I know its been a while, and i apologise for disappearing without warning 😖. I saw the influx of messages, and please know that i appreciate every single one of you so very much
To put it simply, my bunny lola was put down a few days ago, and ive been struggling to cope with that. My friends and i just completed the decoration for her memorial which sort of lifted my spirits, so here i am
I wanted to say thank you all so much for the support, i didn't even realise there were 1.3k of you now 🥹🥹 i love you all so much. Thank you for reading my work and sharing your thoughts, it truly means the world to me 🫶
SUMMARY - Your tender marriage with Gwayne fractures when your father refuses to bend the knee to Aegon Targaryen.
CONTAINS - angst, hurt/no comfort, readers house is not specified, reader is slightly sansa coded, grief, dark(?) themes
A/N - this has been collecting dust in my docs, impulsive post im legit on a ferris wheel
Gwayne Hightower was a man constructed of straight lines and solemn vows. Raised beneath the skies of Oldtown, he had been taught from the cradle that inclination was a luxury, and duty was the only true currency of a gentleman.
When Otto Hightower handed you to him like a piece of signed parchment, the alliance felt less like a marriage and more like a tactical capture. Your bloodline stood fiercely with Princess Rhaenyra, bound by oaths to the late King's chosen heir.
To you, Gwayne was the very body of the usurpation—the brother to the Queen who coveted the throne, the face of the creeping green shadow slowly overtaking the Red Keep. You were deeply put off by the factional taint of his name, constantly on your guard, waiting for the claws to show beneath his courtly exterior.
Yet weirdly enough, he treated you with a devastatingly polite distance, an immaculate chivalry that left you feeling like a guest in your own life.
He would offer his arm, he would hold doors, he would speak kindly. And yet your heart remained shielded deep inside your chest.
But despite the effort you had put into keeping your walls high, the change from formal to something soft and living occurred without a sudden declaration, almost escaping your notice. It was an accretion of unwritten truths.
It was discovered first in the gradual unraveling of his voice.
That clear instrument he used to command guards and placate lords slowly dropped its courtly register when the armours were cast aside. In the glow of the burning candles, away from the prying eyes, his speech became a gentler, more fragmented thing, meant for your ears alone.
He did not demand your submission, rather, he surrendered his own vigilance. You watched the rigid set of his shoulders slowly relax the moment he crossed the threshold into your chambers. The room ceased to be just a place where he slept, it became a place where he was permitted to bleed off the poison of the court.
There was a profound, unhurried tethering. He would often sit near your window while droplets of rain lashed the stone, his fingers idly tracing the embroidery of your clothes, calmed simply by the sound of your breath across from him.
One evening, he returned from an exhausting meeting with his father, his eyes dark with the weight of Otto’s demands. He sank to the floor beside your chair, burying his face in the fabric of your skirt.
“Gwayne?” you whispered, your fingers threading through his hair. “What did he say?”
“Do not ask me of the world out there,” he grunted, his voice a muffled rasp against your velvet gown. “Let me stay here for an hour. Just an hour where I do not have to be my father’s son. Tell me something ordinary. Tell me about the animals in the garden, or the book you read today. Anything.”
“I saw two lovebirds building a nest on the tree by the wall,” you murmured, your voice instantly soothing the nerves in him. “It reminded me of us.”
He leaned his head back against your knee, looking up at you with burning fondness that made everything else fade into background noise. “Mm, did it now?” he teased, reaching up to press a kiss to the center of your palm. “The gods help me, I am utterly helpless against you.” He let out a sigh.
Then lived those moonlit hours when the pressure of the world dissolved into the linen of your bed.
In the quiet aftermath of your intimacy, when the frantic heat had slowed to a languid warmth, he would hold you in the dark. His hands moved with gentleness across your bare skin, tracing the curve of your collarbone and sweep of your hip as if memorising the boundaries of a world he couldn’t bear to let slip away.
You would be flush against his chest, your head tucked beneath his jaw while his fingers idly brushed strands of your hair. His breathing would slow, heavy with the exhaustion of the days he carried, but his embrace never faltered. He would press his lips softly into the crown of your head, his chest lifting with a content sigh.
In those stolen hours, he belonged entirely to you. There was a night when the two of you refused sleep, consumed in conversation. He laid with his hand resting flat against yours, his eyes fixed on the canopy above as if tracing the map of a life he actually wanted to live.
“When the spring comes, I want to take you away from this place,” he had murmured, “perhaps to your father’s halls. I want to see the cliffs you spoke of, where ‘the wind smells of salt instead of rot,’ if I recall your words correctly?”
A breathless giggle escaped your lips, a spark of incandescent joy warming your chest. You turned in his embrace, your fingers brushing the hair from his eyes, your face alight with excitement.
“Only my father's halls?” you questioned, leaning up on one elbow to look down at him.
“Gwayne, if we manage to escape the jaws of this castle, I am not letting you slip away so easily. We must go to the cliffs, yes, but then you must take me to the Reach. You promised me once that we would walk through the bed of roses in the summer. We can pack nothing but wine and bread, and forget that the city ever existed.”
Gwayne watched you, his gaze tracking the curve of your smile, a look of helpless adoration softening every hard line of his face. A laugh rumbled in his chest as he reached up, wrapping his hand around the nape of your neck to pull you down into a sweet, lingering kiss.
“The Reach, the ruins, the edge of the world,” he whispered against your lips, his arms tightening around you as if you were going to disappear if he let go. “Wherever you wish, my love. A hundred different places, if only to keep that look in your eyes.”
You rested your cheek against his chest, listening to the reassuring thud of his heart. You fell asleep weaving those foolish, beautiful dreams into the dark, utterly convinced that the man holding you would sooner slaughter the world before he ever let a single drop of rain fall on your happiness.
Yet the air of King’s Landing grew relentlessly venomous, thickening with the acrid scent of treason.
In those breathless months following Aegon’s coronation, the peace you had inhabited with Gwayne was instantly exposed for what it was. A fragile ornament crushed beneath the heel of his father’s ambitions.
While the capital continued adjusting to the rule of the Greens, your house remained a stubborn holdout. Your father refused to acknowledge the new king, holding fast to his oaths to Rhaenyra. To Otto, your bloodline was no longer an honorable ally, but a defiance blocking the road to the iron throne that could not be suffered to endure.
Then came the ravens from east.
You learned of the coming storm not from a herald, but from the terrifying silence that occupied Gwayne when he returned to your quarters after a council meeting. He stood before the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
“The ultimatums were returned unopened,” he said. His voice lacked its usual warmth. It was a hollow sound that seemed to sap heat from the room. “Your father remains loyal to the princess.”
The blood in your veins went solid. You knew the volatile nature of the men who sat at Aegon's right hand.
You knew that if Criston were unleashed upon your childhood home, there would be no mercy, and if Prince Aemond took to the sky, your heritage would be reduced to ash before the week's end.
“What will they do?” you whispered, crossing the room with frantic steps, your fingers catching his sleeve. “Gwayne, please. Speak to your father, or perhaps your sister. Let me send a rider– let me plead with–”
“It is past the point of letters,” Gwayne interrupted softly, finally turning his gaze to meet yours. He reached out, his palms framing your face with a tenderness that felt terribly final. “Cole demanded the vanguard. He wanted to make an example of your house...”
A muscle leaped in his jaw as he swallowed down whatever pride remained in his throat. “I kneeled before the King in front of the council. I begged for the vanguard myself. I told them a Hightower sword must lead the assault to ensure the territory is secured cleanly. I… I gave them my word.”
You stumbled backward, pulling out of his touch as horror bloomed beneath your ribs.
The man who had spent his nights finding solace in your arms had just bartered for the right to destroy your life. “You asked for the command?” you breathed. “You are marching against my blood?”
“It is better this way,” Gwayne insisted fiercely, closing the distance between you and grasping your shoulders desperately. “Do you not see? If Cole goes, he will put every soul bearing your name to the sword. If Aemond flies, your home becomes a sepulcher. But if I go, I can dictate the terms.”
A harsh, broken laugh escaped your throat, tears of raw fury finally spilling over your lashes. “And I am supposed to thank you for that? I am supposed to welcome you back into this bed with the scent of my home’s burning fields on your skin?”
“I have sacrificed my own honour for this!” his righteousness flared, his grip tightening on your shoulders. “I am doing this to shield you! I am doing this because I love you!”
“How dare you call this love?” you yelled, the words tearing from your lungs. “You do not love me, Gwayne. You loved a political knot that grew compliant in your hands. You loved having a place to crawl into when your father’s weight grew too heavy for your perfect shoulders. But the very moment the world demanded you choose between the Hand’s ambition and my survival…” you shook your head, your lower lip quivering. You couldn’t bring yourself to continue.
Gwayne’s face went pale, his hands dropping to his sides as if you had just stabbed him.
“If I do not hold the torch, the fire consumes us all!” he barked back, his voice laced with desperate pain. His eyes flashed with a devastating wildness you had never seen in him before. “Would you prefer Criston and Aemond? Tell me! Would you rather I let them lead?”
“I would rather a husband who did not look at my family’s ruin and call it an immaculate gift,” you spat, backing away from him until the wood of your vanity pressed against your spine.
You looked into his eyes, searching for your husband. Your Gwayne. But you found only a knight. One trapped in the machinery of his father’s war. He truly believed his compromise was a holy mercy. He believed that by becoming the executioner of your past, he was preserving your future.
Three days later, Gwayne rode out through the King’s Gate at the head of a thousand spears, your favour still braided into the hilt of his blade.
He left you alone with your thoughts, left only to count the heartbeats until the sky turned to smoke.
The weeks did not pass. They accumulated, settling over your shared rooms like the fine grey dust that drifted from the lower yards.
Every midnight, you would collapse onto your knees before the small carved altars in the corner of the castle’s shrine, your skin shivering against the cold stone as you pressed your palms together. But the moment you opened your mouth to plead with the heavens, your throat would lock. You discovered, with a sickening horror, that you no longer knew how to pray.
Did you beg the Smith to strengthen your father's walls, knowing it meant Gwayne would be butchered at the gates? Did you beg the Mother to shield your husband, knowing his survival required the destruction of your childhood home? Your words became choked and useless in the dark—a terrible realization that the gods could not bless one half of your heart without utterly destroying the other.
Then came the day when the bells of the sept did not toll for prayer, but clanged with the triumphant roar of victory.
The heralds in the courtyard shouted of a rebellion quelled, of a defiant house brought to its knees by the righteous hand of the King’s vanguard.
They were cheering for the execution of your blood.
When the doors to your bedchamber finally opened, it revealed a man who looked as though he had been dragged out from the deepest pit of seven hells.
Gwayne stood in the entryway. The knight of Oldtown, the man who had meticulously memorised the curves of your skin in the dark, was long gone.
The silver lines of his armour was caked with layers of soot, the plates dented and covered with dried mud. He carried the suffocating stench of charred timber, along with the sickly sweet metallic tang of blood.
