes, the heavy ache in your head finally melting into a soft, safe warmth. With Nat holding you close, her thumb tracing lazy circles into the small of your back, the restless noise of the night faded away entirely, pulling both of you down into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.
Hiiiii i really like your fics ans how you write them, specially the longer ones, inwas wondwring if you could write something like valarr being married to reader and kiera, so reader and kiera kinda have a secrer hate betwewn them or some competition, but valarr is oblivious and just happy becausw reader gave birth to twins
You dont have to write it if you dont want to, but i would love to see how you would write it
absolutely delicious ask, thank you. I started rubbing my hands together like an evil fly while reading it. I made the conflict between kiera/reader a little more subtle than outright fighting because I do actually love kiera - beautiful lady that can do no wrong in my eyes. she deserved so, so much better.
a blood debt
(valarr targaryen x dayne!reader) (3.7k)
no use of yn. mentions of dead children/childbirth. westerosi xenophobia & misogyny. bit of smut, a blowjob and some vague masturbation. sounds like a good friday
it takes a lot to ruin a person.
in your experience, it happens slow. it takes many long years and betrayal behind closed doors.
you know this because youâve been quietly watching the path the prince is on for many years.
as a child, youâd never spoken to him and had only ever seen a prince when your aunt had paraded her many sweet infants around the court. but that was when you were young, very young, back in those secure years before your aunt passed in childbirth.
back when dyanna was still alive and laughing.
youâd seen valarr nearly each day since childhood but never exchanged more than a fistful of niceties in greetings. not because he was a hard man to talk to, but because he always had his own burdens to bear. he never had time to be a child and so youâd never played together, never learned songs or ran the walls as you did with your auntâs children.
all youâd ever watched, for years, was the slow-moving pressure begin to crush him. as a teenager, youâd finally begun to realise that men will look at women. theyâll pause to talk to noble young ladies because itâs a brief, fleeting chance to be close to such delicate beauty and power. youâd learned to dress yourself alluringly and bat lashes at young knights, to trade moonlight kisses and shy affairs.
all the while, that fine young man youâd begun to harbour a gentle desire for seemed further and further from your reach. he was fading under the growing weight. each day older another day of sacrifice.
that handsome, distant prince never looked anywhere.
so it was a slight shock to the court when he turned eighteen and was so swiftly and suddenly married, with not much fanfare at all.
itâs rather a huge going-on at court when thereâs a wedding - never mind a royal wedding. people spend weeks organising new gowns and gossiping about the couple. the feasting is a matter of great import. excitement builds and yet ⌠the prince married so quietly to a woman the courtiers have never met. despite all the listening ears and spying eyes, the loose lipped servants and drunken guardsmen, nobody actually knows the bride, and so few were present at the wedding.
afternoon conversations around the court are uttered behind fans and with subtle implications. âwell, sheâs,â a pause, a cough. perhaps an adjustment of a hand. âtyroshi, I hear.â
an arched brow and a sideways look. âgods, the size of that ship from the east. such splendour.â
thatâs how the crushing years pass. how the closed doors and unending pressure begin to shatter those terribly composed outward walls. clustered circles of women - cousins by marriage, cousins by blood. the scattered household remains of lady dyanna and lady jena nothing but a shadow of the former womenâs court. all the while, wondering, whispering at the things theyâre just at the edge of.
the court obsesses over the delicious unknown of this foreign beauty taking one of the most prestigious bachelors in the realm.
thereâs never any blushing or scandalous whispering about the new princess. no servants seem to have raunchy glances to pass in acknowledgement outside the princeâs chambers. itâs such a strange and rushed betrothal and nobody quite knows the fullness of it.
nobody is privy to the inner machinations of the royal house, so speculation rules.
thereâs not a word of discord or a mention of unharmonious conduct ⌠but in the years there never surface any particularly good rumours either.
thereâs a muted burst of gossiping joy when the new princess makes an appearance shyly cradling her small stomach, yet the fine lady of tyrosh is almost unreadable. sheâs a force unto herself and is never drawn to group discussions.
at dinners she sits stoically beside the prince and you watch them both, wondering what in seven hells they must talk about privately. together they seem so ⌠forced.
the princess remains unreachable through the passing years, cold through both loss and prosperity. the young couple are given chance after chance after chance and yet all the marriage produces is tiredness and tears. composed outward appearances yet death and death and death again.
your distant cousin appears ever more crushed by harsh tricks of the seven. he seems older than his twenty-two years. worn down, aged, burdened.
