Young!Reader being arranged to marry Baelor and everyone tells her that she shouldnât worry about having to preform the marital act too much because of Baelorâs old age(and they insist that he wouldnât be able to keep up with a young wife) and heâll probably only want one or two heirs for safety since he only has two from his first marriage. But after they perform the bedding ceremony, Baelor spends the rest of the week keeping him and reader confined to their chambers and reader passes out at times because he literally wonât get off of her. When sheâs finally let out of their shared chamber she can barely walk and needs constant assistance from her lady in waitingâs to walk. Reader attempts to hide around the castle so she can get a break from Baelor, but the minute he finds her heâs kicking her lady in waitingâs out of the room reader is attempting to hide in and taking her right then and there.
I love the idea of the reader being a very good girl, raised to be the perfect lady. She sees the world through rose-colored lenses, fantasizing about knights and dreaming of marrying a prince.
Since childhood, she has been told stories of gallant heroes, noble husbands, and queens beloved by their people. She spends her days embroidering scenes from songs, reading tales of chivalry, and imagining the day she will marry a handsome young lord who will adore her.
Then her wish is granted, except she is not engaged to a young prince from her fantasies, but to Prince Baelor.
He is a man as old as her own father, she is the same age as his sons.
At first, the realization frightens her, but everyone around her assures her that she should be honored. Her family is delighted. Her father speaks proudly of the match. Her ladies envy her. Even the smallfolk cheer when her carriage passes and Baelor himself seems perfect.
He is handsome despite his age, respected throughout the realm, and known for his sense of duty. During the engagement celebrations, he participates in a tourney despite not having jousted for years. When he wins, he places the crown of flowers upon her head and names her his Queen of Love and Beauty before the entire court.
The realm adores the gesture and so does she.
For weeks afterward, she treasures every small kindness. He sends her gifts. Rare books. Dresses from Lys. Jewelry she feels almost guilty wearing.
When she confesses that the bedding ceremony terrifies her, he immediately declares it will not happen.
As the wedding approaches, her fears become less about Baelor himself and more about the responsibilities of marriage. Her mother died giving birth to her younger brother. The thought of childbirth terrifies her.
Her septa reassures her that Baelor already has heirs, his sons are healthy and grown, she likely will not be expected to bear many children.
Her friends tease her relentlessly.
"He'll probably faint when he sees you bare."
"He's an old man."
"It'll be over so quickly you won't even notice."
By the time the wedding arrives, she is almost excited, the ceremony is beautiful. The Great Sept is filled with flowers. Lords and ladies travel from every corner of the realm to attend. Musicians play from dawn until dusk. Baelor holds her hand throughout the celebrations and treats her with a gentleness that makes her feel safe.
For a brief moment, she thinks her life is going to be exactly like the songs.
After the wedding, however, things begin to change.
Then the consummation arrives. He's kind at first, gentle and patient. He's careful with his touches and makes her feel safe, at least in the beginning but after that, he shows his true self, he tells her, He's made her feel good once, and now it's his turn to feel good.
He doesn't listen when she asks him to stop or slow down. He pushes her hands away when she tries to stop him. The night seems endless, and by the time morning arrives, she's exhausted.
When the servants come to help her bathe, she's sore and can barely walk.
That doesn't matter to Baelor. He dismisses the servants and insists on having her to himself again and it continues.
Again and again, whenever she is occupied with something and he finds a spare moment, he summons her.
A month passes after the wedding, and the reader can't take it anymore.
One afternoon, she slips into one of her lady's chambers just to rest but when she wakes up, her husband is there, rutting inside her while fondling her when he notices she's awake he smiles and tells her that he enjoys this little game of cat and mouse.
â a/n: I hope you're not sick anymore, if you are that's actually insane. We're getting through this inbox slowly but surely. Thank you for likes, comments, reblogs, and requests. đ€
Lyonel brings you everything, too much of everything, blankets you do not need, broths and tonics, and three different remedies a hedge witch swore by, half the contents of the kitchens. He is tireless and utterly devoted, fluffing your pillows. When you tell him, faint and amused, that you only need quiet and sleep, he tucks you in and stations himself by the door like a guard, glaring at anyone who might wake you.
Daeron climbs straight into the bed with you. You protest, telling him he'll catch it, and he waves you off entirely, settling in and pulling you against his side. He keeps you company through the worst of the boredom, tells you ridiculous stories, makes you laugh until it turns into coughing, and then rubs your back through it. He is the most restful kind of company. You can be miserable and unlovely and half-asleep, and he will simply be there, perfectly content, holding you while you wait it out.
Aerion is crazy about it. The maesters tend you under threat, and he makes the nature of the threat very clear â fix her. He will not allow anyone else to bring you your broth or sit you up against the pillows; those are his to do. He is not good at soft words. So instead, he lies down beside you and lets you rest your head on his chest, one hand moving slowly through your hair, and stays exactly that still for as long as you need him.
Valarr turns nursing you into a campaign, and he runs it flawlessly. Broth at the right hours, the chamber kept warm but not stifling, every remedy the maesters suggest procured before they finish the sentence. He is gentle and endlessly patient, making sure you are comfortable, smoothing your hair back, pressing his lips to your too-warm forehead, and lingering there. "Rest," he murmurs, every time you so much as shift toward apologising for being a burden. "You are no trouble to me. None at all."
Maekar is unbearable to everyone except you. He barks at the maesters as though your cold is a personal failing on their part, demands to know why it is taking so long, paces the length of the chamber until you tell him,  "Sit down, you're making me dizzy." He sits. He frets. He will not say he is worried, that would require admitting there is something in the world that can frighten him, so instead he grips your hand too hard and tells you that you will be well by morning because he has decided it. When you finally sleep, he stays awake the whole night listening to you breathe.
Baelor does not leave. There is a realm that needs running, so he simply brings it to you, settling in at your bedside with all his work, his letters, and his ledgers, from a chair beside your sickbed so he never has to take his eyes off you for long. He keeps an ever-watchful eye on you as he works. The maesters are in and out, and he listens to every word they say. Eventually, you get so tired of watching him labor that you ask him to come sit with you, just for a moment. He looks at all the work still waiting and decides it can wait. He reads to you until you fall asleep. And when you wake, you find that he has fallen asleep too.
Summary: Showing Baelor how much you loved his happy trail.
Warning: (18+, nsfw, mdni)
You hadn't been able to explain it to Baelor properly when he'd asked about his grooming. Every time he complained about the discomfort of hair beneath his gambeson or spoke of having a servant trim it, you stopped him.
You forbade it with a passion that left him bewildered. He'd only laughed and asked why you cared so much. He didn't understand the craving, the visceral need to feel that roughness against your skin. It was primal. Something that bypassed logic entirely and reached straight into the darkest corners of your desire.
So you showed him instead.
You asked him to lie on his back, and he did so without hesitation - with both arms tucked behind his head, a curious smile lingering on his lips.
Your gaze traced the length of him: from his face, down the line of his jaw, to his chest where dark hair sprawled, then lower still, narrowing into a dark line that disappeared under his breeches.
How could he be completely unaware of the effect it had on you?
The mattress dipped as you climbed onto him. Baelorâs hands settled on your thighs, steadying you as you lowered yourself against his lower abdomen, caging him beneath you. The position placed that dark line exactly where you wanted it. Your eyes fluttered shut.
You could feel its faint texture against your skin, coarse strands brushing in a way that sent a sharp, unfamiliar signal through your senses. Every nerve seemed to respond at once, the sensation unlike anything else you had known - a stripe of ruggedness you found utterly intoxicating.
Slowly, you began to move. Drawing pleasure from every stroke. The roughness created a steady, simmering heat between your legs. Leaning forward, you rested your forehead against his - breath breaking in short, uneven bursts.
"Is this it?", he whispered. "Is this why you wouldn't let me trim here?". He watched you with open fascination, his gaze following the sway of your hips and the gradual unraveling of your composure.Â
A soft groan escaped you as you shifted your weight, moving in circles and savouring every sensation. Ensuring that every single hair of that happy trail rubbed against your slickness. You could feel yourself opening up for him, the natural lubrication of your arousal soaking into the coarse hair, making it slide and pull in a rhythmic, maddening cadence. The pleasure was intoxicating.Â
You couldnât stop moving. Your motions creating a gradual vertical line along his lower abdomen. Each time that hair grazed the damp area at the base of your opening, it triggered another surge of warmth between your thighs.
Baelor's hands roamed upward, skimming along your ribs. His touch was light, almost teasing, a counterpoint to the increasing desperation of your movements.
