─ 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."
Warning: Disgustingly affectionate gestures. Read at your own risk.
You loved to toy with Baelor’s rings.
It had become a habit you could not quite explain. Somewhere between idle afternoons and quiet evenings with nothing demanding your hands, you would find yourself reaching for his - turning each ring slowly as you slid them along his long, thick fingers.
Baelor would continue reading, speaking, or listening to lords drone on for hours while you kept yourself occupied beneath the table, feeling the warmth of his large hand covering yours.
He never once stopped you.
Baelor owned many rings. There was the heavy gold wedding band he never removed, worn smooth with time. A dark silver ring crowned with black stone sat often upon his index finger, severe and princely. Another bore the shape of a dragon curling around itself, its ruby eyes catching candlelight whenever he moved his hand.
Others came and went depending on the occasion. Plain bands, signets, rings etched with Valyrian patterns.
Most men would never care for such things. But Baelor did. Or rather, he cared because you did.
It was you who chose which rings to adorned his hands each morning, standing beside him while he dressed for court. He would simply watch you with quiet amusement as you decided which metals suited his doublet best.
And perhaps because he allowed you such freedoms so easily, your boldness had grown with time. Sometimes you would slip one ring from his finger and wear it yourself for an hour or two before returning it without a word. Sometimes longer.
He had been the one to encourage it during the periods when duty kept him away from you.
“Have something to remind you of me,” he had said, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. And, of course, you happily obliged.
Until one morning, just after breakfast, you reached for his hand out of pure instinct and found his fingers bare.
Your eyes lifted immediately to the ring box atop his dresser. The velvet grooves held nothing but the faint impressions of where his collection usually rested.
You turned to him. “Where are your rings, husband?”
“I sent them to be cleaned,” he answered, glancing up briefly before returning to the cuff of his doublet with suspicious concentration.
“Sent them away?” you repeated, brows knitting together. Something uncomfortable twisted inside your chest. “B-but, Baelor, I usually cleaned them.”
He glanced up again. “I know. It will only take a few days.” He crossed to the mirror, smoothing the front of his clothes in silence, with no apparent intention of explaining himself further.
“And why did you not inform me?” you pressed. “What possessed you to do such a thing?”. Madness had begun to stir unpleasantly beneath your skin, and it was barely morning.
“My love, trust me.” He walked back toward you. “They are safe. I will have them returned within a few days, I promise.” With that, he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead and disappeared into the endless duties of his day, before you could ask anything more.
A few days. The words turned endlessly in your mind long after he had gone.
Why would he send them away? Had you annoyed him somehow? Had he finally grown tired of your constant fiddling with his hands and rings? Had he simply endured the habit until he no longer could?
You tried to bury the thoughts before they could take root. You failed.
The first day passed, so did the second. By the third day, the absence had begun to feel physical.
You sat beside Baelor in the small council chamber while lords and ladies rambled through endless matters of court. Out of habit, your hand reached toward his beneath the table, only to find bare skin where cool metal should have been.
Your looked down to study rings that sat on your fingers instead - your wedding band, your house's sigil, and a slender ruby ring Baelor had gifted you during your courtship - all precious, all beloved. Yet none settled against your hands the way his rings did.
Something sore and foolish gathered quietly beneath your ribs.
And in the silence of the following nights, your thoughts returned again and again to the same possibility: Perhaps he had simply grown tired of indulging you. Tired of watching you steal his rings onto your own fingers. Tired of your constant touching. Tired enough to remove the temptation entirely rather than tell you outright.
It was a small thought, a cruel one. But once it lodged itself inside you, it refused to leave. And you said nothing to him, because you did not know how to ask without sounding like someone who had already decided the answer.
On the fifth day, he found you at mid-day and said he had something to show you in the garden. So you followed him.
The afternoon was pale and breezy as he led you down familiar stone paths lined with trimmed hedges. He stopped beside the bench where the two of you often sat together in the evenings and turned toward you quietly.
Then he reached into his doublet and took out a small cloth pouch. He pulled it open with eassness and held out a neat row of rings. Silver and dark metals glimmered beneath the sunlight - some plain, others engraved with familiar patterns.
Your breath caught. They were his rings. But only smaller?
You stared at them in confusion before looking back at him. “Baelor…?”
Did he have them resized? Why?
Your expression must have betrayed your bewilderment, because his mouth curved slightly as he reached for your hand.
Gently, he slid the first ring onto your finger. Then another. And another. He worked in silence, fitting each piece carefully into place while you sat there stunned beneath the drifting garden breeze. When he finished, he turned your hand over in both of his, admiring the collection now adorning your fingers.
After a moment, he reached into his pocket again and withdrew a second pouch. His own rings. Oh. One by one, he slid them back onto his large fingers before lifting his hand beside yours.
“See?” he said. His fingers threaded through yours, metal clinking softly together. “Now we match.”
You looked down at your joined hands. The same silver, same craftsmanship, same weight. Mirrored perfectly across both pairs of hands, as though they had always belonged that way.
“I know how much you love mine, so I had matching ones made for you," he said softly. "That way, you may carry a part of me wherever you go,” he continued.
Sunlight caught against the silver bands, turning his eyes molten with warmth. Before you could open your mouth to respond, he spoke again - words that would leave a permanent mark upon your chest.
“I want the whole realm to know you are my equal. My queen.” He gave your hand a light squeeze. The sunlight glimmered against the silver once more, and his love sat plainly within his gaze, without hesitation or restraint.
And suddenly, everything inside you gave way at once. All the foolishness. Every miserable hour spent convincing yourself he had taken the rings away because he no longer wanted your affection.
You should have known better. Baelor had never been a man careless with silence. He moved through the world quietly, gathering his intentions close until the moment came to place them gently into your hands all at once.
Your vision blurred. You cupped his face with both hands and kissed him hard enough to draw a startled laugh from his chest. Tears burned behind your eyes as the rings continue to glittered between your intertwined fingers beneath the afternoon sun.
The Crown Prince and his Lady. The future King and Queen of Westeros. Written plainly in silver for anyone with eyes to see.
Summary: You're married to Baelor Targaryen and your love language is increasing his cortisol level. No thoughts, just prayers.
The evening had gone dull. You were bored and in desperate need of your husband’s attention, and the thought of having him had been distracting you since morning. So you walked over to Baelor’s study.
Without knocking nor announcing yourself, you circled slowly behind his chair, as you had done a hundred times before, and settled directly into his lap.
“My dear—” He drew a sharp breath. But his hands found you immediately - large and certain - the span of his fingers swallowing the width of your waist, steadying you both before either of you tipped sideways.
Even caught off guard, his body knew exactly what to do with you.
And so you began your work. Thread by thread, you unravelled his patience.
You reached for the nearest document before he could recover enough to protest, unfolding the parchment with exaggerated seriousness and holding it up toward the light from the window.
“Grain inventories from Maidenpool?” You let it drop with theatrical disappointment. “Seven hells, no wonder you look miserable.”
“My love.” His voice was already roughening at the edges. “I truly must finish this, if you please.” Yet his chest remained a solid press against your back, making no effort to shift you anywhere.
You smiled to yourself and leaned forward to reach another stack near the edge of the desk. The movement was idle enough on the surface, except that it forced your back into a slow arch and dragged your weight across his lap in one long pull.
The sound he made was low and involuntary. Those large hands spread wider against your hips, no longer steadying but properly holding. Against your back, his exhale came out longer than it went in, the warmth of it pressing through the silk at your shoulder.
“Who is Lord Melcolm?” you continued pleasantly, inspecting a new letter with the grave attention of someone reading a royal decree. “He writes as though someone is actively chasing him through the halls.”
“My dear wife.” His voice dropped low. “If anyone finds us in this position again—”
“Oh, this seal is lovely.” You cut him off without turning, already reaching for a letter in dark green wax and waving it carelessly over your shoulder. The arc of your arm rolled your hips against him, and his fingers pressed into you hard enough that heat flickered low in your stomach.
“Whose house uses a heron? I cannot place it.”
A beat of silence followed, and when you glanced back at him, his jaw was set and his gaze had moved entirely away from the desk.
You shifted a bit to your left, feeling the answering hardness beneath his breeches grow more insistent with every passing moment. The fabric pulled taut in a way that made your thoughts briefly and inconveniently blank.
The movement ground your weight against him, and whatever sound he had been holding back came out quieter, pressed thin through his teeth.
Those big, veiny hands started to move their way to the curve of your hip, firm enough to leave a memory in the skin. His thumb drawing one slow stroke against the silk there before stilling. But he did not move it away. A wise instinct.
You could have turned around and devoured him. The want of it was embarrassingly persistent, pulsing low and inconvenient, and you had been sitting with it for some time. Instead you kept rummaging through the scatter of his desk, tilting one letter after another.
“Mm.” You frowned at the letter, tilting it one way and then the other. “I cannot make sense of this one at all. What does it say, my love?”
Under the guise of needing his assistance, you twisted slightly in his lap to face him, letting one knee rest atop his growing bulge. The motion felt far too deliberate to be accidental.
A silence stretched whilst he gathered whatever remained of himself. He reached to take the letter from your fingers and turned it once. His mismatched eyes settled on your face.
“That,” he said quietly, “is because you are holding it upside down.”
The mask had worn thin now. A flush had crept along the strong line of his throat, high colour against tanned skin, vivid enough that you wanted to press your mouth to it.
“Oh!” A soft, guileless giggle escaped you, and you watched the muscle jump in his jaw at the sound of it. “How foolish of me, husband.”
You set the letter aside and reached for a completely blank sheet instead. “Ah! What about this one?”
You held it up, eyes squinted, pretending to read at obviously nothing.
“It says,” you murmured, “an invitation requesting the Heir to the Iron Throne join his wife in bed, as she has grown terribly cold and increasingly impatient.”
You leaned over and pushed the page beneath his nose, close enough for your breast to press against his doublet. You tapped the blank paper like a mother teaching her son to read. “See? It says right here.”
The distance between your bodies had reduced to almost nothing now, every slow breath shifting heat between you. His eyes had gone very dark. The weight of them settling on your face with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly smaller.
His mismatched gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then to your chest, lingering a beat too long before he dragged it back up to meet yours. A small, unguarded thing he clearly had not intended to give you.
"I believe it would be terribly unwise for the Crown Prince to deny such an urgent summons," you said, just above a whisper.
He said nothing, but the silence that followed was not empty. It sat between you thick and airless, his eyes not leaving yours for even a moment. His expression holding an answer he had no intention of saying out loud, so you gave him one in return.