His breathing was frantic, chest heaving beneath the metal as his eyes searched for you. He found you sitting by the cold hearth, a ragged sound escaping his throat. He took a reluctant step toward you, hands reaching out blindly.
“It is finished,” he choked out, “Your sisters are in custody, but they are breathing. They are alive. I secured it.”
You didn’t rise to meet him.
“And the cliffs, Gwayne?” you whispered, your voice dangerously level. A hollow timbre of a woman speaking from inside a grave. “How do they look now? Does the wind still smell of salt? or did you choke it with the debris of my father’s halls?”
Gwayne stilled, his outstretched hands hovering in the empty space between you. “Your father would not bend!” he pleaded, dropping heavily to his knees before you, the metal of his armour striking the floor with a mocking clang.
He reached out, filthy fingers desperately clutching at the fabric of your gown, mimicking the exact posture of surrender he had used weeks ago when begging to take the vanguard.
“He wouldn’t look at the terms. If I hadn't swung the blade clean myself, Cole would have left him tortured! I gave him a clean, honourable death!”
“Do not lie to yourself to make your sleep easier,” you muttered, and for the first time, your eyes shifted down to look at him, cold and unblinking. “You didn’t break your soul to save my family, Gwayne. You found it. It looks exactly like your father’s.”
An agonizing sob tore from his throat. He buried his face in your skirts, his shoulders shaking as he wept, pleading for your love, the fingers combing through his hair, the soothing voice.
But you remained frozen. You did not touch him. You could not.
As the sun set, you were not permitted time for mourning. The maids were sent, their trembling hands forcing you into a gown of emerald silk. They pinned your hair back with golden needles, and paraded you down the stone corridors like a prized trophy of war.
The hall was deafening. Lords and ladies drank from their golden chalices, their laughter bouncing off the walls, while musicians played a spirited tune to celebrate the crushing of the rebellion.
At the high table, you sat motionless. You didn’t touch your wine, didn’t look at the feast before you. You sat perfectly straight, your wide eyes staring vacant into the middle distance.
To your right sat Gwayne, washed clean of the soot and blood. His hand rested flat against the small of your back—a frantic touch that had been there for hours, silently begging for even a flinch, a glance, a single tear to prove you were still alive.
From your left, a shadow fell over your plate.
Otto Hightower stepped slowly toward you. He looked to be unbothered, his face a mask of serene statecraft. He leaned down slightly, placing a cold hand on your shoulder.
“A tragic business, my lady,” Otto murmured, his eyes scanning your blank profile with the curiosity of a master checking on a piece of chess. “Your father was a man of honour, but regretfully, honour without wisdom is a short lived thing in this world. It is a mercy that Gwayne arrived in time to spare your sisters from a traitor’s end.”
Otto’s fingers tightened slightly—a subtle warning disguised as a gesture of comfort.
“The King notices your silence.” His voice dropped into a pragmatic register. “You are a Hightower by law and by blood now. Smile for your King. Speak to your husband. Let the court see that the rebellion is truly dead.”
Otto then paused, waiting for your compliance, waiting for the polite response you had been taught since birth to give.
You gave him nothing. You remained horrifyingly still, an exquisitely dressed corpse sitting in the center of their victory.
Beside you, Gwayne let out a sharp breath, his fingers digging into your waist as he looked up at his father. He wanted Otto to stop. But he merely sighed, a flick of disappointment crossing his features before he pulled his hand away and dissolved back into the crowd of cheers.
Across the hall, a lord raised a goblet, his voice booming over the chatter as he toasted the victory of the Greens, explicitly naming your ancestral home as the nest of traitors that had finally been cleansed by the righteous steel of Ser Gwayne.
The noise that came after shook the very foundation of the castle. Gwayne closed his eyes, his forehead pressing forward as he shattered beside you.
But your eyes were no longer vacant.
Your body had not moved an inch, but your flat gaze had slowly drifted down to the linen table cloth.
Resting just inches from your motionless hand was a small, silver knife, laid out for the final course of the banquet. The torchlight caught the polished steel of the blade, reflecting a tiny glint of fire.
You didn’t care about the roar of the crowd cheering for your father’s execution. The hall faded into a distant, muffled hum as your unblinking eyes locked onto the silver with clarity.
It was a promise of an exit, a way to finally wash yourself clean of their green banners and go home to the salt-swept cliffs where your father was waiting.
You stared at it, your heart rate slowing into a peaceful rhythm, knowing exactly how you were going to get the freedom you longed for.
this gif of finn in domina (also 😵💫😵💫 #needthat, also this looks like it could be the nest 👀) except its bb fucking companion and he can’t stop trembling and purring bc its so good yes pls. companion originally starting fully on her knees but the dicks too good and bb was not holding back so she just ended up prone with bb’s hand in her hair 😵💫😵💫😵💫
You start on your knees.
That's how it begins. You on your hands and knees in the nest, the warm pile of blankets bunched under your palms. The amber light of the lamp falling through the fabric he's hung from the ceiling like curtains, like veils, turning the whole space into something honeyed and intimate.
BB's hand is at the small of your back. Resting. His thumb tracing the knobs of your spine one at a time the way someone would trace the beads of a rosary, slow and reverent, committed to the count.
He's behind you. Not inside you yet. He's looking.
You can feel the looking. The seven translate it as a low warm pull behind your navel, all seven of them humming at half-attention, picking up the quality of his gaze the way skin picks up sun. The air between your shoulder blades feels warmer where his eyes are resting. You drop your head between your arms and breathe and wait.
"Ready, baby?"
His voice is low and a little rough at the edges and you nod into the blanket.
BB pushes in.
The whole length of him in a slow, careful slide that opens you up inch by inch. He doesn't stop until his hips are flush against the backs of your thighs, and the sound you make is not a word, it's just air leaving you like he's pushed it out from the inside. The seven light up all at once and BB's hand at your back spreads wide and presses down, holding.
"There," he breathes. "Oh—there, sweetheart."
He starts to move.
And he's not holding back.
You can tell immediately. The careful version of BB—the one who reads the seven in real time and adjusts, who treats your body like an instrument he's learning to play lovingly—that version is not here tonight. What's here instead is the drive, the thing underneath, the patient ancient hunger given permission to take what it wants, and what it wants is depth.
The first real thrust knocks the breath out of you. Deep, grinding, his hips rolling forward with a force that slides your knees an inch across the blanket, and the ridged texture of him—he hasn't bothered with the smooth human surface, he hasn't bothered with any pretence at all—drags against your inner walls in a long rippling wave that makes your vision narrow.
You moan, arching into the sensation. "Oh—"
"Yeah." His hand slides up your spine. Into your hair. His fingers gather the damp weight of it, gentle, then firm, tilting your head up from the blanket just enough that you can breathe properly. "Yeah, baby. I got you. Just hold on."
BB fucks you with slow, heavy strokes that use the full length of him, pulling back until you're whimpering at the wet drag and then grinding forward until the depth of him is pressing against places that make your eyes roll and your hands fist in the blanket and your mouth open on sounds you can't control.
And he's trembling.
You feel it first through his hand in your hair, a fine vibration in BB's fingers, not quite a shake, more like the hum of a wire pulled taut.
Then through his hips where they press against you at the apex of each stroke, the muscle of his thighs quivering. Then through the harmonic, which is not the steady controlled hum you know but something broken open, stuttering, catching on itself like a record skipping.
That purr-register gone ragged.
BBis inside you and he's overwhelmed, and the trembling is the body's way of trying to contain what is running through it, and it's failing.
"Baby—" his voice cracks, ragged on a moan, the Bobby-drawl fraying, "—baby, you feel— I can't—you're so—"
He can't finish the sentence. He gives up on the sentence. He gives up on language entirely and makes a sound instead. Low, wrecked, pulled up from somewhere underneath the Bobby-shape, somewhere old and wordless, and his hips snap forward harder and you keen.
Your elbows give.
A slow buckling, your arms folding under you as the force of him drives you forward and down, your breasts pressing to the blanket, your cheek turning against the soft pile of it.
You try to hold the position. Your knees are still under you, hips still raised, the angle still presenting, but the next stroke is deep, deeper than the last, and the one after that is deeper still, and your knees slide backward and your hips sink and then you're flat, prone, belly-down on the blanket with the warm weight of him following you down.
BB covers you.
His chest to your back, the cool-going-warm length of him draped over you, his mouth at your ear, his hand still in your hair, and the angle has changed—god, the angle has changed—the downward position tightening everything. The pressure of the blanket under your hips tilts your pelvis just enough that every stroke grinds the ridged length of him across the spot the seven have been guarding for months.
"BB—"
The name hits him like a hand on a bell. His whole body shudders.
Full shudder, crown to heel, the trembling cresting into a wave, and the harmonic pours out of him uncontrolled. Not the purr anymore but the deeper thing, the frequency, the one that vibrates through the floor and the walls and the warm pile of the nest and through your sternum. The seven sing back and the resonance between his body and yours and the seven becomes a single humming chord and you're flying apart from the inside—
"More," you choke into the blanket, moaning loudly into the blankets. "More, BB, I need—more—"
He whines in response.
A high, thin sound you have never heard him make before, and his hips stutter against you and you feel him shift.
The cock lengthens inside you. You feel it happen: the deliberate stretch of him reaching deeper, the ridges multiplying, the girth thickening by fractions, and the shift is not sudden. It's rolling. The shape of him rewriting itself to fill you fuller while he's still moving, and the sensation of being reshaped from the inside by a thing that is reshaping itself to match is—
You cry out.
Your hands claw at the blanket. Your face wet, tears soaking into the soft pile under your cheek, and the pleasure has gone past the point where it's a distinct sensation and become a state. A condition, a thing your whole body is doing, every nerve firing in tandem, the seven blazing so bright they're almost tangible—
"I know," BB slurs against your ear. His lips are on the hinge of your jaw, his breath coming fast and uneven, the careful human rhythm of it abandoned. "I know, baby, I know, it's—it's so much, I know, but I need—just a little—just a little deeper, sweetheart, just—there—"
He presses deeper. You sob, clawing at the sheets.
"Just like that," he whispers, shaking. "Just like—oh—just like that, you're perfect, you're so perfect, you're so so perfect, baby, I can feel you. I can feel all of you—the seven are—they're singin' so loud, sweetheart, you should hear what you sound like from the inside."
His hand in your hair tightens. An anchor for both of you. His forehead drops to the back of your neck and his mouth is open against your skin and you can feel the harmonic coming out of him in waves now.
Not a hum anymore but a keen, the eldritch version of the sound you're making, and the two sounds layer and braid and the nest hums with the combined frequency and the lamp pulses and you feel the warm curtain-light flicker across your closed eyelids.
"BB—BB, I can't—it's too much, it's—"
Your voice breaks and you hiccup over the sound.
"I know." His voice is rough. Barely there. Slurring on the vowels, the consonants dissolving. "I know it is, baby, I know, I'm sorry, I just—you feel so good. I need to feel you, I need—just a little more, just—please—you feel so—I've never—nothin' has ever—"
He can't finish.