"You have a strange obsession with this, darling," he whispered, pausing for a fraction of a second to look up at you. His eyes were dark, blown wide with lust, but his expression remained one of pure, unadulterated love.
Then your attention drifted to his chest, fingers sinking into the thick, dark hair that spread across his pectorals and tapered toward his sternum. It softened the hard lines of muscle beneath. You traced through it lazily, relishing the coarse strands against your skin.
The contrast of tanned muscle and untamed growth left you feeling small against him, enveloped by his scent and strength. It deepened the hunger already coiling within you. The sight of him alone left your mouth dry. You loved every inch of him.
"You're so wet for me." His eyes never left your face. The slickness between you had grown impossible to ignore, easing your movements while somehow heightening every sensation.
"Tell me what you're feeling." The amusement in his voice had softened into something far hungrier.
"Full." You rocked faster, chasing the feeling. "Even though you're not inside me. I feel so full."
Baelor continued to watch you with naked admiration. His hands never stopped their gentle guidance, never tried to rush you or take control. He simply held you while you used him, patient and attentive, those dark eyes drinking in every reaction.
The coil in your belly tightened. Your thighs trembled with the effort of maintaining the rhythm. And still, that trail provided the perfect friction, the perfect texture, everything you needed to spiral higher and higher.
When you started to feel the pressure build, a golden heat radiating from the centre of your being, his name was all you could manage.
âBaelor⊠Baelor⊠Baelor.â His name was a prayer on your lips now.
âIâve got you,â he murmured, his voice steady and grounding. âJust let go.â
And so you did. You ground down hard one final time, pressing yourself against that trail, against his navel, riding out the waves until they finally began to subside. Your body went lax, and you slumped forward. Baelorâs large arms catching you before you could collapse fully onto his chest.
A few moments passed before he cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to his. âMy heart,â he whispered, planting a kiss on your lips.
âIâm definitely never trimming now,â he said quietly, his eyes bright with amused disbelief.
âGood.â You laughed weakly, fingers returning to his chest. You spread your hands across him as though trying to absorb every part of him at once. âBecause I never wanted you to. Ever.â
Maekar I Targaryen x f!reader (no physical descriptions, so project to your hearts' fill!)
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
Description: You followed your friend to a gala as her plus-one, but she's off talking to some important people and you're bored out of your mind. At the bar, you spot an absolute DILF (hihi Maekar), and make it into a mission to get into his pants.
Tags: P-in-V sex, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it, STDs are at an all-time high) dom!Maekar, reader is a DILF fucker, dirty talk, slight humiliation kink, aftercare<3
WC: 2972 words
Masterlist
The bright lights and the buzz of the crowds was starting to get on Maekar's nerves. Some museum's charity gala, which was usually Baelor's territory, but tonight Maekar was substituting due to his brother being away overseas. His social battery was showing its end quickly from the small talks and pleasantries from socialites and fundraisers, trying to shake out some additional donations from Targaryen corps.Â
He slunk off to a quiet corner next to the bar, his semipermanent scowl set deep into his face to ward off any more vultures for the night. He'd just finish this one drink, then perform a swift Irish goodbye to this circus.Â
A smaller figure drifted into his field of vision, sliding to his side at the obscured corner table.Â
"Not a fan of the crowd?" You asked, raising a brow at his frown. You introduced yourself, then looked at him expectantly.Â
"Maekar." He begrudgingly gave you his name.Â
He gave a disgruntled grunt, already irritated enough from the dozens of people attempting to snag his attention tonight.Â
"Shame. I was trying to get out of here with you." You took a long sip from the straw. You were holding some longdrink, the perspiration from the ice cubes pearled at the glass' surface.Â
"What now?" Maekar asked, stunned at the audacity coming from a woman seemingly half his age.Â
You only gave him an innocent look, a half-smile gracing your lips. You really did look almost innocent, a baby blue slip dress hanging off your frame, small strands of hair framing your delicate facial features.Â
"Do you know who I am?" He asked incredulously.Â
"Well you did just tell me your name, but not really. I just know that you look nice under this lighting, and that I'm bored out of my mind at this stupid gala." You teased, with the straw held loosely between your lips while you looked him up and down. "Got dragged here by my friend Sara over there, she's here for some fundraising stuff and she brought me as a plus-one." You rolled your eyes playfully. When he looked at where you pointed, he saw the young female museum associate who had been hounding him for an archeologic sponsorship mere hours ago. She had told him about something something uncovering histories of Westeros and past dragonlords, yada yada yada.Â
At that, he scoffed. He was very well aware of his status as the less attractive sibling. Women always flocked to Baelor and his effortless, gentle charms, and tended to shy away from his scowl, the frown lines deepened by the pox scars.Â
"Don't you dare mock me, woman." He put down his drink, turning to get away from the table.
"I mean it. You do look quite handsome with the silver hair and the jawline, you know. It helps that you're also so broad." You reached out to hold him back by his upper arm.Â
When he looked down at you with that signature scowl, you only grinned in response, and tightened your grip on his upper arm. His arm was so thick, and the muscles felt so solid under your palm.Â
Maekar's jaw clenched. You stared appreciatively at his jaw muscles working, as he was fighting the hardest - pun intended - moral dilemma of his life.
"I don't do these things. I don't do -" He waved his hand about. "One night stands."
"Who says I want to have a one night stand with you?" You slid your arm around his, tugging him close to you.Â
His look got even more incredulous. A flush crept up his neck, as the proximity and the slight lean towards him allowed him to feel the curves and edges of your body. The scent of your shampoo and perfume made him slightly dizzy and lightheaded, as he mentally clawed at his resolve and last shred of morality. He was absolutely not going to be one of these rich old men creeping around young girls half his age, no matter how prettily you pouted your lips at him.Â
His resolve snapped in three seconds when you started stroking your thumb up and down his bicep. He clenched his jaw so hard that the vein on his temple popped, and he grit his teeth.Â
"Do you have anything you need to gather before we leave?" he demanded.Â
Your lips split into a devilish grin, and you shook your head. He only grunted at that, and took out his phone to text his driver.Â
-
The ride to his penthouse was quiet, though he kept a hand spread out across your thigh the whole time. You shot a text to your friend Sara, excusing yourself for a hurried exit and thanking her for the invite. Tomorrow was a Saturday, which meant no classes, and no seminars for your master's degree. Your body was buzzing in anticipation and excitement from snagging the brooding handsome older man.Â
When the car stopped in front of the building's entrance, the driver pulled open the door for you. Maekar dismissed him for the evening, and you smirked at its implication. He was not planning on letting you leave the flat today.Â
His broad hand came to rest on your lower back, and he lead you to the elevator. His semipermanent scowl was still on his face, his eyes unreadable. The elevator opened directly to his penthouse, his flat occupying the entirely of the top floor.Â
When you entered his apartment, you were initially planning on jumping his bones at the first instant. Instead, he lead you to the spacious leather couch, ordered curtly for you to sit down, and asked if you wanted a drink.Â
"Such a gracious host", you teased. Maekar only replied with "'m not a barbarian, woman" and turned to open the liquor cabinet in his massive kitchen.Â
He poured you and himself a finger of whiskey, its absurd price tag obvious by the taste on your tongue when you took the first sip. He sat down an arm's reach from you. You weren't going to let that stand. You let him take a sip before you plucked the glass from his hand, and moved to straddle his lap.Â
His violet iris narrowed as his pupils widened, his patience obviously wearing thin. "Impatient brat", he growled, gripping the soft flesh of your hips. You only giggled, then lowered your lips to his.Â
His lips were surprisingly soft, and his beards scratched slightly at your lips and chin. As you started moving your mouth against his, a hand immediately shot from your hips to the back of your neck. His hand at your neck dictated your movement, his tongued nudging your lips open to demand entrance.Â
You moaned at his tongue pushing itself into your mouth, immediately entangling with your own tongue as his hand at your neck kept your head pinned, not allowing you even a millimeter of retreat. You reflexively bucked your hip against his, drawing a groan out of him. You felt a bulge forming at his crotch, smirking when you felt its size. Jackpot.Â
His hands suddenly let you go, leaving you whining at the cold in the places where his big, warm hands were. He ordered you to stand up. When you whined in protest and ground your crotch into his, his palm met your asscheek with a big smack.Â
"Brat. I told you to get up, not whine like a petulant little girl."