You let the knee resting against him begin to move. A long, slow stroke directly against the hardness straining at his breeches. The heat of him consumed you even through all the layers in between. You felt him tense, the strong lines of his body drawing tight all at once like a bowstring pulled to its limit.
Whatever he had been holding back finally slipped through. The sound that escaped him was small and brief. His hand at your hip flexed and tightened in its wake. Then, slowly, something else moved across his face. Amusement creeping in, mixing with hunger. Like he could not quite decide whether to laugh or pull you closer. Knowing him, he would do both.
With nothing left to pretend, he set the blank parchment very carefully on the desk, smoothed it flat with one broad palm, and reached for you instead.
One strong arm closed around your waist, the solid breadth of his chest leaving very little room for pretending you had not wanted exactly this from the moment you walked through the door. The other hand curved around the back of your neck, fingers reaching into your hair, drawing you closer until your lips hovered at the edge of his.
He took your mouth at once, pressing hard at first before softening into something slower and wetter, his tongue sliding against yours until a moan slipped out before you could catch it.
Without loosening his grip, he began to grind his hardened, clothed cock against your hips. You shifted instinctively until his bulge pressed firm between your thighs. You moaned deeper into his mouth, fingers tightening in his collar, and felt him exhale hard against your lips.
The last of whatever restraint he had been clinging to all evening finally burning through. He broke the kiss to catch his breath, still holding you close, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Baelor…” you breathed, your teeth grazing his lower lip, yearning for more.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling, eyes dropping to drink you in. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“There,” he murmured, watching your expression far too closely. “Now you have my full attention.”
your thoughts on ls tracing AKOTSK men's features while they're asleep....? 🙏
*explodes*
oh, these made me YEARN like a mf.
BAELOR.
Baelor sleeps wrapped around you. One arm under your neck, the other banded around your waist, his chest a broad steady heat along your spine. This man doesn’t just sleep next to you. He gathers you, hoards you, his forearm snug across your middle as if he’s shielding something from sight. Some part of him still doesn’t quite trust the world not to steal you while he dreams. So to trace his features you would have to disentangle yourself, slowly, without waking him, which is its own minor heist in truth. And when you finally got your hand free, what you would find, in sleep, is a face that has finally let go of duty.
His brow unknits. That crease between his brows (the one that lives permanently in the daytime, the crease that comes from carrying a kingdom on his shoulders) is gone. You would touch it lightly with your thumb because the absence of it is so striking. And you would trace the line of his nose, the slight bump where it was broken once in a tourney mishap he refuses to discuss. You would map the shape of his mouth, which in sleep falls slightly open, vulnerable in a way it never is when he speaks. You would touch the silver at his temples that the southern light at the Red Keep kisses, as if the gods simply meant to mark him there. And you would feel, with a sharp and unbearable tenderness, the thinness of the skin beneath his eyes. The bruised hollows of a man who’s not slept properly in years until he started sleeping with you. The wonder of it would land on you like cold water: I am the reason this man rests.
He would catch you at it. Baelor sleeps the lightest of any of them despite being the most exhausted, because part of him is always listening for the realm. His hand would close gently around your wrist mid-trace and his eyes would crack open. That strange mismatched gaze, dark and pale, dazed with sleep, and he would smile, slow, delighted. What are you doing, wife? And you would, mortified, try to retract your hand, and he would not let you. No. Carry on. I should like to see what conclusions you reach.
MAEKAR.
Sleeps like a soldier. On his back, one hand resting on his stomach, the other near where his sword would be. Even now, even in your bed, even years into a marriage he’s come to want with all the fierce surprise of a man who didn’t expect to want anything again, he still sleeps in formation. Braced. His body has not unlearned the war. And to trace his face in sleep is to trace a map of every fight he’s been in, because Maekar’s face is evidence of them. The faint pox scars across his cheeks. The new split scar along the ridge of his knuckle from a sword hilt that bit him years ago. The cut along his cheek that has faded but not gone from Redgrass Field.
His hands are the part that would steal your breath, though. Rough, scarred and callused from years with a sword in his hand, from battles he’s had to fight. You would lift his hand from where it rests on the coverlet and you would turn it over in yours and you would map the calluses with your fingertip. The place where the pommel sits, where the reins lie, where the bowstring pulls. And somewhere in this, he would wake. Maekar wakes fast. Soldier-fast. He would wake with his other hand moving toward where the sword should be, and then he would register it was you, and the readiness would drain out of him in a single long exhale, and he would look at you with that gruff bewildered tenderness he can never quite hide and he would grunt, voice rough with sleep: what. Not a question, exactly. More a statement of presence. And you would say, softly: go back to sleep, husband. And he would, but only after pulling you closer, his big hand settling at the small of your back, his face turning into your throat where he can smell you.
AERION.
Catastrophic. And not in the way you’d expect, because Aerion doesn’t sleep braced or guarded the way a man with his obsession ought to. Aerion sleeps curled toward you, every line of him already oriented your way, like a flower that grew toward the sun in the dark and has not bothered to dissemble about it. One hand fisted in the fabric of your shift. One leg hooked over yours. His face turned into the pillow you share, lashes pale against fever-warm skin, breath stirring the loose hair at your temple. And the moment your fingertips graze his cheek (the moment you have the audacity to touch him while he sleeps)he doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. He leans into it.
Greedy is the only word for him. Aerion in sleep is greedy for you, in a way his waking self has spent years trying to disguise. Awake, his obsession comes barbed, sneering, costumed in cruelty so he doesn’t have to admit how badly he wants. Asleep, none of that machinery is running. So when your thumb traces the line of his jaw, he turns his face into your hand. Open-mouthed. Half-conscious. Like a dragonling rooting toward heat. His lashes flutter. He makes a small, rumbling sound in his throat. And he moves. That lean dangerous body shifting closer, closer. Until you understand he’s not simply asleep beside you but winding himself around you, leisurely and deliberate. His face is inches from yours and his forehead nearly brushes yours and you’re nose-to-nose in the dim, his breath on your mouth.
Presenting himself. Offering himself. Look at me, the whole shape of him says, even in sleep. Map me. Mark me. It has always been yours.
And so you do. You trace the cropped softness of his hair at the nape, where it grows in stubble-pale from the time he cut it for you. You touch the scar on his jaw. Smooth your thumb along the high arrogant ridge of his cheekbone, the place that goes flushed when he’s feverish or furious or wanting. You touch the corner of his full mouth, and his lips part for you, automatically, the same way they parted for the cup of water you held to them when he was sick. And his eyes are open by then, of course they are (Aerion sleeps shallow, the dark thing in him will not let him sleep deeper than that) and they’re pale and blown wide, fever-bright in the dark, watching you map him with the desperate attentiveness of a man who’s been waiting for this his entire life and would die before he admitted it.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t break the spell. He simply lies there, curled around you, face inches from yours, and lets you have him. Lets you claim him. The whole tableau of it. The hot dragonish body coiled into yours, the parted mouth, the eyes that have not blinked in what feels like minutes. He’s a man being handed over to you in the only language he’s ever been able to speak: the language of stillness while you do what you like. He’ll be vicious about it tomorrow, say something cutting about your sentiment. Your softness, your northern habits. He will perform the disdain so you can’t take from him what he was unable to refuse you tonight. It won’t work. And the next night he’ll be curled into you again, fiercer, before the candle is even out.
VALARR.
Sleeps boyish. There’s no other word for it. For a man so polished in waking (the careful cultivation of charm, the lingering look he gives you across rooms, the deliberate way he holds himself even at rest) Valarr in sleep is softened to the point of foolishness. His mouth is slightly parted, dark hair mussed. The white streak at his temple is a pale slash through the tousle. The polish that defines him by day has completely deserted him, and what’s left is a man in his twenties with a small crease between his brows and an unguarded face that you can’t stop looking at.
So you touch him. Just your thumb at first, smoothing the crease between his brows the way you’ve wanted to all day. And Valarr (who’s the most attuned to you of any of them) doesn’t so much wake as soften further under your hand. He makes a small sound, sleep-thick and pleased. Turns his face into your palm, slow, instinctive. His lashes don’t lift. His eyes don’t open. He’s still mostly asleep. But his mouth finds the pad of your thumb, and his lips trace it, unhurried, half-conscious, learning the shape of you with the same devotion he gives every other inch of you when he’s awake.
Then he nuzzles deeper. His cheek against your palm. His nose at the heel of your hand. A man who is, you realise with a quiet jolt, presenting himself for petting. Presenting himself to be claimed. I’m yours, take stock, do as you like. Said with no words, only the small shameless tilt of his head into your hand, the tiny kiss he plants in the centre of your palm when his lips happen to find it. And when his eyes finally do crack open, mismatched and unfocused, they find your face and his whole expression breaks open into that helpless unguarded delight you only ever see from Valarr in sleep. The man under the prince.
He wants to be kept. That’s the secret of Valarr in sleep. The performance is intricate, the polish is real, the immortalising gaze is genuine. But underneath all of it is a man who wants to be a thing you keep on the bed and stroke when he’s good. And tracing his features while he sleeps gives him exactly that, and he goes utterly liquid under your hand. He’ll let you do it as long as you want, and he’ll purr small wordless sounds into your palm, and somewhere in this hour you’ll understand that you have ruined him for any other woman who’s ever lived, because no one else has ever touched him like this. Without performance, without ceremony, without payment due, and no one else ever will again.
DAERON.
Oh, oh, oh. Daeron sleeps with his hand curled near his face, knuckles white, holding something back. And his face in sleep is the only place you ever see him young. Waking, Daeron is older than his years. Wine-aged, dream-gnawed, carrying the weight of visions that crawl out of him in his sleep and walk into the world. He has a face that’s going to be ruined by drink before he’s forty if no one stops him. But in sleep, before the drink hits, before the dreams come, before the hand pours the next cup… Daeron looks young, handsome. He looks like the boy he was before the gift cracked him open.
So to trace his features in sleep is to map the wound the dreams have been chewing on. You would touch the dark crescents under his eyes. Deep, blue-black, constant now. You would touch the soft hair at his temple, damp at the roots. You would touch the corner of his mouth, which in sleep does this terrible thing. It twitches, downward, as if the dreams are already starting, as if even unconscious he’s bracing. And you would know, with a sinking that is its own kind of love, that you can’t save him from what is in his head. You can only sit with him afterwards. You can only hold him while he sweats it out.