BB gives up on trying to finish. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and his hips roll into you. He's not thrusting anymore, not the sharp deep strokes of a minute ago, but a grind. His pelvis sealed flush against you and the full ridged length of him working in slow, devastating circles against the deepest place he can reach, and the texture of him is dragging against every nerve you have in a continuous rolling wave that doesn't crest and doesn't ebb.
It doesn't give you a single second to breathe between one pulse of sensation and the next.
Your mouth hangs open, your fingers clenched in the blanket to hold on.
Tears run freely now, soaking into the soft pile under your cheek, and the pleasure has crossed some threshold you didn't know existed. Past the point where your body can process it as discrete sensation, past the point where the peaks are distinguishable from the valleys, into a place where it is just one thing. One continuous roaring note, your entire nervous system lit up and screaming and the seven are amplifying every single second of it.
And the seven are doing something they've never done before.
The feedback loop is open, wide open, all seven gates singing at full volume, and they're not just catching your pleasure and passing it to BB anymore, they're catching it, passing it to him, receiving his version back, amplifying it, and feeding it back to you.
And the amplified version hits your nervous system and produces more pleasure and the seven catch that and the loop accelerates—
Your vision goes white at the edges.
The warm amber curtain-light blurs and bleaches and for a terrifying, gorgeous second you cannot see anything at all. You're just sensation, just the grinding pressure of BB thrusting inside you and the seven singing at a pitch that is vibrating your actual bones and the weight of him on your back and the wet heat of his mouth on your neck, kissing and licking and sucking, and the harmonic pouring through your sternum and you are—you're going to—
"BB—" it comes out thin, desperate, slurred, "BB, I'm—I think I'm gonna—I can't see—"
"I got you." Immediate. Even wrecked, even shaking, even slurring, immediate. BB's arm tightens around your ribs. The grind slows by a fraction. Not quite stopping, he cannot stop, but easing just enough that the seven pull back from the screaming edge by one degree. "I got you, sweetheart, I'm here, I'm not lettin' you go anywhere. Stay with me. Stay right here. Just feel me."
You gasp, trying to nod as it dissolves into a whimper. The white recedes. The amber comes back instead, blurred through tears. You can feel your heartbeat in your whole body, hammering, and the seven have eased from their shrieking peak into something that is still blinding but no longer threatening to take your consciousness with it.
"There we go," he breathes against your neck, kissing the damp line, pulsing inside you. "There you are, baby. Right here. My good girl. So good for me."
And then, because the drive is still running, because the feel of you clenching and fluttering around him in the aftermath of almost going under is apparently more than he can take, BB's hips snap forward.
Hard. One sharp, deep thrust that punches the air out of you and buries him to the absolute limit of what the reshaped length can reach inside wit a wet squelch, and he stays, and grinds. That slow, devastating circles find the spot again and your body seizes around him.
You come with a violent flutter.
There's no crest. An avalanche. It takes you from the feet up, your toes curling, your calves locking, your thighs clamping around nothing because there's nothing to clamp around.
He's inside you and you're flat on the blanket and the only thing to do with this pleasure force is take it, and you scream into the pillow, a sound you did not know you could make, and the seven catch the scream and translate it and send it hurtling down the loop and—
BB snarls above you.
You feel the moment his body exceeds capacity. The trembling hits a frequency that's no longer trembling but vibrating, every molecule of the shape BB built shaking at a pitch that blurs the edges of him, and the harmonic doesn't just pour out of him, it erupts. A sound so deep and so vast that the walls of the nest bow outward like lungs filling and the blankets shudder and the curtain-light swings and somewhere in the corridor outside the room shifts.
BB comes inside you in a gush so powerful you sob, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth and into wrecked blankets below.
You feel the overflow.
The saturation point inside you reached and exceeded and the excess having nowhere to go but out.
What comes out is hot—hotter than he's ever been, the fever-warmth of him spiking past anything your body has memorised, the warm flood pouring into you in heavy pulses that the seven catch, each one, and hold.
It produces a secondary wave of pleasure in you that rolls through the first one and compounds it and your climax, which was already an avalanche, becomes a thing with aftershocks. Your body pulses around him in helpless clenches and flutters that you can't control and that BB can feel, each one, because the loop is still running.
Because the seven are still translating, because your pleasure is still becoming his pleasure is still becoming yours—
The loop runs for what feels like hours.
Peak feeding into peak feeding into peak, the two of you locked together prone on the blanket, his weight on you and his face buried in your neck, his arm a steel band around your ribs.
The seven sing so loud the sound becomes physical, a vibration you can feel in your teeth, in the small bones of your wrists. Your body is doing things without your input—clenching, releasing, clenching again, the involuntary rhythm of a nervous system in freefall, and every clench pulls another small sound out of BB, animal sounds, wrecked sounds, whines and gasps that have no Bobby left in them at all.
When the loop finally begins to slow by degrees, the peaks getting fractionally smaller, the spaces between them getting fractionally wider. Until the spaces are big enough to breathe in and you both breathe, a long shuddering simultaneous inhale that sounds like surfacing from deep water.
Your vision clears.
The amber comes back in full. The curtain-light steadies. The seven ease from their blinding chorus into a warm, steady hum that feels almost apologetic, like seven small fires banking themselves after nearly burning the house down.
He's still inside you, still shaking. The trembling hasn't stopped and you're starting to understand that it may not stop for a while. That what just moved through him was too large for the body and the body is still processing it the way a bell still rings after being struck.
"Baby," he manages. One word. The only word he can apparently find. His mouth shapes it into the crook of your neck like he's pressing it into your skin for safekeeping.
You try to answer. What comes out is a breath that might have been a laugh, and your hand finds his where it's clamped around your ribs and your fingers lace through his and you squeeze, once, because that's all you have.
One squeeze. I'm here. I felt it. I know.
BB squeezes back, his fingers trembling in yours.
You become aware of the mess slowly.
First the wet. You're lying in it.
The blanket beneath your hips is soaked. Warm and slick and too much, more than a human body could produce, because his is not a human body and what comes out of him does not obey human volume. It has pooled under you, gathered in the dip the weight of your hips has made in the nest, and when you shift even a fraction you feel the warm slide of it against your belly, your inner thighs, the crease where thigh meets hip.
Then the glow.
You almost miss it. Your face is still turned sideways on the pillow, eyes half-closed, lashes damp, and the amber curtain-light is soft enough that it takes a moment to separate one warm light from another.
But there—at the edge of your vision, where the blanket is darkest with mess of it—the faintest luminescence. Not bright. A soft bioluminescent shimmer in the slick of him, barely there, the palest gold-white, like something living at the bottom of a very deep ocean giving off its own light.
"BB," you whisper. "It's—it's glowing."
He makes a sound against your neck. A low rumble that vibrates through your spine, half-embarrassed, half-pleased, entirely spent.
He knows. He can feel it, the way he can feel everything that is still him regardless of where it is. The substance on the blanket, all the substance overflowing inside you, the seven rooted places. all of it still pulsing in the same slow diminishing rhythm, the tail end of the overflow settling into stillness.
BB's hand unlaces from yours. Slides down, slow, across your ribs, over the dip of your waist, and comes to rest low on your belly. His palm presses flat. Warm. Possessive in the old way, the way his hand always finds that place, but tonight there is intent in the pressure, a slow gentle push, and you feel it.
You feel him inside.
The cock is still seated deep, still hard. He doesn't soften the way human men soften. The refractory period is not installed, the body simply stays at whatever state of readiness he chooses, and right now he is choosing to stay full in you.
When his hand presses against your belly from the outside you become aware of the shape of him from both directions. The hard length of him inside, pressing against your front wall, and his warm palm outside, pressing toward it, and between the two pressures your belly becomes the held thing, the kept thing, and the sensation is so intimate it makes your breath catch.
BB rubs. Slow circles. Gentle, absent, the way he strokes the small of your back when you're standing in the kitchen.
Except now BB's hand is on the soft low curve of your belly and he's pressing just firmly enough that you can feel the ridge of him shift inside you with each pass. Feel the extra pressure push more of his release out of you, dripping down in a wet, thick gush.
Each circle pushes his cock a fraction of an angle, just enough that you feel it move, and the moving is not a thrust, it's not even sex, it's just... awareness. Him making sure you know he's still there, making sure you can feel the full shape of what is still inside you, hard and pulsing and present.
You're ruined, a wreck. Your face, tear-streaked, and your thighs, trembling. You're lying in a puddle of faintly glowing come in a nest an eldritch entity built you out of love, and his hand is on your belly, and his cock is still inside you, and you're so far past okay you don't have the word for it.
BB's hand keeps rubbing. Slow circles, slow circles.
SUMMARY - Your tender marriage with Gwayne fractures when your father refuses to bend the knee to Aegon Targaryen.
CONTAINS - angst, hurt/no comfort, readers house is not specified, reader is slightly sansa coded, grief, dark(?) themes
A/N - this has been collecting dust in my docs, impulsive post im legit on a ferris wheel
Gwayne Hightower was a man constructed of straight lines and solemn vows. Raised beneath the skies of Oldtown, he had been taught from the cradle that inclination was a luxury, and duty was the only true currency of a gentleman.
When Otto Hightower handed you to him like a piece of signed parchment, the alliance felt less like a marriage and more like a tactical capture. Your bloodline stood fiercely with Princess Rhaenyra, bound by oaths to the late King's chosen heir.
To you, Gwayne was the very body of the usurpation—the brother to the Queen who coveted the throne, the face of the creeping green shadow slowly overtaking the Red Keep. You were deeply put off by the factional taint of his name, constantly on your guard, waiting for the claws to show beneath his courtly exterior.
Yet weirdly enough, he treated you with a devastatingly polite distance, an immaculate chivalry that left you feeling like a guest in your own life.
He would offer his arm, he would hold doors, he would speak kindly. And yet your heart remained shielded deep inside your chest.
But despite the effort you had put into keeping your walls high, the change from formal to something soft and living occurred without a sudden declaration, almost escaping your notice. It was an accretion of unwritten truths.
It was discovered first in the gradual unraveling of his voice.
That clear instrument he used to command guards and placate lords slowly dropped its courtly register when the armours were cast aside. In the glow of the burning candles, away from the prying eyes, his speech became a gentler, more fragmented thing, meant for your ears alone.
He did not demand your submission, rather, he surrendered his own vigilance. You watched the rigid set of his shoulders slowly relax the moment he crossed the threshold into your chambers. The room ceased to be just a place where he slept, it became a place where he was permitted to bleed off the poison of the court.
There was a profound, unhurried tethering. He would often sit near your window while droplets of rain lashed the stone, his fingers idly tracing the embroidery of your clothes, calmed simply by the sound of your breath across from him.
One evening, he returned from an exhausting meeting with his father, his eyes dark with the weight of Otto’s demands. He sank to the floor beside your chair, burying his face in the fabric of your skirt.
“Gwayne?” you whispered, your fingers threading through his hair. “What did he say?”
“Do not ask me of the world out there,” he grunted, his voice a muffled rasp against your velvet gown. “Let me stay here for an hour. Just an hour where I do not have to be my father’s son. Tell me something ordinary. Tell me about the animals in the garden, or the book you read today. Anything.”