With heat pooling between your legs at the name, you scrambled up.Â
"Strip." He ordered, and this time you knew better than to refuse when he asked the first time.Â
You slowly unzipped your dress, letting it fall from your shoulders and reveal your lacy underwear. When he nodded at your bra, you reached back to unclasp it, and let it fall too. He hummed appreciatively. Your nipples hardened into little pebbles under his gaze.Â
He gave you an impatient look and pointed to your panties, and you flushed before hooking your thumbs around the waistband and lowering the lacy scrap of textile. Your arousal was evident on the gusset of your panties, and you hoped he wouldn't inspect it too closely.Â
Maekar leaned back into the couch, with his glass back in his hands. He looked up and down at your naked figure while taking a sip, and you squirmed under his gaze. When you pressed your thighs together to relieve the pressure, he clicked his tongue in disapproval.Â
"None of that, woman. Stand straight and let me look at you." You stood still at that, your cunt growing slicker every passing moment. You were naked, whilst he was still completely dressed.Â
When he finished his drink, he commanded you to sit down in the armchair behind you, facing the couch. You obeyed, heart fluttering from arousal and anticipation.Â
When you sat down with your legs together, he immediately frowned, and said "legs spread." Your cheeks burned, but you still adjusted your position, so your legs rested on the armrests, your cunt exposed to the cool air and to his eyes. Your hands rose to rest on your legs to ensure they'd stay open.Â
"Tell me what you wanted me to do", he demanded. "when you told me that you wanted to leave with me, tell me what you were imagining."
Your cunt clenched around nothing at that, letting a drop of slick escape from your hole and run down your slit. His eyes caught that.Â
"I.. I wanted you to fuck me." You said timidly.Â
"Just fuck you? Is your little cunt to greedy that you wanted me to fuck you with my cock immediately without anything else?" He furrowed his brows, a hint of mockery in his voice.Â
You let out a moan, and shook your head. "I- I wanted your fingers too, and your tongue. I wanted everything." He gave you a satisfied look then, and finally rose from the couch to approach you.Â
He kneeled before you on the carpet, looking down at your weeping cunt, already drooling slick without him ever touching it. He held up his pointer and ring fingers to your lips, and tapped. "Suck", he ordered.Â
You obeyed immediately, enthusiastically opening your mouth to suck in his fingers into your mouth. You swirled your tongue around his digits, and hollowed out your cheeks as if it were his cock you were sucking on.Â
"Good girl", he murmured, before abruptly taking his fingers out of your mouth with a pop. Before you could protest at that, he shoved the two fingers into your cunt without any forewarning.Â
"Ahh Maekar.. Gods, haaaa" You cried out, ecstatic at him finally touching your core.Â
He wasted no time, crooking his fingers slightly upward and pumping his fingers right into the spongy little spot inside you, eliciting even more lewd sounds from your lips. The squelching sounds and your moans filled the penthouse, and you were grateful he did not have any nextdoor neighbors.Â
"I'm gonna - oh gods, I'm gonna come, ahhh" you said in the midst of a breathy moan, and at that, he attached his lips to your clit, immediately flicking his tongue against it and sucking it as if it were a nipple.Â
Your vision went white at that, all your senses getting narrowed down to where his fingers were bullying your g-spot, and his mouth sucking at your clit mercilessly. You came with a scream, legs trembling on the armrests, and your cunt soaking his hand with a wave of slick. He fucked you through your orgasm, his fingers and mouth working you until your legs started twitching and your eyes watered from the overstimulation. He looked up at you with a hungry look, clearly not done with you yet.Â
"Bet that greedy little cunt's not satisfied yet, huh? Not until I get my cock in her." You shivered at the lewd words, but nodded fervently.Â
"Use your words, little girl. Otherwise I can't know what you want." He said in a stern voice, which sent a fresh wave of arousal through your body despite the recent orgasm.Â
"I.. I want to get fucked with your cock, I need it so bad." You squirmed, a flush evident on your cheeks.Â
"That bad, huh? Don't worry, I'll give your pretty cunt everything you need." He gave your clit one last kiss, before he got up to his feet and started undressing himself. As he unbuckled his belt, you ordered you to get on your hands and knees on the couch, legs spread out.Â
You didn't see him placing himself behind you, but you felt his weight dipping the couch between your knees. You heard the sound of a condom wrapper ripping, and him rolling it down his shaft. Hot and responsible, you thought jokingly.Â
When he was done, his hands came down on the globes of your asscheeks, slightly massaging it in his hands and spreading them outwards to better inspect your holes.Â
His thumbs traveled to your core, spreading your pussy lips with an obscene slick sound. He groaned at the sight of your hole desperately clenching on nothing and drooling your arousal onto your inner thighs.Â
"Stop teasing and fuck me already", you choked out. If you didn't have his cock in you within the next few seconds, you were sure you would spontaneously combust.Â
"Patience is a virtue, woman", he said gruffly, but before you could formulate a biting retort, his thick head broached your entrance, and pushed in.Â
All air left your lungs, and your brain stopped forming coherent thoughts. He did not let you adjust every couple of centimeters, and instead pushed in at a constant pace until his balls were flush with your cunt.Â
Something between a moan and a strangled cry left your mouth, your hands gripping the couch so tightly you might've been scared to rip it under different circumstances. He was so thick, the shaft was so perfectly arched to stretch your walls out in the best ways and to rub against your g-spot. Behind you, he let out a groan at your walls gripping on his cock so tightly.Â
He started out at a leisurely pace, slowly dragging his cock out until only the head remained inside, then pushing it in at one smooth slide. You were going insane under him, every drag of his thick cock against your walls were sending pure bursts of pleasure from your cunt all the way to your legs. The stretch was more than anything you'd ever felt before, and you weren't sure you could ever go back to fucking anybody else than him.Â
His thumbed snakes back to your pussy lips, spreading them out to see your inner lips clinging desperately to his shaft, stretched out to their limits on his thick length. You let out a moan from the slight humiliation of the exposure, trying to squirm your legs closed.Â
His thick hips and legs would not allow it though, and he let out a dry laugh. "Getting shy on me? What happened to the girl that was begging me to fuck her, hm?" You could only moan and drool onto the couch as a response.Â
Then, unexpectedly, his hands left your pussy lips and snaked themselves around your middle and your chest, hauling you up against his chest. His hand at your chest came up to hold your throat, not squeezing but holding you in place. "I thought this was what you wanted, yeah? Isn't it? Getting your pretty wet cunt fucked until your legs shake and you cream all over my cock", he said, setting up a brutal pace.Â
"It is, gods, ahhh", you panted out in between moans, "it's what I wanted. Feels s'good, so, so good"Â
The sounds of his balls slapping against you were downright obscene, combined with the wet sounds of his cock plunging itself into your hole.Â
"Think you can come without getting your pretty clit touched, pretty girl? Cream all over me from just getting fucked like a good little slut?" He asked, fingers tightening the slightest bit around your throat. You could only moan and nod in response, and he grunted out, his hips moving impossibly faster to your ecstasy.Â
As his thick cock bullied into you at the perfect angle, and his hand choked your throat the slightest bit from behind, the knot in your lower belly got pulled more and more taught, until it finally snapped. You screamed out his name, your legs shaking and your cunt squeezing frantically around his cock. His pace didn't waver during your orgasm, and as you came on his cock, your arousal dripped down your inner thighs and his balls and onto the couch.Â
As you started to almost sob from the overstimulation, he started murmuring praise into your ears while chasing his own high. "Such a good little slut, so pretty. Your cunt squeezed me so good, you did so good. I'm gonna cum soon, yeah? Just a little more. This pretty cunt can take a little more. You're taking me so well". You could only whimper in response.Â
With his final thrusts, he buried himself impossibly deeper inside you, pushing his tip against your cervix. Your cunt clenched tightly from the mix of pain and pleasure, then you felt Maekar empty his balls into the condom inside you.Â
As he removed himself from you and tied off the condom, you collapsed onto the couch, spent and fucked-out. Maekar took off to some corner of his flat, and came back with a damp towel to clean you off. As he carried you bridal-style to his bedroom, you grinned up at him.Â
"That was more fun than staying at the gala, huh?" you joked.Â
He only scoffed in response, but you definitely saw the corner of his mouth lift into an almost smile.Â
summary: the hammer and the anvil behind closed doors (2.2k)
tags: fluff, domesticity, 18+, somnophilia, brief injury
Baelor Targaryen | The Hammer
Baelor is a man of routine, forged through years of rising early for campaigns and requiring discipline through his duties. Even in marriage, there is an unspoken and silent rhythm that you two fall in. If he is the first one to retire, he will always send for you. Marriage has ensured heâs forgotten how to sleep alone, no matter how tired he is.
