pairing(s): baelor “breakspear” targaryen x wife!reader
summary: You wear Baelor's shirt to bed. He is very normal about it.
words: 2.4k
cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering, somnophilia, (mild), prone bone, headlock, biting, possessive behavior, reader called 'girl’, yearning, this is quite simply just baelor jumping our bones, i love arm, mildly edited, not beta read
a/n: this is not officially a sequel to my other baelor fic but it can be read like that since i characterized him the same. i rly just want that old man to fuck me in his shirt idk
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI. I BLOCK AGELESS BLOGS.
Baelor has been standing at the foot of your bed for… much longer than he intended to. There's a tilt to his head, seventy-six degrees and counting, and a rise and fall to his chest that seems to be getting slightly faster with each passing exhale.
You do not see it. You are, as it is, asleep.
You're wearing his shirt. This is what has him still as stone, drawing his eyes over you in slow drags that he just can't seem to put an end to.
It's not an elaborate shirt. It's not even one of his best ones— the royal seamstresses have laden him with shirts of silk and fine woven cotton, embellished with hours of needlework or, in some horrifying cases, even beading. He has shirts of every color and shade, shirts of damask and velvet, shirts for summer and shirts for winter. Tunics from Dorne. Doublets from the Reach. Myrish robes. Qartheen samite vests.
You have chosen none of those. The one you have chosen is as simple a garment as he would choose on any given day, to wear against his skin beneath his doublet. White linen gauze, unembellished, unadorned. Its sleeves almost as billowing as its body, coming to plain rectangular cuffs. A simple collar, a sturdy yoke across the shoulders, double-stitched to keep it from unraveling. It is, in a word, efficient. Standard.
He knows, without having to ask you, that you chose to wear this shirt specifically because it is standard. Because it is one that he wears often. The cuffs have gone slightly soft with the wear, the neckline just a bit stretched along the bias. The felled seams are coming undone just a touch at the hem, a fact that he always sees but hasn't brought to the attention of his attendant, because it would mean a week of waiting to have it repaired. It is unfussy. But it is his.
And you are curled up in it like a kitten, asleep in his bed, your leg thrown over a pillow that you had moved toward his side of the bed in his absence. He has spent too long at his work, he knows. You spent too long waiting for him— long enough that you removed your nightgown and donned one of his shirts, and you fell asleep like that. Alone. In the bed you are meant to share with him.
Baelor feels a tightness in his chest that is ringed with fondness, an aching longing for you that hadn't stopped after your wedding, and doesn't seem like it will any time soon. He is too taken with you, too in love and consumed by it for that intrinsic sense of need for you to fade. It is a tender thing, tied around his heart in an intricate knot, with a tail that you hold the end of. You twirl it around your little finger and he buckles like a man who has never seen combat, who doesn't know what it is to stand his ground.
Baelor sighs as he undresses, but he keeps one eye on you all the while, as though you may disappear if he moves too far away. But you don't move. You don't even stir, when his belt hits the stone floor, or when his breeches follow. You are caught up in a world of dreams, unaware of what the sight of your sleeping form is doing to your husband, bringing him to the brink of something he has never quite been able to put a name to.
You do not stir when his hand presses into the mattress.
You do not stir when his weight dips the bedding and he moves slowly, purposefully, over you.
You do, however, stir just the smallest bit when his fingers dance over the curve of your hip through the fabric, feeling its drape over the soft plush of your skin. The meat of your ass, the swell of your thigh. Baelor feels, smoothing and caressing with a languid stroke that is not intended to rouse you, although he knows very well that it might and he does it anyway. Your fingers flex on the pillow that you clutch instead of him.
He finds himself, at that moment, inordinately envious of a pillow. A lump of fabric and feathers in your hands, between your thighs.
His hand grows bolder, a broad stroke over the small of your back, into the dip of your waist. You make a small noise in your throat, twitching the slightest bit as he passes over a particularly sensitive area.
"Shh, my sweet girl," Baelor whispers quietly, a lulling murmur in the darkness. Everything about you is soft— your skin, the fabric of his shirt as it lays over you, your hair, the expression on your face, the candle light on your sleeping body. It overwhelms him. It turns him into something that he's not normally, unless he is with you: a man. Not a Prince, and not the Hand of the King or heir to the throne. Not a warrior and not a subject of songs and poetry, myths and stories. With you, in this bed, he is simply a man in love with his wife, devoted beyond measure.
By the time his hand reaches your nape, your eyes are fluttering open the barest amount. Your face is still pressed slightly into the pillow, but you shift, a perking of your head as awareness returns to you. "Baelor?"
"It's me," he tells you, his voice low enough to not even constitute words.
"Mm. Waited for you," you mumble, confirming what he already knew.
His eyes crease at the corners, his smile overly tender. "I know. I'm here now."
Even as he says it, his hand is finding the hem of his shirt draped over your thigh, its frayed edge tickling against the smoothness of your skin. You hum quietly, dropping your eyelids against the feeling of his warm hand, burrowing between pillow and fabric and skin to find you, bare and wet and waiting for him.
"Oh," you sigh when his fingertip draws a slow circle around your clit.
"I know," he reassures you again, pressing a chaste, sweet kiss to the back of your neck. "I know, my love."
You turn your head further into the pillow beneath you, letting out a small whine at the feeling, your hips arching into his touch. He responds in kind, laying his weight flush to your back, his hand pinned between you and the pillow below.
"You're wearing my shirt," he remarks, his fingers finding your entrance and sliding in, stretching you open quick enough to make you keen softly. He gives you a few shallow strokes, feeling you grind back into the press of his cock against your tailbone. "My beautiful wife, wearing my clothes."
"W-Wanted to— to feel you— mm." Your voice is still slightly slurred with sleep, the heat of his body and the slowness of his movements doing nothing to rouse you more. You are still somewhere between awake and dreaming, pleasantly lulled, drowsy in your responses to him. Still, you moan at the curving of his fingers. "Wanted you… close to me…"
"Then let me be close," Baelor whispers, dragging the wilting fabric of his shirt up over your hips. He puffs a sigh through his nose, the ghost of it breezing against your neck. "What am I to do with you, hm?"
You make a pathetic noise when he moves your thighs apart to fit himself between them, his chest pressed to the curve of your spine, the thin fabric of his shirt separating you. He kisses you beneath the ear.
"You can sleep, darling," he tells you quietly, a whisper into your ear as his cock settles heavy between your thighs, the head sliding hotly against your cunt. Even though his voice is low, it booms through you like a thunderclap. "You need rest."
"I need you," you retort, but your own voice is far off, dipping towards the fogginess of sleep already.
Your eyes flutter shut, a gentle sigh of relief leaving you when he enters you slowly, stretching you open around him. Pressure on your back, pressure between your legs, pressure where his hand is pinned and lifting your hips from the front, angling them back towards him. Baelor's arm comes up to brace beside your head, and the scent of him surrounds you— the same scent that always drives you crazy, juniper and peppercorn, and something slightly like the salt of a raging sea.
You breathe in deep, exhale on a contented, fulfilled hum. Your entire world is Baelor, your mind and body consumed by him completely. His body spanning the length of you, bone to bone, naked skin to thin, ineffectual fabric.
You clench around him, and Baelor makes a noise as though you've punched him. So close to your ear, the headiness of it is echoed tenfold. Then he shifts his weight, dropping his hips ever-so-slightly, and then just grinds into you. His cock nestles into the deepest part of you and you groan, your mouth dropping open and face turning towards the breadth of his arm beside you.
"Baelor," you whimper, soft and broken, slurred from the recesses of sleep. Your hand finds his bicep, drawn taut from the muscle holding him up, keeping him from crushing you completely. Your fingers dig in, pull. A silent plea, a command that he follows like a dog on a leash.
Baelor fits his forearm under your head and lifts, letting you rest your chin there against the crook of his elbow, getting you into a loose headlock. Your hand wraps loosely around his upper arm, your body lax, letting him rut his hips shallowly into yours.
"My beautiful girl," he breathes into your ear, and you feel his teeth, bared with intent. His nose pressed to the shell, his beard scraping rough against your cheek. "My heart. My soul."
His arm tightens. Just a tad, but just enough. You mewl like a wounded animal, stretching your limbs so that he can move closer in, can fit his mouth to the curve of your throat, while he throbs somewhere deep in you that makes your head spin and your breath stick in your chest. His weight on you turns full, crushing, an all-over press that pins you flat to the bed, the pillow tucked beneath your stomach.
You are no longer asleep.
"Say it," he tells you, a primal rasp to his voice that wasn't there before. Low, smoky. A dragon. It's dragged from the pit of him, from some hell that lurks deep inside his body. His groan slinks down your spine and pools as raw energy right above where his cock hollows out and reaches the end of you. "Say that you're mine."
"M'yours," you murmur into his arm, breathing in the hot air that radiates from him. "Baelor. M-My heart. My soul—"
A guttural sound leaves you, your open mouth muffled by the bite you take of his bicep when he pulls his hips back and ruts into you hard, hard enough to shake the bed. Baelor's breath in your ear is shaky, stilted with the desperation of his movements, the purpose for which he collects himself.
"Gods above," he groans, his face turned into your neck just as yours is turned into his arm. With great effort, he loosens his hold on you. He presses an apologetic kiss to the curve of your shoulder. "I'm sorry. So sorry, my love."
You make a short noise, shake your head once. "Do it again."
Baelor does as you tell him. He pulls back slowly, letting his cock drag through your walls just before rushing back in with a jolt up the bed. Soft hair grinds against the plush of your ass, his mouth open and heaving with gasps against your shoulder, covered in the fabric of his shirt.
You can taste his need in the salt on his skin, beads of sweat forming in the crook of his elbow, fiery heat pressed flush to your back. "I need to— to wear your clothes more often."
"Yes." The word is hungry. It leaves no room for defiance. "You will."
The hand pinned between you and the pillow moves, snakes down to find your clit again. You are blinded with white light behind your eyelids, your breath gone still in your chest. Then, you pant like your air has no place to go, your hand tightening on his bicep, his arm tightening around your throat.
"Mm. There." The sound of his voice in your ear, while he fingers at your clit and his cock makes you so full that you can barely think, undoes you. Tremors take over your body, and you feel him smile as he continues to work at you. "That's what you get. I want you shaking."
"Baelor." You cum around him, with his full weight holding you down with nowhere to go. You are held hostage to it, to the slow, seductive movements of his hips, the lazy strokes of his finger against your clit.
"That's it. My good girl," Baelor purrs into your ear, and you sob as you clench around him. "My good, sweet, beautiful—"
He runs his tongue lightly across the nape of your neck and groans, ducking his head as he cums. His moans are muffled by his shirt on your back, his body curled over yours like fog. He presses his hips hard against yours, as though he can become a part of you if he gets close enough, deep enough.
"Oh, my love." His whisper falls upon your ears like a dream, like you may wake up and not remember it. But he's real, and he's there on top of you with his heart pounding against your back, and his fist in the fabric of his shirt, the one that started all of this.
He stays there for a breath, and then two. His hips are still flush to yours, but he's stopped moving, stopped the slow grind and the desperate, cloying attempt to get as far inside of you as he possibly could. He simply holds there, with his arm still around your throat, but not pressing in anymore. Just holding. Just cradling.
"I don't know if you noticed," Baelor says after a moment, his voice tremulous and padded by a wad of fabric between his teeth, at the nape of your neck. He releases it. "But I quite like it when you wear my clothes."
You huff a laugh, and press a kiss to the inside of his elbow. "If you do that every time, I may never get any sleep."
Baelor hums. "The chances are very slim, indeed."