He will wake mid-trace. He’ll wake with his eyes already wet, dream-disturbed, half a word in his mouth that he swallows when he sees you. And he will look at you for a long moment and then his face will crumple (just briefly, just for a heartbeat) and then he’ll laugh, that bitter wine-aged laugh, and say darling, you should not look at me like that, you’ll spoil me for the rest. And you will say, levelly, Daeron, and he’ll stop laughing, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rests against his cheek. He’ll hold it there for one long silence, and that will be the closest thing to I love you he’s capable of giving you.
LYONEL.
The opposite of all of these men. Lyonel sprawls. He sleeps the way he laughs: loud, generous, taking up the entire bed and apologising for none of it. One arm flung above his head, the other across your waist with a possessiveness so unselfconscious it reads as thoughtless, his frame radiating heat like a hearth. He’s the man who falls asleep faster than anyone you know, because Lyonel doesn’t lie awake worrying. Lyonel has never lain awake worrying. That’s one of the great gifts of being Lyonel Baratheon.
So to trace his features is a different kind of project entirely. It’s not heartbreak. It’s wonder. He’s almost obscenely beautiful in sleep. The stag’s pride of him, the strong jaw gone slack, the dark lashes fanned against tanned skin, the mouth that’s always grinning in waking finally at rest. You would map his face slowly. The small white scar through his eyebrow from a tourney. The flattened bridge of a nose broken twice. The soft place at his temple where his pulse beats steady and unhurried. And Lyonel, who sleeps deeply and long, would not wake. You could trace him for an hour and the man would simply continue to breathe, mouth open, lashes still.
He would wake eventually (late, slow, irritated by sunlight) and he would catch your hand without opening his eyes and bring it to his lips and kiss the palm and rumble what’re you about, she-wolf, and when you told him, I was looking at you, he would crack one eye open, grin like sin, and say aye? And what’s the verdict? And you would have to lie to him, because Lyonel doesn’t need to be told he’s beautiful, Lyonel already knows, Lyonel will dine out on it for a week. So you’d say the verdict is you snore, and he’d roar with laughter, and pull you on top of him, and that would be the end of any further tracing.
DUNK.
Dunk is the only one on this list who sleeps completely undefended. Dunk, all seven feet of him, all knotted muscle and scarred knuckles and broken-nosed sweet-eyed enormity. He sleeps like a child. On his side, one big hand tucked under his cheek, his face slack and peaceful in a way that takes your breath. The largest man you have ever seen, and in sleep he’s the softest, and the dissonance of it is so profound that the first time you saw it your eyes burned.
So you trace his features slowly. Oh so, very slowly. Because Dunk is a man who’s been touched without tenderness his entire life. Bruised, broken, struck by others, and to be touched gently while he sleeps is something he’s never received, ever, not in all the years of life. You would trace the cauliflowered curl of his ear, scarred from training. The ridge of his nose, broken so many times it has settled into its asymmetry. The pale lines of old scars across his cheek, his jaw, his brow. And you would touch his mouth last, most gently, because Dunk has the softest mouth of any man you know, and in sleep it lies parted and trusting like a boy’s.
And Dunk would wake. Slowly. Blinking up at you in the dim light, confused at first, his big body stirring carefully because even half-asleep Ser Duncan the Tall is afraid of breaking small things. And when he registers what you’ve been doing (when he understands you’ve been touching his face) he would go still, the way he goes still when something gentle happens to him that he doesn’t know how to receive. And his eyes, which are honest blue and absolutely without guile, would fill. Genuinely fill. And he would say, in that quiet rumble of a voice, m’lady. You don’t… you don’t have to do that. And you would say, I know. And he wouldn’t be able to speak after that for a long time.
And he would, carefully, very tentatively, lift one of his enormous hands and lay the back of it against your cheek. A fraction of the gentleness you just gave him, a fraction of the same gift returned in his clumsy, sincere way, and he would not say anything, but you would understand that he’s just made you a private vow no septa would recognise but every god in the seven heavens would.
SUMMARY — After making the biggest mistake of your life and becoming pregnant with a man who does not intend to marry you, you ask your childhood friend Daeron for help.
REQUEST — (1)
AUTHOR’S NOTE — I really liked this request because I haven't seen a story like this so far (maybe there is one but I just haven't found it). I truly think Daeron would try to save his friend in a heartbeat. 🥺
WARNINGS — difficult birth (happy ending)
WORD COUNT — 4,210
ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.
DAMSEL IN DISTRESS
You lived in a castle that was a day's ride away from Summerhall. When you were a child, your mother was often visiting Lady Dyanna or Lady Dyanna was visiting your mother. The two were good friends and because of that you were seeing Prince Daeron a lot. He was slightly older than you but you had more in common with him than Prince Aerion. Aerion was a lively and loud child but Daeron was rather quiet and timid. You preferred to hide with him under a bed or inside a closet and he would tell you about impossible dreams he was having. As a child you thought he was making them up.
He was an odd one, surely. But he was your friend and you trusted him.
After his mother’s passing you two were seeing each other less frequently. However, because your castle was so close to Summerhall, you were always a guest at the celebrations thrown by his father, so you two were still in touch. You were also exchanging letters from time to time and sometimes you would bump into him in the town nearby. Usually, he was stinking like wine and beer then, dragging himself from the tavern towards the stables to go back home after a night out. Meanwhile, you would be in a fresh and clean dress and with a wicker basket in your hand, on your way towards the market square.
You still liked him the same. If he was different – less of a drunk and more of a responsible man – perhaps you’d begin to court him. But he was too much of a mess to be taken seriously as a possible Lord Husband.
And it was a shame, really. It pained you to see him so drunk all the time, mumbling nonsense behind those ruffled dirty blond hair strands. If he wasn’t wearing such grand clothes, many would think he was a beggar from the streets.
But he was not. He was still your Daeron.
To Prince Daeron,
My dearest friend, I find myself burdened by troubles most grave, with no hand left to turn to and no counsel left to seek. Thus I send this plea to you, in the hope that the bond forged between us in childhood has not withered with the passing years.
If you still hold me as your companion and true friend, then I beg you, come to me upon the morrow at the Black Cat tavern. I shall keep myself hidden from prying eyes, clad in black and hooded besides. Seek me first by the window; should that place be occupied, you shall find me waiting in the darkest corner of the room.
I will remain there from first light until the setting of the sun if need be, for desperation has made me patient above all else.
I pray you come.
Yours in faith and secrecy,
(Y/N)
Daeron sobered up immediately after reading this letter from you. He jumped out of the bed and ran out of the room to catch a servant who had fetched him the letter.
“When did it arrive?” He asked.
“Last night, my Prince,” the girl answered with widened eyes.
“Why wasn’t it delivered to me then?” Daeron inquired.
“You were… not conscious,” she explained, nervously.
“What time is it now?”
“It is after noon now, my Prince,” the girl answered before hurrying away to a different part of the castle.
Daeron cursed under his breath. It would take him some time to get to town but he hoped you would still be there. He dressed in a haste and brushed his dirty hair with his hand as he glanced at the mirror.
He looked like an absolute fucking mess but he didn’t have more time to make himself look more presentable. Besides, you wanted to be discreet and no one was paying attention to him anymore when he looked like that.
With a heavy heart he hurried downstairs to mount his horse as he wondered what had happened that you were desperate to seek him out like this.
Daeron left his horse in the stables and threw a coin at a young boy taking care of animals there. Then he walked out and took a deep breath in as he entered the Black Cat tavern. It was his favourite, you had seen him leaving it many times before. He was sure that was the reason why you had chosen it.
Perhaps you didn’t know any other. Why would you, after all?
He looked around but the table by the window was occupied by two large and loud men. Daeron walked forward, into the darkness of the corner between the stairs and the northern wall. He spotted a dark and feminine silhouette there with a hood put on her head.
“(Y/N)?” He cleared his throat as he stood behind her chair.
You jumped on your seat slightly as you turned around and breathed with relief at the sight of him.
“Gods, Daeron… I thought you wouldn’t come. I have been waiting here since eight and soon my parents will wonder why it’s taking me so long in town,” you cracked a nervous smile.
“Forgive me,” Daeron whispered and sat across the table. “What happened?” He inquired. “You’re worrying me, dove.”
Your cheeks blushed at the cute nickname he had started to call you with since you were ten and three.
However, you did not feel deserving of that nickname anymore.
“I believe I am doomed,” you confessed, your hands shaking as you cupped the mug in front of you. Daeron furrowed his brows and you sighed heavily. “I have made a… terrible, terrible mistake,” you admitted. “And I need advice from someone more experienced than I am.”
“Yes?” Daeron asked, his heart suddenly growing heavy deep inside his chest.
“I am with child,” you looked up to meet his hazy blue gaze. Daeron blinked a few times and swallowed thickly.
“A-are you certain?”
“Sadly, I am.”
“With whom?”
“I’d rather not say,” you bit your lower lip. It was trembling.
“Were you forced upon?” Daeron’s jaw clenched.
He was a shit knight but he would avenge your honour in a heartbeat. He would ask Aerion for help if he had to.
“I was not…” You whispered, looking down. “I know how disappointing it must be. I am a wench… a whore,” you lowered your voice even further. “Spare yourself lectures, Daeron. No words will take back time.”
“I would never call you these things,” Daeron assured you, extending his sweaty hand to caress your trembling one. “Why, though?”
“Because I was a fool!” You dared to look at his face again. He was very worried and not judgmental at all, which encouraged you to open up a bit more. “He was a knight who stayed at our castle for some time before leaving for Dorne. He seduced me with sweet words and promises. I thought he planned to marry me and take me with him to his castle but… But he was a liar, Daeron. He has a Lady Wife already. And probably has wronged many Ladies before me…”
“That is the most unhonourable thing. I cannot believe this man is a Knight. Someone should be informed,” Daeron’s face flushed with anger.
“I wish! But if I do tell someone, I would have to admit what happened. No one yet knows that I am expecting. When they find out about what I have done… What will happen to me? My parents will have to send me away. I don’t want to be a septa. What will happen to the innocent child then? Will they be sent to an orphanage in the city? Live like a beggar?”
Daeron closed his mouth and took a deep breath in.
“It seems you already know what is going to happen. What do you need me for then?” He asked.
“I wondered… Because you know much more about those things but… Maybe I should run away? Would a brothel be a better place perhaps? I have heard some whores are allowed to keep their children.”