“I saw two lovebirds building a nest on the tree by the wall,” you murmured, your voice instantly soothing the nerves in him. “It reminded me of us.”
He leaned his head back against your knee, looking up at you with burning fondness that made everything else fade into background noise. “Mm, did it now?” he teased, reaching up to press a kiss to the center of your palm. “The gods help me, I am utterly helpless against you.” He let out a sigh.
Then lived those moonlit hours when the pressure of the world dissolved into the linen of your bed.
In the quiet aftermath of your intimacy, when the frantic heat had slowed to a languid warmth, he would hold you in the dark. His hands moved with gentleness across your bare skin, tracing the curve of your collarbone and sweep of your hip as if memorising the boundaries of a world he couldn’t bear to let slip away.
You would be flush against his chest, your head tucked beneath his jaw while his fingers idly brushed strands of your hair. His breathing would slow, heavy with the exhaustion of the days he carried, but his embrace never faltered. He would press his lips softly into the crown of your head, his chest lifting with a content sigh.
In those stolen hours, he belonged entirely to you. There was a night when the two of you refused sleep, consumed in conversation. He laid with his hand resting flat against yours, his eyes fixed on the canopy above as if tracing the map of a life he actually wanted to live.
“When the spring comes, I want to take you away from this place,” he had murmured, “perhaps to your father’s halls. I want to see the cliffs you spoke of, where ‘the wind smells of salt instead of rot,’ if I recall your words correctly?”
A breathless giggle escaped your lips, a spark of incandescent joy warming your chest. You turned in his embrace, your fingers brushing the hair from his eyes, your face alight with excitement.
“Only my father's halls?” you questioned, leaning up on one elbow to look down at him.
“Gwayne, if we manage to escape the jaws of this castle, I am not letting you slip away so easily. We must go to the cliffs, yes, but then you must take me to the Reach. You promised me once that we would walk through the bed of roses in the summer. We can pack nothing but wine and bread, and forget that the city ever existed.”
Gwayne watched you, his gaze tracking the curve of your smile, a look of helpless adoration softening every hard line of his face. A laugh rumbled in his chest as he reached up, wrapping his hand around the nape of your neck to pull you down into a sweet, lingering kiss.
“The Reach, the ruins, the edge of the world,” he whispered against your lips, his arms tightening around you as if you were going to disappear if he let go. “Wherever you wish, my love. A hundred different places, if only to keep that look in your eyes.”
You rested your cheek against his chest, listening to the reassuring thud of his heart. You fell asleep weaving those foolish, beautiful dreams into the dark, utterly convinced that the man holding you would sooner slaughter the world before he ever let a single drop of rain fall on your happiness.
Yet the air of King’s Landing grew relentlessly venomous, thickening with the acrid scent of treason.
In those breathless months following Aegon’s coronation, the peace you had inhabited with Gwayne was instantly exposed for what it was. A fragile ornament crushed beneath the heel of his father’s ambitions.
While the capital continued adjusting to the rule of the Greens, your house remained a stubborn holdout. Your father refused to acknowledge the new king, holding fast to his oaths to Rhaenyra. To Otto, your bloodline was no longer an honorable ally, but a defiance blocking the road to the iron throne that could not be suffered to endure.
Then came the ravens from east.
You learned of the coming storm not from a herald, but from the terrifying silence that occupied Gwayne when he returned to your quarters after a council meeting. He stood before the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
“The ultimatums were returned unopened,” he said. His voice lacked its usual warmth. It was a hollow sound that seemed to sap heat from the room. “Your father remains loyal to the princess.”
The blood in your veins went solid. You knew the volatile nature of the men who sat at Aegon's right hand.
You knew that if Criston were unleashed upon your childhood home, there would be no mercy, and if Prince Aemond took to the sky, your heritage would be reduced to ash before the week's end.
“What will they do?” you whispered, crossing the room with frantic steps, your fingers catching his sleeve. “Gwayne, please. Speak to your father, or perhaps your sister. Let me send a rider– let me plead with–”
“It is past the point of letters,” Gwayne interrupted softly, finally turning his gaze to meet yours. He reached out, his palms framing your face with a tenderness that felt terribly final. “Cole demanded the vanguard. He wanted to make an example of your house...”
A muscle leaped in his jaw as he swallowed down whatever pride remained in his throat. “I kneeled before the King in front of the council. I begged for the vanguard myself. I told them a Hightower sword must lead the assault to ensure the territory is secured cleanly. I… I gave them my word.”
You stumbled backward, pulling out of his touch as horror bloomed beneath your ribs.
The man who had spent his nights finding solace in your arms had just bartered for the right to destroy your life. “You asked for the command?” you breathed. “You are marching against my blood?”
“It is better this way,” Gwayne insisted fiercely, closing the distance between you and grasping your shoulders desperately. “Do you not see? If Cole goes, he will put every soul bearing your name to the sword. If Aemond flies, your home becomes a sepulcher. But if I go, I can dictate the terms.”
A harsh, broken laugh escaped your throat, tears of raw fury finally spilling over your lashes. “And I am supposed to thank you for that? I am supposed to welcome you back into this bed with the scent of my home’s burning fields on your skin?”
“I have sacrificed my own honour for this!” his righteousness flared, his grip tightening on your shoulders. “I am doing this to shield you! I am doing this because I love you!”
“How dare you call this love?” you yelled, the words tearing from your lungs. “You do not love me, Gwayne. You loved a political knot that grew compliant in your hands. You loved having a place to crawl into when your father’s weight grew too heavy for your perfect shoulders. But the very moment the world demanded you choose between the Hand’s ambition and my survival…” you shook your head, your lower lip quivering. You couldn’t bring yourself to continue.
Gwayne’s face went pale, his hands dropping to his sides as if you had just stabbed him.
“If I do not hold the torch, the fire consumes us all!” he barked back, his voice laced with desperate pain. His eyes flashed with a devastating wildness you had never seen in him before. “Would you prefer Criston and Aemond? Tell me! Would you rather I let them lead?”
“I would rather a husband who did not look at my family’s ruin and call it an immaculate gift,” you spat, backing away from him until the wood of your vanity pressed against your spine.
You looked into his eyes, searching for your husband. Your Gwayne. But you found only a knight. One trapped in the machinery of his father’s war. He truly believed his compromise was a holy mercy. He believed that by becoming the executioner of your past, he was preserving your future.
Three days later, Gwayne rode out through the King’s Gate at the head of a thousand spears, your favour still braided into the hilt of his blade.
He left you alone with your thoughts, left only to count the heartbeats until the sky turned to smoke.
The weeks did not pass. They accumulated, settling over your shared rooms like the fine grey dust that drifted from the lower yards.
Every midnight, you would collapse onto your knees before the small carved altars in the corner of the castle’s shrine, your skin shivering against the cold stone as you pressed your palms together. But the moment you opened your mouth to plead with the heavens, your throat would lock. You discovered, with a sickening horror, that you no longer knew how to pray.
Did you beg the Smith to strengthen your father's walls, knowing it meant Gwayne would be butchered at the gates? Did you beg the Mother to shield your husband, knowing his survival required the destruction of your childhood home? Your words became choked and useless in the dark—a terrible realization that the gods could not bless one half of your heart without utterly destroying the other.
Then came the day when the bells of the sept did not toll for prayer, but clanged with the triumphant roar of victory.
The heralds in the courtyard shouted of a rebellion quelled, of a defiant house brought to its knees by the righteous hand of the King’s vanguard.
They were cheering for the execution of your blood.
When the doors to your bedchamber finally opened, it revealed a man who looked as though he had been dragged out from the deepest pit of seven hells.
Gwayne stood in the entryway. The knight of Oldtown, the man who had meticulously memorised the curves of your skin in the dark, was long gone.
The silver lines of his armour was caked with layers of soot, the plates dented and covered with dried mud. He carried the suffocating stench of charred timber, along with the sickly sweet metallic tang of blood.
His breathing was frantic, chest heaving beneath the metal as his eyes searched for you. He found you sitting by the cold hearth, a ragged sound escaping his throat. He took a reluctant step toward you, hands reaching out blindly.
“It is finished,” he choked out, “Your sisters are in custody, but they are breathing. They are alive. I secured it.”
You didn’t rise to meet him.
“And the cliffs, Gwayne?” you whispered, your voice dangerously level. A hollow timbre of a woman speaking from inside a grave. “How do they look now? Does the wind still smell of salt? or did you choke it with the debris of my father’s halls?”
Gwayne stilled, his outstretched hands hovering in the empty space between you. “Your father would not bend!” he pleaded, dropping heavily to his knees before you, the metal of his armour striking the floor with a mocking clang.
He reached out, filthy fingers desperately clutching at the fabric of your gown, mimicking the exact posture of surrender he had used weeks ago when begging to take the vanguard.
“He wouldn’t look at the terms. If I hadn't swung the blade clean myself, Cole would have left him tortured! I gave him a clean, honourable death!”
“Do not lie to yourself to make your sleep easier,” you muttered, and for the first time, your eyes shifted down to look at him, cold and unblinking. “You didn’t break your soul to save my family, Gwayne. You found it. It looks eerily like your father’s.”
An agonizing sob tore from his throat. He buried his face in your skirts, his shoulders shaking as he wept, pleading for your love, the fingers combing through his hair, the soothing voice.
But you remained frozen. You did not touch him. You could not.
As the sun set, you were not permitted time for mourning. The maids were sent, their trembling hands forcing you into a gown of emerald silk. They pinned your hair back with golden needles, and paraded you down the stone corridors like a prized trophy of war.
The hall was deafening. Lords and ladies drank from their golden chalices, their laughter bouncing off the walls, while musicians played a spirited tune to celebrate the crushing of the rebellion.
At the high table, you sat motionless. You didn’t touch your wine, didn’t look at the feast before you. You sat perfectly straight, your wide eyes staring vacant into the middle distance.
To your right sat Gwayne, washed clean of the soot and blood. His hand rested flat against the small of your back—a frantic touch that had been there for hours, silently begging for even a flinch, a glance, a single tear to prove you were still alive.
From your left, a shadow fell over your plate.
Otto Hightower stepped slowly toward you. He looked to be unbothered, his face a mask of serene statecraft. He leaned down slightly, placing a cold hand on your shoulder.
“A tragic business, my lady,” Otto murmured, his eyes scanning your blank profile with the curiosity of a master checking on a piece of chess. “Your father was a man of honour, but regretfully, honour without wisdom is a short lived thing in this world. It is a mercy that Gwayne arrived in time to spare your sisters from a traitor’s end.”
Otto’s fingers tightened slightly—a subtle warning disguised as a gesture of comfort.
“The King notices your silence.” His voice dropped into a pragmatic register. “You are a Hightower by law and by blood now. Smile for your King. Speak to your husband. Let the court see that the rebellion is truly dead.”
Otto then paused, waiting for your compliance, waiting for the polite response you had been taught since birth to give.