Even so, you wear the same shirt the next night. And the one after that.
summary: The night before your wedding, your betrothed tells you some bad news: your wedding night will happen with an audience.
words: 7.5k
cw: explicit, smut, handjobs, fluids, blood, spit, biting, knives, references to fem masturbation, suggested oral f receiving at the end, public sex, involuntary exhibitionism (they're being forced to do it), they're fabricating a cherry being popped lol, possessive behavior, marriage, bedding ceremony, massage, cuddling, mild hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, virgin!reader, semi switch!valarr, he's just a wife guy idk, and a FREAK, but respectful baelor raised him right, canon typical sexism, valyrian wedding ceremony mildly described but don't talk to me about inaccuracies, the small council can get fucked, not edited, not beta read, not proof read
a/n: do not @ me. I wrote this in one sitting after being plagued by visions for a whole week and didn't read it over. i just want to give the prettiest prince in westeros a handjob
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI. I BLOCK AGELESS BLOGS.
On the night before your wedding, you sit on the end of your bed and try not to tremble with nerves. You should go to sleep. You know you should go to bed, but you can't. If you go to bed now, it means that the next time you open your eyes will be your wedding day, and you can't fathom that right now.
It's not so much that you don't want to marry Valarr. You don't mind the prospect of being his wife— he is handsome, kind, chivalrous, everything that you could hope for in a husband. The problem is that you don't know him well enough to be able to hold a conversation with him beyond base pleasantries, and in roughly twenty-four hours you will be expected to lay naked beneath him and let him claim you as a man does his wife. You don't know what to expect from him, in that regard. Will he be gentle, as he is when you normally speak to him? Will he be forceful? Harsh? Angry?
You close your eyes. The very idea of it threatens to set your stomach churning. You have been sitting on the end of your bed with your head in your hands for roughly an hour now, but your anxiety is only seeming to mount tenfold each time you turn it over in your head. What you will do tomorrow with a man you barely know. You barely have it in you to move. You feel as though, if you do, the walls will come crumbling down around you.
Perhaps it's for the best that a knock at your chamber door rouses you from this stasis, finally permitting you to straighten and clear your throat. "Enter."
"M'lady." One of your chamber maids enters, looking a bit piqued, but keeping her voice hushed. "Lord Valarr has sent for you."
"Valarr?" You glance around the room wildly. Beyond the whorls in the window panes, black night falls over the Red Keep. You expected that the entire castle would be asleep at this hour, as you should be. What could Valarr want with you now?
What indeed. Your mind trips over itself, your anxiety spiking again. But you stand, your back straight as an arrow, and you follow her out the chamber door. It would not do to keep your future husband waiting.
Your chamber maid takes you as far as the stairway to the prince's apartments, where a serving boy you have never seen before meets you. The two eye each other meaningfully, and then your chamber maid abandons you quite unceremoniously, making your skin crawl beneath your dressing gown. You open your mouth to protest, but the serving boy looks at you apologetically and holds a single finger to his lips.
"All is well," he whispers, when you snap your mouth shut, looking mildly insulted. "Follow me, m'lady."
You follow the boy to the door of the prince's apartments, where he leaves you with a nod of his head. You do not dismiss him before he leaves— at this point, you surmise that he is following orders already given by someone whose authority outranks you. You steel yourself, fighting not to grind your teeth as you knock on the chamber door.
There is a quiet word from within bidding you entry, and you push open the door as quietly as possible. You are standing in what appears to be Valarr's study, surrounded by books of all size and description, stacked neatly in rows on floor to ceiling shelves. You cast your gaze around at the Myrish carpets, chaise longues and chairs, candles and other opulent comforts afforded a prince of House Targaryen, and you feel slightly out of your depth.
And then your eyes fall on him. The prince, in his shirtsleeves and breeches, sitting almost dejectedly on the couch by the fireplace. Either he or one of his servants had taken the liberty of building a small fire, enough to cast an amber glow throughout the room without overheating the chamber. The orange light catches on the strands of silver in Valarr's dark hair, making him appear as though fire dances along the edges of his being.
You stand with your back to the chamber door. You wait.
It takes your betrothed several moments to lift his eyes to you, and his face is drawn with a perplexing amount of stress. You wouldn't have imagined that he would have anything to worry about; as far as you know, he has not been opposed to your union in any way. But the longer he looks at you as though he carries all the weight of the heavens and the earth on his shoulders, doubts begin to creep in.
"I apologize for the secrecy, my lady," Valarr finally says quietly, his fingers twitching against the edge of the seat that he grips. "I hope I did not wake you."
"No, my lord." You are still standing, stalk-still in front of the chamber door, wondering what exactly this visit is about.
"I felt it necessary to be discreet," Valarr continues, as though he must explain himself to you. It's more than any other lord has ever done for you, when it comes to ordering you about, and it takes you slightly aback. "Talk runs rampant in the Keep. I wouldn't want there to be cause for gossip so near to our wedding day. You understand?"
"I— yes, I understand that. But, my lord," your eyes flit from him, to the fire, and back, "If you… wish to bed me, could it not wait until we are wed?"
That startles him. Valarr lifts his head, blinking up at you with a painfully concerned look on his face. "Oh— no, my lady, this is not…" He licks his lips, and looks to the fire again. "Ah. I fear there has been a misunderstanding. I did not call you here for that, on my honor. Forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive." You tilt your head, watching as his pulse jumps against his throat. "I— please, do not think me insolent, but… why have you called me here tonight, if not for that?"
Valarr closes his eyes. You take a moment to admire his profile. The warm glow of the fire makes his skin look all the more ethereal, flushed and freckled as it is. Valarr is beautiful in a way that bards should write songs about— have written songs about, in ages past. It nearly pains you to see that beauty so laden with trouble.
"Would you like some wine?" He blurts the question like it supersedes something worse, something that he doesn't quite know how to approach yet. He seems to be weighing it in his mind as he stands and crosses to a table set with a decanter and two goblets, without waiting for an answer from you. You do not fail to notice that his hands are shaking.
"My lord."
You watch his back, tight with tension beneath the soft linen of his shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbows in a rakish and informal way, as though he hadn't truly been meaning to have an audience tonight. He does not turn to look at you, just pours the wine like he hasn't heard you.
You take three steps toward him, and tentatively reach out to place a hand on his upper arm. "Valarr."
Valarr freezes. His head bowed, he holds the wine decanter aloft like it's a shield, a solid wall between him and whatever it is that's weighing so heavily on his mind. As though, if he draws out the night long enough, he may not have to put words to whatever it is that's bothering him.
But then the moment passes, and Valarr takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm sorry, my lady." His voice is so quiet, as to barely be heard over the crackling of the fire. The words practically break in his throat. "I'm so sorry."
"For what?" you ply gently, trying not to startle him. You feel as though you are approaching a cornered animal, with how tightly wound he is. Slowly, you stroke the flat of your hand down his bicep, trying to give him a reassuring touch without overstepping. You fear, perhaps, that you might be, but Valarr does not pull away.
Instead, he simply picks up a goblet of wine and offers it to you. You look at it for a moment dumbly— it is an ornate piece, carved with dragons and inlaid with red jewels that glitter in the firelight. For lack of an alternative, you take the wine from him without a word.
"I—" he starts, then stops again, like he is still weighing the words in his head, trying to find the right ones to convey his particular issue.
The longer he takes to say what's on his mind, the more your own starts to come up with things to fill that void. He has a secret wife already. He is stricken with some disease he procured in a brothel. You are not what he wants. All of these thoughts and more flit through your head, and all seem to ring the very same at the end. He wants to call off the wedding.
But then he takes another deep breath, and he turns to you, though his eyes are still downcast. "Tomorrow. When we— The wedding. It's… there will be a ceremony."
You blink. "Yes, your grace. That happens at weddings. So I'm told."
"No." Valarr shuts his eyes, turns away like he's chastising himself. "After. The—" He pinches the bridge of his nose, the wine in his own goblet threatening to slosh over the rim. "When we are wed, and we… when I take you to our bed. There will be a ceremony. A bedding ceremony."
The words tumble from his mouth and land with a splat on the carpet like some viscous, globular thing. Bedding ceremony. It conjures an image in your head of leering heads watching you from behind sheer curtains, pompous men making comments, taking notes. Bedding ceremony. Humiliation, degradation. A crowd of spectators to observe you in your most intimate and private moments.
You say nothing. Like him, you struggle to find the words to say to describe what you feel at the prospect. But now that Valarr has gotten the point of contension out in the open, he seems to be unable to stop talking. You watch him pace around the floor of his study, like a man on the eve of battle.
"I only learned of it today. It's not customary. But because I am second in line for the throne, the small council wants proof of legitimacy, that the marriage will not be annulled. That you will bear me an heir. As though we are incapable of doing anything for ourselves." He shakes his head, scoffing with an incredulous, irritated smirk. "I begged them to tell you, my lady, I truly did, but they would not have it. They intended for you to simply walk into it, unaware. I believe they fear you will abscond in the night, or some such nonsense. My father was against it, as I knew he would be, but the rest of the council would not be swayed."
"Does your father… does he know that you've told me? About the ceremony?"
"He encouraged me to." Valarr's hand finds his hair and rucks it up into a mess, his cheeks pink in the firelight. "We were in agreement. If there's going to be an audience, you should be told. What you do in response is for you to decide."
You turn your eyes down to the wine quivering in your cup. The thought of an entire council of men conferring about what goes on in your marriage bed without your knowledge sends a finger of disgust clawing up your back.
"I called you here tonight because I wanted you to know. I wanted to tell you myself, without any eyes and ears on us. I do not wish to begin our marriage with any kind of deception."
He stops pacing, finally, and takes a step towards you. You lift your gaze to his— his mismatched eyes, one brown, one violet. The eyes of his father. You stare at them and find yourself wondering if your children would have them, as well. A mark of their father's beauty.
"I will always be true to you," Valarr says softly, though his face holds a certain amount of frantic desperation that makes you nervous for him. "I will always be honest, and frank with you when needs be. I never intend to be anything less. Do you understand? Let us be frank. Please."
"Frank. Yes," you echo, reaching out toward him. His eyes flutter when your hand finds his cheek, and you stroke your thumb against the point of his cheekbone. "Valarr. Please calm down. You have nothing to fear from me."
"I—" He swallows, his eyes flicking over your face like he's trying to map it out in his mind. "I know." He nods, seeming to let your words sink in slowly. "I know."
"Good. Drink your wine." You sound more sure of yourself than you feel.
Valarr follows your instructions in earnest, chugging the contents of his cup without a second thought. You do the same, although slower, the dry red wine hitting your soft palate with a sharp tang. You sink onto the couch and, without pretense, pull your knees up to your chest, your feet curled against the cushion beneath you. It's a protective posture, meant to calm you, but all it does is make you feel small in comparison to him when he sits heavily beside you, his elbows on his spread thighs.
"They only want proof of consummation," he adds after a moment of silence, still swallowing back the remnants of his wine as it brings a rush of saliva to his mouth. "If… when you bleed, if it stains the sheets, perhaps then I could convince them that it isn't necessary to sit in—"
"I won't bleed."
Valarr stops talking. When he turns his head to look at you, you hide your face in the folds of your robe against your knees, your eyes closed against the blackness. Your heart pounds in your chest for fear of what he might say.
But, true to character, Valarr is gentle in his response. "Forgive me, my lady. I thought that you were…"
"A virgin?" Your voice is muffled by your robe. "Yes, and you'd be correct. I've never lain with another person. But hands and fingers can do enough damage, my lord. And… various other implements."
"Oh. Oh, yes. I see." There is nothing for a few seconds but the crackle of the fire and its heat on your back. "Well, I… I suppose that it— it's a good thing. I do not wish to cause you any discomfort on our wedding night."