Daeron couldn’t believe your words. He burst out in laughter, causing you to look down as your cheeks burned.
“Dove, are you asking me if joining a brothel would be a good idea in your situation?” He inquired and you shyly nodded. “I would never allow you to step inside one, let alone join it.”
“Why not? I am a whore!” You raised your voice and some people looked at you two.
“You are not,” Daeron shushed you and leaned in closer as he cupped your cheeks. “We all make mistakes and it is simply unfair that women must pay for theirs much more than men must pay for theirs.”
“My parents will never forgive me. You know what my Lord Father is like,” you sobbed quietly.
Daeron took a deep breath in. You truly were a damsel in distress. And he was a knight – a shit one but still a knight. It was his duty to take responsibility for his friend’s fate.
Seven Hells, you were probably his best and only friend.
“Go back home and let me handle it,” he whispered. “Alright?”
You nodded although you didn’t trust that he would find any solution. You feared that he was simply dismissing you.
On the next day, your parents greeted you with an unpleasant frown upon their faces when you joined them by the breakfast table.
Your heart jumped in your chest at the sight of a letter in your father’s hand. Was it possible they found out the truth somehow? How? Daeron was the only one who knew… Would he reveal your secret like this?
“What is it?” You asked.
“You tell us,” your mother frowned. “We have just received a letter from Summerhall.”
“When were you planning to tell us?!” Your father asked, angrily.
“Tell you what exactly?” You asked, clasping your hands on your abdomen.
“That Prince Daeron has… defiled you!” Your mother gasped and your father looked away, ashamed.
Your eyes widened.
“He did what now?”
“Stop playing with me, girl!” Your father banged onto the table with his fist. His eyes were now laid upon you. “Prince Maekar writes to me that his son admitted to being intimate with you. Now, the guilt-driven Prince asks for your hand in marriage.”
Your jaw dropped at the revelation.
“I–”
“At least there is that! And he is a Prince, too. A good match,” your mother nodded. “I have always hoped you would marry one of them. Especially Daeron for he is the eldest and an heir. However, the circumstances are far from perfect… To find out that my own daughter has whorish tendencies…”
“Mother!” You scolded her.
“Your mother is right!” Your father interrupted you. “Prince Daeron is a fool to marry you. Even if he was the one to defile you.”
You looked down, not knowing what to say.
You felt so relieved that their words meant nothing to you. You and your babe were saved.
But… why?
When you moved to Summerhall on the day before your wedding ceremony, everyone was smirking at you. They knew you very well, after all, even the servants. And they heard the rumour about you and Prince Daeron.
Aerion even winked at you.
Prince Maekar was apologising to you… You had never felt more stupid in your life. Because you did not deserve any apology. In fact, you should kneel in front of his son and kiss the palms of his hands for saving you.
“Why did you do it?” Was the first thing you asked Daeron when you were left alone with him. Because you were defiled already, no one cared about you two having a chaperone.
“You wanted me to help,” Daeron shrugged.
“You’re ruining your life. I did not ask for that,” you shook your head.
“Most likely, I would never become a husband. I will not be a good one and you know that. It is not a blessing, so you do not need to feel so grateful,” Daeron snorted ironically. “But I could save my friend from a dreadful fate. And my father will stop forcing me to court ladies I find no interest in.”
“You are the heir of this castle… If I give birth to a son… Everyone will think he is yours. And he will be the rightful heir,” you swallowed thickly. “I feel awful thinking of this. My son is no Targaryen. He doesn’t deserve the title.”
“I don’t care,” Daeron admitted in such a carefree manner that you gasped. “That is the truth, dove. I don’t. My father is not a King, I am no heir to the throne. It’s just a title of the Prince of Summerhall. My father cares about it but it matters much less than he’d like to admit.”
“He must have berated you so awfully… And you did nothing wrong. In fact, you saved me…”
“He berates me every day anyway,” Daeron assured you and winked.
The greatest act of chivalry he had ever done as a knight. And yet his father would never know.
He could not know.
You were laying on a sofa with many pillows under your back as you were eating fruits brought to you by the servants and caressing your prominent bump. The maester had said the babe should be born in a few weeks.
Daeron walked inside the chambers and granted you a soft smile.
“How are you feeling?” He asked.
“Heavy. You?” You looked up and squinted.
“Me?” He laughed and crouched down to fix your hair. “Why are you inquiring about me?”
“You seem… sober,” you pointed out.
“I am… trying. Soon, we will have a babe,” he admitted, his cheeks blushing. “I doubt I will manage without the drink but I decided to only drink when the sun is no longer in the sky. It is difficult some days but today is my little victory,” he admitted as his voice cracked.
You noticed his hands were shaking. You grabbed them and squeezed them.
“You’re doing that for… my babe?”
“Our babe, dove,” Daeron reminded you.
“We are alone now, husband. There is no need to lie,” you reminded him.
“That child will not know any other father. I do not lie,” Daeron assured and leaned in to kiss your knuckles.
“I still feel bad… They will be given a title of a Prince or Princess when their real father is barely a knight,” you sighed.
“I also feel bad. Because I will not be a good father most likely,” Daeron smiled sadly and you cupped his chin to make him look up.
“Stop the self-pity.”
Although deep down you knew that the only reason you had been saved by him was that very self-pity. Only a man hating himself as much as him would agree to such a thing.
Each and every day of your marriage, Daeron had been making you fall for him more and more. The way he cared, the way he was trying to be the best version of himself now for you. You. A woman carrying another man’s child under her heart.
You were disgusted with yourself sometimes. Especially now, when the bump was visible. But Daeron didn’t seem to mind.
It was easy for you to fall for him because you had always had a crush on him in one way or another. But…
“Why are you so good to me?” You wondered out loud.
Daeron chuckled, pretending that he had taken your question as a joke. He wasn’t brave enough to tell you that you were much more than he could ever hope for.
Having his own family and a woman he could call his Lady Wife. He had never expected this to happen. A coincidence had brought you two together to marry – an unhappy incident and a scandal. But he was grateful for them.
Besides, he had always found you charming. But he had never found himself worthy.
Your screams filled the castle and Daeron hated himself but he did not possess enough courage to see you. He was sitting on the floor by the doors leading to your chambers with his head pressed to his knees as he prayed to gods.
Gods were real, of that he was sure. Otherwise he wouldn’t have his dreams.
But for all the burdens he had to suffer… Could they grant him your life instead? The maester had said the birth would be a difficult one for the babe was not positioned properly.
Would he really lose you now? Perhaps the gods were punishing you for sleeping with that knight. Would they truly be so cruel? He prayed and he prayed, clinging to the fabric of his tunic until his knuckles turned white.
He had just gained a family of his own. He did not want to lose it already…
“My Prince… I might have to choose…” The maester left your chambers and Daeron looked up with wet eyes that widened at the sight of all the blood on maester’s robes.
“Choose?”
“Between the babe and the Lady.”
“The Lady,” Daeron mumbled out. “The Lady must live. No matter what it takes.”
The maester nodded and went back to your chambers. Daeron took a glance at your exhausted and sweaty body laying on the bed as you were crying out of pain.
He hoped you wouldn’t hate him for this.
He hoped you wouldn’t think the choice was made only because the child was not his. Even if it was his child – even if it was his son and heir – he would always choose you.
He wiped the tears from his cheeks and took a deep breath in before standing up on trembling legs. He promised himself to be somewhat sober for the occasion but it was making everything even worse. He was dizzy and couldn’t breathe properly from the overwhelming anxiety.
Trying to bring himself back to reality, he suddenly heard a loud crying filling the halls and echoing through the castle. It was a child’s crying.
The doors opened once again and the maester was smiling this time.
“The gods were merciful,” he announced. “The babe is alright and so is the Lady. She lost lots of blood, therefore she will need lots of rest in the upcoming days,” he explained.
Daeron sobbed out of happiness as he hugged the maester tightly. The surprised man patted his back.
The Prince hurried inside the room. It was filled with a metallic smell and the maids were changing the sheets your weak body was laying on. They were soaked with blood. Your skin was a few shades paler and your breath was shallow but your eyes were open and you extended your shakily hand towards the septa who was holding a small child.
Daeron approached you first and crouched down by the bed as he held your hand and pressed kisses to each of your fingers.
“My dove,” he cooed. “My sweet dove, you were so brave.”
You cracked an exhausted smile at him.
“It is a girl,” the septa announced and leaned over to place a girl on your chest.
Daeron gasped at the sight of the tiny little babe. She was so vulnerable and innocent. He could see already that she had hair like yours.
“I am glad it’s a girl,” you whispered, nearly inaudibly. Your free hand caressed her back. “You know why.”
“I know,” Daeron nodded. Then he froze because the babe opened her eyes and looked at him.
She looked at him with his own eyes. You chuckled weakly.
“Why do you think I fell for him?” You asked so quietly that no one else could hear you. “He had eyes like yours.”
Daeron blinked a few times. He thought you were delirious and speaking nonsense.
You insisted on naming her Princess Daera. Your husband found the idea ridiculous because he didn’t find himself worthy of such an honour but in your eyes he was the worthiest man in the world.
“What a beautiful babe you have fathered, son,” Maekar smiled to himself when he spotted Daeron holding the little girl in his arms as he walked with her around the gardens.
Daeron blushed.
“Thank you, father,” he nodded. He was not used to Maekar giving him compliments.
“She has eyes just like yours,” Maekar booped the little girl’s nose and Daeron chuckled awkwardly.
“Only the eyes. The rest is just like her mother,” he said.
“Well, we can live with that,” Maekar winked with a laugh and Daeron rolled his eyes. “Speaking of your wife. Once she heals properly – as long as it might take – you should try for another. Summerhall needs a male heir.”
Daeron moved uncomfortably as he adjusted the babe in his arms.
“She only gave birth a few weeks ago. And she nearly died. I would not want to risk anything like that ever again,” Daeron confessed.
Maekar sighed.
“Of course I don’t require you to try again now or any time soon. In a few years, I can wait. But it would be the most convenient if you tried again. Your mother gave birth to six children,” he pointed out.
“And died.”
Maekar shut his mouth but only for a while.
“Yes, she did. But she gave me four sons before that.”
Daera was asleep in the nursery and you joined Daeron in your chambers. He was staring at the fire with a goblet of wine in his hand. You looked out of the window.
“The sun has barely set and you’re drinking already,” you chuckled, nervously.
“I had a dream,” he said in a grim voice without looking at you. You froze.
“When?”