there are crueler members of the court who float ideas of barren women and foreign conspiracies against the crown. why else would a young, fertile lady produce nothing but twisted, scaled little beasts? salacious mutterings and scandalously whispered treasons pass around the ladyâs court. of course the tyroshi would want the royal line to burn out. of course eastern powers would see the lineage of the dragon collapse.
then, inevitably, the suggestions come.
how else to maintain the bloodline? how else to supply the prince with what he so desperately needs?
a paramour, an annulment, another wife, a concubine.
so many ideas arise and yet still, nothing happens to the stoic prince. he gives no satisfaction in reacting, does not admit the pain of it. valarr will not rise to what he must surely hear whispered about court, or if he does, itâs not in front of faces.
you suppose, watching your cousinâs cousin, that thereâs a lot of hesitancy after the actions of his great grandfather. older lords hold fears that he simply could not resist taking mistress after mistress, abandoning the realm to suffer so many royal bastards. blackfyres and bloodraven and as many more rivers.
all dragons are flesh-eaters. what makes valarr any different from aegon the unworthy?
but the young prince does things right. in the years of his stillborn children, valarr maintained a close and rather strong relationship with the faith. persistent prayer for healthy children - living children - that turned up fruitless. wishes for prosperity and hopes for offspring. begged words to the mother to give him a babe and pleading with the stranger to leave his family alone.
through such cold and hurtful years, itâs the septons that begin to gently suggest he should set his tyroshi wife aside. while their voices may echo the many within court, itâs always so comforting to hear an unfortunate truth from a soft-spoken septon in grey.
they bring soothing words, reassurances that the seven would not take offence. such circumstances surely violate marriage vows - a barren partner is no reason for the crown to lose the male line. why, itâs almost unseemly. the crown is but an extension of the seven - each king a physical manifestation of the sevenâs will made flesh.
so what the prince needs, the faith would be all too eager to facilitate.
valarr sits with it, that terrible, chewing guilt. he sits in the silence of his chambers and nurtures the shame as if itâs an absent son. he raises it and lets it grow. he feeds that nasty beast and starts to think that actually, perhaps the voices have some truth.
the fractures begin to leak through underneath. from the gossip of servants, itâs been almost a year and a half since valarr and kiera slept a full night in the same chambers. there are the regular dutiful calls and nighttime summons, but afterwards the lonely wife must always suffer the unwitnessed shame of being sent from bed in the dead of night.
your auntâs most beloved son, daeron, provides ever more unseemly solutions. the carnal ideas that a septon would never lower himself to, the thoughts his motherâs ladies in waiting wouldnât think to entertain.
âtry a whore first, cousin.â heâd suggested, laughingly, over dinner. âsee if you can earn yourself a bastard or two.â
valarr - ever patient as they come - waits with all the terrible suggestions. he lets them fester and gives each idea a guilty turn about his head.
but he can only just endure a fourth lost child before acting.
a choice of woman remains a proverbial thorn in valarrâs side, for this time he may have his own pick. itâs not something heâs used to - one wife already selected for him, so what does he know of courtship? what does he know of seduction and romance? not a speck.
itâs such a thought that has him staving off a paramour for another few weeks, because underneath heâs a coy young man afraid of beautiful women. but then, the more he thinks, he doesnât want a family of bastards.
heâs a dragon, after all. two wives would be nothing. itâs a rather tame family tradition compared to ⌠all the rest.
valarr takes an aching deliberation, a guilty and shameful one, a dirty one where he closes his eyes and wonders which woman would be bearable. he tests which ladies he could imagine laying with, heart pounding like a teenager again as he toys with his options.
in quiet chambers, the room darkened and shamefully hidden without candles, valarr lays in an empty bed with his hand down his breeches and concludes he will take you - a noble lady in waiting who had grown up in service of dyanna, left in court after the passing of her charge - as his second wife.
a cousinâs cousin heâd surely seen most days since childhood but had never truly taken the time to speak with. he thinks itâs the best solution to pick a face that knows the family. it makes his guilt feel lighter than the thought of daeronâs whores, even as he draws a sticky and sinful hand from his trousers.
a second noble lady to take into bed?
oh, such is the greed of princes.