The sentiment brings tears to your eyes. They bubble up out of nowhere, and you feel them leak out without warning, dampening the fabric pressed to your eyelids. You let out a quiet little sob, without even meaning to. "Why are you so good to me?"
You feel him shift. His knee knocks against your ankle as he turns to look at you, and a warm hand settles on your arm. "Well, it's the only way you should be treated. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because—" You're crying. It is not a soft, dignified weeping. It's ugly. It shakes your body and leaves you with wracking sobs that come from a place deep down inside you, where you had pushed all of your anxiety and reservations and fears, about your future husband and your wedding, and everything that's to come after. The tears come so suddenly and in such force that you can't rein it in, and you find yourself unable to say anything but, "Because."
"No," Valarr replies, and his hand slides around your back. "Not me. Never to you. Come— oh, come here, love."
He manages to get your limbs untangled and pulls you to him, your legs slung over his lap and your head hidden in his neck. You're thankful for it; you don't really want him to see what you look like, crying yourself snotty the day before your wedding. His hand pets idly against your thigh, and it occurs to you that this position is more intimate than you've ever been with anybody, including your husband-to-be. It's the first time he's held you. The first time anyone has, since you were a babe in your mother's arms. You sober quickly against his shoulder, clutching at him like a child clutches their favorite toy.
"I thought you wanted to call the wedding off," you admit to him. "When I came in and you— you wouldn't look at me. I thought you didn't want me."
Valarr tuts, holding you closer. "I'm sorry. I never intended to raise any doubt in your mind. You needn't ever worry if your husband wants you, darling. I do. Gods above, I do. You have me utterly beguiled." Then, he asks you tenderly, "Have I not told you that I am more than happy to marry you? I suppose I haven't had a chance, have I? Too many people around all the time."
And that thought brings you back to the issue at hand. "I can't— Valarr, I can't do it. Not with them watching. Listening." A shudder runs through you at the thought. And then, your temper flares. Who do these men think they are, to play you and your husband for fools this way? "I won't."
Valarr's hand goes still. "My dear—"
"When I fuck you, my pleasure will be for your eyes and your ears, alone." You lift your head, gripping the open collar of his shirt in a fist strong enough to tear the fabric, if you were to pull it. Your eyes are still vaguely watery, and you're sure that you don't look as fierce as you want to, but at the very least, you know you look adamant. "I will not have these old men partake in something I give only to you, just because they feel like it. I refuse to give them that satisfaction. It is not theirs. Do you understand?"
"Yes. I understand completely." Valarr gazes at you, an unreadable expression on his face as his hand coming up to stroke a lock of hair away from your brow. He fixates on your lips for a few seconds before saying, "When I fuck you, I will not have anyone else witness what I do to you. That is for only you and I to know. What you do to me, however… I suppose that could be up for negotiation. I'll never let it be said that I am not pleased by you."
He winks, and in spite of everything weighing on you, you giggle. Then he smiles, and it's the loveliest thing that you've seen all night.
You brush your nose against his. "We are alone, now."
"Yes, we are." His voice has dropped low, to reflect your proximity to his lips.
"I don't suppose there's a chance that we could just…" You drag one finger across his exposed skin, where the collar of his shirt hangs open. "Do it now?"
Valarr sucks in a rueful breath, tilting his head back and away from you. It exposes the length of his throat for your wandering eye, and you suddenly have a great urge to sink your teeth into something. "I'm afraid honor demands that I don't take advantage just yet."
"Honor," you grumble, resting your fingers just at the hollow of his throat. "Is it honorable, what they're doing to us?"
"No, it isn't." His head tilted back against the backrest of the couch, he peers down his nose at you. "Even so. I mustn't. Not until we're man and wife." He sighs. "Even though I really, really want to."
You make a short, perturbed sound. "You're so…"
"What?"
"Decent."
Valarr lets out a laugh, his hand coming up to smooth over the back of your head. "You say that as though it's a bad thing."
"In this instance, I rather think it is." You fall silent for a few seconds, tracing your finger through the smattering of hair exposed on his chest. "It doesn't matter," you say suddenly, "whether there's an audience. I doubt you'll be able to change their minds now, and they'll still want proof. There will be questions when there is no blood. Oh gods, Valarr—"
"Shh. There's plenty we can do. We'll think of something."
"Like what?"
Valarr is quiet, but his hand moves. He catches your wrist, stopping you where you draw idle patterns against his chest with your finger. Without a word, he lifts your hand so that it catches the light, his thumb brushing upwards to flex your fingers back as he examines them, scrutinizing the length of your fingers like they are the most interesting and complex things he's ever seen.
"I may have an idea," he says softly, and then presses a kiss to the center of your palm.
The wedding is a joyous affair, which is only to be expected from a royal celebration. The vows are in High Valyrian, which you don't understand but which you repeat to the best of your ability. As per the custom of House Targaryen, your lips are cut and your foreheads smudged with blood. Your hands, sliced and bound together to let your blood become one. The wine you sip and share with Valarr stings the cut on your lip, but the smile he gives you before he kisses you makes it worthwhile.
There is a feast of wild boar and venison, and various other intricate dishes which you're sure the cooks in the kitchens labored over for days, but which you barely even register. Your stomach is too busy turning at the prospect of what happens after the feast, and what you and Valarr had spoken of the night before.
Beneath the high table, Valarr's hand finds your knee. Through the fine silk of your gown, you feel the warmth and weight of his hand, and it's one of the only things that can ground you to reality, to the here and now. When you look up at him, your husband— not your betrothed, your husband, now— gives you a knowing look and a coy smile that makes your blood sing in your veins.
And then, all too soon, it's over. The music, the merriment, the laughter. You are herded away by your ladies' maids to the prince's apartments, and you're ushered through a door you have not passed through the night before.
The prince's bedchamber is just as opulent as his study, with heavy wooden furniture carved in ornate fashion, tapestries and heavy curtains around the bed. When your eyes fall on them, you tangibly relax. There are no sheer drapes, nothing to suggest that you will be seen in the bed with your husband.
As you are undressed and wrapped in linen and brocade, an embellished robe draped over your shoulders to protect your modesty. You have yet to be told by anyone— servants or otherwise— that there will be a bedding ceremony. The fact sends a rage boiling inside you; if your husband were not as honorable as he is, if he had not taken the chance to secrete you away in the middle of the night and speak to you as an equal, you would have absolutely no idea of what is to come. You have half a mind to reprimand all of your ladies' maids for being a part of it.
But then Valarr enters the room, and the mere sight of him, dressed down in his own shirt and robe, makes the swelling rage within you quiet. He reaches for you, takes the hand that is bandaged from your vows, and presses a kiss over the cloth, his breath fanning across your pulse.
It does enough to keep you from screaming when a majority of the small council files into the room. Prince Baelor is notably absent— but, then again, Valarr told you to expect as much. You don't imagine that Valarr's father would want to sit in on his son's bedding ceremony.
Then— and only then— is the truth of the matter explained to you. That the small council will remain in the room to ensure that, "things are well in hand." You have to stifle a snort at that, and Valarr's own hand tightens slightly where he holds yours. You keep your eyes on your husband, refusing to look at the councilmen who have so grievously tried to humiliate you.
You are fussed over, annointed with holy oils and prayed over, beseeching the gods to bless your union with many children. It's the use of the word many that makes Valarr's own resolve threaten to crack, a small smirk curving the edge of his lips.
In the blink of an eye, you are shut in with Valarr on the bed, the curtains drawn, and the light blocked out. You swallow hard, sitting still in the dark for only a second before you're moving, reaching across the sheets in search of your husband, in search of his warm touch and comforting presence. You find his knee, and follow it upwards, over the expanse of his thigh to his hip as you bring yourself towards him.
His arms come around you, and then you're being pulled, his chest flush to yours, his hand finding your ass and lifting you to seat you on his lap. You gasp, your hands blindly fumbling in the dark for something to hold onto, and you find his hair. Soft as silk and threading through your fingers, you tighten your hold on it hard enough that he lets out a soft groan in response.
"Relax," Valarr whispers, just loud enough for you to hear, and his lips find your jaw. As you settle onto his lap, his fingers draw your robe and the neckline of your chemise to the side, exposing your shoulder to the air. He presses another kiss there, soft against the newly bared skin, and he repeats, "Relax."
"Can't see shit," you mutter angrily, and he snorts. You feel his smile against your skin, his breath fluttering in soft bursts across your shoulder.
Valarr reaches back, feeling for something over his head in the dark. He finds it, and there is a whisper of something, a spark. A candle is lit in the darkness, suddenly illuminating the enclosed space with dim light, just enough for you to be able to see him and the expanse of the bed sheets, the dark wood of the headboard.
The candle flame creates a halo around his head, painting his hair slightly golden. Your hands find his face, trace along his jaw and thumbs finding the pulse point under his chin. "My beautiful Prince," you whisper to him, watching his pupils widen just slightly before you finally dip to kiss him.
His lips taste of blood and wine, the cut on his lower lip still raw from the wedding ceremony. Your teeth latch around his lower lip and give it a tug, and he gasps sharply, his arms tightening around you. You smile, remembering his words from the night before, as he told you his ingenius plan for how to trick your unwitting audience.
They will be listening for anything that suggests we're doing what we should. Gasps, moans, the creak of the bed. They can only draw their conclusions from that, and what we leave on the bed sheets.
Valarr reaches behind him again, this time down between the mattress and the headboard. He searches for something, his brow drawing and lips pursed in frustration for a moment, before he grips something and pulls it out from where the sheet tucks beneath the mattress.
A knife, small and discreet enough to be slipped into a pocket or a boot, but made of valyrian steel. The edge of it, so sharp that it practically whispers on the air, glints ominously in the candlelight.
You will already have a cut on your hand from the wedding ceremony. They won't be surprised to find it in the morning.
Valarr kisses your forehead, just above the smudge of blood he'd painted between your brows with his thumb during your vows. Then, he lifts your bandaged hand, and begins unwrapping it with the care of someone unpackaging the most delicate work of art they've ever held.
Your nose scrunches as the bandage is peeled away from the cut on your palm, stuck to it with clotted blood. The wound is not deep, but fresh— the gash wells with little beads of blood already, but not enough for what you intend to do.
Valarr lifts the knife with one hand, cradling your own hand with the other. He peers up at you from beneath his lashes, his eyes apprehensive as he waits for your permission.
You nod, and Valarr slices the cut open with one small flick of the blade. The sound you make is loud, and slightly obscene— a visceral reaction, one that you did not intend to make, but which sounds quite like something your audience would expect from your wedding bed.
Beyond the curtains, someone audibly clears their throat. You look at Valarr and roll your eyes, making him bite back a snicker.
The blood needs to be in a reasonable spot on the sheets for it to look believable. You must put it where your hips meet mine. If it gets on your clothes, even better.
While he cradles your bleeding hand, you ruck your nightgown and robe up your thighs. The cut is shallow enough that the blood is already beginning to slow, but there is enough for you to smear it against your cunt, and then wipe it directly onto the bed sheets below you. The result is a blotch of pinkish blood, mixed with your own arousal, on the white linen.
When you meet Valarr's gaze, he nods at you in approval. Then, he takes your hand, and lifts your bleeding palm to his lips.
This was not something you had spoken about. This, you imagine, is something that he does purely for himself. His tongue flicks out and drags the length of the cut on your hand, mopping up blood and arousal alike. His eyes on you the whole time, dark in the dimly lit canopy of his bed, he makes a noise in his throat like he's found relief after a long period of torment.
A deep burning want coils in your core, willing you to do something insane and unscrupulous. You have the urge to resent him for it, and for not letting you fuck him on the couch in his study last night, while he told you what to do. When it was just you, and him, and the crackle of the fire as your witness.