Undressing. Likes to send your servants and handmaids alone to do it himself. Views it as this intimate act. After a long day of being apart, of being pulled to duty and responsibility and reluctantly stamping out every need to be with his wife, he likes to savor the quiet moments. His hands deftly pulling the strings of your corset loose, layer by layer falling to the floor and pooling at your feet until youâre left in nothing. If heâs feeling particularly sweet, he will leave behind a trail of kisses at the slowly exposed skin. You lean back into him, sighing into his sickly sweet touch. Most of the time you will end up pushed into the nearest surface, propriety forgotten.
Talks in his sleep. Not the sweet, murmuring of a man half laden in dreams, but full on conversations that have you waking up abruptly and wondering if someone else is in the room. But no one is there, Baelor is talking about grains and ledgers in his sleep, full phrases and clear words. It frightens you at first, then it has you laughing and waking him.Â
Nightmares. Of course he has them. Redgrass Field, or simply brought upon by the stresses of the day. He doesnât wake you, but you always end up waking when you reach out and find a cold and empty spot on your bed.Â
Duties. Prefers being in the same room as you but youâre doing separate things. Youâre working over correspondence on the other side of the room, while heâs pouring over grain counts, four different books open in front of him. He looks up just to gaze at you for a while, as if it fuels him. He sees your concentration, smiles to himself, and goes back to the task at hand.
Unwinding. The sweet version of it is you settling into bed, taking turns reading to each other every night. The other version is more restless as you find different ways every night to satiate your husband, to steal his thoughts away from mind numbing council chamber meetings, and back in your shared chambers where the fire in the hearth burns low and comfortable and the candles are dimming by the hour and his wife, his sweet, beautiful and diligent wife works above him. She is working a pace and he does not know where to lookâat the way you work your hips over him, taking him over and over again, or at your teats, a golden sheen of sweat perspiring on the planes of her chest, her body, or should it be at her face, eyes closed in pleasure and brows knitted in reverent concentration. He chokes on his breath and moans multiple times, which only seems to spur you on further, a hand on his chest as you move impossibly quicker, and he has to close his eyes, to settle his thoughts because if he looks at you above him heâs not sure he will last.Â
âBaelor,â a treacherous siren call.Â
âYes, my sweet?â He hums, hands sliding up and down your thighs as your movements slow.
You lean in close, the sweet scent of your oils enveloping him, and he can hear you catching your breath. A warm hand splays at your back. âI believe it is your turn to tire yourself.â He laughs at that, but indulges you, letting you settle back into the pillows as you allow him to take over.Â
It is a cheap trick, but after your coupling, he is sure to not think of anything else, keeping you close and intertwining your breaths as he lets sleep come for him. This is the most relaxed heâs been all day.
Somnophilia. He will usually come in later, after you. Some nights you wait up for him, and heâll be considerate enough to let you know when not to, when the call of duty lasts well into the night. He is quiet in the corner of the room, lethargic even as he peels off layers of clothing, gaze already fixed onto your sleeping form, so peaceful and sweet and beautiful. Your hair is splayed onto the pillow, and he can see the slow rise and fall of your form underneath the sheets.Â
It starts with a kiss, innocent enough, pressed softly into your cheek and he has to fight back a groan as he remembers he is a man, after a long day. A man who has found his wife asleep in their shared chambers, in the dark. You let out a happy hum in your sleep, turning around to greet him with a kiss, chaste and quick, but he finds himself deepening it. You return it in earnest, despite your surprise.
âArenât you tired?â You rasp, voice laden with sleep and it does something to him he cannot name.Â
âIâve missed you.â He noses the line of your jaw, pressing little kisses there.Â
âIâve missed you, too.â You mumble, just as his hands trail treacherously lower.
âBaelor,â you laugh.Â
âWould you like me to stop?â
âNo.â You confess. âBut Iâm falling asleep.â
He suppresses a groan against your shoulder, and it tells you just how much heâs unraveled himself already. You did not even have to do anything.Â
âYou do not have to wake, justââ He is gentle as ever, but you can sense a growing urgency in his movement, in the way he moves above you, hands bunching your shift up your thighs. The realization dawns on you and your interest is piqued.Â
âRest, sweet girl. Iâll take care of you.â And of course you trust your lord husband so you let him work over you, as you drift in the space between sleep and waking. You wake and his head is in between your legs, doing something sinful with his mouth that has you arching off the bed, a broken moan on your lips before youâre drifting asleep again, chest heaving. You wake and heâs halfway inside you, and you shudder, letting him maneuver you as he pleases. My heart, he says against your lips as you drift off. The next time you wake youâre being brought to completion.
Thank you, he murmurs, gathering you in his arms and pressing a sweet kiss against your temple.
Maekar Targaryen | The Anvil
As a prince of the realm, he has routines of his own. Beyond that itâs a personal preference to keep busy and not be idle. Heâs already fourth and spare, nothing is expected of him, and sometimes that seems to turn more into a curse than a blessing. So he trains in the yard in the mornings, does correspondence, attends to his princely duties. He dines with his wife and sees his children, watching over their studies.Â
He is glad that there is always something to do, for this is how he appreciates when the day finally slows to a stop, when he enters your shared chambers and he feels as though he leaves everything on the stoop of the door. The fire burns in the hearth, a satisfying crackle and the room is a comfortable temperature. He finds you sitting by your vanity, elbows up and undoing your hair.
At first, he leaves you to your own devices, but youâre on his periphery as he undresses, his doublet, his riding gear, the weapons he keeps tucked on his person.Â
A sigh. His gaze snaps to you as your arms fall to your sides in defeat, halfway through undoing whatever hairdo your maids have concocted.Â
Silently, he crosses the room and takes over. You smile at him through the mirror, a wordless thanks. Heâs thorough, and gentle as he can be. He takes the pins, unravels piece by piece. This is one of the ways he takes care of you. He loves your hair, loves playing with it. He will take it down, untangling it when he strips you down, considering it a part of undressing you. You ask him about his day then, and a back and forth begins, punctuated by comfortable silence.
Doesnât like servants in the room, and youâve known by now to excuse your handmaidens early on. Undressing you takes longer because he gets distracted and complains about how many layers you have on. An inconvenience, he calls it.
Maekar is a gossip in your shared chambers. Youâve once compared him to rival even the best of your ladies in this area. Youâre busying yourself with correspondence when he enters the room, carelessly throwing his coat to a chair and kicking off his boots. Lord Peake is in a disarray today. That old bat. This is why his wife prefers separate chambers. That gets your attention, head snapping up at him, letters forgotten. Go on.
Upkeep. Heâs taught you how to shave after heâs caught you staring at him through the mirror. More often, you find yourself sitting on his lap, or standing over him. More than once he uses this as an opportunity to get handsy. More than once youâve threatened to shave him clean off. You know he grows it out to cover the pox marks on his skin, a memory of a childhood sickness. He finds your serious concentration amusing, and he loves the ritual of it, a certainty that heâd have you close for a few minutes.
Youâve nicked him once and he never lets you forget. A thin line on his cheekbone. He hisses, quite dramatically for someone youâve seen knocked to the ground in the training yard that same day. You apologize, pressing a warm cloth there. Easy, woman. My neck is within your reach too. You roll your eyes. I would never, you say, pressing a kiss where the offense is, and pulling back with a slight shine of blood on your lips. He grabs your wrist holding the knife, maneuvering it away from the both of you as he closes the distance between you in a searing kiss. You taste the blood then and wonder if he does too. When you part, he has a wild look in his eyes, and all he says is, Bed. Now.
A light sleeper. He sits upright, thinking heâs somewhere else. You give him space, waiting until he reaches for you, breathing shakily against your skin, and that is when you comfort him, a hand on his chest, feeling the drum of his heart.Â
In the beginning of your marriage, he was afraid of frightening you, or worse. He knows how he can jolt awake at the slightest disturbance. A cat had once gone into your chambers and knocked a candlestick onto the floor, and youâve never witnessed a man go from sleeping to waking in a matter of seconds, feet on the floor and a sharp intake of breath as though he means to lunge at somebody. So he suggests separate quarters, even though he does not want it. It was a great relief when you refused, quite adamantly. Â
Snores. Annoyingly loud snores that makes you wonder if heâs putting on a show and fucking with you. At first, you wake him kindly, poking him and he mumbles something close to an apology before gathering you in his arms. But then it just gets annoying and you find yourself slamming a pillow into his face to wake him, and it is more effective to get him to stop than anything else youâve tried. You still wonât go to a separate chamber, though it seriously makes you consider.