â˘
following the tradition of his first, the prince gives a month before facilitating a quiet wedding at the sept. a sombre ceremony where each of the seven septons walks past swinging censers of smoke and muttering prayer for health and life and strength.
either the prayers are effective or youâre a terribly concupiscent woman.
in the passed years, while the prince was suffering in his chambers, youâd never been too shy about errant knights and hopeful lords. why should you? a niece of a fourth sonâs late wife means less than nothing, but with your âlast lamb in the shedâ status also came a slice of freedom. nobody watched too closely what or whom you were involved with.
fearful but informed by these fancies and rushed liaisons, you manage to match your newlywedâs smiling excitement. valarr is pleasantly enough surprised that this participant is a shade more learned than previous.
this wife brings a strange new experience altogether. a hot tongue and hands that know where to squeeze, what to stroke and when to stop entirely and let the mouth take over. itâs with curiosity, not offence, that valarr grips your hair as an order to stop.
âwith whom did you discover such talent?â valarr mumbles, guiding you to eye level. sat on the edge of the bed he gathers his breath while you rest over one spread thigh. you want to move fully across his lap, truly and quite desperately, but youâre not sure where the fragile line rests.
âthe knight with the swan on blue field,â you reply, mouth meeting that enticing expanse of bare chest and neck.
âsuch rich service to the realm,â valarr replies. his eyes drop and his thumb touches your bottom lip ever so briefly.
âhow shall I thank him?â he asks, leaning back and locking a leg to roll you over.
âshout for him, princess,â valarr suggests kindly, spreading your knees and pushing forward. âperhaps heâs at the door - tell him how grateful I am for his tutelage.â
your confidence melts because for as many daring things as you have done, there is one thing your husband is definitely more practiced at. one thing youâd never found it in you to surrender entirely in some perverse sense of retained purity. something valarr holds a possessive satisfaction for.
besides, heâd been untouched when he married his first wife. thereâs something about his current experience that he thinks needs testing in light of this swan knight. this mystery man who will soon receive harsher strikes in the yard and know not the reason why.
so with witnesses at the door valarr takes his second wife under a blinding confidence that heâd never had the first time round. itâs enough to spark at least a few laughing comments from the servants. perhaps a drop of passion all the realm needed.
youâre afforded the luxury of sharing his bed for a full night on the eve of your wedding. somehow, it seemed an ill omen to send his wife to her own chambers after so freshly consummating.
afterwards youâre given equal treatment to kiera. youâre provided chambers of your own and a long enough leash - sometimes valarr comes to your room for his satisfaction, other times thereâs a knock on your door and a waiting escort.
itâs a harsh routine but when youâre sat together in the dusk, speaking companionably about such trifling matters as the court harpist and the not-so-secret affairs between handmaids and household guards, heâs a good man. a soft man.
a man crushed by guilt and confusion and expectation. a man that, upon seeing you at the chamber door with a saddened expression, will still choose to stay with you. if he summons you to his room only to find you do not wish to undress for him, he is pleased enough to sit with your head in his lap as he reads.
itâs hard to truly fall in love with it, when at the back of your mind you wonder if four years ago kiera had such sweet treatment. if the early days were this felicitous for her, too, when the hope was high and nobody had died yet.
in some quiet and insecure nights, you compare yourself to her. the beautiful woman sleeping down the hall that nobody truly knows. itâs only when valarrâs sleeping hands squeeze around you do you wonder if kiera is as afraid of you, as you are of her.
â˘
when you fall pregnant the young prince extends invites for you to move into his chambers. itâs all concern and partly, you suspect, a grand display of guilt.
you sense as a way of making up for it, valarr spends renewed time walking kiera about the gardens and dancing with her at feasts. her name isnât spoken in your presence, just as you assume yours is never waved before her.
âa wife for daylight and a wife for dusk,â you mutter to yourself, tangling your feet up in his empty blankets as you hear feasting carry on below.
itâs a surprise to you then, that the doors open and valarr comes through, smiling. partly drunk, but smiling. he greets you with a kiss like heâs been at war for a decade, hands up by your cheeks and a depth to the embrace you canât tell is rehearsed or not. youâve never seen him kiss kiera like that, but then again you try never look too closely at anything they get up to.
while you stay in his chambers, thereâs absolutely no way to know if heâs making his own social calls.
from all accounts, theyâd always been rather rigid in their marital pursuits. youâre unsure though, if that is simply what the gossiping servants want you to hear.
through the weeks valarr keeps you close by, maintaining your comfort and finding that no true man can keep hands off his lover and soon to be childâs mother.
the sight of you, claimed and carnal and all too fertile, makes him a different man. proudly, he sleeps beside you and speaks softer than ever before. if thereâs a thing you wish for, it is yours before the request is spoken. he wishes to have you, keep you, each and every night, feeling the guilt of his first wedding cold upon his shoulders. even more so on the evenings when he runs straight from council to sweep you into bed, kiss your stomach and admit the terrible, base instincts you unleash in him. even when he admits passing over his unburdened wife because the pleasure he gets from you is more than addicting.