After that, we need only sound convincing. You may do anything you want to me, and I will try to make my performance believable. Whatever you do, I shall bear it happily.
You want to make him regret that. You want to make him regret looking at you as he licks your blood and your arousal from your hand, as he moans like a whore about it, as he bats his mismatched eyes and kisses the cut on your skin before rewrapping it like you are the greatest gift he has ever received. You want to crack him open and spill his contents all over the bed sheets for them to find in the morning, and know that you did.
There are noises beyond the shield of the opaque curtains that remind you of just who is on the other side, listening to everything that you do. It bothers you, enough that you feel the cold fingers of dread tightening around your throat. But you cannot allow it to stop you when you've come so far already.
So, you kiss Valarr deeply, capturing the taste of your blood on his tongue and swallowing his moan as it bubbles up out of his chest. He catches you with his hands on your hips as you lift yourself over him, planting your knees on the mattress. You reach down and unravel the tie of his robe, allowing it to fall open and off of his shoulders, leaving him in naught but his linen shirt.
You may do anything you want to me. He has no idea of the things you want to do to him. He cannot possibly fathom how vicious your desire for him is— it's an all-consuming thing, and the only way you'll be able to survive it is if you just give in to your urges.
As you slide his linen shirt up his torso, you slide your lips along his jaw, sucking once against the curve just below his ear. He gives a startled gasp and a small jerk of his hips, which you think was unplanned. You don't think he intended it, because he shudders just a bit when you smile and scrape your teeth along his throat.
You pull back to help him out of his shirt, letting it fall to the mattress beside you. He gazes up at you, wide-eyed in the candlelight, entirely naked beneath you. His cheeks flushed, the V drawn in blood between his brows looks darker than it should. You place your hands on either side of his head and bend down to lave your tongue across the mark, tasting his blood the way that he did, yours.
Valarr's mouth drops open on a silent moan. His fingers tighten against your hips, the flush from his cheeks reaching down across his freckled shoulders and chest. You drag your hands down his chest, lowering them down towards where his cock rests heavily against his navel, hard and leaking. His core muscles tighten beneath your touch, his breath falling from his parted lips in a stuttered rhythm.
And then, you stop. Just short of touching his cock, you pull your hands away and lift yourself from his lap. His hands tighten once— just once, just enough for you to know that he wants you to stay, to keep going. But you do not yield, and he doesn't argue. Just releases your hips with a soft sigh through his nose, mildly disappointed at the distance.
But your hands keep feeling him. That's the thing that seems to vex him the most. You start again at his shoulders, your palm running flat across his pectorals and over to the other shoulder as you shift, rocking onto your knees beside him. You can see the questions spinning around in his head, the look of what are you doing etched on his face like words on a page. He turns his head, following you with his eyes as you move, until you swing your leg around his body from behind and sit against the pillows behind him.
Valarr's breath audibly hitches, and his head snaps forward. Your legs bracket his hips, your pelvis nearly crushed up against his lower back. You rest against the headboard of the bed and smooth your hand over his shoulder, down between his shoulder blades, and begin to trace around the vertebrae of his spine with your thumbs.
"Oh." The word leaves him on an exhale, and he hangs his head. You trace your way down his spine, applying gentle pressure and watching goosebumps raise on his skin. When you reach the bottom of his ribs, you begin tracing your way back up and watch a full body shudder roll through him.
You reach his neck and wrap both hands over his shoulders, digging your thumbs into his trapezius muscles. As you drag downwards, Valarr lets out a moan that makes you both freeze at how loud it is.
You drag your knuckles lightly up and down his back, and lean forward to press a kiss just below his ear. "When was the last time anyone rubbed your back like this, husband?"
"Never." The word is slightly more than a breath in your direction as he turns his head, but you hear it. He looks practically sun burnt with how red his face is.
"Hmm. No more." You pepper him with kisses across his shoulders, massaging your way down his back again and pressing into knots as you go. You aren't surprised to find him so tense— he is a knight, a soldier by station and a Prince of the Realm. He has more than enough reasons to be wound tight, and so you spend a decent amount of time working it out of him, bit by bit, until he nearly sags back against you.
Once you're sure that you've disarmed him enough, you slide your hands slowly around his waist to hug him from behind, pulling him back against you. He goes willingly, but turns his head to look at you questioningly, as though he's still trying to figure out what your plan is. You merely smile at him, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and begin running your palms across his chest, down toward his stomach.
He grumbles a low sound, his jaw clenched tight and his brow drawn as he watches your hand sweep low, and lower still, until you're nearly an inch away from his cock. His legs twitch, and his hand moves as though he means to grab your wrist, to stop you or urge you on.
You lift one hand, moving your arm around his shoulder to cradle his jaw in your palm and turn his head towards you. Valarr's eyes find yours, and— he's desperate. You shake your head at him, your nose nearly bumping his as you move, telling him not to fight you. But his brow is drawn in consternation, his pulse jumping beneath your hand like pure adrenaline is pumping through his veins, just from the touch of your hand against his core.
"Let me," you whisper to him. You trace your finger back and forth, feeling his chest leap with his breath the longer you hover there. But you wait, until he gives you the smallest nod of assent, and then you're on him.
You wrap your hand around his cock, your thumb immediately brushing over the flushed tip. He jerks in your grip, a moan breaking in his throat at the contact. He's hot to the touch, hard and growing harder as you flex your fist and stroke him once.
Valarr makes a rough sound in his throat and takes your hand, momentarily stopping your movements. He lifts your hand in his, just to bring it to his mouth and drag the wet swath of his tongue over it. He gets you dripping with his spit, taking his time with it, until you find yourself grinding up against his back just from the feeling of his tongue on your hand and the wetness dripping between your fingers.
And then he moves your hand back down to his cock, and he wraps his hand around with yours, guiding you where he wants you. He uses a firm grasp, harder than you would have given to him on your own— but you like watching him squirm, and he seems more intent to do things quickly and efficiently.
Which, perhaps, is a good idea in this scenario. But you make a mental note to spend some time in another instance, another night, taking him to pieces, and taking your time doing it.
"Make it believable," you whisper against his skin, following the pace that he sets in earnest.
Valarr chuckles hoarsely, an airy thing that barely even meets your ears. "Anything for you," he breathes as he fucks his hips up into your joined fists with a quiet growl.
You press an open-mouthed kiss to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, as his tendons strain and his chest leaps with his breath. You let your tongue dance over his skin, salty with sweat and warm from the heat of the enclosed space and the exertion you're putting him through.
He moves your hand up and down in time with his, tightening your grip around him harshly each time you reach his leaking tip. The feeling of his cock sliding through your fist sets your body alight in a way that you can barely fathom. You turn your face into his neck, fitting your teeth around his skin to muffle the quiet moans that threaten to spill out of your mouth. You told him that they were for his ears only, and you meant it.
But one does escape. Quiet, and soft, and probably too low to make it past the curtains and to your audience. It vibrates against his skin, falls upon his ears like a sigh.
"Seven fuck—" Valarr's his snap violently up into your hand, making the bed shake, the wood creak with the strength of it. "Fuck. Fuck."
"Cum for me," you say quietly, directly into his ear. His breath hitches, a startled noise leaving him at the sound of your voice. "Valarr. Cum."
It takes him two more strokes. Warmth coats your joined hands, and he cums with a strangled moan that he half-swallows as he turns his face toward you, seeking out your lips. You cradle his face with your free hand, taking to him with an open mouth and a gracious tongue.
You've never felt so needy in your life. His hand still holding yours on his cock, his tongue in your mouth, you have to remind yourself why you aren't going to fuck him tonight. Why this is all that will happen on your wedding night— or, at least, until the audience leaves and your husband has a moment to collect himself.
You let Valarr lift your joined hands, covered in his spend, and you meet his eye as you both lick the evidence of what you've done from your hands. Between your fingers, your tongues meet in a depraved, possessive dance. Then, he lifts the bed sheet roughly and wipes his stomach with it, letting his cum stain the linen.
He collapses back against your chest, heaving a sigh that you feel resonate in your body. He closes his eyes briefly, and then opens them again, before he says aloud, "It is done. Begone."
You listen to the scraping of chairs, footsteps, low voices as the witnesses leave the room one by one. You think you hear a septon say a final prayer at the foot of the bed, which then makes you have to bite down on Valarr's shoulder to stop from laughing. Which then makes Valarr moan in the midst of the prayer, and you hear the prayer stop abruptly, and you have to struggle twice as hard to silence your laughter.
By the time the chamber door shuts with a resounding bang, Valarr is laughing, too.
After a moment, he squeezes your thigh and disentangles himself, crawling on all fours to the end of the bed. You watch from your seat, unabashedly, as he pokes his head out of the curtains to look around the room and confirm that no one remains. You admire his backside, his ass, the firmness of his thighs and the strong muscles of his back that you still intend to knead and push until you've heard every sound of relief that you can possibly steal from between his lips.
Valarr ducks his head back inside of the canopy. "The knife?"
You feel around awkwardly in the sheets until your fingers brush the hilt of the knife, and you hand it to him by the blade. He takes it gingerly, careful not to cut you, and leans out to tuck the knife under the cushion of a nearby chair.
"Servants are nosy, but they won't be looking there in the morning," he says with an easy smile as he straightens himself, and then turns to you. His face screws up as he looks at you, arranging the pillows and turning back the bed sheets. "What are you doing?"
"I'm… going to bed?"
"No." Valarr shakes his head, beginning to crawl up the mattress towards your seated form. "No no no. You will do no such thing, dear wife. Not after that."
"Wh— Valarr." You yelp when he grabs you by the ankle, yanking you down the bed towards him.
"We are quite alone, now. And you've tasted me," he murmurs as he guides your robe and your nightgown up your legs. He kisses the inside of your thigh and breathes a small sigh against your skin. "So now it's my turn."
content warning: nsfw. prostate milking. bodily fluids used as lubrication. jealousy. prince x crossdressing sworn knight relationship. manhandling. implied loss of virginity. hand-job. mention of pegging. dubious consent.
“What makes you believe he is interested in me?”
“The way he stares at you.” Baelor answers as a hand ascends to flatten the hair behind his head down–a habit he often did when he was upset but could not outright say what it was that was upsetting him.
“And if I were to return his affections?” you ask in retaliation, a brow rising when you catch the falter in his gaze and the clenching of one of his hands before he’s able to shield it behind his back.
He retorts, “You have your sworn oath to abide by.” and spins one of the rings adorning his fingers.
“That is true,” the corner of your mouth curls the tiniest bit at his visceral display of jealousy, “it is most fortunate, then, that he prefers the company of men over women.”
Baelor’s eyes widen, body relaxing almost immediately as the wisps of envy unclasp their claws from his heart.
“And, how do you know this?"
With a casual shrug, you confess that you had seen him with a stable boy several months ago, adding, “It was quite the show.” afterwards.
A startled “Oh,” is all the older man is capable of uttering at your vulgar confession, the laid-back manner in which you relayed it to him both jarring and arousing.
“I may be a lady by birth, but I am also a knight by oath and choice,” you explain for the nth time, removing the vambrace that had shielded your forearms from countless attacks earlier that afternoon, “I’ve heard, as well as seen, many things, your grace.”
The admission holds a suffocating weight to it.
“Have you partaken in such activities?” Baelor asks after a pause.
“Of course not,” you reply with a shudder, evidently offended, “I prefer to release pent up energy in the arena.”
“Ah,” he hums, pleased.
You turn to watch his face as you continue to remove your armour, “Have you ever..”
“No, but I have witnessed it.”