Post-training yard. Heâs sweaty and heaving, sunkissed. You find you like him like this, especially when heâs on top of you. You kissed him in the training yard once, hair falling in his face. The next moment youâre being swept away to your chambers and heâs kicking off his boots, ripping off whatever garb and armor he has on before heâs on you. Damn your attire, he curses. Worse than bloody armor. Secretly he likes it, likes taking his time peeling it off of you, slowly revealing more skin and seeing what you have underneath.
Will wake you up for a fuck. Youâve woken up on numerous occasions, a familiar head of white hair in between your legs. Heâs impatient and just doesnât care whether youâre waking or not, he will get what he wants. He also finds it amusing how long he can get away from doing something before youâre gasping awake, shaking and clutching at him. Heâs not ashamed of this, he will rouse you for it, kissing your neck, your shoulder. Youâll wake up, and heâs already in the process of undressing, of slipping your shift down your shoulder, if he isnât already impatiently ripping it at the seams.Â
âIâm sleeping,â you mumble. Youâll protest for show, attempting to retreat to another corner of the bed before youâre inevitably pulled flush against him.
âI donât care. Turn over.â
âNo.â You respond petulantly, even as your hips subconsciously wriggle into him and you crane your neck to give him better access.
âWife.â His tone is sharp and you feel the point of his canines sink into your skin, deliciously taunting. âYou know better than to tease.â
Aymer took her as a hostage, not to harm her but to force her family into obedience. What he never expected was that she wasn't afraid of him at all. Her quiet kindness and the way she looked at him like a man, not a monster, caught him completely off guard. One day he lightly bruised his hand, nothing that serious, but when she stepped in to help, he snapped at her and pushed her away, too proud to show even a small weakness. She didn't back off. She stayed where she was, steady and determined, insisting on seeing the injury. That impressed him and when her fingers finally touched his hand, the gesture was so gentle it stopped him cold. No one had ever touched him like that, careful, calm, without fear. He couldnât stop looking at her face, at the way she genuinely cared. Something in him shifted in that moment, sharp and unexpected...
Your writing always leaves me wanting more - thank you for creating such magic âšđ
Tale as Old as Time
Pairing: Aymer de Valence x fem!reader
Word count: 2.8k
Warnings: MDNI, no physical description of the reader, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns used, angst, yearning, descriptions of violence, blood, kidnapping, enemies to lovers, disgustingly sweet, proofread once, no beta
Notes: I LOVED this request, and I hope Iâve done it justice! I made him a brooding romantic, sorry not sorry.Â
Your heart was beating loudly, tiny beads of sweat trailing the outline of your neckline. Youâve overheard a little here and there and were lingering around your fatherâs solar while he and other men were discussing your fate. Grateful for the first time in your life that you didnât have any sisters, you took it with your head high; you were to be sent away from your home, the only place you ever knew, to your distant cousins up North, in anticipation of an attack and even a possible siege that was brewing against your father and his allies.
It made more sense to marry you off, especially for an alliance, as you were more than old enough, but your father, a stubborn, headstrong man, wouldnât even hear about it. So you were sent away, in a simple carriage, with only one of your ladies. Kissing your brothers goodbye and hugging your mother, you barely looked at your father, trying to believe he had thought all of his options through and would send enough men to protect you from treacherous roads.
Unfortunately, your instincts were right - just as the sun was gently setting on the same day you departed, and just as you were reaching the castle of an allied lord, your carriage was surrounded, loud galloping and neighing making your beloved lady gasp in fear.
âWhose flag is that?â she asked, putting her hand over her mouth, peeking through the window.
The carriage stopped abruptly, men shouting and sneering mere meters away from you. You took a quick peek through fine curtains and sighed, staring at the blue and white striped banner adorned with red martlets.
âAymer de Valence, 2nd Earl of Pembroke.â
âThe beast?âÂ
A terrified whimper escaped your companion's lips, but the door opened with a thud, startling you both.
âOut, both of you!â
You met Aymer once, and although you were not introduced, you knew what he looked like, and the man playing nice and holding out his hand for you was decidedly not him. You hovered your hand in the air, your eyes settling on a huge man sitting on a horse that was seemingly too small for him. You cocked your head before setting it straight again, a small, polite, learned smile gracing your face.
In three long steps, Aymer de Valence and his irritating smirk were offering you his hand. He pulled his chainmaille hood off, showing a new, ill-healed scar across his bald head.
âThank you, Your Grace,â your hand was small, nestled inside his, his long, strong fingers elegantly wrapping around yours as he guided you a little further away. âHas the Lord Edwardâs castle fallen?â
You looked up, flashing another polite smile, looking again at those piercing blue eyes.Â
âNo, my Lady.â
You glanced at those sharp, crooked teeth when he spoke, strangely captivated by them. He was still holding your hand, breaking all rules of propriety. Yet Aymer de Valence was known for such acts, his ruthless, brutal nature caring little for the laws of men or God. His dressing up as just another soldier amongst many, trying to trick you for what seemed nothing but his own amusement, was the most tame of the examples.
âWe are attempting⊠A negotiation.â
A giggle escaped you, a warm and earnest reaction at Aymer calling this kidnapping a mere negotiation. He frowned and clenched his jaw, but you couldnât help yourself, your fingers tightening around the edges of his gloved palm.Â
âWhere are you taking us, Your Grace?â you finally managed to gain some composure, your pretty doe eyes still scanning his fuming face.
âPembroke Castle,â he spat out, swallowing hard. It took him by surprise that you sniffed out his little rouse so quickly, and then effectively disarmed him with your pretty smile and politeness, treating him like you would any other nobleman.
He remembered you from that tourney, always giggling and wide-eyed, knights swarming you for your favour.Â
You gave three, two of them to your cousins, and one to a handsome young knight; Aymer didnât even think to ask, but unhorsed the knight in the first joust. Heâd often remember how, while all the ladies around you were gasping and covering their mouths, you were serious, calmly looking at Aymer executing his beloved horse.
**
Itâs been a whole moon since Aymer took you hostage, and the negotiations have stalled quickly after that. Your lady was ransomed, not having much use for her, and would now send you letters, hoping that you too would soon be safe away from the monsterâs grasp.
You didnât mind terribly, however. You were fed, entertained, and left alone, well, mostly. Aymer was growing bored, it seemed, and would barely leave you alone, demanding your presence at every meal, even going so far as to bring you to hunts.Â
You had a free rein of the castle, as much as propriety allowed, and would spend most of your days among the books in the solar or embroidering. Aymer even generously procured some special threads for you when you asked, adding a couple more spools in different colours and even fine linen fabrics to serve as your canvas.
Your father decided to keep calling Aymerâs bluff, to your growing irritation. At first, you were fearful, not knowing what Aymer would do with you, and you were saddened by the realisation of how little you meant to your father, your family.
âNo harm shall find you while youâre under my protection,â Aymer awkwardly told you, finding you distraught in the solar. He sounded⊠Irritated, almost offended by your tears.Â
âI never thought it would,â you wiped your tears and fixed your hair, trying to come to terms with your fatherâs harsh words. âThese tears are not for you,â you added quietly, swallowing another sob.
Aymer nodded, relieved and angered at the same time. He had no idea where this need to walk to you and wipe your tears himself was coming from, to embrace you and hold your face in his hands. So he left it at that, letting you grieve in solitude.
As far as Aymer was concerned, your father was a moron. Caring so little as not trying to get you back, but at the same time not marrying you off, was one of the most idiotic decisions Aymer has seen. And not that you werenât agreeable, far from it: kind, pious, and pretty.Â
Pretty enough that now, during the evening sparring session, he was losing focus, his eyes constantly trailing to you, sitting on a bench with a book in your lap. You didnât pay any attention to it, your eyes glued to wherever Aymer would swing his sword. It became a common occurrence over the past few weeks, where you pretended that you would read just as he was in the yard, and Aymer pretended he wasnât nervous when youâd be late to those sessions.
Swing after swing, he was trying to show off his strength and precision, even if he would never admit it, going so far to fight multiple opponents, leveraging his prowess and frame to impress you, catch that tiny moment when you would be smiling at him, your eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, before youâd quickly look into your book, trying to act as if youâve never noticed him.
And then it happened; Aymer himself couldnât say how, but he was struck on his sword-wielding hand, a nasty cut spreading from between his thumb and forefinger, all the way to his wrist. He cursed himself for not wearing gloves. As blood was dripping from his hand, he caught you in the corner of his eye, standing up and hastily making way towards him.
Everyone around him was frozen in fear but you, calmly demanding to see the wound.Â
âCurse you, woman,â he spat out, pulling his hand away and immediately regretting it.
