a different man (baelor x fem!wife!reader)
By some miracle, your husband wakes from near death still remembering you. But he is not the same tender man you married. Maybe it can be beneficial for the both of you—and maybe you can teach him how to love you the way he did.
HOUSE OF THE DRAGON
gwayne hightower:
scantily clad (sworn protector!gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader)
You drink wine that someone mixed with something that makes you desire touch more than all else. Touch from someone particular. You need his touch, or you’ll die. Luckily, your sister—the queen—can be quite the matchmaker.
- sworn protector!gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader
synopsis. You drink wine that someone mixed with something that makes you desire touch more than all else. Touch from someone particular. You need his touch, or you’ll die. Luckily, your sister—the queen—can be quite the matchmaker.
contents. SMUT, no war au (rhaenyra is queen), reader is a targaryen princess and rhaenyra's younger sister, gwayne is her sworn protector, reader has fem anatomy and is addressed as a princess, sex pollen/fuck or die, mentions of suicide, oral (f!recieving), loss of virginity, unprotected sex, p in v, finger sucking, slight praise kink, not proofread
Your body burns.
No, it feels more like if your body was actually truly burning in a fire, perhaps from that of your dragon, as if you’d told it to rain flames upon you. You may consider that option if it comes down to it. If someone didn’t touch you soon, you were going to explode.
Instead you were writhing and squirming on your bed in front of your own sister—the queen—and you would much rather be dead. She looks at you with that callous smirk, as if she thinks she knows something. Something you don’t want to tell the maesters.
“Is it poison?” she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.
He nods. “It seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.”
“Can’t you open a window?!” you yell with a cracking voice.
Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.
The windows are open.
“All of the windows are open, princess,” Gerardys mumbles.
“Yes, I can see that now, thank you.” Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. “Will I die tonight, Gerardys?” you question, almost joking.
“No, no, princess,” he says. “Not tonight.”
Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.
“It seems the poison was mixed with the wine,” he begins. “Therefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.”
“Not much you can do?” Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.
Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. “Not unless you would like me to find a maegi.”
She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of all—full of regret. “That wont be necessary,” she mutters. “If you’ll let me speak to my sister alone?”
“Of course, your grace.” He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.
She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.
“Tell me,” she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.
You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. “Tell you what?”
“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m referring to,”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t, Your Grace.”
She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. “Your condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.”
You look at her. She isn’t smiling. There’s no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.
And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. You’re starting to feel nauseous.
You’ll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.
You exhale a heavy breath. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I did.”
Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. “Gods, sister, what did you do?”
“I am unwed. Undesired,” you mumble. “I thought it clever to…”
“To what?” Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.
You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you don’t even hear it in your own ears.
“What did you say?” she asks softly.
“I had a potion brewed.”
Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Gods, sister—“
“You don’t understand! The Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms—you could have anyone and anything you desire!” you argue. “It isn’t the same for me. Even if it were, I don’t get to choose—”
“I’ve heard enough.” You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. “When you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?”
“No…” you mumble.
“Well.” Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. “I can presume what it is.”
You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation you’ve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.
The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.
“I know what must be done,” she says. And she leaves the room.
You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. You’d be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisoned—Rhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldn’t subject the public to the truth.
You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.
The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldn’t be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.
Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldn’t help cure your self-inflicted debilitation—he is too honorable. No—he’s too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.
The door swings open again.
Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.
The person unveils themself from the shadows.
It is your sworn shield and protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.
He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t care less now.
Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of course—and probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched you—and you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.
“I shall leave you to it.” Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.
The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.
You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.
“My princess.” He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. “I cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.”
“Help with what?” you breathe.
He remains silent.
“What exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?” you question.
Silence.
“Tell me. I command it.”
His gaze shifts to the ground. “Her Grace informed me of your condition.”
“You already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?”
He looks back up at you. “She revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.”
“Gods,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.