His honesty catches you by surprise, halting your movements, “Recently?” you sound far too excited.
Baelor gives a slight shake of his head, “It was during the Blackfyre rebellion,” he moves to take a seat on the bench behind him, “a walk through the woods to clear my head offered more than what I was hoping to find.”
Treading closer, your fingers curl below his bristly chin to study his face, “Did you enjoy it?”
“Not particularly, no,” he answers truthfully, a furrowing of his brows gives you reason to suspect he is replaying the moment.
“What if,” you step closer, until the steel strapped around your knees hits the inner part of his thighs, “it was you and I in those woods?”
Baelor’s breath hitches, the immediate expansion of his pupils a clear indication that he liked that imagery quite a bit.
“You,” your fingers slide into the hair around his nape, “on your hands and knees,” a harsh tug elicits a low groan from the older man, “and I,” his eyelids close when your nails scrape over his scalp, “mounting you.”
His eyes shoot wide open, a sharp “What?” reverberating within the space.
“I would prepare you, your grace,” you assure softly, thumbs moving to caress the lines framing his alarmed stare, “I would enter you slowly.”
His cheeks burn beneath your touch when you move the knee pressing into him upwards, continuing until it’s dragging over the tented centre of his breeches.
“You would sodomize your future king?” his voice is velvety–every exhale that leaves his parted lips uneven.
“Happily, your grace.”
Baelor was purposely riling you up.
He let her touch him, let her hand rest atop his for a beat longer than he should have, smiled at her warmly when she whispered in his ear.
Since you could not ask for his favour, you ride up to their seated forms and ask for hers. With a sweet smile and red, blotchy cheeks, she happily ties her cloth around your lance before returning to his side to watch the tournament begin.
You catch his gaze in the slit of your visor–the playful glint and curvature of his mouth was all you needed to see to know he was thoroughly enjoying the fact that you were seething with jealousy and there was nothing, at this current moment, you could do to ease it.
Unsurprisingly, you are unhorsed almost immediately, causing a roar from spectators that was equal amounts outrage and elation.
You return to your tent with a limp and, less than a beat later, Baelor is stepping inside after you with hands clasped behind his back and an expression of genuine concern on his face.
With an evident desire of inflicting pain on the older man, you push him down into the dirt, ignoring the pain that shoots up your knees when you straddle him.
“Did you enjoy that, my prince?” your words sound slurred behind the helm.
A low groan leaves his chest when you tug open his breeches; your knees move to dig into his splayed palms so that he is unable to reciprocate your touches. With gauntlet-covered hands, you remove his dusky, twitching cock out of its confines and begin to pull the half-hardened flesh with tight, rough tugs.
From the opening of your helm, you see a clear fluid beading at the tip before it drips down the side of his girth, following the pulsating, thick vein that runs down the length of it.
Before he is able to reach completion, you stop and rise to remove the codpiece as well as the thick, woolen breeches that obscure your smallclothes from his eyes.
Baelor’s mouth falls open when you use a dagger to cut through the last remaining layer and, without a lick of preparation, align the entrance of your core with the fat head of his cock and slide down to the hilt. The sound he releases is choked and guttural; a stifled cluster of pleas leave his lips when your tight walls pull him further inside of you.
“Mm,” you’re wincing, hands tightening in the wrinkled fabrics of his clothes.
While the pain is excruciating, it’s also a pleasant burn; it feels like he is splitting you in half, yet, you cannot help but remain flush against him, neck extended backwards as you repeatedly constrict around his cock.
Less than several beats later, you’re moving up and down, the combination of blood and slick that coats his shaft makes every downward slide and upward cant of his hips a slippery, smooth motion. A spring begins to coil tighter within your belly until all that you are able to feel, taste, smell is your prince.
The obscene sound of your sopping core slamming down onto his pelvis ricochets throughout the tent, heightening your arousal at the possibility of being discovered.
The heir to the throne fucking his sworn knight on the unforgiving dirt of a tourney tent.
The thought makes you clench hard–a strangled cry echoes within your helmet as your release washes over you, tightly caging his cock within your inner walls.
“Gods,” Baelor gasps.
Immediately, you rise to relieve him of his boots and breeches entirely; you lay your cape onto the ground, flip him onto his stomach, trapping his weeping cock down the length of his thighs, and move to kneel between his legs.
“May I pleasure you, your grace?” your voice is sultry as you remove your gauntlets.
For a long beat, Baelor does not speak, then, a soft, even-toned, “You may,” leaves his lips. His hands rise to grip the cloth he was sprawled atop, providing you with a view of his bloodied knuckles.
You take your time to work him open, using your shared fluids to loosen him just enough for you to slide a slick, wiggling digit inside of him.
He is just as soft as you imagined he would be, as well as hot and tight.
“Are you in pain, my prince?” you want to take off your helm to get a better look at the way he hugs your finger, gripping you as though he means to swallow your entire arm.
But you can’t, because it would ruin the facade–the image of the prince being spread apart by his sworn knight.
“No.” Baelor chokes, cock dribbling onto the cloth below when your finger begins to curl and twist until you find what it is you’re looking for, and then he’s groaning, “Oh, Gods–,”
It’s easy to find the smooth, spongy bulb you had heard about, the difficult part is slowing the speed in which you stroke it, not wanting him to release so quickly.
“Does that feel good, your grace?”
Gargled, inaudible words leave his throat; his forehead presses into the flesh of his forearm as you increase the pressure of your finger. A sheen of sweat rises over his lower half as the tremor in his thighs intensifies, inciting him to murmur, “I feel as though–,”
You reach up to grasp his neglected cock with your free hand, milking it in tandem with the pace of your strokes inside of him.
“Spread out like a whore for your protector,” the filthy words leave your lips before you can stop yourself, lust licking at every ounce of your being, “what would the realm think if they could see you now, your grace?”
With a pathetic whimper he’s releasing, shooting ribbons of cum over your cape, his own thighs, over your armour–some even lands atop your pelvis.
Your laboured breaths lessen with every beat that passes and soon enough it is the howling cheers and clash of lances hitting steel that once again fills the space.
“Are you in any pain, your grace?” concern for your prince drowns out the dull throbbing between your own legs as you hunch over his shaking form.
“No,” Baelor meekly mumbles once his vision returns, “no, I–that was interesting.”
He moves to lay on his back, the tops of his thighs scratched despite your efforts to protect him from the gravel below.
“A pleasant interesting?”
His shaky hands rise to remove your helmet, then he’s cradling your face to pull you down and press soft kisses over the skin of your heated, sweaty face.
to be felled by you | baelor targaryen x fem!reader (18+)
summary: It's your wedding night with the prince, and you're terrified he'll find out you're not a maiden
author notes: There's some plot before it gets to the explicit part. If you're into that, great! If not, this is the heads-up :)
content notes/warnings: explicit sexual content, baelor targaryen x reader, baelor targaryen x you, a sprinkle of sworn knight x reader, plot with smut, wedding night, reader is not a virgin and stressed about getting found out, fingering, pinv sex, voice kink, dirty talk, soft dom baelor, mention of moon tea, canon universe, some period-accurate misogyny, alcohol, older man x younger woman, no use of Y/N, no beta read
word count: 2.6k words
dividers by @saradika-graphics and @strangergraphics
It's a great honor. You should be happy.
Those were the words that rang in your ears. You sat at the table laden with all the realm's delicacies; the scent of spilled wine mixed with the suffocating cloud of sweat from the dancers.
Every now and then, lords and ladies walked up to pay their respects, kneeling in front of you. In some ways, it worked out being stuck listening to their well-wishes and blessings: there was a lot on your mind.
It's a great honor.
Your handmaiden's words, as she braided your hair the day you were betrothed.
You should be happy.
Your cousin's words as she kissed you goodbye, with a glint of envy in her voice.
Do not dishonor our house.
Your father's last words to you as he walked you to the altar.
As the hours passed, you felt more like a convict waiting to be led to the gallows than a bride on her wedding day.
'Are you well, my lady?'
Startled, you looked to your right. The prince's hand was leisurely resting on yours; nothing too sentimental, but a gesture that sent the appropriate message for the room full of people.
'Of course, Your Grace,' you flashed him a reassuring smile, but had an unnerving feeling he wasn't convinced. Nevertheless, he didn't push it. He turned back to the lord who had strolled up to the table.
It was the most important night in the whole Realm. Prince Baelor, heir to the throne, took a new wife; you never thought it might be you.
But it just so happened that both your older sisters passed from fever. It left you with a dowry that rivaled that of the Lannisters, and the king wanted to unite his house with an ancient family.
Your father was elated. You always thought one day he'd ship you off to some old lord. It would be fine, you used to think, disappearing somewhere far. No one would pay you any mind ever again; no one would care what you did, or where you went, as long as you were there to warm your husband's bed. But this was different; married to the heir, you'd be watched forever.
If you knew, you would've been more careful; but you were so young, and thought that your life was going to end in some backwater keep with a lord thrice your age, who couldn't even see who he was screwing.
So when you found yourself in your young and handsome sworn shield's embrace, you let him have you. You just wanted to feel something, and the moment his hand brushed yours was like a dam that broke in you. You promised yourself it was just that one time, but one time became another, and another. You didn't recognize the person you were when with him. You were drinking in those nights like you knew they had to sustain you for the rest of your life.
You confided in your handmaiden; like she told you to, you reached carefully for a small knife by your plate. Making sure no one saw you, you tucked it into the sleeve of your dress. The cool steel resting against your skin was unsettling.
You shot a look over at the prince, making sure he did not see you just then. He was watching the crowd with a calculating gaze. You prayed–though you weren't sure who would listen–that he didn't notice the absence of your sworn knight.
You saw him last night. The hour was late, but you were awake, pacing nervously in front of the window. It was unwise, but you took him to bed.
A bit later, he donned his armor silently and turned to you:
'My lady, I will surrender my post in the morrow. I hope you can forgive me.'
You sat up, covering yourself with the sheets.
'You're leaving? Where?'
'Wherever they'll have me. I cannot serve under your new husband's banner. I've sullied my honor,' he said without meeting your eyes.
'People will talk... more so if you leave right before the wedding–'
'You will be queen one day. No one can touch you.'
'I am not queen yet!' you began to panic, 'Do you understand what they might do with me, if it's found out that–'
'Forgive me, my lady.'
He left, and like he said, by the morning he was gone.
It was when a quarrel broke out amidst a group of drunk men that Baelor signaled the servants and handmaids over.
They led you to Baelor's room: you'd never seen it before and weren't sure what to expect. Likely something grand, opulent.
To your surprise, when you stepped inside, you were greeted by a spacious but dimly lit room with sprawling bookcases. By the window stood a large table with candles that melted into mounds. In the middle was a bed covered in a rich golden duvet, and near it was a lit fireplace. It was actually somewhat... welcoming.
And it almost made you forget that you had to act fast. You hurried up to the bed and ran your hand under the mattress, looking for a dent. The silk sheets were pleasantly cool against your fingertips. You found a place where you could nicely hide the knife and find it later; you reached into your sleeve and pulled it out.
When you were sure the knife was neatly tucked in, you smoothed the blanket and turned to find Baelor standing in the doorway, watching you quietly.
The blood froze in your veins.
How long had he been standing there? How did you not hear him coming? Did he see... Gods, did he think...
'It's not what it looks like, Your Grace...' your voice quavered, and the ice in your veins morphed into hot mortification when you realized that your fate could turn even darker. If they thought you were trying to hurt the prince...
'Like what, my lady?' his expression was impossible to read. You had no idea what was going on in his head as he considered you. It was like he had a drape up, keeping anyone from seeing inside.