“Just now. I took a short nap and now I regret it,” he explained bitterly and took a sip.
Daera had been crying for the whole night long and Daeron had been the one to insist on spending that time with her. It was no surprise that he needed a nap during the day. However, one of his dragon dreams haunted him.
“I’m sorry… Do you want to talk about it?” You touched his arm as you stood behind him. You fixed his hair carefully as you brushed the strands with your fingertips to soothe him.
“I dreamt of our daughter…” Daeron turned around to look at you. “And there was a boy, too. Our son.”
“That sounds like a good dream.”
“My father wishes us to try again and to have a son. I guess his wish will come true,” Daeron clenched his jaw.
“What is the problem, Daeron?” You furrowed your brows.
“You were nowhere to be seen.”
“Perhaps I was in another room,” you tilted your head.
You were taking his dreams seriously, of course. But sometimes he was too dramatic about them.
“Were you in the dream as well?” You inquired.
“Well, no, but it was my dream so–”
“The main subject of the dream were the children. Not us. That is why I was not there,” you explained, softly. You took the goblet of wine from his hand and put it down before approaching him again to hold his hands and squeeze them. “I would very much like to try for another babe soon. You deserve one of your own. Truly your own,” you lowered your voice. “For everything you are doing to me and Daera.”
“She is enough for me.”
“I know,” you nodded. “But not for me. My greatest wish is to give you a babe of your own blood.”
Daeron sighed. He couldn’t say no now, could he? Not to you. Not when you were asking so sweetly.
“My dove…” He rolled his eyes.
“What is it?” You raised an eyebrow.
“We can have another,” he agreed before leaning in closer, his nose brushing yours now. “But you owe me nothing, do you hear me? You owe me nothing. Because what I did… I did for my love for you,” he admitted for the first time.
You froze as you blinked slowly a few times. Then, you let go of his hands to cup his face and kiss him on the mouth.
“I love you, too,” you said. “And there is not a day I don’t curse myself for making a fool of you like that.”
“You didn’t make me a fool. You made me a husband and a father,” Daeron shook his head as he explained. “Despite rather dramatic circumstances, I could not be more grateful for what happened. Otherwise, I’d still be a drunkard at the tavern you would sometimes pass with a sad smile. Or worse. You’d be far away now, married to someone else. And I’d be stuck here until I’d eventually drink myself to death or catch an illness from a whore.”
You chuckled.
“Well, I wanted to become a whore myself, remember?” You teased and he scoffed.
“You and your ideas, my dove… You nearly gave me a heart attack then.”
You laughed and kissed him again. Then again and again.
Until he felt all of your love because he deserved to be filled with every drop of it.
warnings - smut. cursing. cheating. age gap. declan is boyfriends dad.
word count - 2k ish maybe ??
authors note - this is a continuation of the fatherfucker universe, so you may want to read Forbidden Fruit first!! this can totally be read as a standalone though. obsessed with that moral irishman. give me 14 of him right now.
masterlist. inbox.
“Oh fuck, you feel good.”
His hips drive into yours, pressing you into the mattress as you screw your eyes shut.
“Look at me, gorgeous.”
You stare up at him, grabbing a fistful of his hair to pull him down to kiss you to keep him quiet.
“Shhh, these walls are thin,” you whisper, trying to fight a smile.
“They won’t mind,” he teases, gripping your hips. “God knows they’ve probably heard it before.”
“Not the point,” you scold as you slap his shoulder. “Oh, fuck-”
“That’s it, beautiful. Say my name when you come.”
It hits you suddenly, building and releasing quicker than you can blink.
“Fuck, Patrick.”
“Oh, shit. I’m coming, fuck.”
He collapses on top of you, heavy and spent.
“Do I need to gag you next time?”
“What’s that, gorgeous?”
“You were so loud, Patrick. No one needs to hear you moaning at 10pm on a Thursday night.”
“No?” he asks with a smirk, pressing kisses into your neck. “Not even you?”
“Not even me,” you laugh as you shake your head, trying to wriggle free. “Now get off so I can go and clean myself up.”
He rolls sideways, cocooning himself in the duvet as he does it. You’re about to ask him a question when you hear a gentle snore, scoffing in disbelief.
“That is record time,” you say into the room. “Fucking hell.”
You take your time washing your face and fixing your hair in the bathroom, lost in your thoughts. There’s electricity thrumming through your veins, untapped energy waiting to be released. It’s making you jittery, fingers tapping against the sink as you brush your teeth.
It’s becoming pretty frequent. Patrick has no problems making you come, in fact, he’s pretty good at it. You’ve been together long enough for him to know what gets you there. It’s just getting more and more… unfulfilling. You finish, and it’s like it’s not enough. It’s nice, and you’re grateful for it, but it’s… underwhelming. It leaves you wanting.
You’re sure it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you’ve been fucking his dad.
Declan makes you come so hard you see stars, trembling and gasping as your orgasm lasts for what feels like forever. It always takes you a while to recover, panting and sweating like you’ve run a marathon afterwards. With Patrick, you can get up and out of bed and go about your day.
You know it’s not fair to compare them. In fact, you know it’s inherently wrong. And yet you keep doing it, consciously or not. The way they touch you, the way they kiss you, the way they say your name. Everything is a competition - one that Patrick doesn’t even know he’s been entered into.
You splash your face with cold water once more, trying to pull yourself back to reality. You figure you’ll go and get a glass of water, before crawling back into bed with your boyfriend who loves you. Your boyfriend who you love.
You pad downstairs in your socks, running the tap and filling the first mug you can find. As you’re turning off the faucet, someone clears their throat from behind you.
“Fuck,” you jump, miraculously still holding onto your water. “What are you doing sat at the kitchen table in the dark, you maniac?”
“Couldn’t sleep. It was all a bit loud upstairs.”
You bite your lip guiltily, looking down at the floor.
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault. You told him to be quiet multiple times.”
“You heard that?”
“I heard everything, sweetheart.”
“Sorry, Declan,” you say bashfully. “Not what you need in your own house.”
“I wouldn’t have minded if I could have heard you. But all I heard was him, and you telling him off. Not a single moan, darlin'.”
“I’m… good at being quiet.”
“That’s a lie.”
His matter of fact tone sends heat straight through the pit of your stomach.
“He didn’t make you come?”
“He did.”
“I didn’t hear it. Usually I can’t shut you up when you’re comin’.”
“It’s… different, with him. That’s all.”
“Worse?”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“It’s what ya meant though.”
Declan stands up from his chair, taking huge strides towards you through the dark. You instinctively take a step backwards, until you’re pressed up against the counter. He cages you in with both arms resting on either side of you, leaning in so he’s encroaching your personal space in a way that’s much too intimate to be between a man and his son’s girlfriend.
“I can feel it, you know.”
“Feel what?” you ask, voice shrinking more than you’d have liked.
“The buzz. The energy. You’re still high on it, aren’t ya? Still wired and ready to go.”
“Declan-”
“You want more, don’tcha? You’re still hungry for it.”
You’re shaking your head, trying to avoid his eyes as he shuffles in so his body is plastered to yours.
“Just tell me the truth, sweetheart. Tell me that if I slide my hand into those pyjama shorts, I won’t find you still wet and waiting. Hmm?”
You start to whisper under your breath, causing Declan to grip your chin and force you to look at him.
“You’ve gotta speak up, pretty. Use your words.”
His forehead is practically stuck to yours, breathing his orders into your mouth. You clear your throat, trying to speak as loud as possible without the sound carrying upstairs.
“He doesn’t make me come the way you do.”
“The way I do?” he asks with a cocky smirk.
“As hard as you do.”
“Ohh… that’s what it is, is it? You want more? Your boyfriend isn’t enough for you? You’re getting greedy, these days.”
You’d like to say that you hate it when he speaks to you like this - but that’d be a lie. It’s making you rub your thighs together, desperate for something, anything to relieve the ache.
“No,” you stutter, “he’s enough for me. He is.”
“Then why’d you keep crawling into my bed when he turns his back?”
All you can do is suck a shaky breath in, looking down at your socked feet to try and shy away from his piercing gaze. The heat is rolling off his body, blanketing you completely as he keeps you pinned in place.
“I should go to bed,” you whisper.
“Which one? His or mine?”
He’s not usually so brash with it, the whole affair thing. Sure, he loves to bring it up occasionally when he’s talking dirty, trying to rile you up and get you going. But he’s never been so arrogant, so self assured before. As if he knows who you’d rather choose. As if he knows you need him more than you’d care to admit. As if he can read your mind.
“I-”
“The way I see it,” he interrupts, “you’ve got two choices, sweetheart. The first is that you hop up those stairs and cuddle up next to Patrick, hoping that you fall asleep when really you’ll be staring at the ceiling fighting the urge to touch yourself.”
You inhale with a shudder, worrying at your bottom lip with your teeth.
“Or…”
“Or?” you dare to ask, as low as you can.
“Or, you slip into bed with me, and I’ll make you come so hard that you’ll struggle to walk back to his room afterwards.”
You know which one you should choose. You know exactly the correct thing to do, morally and emotionally. And yet -
“You. I want you.”
His lips are on yours before you can think, strong hands wrapping around your back to pull you into him. You can barely keep up with the frenzied pace, letting him take full control as he ravishes you whole. The countertop edge is digging into your spine, the tap is dripping slowly and your boyfriend is upstairs sleeping, blissfully unaware. But none of it matters.
The only thing that matters in this current moment, just like any moment spent with him, is Declan O’Hara.
“Upstairs,” he mumbles into your mouth.
He links his fingers with yours, pulling you to his bedroom insistently as if he’s worried you’re going to bolt the other way. You’re both tip toeing across the hard wood floors, praying the boards don’t squeak and give you away. You’d have no answer for the way you look right now. The game would be over before it’d even begun.
You’ve never been more grateful for how big The Priory is. Declan’s room is on the complete opposite side of the house to Patrick’s, which eases your mind ever so slightly. He only heard the two of you earlier because he was in the study, right underneath your floor. You should’ve known he’d be working late. As he always is.
“Strip.”
“Hmm?”
You’ve daydreamed your way to his bedroom, suddenly finding yourself in a place you’ve found yourself many times.
“Strip, darlin’. Don’t make me ask twice.”
“So bossy today,” you tease, doing what he wants anyway.
Your pyjamas hit the hard wood, leaving you stood in your socks and underwear. His eyes rove over you, looking at you as if it’s the first time he’s seen you undressed.