You gave him nothing. You remained horrifyingly still, an exquisitely dressed corpse sitting in the center of their victory.
Beside you, Gwayne let out a sharp breath, his fingers digging into your waist as he looked up at his father. He wanted Otto to stop. But he merely sighed, a flick of disappointment crossing his features before he pulled his hand away and dissolved back into the crowd of cheers.
Across the hall, a lord raised a goblet, his voice booming over the chatter as he toasted the victory of the Greens, explicitly naming your ancestral home as the nest of traitors that had finally been cleansed by the righteous steel of Ser Gwayne.
The noise that came after shook the very foundation of the castle. Gwayne closed his eyes, his forehead pressing forward as he shattered beside you.
But your eyes were no longer vacant.
Your body had not moved an inch, but your flat gaze had slowly drifted down to the linen table cloth.
Resting just inches from your motionless hand was a small, silver knife, laid out for the final course of the banquet. The torchlight caught the polished steel of the blade, reflecting a tiny glint of fire.
You didn’t care about the roar of the crowd cheering for your father’s execution. The hall faded into a distant, muffled hum as your unblinking eyes locked onto the silver with clarity.
It was a promise of an exit, a way to finally wash yourself clean of their green banners and go home to the salt-swept cliffs where your father was waiting.
You stared at it, your heart rate slowing into a peaceful rhythm, knowing exactly how you were going to get the freedom you longed for.
you find your husband valarr with your daughter doing his makeup like a pretty princess ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
The door to the royal chambers creaked softly as you pushed it open, the sound swallowed by the light spilling from the hearth. You had expected to find the room empty, or perhaps Valarr bent over his ledgers, frowning at some petition from a distant lord. What you found was far, far better.
"Papa, you must hold still” came a tiny, imperious voice, filled with a concentration that was wholly adorable. "You're going to ruin it!”
You stopped dead in the doorway, a smile already spreading across your face. There, in the center of the room, sat your husband, perched on a low, cushioned stool, his long legs stretched out before him, looking for all the world like a captured dragon. His head was tilted back, his eyes squeezed shut, and his lips were pressed into a thin line of exaggerated patience.
And on his lap, wielding a small, paint-smeared brush with the utmost gravity, was your daughter. Little Rhaenys, barely three years old, was dressed in a miniature gown of soft blue silk that was already sporting a fresh daub of crimson paint. Her dark hair, so like her father’s, was a wild cloud of curls around her cherubic face, a few stray strands sticking to her cheeks. Her tongue poked out from the corner of her mouth, a sure sign that she was engaged in a task of monumental importance.
"Rhaenys, ñuhys qēlītsos” you said softly, announcing your presence. You were utterly captivated by the scene before you and didn't want to startle her into ruining her masterpiece. "What are you doing?"
Her head snapped up, her violet eyes—mismatched—lighting up with pure joy. "Mama! Mama, look! I'm making Papa into a princess!"
Valarr’s eyes flew open, and he gave you a look of such comical, long-suffering despair that you had to clap a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh. A smear of bright, rouge-like red was daubed unceremoniously across his cheekbones, and what appeared to be kohl—your precious, expensive kohl from Lys—was smudged inelegantly around his eyes, making him look like a very handsome, very startled raccoon. His hair was a disaster, tufts of it pulled into tiny, lopsided braids that stuck out at odd angles, secured with ribbons of red and black.
"Princess” he repeated "I am a princess. A very pretty one, apparently." He shot you a desperate look. "Help me."
"Oh, I don't know” you said, gliding into the room, you crouched down beside them "You make a rather lovely princess, my love. Though I think the rouge is a little heavy on the left side."
Rhaenys nodded sagely, her little brow furrowed. "It's war paint, Mama. Papa is a warrior princess."
"Of course” you agreed , biting your lip to keep from laughing. "A Targaryen warrior princess. Visenya envies your braids from the dark lands of the afterlife”
Valarr groaned, a sound of pure suffering. "Gods, you are both conspiring against me." He tried to shift, but Rhaenys immediately placed a small, paint-covered hand on his chest.
"No, Papa! You have to sit! I'm not done!"
"But sweetling," he tried, his voice wheedling, "your mother is here. Surely she should be the princess. She's much prettier than I am."
Rhaenys considered this, tapping the paintbrush against her chin and leaving a small red spot. She turned her head to look at you, her gaze critical.
"Hmm," she said, the sound so much like a miniature maester that you nearly laughed again. "Mama's hair is too neat. Princess hair has to be messy. And she doesn't have a crown."
"Ah, but I do” you said, winking at Valarr. You reached up and pulled out the ornate silver-and-ruby pin that held your braids in place. "See? A crown for a princess."
Rhaenys shook her head with such violent certainty that her curls bounced. "No, that's not a crown. There’s a better one." She gestured to the large, heavy circlet of Valyrian steel and rubies that sat abandoned on a small table nearby.
Your eyebrows shot up. "You want to put that on your Papa's head?"
"Papa needs a proper crown” she declared. "A princess crown." She scrambled off his lap and toddled over to the table. Valarr and you shared a look of pure parental panic as she strained on her tiptoes to reach it. The crown was heavier than she was, and you were already moving to intercept her when she grabbed it, grunting with effort.
"Rhaenys, careful, darling” he said.
"Papa, lower your head!”
Valarr, who would command armies and face down enemies without flinching, immediately obeyed his three-year-old daughter. He leaned his head forward, and with a solemn reverence that was hilarious, Rhaenys placed the crown upon his head. It was, of course, far too big. It slipped down over his brow, covering his eyes and coming to rest on the bridge of his nose.
"There” she declared, her voice full of pride. "Now Papa’s a beautiful princess."
Valarr pushed the crown up with a finger, peering out from beneath it. He looked at you, "A princess” he repeated. "Am i a pretty princess, my love?"
You couldn't hold it in any longer. A laugh bubbled up from your chest, uncontrollable. Valarr’s lips twitched, and then he was laughing too. Rhaenys, hearing you, began to giggle.
"Let me see” you said, wiping tears of mirth from your eyes. "The complete picture." You stepped back to take them in. There was your husband, the Prince of Dragonstone, with his dark eyes, his red cheeks, his lopsided braids, and the crown perched on his head.
"Papa is the best princess” Rhaenys announced, throwing her arms around his neck. Valarr caught her, holding her close, careful not to transfer too much paint to her gown. He pressed a kiss to her temple, leaving a faint red smudge on her skin. The single action made you want to give him 10 more children.
"I am the luckiest princess in all of Westeros."
You walked over to them, your own eyes stinging. You knelt down, wrapping your arms around them both, breathing in the scent of your family.
"And I” you whispered, "am the luckiest lady in the world, to have such a beautiful princess for a husband and the bravest little dragon for a daughter."
Valarr kissed your hair softly, looking at you through those raccoon eyes.
Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game. Can be read as a oneshot. Can be read as a continuation to Growing Strong series.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, Iron throne kink, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas.
a/n: Bonus smut fic because I felt bad for ending the series with the last chapter not featuring much of Aerion and his wife.
The Iron Throne dominated the great hall even in emptiness, a monstrous tangle of fused blades and jagged edges that climbed toward the vaulted ceiling like a frozen explosion of steel. Torches guttered in their sconces, casting restless shadows across the dragon skulls that lined the walls. The hour was late; the last petitioners had been dismissed hours ago, the Kingsguard posted outside the great doors with strict instructions that the King was not to be disturbed.
Aerion Targaryen, first of his name, sat sprawled across the throne with the careless ease of a man who had never once been cut by the blades that had drawn blood from a dozen kings before him. His legs were spread, one arm draped over a melted sword-hilt, his crown tilted slightly askew on his silver-gold head.
He looked, you thought as you crossed the empty hall toward him, unfairly youthful. The years of fighting had kept his body hard and lean, the muscles of his arms and shoulders still evident beneath the silk of his doublet. His face was unlined, the pale Valyrian skin still smooth despite the sun he had taken during campaigns. Eventually, the years would catch up. But not yet.
"You summoned me, Your Grace," you said, stopping at the base of the throne's steps. Your voice echoed faintly in the cavernous space.
Aerion's mouth curved into that slow, knowing smile that you had spent years learning to read. "I did." His violet eyes tracked over you with open appreciation. "You look tired."
"I have been reviewing trade agreements with the Free Cities since midday."
"Then you should sit." He patted his thigh. "Come."
You raised an eyebrow. "The Iron Throne is not a loveseat."
"The Iron Throne is whatever I say it is. I am the king." His smile widened. "Come, my sweet rose. Do not make me repeat myself."
You cast a glance toward the great doors. "The Kingsguard..."
"Have been told we are not to be disturbed for any reason short of a city burning." He extended his hand toward you, fingers beckoning. "I have been waiting for you."
You knew every shade of his moods. Tonight, he was restless. Tonight, he wanted you close.
You climbed the steps.
The throne's blades whispered against your skirts as you ascended, the metal worn smooth in places by generations of royal backsides. When you reached him, he caught your wrist and pulled you down onto his lap.
"This is highly improper," you murmured, even as your body settled against his.
"What good is being able to sit the Iron Throne," he replied, his breath warm against your ear, "if a man cannot fuck his own wife on it?"
"Charming."
"I thought so."
His arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you back against his chest. For a moment, he simply held you there, his chin resting on your shoulder, his heartbeat steady against your spine. The great hall stretched before you, empty and echoing, the torches painting everything in flickering shades of gold and shadow.
"You have been thinking about Maeron," you said quietly.
"I am always thinking about Maeron. He's my son."
"Specifically about his marriage."
Aerion's arms tightened fractionally. "We need to discuss it. He is past twenty, and he has no bride. No betrothal. No prospects that we have formally considered. The lords are beginning to talk."
"The lords always talk."
"They talk more loudly when the heir to the Iron Throne remains unwed." He paused. "I have received three ravens this week alone from houses offering daughters. The Lannisters sent a portrait."
You made a dismissive sound. "The Lannisters."
"Painted rather flatteringly, I thought. Though I suspect the artist took liberties."
"You are not seriously considering a Lannister."
Aerion's chest shook with a silent laugh. "I am not. But I wanted to hear you say it."
You shifted on his lap, turning slightly so you could meet his eyes. "I do not want lions in this family. Not in our blood. Not in our halls. Casterly Rock has spent generations buying influence with gold and calling it loyalty. The moment we show weakness, they will be the first to pounce."
"I am aware."
"They betrayed the rightful Queen once. They would do it again."
"I am also aware." His thumb traced idle circles on your hip. "I am not arguing with you, sweet rose. I am agreeing. The Lannisters are out."
That gave you pause. You had expected more resistance, not because Aerion was particularly fond of House Lannister, but because he enjoyed provoking you. "And the Hightowers?"
His expression soured. "Absolutely not. Oldtown thinks too highly of itself. The Hightowers have always believed they should have more influence than they do. The Citadel is in their pocket, the Faith bows to their whims, and they would use a marriage to our son as a lever to pry open the crown's authority." His voice hardened. "I did not bleed for this throne only to hand it to a pack of book-reading schemers in grey robes."