It was this expression that you noticed when you first met him in your home. Even then, as you walked with him in your gardens, you couldn't tell how he felt about the match. But he sounded kind; you noticed that too. It was one reason you felt less scared about the marriage.
Even now, as he inquired of you, you noted the soft edges of his voice. As if he wasn't questioning you about why you just hid a knife in your wedding bed.
'Do not fret, my lady. I think you to be smarter than to attack the king's heir with a butter knife,' there was a light jest in his voice, which you found strange.
What were you supposed to say? That you were going to wait till he was asleep to cut yourself and stain the sheets, hoping he wouldn't figure out you were not a maiden?
Just bring the guards and send me back to my father, you thought, and closed your eyes. There would be hell to pay once your family found out. You'd be better off running away.
He walked up to his table, where a pitcher of wine and two goblets stood.
'Come,' he said, and you did.
He poured you a cup first, then one for himself. He drank, and you followed suit. You weren't sure what else to do. After a bit of consideration, he broke the silence.
'I thought you seemed troubled since this morning,' he said as he examined the wine in his cup, 'at first, I thought it was just the nerves.'
Oh gods.
'After all, you've been put under immense pressure. Your lord father is a severe man. You have your entire house's name riding on your shoulders,' he was looking at you now, with that same calculating gaze he watched everyone with. You felt yourself bend under the weight of it.
'But I think there's something else burdening you, isn't there?' he asked.
You shut your eyes and awaited the accusation.
'Is it your knight?' his voice was lower now. There was a barely noticeable waver in it; was it from containing his anger?
You carefully put the goblet on his table, and descended to your knees.
'I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. My lord father didn't know. It was not his fault,' you said with a shaking voice, and waited for the flood of his rage. To be cast aside; to be thrown out. To face the thunder that came next.
Except that it didn't.
'Rise, my lady,' he said, and poured himself another cup. After a bit of consideration, he asked:
'Are you with child?'
You shook your head.
'My handmaiden helped me source moon tea from the Grand Maester. I ordered her to. Please do not punish her,' before you could think, you told him. You could only hope he would have mercy on them.
'Does anyone else know?'
You shook your head again.
'Only my handmaiden and I. And my sworn knight. He resigned from his station this morning,' your voice was barely audible.
He stared into his cup just like before. A long silence, before he spoke again.
'Do you love him?'
Your eyes jumped to him: you expected him to sneer at you, to spit in your face, or, at best, dismiss you without another glance. But to this, you were unsure how to answer. You decided to tell the truth.
'I do not.'
He turned back to you.
'Why, then?,' he asked, with a small frown on his face. You could tell he was still studying you, but there was something else now, too. Puzzlement? Curiosity, perhaps?
You tapped your finger on the goblet, before you were able to answer.
'Because I wanted something for myself.'
The honesty of that surprised even you, but it was true.
Ever since you could remember, you felt a terrible dread hovering over your head; it felt like your life had ended before it could even begin. The first time you realized that feeling quieted was when your hands touched your knight's. It was after a tourney; he'd asked for your favor. He won, but was badly injured, and you visited him afterwards.
'Are you going to send me away, Your Grace?' you asked Baelor, waiting for the blow.
He considered you for a second, leaning against his table.
'Why would I do that?'
It was the second time he surprised you with something he said. You tried to read his face to see if he was perhaps mocking you, but it didn't seem so. He was genuinely asking.
'Because I am not a maiden. You married me believing you were getting a pure bride; I have deceived you,' you said, though it was strange you had to spell it out.
'That's not the reason I married you,' he said, with a strange level of calmness.
Everything about this conversation was curious. Seeing your frowning expression, he continued.
'This match was made because the king hoped to unite an ancient house with the crown. As far as that is concerned, you haven't erred. As for our personal hopes...'
He trailed off and fiddled with one of his rings, the one with the Targaryen sygil.
'It is my sincere hope that you can find happiness here. But if you wish to go home...' he looked into your eyes, and you were shocked to see his typical calculating watch gone. He seemed genuine.
'...If you wish to go home, there is still time.'
That, you didn't expect. You were so terrified of the prospect that it never crossed your mind that it would be presented to you as an option.
No, you did not want to go back home.
You walked to him; he watched you as you got closer, trying to read what you were going to say. He was always studying people like that: you noticed it from the moment you first met him. Perhaps as the Hand, he'd had to get accustomed to reading between the lines, planning moves as he spoke with lords. Trying to spot what someone's next motion might be, what they might say.
You were now in front of him; you felt his gaze on you. You stood there for a minute, in front of this invisible line. You wondered if he was going to move over it, when you realized: he was waiting for you to do so.
You reached your hand out and brushed it against his. You felt a whir in your ears at that touch; you'd been technically wed for hours but never been... like this.
He ran his fingers against your knuckles, then on your arm; you finally took the courage to look up at him. Your face was inches away: he'd kissed you before at the sept during your vows, but this was different. Then, thousands of eyes and the murmurs of spectators; this time, just the crackling of fire and the feel of his breath against your lips.
He closed the space between you, and you marveled at the softness. It made you smile. Your worries from earlier melted away as you went to rest your palms on his chest; he caressed your arm, planting soft kisses on your mouth.
You began to run your hand lower, and his breath hitched in response. He deepened the kiss, and you felt a pleasant jolt in your belly as his tongue entered your mouth.
'You said you wanted something for yourself,' he said between kisses.
'Yes, Your Grace...'
'Tell me what you want,' he breathed against your mouth, and it sent a shiver down your spine.
'Your Grace, I–'
'Baelor. Call your husband by his name.'
'Baelor...'
'Yes,' he said while he ran his mouth over your throat.
'Mm... Keep talking to me,' you said, shuddering at the feel of his stubble against your skin.
His voice was one of the first things you took notice of when you met him.
It was, in some ways, jarring when compared to his looks. He seemed serious, stern, intimidating even, with his ever-calculating gaze. So his voice held a tenderness you didn't expect: warm, raspy, dancing in a gentle but assured tone. When he talked, you felt... sheltered. That's what you noticed as you walked with him that afternoon, when he and his entourage arrived at your father's castle.
Now, hearing his words made your pulse quicken.
'Turn around for me.'
You did, and he unlaced your corset. When he hooked his fingers to remove it, you shuddered.
He had you facing him again as he ran his palm over your small clothes. He slipped his hand in, and you gasped at the contact. You could hear how wet you were for him already.
He studied your face as he touched you. Then, in a voice that sent a dull ache to your center, he said:
'Did he fuck you last night?'
Your mouth fell agape from the feeling of his fingers rubbing you, spreading your come, and from the question he just asked. Heat enveloped your face...
'I asked if he fucked you last night.'
Shame bubbled in you as you nodded–then cried out as he pushed two fingers inside you as a retort.
'Is that what you're doing on the night before you're wed?' his fingers pushed against that spot in you that made you buck against his palm.
'Fucking your knight in your bedchamber?'
'I'm sorry,' you pleaded, desperately digging your hands into the bedposts, as he worked on you with his hands.
'Could've come to me,' he said, leaning against your ear now, in a low voice, 'if you needed to be fucked so bad.'
That was all you needed; you came pulsing around his fingers, panting a string of apologies, over and over again. You pleaded for his forgiveness and promised yourself to him, as he made you his wife that night.
congrats on 650!!! for the prompt requests might i ask for office sex with bff dad!baelor? maybe reader comes to visit him at the museum?? i cannot get these two out of my head (nor do i want too lol)
thank you so much for your words and for the request! i actually got pretty heated up with this one ngl
Grateful Prompt List
57. Office Sex | modern!BFF's dad!Baelor x f!reader
You brought him coffee.
This was, officially and if anyone asked, the reason. The truth was that six days without seeing him — schedules, work, the general inconvenience of life asserting itself — had woken up that the specific restlessness of someone who had decided that enough was enough and the museum was not, in fact, that far out of the way.
You were also wearing a dress he had particularly liked a few weeks ago.
The receptionist waved you through without looking up. Third time this month. You were furniture to her at this point, which you found enormously pleasing because she didn't ask you anymore about your reasons for visiting.
His office door was half open. You knocked on the frame and he looked up from whatever he was reading and the specific sequence of things that happened in his expression — you, the coffee, that dress, back to you — took approximately two seconds and communicated everything.
"Hi," you smiled.
"Hi," he mimicked, and took his glasses off, which he only did when he had decided the reading was finished.
You set the coffee on the desk and settled into the chair across from him with the ease of someone completely comfortable in this room, which you were. His office had become one of your favourite places in the city, all books and warm lamplight and the particular quality of a space that was used thoroughly and loved. You had spent two hours in this chair last month while he finished a report, reading one of his books, and had left feeling inexplicably content.
That visit had been less eventful than this one was going to be. You'd made sure of it.
He picked up the coffee. Drank it. Set it back down. Looked at you over the desk with those eyes that had never quite mastered neutrality where you were concerned and said nothing, which from Baelor said quite a lot.
"I was in the area," he raised a curious eyebrow at your words. "Taking the scenic route," you explained.
The corner of his mouth moved fractionally. He glanced at the dress and back to your face and stood up.
He crossed to the door and locked it.
The sound of the lock was specific. Immediate. You watched him do it with the calm deliberateness he brought to everything and felt the cheerful composure you had arrived with become something more complicated.
He came back to the desk. Did not sit down. He stood in front of you and looked at you sitting in his chair in the dress with the coffee you had brought and the smile that was, second by second, conquering your whole face.
He offered you his hand.
You took it and he pulled you up and kissed you, and the kiss had six days in it and the specific warmth of finally, and your hands went to his lapels and you stopped thinking about anything more.
He lifted you onto the desk.
His hands — those hands, large and certain and spanning you completely — and then his mouth at your throat and the papers he had been working on somewhere beneath you.
"I gather we have to be quiet," you said softly, against his hair.
"Mm," he replied, against your throat, which was not a commitment exactly but was all you were getting.
His mouth bit specifically that funny point Baelor knew too well and you made a sound immediately — involuntary, too loud for the context — and his hand came up and covered your mouth with the calm efficiency of someone implementing an obvious solution.
You bit his palm and passed your tongue a few times across it. He pulled back and looked at you and you could see there was little of his usual restraint in his eyes.
"You absolute menace," he whispered amused, which earned him an extra pair of swipes from your tongue. You pressed a smile to his hand and he descended again to your throat.
Baelor decided that kissing you was the better solution instead of stating the thing your eyes, completely lewd looking back at him from behind his hand, was doing to him.
Six days made it fast and necessary in a way that your previous times had not been — urgent in the specific way of something that had been waiting and was done waiting, his hands on your hips with a certainty that left no ambiguity and his mouth finding every place he had apparently been thinking about with the focused efficiency of a man working through a list he had been maintaining.
He pushed his cock inside you and went completely still — that moment, always that moment — his forehead dropping to yours, jaw tight, every muscle held.
You moaned against his palm. A rough exhale from him. His hands tightened. Then he moved and both of you made sounds that were immediately muffled — yours into his palm, his into your throat — and the specific quality of trying to be quiet together, the shared effort of it, was somehow more intimate than anything that did not require the trying.
Footsteps in the corridor and you both froze for a moment.
His eyes found yours in the stillness — wide, slightly stunned, and then something else moved through them that was the contained version of what you were also feeling — and you pressed a smile against his hand again and felt his chest moving against yours with the suppressed laughter of someone who not only found the situation equal parts amusing and risky, but that was also getting turned on by the perspective of getting caught by one of his colleagues.
The footsteps faded. He exhaled, pressed his mouth to your temple and resumed the thrusting of his hips against your core.
You came quietly with your face pressed into his shoulder and his name breathed so low it was barely sound, and felt him follow with your name muffled into your throat and his whole body shuddering through it with the specific effort of containment.