“How it can be cured,” he adds.
Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.
When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sister’s in a certain light.
You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.
“I want to help you.” He takes a single step closer. “I need to help you.”
Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.
“When you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?” you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.
“It would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.” His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. “In fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.” You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.
Not only is he able, he is willing.
He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the corners—it is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.
You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.
Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cun—
You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.
“Tell me what you need,” he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. “I am yours.”
You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you can’t. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?
But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.
Why must you tell him?
You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayne’s hands from your hips in the process.
He does not look away from your face. “Tell me. Please,” he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.
You stammer, and squirm once more. “I need you to touch me,” you declare.
Gwayne nods once. “As you wish.”
And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. You’ve never felt something like this before.
It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.
You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.
He releases your clit from his lips. “Tastes so good—my princess—” his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.
Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that curséd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.
An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first time—you cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.
Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.
Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.
Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.
It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.
But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.
He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.
“It isn’t enough—” you declare, your breath labored.
“What do you require?” Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.
“I need—” you paw at his clothed cock. “Your—”
“My what?” he pants.
“I need you inside,” you mutter.
Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next time—Gods you hope there is a next time—you’ll get to do exactly that.
He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.
Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. “Would you like me to take this off?” he asks.
You nod lazily.
He shimmies the linen up your body. “Sit up for a moment, sweet girl,” he instructs, and you obey.
They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.
He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. “For your comfort,” he clarifies.
His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.
You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.
Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.
Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.
His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.
Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent you’d think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.
Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Oh—fuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.
His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.
Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.
He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for him—or more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.
His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.
“I’m yours, my princess,” he murmurs, drunk-like. “I’m yours.” And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.
You’re clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you can’t quite catch, but they’re all something like that’s it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.
He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.
His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.
“Gwayne?” you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.
“Yes, my princess?” he heaves.
“Kiss me.”
As you wish, is he would have said, if it weren’t for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.
Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of you—you think you see the Stranger reaching out to you—then you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.
“Fuck—” you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitive—you jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.
It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.
You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.
“What’s wrong?” you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.
“You don’t—” he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t supposed to cum inside.”
You’re still confused. “What’s the problem?”
“That is how you get pregnant.” He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.
You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.
Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.
“Will you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?” you mumble.
He brings his other hand to hold yours. “As you wish.”
You chuckle breathily.
“Are you—are you cured?” he says, playing with your fingers.
“I suppose so.” You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.
Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wine—you thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.
In less than a minute, you’re beneath him again, his fingers pumping in and out of you.
synopsis. By some miracle, your husband wakes from near death still remembering you. But he is not the same tender man you married. Maybe it can be beneficial for the both of you—and maybe you can teach him how to love you the way he did.
warnings. SMUT, dubcon/noncon elements, mentions of pregnancy and wanting a child, slightly dark!baelor? at least near the start, reader is his second and younger wife, p in v, choking, female masturbation, fingering, squirting, not proofread whatsoever
Baelor was never cruel.
Not until his brother hit him with a blow to the head so hard his brains were nearly falling out onto the dirt below him.
If it weren’t for the maesters, your devoted husband would be dead. His body would have burned in a place foreign to him, with his entire family there to watch, with you there to stand closest to his body, to smell the burnt flesh as it turned to ash. You were in preparations to consider a new heir, as instructed by the Grand Maester, when you were told that Baelor was breathing.
Maybe they stuffed his brain back in wrong. Because your husband was no longer your husband. He was a man who you happened to be married to, someone you do not remember marrying.
He recognized you when he woke from his comatose state. You were relieved. You thought at least he wouldn’t remember you, or his family, but he did. He remembered everything. But he was wrong. It was all wrong.
His brother stood close by you when his brother roused from his bed. He immediately ordered his blood and the maesters away, but instructed you to stay.
Maekar gave the most—and only—concerning look he has ever given you, but you gave him a reassuring nod that sent him sauntering toward the door. Perhaps he could sense the danger that would begin from this moment, perhaps he worried for he and his brother’s relationship, you will never know.