You smiled faintly. "So we are agreed. No Lannisters. No Hightowers."
"Agreed."
"That narrows the field considerably."
"It does." He pressed a kiss to the curve of your neck. "But we are not without options. The Velaryons have daughters."
"Cousins, technically. Distant ones."
"The blood of Old Valyria runs in their veins. It would strengthen the line."
You considered. "True. But Corlys Velaryon's ambitions were legendary. If we elevate them again, they may grow…expectant."
"Expectations can be managed."
"Can they?" You turned further on his lap, hooking your legs over the arm of the throne so you could face him more directly. "Or will our son spend his reign fending off Velaryon cousins who believe they are entitled to more than they have been given?"
Aerion studied your face. His hands had moved to your waist, steadying you against him. "You have someone else in mind."
"I have possibilities. Nothing certain."
"Speak."
You hesitated. "The Starks have daughters."
Aerion blinked. "The Starks."
"Why do you look surprised?"
"Because Winterfell is a thousand leagues from King's Landing and the Starks have never married into the Targaryen line. Not once. Not since the Conquest."
"Perhaps it is time." You placed your hand on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your palm. "The North is the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, but it is also the most remote. The most isolated. The Starks keep to themselves, and the realm has allowed them to do so for too long. If we bind them to us by blood, we secure their loyalty in a way that no oath ever could."
Aerion was quiet for a long moment. His fingers traced the embroidery at your bodice, following the pattern of golden roses stitched across green silk.
"The North is not like the other kingdoms," he said at last. "They keep the old gods. They do not bend easily. A Stark bride would find King's Landing alien, and our son's court might find her alien in turn."
"Maeron would not mind. He has always been curious about the North."
"Maeron is curious about everything. That is not the same as being suited for a Northern bride."
"Are you opposed?"
He tilted his head, considering. "I am not opposed. But I am cautious. The Starks are honorable to a fault, that much is true. An honorable ally is valuable. But an honorable ally who feels slighted or overlooked can become an honorable enemy, and honorable enemies are one the most dangerous kind." He paused. "Still. It is worth exploring. I will send ravens to Winterfell. Discreet ones."
You nodded slowly. "There is also the matter of Dorne."
"Dorne." Aerion's expression flickered. "The Martells?"
"They have already been bound to the Iron Throne through marriage. A second marriage would reinforce that bond."
"It would also," Aerion said slowly, "remind the other kingdoms that Dorne is favored. That could cause friction."
"Friction is inevitable no matter who we choose. The question is which friction we can best manage."
Aerion was silent again. His hands had stilled on your waist, his violet eyes distant. You recognized that look, the calculating stillness that came over him when he was weighing possibilities, measuring outcomes in the privacy of his own mind.
"You are fretting," he said finally.
"I am planning."
"You are fretting." He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "You worry that we will choose poorly and doom our son to a miserable marriage. You worry that the lords will object to whoever we select. You worry that time is slipping away and every day without a betrothal is a day of uncertainty that our enemies can exploit."
"Someone has to worry. You seem determined to be cavalier about the whole affair."
"I am not cavalier. I am confident." His hands slid down to your hips, his grip tightening. "Maeron will marry well because we will ensure he marries well. We have built a dynasty from blood and fire and sheer stubborn refusal to lose. We will not falter now over wedding negotiations."
His voice had dropped, taking on that lower register that you knew intimately. The shift was sudden but not unexpected, Aerion had always moved between moods like a storm changing direction, unpredictable and consuming.
"We were discussing politics," you reminded him.
"We were. Now we are finished discussing politics."
"Are we?"
His hands moved to the laces of his breeches, working them loose with practiced efficiency. "We have eliminated the Lannisters. We have eliminated the Hightowers. We have identified potential matches among the Velaryons, the Starks, and the Martells. Tomorrow, I will instruct the small council to begin formal inquiries. Tonight..." He freed himself from the constraints of his breeches, already hard and straining upward against his stomach. "...tonight, I require something else."
Your breath caught slightly. The sight of him like this: arrogant, demanding, utterly unashamed of his own desire, sent a familiar heat coiling through your belly.
"Here?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.
"Here." His hands bunched in your skirts, dragging the fabric upward. "I told you. What good is being able to sit the Iron Throne if a man cannot fuck his own wife on it?"
"This is a desecration of the seat of power."
"This is a celebration of the seat of power." His grin was sharp and wicked. "Lift your hips."
You obeyed, and he pushed your skirts up around your waist, baring your thighs to the cool air of the great hall. His fingers found the cleft between your legs, testing, and he made a satisfied sound low in his throat.
"Already wet," he murmured. "You argue with me about Starks and Velaryons while your body prepares itself for me. I have always admired that about you, the ability to multitask."
"Don't be crass, Aerion."
"Make me."
You kissed him instead, your fingers tangling in his silver-gold hair. He groaned into your mouth and pulled you forward, positioning you over him with the same decisiveness he brought to everything. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, and then he was pulling you down onto him.
The stretch of him inside you, familiar and overwhelming all at once, drew a gasp from your throat. Aerion's head fell back against the throne's unforgiving steel, his eyes fluttering half-closed.
"Gods," he breathed. "Every time. Every single time."
He did not wait for you to adjust. He never did. His hands clamped onto your hips and he drove up into you with the kind of hard, fast rhythm that was his signature, incapable of complete gentleness when it came to you, incapable of patience or restraint. The Iron Throne was beneath you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you thought that this was obscene, this was sacrilegious, this was exactly the kind of thing that Aerion Targaryen would do and damn the consequences.
"Look at me," he commanded, and you realized your eyes had closed. You opened them to find his gaze burning into yours, fierce and utterly undone. "There. Yes. I want you to see where you are. I want you to remember."
"Remember what?"
"That you are the Queen. That this throne is ours. That no one, no Lannister, no Hightower, no Blackfyre pretender, can take this from us." His hips snapped upward, driving himself deeper, and you cried out despite yourself. "That's it. Let them hear. Let the ghosts of every dead king know that this throne still serves its purpose."
"You are..." You gasped as he hit a particularly sensitive spot inside you. "...entirely mad."
"Possibly." He thrust harder. "Do you care?"
"No," you admitted, and it was true. You had stopped caring about his madness years ago. You had learned to navigate it, to temper it, to love it even.
Because beneath the fire, the fury and the insatiable need to claim and conquer, there was a man who had slit a sorceress' throat to save your life. A man who had refused to sire more children because he would not risk losing you again. A man who, for all his flaws, loved you with a terrifying, all-consuming devotion that had never once wavered.
His rhythm was growing erratic now, his breath coming in harsh pants against your throat. His fingers dug into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave bruises, but you did not mind. You never minded. The marks he left on you were reminders of his passion, his possession, his refusal to let you go.
"Close," he gritted out. "Are you..."
"Almost."
He shifted his angle slightly, one hand sliding between your bodies to find the pearl of your pleasure, and the added stimulation was enough to tip you over the edge. You shattered around him with a broken cry, your inner muscles clenching rhythmically as waves of pleasure rolled through you. Aerion followed a heartbeat later, driving into you one final time and spilling himself deep inside with a groan that echoed off the walls.
You slumped against his chest, your forehead resting in the curve of his neck, your breath mingling with his in the torchlit darkness. His arms wrapped around you, holding you in place, his cock still buried inside you as if he could not bear to separate.
"We should not have done that," you murmured eventually.
"We absolutely should have. We should do it again tomorrow."
"Unbelievable."
"You love me." He pressed a kiss to your sweat-damp temple. "Say it."
"I love you."
"Sweeter than summer wine." He shifted beneath you, and you felt him stir again, not yet fully hard but recovering with the swiftness that had always characterized his appetites. "Again?"
"We need to discuss Maeron's bride."
"We discussed her. We have options. Options can wait until morning." His hips rolled lazily, pushing his softening length deeper into the mess he had made inside you. "Right now, I want my wife."
"You have her."
"I want her again."
You laughed despite yourself, a soft, breathless sound that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "You will end me."
"Never." His voice dropped, the playfulness fading into something more serious. "You are the only thing that keeps me alive, sweet rose. You and Maeron. Everything else is just noise."
You cupped his face in your hands, studying the familiar planes of his features: the sharp cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the violet eyes that still burned with the same intensity they had possessed when you first met him. He looked young in the firelight. Young and fierce and utterly yours.
"The Starks," you said softly. "I think we should pursue the Starks first."
He blinked at the sudden return to politics, then laughed, a genuine, startled sound. "Here? Now? While I am still inside you?"
"What better time? You are relaxed. Agreeable."
"I am many things. Agreeable is not one of them."
"Agree to the Starks."
He studied your face, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. "You truly believe this is the right path."
You paused. "The Starks are not like the other great houses. They do not scheme. They do not plot. They keep their word, even when it costs them. That is the kind of blood we want in our line. Blood that remembers honor."
Aerion nodded slowly.
"I will send ravens to Winterfell in the morning," he said. "Discreet inquiries only. No formal offers until we know more about the daughters and their temperaments."
"That is all I ask."
"No," he said, shifting beneath you and beginning to harden again inside you, "it is not. You also ask..." He thrust up gently. "...for my attention." Another thrust. "My devotion." Another. "My seed."
"I have all of those already."
"You do." He kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue sliding against yours. "And you will have them again. Right now."
The great hall echoed with the sound of your mingled laughter and gasps as he began to move once more.
a/n: Can you guys tell I am not ready to say goodbye to Aerion and Lady Tyrell.
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.
Word Count: 6.5k+
Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, slightly dark!Targaryens, medical inaccuracies, inaccurate details about firearms, age gap
Note: I know nothing about firearms lol, please don't cringe at my explanation
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You preferred nights at Summerhall.
When the sun began to dance along the horizon, that blazing gold medallion disappearing as the sky bled into softer romantic hues; Summerhall finally seemed to rest. During the day the manor buzzed with frantic energy — children darting down the hallways, Kingsguard filtering in and out of the doors after conducting covert meetings with the Hammer and the Anvil. During the day there was nowhere you could hide. You were forced into exposure, into meaningless conversations that began to feel abnormally natural.
So, naturally, you took refuge in the nights. Once the clock ticked 12:00, and every Targaryen resident of the manor finally retired to their own quarters, you would finally be able to slip out of your room and just exist in the silence that coated over Summerhall.
Well, to be accurate, it wasn't truly your room nor would it ever feel as if it were. It was just another guest room. It didn't matter if the wardrobes were filled with clothing that was eerily your perfect size, or if the connecting bathroom had been decked out with the exact brands of toiletry products that you used. If anything, all those small facts just disgusted you slightly; clearly someone had returned to your home, rifled through your belongings to collect this information, cataloguing them for it to be passed on.
You hated the room.
Hate may be a strong word, but it was the only one appropriate for these circumstances. It wasn't that you were against the decor (you were thankful that this room was untouched by crimson and onyx, instead being painted in a gentle pearlescent shade), but there was something inherently strange about the room. You felt as if you were being watched.