he needs you in the way heâs never truly needed a woman before - even when the months drag out and he can no longer reasonably take his pleasure with you, thereâs no whispering among staff that heâs back to seeking flesh comforts with his first and truest wife.
kiera takes all of the changes with an angered, wounded pride. she doesnât fight with you or cause strife - not outright, not publicly - but the unhappy looks on her face burn you like youâre equally guilty.
and then, actually, her stares enrage you.
because this is not your fault. this marriage not your asking. if she had simply given the crown the child they wanted, she would have had it all. then, after the anger you feel sadness. what a woman you could have had as a friend and confidant and yet the court will set you at odds.
your presence does not undo her longstanding shortcomings, but it does make you doubt yourself.
it makes you wonder how secure you truly are, how protected you might be. you cannot help but quietly obsess over the fear of a daughter. the instinctive, maternal fear to perform and to provide colliding with the royal need to produce.
itâs with that same fear that you ask your husband one night: âwho will you say this child belongs to?â
he turns to you in the bed, face plastered with shock. gentle hands cup your cheek and neck. âyou, sweet love. this child is ours.â
âyou would not try pass it as kieraâs?â you as with a fleck of doubt.
ânear everyone at court has seen your state. the lords know, because I tell them, that youâre carrying a child of mine.â valarr replies firmly. âI would never lie about my heir - it would start war.â
âbut you love kiera.â you argue, grasping at his hands and holding them in place by your cheek.
âin a way,â valarr sighs truthfully, ever the devoted man. âbut I did not love watching my children come into this world already dead.â
âso if I cannot give you different, you will go back to her.â
âI have not left her,â he says, tiredly. âso I would not have to go back. things would simply⌠change.â
âoh, how simple.â you scoff, tears in your eyes and arms dropping to wind around your stomach. âhow calming to know that if all I could provide is daughters, you may one day take a third wife.â
âmy love, I would not abandon you. we are wed now for better or for worse.â valarr comforts, turning to try dry your tears. âany child would be fortunate, if only to prove I am not at fault.â
âdo not give me false words to soften the blow.â you bite your inner cheek and try get a handle on the emotional ache. âyou need not pretend to love me.â
âI do love you,â he pleads, hands at your cheeks. âmy lady, this is a lavishly cruel life. everyone believes the prince is the one ordering others around, but truthfully âŚ. I am the one under orders.â
âI was an orderâŚ?â you ask hesitantly.
âI was told to seek another woman.â valarr admits. âa choice under duress but you were a choice all the same, darling. I could have taken anyone at court but âŚâ
your husband trails off and gently flexes his hand, fingers stretching thoughtfully. âeach time I sat down to deliberate, I kept picturing you.â
â˘
for the first time in many years - not since dyanna gave her last breaths to bless the court with little daella - there come the harsh sounds of a crying infant. almost too loud after so many years without. a hollow echo, but a memory of a memory itself.
within your temporary chambers - a measure of confinement from the maesters as labour loomed - the crying is loud and strong. precious evidence of your bloody labours and months of sweating discomfort. wailing screeches that overlap in places because you were not blessed with a child.
the gods, in their tricky generosity, gifted two.
two boys as if to make up for lost time. one babe, admittedly, is smaller than the other. a somewhat weaker infant than his brother.
but two sons? that is an undeniable victory for valarr, no matter if the youngest is a little sickly, a little scrawny. itâs proof he had no need for daeronâs whores. proof he was not the one at fault, he was not defective.
because your husband is an honourable man, a dutiful one full of convicted words, he maintains kiera to prevent tyrosh from plunging the west into a squabbling trade war. but the young prince makes it clear to any and all witnesses that his boys were sired on a westerosi noble, with a dayne just like his aunt.
theyâre legitimate children of the crown and both of his lady wives are pillars of fealty and duty.
in the dark when you weep over the cradle and ask if that is it - if the contract is fulfilled, if he will have no further need of you - your husband has only calm words. light words to follow this bright new era.
âI cannot let you go now,â valarr soothes, staring down at the smaller boy. everyone has hope he will grow, now he has survived the delicate hurdle of the womb.
âtwo more and the debt is clear. I wish to make up what the seven have taken from me.â
again, amazing ask. thank you. I hope it lived up to expectation.
