[ you deserve to, as unfathomable as her name on his honeyed tongue. she can’t think clearly enough to admonish him. for any time alicent has risked violence — slashing rhaenyra, savaging daemon — she’s been soundly admonished for it. no one desires her for the viper she truly is. none but him. she bites into the apple of his throat, too tempting now that he’s spoken it aloud. laves over the twin marks with her tongue. sucks another bruise high on his neck, so everyone will know he’s hers as much as she’s his.
she can’t come until he does, the horrible emptiness inside keeping her from that jagged ledge, stomach cramping, thighs trembling. fucking her mouth, her cunt — none of it’s enough until he spills inside her, fuller, deeper than anyone’s ever been. unprecedented pleasure, complemented by the brilliant pain of his teeth in her neck. she knocks her head back into the hard ground and keens at how well he fills her (at the thought of him taking root, so she can give him a child, an heir, whatever he wants). ]
Ah — [ walls of her cunt fluttering, the first spasm of her own peak. it’s a matter of moments, then, before she comes on his cock, around the juddering thrusts that chase his release. it’s just the start, splitting her open, because she needs more — even as the corners of her eyes grow wet with the overstimulation. her back drags against the grass, another unfamiliar burn. the slick sounds of him working her through it and up, over are maddening. fucking the cum in and out of her, making her whine not at being overfull but at the trickle that escapes her cunt. she was always meant for this, the targaryen broodmare, the hightower whore. finally, alicent will appear as ruined as she has felt since she knocked upon the king’s door.
there’s no stretch of soft, pale skin that isn’t his to claim. it’s apparent that she likes his harshest thrusts and meanest bites best, arching into his mouth and never away. her nails claw down his to leave scratch-marks and grip his hips to bruise. she steals his breath from his mouth. (this is, after all, what she deserves.) but it’s her third orgasm, hot on the heels of his second, that has her canting her hips higher and hitching her thighs that bit wider, so he hits that tender place within her with every roll of his hips. ]
One more. [ plaintive, the most coherent thing she’s managed in a minute, seizing upon the brief flash of lucidity that comes from satisfying their roles (with her otherwise lost to sweet sounds and softer pleas). ]
Please. [ a tear catches on her lashes, eyes screwing shut. everything aches, even her mouth red and wet. she finds his hand, fingers braceletting his wrist, then guiding it to where she’s stretched and filthy around him, the heel of his palm flush to her clit. ] At least one more. [ willing herself to squeeze his cock again, to arch her back invitingly. ] You can do that, can’t you? For me, Saber. Just for me.
cw internalised misogyny, slut shaming
she can’t come until he does, the horrible emptiness inside keeping her from that jagged ledge, stomach cramping, thighs trembling. fucking her mouth, her cunt — none of it’s enough until he spills inside her, fuller, deeper than anyone’s ever been. unprecedented pleasure, complemented by the brilliant pain of his teeth in her neck. she knocks her head back into the hard ground and keens at how well he fills her (at the thought of him taking root, so she can give him a child, an heir, whatever he wants). ]
Ah — [ walls of her cunt fluttering, the first spasm of her own peak. it’s a matter of moments, then, before she comes on his cock, around the juddering thrusts that chase his release. it’s just the start, splitting her open, because she needs more — even as the corners of her eyes grow wet with the overstimulation. her back drags against the grass, another unfamiliar burn. the slick sounds of him working her through it and up, over are maddening. fucking the cum in and out of her, making her whine not at being overfull but at the trickle that escapes her cunt. she was always meant for this, the targaryen broodmare, the hightower whore. finally, alicent will appear as ruined as she has felt since she knocked upon the king’s door.
there’s no stretch of soft, pale skin that isn’t his to claim. it’s apparent that she likes his harshest thrusts and meanest bites best, arching into his mouth and never away. her nails claw down his to leave scratch-marks and grip his hips to bruise. she steals his breath from his mouth. (this is, after all, what she deserves.) but it’s her third orgasm, hot on the heels of his second, that has her canting her hips higher and hitching her thighs that bit wider, so he hits that tender place within her with every roll of his hips. ]
One more. [ plaintive, the most coherent thing she’s managed in a minute, seizing upon the brief flash of lucidity that comes from satisfying their roles (with her otherwise lost to sweet sounds and softer pleas). ]
Please. [ a tear catches on her lashes, eyes screwing shut. everything aches, even her mouth red and wet. she finds his hand, fingers braceletting his wrist, then guiding it to where she’s stretched and filthy around him, the heel of his palm flush to her clit. ] At least one more. [ willing herself to squeeze his cock again, to arch her back invitingly. ] You can do that, can’t you? For me, Saber. Just for me.