It was a sensation that you had swiftly became accustomed to in Summerhall as during the lighter hours of the day, regardless of where you were in the manor, there was a high chance that you were being accompanied by someone. Whether that someone was a Targaryen or a Kingsguard, that distinction did not really matter — you had just gotten used to not being alone.
But there was something disturbing about still feeling that way when you knew you were alone; the inability to stop performing despite knowing that no one was there to witness your actions. But you found it difficult to become comfortable within the room, the first few days you found yourself compelled to search every corner, investigating every decoration as that feeling of being watched refused to abandon you.
But you found nothing. Nothing to confirm your suspicions, nothing to assure you that you weren't going insane — there was not a single trace of evidence to suggest that you were being watched. No discrete cameras, no concealed microphones. Nothing.
Yet despite that, you didn't dare shower within the connecting bathroom. Instead, you would gather your bathing products, and use Daella's shower (who was confused when you first asked her, but did not ask any further questions once she noticed your discomfort).
The only time this sensation was weakest was at night. You were unsure if this was caused by your own exhaustion, if your sleep-addled mind had finally relaxed enough to release its grips from the delusions that haunted you during the day, but you couldn't find it in you to care. You were just thankful that the heavy weight of discomfort finally left you.
Yet solace could not be promised during the witching hour.
The halls of Summerhall were haunted by your fellow noturnal creatures, the most common being Daeron. He would often find you on the terrace, your gaze fixed on the unmoving stars as he joined you, offering you a cigarette. Most nights were filled with mindless discourse, of the high society gossip that you had no context for and his random philosophical ponderings that made little to no sense. Other nights were filled with silence, only the crackle of the lighter and the scent of acrid smoke — he would be quieter those nights, more reluctant to engage in conversation, only telling you that he wouldn't sleep.
Wouldn't.
You would question further, asking if he had insomnia, and he would only shrug half-heartedly, refusing to meet your eyes.
The next individual you would most often see at odd hours of the night was Dunk. Unlike Daeron, you were certain Dunk's appearances were not motivated by insomnia, but rather obligation. The Kingsguard would often join you in the kitchen once his patrol of the manor was completed, brewing some tea that would be shared over idle conversation. You would never ask about the numerous men you had seen enter and leave the grounds of Summerhall through the morning hours, nor would he ever willingly sacrifice that information. You would both simply ignore that lingering fact, playing the fools part.
The worst of your midnight companions would be Baelor.
With Baelor you would force yourself to not interact, to retreat to your godforsaken room, to not linger. Unfortunately, you found yourself unable to control your tongue around him. Intentional or not, you often found yourself provoking the brunet Targaryen, which would result in his mild amusement and your remembrance that he was a Dragon. You could not forget yourself around him, not when your presence in this very manor was only maintained through the active blackmail that he was conducting.
It did not matter how your heart seemed to waver for a moment, that your interactions during the later hours often included in him being dressed more simply. no longer donning his armour of impeccable Crownlander tailoring.
The most recent time you interacted with him under such circumstances, you found it difficult to draw your eyes away from him. He was dressed in soft cotton, his silhouette gentler in the black t-shirt and jogger bottoms, no longer dressed in harsh lines and sharp edges.
Aerion had been steadily improving day by day, yet he was still in a fragile state, needing help to do small tasks such as eating when the pain began to flare up again. This had been one of his better days, where he quickly fell asleep instead of using his free time to terrorise you. However, unfortunately for you, you could not find sleep as easily. You had tossed and turned in your bed, that uncomfortable feeling settling within you once more, and you quickly found yourself exiting your room, wandering the halls of Summerhall like a spectre.
And that was how Baelor found you. Laying on the floor of the library, surrounded by random books you had pulled out of their respectable places upon the towering bookshelves that crowded the perimeters of the room. You hadn't noticed him at first, your mind partially occupied with rereading the same paragraph over and over from a book you found dreadfully boring with the sole purpose of trying to bore yourself into exhaustion (which was beginning to work, so thank you Archmaester Thurgood for writing Inventories and somehow managing to make Valyrian steel swords sound so bland).
Valyrian steel is considered one of the most sought after commodities within this post-Doom world. It is no wonder our ancestors seemed to revere it, making it the most desired material for their weapons. No other metals could compare to its properties; a sharpness that seems to never dull, the blade lighter allowing its wielder to be swifter. It can be easily distinguished compared to other metals through one key distinction — the ripple-like effect that spans across the steel, a result of the way Valyrian steel is forged. It is unfortunate that this method has been lost through the Doom of Valyria, and despite numerous efforts, it appears almost impossible to replicate.
But then you heard it.
A soft huff of laughter.
Your eyes darted to the source of the sound, half-convinced (and half-hoping) that it was just a figment of your imagination, only to find him ghosting the entrance of the library, his lips curled with slight amusement as he watched you silently.
You didn't acknowledge his presence, instead forcing your gaze to drag back to the pale pages of the book, rereading the sentence about Lady Forlorn, even though you were certain you knew it by heart. You had spent the past few days ignoring his very existence, replying to his questions with concise answers, gaze drifting over him as if through the very act of avoiding him you could convince yourself that he was not truly there. And even now you didn't want to speak to him, to even look at him, yet you found your face gradually becoming warmer as you could see him from your peripheral, drifting further into the room.
Baelor's footsteps stopped right next to you.
You didn't dare look at him, not when he crouched down beside you, not when you could feel the heat of his person radiate into your skin — you couldn't look. You almost felt petrified.
Not in the way rooted in fear, but rather as if you couldn't will yourself to move away, to create some distance between the two of you.
"Lady Forlorn referred to two blades; the original that carried myth and legend, and its Valyrian replacement…" His voice trailed off, huskier than what you expected. You could feel your flush deepen as his hand came to ghost over yours, fingers tracing over the edge of the pages as he flipped to the next one. "I didn't know you were interested in Valyrian steel."
His voice was quiet, an almost whisper that threatened to disturb the solace you had crafted. The unsteady hammering of your heart suggested that he had succeeded.
"I'm not." You replied after a moment, words coming out in a slight mumble, harshly swallowing as you sat up, your loose hair falling around your shoulders. Your gaze met his, colliding with violet and brown. You were unsure if it was because of the poor lighting of the library, only the large vintage floor lamp illuminating the room in a wash of soft amber, but his irises seemed darker, the abyss of his pupils almost swallowing the vivid hues. "Just bored."
Yet your half-hearted answers did not dissuade him, instead he seated himself beside you, infinitesimally leaning closer. You hated the fact that you didn't pull back, that you didn't retreat. Instead you found yourself reciprocating his attention, gaze tracing his features; he looked unfortunately handsome, even in the low lighting of the library.
"And the words of Thurgood satiate your ennui?" He teased, pushing back a strand of hair that fell in front of your face and you tried to suppress the urge to shiver when you felt his fingers brush your skin slightly, his touch lingering for a moment. "I find his work leaves much to be desired."
Your brows furrowed slightly — there was something strange about his words, yet you couldn't quite figure out what, so you chose the safer option. You chose to ignore them.
"Do you seriously want me to talk to you about 'Inventories'?" You questioned incredulously, watching him with a deadpan stare.
"If it means that you'll finally speak to me, then of course." He answered, a certain glee flickering in his eyes when he noticed that you were finally entertaining a conversation with him. "Thrill me with what you've read, darling."
Your gaze dipped, tracing his lips as they stretched into an amused smile, before you caught yourself, forcing them to return to his eyes, hoping that he didn't notice. Instead, you found something you decided was much worse — he was doing the exact same, gaze flickering between your eyes, and then to your lips, before returning to your eyes once more as if he was unsure on what he should focus on.
What the fuck?
You pushed yourself back, drawing your knees up as a sort of shield from him. No, he was not looking at your lips, he couldn't have been — you must've seen incorrectly. Yet you were unable to convince yourself of this when the evidence was right before you, his gaze dipping once more.
Either you were delusional, or he was.
This was not real.
He was still staring at you, awaiting for a reply that you struggled to form. You had to think quickly, to not let him believe that you had been so easily affected by receiving some of his attention, yet you found it difficult when he was looking at you like that.
"I'd rather have this conversation from the comfort of my own home." You responded drily, speaking the first words that had come to your mind. And they had their intended effect.
He faltered for a moment, lips parting before pressing into a tight line, caught off-guard by your confession. Not that this should have been news to him, you had shared this fact numerous times before, yet he couldn't ignore the churning feeling it caused. Baelor would never admit it aloud, but he was beginning to hate the idea. There was no reason for you to leave, so why were you so insistent to abandon them? To leave the children, to leave him?
"I'd rather you stay in the comfort of mine." He murmured, his hand finding the soft skin of your ankle, fingers trailing up the bone before wrapping around the appendage.
His hand gently cradled your ankle, thumb softly drawing circles on the skin — his touch was so light that you didn't register it immediately, just feeling the phantom of warmth before you finally noticed. And once you did, your pulse was cruel to you, reacting so violently to the softest of touches.
"I'm sure you would." You mocked, gaze chasing his as you noticed his attention wavering. "I know you're reasonable, Baelor. And I know that you know that this full situation is insane. So let's all just forget it and move past it."
He muttered your name, the syllables leaving his lips in a soft sigh as he rubbed his hand over his face, trying to soothe the headache he knew would inevitably come.
"Let's not do this now, it's late." Baelor deflected, tone gentle. Yet no matter how good-natured he tried to depict himself as, you could hear the slight irritation that laced his tone, as if he was exhausted by the mere concept. "We should go to bed and revisit this in the morning."
You could only frown at his response, more disappointed than annoyed. Disappointed by his redirection, disappointed by how you reacted.
He sighed once more, releasing your ankle as he stood up. And he left you there, his shadows spilling along the bookshelves as he exited, stealing one last glance at you.
You laid back down, unable to find the energy to chase after him, to demand answers. You were just exhausted.
Yet despite your tiredness, your mind seemed determined to torture you, distracting you from the next passage of Inventories as you found it wandering over what could motivate his actions.
There must be a reason to this insanity, one that you couldn't see. Yet it seemed as if everyone could.
Which led you to one conclusion.
There was something brewing beneath the surface.
Despite the fact that everyone seemed content in maintaining their deceptive ignorance, you could tell there was an issue that simmered within the walls of Summerhall, something that predated your arrival. And despite the fact that you had decided that the philosophers were wisest, that ignorance truly was bliss, the silence of midnight would cause your mind to theorise about what was plaguing Summerhall.
You simply could not ignore the lack of staff.
For a man as domineering as Maekar, it baffled you to believe that the very house he was raising his children within was not brimming with individuals he had employed to cater to their every need. To make them breakfast, to clean after them, to aid in their enrichment — for Seven's sake, to care for them when they had sustained life-threatening injuries!
Yet the manor was vacant.
The only employed staff were the overwhelming amount of Kingsguard that patrolled the grounds, armed with lethal weapons that should certainly not be carried around young children. You would argue that you could not be classified as an employee either, regardless of how much disdain Maekar treated you with, regardless of how much Aerion would remind you that your sole purpose was to care for him.