When Maekar eased the entryway shut, you hadn’t even looked back to Baelor before you felt his hands on you. They grazed the small of your back before pressing down harder as he continued further below. You froze.
Your head shifted slowly to his face. Your eyes met his.
“What are you doing?” you mumbled, although not making a single move to stop him.
“Wife,” he rasped, voice hoarse from neglect. Then, he used the hand on your behind to pull you onto the bed with him.
You drew in a sharp breath as you landed alongside him. You were confused. What was he doing? Was he truly trying to initiate sex with you, just waking up from near death?
Somehow it was comforting as he lifted your dress and your smallclothes up your legs. It was like just weeks ago, the last time he touched you, the night you arrived in Ashford.
But you were not ready. You had gone from accepting his death to accepting his life in a matter of minutes and then grappling with the fact that he may not remember you when he woke up then him waking up and remembering you and trying to touch you—
You placed a hand on his chest, trying to push away. “Baelor. Stop.”
He did not stop.
He did not say a word. He just kept easing the fabric up, only stopping when the bed forced him to, keeping the cloth covering your bottom onto it.
Still, his hands moved to your cunt. You gasped once his fingers brushed over your clit, so sensitive from not being touched and practically having prepared to become celibate—because who would take another lover once they have experienced such devotion from Baelor Breakspear? The gentlest of souls, the hope of his legacy.
Always the giver, your husband. Of course, he would seek your pleasure just upon waking. It reminded you of the mornings you would spend together before coming to Ashford. Whereas other noble couples maintain separate bedchambers, he insisted on sharing one. And, oh, the bliss that came from it.
Often you would wake up with him under the covers, hands pulling down your linens down to your ankles before prodding his nose at the bundle of nerves between your legs. And he wouldn’t even ask for anything in return once you reached your peak.
Your husband, so concerned for your pleasure and yours only—so why then did he grab your hand and settle it on his covered cock?
You jolted backward, nearly falling off the bed, catching yourself by placing a hand on the nightstand beside you. You pulled your dress back down to your knees and left the mattress, not even gazing at the man on the bed as you scurried to leave the room.
Maekar stood outside. Certainly he wasn’t close enough to hear the encounter you and his brother had through the door, thank the Gods.
You paused and stared at each other for a moment, then you turned on your heel and hurried down the hall. Maekar called your name, stopping you before you got too far.
“What happened?” he breathed.
Without turning back, you spoke. “Inform the maesters. Something is wrong with him.”
The months passed, and Baelor grew more distant. He seemingly insisted on separate bedchambers, given the fact that the two of you did not sleep together since you returned to the Red Keep, and as a result you went without his touch longer than you did when he was comatose.
You still sat by him at supper, still kept face when needed, but you rarely spoke since the day he woke and forced your hand upon his groin. You wondered if he thought it more serious than you did that you decided to run off instead of initiate anything further, though you did not know for sure.
The rare interactions you truly shared were limited to passing by one another in the hallway and pausing to stare at each other before continuing to your respective destinations. Sometimes it would be you to watch as he walked off, sometimes it would be him watching as you walked off. Only once did you both look back at each other, but both of you immediately looked away once your eyes again locked.
Many moons passed without the touch of your husband. Your real husband. Not whatever being took his body when he was revived.
Nevertheless, restless nights were often spent thinking of the new man in his place. You hadn’t given him much of a chance at all. You still refuse to do so, in some hope that he would snap out of it and come back to you as the Baelor Breakspear that you married. But maybe you could.
Those nights, you wonder what more of his touch would be like. The touch that you rejected the day he came back to you. He certainly wasn’t as gentle as your husband, no. Maybe he wouldn’t be as rough with you now, given how he has had these months to recover, to think over your relationship.