The room settled. Both of you worked to find your breaths again, his forehead against yours and a smile sitting on his face. After a moment you became aware of the crumpled papers on which you had been sitting the whole time, now a crumpled mess underneath you.
"Those seem important," you mentioned.
"They were," Baelor simply stated, pressing soft kisses against the column of your neck.
"You seem strangely calm about it," a smiled tugged at your lips.
"I find that the tradeoff was entirely worth it," a swipe from his tongue.
Heat crept up your face again. You laughed. "You are impossible."
"I'm actually rather pleased with myself," he smiled, and kissed you once before he started dealing with the mess.
You watched him straighten with his shirt untucked and found yourself thinking that this was one of your favourite versions of him — the composure not quite reassembled, the warmth of the last twenty minutes still sitting visibly in his expression while he sorted some papers with the focus of a man who was pretending to be entirely normal. The slight trembling of his hands that you saw when he straightened and fixed his shirt told you that he was far from feeling normal.
He picked up the coffee and drank the rest of it cold without comment. Looked at you still sitting on the edge of his desk.
"So," his tone was openly teasing in a manner that you were getting pretty used to, "how was the scenic route?"
"Absolutely worth it," you replied with an open grin as you ogled the dip of his neck, a few of his chest hairs adorning the skin.
Something in his face did the thing and he kissed you once more before he went and unlocked the door.
↪︎want more modern!BFF's dad!Baelor? check out this masterlist!
Ever since I saw Baelor spread his legs at the joust I've had this thought in my head. How about reader wanting so badly to please Baelor. Wants to learn what he likes. Wants him to teach her but then she learns she has no gag reflex. I need that man in my throat yesterday.
oh 😳
(nsfw)
—
Who knew that catching a glimpse of your husband’s widely spread legs during a banquet feast earlier that day, one that celebrated the newly forged treaty he had formed with a neighbouring house, would have dire, wanton effects on your psyche.
It had you bursting into his private library, late into the evening, to collapse between his parted legs and shamelessly beg him to teach you how to pleasure him.
After a beat of stunned silence, Baelor’s alarmed look slowly transformed into one of amusement. He moved forward to hold the sides of your face, the parchment he had been studying now abandoned on the floor.
“I wish to please you as you have pleased me.”
“You already do, my dear,” he assured you, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as his fingers mindlessly tucked loose strands of hair behind your ears.
“With my mouth upon your.. cock.” the sentence sounded foreign and clumsy on your tongue, but you refrained from allowing the embarrassment you felt to show on your features.
Baelor’s brows rose at the vulgar word but he did not comment on it. A contemplative look filled his eyes as they drifted over your form, taking in the eager twinkle in your stare and the way your fingers desperately clutched at his clothes.
More pleas left your lips, each one breaking down his resolute refusal to allow you to debase yourself until, finally, he permitted you to untie his breeches and free him to the open air.
“If you feel the slightest bit of unease,” he began, placing your shaky fingers at the base of his length, “stop immediately, I will not be upset.”
You placed several skittish licks over the swollen length before your lips parted to engulf the engorged, leaking tip of his thickness into your mouth.
“That’s it,” he sighed, head tilting to watch the way your cheeks hollowed around him, “don’t feel as though you must–,”
The abrupt groan that left Baelor’s lips was guttural and pathetic; his head fell backwards when, aside from the initial unfamiliar ache of having to open your mouth wide enough for him to slide past your lips, you showed no discomfort at having the entirety of his thick, pulsating cock down your throat.
“How–,” he sputtered, another ragged sound leaving his chest when the suction around his length tightened.
He had never been with someone who did not make it abundantly clear, either verbally or physically, that he was too large to properly orally pleasure. And yet, here you sat, the whole of his shaft encased in the velvety heat of your throat with your chin resting comfortably on his scrotum.
Startled, you moved back, frightened that you may have caused him pain, “Did I hurt you?”
“No, no, you’re.. wonderful,” was Baelor's uneven response, voice imbued with awe. He was certain you did not even know that what you had done was something not even the most gifted, well-trained courtesans were capable of.
He trembled when you moved back down his cock, a hand moving to loosely grasp the back of your neck. He could neither push you away nor pull you closer, helpless to the heavenly torture of your throat muscles pulling him deeper within.
Baelor offered praise in a sultry, hushed tone, deciding that you needed no further guidance. His eyelids lowered as he watched you move up and down his shaft, the candlelight reflecting in his one blue eye prettily.
“Gods–,” he reclined backwards, hips canting forward when you swallowed once more around his cock.
You could feel his spend dripping down your throat as the smell of his musk, body oils, and arousal filled your nose.
The heaviness that had weighed down on his shoulders the past few weeks was replaced with a lighter, satiated bliss as his release washed over him.
You moved away from his length with an obscenely loud pop and smiled up at him, lips swollen and tingly.
“Did I do well?” you knew the answer, but still, you wanted his praise.
Baelor sat back, staring at you for a long moment as his chest rose and fell in tandem with his racing heart, not speaking until he felt stable enough to.
“You were beyond perfect,” he murmured, sounding entranced and immensely pleased. It was followed by the low, nearly indiscernible muttering of, “made for me”.
Ever since I saw Baelor spread his legs at the joust I've had this thought in my head. How about reader wanting so badly to please Baelor. Wants to learn what he likes. Wants him to teach her but then she learns she has no gag reflex. I need that man in my throat yesterday.
oh 😳
(nsfw)
—
Who knew that catching a glimpse of your husband’s widely spread legs during a banquet feast earlier that day, one that celebrated the newly forged treaty he had formed with a neighbouring house, would have dire, wanton effects on your psyche.
It had you bursting into his private library, late into the evening, to collapse between his parted legs and shamelessly beg him to teach you how to pleasure him.
After a beat of stunned silence, Baelor’s alarmed look slowly transformed into one of amusement. He moved forward to hold the sides of your face, the parchment he had been studying now abandoned on the floor.
“I wish to please you as you have pleased me.”
“You already do, my dear,” he assured you, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as his fingers mindlessly tucked loose strands of hair behind your ears.
“With my mouth upon your.. cock.” the sentence sounded foreign and clumsy on your tongue, but you refrained from allowing the embarrassment you felt to show on your features.
Baelor’s brows rose at the vulgar word but he did not comment on it. A contemplative look filled his eyes as they drifted over your form, taking in the eager twinkle in your stare and the way your fingers desperately clutched at his clothes.
More pleas left your lips, each one breaking down his resolute refusal to allow you to debase yourself until, finally, he permitted you to untie his breeches and free him to the open air.
“If you feel the slightest bit of unease,” he began, placing your shaky fingers at the base of his length, “stop immediately, I will not be upset.”
You placed several skittish licks over the swollen length before your lips parted to engulf the engorged, leaking tip of his thickness into your mouth.
“That’s it,” he sighed, head tilting to watch the way your cheeks hollowed around him, “don’t feel as though you must–,”
The abrupt groan that left Baelor’s lips was guttural and pathetic; his head fell backwards when, aside from the initial unfamiliar ache of having to open your mouth wide enough for him to slide past your lips, you showed no discomfort at having the entirety of his thick, pulsating cock down your throat.
“How–,” he sputtered, another ragged sound leaving his chest when the suction around his length tightened.
He had never been with someone who did not make it abundantly clear, either verbally or physically, that he was too large to properly orally pleasure. And yet, here you sat, the whole of his shaft encased in the velvety heat of your throat with your chin resting comfortably on his scrotum.
Startled, you moved back, frightened that you may have caused him pain, “Did I hurt you?”
“No, no, you’re.. wonderful,” was Baelor's uneven response, voice imbued with awe. He was certain you did not even know that what you had done was something not even the most gifted, well-trained courtesans were capable of.
He trembled when you moved back down his cock, a hand moving to loosely grasp the back of your neck. He could neither push you away nor pull you closer, helpless to the heavenly torture of your throat muscles pulling him deeper within.
Baelor offered praise in a sultry, hushed tone, deciding that you needed no further guidance. His eyelids lowered as he watched you move up and down his shaft, the candlelight reflecting in his one blue eye prettily.
“Gods–,” he reclined backwards, hips canting forward when you swallowed once more around his cock.
You could feel his spend dripping down your throat as the smell of his musk, body oils, and arousal filled your nose.
The heaviness that had weighed down on his shoulders the past few weeks was replaced with a lighter, satiated bliss as his release washed over him.
You moved away from his length with an obscenely loud pop and smiled up at him, lips swollen and tingly.
“Did I do well?” you knew the answer, but still, you wanted his praise.
Baelor sat back, staring at you for a long moment as his chest rose and fell in tandem with his racing heart, not speaking until he felt stable enough to.
“You were beyond perfect,” he murmured, sounding entranced and immensely pleased. It was followed by the low, nearly indiscernible muttering of, “made for me”.
Baelor’s hand is gliding down the length of your back, the sheen of sweat that coats your skin makes the slide easy as his fingers descend to wrap around your nape.
He has you face down in the clumped, silken sheets of your bedding, curved into a deep arch with your backside high, wrists bound behind your back with a satin ribbon, and knees spread far apart enough for him to kneel between them.
The weight of his balls hits your clit with every hard, unyielding smack of his damp hips meeting your equally wet flesh; a combination of his arousal, your slick, his saliva, and the sweat that had dripped down your bodies reverberates obscenely in the chamber.
The most depraved part had not been the way he forced you to spread your slit apart for him to lap languidly at you, it was the large mirror he had propped up in front of the bed and had, at the very start, ordered you to maintain his gaze through.
Of course, you had obliged, but soon enough you were struggling to keep your drooping eyelids up, let alone unblurry and focused on his reflection.
Baelor tilts his head, “My sweet girl,” he’s cooing–a drawl that enters your ears and leaves a syrupy trail as it slinks down the length of your body to settle in the heated pit of your lower abdomen, “Gods, you’re dripping.”
A loud whine escapes your throat and, as though spellbound, you’re hypnotized by the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you only to reappear even more soaked than it was before.
“Good girl, so good,” he’s always been generous when it came to offering praise, however, this time there’s a sharper edge that accompanies every sweet word he bites out.
“So good,” is followed by a raspy, “so eager, my lovely girl.”
Mewls fill the room when his pace slows, the hair across his chest tickling your damp spine when he lowers to nibble on the plump flesh of your ear.
“Look at yourself,” Baelor practically purrs, the hand he had wrapped around your nape moving to hold your jaw, the tips of his fingers creating harsh indents in the plush of your cheeks, “soaking an old man’s cock.”
Immediately, a bolt of arousal shoots up your spine; your walls tighten around him until he can no longer leave your passage as your release engulfs every inch of your being, sending another flood of slick that smears between your bodies.
There’s a knowing glint in his eyes as he pauses to loom over your spasming form, caging you in the sweltering temperature of his body and the shrouded depth of his gaze.
Baelor had not meant to intrude on the private conversation you were having with your maid when he had entered the adjoining room of your shared quarters.
You were immersed in the discussion, the unusually hushed tone in which you spoke arousing his curiosity, beckoning him nearer to the door.
“The prince is kind, is he not?”
“Yes–oh, yes, of course,” you hurried to confirm, sounding guilt-ridden.
“Then, I don’t understand, princess.”
You remained quiet; for a long moment, the repetitive movement of a brush combing through hair was the only sound that filled the chamber.
Then, finally, you confessed, “I only wish that he would not be so kind in our marital bed.”
A beat of silence.
“Well,” your maid’s voice was low, “his grace is not as young as he once was.”
“I did not–,” you sob through gritted teeth, only to be cut off by the piercing movement of his cock pulling entirely out before it slammed back in, all the way to the hilt.