âLet me see, my Lord,â you repeated in an even softer tone, your fingers already reaching towards the bloody mess of his hand, ignoring the frown on his face.
Aymer thought of you as kind, a little timid, a little naive, but suddenly realised you were the only person treating him like he was nothing but a man. There was no fear in your eyes, no hesitation, your fingers gently, softly touching the back of his palm. He was taken aback, unable to say anything, unable to think.Â
Itâs been years since such kindness was extended to him, and despite craving it, now faced with it, Aymer didnât know what to do, except stare at your face.
He was still thinking about it, lying awake in his chambers hours later. Your fingers, sullied in his blood, slowly sliding over his skin, patiently exploring, following the line of the cut, assessing for depth, asking him to move his fingers, massaging gently.
âIâm sure you suffered much worse, my Lord,â you said, flashing a faint smile and pressing your handkerchief to the wound, soaking it completely in crimson, watching his face relax.
Aymer already ordered his servants to clean that handkerchief to a pristine state, despite doubting that it was possible. He should at least get you more threads, more fabric, in case you wanted to make another. Perhaps a bracelet, to apologise. He quickly shook off the last thought, a weird feeling of hollowness spreading through his chest.
Then, he heard three quick, mousy knocks on the door, and in a blink of an eye, without waiting for an invitation, you simply opened the door, with two servants in tow; Aymer was too stunned to speak, watching you walk in, carrying clean rags and ointments, servants carrying hot water.
âThank you,â you turned to the servants, watching them squirm uncomfortably.
âMy Lady?â one of them asked, avoiding looking at Aymer.
Still, you dismissed them before turning to him; he was sitting on the edge of the bed, without his sleep shirt. Actually, you were not sure if he was wearing anything, a heavy quilt covering his lap. With all of his muscles on display and the idea of him being naked, you couldnât stop the flush to your face, but you pretended it was the fire burning in the hearth.Â
You thought him strong and handsome, especially now, warm flames dancing across his handsome features, somehow making his eyes even bluer. The skin of his torso and his arms was taut, scarred, and a little paler compared to his tanned face, and you tried so hard to control your breathing.
âMay I see?âÂ
Removing the soaked rags from his hand, you slowly washed the crusted blood around his wound before gently applying a healing ointment, a faint scent of chamomile filling the chambers.
âAre you not afraid of rumours?â Aymer tried to get a read on you so badly. He wanted to desperately know the true nature of your feelings towards him, almost like he would be able to read your mind. He closely observed your face for any tell he might have missed, for any indication that his own feelings were making him delusional.Â
âRumours, my Lord?â you were still spreading the salve, your fingertips almost ghosting over his imperfect skin.
âYou are alone in an Earlâs chambers.â
And there it was again, that wholehearted giggle that you couldnât suppress, your fingers resting lightly against Aymerâs forearm. His whole body stiffened, his brows furrowing, jaw protruding. He loved your laugh, but never when it was so agonisingly pointed at him. It wasnât anger spreading through him, it was pain - not that he was adept at handling either of those, a red flush rapidly creeping up his neck as he clicked his teeth together, almost literally biting his tongue to not snap at you.Â
âIâve been your hostage for weeks, my Lord. Do you truly believe rumours are not already abundant? Probably why my father doesnât want me back, his daughterâs honour ruined by the beast,â you continued, trying to catch your breath, your laugh turning into a wide, warm smile that had Aymerâs heart beating a smidge faster.
âWhy didnât your father marry you off?â mellowed under your smile, and focusing on the way your fingers were rubbing into his palm, he cautiously probed, now fearing you might have been betrothed after all.
âWhen he sent me away, I asked him the same. I was actually convinced he would do so, for an alliance; it was only sensible. But instead, he remained stubborn, and I am now here. Alone in an Earlâs chambers,â you teased him, flashing another warm smile his way, but quickly looking away. You truly didnât want him to know the depth of your growing feelings, as you still didnât trust him completely. Somewhere deep there was fear after all, fear that he would hurt you, ridicule you.
âWho did you have in mind?â Aymerâs voice was uncharacteristically hoarse, his other hand gripping around the quilt so hard his knuckles turned white.
âWho did I think I should marry, or who did I want?â you were careful to make a distinction, because you truly had two different men in mind, not that your father wanted to hear about either.
âWho did you want?â his voice falling all the way to a throaty whisper, Aymer was trying to hide a tremble in himself.
He was bracing for disappointment and more pain - there were so many young and charming Lords, much more suited for a beautiful, young Lady such as yourself. You wouldnât look twice his way, he told himself, if he hadnât stolen you from the world.
âIâve heard that the Earl of Pembroke is rather handsome.â
Aymerâs whole body went rigid so fast he forgot to breathe. You stilled as well, observing his reaction, wondering if you were too direct, too unladylike.Â
You were toying with him, he was certain of it. Ridiculing and mocking him, the same as you saw through his rouse when he stopped your carriage, you already saw through him and his hopeless weakness for you.
âDo not tease me, harlot!â
He jerked his hand away, jumping out of the bed with such force that you fell to the floor. His short, tight braies showed off his muscular legs that made your mouth water.
âWhy would I do such a thing?â you tried to reason with him in the softest, silkiest voice your throat would produce. âAnd heâs strong, I watched him unhorse man after man at a tourney. Although not sure what to make of his predilection for kidnapping young Ladies.â
Aymer wouldnât budge, wouldnât even turn from the table to look at you, chugging goblet after goblet, small drops of wine trickling down his chin. You waited, your heart beating hard, before you finally had to admit defeat, to your utter embarrassment.
âGood night, my Lord.â
âAymer,â he growled through his teeth.
âWhat? I couldnât possiblyâŠâ it took you a moment to understand what he meant at first.
âYou are in my bedchambers! Youâll address me in any way I like!â he threw the goblet across the room, just above the hearth, where it echoed against the stone wall.
âYes, my Lord. Aymer. Good night.â
**
You couldnât wait for your wedding day to end. There were so many people present at the ceremony and even more at the feast, including the king. Joyous celebration for everyone except your family, who looked like they were attending a funeral. You were nervous, so much so that even Aymer noticed, pushing for the pro forma bedding ceremony earlier in the evening, trying to be alone with you.
âYou look sour,â he commented, getting up from the bed.
âI couldnât wait for the day to be over.â
âMarried to me for less than a day, and already sick of my presence?â
âAymer,â you followed your brooding husband out of bed. âIâve been so excited I havenât slept for days. And then I started to think of all the ways this could go wrong, what my father had planned, if he had plannedâŠâ your thoughts trailed off as you grabbed Aymerâs hand, gently pressing kisses against the scar.
Standing on your toes, you craned your neck as much as you could, but Aymer stood unwavering. You peppered his jaw with kisses, your hands sliding over his chest and under his shirt. You could hear your breath stuttering, and feel flush spread through your cheeks, and heat through your maidenhood.
âI couldnât wait for the day to be over, because I couldnât wait to be your wife,â you whispered against Aymerâs skin, pressing harder into his body.
He finally relented, dipping his head to claim you in a feverish kiss, his huge hands settling over your waist.Â
âI love you,â he muttered, his cheeks reddening, before gently picking you up and laying you down on the bed. âI love you,â he repeated as he settled over you, his lips gently falling into the crook of your neck.
If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`âĄÂŽ-
Summary: Lena just started her dream job as a personal assistant of the team principal of Yama Racing Rally Team. As she navigates her new life, she meets the love of her life.
Word count: 3.2k
Warnings: 18+ and smut (evenutally), minors and ageless do not interact, slow burn, mutual pining, slow start, no beta
Neither of them was aware how much time passed with them basically just staring at each other's faces, lit by ever-changing scenes on a small hotel TV. Unbeknownst to Lena, James got really worried, but was wary of doing anything. At times, he seriously considered wiping tears from her face, feeling guilty of triggering her tears by inadvertently forcing her to relive her hurtful memories. He noticed she seemed so off, almost like she shut down for a time. Guilt, mixing with anxiety, sent his mind into an overdrive, in that familiar overthinking that he was just now explaining to Lena.Â
This time around, everything went on so smoothly. Lena believed it was because she had already settled in the team, so she wasnât that anxious about remembering everyoneâs names and little titbits they shared about themselves.Â
Also, as she had so much more time to prepare, she managed to finish organising Rileyâs whole schedule a good week before the actual rally; now, she was mostly reminding him of his schedule and following him to press conferences and media appearances.Â
What she was the happiest about was that not only did she manage to actually use her voice in the way she always wanted (a minor, but important), she also realised that what James Thompson told her on her very first day was actually true: everyone in the team was friendly and relaxed.Â
Lena was sure that, as the season progressed, that sentiment would change as well, especially as the championship battles would start to escalate. She was hopeful that, even if that happened, the team would not lose its spirit and motivation. Most of that will have depended on the drivers though, primarily on Galliard and Thompson.Â
More on Thompson, if Lena was asked, and more on Galliard, if her boss was asked. All in all, with Schmitt being replaced by another part-time driver during this rally, LeĂłn Moreno, all three of their drivers finished Friday with amazing results, with Moreno in twelfth, Galliard in third, and Thompson actually leading the scoreboard, with more than sixteen seconds ahead. Although happy, Lena noticed that he looked the same exhausted self and hoped this result, together with four stage wins that day, would help him relax a bit.