“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”
You wink and pull your underwear down and off, never breaking eye contact with him, despite how intense it’s getting. He’s staring at you with so much force, it’s like he can see into your soul. You’re stood bare but you don’t feel exposed. No, you feel seen.
“Do I need to warm ya up?”
He’s never one to skip foreplay, even if you’re short on time.
“Come find out.”
He practically dives at you, hands trying to sweep over any skin he can physically touch. They’re everywhere all at once, taking you in like he’s reading you in braille. Hips, tits, ass, waist… it’s like he can’t decide what he wants, overwhelmed by choices.
His fingers slip between your legs, swiping through your core to see what he’s working with.
“Oh you filthy girl.”
Your knees have gone shaky now he’s touched you exactly where you want. You grip his biceps for balance, taking a deep breath to calm you down.
“Who was it that got ya this wet?” he drawls into your ear, slipping a finger inside as he does it. “Was it him?”
You shake your head reluctantly, refusing to look at him.
“Answer me,” he spits as he crooks his finger, making your legs go jelly instantly.
“You,” you whimper, dropping your head onto his chest. “Obviously it was you.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He’s got that cocky smirk plastered to his face, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You wanna ride me, sweetheart? Or are you tired? Clearly he didn’t wear you out.”
The he sends a shiver down your spine, chilling and cold. Him. He’s talking about his own son, your boyfriend, while fingering you exactly the way you like it. And it’s only turning you on more.
You don’t trust your voice so you shove him backwards, pushing him so he’s laying flat on his bed. You’re straddling his hips immediately, settling into a place you’ve been many times before.
“Use me, darlin’,” he whispers. “Take what you want.”
You line him up and sink down with no hesitation, revelling in the stretch of him. He groans all low and slow, the vibrations of it rattling your bones.
“Perfect girl. Beautiful, filthy, perfect girl.”
“Declan. You feel so good.”
“Yeah, I do. Remember that, alright? Maybe you’ll come harder with him if you think about me.”
You slap a hand over his mouth to shut him up, moving your hips up and down to try to find your rhythm. He’s clearly having the time of his life, grinning like the cat that got the cream despite you trying to gag him.
You jolt forwards, trying to find that spot that he knows so well. His huge, rough hands are digging into your hipbones, hard enough to leave bruises that you’ll have to lie to Patrick about tomorrow.
Declan grabs your wrist from his face and twists it behind you, thrusting up as he does it to try and get a rise out of you.
“Atta girl,” he’s humming. “Take it like you were made for it. That’s it, don’t stop sweetheart.”
You smack your hands onto his chest, trying to keep your balance as he tries to throw you off it. He gets off on this, watching you desperately take what you need as he teases you relentlessly. He likes to watch you squirm, loves it when he feels like you need him so primally, so carnally that you’re willing to throw out all your morals for one kiss, one touch, one look.
He sits up suddenly, wrapping his arms around your back so there isn’t an inch of space between your bodies. This new angle forces him even deeper, both of you groaning at the change.
“Shhh, angel. You wanna get us caught?”
You shake your head, rolling your eyes at his stupid question.
“Quiet, then,” he retorts. “Shut that pretty mouth of yours.”
“That’s not what you usually say,” you manage to pant out.
“Dirty girl. You love this shit, don’t ya?”
You grab a fistful of his hair, yanking as hard as you can to hopefully inflict some pain to stop him talking. It doesn’t work, of course. He just eats it up and carries on.
He’s thrusting up as you’re winding your hips down, the both of you finding a perfectly synchronised rhythm as always. You work together so well, as much as you’d like to deny it. It’s not like this with Patrick and you both know it.
He wraps his mouth around your nipple, grazing his teeth over it and making you shiver.
“Fuck, Declan.”
“That feel good?” he’s asking, still with his mouth full.
“So good,” you whine as he licks the sweat from your sternum. “So fucking good.”
Your thighs are burning and you’re panting for air and your foot is a minute from cramping - but you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. You’re so close you can taste it.
“You wanna come darlin’?”
“Yes.”
“Beg for it then. Earn it.”
“Declan… please.”
He laughs at you cruelly, shaking his head.
“Oh, absolutely not. That’s not gonna cut it and you know it.”
“Declan- fuck- please. Please let me come. Please, fuck, it’s all I want.”
“Better…”
“Please, Declan. I’ll do anything, please.”
“Anything?”
“Yes, fuck, yes. Whatever you want.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he says slowly, contemplating.
His hips never stop their movements, driving up into you and making you feel insane.
“Okay, sweetheart. Come for me. Now.”
You don’t need to be told twice. Your back arches as your nails dig into his shoulders, clawing at him as you come hard. Your vision goes blurry, dizzy with all the chemicals coursing through your veins. You’re gasping for breath, sweat dripping down your spine. It’s bliss.
Declan finds his release as soon as he’s done watching you, the sight of you totally lost in the moment sending him over the edge. He’s never seen you look more stunning.
You go boneless in his hold, limbs all tangled together while you sit in his lap. You can’t tell where you end and he begins.
“You feel better now?” he’s asking while he traces patterns up the shape of your spine.
“I do.”
You’re muttering into his chest, your face pressed into the soft curls. He smells like musk and sweat and cigarette smoke, masculine and familiar. It isn’t boyish like Patrick’s aftershave. Declan is all man.
“I wish you could stay with me,” he whispers into your hair. “I’d love to wake up with you here, have you lying on my chest as the sun rises.”
“Don’t make me sad.”
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
“You know I would if I could, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
You raise your head to look at him, admiring the way his dark locks are all unruly and loose.
“I should get going.”
“That boy sleeps like the dead.”
“Thankfully. But we can’t risk it. Don’t need him getting up and looking for me now, do we?”
“Sensible girl.”
“Someone around here has to be.”
He chuckles, pushing your hair back from your face gently.
“At least rinse off in the shower before you go back to bed. You smell like sex.”
“And whose fault is that?” you tease as you climb off him, wincing as your feet hit the wooden floor.
“Guilty as charged. Arrest me, officer.”
“Bet you’d love that, filthy old man.”
“Who’re you calling old?” he’s laughing as he catches you around the middle with his arm, trying to drag you back into the sheets.
“You,” you giggle, writhing away and avoiding his grip.
“Excuse you young lady, but daddy dearest here just made you come so hard you saw stars.”
“I knew that got under your skin.”
He looks at you quizzically from where he’s laying.
“That comment Patrick made at the party yesterday. Calling you daddy dearest in that sarcastic tone he uses when he gets defensive.”
“You can read him like a fuckin’ book.”
“I can read you, too.”
“Don’t I know it.”
You’ve pulled your pyjamas back on over the course of the conversation, like nothing ever happened.
“He always gets defensive when you try to criticise Cameron. I think he might still have feelings for her.”
“Sweetheart,” he soothes, moving to stand in front of you. His hands find your hips, squeezing gently. “He’d be mad to have eyes for anyone but you. Don’t worry about it, alright? He’s just a young man lashing out at his father occasionally.”
You take a deep breath, trying to let his words ease the ache you feel in your chest. Perching up on your tip toes, you press a slow kiss to his lips, all sweet and honeyed and full of warmth.
“For what it’s worth, Declan… I wish I was sleeping here tonight, with you.”
“Someday,” he assures, sweeping his thumb across your cheekbone tenderly.
“See you at the breakfast table,” you whisper as you leave.
“See you then,” he winks, watching you pad across the landing to the bathroom.
You dare to cast a glance backwards before you close the door, finding him leaning against his doorframe with the most mischievous look you’ve ever seen in his eyes. His gaze drops to your feet, dragging up your body slowly until he meets your curious stare.
He grins at you, before retreating back into his room.
You play that exact moment over and over in your head the next time you’re in bed with Patrick.
"does Noah Wyle really expect me to watch five seasons of Robby's ~mental health journey~? 🙄"
no, i think he expects you to be normal and choose not to watch the show that's about the main character played by him if you fucking hate him and/or the main character he plays. because literally no one is forcing you to do so
Warning: 18+, smut, fingering, light choking, technically dom/sub dynamics, bratty!reader, p in v intercourse, creampie (this is baby’s first standalone smut scene so puhlease be nice to me)
“Can you take it?”
“Fuck,” You ground out. “Fuck! Yes. I can,” You hissed through clenched teeth.
You’d take anything this man would give you.
And you would thank him for it.
Gladly.
“How many fingers can you take?” Declan asked, his mouth level with your ear, his breath blowing against the stray hairs that were stuck to the sweat on your brow as two of his fingers pumped in and out of you at an almost relentless pace.
You’d take as many as he’d give you.
“More,” You replied, your voice coming out stringy and pathetic.
But you were too far gone to feel embarrassed about any of that.
No, you just needed to come.
“Yes, ma’am,” Declan obliged as he added a third finger, and stretched your weeping cunt impossibly wider.
“Fuck,” You gasped as your hands flew up to Declan’s shoulders as you tried desperately to steady yourself on his solid form. Your legs were threatening to give out from where you were propped up on the edge of the kitchen counter.
“I thought you could take it? You just said you wanted more. Always bloody more with you,” Declan growled in a low rasp as his other hand left your hip and moved to cup your jaw and force your head to look up into his eyes. “If you want it, you’re gonna have to take it.”
“Mmhmm,” You hummed.
Declan raised his eyebrows.
“Use your words,” He instructed.
“Yes, sir,” You mouthed.
“Good,” he replied before his gaze dropped back down to where his fingers were hammering in and out of you, and you both had to listen to the graphic wet sound of it while you hummed out quiet moans.
“You gonna come?” Declan asked.
“Mmm,” You moaned.
Declan made a soft tsk noise as the hand on your jaw slipped down to your neck, where he pressed just enough to warn you.
“Yes, sir,” You corrected. “I’m going to come. I want to come.”
And you did. You were close.
And then Delcan’s thumb reached up to rub at your clit, and you saw stars.
“Come,” He commanded.
And with the way his hand was working you, you had no choice but to give in to the feeling and let your orgasm crest over you. The tension built up until your thighs school and you pushed to snap them closed, but Declan’s thighs kept them pressed open as he continued to fuck his fingers into you and work you through your orgasm.
You came with a choked gasp as your eyes screwed shut.
“Fuck,” You gasped out.
“Good girl,” Delcan said as he finally pulled his fingers out of you, covered in your come. The feeling of emptiness was short-lived as you watched him bring those three fingers up to his mouth and suck them between his lips as you felt the gush of your wetness drip out of you.