“Does this old man’s cock not please you?”
His hips are moving in slow, circular motions, it has him reaching a deeper depth–one that has your unrestrained keening bouncing off the stone walls.
“Baelor,” his name leaves your mouth like a plea. He ignores it, along with the sputtering attempts you make to explain yourself.
His arm slides around your waist to hold your back firmly against his torso just as the hand on your jaw tightens, and then, he’s hoisting you up.
From this angle, you can see everything.
The way your mouth hangs open and eyes roll back as he lifts you until you’re, quite literally, speared on his cock, how the lines between his brows deepen as he remains transfixed on your expression, to the lewd way your swollen folds hug his girth.
As though he were in a trance, his hold and pace becomes even less forgiving when your head lolls forward and another release plagues your body.
“Perhaps, I will keep you bound and spread for my pleasure,” Baelor’s nips along your shoulders are sharp, courtesy of his canines.
“Please, I did not–,” the explanation is smothered by a guttural moan, which is followed by a mantra of yeses and a repetition of pleas.
From the slits of your eyes, you can see that his pupils are blown, swallowing the entirety of the blue and brown that resides alongside it, giving him the appearance of a ravenous beast in the midst of a long-awaited feast.
Until, finally, he’s releasing inside of you.
With a shuddering breath, you feel the hot spurts of his seed fill you, continuing even as it drips down to pool in the bedding below.
Baelor immediately loosens the restraints around your wrists once he’s caught his breath, gentle hands moving you onto your back as he presses an apologetic kiss to your forehead.
“Are you in pain?” he asks quietly, shoulders tense with concern.
Your head shakes to assure him that you’re fine but your eyes are glossy and you’re unable to meet his gaze; Baelor realizes with a ragged exhale that he may have crossed a threshold you had not been prepared to venture past.
In your dazed state you do not notice that he leaves before the bed is dipping with his return, a tray of fruit having suddenly appeared beside your head.
Baelor cleans between your thighs with the damp cloth that he had also retrieved, removing all traces of your shared fluids before he reaches for another cloth that he uses to wipe the accumulated perspiration from your body.
“Forgive me,” Baelor murmurs, eyes downcast as his fingers lightly brush over the areas he had unintentionally dug his fingers into to maintain his hold on your slippery form.
Your mouth instinctively opens when he holds a berry to your lips, chewing slowly when your jaw clicks, throbbing from the bruising force he had grasped it with.
“Mm,” you hum after a moment, turning to lay on your side.
“I’m sorry, sweetling.”
Once he finishes, he feeds you until you confess you’re full, then slides his hands around your torso, trapping your limp arms between your bodies.
“Forgive me, sweet girl, I do not know what came over me,” he sounds painfully remorseful, mortified of his behaviour despite the look of satiated bliss on your face.
“There may be a way you can make it up to me,” the words are muffled against his chest, a teasing lilt following them.
“Anything you want–absolutely anything, my dear,” is Baelor’s eager response, “consider it already done.”
─ summary: Baelor catches you, his perfect daughter and favourite child, with his favourite brother.
─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x niece!reader,
─ content: 18+ MDNI | targcest | age gap | angst | shame | Baelor is momentarily kind of an asshole | old men coming to blows | fluff | implied smut |
─ a/n: part two is finally here! Part one here. As always, thank you for reading. 🖤
For a heartbeat, the world was silent save for a choked curse from Maekar beside you. Your hands flew to your bodice, fingers clumsy and numb as they fumbled with the laces. The silk felt rough against your skin. You could feel the heat of shame crawling up your neck. It had nothing to do with the act itself and everything to do with the look on your father's face.
Beside you, Maekar was already fastening his breeches, his movements economical and swift. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his eyes, usually so full of a molten warmth for you, were now wide with panic you had never seen before. He took a step toward the door.
"Maekar, no," You grabbed his arm, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his bicep. "Do not."
"I must," He tried to pull away, but you held on. "I must explain this to him."
"Explain?" A harsh, broken laugh escaped your lips. "He will kill you. He will run you through and not think twice on it. Did you not see his face?"
A sob tore from your throat, your shoulders shook, as you pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, as if you could physically hold the grief inside. Maekar reached for you, trying to pull you into an embrace. "My love,"
You slapped his hand away. The hurt that flashed across his face made you feel guilty, but you could not bear to be touched. "Do not," you choked out, turning your back to him, wrapping your arms around yourself. "Just… do not."
You could feel his gaze on the back of your neck. "I am sorry," he said finally. "I am sorry it happened thus. Yet he was always going to learn of it. I did not wish to keep you a secret."
You hated the words. In that moment, his declaration sounded almost like relief. As if this terrible, earth-shattering confrontation was a necessary step he was glad to have taken. You knew it was not fair, you knew it was your own pain twisting his meaning, but you could not help it. You turned back to him, face streaked with tears, and stepped into the circle of his arms.
He held you tightly, one hand stroking your hair, the other pressed firm against the small of your back, anchoring you. He rested his chin on the top of your head. "He will be angry," Maekar said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "But he cannot stay angry with you for long."
He could not have been more wrong.
The week that followed was an exercise in silent torture. Baelor did not speak to either of you, refusing to so much as look at either of you or be in the same room longer than necessary.
Where you had always stood at his side you found your place now occupied by your brother Valarr. He looked deeply uncomfortable to be in the middle of a squabble he did not understand. His pleading, apologetic gaze meeting yours. You felt like an exile in your own home.
You tried to bridge the chasm. Each morning, Baelor would break his fast with you, yet when you went to his solar, the place where you had always been welcomed without announcement, you were stopped by the guard. "My apologies, Princess. The Prince has asked not to be disturbed."
"Disturbed by me?"
"By anyone, Princess," he replied unconvincingly.
But the cruelest cut of all, the one that truly shattered you, was the tea. Since you were a small girl, you and your father had shared a private tea every seventh day in a small, sun-drenched room in the gardens. It was the one place in the world where titles and duty fell away. You would talk, he would listen, give you counsel, make you laugh as he sipped his tea, his eyes soft with affection. Here, he was just your papa.
You went to the sun room, fussing over the servants' work until it was just as you wanted. The tea was brewed, the little lemon cakes you both loved were on a plate, and the sun was high in the sky. You waited until the room grew cold, until the tea was undrinkable. He did not come.
You were utterly alone.
What you did not know was that Baelor had come. He had stood by the door only a few steps away, close enough to hear you singing a little tune. He had pictured you inside, waiting for him, your face bright with anticipation, and the weight of what he had seen, what he had lost, crushed him. He could not bring himself to walk through the door and retreated to the silent, cold comfort of the library, where he worked through the night. The ink from his quill blurring with tears he would not allow himself to shed.
That evening, you poured all of it out to Maekar. You sobbed against his chest, your hands fisted in his tunic as he held you, his body rigid with fury on your behalf. This could not continue.
You were in your language lesson the next afternoon when a steward arrived for you. "Princess," he said with a formal bow. "His Grace, the King, requests your presence."
Your heart seized as you walked the familiar path to Daeron's chambers, your stomach a knot of dread.
The room was exactly as you remembered it. Walls lined with books from floor to ceiling. Massive windows overlooking the city, and there, standing as far apart as possible, were your father and Maekar. The air between them crackled with tension and volatile energy.
Your grandfather, Daeron, sat behind his desk. He saw you immediately, his gaze softening as he took in your defeated face and the tremor in your hands.
"Oh, my child." He rose from his chair and came to you, his hands reaching out to take yours. "The days have not been kind to you, have they?"
You simply shook your head, the gesture releasing a fresh wave of tears you had not realized were still trapped inside.
Daeron tutted softly, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbing at your face. "There, there, we cannot have you weeping over this."
He released your hands and turned, addressing the room, his statement for everyone and no one. "Maekar has asked for your hand in marriage," he announced. "I have decided to agree to the match."
"Father?" Baelor snarled, his mismatched eyes blazing. "How could you? Without even consulting me?"
"Someone must think of her," Maekar said, his voice laced with contempt. "Since her own father cannot be troubled to—"
That was it. Baelor flew across the room, his face a thundercloud, lunging for his brother, his fist connecting cleanly with Maekar's cheek. "Stop! I beg you," you shouted, but they continued grappling, a mess of furious muscle and royal silks.
"Boys, please," Daeron said, his voice weary from a lifetime of mediating squabbles. "Stop this, you are men grown."
Baelor shoved Maekar away, his chest heaving. "I have always given you everything that was mine," his voice trembling with pain. "Freely! Without complaint! Yet it is not enough. You would steal my daughter?"
You moved to Maekar's side, your hand finding his, fingers lacing through. "I am a woman grown," you said. "Free to make my own choices, as you have always claimed."
Your father looked at you for the first time in a week. The anger in his eyes seemed to fracture, replaced by hurt. He shook his head slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I do not understand this," he whispered, the words meant only for himself.
Daeron sighed. "Children will astound you," he said, turning to glare at his youngest son as he spoke. "They do not always behave as you would wish them to." He sighed again. "Come, Maekar. Let us leave them to speak."
He placed a hand on Maekar's shoulder and guided him toward an adjoining room, the door closing softly behind them, leaving you alone with Baelor in silence.
You turned slowly to face your father. He was staring at the spot where Maekar had been, his profile sharp and unreadable.
"Papa. Look at me."
He would not.
Tears pricked at your eyes again, a fresh well of sorrow. "I am so sorry," you choked out. "I am sorry I have shamed you. You are right to hate me, and I shall understand it if you do. But I need my father, please."
That finally turned him. His eyes searched your face, and the hard mask of anger crumbled. He saw his girl, weeping and broken, because of him.
"Petal," he breathed, crossing the space between you, his hands coming up to cup your face and gently wipe away your tears. "I could never hate you."
You blinked up at him, confused.
"It was never about you being with him. Not truly." He shook his head, his gaze distant. "Since you were small, you have told me everything, from the ladybug that landed on your finger to the quarrels amongst you and your friends. You never once kept a secret from me, even when you feared you were in the wrong. I cannot understand why you would keep this from me. It makes me feel as though… the trust, the closeness, was never real."
His voice broke on the last word, and the sight of it, your strong, unshakeable father brought to the brink of tears, was more than you could bear. "The act wounds me," he continued, his voice a whisper. "But the lie… the secret is what has broken my heart."
Then you pulled him into a hug, and he held you so tightly you could barely breathe, his face buried in your hair. "I am sorry," he murmured. "For how I have behaved. For the silence. No amount of apologies can undo it, but I am sorry, petal."
You clung to him, the week's worth of ice and fear finally thawing in the warmth of his embrace.
He held you for a long time, just rocking you gently, until the tension had finally drained from both of you. Then he pulled back, his hands on your shoulders, and a faint, wry smile touched his lips.
"You know," he said, his tone lighter. "I might yet find you a better match."
You pushed lightly against his chest, a laugh bubbling up, startling you both with its sound. "Stop it," you said, swatting at his arm. "I love him."
He eyed you, his head tilted. "Are you certain? He is a dark cloud, and you my sunshine. I cannot imagine what the two of you could possibly speak of."
"Father!" you said, indignant, pushing away from him more firmly this time, a smile gracing your face.
He relented, his hands held up in surrender. "Very well, very well," he chuckled. "I accept it. You have my blessing." His expression then sobered slightly, a glint of the old, protective fire returning to his eyes. He leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone.
"But if he ever misbehaves," he said, his gaze hard and deadly serious, "if he ever causes you a single moment of unhappiness, I will run him through."
You looked at your father, at the fierce, unwavering love in his eyes, and smiled. "Do not fret," you said softly. "Maekar is well aware of it. You ought to beg his forgiveness for striking him."