Back in her hotel room after exciting Friday results, she was just washing her bangs after a shower, when she heard something in front of her door; a nervous male voice, almost on the brink of tears, stepping up and down her hallway. Due to a mix-up in the reservations, she was on a completely different end of the floor to where the rest of her team were staying, so she assumed it was simply somebody from rooms around when she heard it: that dragged-out Scottish monotone. He was almost whispering, but even before checking through the peephole, she knew who it was.
Quickly, she opened the door; James Thompson, completely startled and with tears in his eyes, looked like a deer in the headlights.
âGet in,â Lena ordered, checking if there was anyone else in the hallway.
âMum, I gotta go, Iâll call,â he quickly whispered into his phone, but hesitated a bit.
âGet in,â she gritted through her teeth, in a way Riley would sometimes speak.
After closing the door behind herself, Lena took a deep breath to compose herself.Â
âDonât you have your own room?â she asked him, sounding maybe a bit more annoyed than she actually was. If anything, she was more scared than irritated, but her voice wasnât on board.
âI do, but I didnât want anyone from the team to hear me,â Thompson kept rubbing his forehead and looking at the floor, like a little child being summoned to the principalâs office.
âAnd how is this better? Journalists, members of other teams could have heard you. Can you imagine the headlines tomorrow?â Lena gestured at him to sit, but he was too distracted to notice.Â
After a couple of seconds, he literally just started to shake, real tears running down his face, which he tried to hide with his hands. Fuck.
Lena decided not to ask or even speak, but managed to get him to sit. She recognised what he was experiencing and just wanted not to make him feel ashamed, mainly because, after suffering from panic attacks for years, Lena didnât think they were anything of the sort.Â
Thinking back, she realised that both instances when she either caught him on the phone or when he stormed out of the elevator were him trying to handle anxiety, something he later in the evening confirmed himself.
âCan I help somehow?â she asked him after his tears seemed to cease for a bit.
âI donât think so. I know I have a problem, I know,â he looked straight at Lena, his voice breaking in a small whimper.
âOh, please donât look at me like that,â he continued, looking at the floor again. âI donât need pity.â
âYou are conflating empathy with pity,â Lena answered, almost whispered, her heart breaking looking at him so helpless and scared. James was hesitant to speak, so she turned on the TV. Â
âJust so you can be sure no one could hear anything if standing in front of the room,â she tried to explain it. It was silly, but James seemed to appreciate it.
âI canât sleep. I canât concentrate. Iâm constantly tired. I canât eat. I have this panic, panic attacks,â his voice calmed a little, but his face stretched in a painful grimace.Â
At least thatâs what Lena thought he said, as he slipped back into his accent that she was still struggling with. In any case, she was nodding along, wondering if she should pat him on the shoulder.Â
âI keep calling my mum,â his voice broke again, and he went into that quiet sob, where your whole body is shaking, but without making an actual sound.
To Lena, all of that sounded familiar, too familiar. Her anxiety, to her, manifested like running through mud or being pulled through quicksand.
She had a feeling that James might be experiencing something similar, although at least it looked like he had some sort of support system. Options he didnât have were medications, due to rules, and with all the sneaking he did, Lena was sure he hadnât had regular appointments with a psychiatrist. Knowing how resistant people would usually get to that idea, she didnât plan on suggesting it right away , but rather to try and calm him down enough so he could be rested for tomorrow.
âI would also call my mum,â Lena finally piped up, passing him the glass of water and a tissue.
âAnd I still canât sleep that well, especially in new places. And donât you dare ask me why I accepted this job; most of the time Iâm working at the HQ anyway.â
âIâm sorry to hear that,â James still didnât sound calm, but he was trying to. At least he sounded honest.
âYou deserve this job, sleep or no sleep,â there was something in the way he said it that left Lena completely speechless.Â
âSo⊠Do you want to cry for a bit more? Maybe we could alternate?â
That finally got a chuckle out of him, but before letting it go to awkward silence, Lena started asking him when it started (last year around last rounds of the championship), when it started to be noticeable (couple of weeks after he lost the championship), and if he talked to someone else about this (just his mum, but he had a feeling that Riley suspected something has been happening as well).Â
âI know how you feel, I really do,â Lena said in an attempt to make him feel understood and appreciated.
âI do think you will need to ask for some help, though,â she immediately saw the reluctance and desperation on his face, but she wasnât going to let it go.
âI was only a student, without resources or even an understanding of what was happening. I tried to ask for help, but everyone kept telling me it was just stress, even after I had to repeat a year during my undergraduate studies. Only after I lost my volleyball career did they start to take me seriously and realise itâs not just stress.âÂ
It was very painful for Lena to share this bit, as she still wasnât completely over it, not even all these years later. However, she was always determined to help anyone with similar issues, not wanting anyone to go through the same pain, let alone the driver of the team she worked at. She turned to face James and saw tears in his eyes flooding over as he observed her face, his upper lip barely holding it together in a soft tremble.Â
Neither of them was aware how much time passed with them basically just staring at each other's faces, lit by ever-changing scenes on a small hotel TV. Unbeknownst to Lena, James got really worried, but was wary of doing anything. At times, he seriously considered wiping tears from her face, feeling guilty of triggering her tears by inadvertently forcing her to relive her hurtful memories. He noticed she seemed so off, almost like she shut down for a time. Guilt, mixing with anxiety, sent his mind into an overdrive, in that familiar overthinking that he was just now explaining to Lena.Â
He didnât understand where that urge to just gently comfort her came from, but he was getting some serious courage to softly move a strand of her hair from her cheek, hoping it wouldnât come out wrong, or worse, inappropriate. Her face was full of red patches on pale skin, and her eyes were almost completely closed, her breathing deep and slow, and yet it felt to James like she had some kind of an aura around her; he knew it was just a faint light, but the rollercoaster of emotions left his mind too weak to think clearly. Just as he made a final decision on what to do exactly, her phone rang, snapping them both out of it.
Lena excused herself to the hallway near the door, just to confirm all the meetings with Yama Technologies and then quickly went on to confirm the flights as well; she was a little bit excited because they were going to fly private, although Riley insisted on completely filling the whole manifest. All the calls and emails took much more than Lena anticipated, and when she walked back to her bed, James was lying on it; it took her a couple of seconds to realise he had fallen asleep.Â
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to sort her thoughts into something comprehensive and tangible. As he was neatly taking up one side of the bed, Lena, completely exhausted and grateful for bigger-than-normal hotel beds, lay on the other side, silently blowing her nose. Then, she turned off the TV, but James seemed to be sound asleep.Â
She could wake him up at any given second, but the clock was already showing 2:30. That would mean that, if she were to do that, he would fall asleep at 3 in the best-case scenario and only have two, maybe two and a half hours of sleep before needing to wake up for day two of the rally. Taking into account what he told her about his countless sleepless nights that he refused to call insomnia because âthatâs for people who have real problemsâ, Lena just shook her head and put a two-pillow barrier between them and then sent a text message to Riley.
âYour number one boy is crashing in my bed atm.âÂ
She also included a picture of James curled up at the edge of the bed with it. She did not want to make a big deal out of it, but decided it was necessary to inform Riley at least, unsure if anyone had seen James enter her room. She tried to keep thoughts about possible rumours at bay, but her tired mind was failing her and various anxiety-inducing, almost intrusive, thoughts were plaguing her.
â???â
âItâs a long story, and not my story to tell, but he wasnât feeling well, pacing in the hallway. I pulled him in because I didnât want journalists or other teams to see him. While I was finalising our meeting confirmations and flight reservations, I guess he just fell asleep?â
Lena knew Riley wouldnât even think something inappropriate had taken place, even though intra-team relationships were neither forbidden nor disapproved of.Â
âI just want to be as clear as possible about everything and I am honestly not comfortable about disclosing his personal issues to you either,â she quickly added.Â
The room was faintly lit up by a faraway street lamp with light creeping through a small slit between two heavy curtains, and the only sound was Jamesâ deep, rhythmical breathing. Lena felt a little bit sorry for him; mental health care was still not talked about enough in the motorsport, not even in the whole world, if Lena was asked.Â
She often felt like people would fake compassion and empathy because they felt that was something they should do, not because they actually did, and then would turn around and stigmatise the illnesses even further. Not that things werenât turning around for the better, but she felt that there was still a long road ahead, especially among the athletes, because asking for help was still perceived as a weakness.