“See, you could take it,” Declan told you once he popped his fingers out of his mouth.
“I did,” You replied.
“Do I get a prize?” You asked with a smirk.
“What do you want, pretty girl?” Declan asked as he cocked his head to the side.
You reached for the waist of his pants and pulled him into the crux of your legs, and reached for the seat of his pants to palm his cock. Already hard, just from getting you off.
“Use your words,” He told you.
“I want your cock, Declan,” You reply with an unamused roll of your eyes.
“Oh, now you want to have an attitude? I thought I’d fucked that out of you with that orgasm you just had,” Declan asked. “And never even thanked me for.”
“Thank you for the orgasm, Declan,” You replied with a roll of your eyes. “Now, can you please fuck me?”
Your hands unbuckled his belt and moved to unbutton his pants, your fingers dipping eagerly into his boxers to grasp his cock and pull him out, giving him a few strokes before Declan pushed your hand aside and crowded you back up onto the counter.
“I’ll fuck you alright,” He replied as he guided the blunt head of his cock up to your core, taking a few slow swipes from your clit down to your hole.
“And you’re gonna take everything I give you, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” You ground out as the head of his cock pressed against your entrance, a slow tease as he pushed into you with such agonizing slowness that you almost pressed your jaw into his shoulder and bit him to express your displeasure.
“Because you’re such a good, good girl,” He replied as he finally pushed in, deep and true as his hips pressed to meet the flesh of your upper thighs.
“I am,” You groaned at the fullness of it all. Completely filled to the brim with Declan.
The best feeling in the world.
“So take it,” He replied.
And then he began to move.
If you thought he’d change it up, you were dead wrong.
No, instead began to thrust in and out of your weeping cunt with the same ferocious pace that he’d just fucked into you with your fingers. Your core gave way easily to his motions, thanks to the way his fingers head already stretched your cunt out and the lubrication your orgasm had supplied.
It was effortless as he snapped his hips up into you again and again, never pausing, ever giving you a moment’s pause.
“Fuck,” You hissed as the burn began to build.
“Yes!” You gasped.
You would never get tired of this. You would never say no to this. The way that Declan gave in to you over and over again with passion and a complete lack of restraint.
Like a man starved.
You groaned again.
“You take me so well,” Declan praised you as he moved against you, his head coming down to the side of your face as he pressed a kiss to the side of your jaw before kissing you deeply as he continued to thrust hard and deep.
“I want you to come,” You told him as your forehead pressed against his, your head threatening to lolled forward. “I want you to come inside me, please.”
“You begging?” He asked.
A tease.
“Please, Declan,” You whined. “Please come in me.”
“Fuck, pretty girl, you feel so good,” He muttered as he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Like looking at you was too much.
Would send him over the edge.
“So good you’ll come?” You asked, unrelenting. You wanted it. More than anything.
“Fuck,” He ground out as he pressed his thumb against your clit again, the tried and true technique to have your cunt clenching around him as he pushed the wave of another orgasm higher and higher.
“Didn’t know you could get this wet,” He commented as he worked you up to meet him. “But the thought of my cum painting the inside of this pretty wet cunt, that does it for you, doesn’t it?”
“My little depraved girl,” He grinned.
“Fuck, Dec-” You gasped, your words cut off by a sharp thrust right up against your g-spot had you seeing stars. “I’m gonna-”
“I’ll come inside you if you’re a good girl and come for me,” Declan replied.
And that’s all it took to send you over.
Your vision flashed white as the haze of pleasure coursed through you, hot and bright and you came with a yelp.
Declan gave a few more stuttering thrusts into your quivering cunt before he came with a groan and pressed deep, holding himself there while you heaved for air and he stared down at your fucked out face, whisps of hair stuck to the sweat on your brow, entire face flushed, and eyes dark and wide as you looked up at him.
“Good girl,” Declan praised you with a grin. “Told you you could take it.”
~1k words, no real warnings - the 'c' word is used once.
While I wait for my man Jack Lowden to return from war (filming season 6 of Slow Horses), I thought I'd dip my little toe into a very short Declan O'Hara one-shot 😬
If you're reading The Escape Artist, fear not, the final TWO chapters are coming this week! Yes, of course I do have other prompts to get on with, but I was in spin class last night, and every time my instructor shouted, "Ride, ride, ride" all I saw was Declan 😅 The moustache would make a wonderful handle as well 🤭
Another bead of sweat drips from your forehead onto the towel.
“Ride, ride, ride, ride, don't stop ladies,” the instructor, an Adonis of a man, coaches you through the pumping music. Next to you, Taggie blows a stray curl out of her face.
“This is torture,” she hisses through gritted teeth.
She isn't wrong.
The newly installed ‘Bicycle Hub’ has raised eyebrows at the local leisure centre, with few expected to actually attend.
The Hub overlooks the squash courts, not that you'd know.
They were so filled with cigarette smoke you could hardly see a thing at all.
From the front row of bikes, you had a prime view looking down.
Usually older gentlemen with portly stomachs and red wine noses who were one play away from a heart attack.
Even through the glowing pink caused by the exercise class you can see her blush.
The two men look up and catch you watching them.
A real shame you couldn't lip read.
Not that they'd be saying anything about Tag, Rupert wouldn't dare in front of Declan.
You were fair game though.
Taggie waves but you don't dare break your rhythm on the bike for fear you'd fall right off.
“Concentrate, ladies,” Adonis warns. “Left, right, left, left, right, right. Stay with the beat, ride, ride, ride.”
You tear your eyes away from the squash court and look back at your bike, regretting it instantly.
“My legs are killing me,” you mutter, feeling your thighs burn.
You go back to looking at the squash game Declan and Rupert are playing, it looks more like they're trying to hit each other with the ball rather than play to the rules.
Each of them roaring with laughter whenever they make contact.
“I'm sure that's not how you're supposed to play,” Taggie grumbles.
“Could be worse, they could be just hitting each other with the racket,” you suggest.
Your breath comes in short gasps now, your stamina rapidly declining.
The rhythmic sounds of the squash ball combine with the squeak of running shoes, the beat of the music, and the hum of the fixed wheels of the bike.
A cacophony of sounds.
You find yourself watching their game more intently, it powers you through the changes in resistance on the bike.
You tilt your head to brush your earlobe against your shoulder and catch another drip of sweat.
As you do so, another works its way down the side of your neck and down into your cleavage.
“And down, catch your breath. Next, we're going to run,” Adonis tells the class.
You let your legs slow down a little and take the opportunity to run the towel over your face and take a long drink of water.
Your chest heaves.
As you put your water bottle back on the machine, you automatically look again at the squash court, this time catching Declan watching you.
You notice the quick lift of his eyebrow as he stares.
He licks his lips slowly, deliberately, and then smiles.
“OK ladies, stand up -”
“On the bike?”
“Yes, madame, it's time to run.”
“I don't understand, I'll fall off!” You think it's Valerie Jones who's protesting, but you've yet to look away from Declan.
Holding his gaze, you do as Adonis asks and you stand up, straightening your legs on the pedals.
Even from this distance you can tell where he's looking.
Your tight lycra crop top pulls your breasts together and his eyes are drawn like a magnet.
When you lean forward on the bike, he wipes his hand over his mouth.
The next track starts building in momentum and so do you, each rotation of the wheels making you bounce a little more vigorously.
Neither of you has looked away yet, goodness knows where Rupert has gone.
Taggie is mercifully distracted, a tight frown of concentration on her face.
There's a wicked glint in Declan's eye and you tilt your head to the side, a silent question.
Whatever he's about to do in response, he doesn't.
Rupert is back, distracting him, talking to him.
He looks away at last, but you can tell it's under duress.
“Thank you ladies, great class for today!” Adonis is off the bike and leading his own round of applause.
You roll your eyes at Taggie and grimace.
“He's single! So I've heard,” she tells you with a giggle.
“No thanks, his biceps are huge! He'd suffocate me!”
You leave the class very much in need of a shower and as you make your way down to the changing rooms, you pass the squash courts.
Taggie's looking out for Rupert, you can tell.
Desperate for a moment alone with him.
You spot him first, by the water fountain, and nudge her in his direction.
His face lights up at the sight of her.
"Looks like you ladies have been getting all hot and sweaty,” he grins slyly.
You leave them to talk, and open the glass door to the court.
Taggie and Rupert are in full view of most of the leisure centre so he only has his words to charm with.
Inside the court, Declan has been watching you through the glass.
“Water?” You offer, holding out your bottle.
“Prefer whiskey,” he grins.
“So do I.”
“I'd also prefer an exercise that'll leave us both breathless," he says quietly.
There's a line you're about to cross but neither of you seems to care.
“So do I.” You repeat equally quietly.
“Sure I can find a much more comfortable seat for you as well.”
The lilt of his accent runs over your body.
He looks through the door but Taggie and Rupert are out of sight, for once, he doesn't seem to care.
He takes a step towards you, as if he's about to whisper in your ear.
Instead, he drags his tongue from your throat to your earlobe.
“You taste delicious.”
Your power of speech is non-existent.
Your hands shake as the adrenaline from the class and from his proximity mingle together.
He kisses your temple, your hairline damp with sweat.
“I think it's time to put a stop to this little game, don't you?” he murmurs.
You can only nod as your body trembles and your cunt clenches.
And then you hear Rupert in the atrium outside.
Declan takes a measured step away from you as Taggie arrives, though neither of you can stop staring.
“Ugh, let's go, I feel disgusting,” she pulls a face. Rupert clearly thinks quite the opposite.
“Yes, let's. Enjoy your game, gentlemen.” You smile brightly.
“I certainly am,” Declan responds, the low rumble of his laughter following you from the court.
You can still feel the heat of his stare as you pile into the car to leave.
You can still feel the weight of his body on yours as you climb into bed that night.
That’s the thing about Declan - he always gets what he wants. It might be wrong… but it feels so right.
declan o’hara x female reader
warnings - smut. cursing. use of the c word. age gap. cheating. declan’s filthy mouth needs its own warning.
word count - 2.3k
authors note - that man is a munch and I cannot be convinced otherwise. my crush on aidan turner has returned tenfold and i’m about to make it everyone’s problem. read declan’s dialogue in that gorgeous irish accent of his for the full experience.
masterlist. inbox.
You’ve fake laughed so much this afternoon that you can’t remember what your real one sounds like.