Though he wasn’t your Baelor, he was still everyone else’s. Thinking impurely about him would not harm your reputation. If the man fucked you enough, maybe you would carry another heir for him. The realm would love that, wouldn’t they? Your husband never gave you a child. You always assumed his body was satisfied enough with the two sons, satisfied enough to not plant his seed entirely into you. You were always disappointed that he never tried otherwise…
Maybe that is the reason you rose one of those nights, brushing off your protector’s concern as you made your way toward Baelor’s chambers.
You greeted his protector with a smile before entering.
Baelor was wandering his chambers, as sleepless as you were, unnoticed to your entrance.
You sucked in a breath before speaking. “Do you still not wish for another babe?” you quivered.
His head shot to yours. He made his way to you, taking your elbows in his hands and bringing your arms forward to his. His eyes considered your body, from top to bottom, before meeting yours once again.
One word. “Undress.”
Certainly not your Baelor. But nobody has to know. Not even him.
You bend over to grasp the edges of your smallclothes, lifting them up with you as you rose. Baelor’s hands met the linens and he helped you remove them from around your neck, disposing of them somewhere behind you. Could he still be gentle?
The breeze from his opened window hardened your bare nipples almost immediately. It was nearly the end of spring, but the weather had likened to that of the cold season, and Baelor still had the window opened. Your husband never liked the cold. Perhaps it be the Dornish in him.
His fingers touched all up your chest, settling on the hardened buds and pinching them. Your husband never did that. Yet, the feeling still went straight to your cunt.
He must have sensed such, as one hand of his left your breast and progressed to the spot. He ran a finger through your folds, capturing the wet that almost threatened to leak onto the ground below you. Then, he removed the digit, and put it into his mouth, nearly moaning at the taste. Your husband does do that.
“You never answered my question,” you mutter, and his head raises slowly. “Will you give me a babe?”
It is silent for a moment. You think he wont move. Maybe he will send you back to your chambers like this, all bare and entirely aroused.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he grabs your shoulders and spins you around, allowing him to push you harshly onto the bed face first. It almost knocks the wind out of you. You manage to roll back over, and he is already standing above you. He grabs your ankles and pulls you forward until your ass is to the edge of the bed and he is standing in between you.
You wonder for a moment how you got into this situation. But he does not give you much time to think, or to prepare, since he pulls down his breeches and his cock bursts forth in a second.
It is certainly the same body you remember. His thick length is just as tempting. If only you could see the trail of hair from his chest to his bush—
He rips his shirt off over his head, and there it is. The same chest you have been dreaming of the last few months, thirsting over as you touched yourself in the night. The dark hair was practically covering all his torso.
You reach up to touch it. He allows it. Then he grabs your wrist, and the other one too as he brings the other down, pinning them down alongside each other just above your head.
When he leans down closer to your face, you feel desperate to kiss him. You tip your head forward, trying to meet his lips, but he pulls away.
He holds down your wrists with only one hand now, gripping his cock and looking down to guide it inside. He teases your folds once more, rubbing his length up and down, before suddenly bottoming out. The slick arousal is allows him to do so with ease.
You gasp. It hurts. Baelor never hurts you. But this is not Baelor. Not your Baelor, at least. You suppose you will have to grow to accept that, starting with this.
Surprisingly, he pauses a moment. His brows furrow and his mouth hangs open. Maybe he is giving you the time to acclimate—
He begins moving. Thrusting back and forth—the pain doesn’t stop, but at some point it meets the pleasure. Enough for you to moan instead of shriek. He just keeps thrusting, keeps grunting. You couldn’t tell if he was getting pleasure from the act, or if he was just accepting your asks for a child.
You look up at him. He is already looking down at you. The grip he has on your wrists grows stronger, almost like he is using it to relieve stress, as if he isn’t buried inside you.
Your mouths are just inches from each other. If you could just kiss him—
You lean up again, but he jerks his face away from yours. He uses his free hand to wrap it around your neck, forcing your head back down onto the sheets.