âYou did the right thing, donât worry. I was actually afraid of something much worse, so this is a relief. Do you need me to come there and get him?â Â
âNo, let him sleep, heâs clocking too few hours as it already is. When does he have to wake up the latest?â
â5.15 am. You sure you are good? We can switch rooms if you want.âÂ
Although she really appreciated the proposition, Lena knew it was impossible to do it without waking James up, and she was, in all honesty, a little bit too grossed out to sleep in someone elseâs bed, at least in this particular situation. She knew that would be a weird reason, but she couldnât help herself really; she sometimes had some clinical ideas about the bathroom, and especially the bedroom, given her own sleep issues, which she did call insomnia.
âItâs fine. Can we deal with this internally? And by that I mean just the three of us?â
âYes, of course. Can you come see me first thing in the morning?â
âYeah, see you in two hours.â
Lena, however, wasnât sure she would even get those two hours and was hoping she would be allowed to sleep afterwards, during the morning stages. She knew her thoughts would continue to torment her for the rest of the night, but she took her anxiolytic and called it a night.Â
Forcing her mind to focus on future things, she thought of exploring the city tomorrow or the day after. Slowly, she fell into a shallow sleep, waking up after what felt like barely a couple of minutes because she was sure she felt Jamesâ hand touching hers.Â
Her eyes flashed open, feeling a little spacey. However, all she saw was a pillow falling onto her and absolutely no sound or movement from Jamesâ side. She propped herself up and saw he was barely on the bed, sleeping so close to the edge of the bed that one of his arms was dangling off of it; his mouth was slightly open, and his other hand was resting on his chest. He was still in his sneakers, and his phone was on the bed next to him.
She checked her phone; it was just before 5. She stumbled to the bathroom to prepare herself for the day and woke up James just before 5.15.
âWhatâs the time?â he asked, his accent slipping into hard Scottish again.
âQuarter past five. You need to get ready for the day,â she was erroneously stuffing things in her backpack, yawning all the time. Her head was hurting already, so she checked all her notes to be sure she wouldnât forget something important, whether it was documents or a later meeting.
âI am so sorry,â James immediately started apologising, looking mortified, âI was so tired, and I just wanted to close my eyes for a minute. I am really sorry.â
âItâs okay, but I snitched on you to Riley,â Lena said while flinging the drapes open and passing him her phone so he could read the conversation.Â
âI am sorry as well,â she almost fearfully waited for his reaction, hoping it wouldnât send him into one of his famous moods that she was yet to witness, but nothing of the kind happened.
âNo problem, you had to protect yourself, itâs understandable,â James kept nodding along.
âAnd I did sleep better than previous nights, so at least something, right?â he started to sound more and more unsure with every letter uttered, like his confidence was being drained from him by just breathing. He handed her back her phone and headed for the door.
Lena was looking at him and his smushed face and his tousled hair, and didnât like the feeling that was slowly spreading through her body. Not one bit.
âI will not tell anyone about this, donât worry,â he added, his eyes still getting used to morning light.
âWait,â Lena almost yelled, causing him to turn immediately, âthere are some appearances to be kept, right?â
She said it in her work Lena voice, and tossed him her hairbrush.
âThanks,â James said, chuckling a bit, âsee you in the park.â
Lena exited her room not even five minutes later, as she put on only the minimal makeup and hurried to the hotel lobby; Riley was already waiting for her.Â
âWhat did you mean by âworseâ in the text message? What did you think was happening?â she was already on her second coffee (drank the first one back in the hotel lobby) and although the light hurt her eyes, her head has started to feel a bit better, especially after it turned out that today was, after couple of hours in the morning, her day off.Â
Riley took a deep breath before responding.
âI donât know James that well. Heâs new to the team, and I am new, well, to rally, really, this being my third year as a team principal. And when you take his inconsistencies and outbursts into account, wellâŠâ he paused, scratching his beard, before giving an actual answer, lines on his forehead becoming more prominent.
âDrugs. I thought it was drugs.â
**
The rest of the day went in such blur for Lena; she was on complete autopilot even during the sightseeing with Dana and two engineers whose names she promptly forgot. She had a lovely time just chatting, taking pictures, trying new food; she just wished she was more present. Others noticed her weariness, but she explained it away by work-related stress and lack of sleep. However, Lena couldnât wait to get back to her room and get some rest, dreaming about her bed during the conversations.Â
When she finally reached her room, she realised she was in a pickle; despite showering, meditating, and preparing everything in advance for tomorrow, she just couldnât fall asleep. She kept checking the results of every stage of the rally, which still showed James at the top of the leaderboard. She also turned on the TV, more from a habit than a need, but no matter how much she tried to focus on another weekly murder mystery, she kept forgetting the names of the characters and how things related to each other. Curled up around the phone, she closed her eyes, hoping that sleep would finally engulf her.
If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`âĄÂŽ-
Your splayed, oiled palms ran down the hard planes of Baelorâs back, his muscles rippling and tensing beneath your touch as you massaged the knots that had formed over the past several weeks with reverence.
You were seated atop his backside, knees pressing into the bedding below while your calves hugged the sides of his waist.
âHowâs that?â you murmured, admiring the way his tan skin glistened in the candlelight.
The tops of your fingers would occasionally trace over one of the many scars that had been etched into his body; the sizes and colours of the faded lesions varied, some the length of your forearm and a lighter hue, while others were as small as a quill tip and similar in tone to the surrounding skin.
Baelor hummed in reply before a muffled, âperfect,â left his parted lips.Â
The right side of his face was pressed into a cushion below, providing you with the alluring image of his open mouth, flushed left cheekbone, and fluttering, dark lashes.
He made a content rumbling every time you worked out a stubborn lump, the hand he had resting around your calf tightening in appreciation of your efforts.
A raspy, dizzying moan left his throat in a long exhale when your hands kneaded at a particularly sensitive woundâone that, despite being eleven years old, would periodically still flare up and throb.
The sound made your legs constrict around him and eyelids flicker as arousal settled thickly at the base of your spine. You lingered around the edges of the aged laceration, evoking another low, unconstrained noise from deep within his chest.
Slowly, your fingers dragged upwards, leaving a trail of long, red welts that took their time to vanish, along the length of his shoulder blades.Â
The dark grey and silvery hair that rested around the nape of his neck and ear was sleek from a coating of oil, darkened from when you had earlier threaded through the strands in a besotted manner. They had looked enticingly cute; their naturally curled shape too tempting for you to not reach up and twirl them around a single, slick digit.
âTurn around,â you commanded once you had managed to get all of the painful nodules out of his shoulders, your hips rising to provide him with room to flip over.
Once Baelor was comfortably facing you, you sat back down over his pelvis, legs tightening around his body once more when he peered up at you with a knowing smile.
This part wasnât for him as much as it was for you.
He had gained a thickness over his muscles as the years passed, a supple, malleable layer of meat that easily surrendered to your ministrations.Â
You poured more lotion over your palms, rubbing them together until the liquid was warm, and then placed them atop his torso.
The hair that was scattered over the stretch of his chest immediately darkened as the balm coated his skin; the glossy sheen that enhanced the bulkiness of his upper body caused heat to unfurl within your lower abdomen, drift up, and settle in blotchy, tingly patches over your throat and face.
Baelorâs own hands were resting over the upper part of your thighs, his new position supplying him more access to you.
His body jolted forward when one of your nails accidentally scraped his dusky nipple, eliciting a startled intake of air from the older man. You bit the inside of your cheek to refrain from remarking on how sensitive he was, despite knowing that he would never retaliate even if you were to do it again.
âEnjoying yourself?â Baelor inquired after several minutes of being thoroughly prodded, scraped, and tugged at.Â
His scarred brow rose in response to the engrossed, fixated look on your face.
You hadnât noticed how drastically your breathing had changed; immersed with the way his short, coarse hairs felt when you combed through them, and how every sinewy ridge of his flesh pliantly absorbed each stroke and squeeze you delivered.
âNo,â you lied, fingers following the silvery-dark trail of hair that led downwards, to the top of his linen breeches, âbut I will be soon enough.â
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