Finally breaking away from a conversation with Freddie’s wife, you swan across the garden in your sundress towards the food and drink table. You absentmindedly pick at the strawberries, hoping and praying that no one bothers you for a moment. All you need is a minute to yourself, away from all of these faux smiles and boastful exchanges.
Reaching towards a raspberry, you feel fingertips ghosting across your back quickly.
“Y’alright?”
You’d recognise that voice anywhere, of course, and not just because he’s the only Irish man in The Cotswolds.
“Bored out of my mind, actually.”
“You’d never know.”
“I’m a good actress, these days. I’ve done one too many of these stupid garden parties.”
He chuckles all genuine and honeyed, and you’d be lying if you said the sound didn’t settle warmly in your bones.
“Whatcha doing tonight?”
He’s keeping his voice low, inconspicuous. You’ve both turned so you’re looking out over the garden, backs to the table, watching the crowds of people and their gossiping. To anyone else, it looks like an innocent conversation between two acquaintances. They can’t see his hand playing with the hem of your dress behind you, or the way his fingers keep brushing the backs of your thighs, sending shivers down your spine.
“My boyfriend is coming over. You know that.”
“What time?”
You roll your eyes but answer anyway.
“Nine.”
“So what I’m hearing… is that you’re available from whenever this crap finishes until then?”
“That’s a stupid idea.”
“You usually love my stupid ideas.”
“Well maybe I’m trying to be smarter.”
He laughs with his full chest while you fight to keep the grin off your face, shaking your head.
“You’re already the smartest person here. Any smarter and we’re all doomed.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Declan.”
He pauses for a moment, pressing his side into yours and running his thumb across the soft skin of your thigh underneath your dress.
“I think we both know that’s not true, sweetheart.”
Your breath stutters as you will yourself to get it together, desperate to not repeatedly give in to his murmured promises and flirty remarks. It’s wrong. You know it is, both of you do, and yet…
“I want you gone by eight at the latest. I don’t need the two of you bumping into each other on my front step.”
He smirks like the cat that got the cream, looking down at you with lust drunk eyes.
“Good girl,” he whispers. “Promise to make it worth your while, yeah?”
“You always do,” you breathe out, so quietly that you’re surprised he hears.
He’s about to reply when you’re both startled by Rupert, striding over with the confidence of ten men and a bottle of champagne in his hand.
“Have they run out of glasses, CB?”
He slings an arm around your shoulder, laughing that rich man’s laugh right into your ear.
“Live a little, darling. Walk with me, will you? I have a story that might be worth your time, and I thought I’d bring it to my favourite journalist before anyone else.”
Rupert all but drags you across the garden, already chattering on about a scandal in the local constituency of the Conservative Party. You cast your eyes back to where Declan hasn’t moved, his gaze roving over your figure as you walk away.
He winks cheekily, dirty smirk slapped across his face.
You hate the way it sends electricity running through your veins in anticipation.
✵ ✵ · ✵ * · ✵
It’s six forty five when there’s a knock on your door.
The devil himself is standing on your front step, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest.
“Hi darlin’.”
His accent is like molten honey, golden and warm and laced with sweetness. There’s mischief running through it though - as there always is.
“Come on,” you urge, grabbing his tie and pulling him inside, worried that one of your neighbours will see.
He laughs as he shuts the door behind him, unphased by your urgency.
“Thought you had a meeting. CB was telling me all about it earlier.”
“Rupert would tell you anything,” he chuckles. “He’s got a soft spot for pretty girls.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” you giggle, undoing his tie from around his neck and hanging it on your coat rack.
“No. I have a soft spot for one pretty girl.”
“Sweet talker,” you tease as you roll your eyes, undoing the first few buttons on his shirt. “How about you put your money where your mouth is, hmm? We don’t have all night.”
He clicks his tongue, hands finding your hips to pull you against him.
“Patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning in so his lips brush yours. “Good things come to those who wait.”
“Less talking,” you scold, grabbing at his biceps to kiss him desperately.
Declan pushes you up against the wall, hips pressing into yours as he slips his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like cigarettes and whiskey and those mints he keeps in a tin in his back pocket. He scatters open mouthed kisses across your neck, licking across your skin and sucking the spot underneath your ear.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he mumbles. “Ever since I saw you in this dress.”
“You like it?” you breathe, head rolling to the side to give him more access.
“I fucking love it.”
“Good. Bought it for you.”
He groans, grinding his hips into yours.
“You’re a minx,” he pants, biting at your shoulder. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
With that, Declan wraps his arms around your middle, practically dragging you into the living room to throw you onto the sofa. He pulls your dress over your head, throwing it onto the floor with reckless abandon.
He instantly gets on his knees in front of you, spreading your legs with rough hands.
“Been waitin’ for this cunt all fuckin’ day.”
Your underwear is tugged down and discarded before you can blink, leaving you naked and high on the anticipation of it all. Your lungs are heaving, hands shaking as you will him to do something.
Declan sits back on his haunches, making a show of rolling up his sleeves. He looks so broad and commanding in his blue jeans with his shirt undone. He might be the one on his knees, but he’s definitely still in charge here.
You tangle your fingers into his dark hair and tug, pulling him closer.
“Please, Dec.”
“You sound so beautiful when ya beg.”
He grips your thighs tightly, ensuring they stay apart, as he leans in and presses kisses to any skin he can find.
“Don’t tease.”
“Or what, hmm? What are ya gonna do, sweetheart?”
“Stop it,” you chastise, head dropping back onto the cushions. “Please, baby.”
He chuckles before diving forwards, licking a stripe through your core. He wastes no time, tongue flicking over your clit like he’s done so many times before.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, fingers gripping his hair tightly. “Fuck, Declan.”
You’re convinced he enjoys this just as much as you do. He’ll eat you out for hours, never once expecting something in return - happy to feel you fall apart on his tongue again and again and again.
He knows exactly which spots will have you arching your back, how much pressure to use to have you writhing on the sofa cushions, where to put his hands to push you right over the edge. He can play you like a fiddle, observant and experienced.
His nose nudges your clit as he fucks you with his tongue, messy and wet and completely committed. The grip he has on your thighs is getting tighter and tighter, fingertips bruising your skin. You pray you’ll be able to see the marks when you look in the mirror tomorrow.
You’re teetering on the edge of your release, legs shaking and abdomen tightening. Declan can read you like a book, knowing exactly where you’re at - and taking advantage of it.
Just as you’re about to come, he pulls away and sits back, grinning like a deviant.
“No,” you’re panting. “The fuck are you doing?”
He laughs, leaning down to rest his head on your leg. He looks up at you with a gaze that’s half lust and half mischief, biting at his lip as he watches your chest heave.
“What do you want, darlin’?”
You pout at him, tears welling in your eyes.
“Come on, let me hear you say it. I want you to beg me to make you come. Tell me how you’ve been waiting for it all day, sweetheart.”
“I-Declan, I just-”
“Come on smart girl, use that big brain of yours. Why don’t you tell me all about how you think about me when you touch yourself? No - why don’t you tell me how you think about me while he fucks you?”
Your hips buck up into the air, desperate for any kind of friction. Declan laughs cruelly, wrapping his arms around your thighs again to pull you to the edge of the sofa, the strength he exerts only turning you on more.
“It’s okay,” he soothes against your core. “You don’t have to tell me. Your dripping wet cunt tells me everything I need to know, darlin.”
All you can do is moan, breathing like you’ve run a marathon. All you can see, all you can hear, all you can feel is Declan O’Hara.
“If we had the time, I’d edge you some more. Eat you out until you cried. You always look so pretty when you’re crying f’me.”
He finally takes pity on you, curling his tongue inside you as his nose repeatedly bumps against your clit. He’s practically making out with your core, saliva dripping down your thighs and onto the sofa. You can’t bring yourself to care about the mess, more focused on the older man’s mouth and the skills it possesses.
You’re whining, fingernails digging into his scalp as you grasp for something to hold onto. He’s groaning too, having just as much as fun as you are.
“Come for me, pretty girl. Show me how fucking beautiful you look.”
Your back bows off the sofa as you grind against his face, riding out your climax. Your thighs tighten around his head, desperate for him to keep going for as long as possible.
“That’s it. Atta girl. There we go.”
You’re trying to catch your breath as Declan stands up, sitting down next to you and pulling you into his side. His fingers draw patterns on your hips, absentmindedly calming you down as you nestle into him, seeking out his body heat.
You lean up and kiss him, slipping your tongue into his mouth eagerly. He tastes like you, and the realisation makes you whinge.
“Let me return the favour, please,” you whisper against his lips.
“As much as I’d love that, darlin’… we can’t.”
You quirk a brow at him in confusion, his rejection more than unusual.
“It’s twenty past eight.”
“Oh, shit,” you groan, finding your underwear and pulling them up your legs.
“I wish I could stay,” he reassures as he kisses you again sweetly. “You know I do.”
You nod, running your fingers through his sweat soaked locks to move them out of his face.
“Promise I’ll repay you next time.”
“I’ll hold ya to that.”
The phone ringing startles you both, your heart jumping in your chest. You pick it up quickly, wrapping the cord around your finger.
“Hello? How are you? Ah, good. Yes, fine. Alright, I’ll see you then. Yes, see you soon. Mhmm… I can’t wait either.”
You put it down just as quickly as you picked it up, finding your dress from the floor and pulling it over your head.
“That was Patrick. He’s at the train station, about to start the drive back here. He won’t be long.”
“I best get going then,” Declan says as he buttons up his shirt. “Don’t need a family reunion in your living room now, do we?”
You shake your head, scoffing at his attempt at a joke. Walking him to the front door, you press his tie from the coat rack into his hand so he doesn’t forget it.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, won’t I? You’re coming for lunch at the house?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say as you lean up to kiss him, sighing at the taste of his lips. “I’ll wear that lacy white lingerie under my dress just for you.”
“Great,” he groans. “Now I have to think about my son seeing that on you when it should be me.”
“You might,” you tease, smoothing out his shirt. “There’s a lot of rooms in that house, Declan.”
“You’re a minx.”
He kisses you once more, big hands cradling your face as he pulls you in.
“See ya tomorrow, sweetheart.”
“Yes, you will.”
You watch him go from your front step, making sure no one sees him leave. As soon as he’s out of sight, you’re shutting the door, trying to tidy the living room frantically. You open the windows, lighting a candle and picking up everything that was knocked to the floor in the lust filled frenzy. You’re covering your tracks as best you can, just like you’ve done countless times before.
You don’t need Patrick asking why the room smells like his dad’s aftershave.
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