He groans. “Do you truly want a babe?” he strangles out. His thrusts remain the relentless pace.
“Yes. Yes, Baelor,” you beg.
“Husband,” he clarifies.
You nod fervently, his words going straight to your core. “Give me your child, husband.”
He speeds up his thrusts. Both of your moans just get louder and louder until he silences them with a kiss to your lips. Then, almost immediately, he cums with a loud groan reverberating down your throat.
So that’s why he doesn’t want to kiss you.
That night, after he came, he collapsed beside you. You waited until your breath caught up with you before you rose and grabbed your smallclothes, slipping them back on and rushing out of his bedchambers, ignoring the glare from his protector.
You thought you would be too tired to touch yourself once you got back to your own bed, but that was before you felt his seed seeping from your cunt the minute your back touched the mattress.
Maybe next time you could reteach him how to pleasure you. If the seed didn’t take, maybe it would help if your pleasure was sought as well. For now, it was left up to you. If he hadn’t had your wrists pinned down, you would have already gotten your release.
Just the idea of him fucking you again is enough to make your fingers sink down to your crotch. You tell yourself it is to make sure you don’t lose a drop of his cum as you pump your fingers slowly through your cunt, using your other hand to make a fist to bite down on and conceal your noises as to not concern your own protector more than you already have.
As you practically fuck yourself on your own fingers, you press your lips together to replace the hand that you bring down to rub at your clit. You are so desperate. And it is all Baelor’s fault.
Whoever that man is, he is not a giver. You wouldn’t be fucking yourself if he were. You wouldn’t be alone in bed if you were. You also wouldn’t have just been fucked. He wouldn’t have accepted your demands to be impregnated.
Just the thought of carrying his child is enough to make you cum. The thought of your fluids mixing together inside you would be enough to have you returning to his room to force him to pleasure you, but you are too exhausted to even lift the sheets onto your body.
It had been weeks since you and Baelor had sexually reconciled. Still, there was no sign that his seed took. Your breasts were not tender. The sunrise did not bring nausea. Your blood eventually stained your sheets. And you and he continued to sleep separately.
Your experiment, that mutual pleasure would bring about better results, would occur tonight. It would occur now, in fact, as you stand outside his bedchambers.
Baelor opens the door before you can knock.
You enter without permission. “I am not with child.”
He closes the door. “Then we try again.” He meets you further into the room. You do not face him.
“No.” Your reply is immediate.
His confusion is as well. “No?” he mumbles.
“Not like that. Not with me having to retreat to my own chambers to seek my own pleasure after.” You turn to meet his gaze. “Perhaps you don’t remember, but I do. You used to indulge me—”
“Do I no longer pleasure you?” he interrupts.
Maybe the injury did have some effect on him. If he thinks he is still pleasuring you the same way he did, you should probably inform the maesters. Well—maybe you shouldn’t tell the maesters that your husband no longer pleasures you.
“No,” you confirm.
He is silent after that.
You take a shaky breath. “Undress,” you command.
His eyes narrow. You think you see the corners of his lips curl up—he obeys regardless.
The tunic he wore was the first to go. You don’t notice where it goes, as your full attention is on his chest, always as enticing as the first time you ever saw it.
He doesn’t give much time before he is removing his breeches as well. He has no sense of patience in his actions, seemingly having lost that along with his sexual prowess. That is ok. You can teach him of both, and more.
He sits his bare self onto the edge of his bed, the same spot he pushed you onto just weeks prior. What a sight the man is. His Dornish side truly comes out when he is naked.
You follow his steps, pulling off your linens and letting them drop to the floor below you. You step out of the pool under your feet, taking slow, careful steps toward Baelor. He reaches out and almost manages to grab your wrist, but you jerk away from his grasp and step back.
“Patience. You must learn it again.”
Baelor takes a deep breath, lying backward on his forearms.
You inhale and let your hands run over your breasts. The window is closed, and the room is warm for once, so it takes your own stimulation to harden your nipples.
The man takes his bottom lip between his teeth at the sight. It’s good, restraint.
Your hands delve down to your groin. Good, you are already wet, you account as you run two fingers through your folds. Finally, you release them from your cunt and step closer to him.
He uses his forearms to push himself back up. You stand between his legs and slip your dampened digits past his lips. He sucks down on them, grabbing your wrist to guide the fingers further in.
With his free hand, he cups your cunt, curling one finger up inside of you. “Like this?” he queries, curious.
You moan breathily at that, letting your head loll back once you nod sluggishly. “Keep going.”
He continues, now pumping the finger in and out, delighting in the bliss you experience at his hand. It must be coming back to him now, what it is like to truly pleasure his lady wife.
“Another,” you instruct, and he obeys, letting another finger slip into your walls. “Faster.” He obeys.
You wanted to speak, encourage him, but then he began curling his fingers inside of you, brushing against your g-spot. And you moan. Loudly. His protector will definitely be glaring at you later tonight.
Each breath you take is shakier and more unstable than the last, forcing you to place your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself. You feel a pressure building in your lower stomach. It isn’t a surprise it’s happened so quick. He hasn’t touched you this way in months.
“Stop,” you command. But he does not. Instead, he just pumps them faster.
He curls his free arm around your back, swiftly maneuvering you to lay back on the bed, fingers still pumping harshly inside you.
The pressure coiling in your core feels a bit unfamiliar. Nothing foreign to you, but something you haven’t felt in a long while, even before the Ashford incident. Your moans build and build and so does the pressure and you’re squirming in his arms and it shocks you how quickly you’ve lost control of the situation, but you’re okay with it.
You stutter a moan as you gushed watery fluid all over his hand. Your release squirted all over the sheets, and him, and you both groaned at the sight, your head falling back onto the bed.
Out of breath, you manage to push him back onto the bed, straddling his hips. Evidently he is hard, evidently you are aroused—both make it easy for you to line his length up with your entrance, wasting no time sinking down onto his cock. You both let out strangled moans.
You grab his hand and guide his thumb to your clit. It takes you rubbing it for him a few times for him to understand—but he’s a quick learner, and quickly continues where you left off. You grind on him as he stimulates the pearl, every sense between the both of you entirely heightened.
“Now, do you understand?” you begin. “How to please—” you grind on his cock, “your wife—” you interrupt yourself with a loud moan.
He nods ardently, head digging into the mattress below him.
“Do it again—” you mutter. He manages to meet your gaze to try and decipher what it is that you want. “Strangle me.”
His free hand glides up your body, squeezing a breast on his way up, and he wraps his hand around your neck and squeezes.
He must sense your exhaustion—or maybe he is simply seeking pleasure himself—because he begins fucking up into you. You’re nearly yelling with each thrust, the amount of force he drills you with, the sheer amount of bliss you feel.
You never would have expected to feel such a way with such roughness. Yes, you think. Most certainly not the husband you remember. But that is just what you both needed.
Your cunt clenches around him, sucking him in, and forcing him to lessen the assault just a little—he feels it too. His hips have begun stuttering. You feel the familiar coil building fast in your stomach, unlike how it was just minutes ago.
So you lean down, one of his hands still on your throat as the other continues stroking your clit, kissing up his neck until finally you meet his lips in a sloppy kiss. That is what does it.
You both cum at the same time with that same loud groan. His seed spills inside of you once again, this time surely to take, as your release dripping down his cock and onto his groin once you sink to his hips one last time.
Sure, your husband may not fully return to you. But you can help him try. This was only the beginning—you try not to imagine what advancements you will make in a month from now, because you may try and sit on Baelor’s face once you catch your breath.
Four weeks later, you miss your period.
Nine months later, you give Baelor his first daughter.