And unfortunately, it seemed as if the very residents of the manor were not exactly as independent as these circumstances would require. The children struggled to do basic chores for themselves, and they would often be completed by (or under the guidance of) Daeron, yet even then they would be completed by a subpar level. Breakfast often burnt, dishes shattering in the effort of cleansing them, the washing machine often brimming with clothes leading to them being washed inadequately.
So once again, you returned to your initial conclusion. There was something wrong.
You could not find it within you to interrogate further, to openly ask questions about what had exactly occurred for this to be the state of things. But you were not stupid.
You would pick up on comments referencing conversations that had clearly been cycled through multiple times, the young Targaryens issuing warnings to each other. That they should not do certain actions, that they should not forget. They would often reference memory, and it was evident that that would be context enough for the other Targaryens to understand exactly what they had been referencing.
There was enough information for you to notice that something was wrong, that every detail seemed slightly askew, but not enough to uncover the whole truth.
And it seemed that you would never get closer to discovering it either, never get any clarification as to why your presence in the manor was required as the very next morning, Baelor was nowhere to be found.
You had awoken early that morning after your little interaction in the library, the sky a pale blue that blinded your eyes as the sound of birds chirping disturbed the silence while you groggily got ready for the day. And despite the fact that you had risen before any other member of the Targaryens, Baelor was gone.
Coward. He had ran back to King's Landing before you could even continue your conversation, claiming that he had an important meeting in which his presence was vital. You knew it was a lie. Even while Dunk was revealing this news to you, the tip of his ears tinging a blushing pink revealing that even he couldn't believe the words he was reciting, you could only nod.
Truthfully, you weren't sure what you were expecting that morning. A part of you knew that the conversation would never be revisited, that it would hang in the air half-addressed — acknowledged but never discussed. You knew that Baelor would avoid it somehow, but you just didn't know how exactly.
However, despite these thoughts already racing through your mind while you were brushing your teeth that morning, there was something you were certain you could have never expected. An unpredictable variable.
Upon the nightstand beside your bed was a small box.
It was simple in the way that suggested elegance; the box was a matte blush and smooth to the touch, wrapped in an ivory silk bow that fell apart like the delicate petals of a rose when you pulled at it. And once you pried open the lid, the magnetic clasp snapping open, you found a delicate silver chain inside that had a small matching silver pendant that glinted at you.
The pendant was a small rectangular silver charm that had seven gems that twinkled; the centre stone was ruby, the bloodiness of the gem glinting wickedly at you. The other six stones circulated the ruby — diamond, amethyst, lapis, iolite, nacre, garnet, creating a symphony of rich hues that glimmered.
Under any other circumstances, you would have struggled to name these stones because truly what need did you have for such insignificant knowledge. Even now with the necklace before you, you could barely distinguish the differences between garnet and ruby (except perhaps some differentiation within the shades of the gems?). Yet it seemed that whoever had left the necklace there had prepared for this also, a small sheet of paper falling from the lid of the box, detailing each stone in neat inky cursive.
You were unsure of what emotion should have been elicited by the gift; were you meant to be thankful that your captors had thrown a pretty piece of jewellery at you? Was this also another bribe? Because currently you felt more offended than thankful.
Even the list of gemstones on parchment prompted indignation within you — clearly even the giver knew that you wouldn't be able to decipher the value of such a gift, why else did they feel the need to clearly clarify each and every stone?
However there was one piece of information missing from the piece of parchment. It did not state the metal of the pendant.
At first glance you had assumed silver, the way it had gleamed implied purity (it was nothing like the jewellery you would often buy for yourself, the metals mixed, the glimmering coating wearing off after a few uses) but it seemed too dark to be silver. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a glaring detail.
Waves.
The metal seemed to have ripples within it, the pattern consistent throughout the pendant. It was Valyrian steel.
That one singular fact revealed the gifter.
Yet it only served to further your confusion — what could possibly motivate Baelor to give you such an item? You had no answer.
Instead you placed it back into its original location, not sparing it another glance as you exited your room, determined to find the Targaryen and question him (only for you to fail as you would quickly find that he had left the premises).
You tried to think about the necklace throughout the day, yet you often found yourself thinking about the rippled steel, even while you were mixing together a simple pancake batter.
You had become bored of the breakfasts Summerhall had to offer. In nature, they were all the same — convenient, swift, simple. Toast, cereal, and more toast. So you had decided to solve the crises of your starved taste buds and began to make a breakfast you knew Maekar would scowl at, brimming with sugar and sweetness with no proteins or fibre in sight.
You found it therapeutic, and for a moment you could almost imagine that you were in your own kitchen as you sifted the dry ingredients, whisking the clumps of flour until you reached a smooth batter. You heated the pan, the gas stove clicking until it sparked into a consistent flame, watching as a knob of butter melted on the stainless steel. Ladling the batter onto the silvery surface, the melted butter pooling around the circumference of the pancake, you waited, watching as air bubbles dotted around the creamy ivory batter. You flipped it, the batter sizzling as the cooked side of the pancake was exposed, the edges slightly crispy as the centre was a golden-brown.
You continued this process, a stack of pancakes forming beside you until you heard a soft rustle behind you. Slippers dragging along the marble of the kitchen floor. You turned at the sound, smiling at the sight of a yawning Rhae who shuffled towards you.
"Good morning!" She chirped, her fingers curling into the cotton of the dress you were wearing, her head slightly pressing against your thigh.
"Good morning, Rhae." You mirrored, your hand coming to brush her messy silver-gold locks back. "Want some pancakes?"
She froze at your offer, her entire body stilling as she watched you for a moment, her gaze fixed on the pan before you. She slowly pried her fingers off your skirt, backing away from you as she watched you wearily.
"What?" Rhae mumbled, as if she wasn't entirely sure she had heard you correctly.
You didn't notice the sudden shift in her demeanour, instead focusing on flipping another pancake.
"I'm making some for me and Aerion." You continued, gently sliding the edge of the spatula beneath the pancake, lifting it swiftly as you let it fall on its uncooked side. "Do you want some? There's plenty of batter—"
She interrupted you, her tone icy as she glared at you. "Why would you do that?"
You paused for a moment, caught off-guard by the way she bit out the words, yet she didn't give you a moment to question her, the words falling from between her lips uncontrolled.
"I thought you were different." Her voice was gradually getting louder, her hand movements become frantic as she clenched her fists. "No, you weren't— you weren't meant to be like the others! Why would you—"
"Rhae…" You interrupted gently, putting down the spatula as you faced the young girl, frowning at her. You wanted to comfort her, to clarify any misunderstanding. But immediately she reminded you that she was not just some young girl — she was still a Targaryen.
"Don't!" She shouted, her lips curling in disdain as her eyes began to prick with glimmering tears. "I can't believe you would try to-to—"
She was unable to finish her sentence, instead turning on her heel as she bolted out of the kitchen, almost colliding with her older cousin. Valarr glared at you from his spot in the door way, his gaze darting between you and Rhae's disappearing figure.
"What the fuck did you do?" He questioned sharply, the way he was staring into the hallway revealing that he wanted to chase after his little cousin. There's a visible struggle occurring within him — to comfort poor Rhae, to scream at you for whatever you dared to do. He choose the latter.
You just stared at him, pancakes forgotten as they began to burn, mouth agape as you began to stutter over a reply. "I— I offered her pancakes?"
The words came out as a question, as if you were beginning to doubt yourself. Pancakes shouldn't have elicited such a violent derision. Don't kids like pancakes? If this was how she reacted to them, was offering them to Aerion a death wish?
Valarr visibly relaxed at your words, sighing softly as his lips pulled into a deep line, a sudden comprehension flashing across his features. No wonder you appeared so painfully confused; your offer was pure at face value.
His bi-coloured gaze returned to yours, brows furrowed as he warned you. "Just don't do that again. Ever."
He didn't bother offering you an explanation, immediately beelining after his poor cousin.
You threw away that last pancake, one side a charred mess as it laid forgotten upon the hot pan. Your heart hurt for Rhae, wishing to console her but you knew it was best to give her some distance. You weren't even sure what you had done exactly to cause her pain, and Valarr's parting words only served to further your confusion. If you only knew why you couldn't offer her breakfast (if your assumption was correct in believing that you couldn't offer her any food), you would have been able to handle the situation far more delicately.
Instead you were stood in the kitchen dumbfounded, staring at the stack of pancakes that were beginning to cool as you washed berries. What in the Seven Hells had occurred for Summerhall to be so strange?
You were still no closer to the truth.
You tried to not think about Rhae's reaction, you tried to not think about the necklace, you tried to not think about the fact that you were here against your will. Truthfully, it appeared that you were striving to avoid the very act of contemplation as a whole as it just caused your mind to spin and your heart to ache.
Yet even now when you were before Aerion, he eyed your offerings wearily.
"No." He declared, eyes narrowing at the tray of food clutched in your hands.
"Aerion—"
"Get rid of it all." He interrupted, trying to not wince as he felt the deep ache travel up his abdomen, feeling it piece through his muscles. Shit, fucking shit — everything just hurted so much. "I don't want food, just give me something for the pain."
"You need to eat." You insisted, placing the tray on his bedside table, ignoring his plea for medication. You wanted to remind him of the words he had announced days prior, something about how 'dragons didn't need meds', yet you decided to not be cruel. "Either you eat this, or I'll get you something else, or I'll ask Daeron. But no matter what, you're going to eat."
"You can't force me to eat." He hissed out, his hand coming to cover his side, where the pain was the harshest.
"Eat, or no pain meds."
He glared at you, a flicker of something resembling pride softening his scowl as he rolled his eyes.
"If you're so desperate, you can feed me." Aerion grumbled out, his head nodding towards the plate you had prepared.
You stared at him. He could not be serious. Yet the way he made no indication suggesting he was going to reach for the plate exposed that he was. Your gaze flickered between his amethyst irises, and the plate of golden-brown pancakes you had spent the better part of an hour preparing.
A part of you wanted to just throw them away, plate included and force Daeron to deal with his demon of a brother, yet you couldn't find it in you to throw the food away. Instead you pushed your pride the side, grabbing the plate as you sat on the edge of his bed, the cool ceramic settled on your lap as you began to slice into the soft pillows of pancakes.
Aerion didn't bother hiding his smirk as you fed him, each bite offered just inflating his ego as he came to his own conclusion. Despite how much you enjoyed grumbling about how you didn't want to be there, how they had taken you against your will, this small act of feeding him was done at your own accord (albeit some slight encouragement from him) — it simply meant one thing. You cared more than you would ever confess. You cared about him.
Or so he had convinced himself.
He didn't notice the dazed look in your eyes, mind distant as you couldn't help but replay the interaction you had with Rhae. The sudden shift, the harsh coldness, the swift disdain, all stemming from a mistake that you still could not identify. Perhaps you were at fault, perhaps there was something within the Summerhall etiquette rulebook that banished the offering of pancakes.
Yet Aerion seemed content in eating them, lips wrapping around the silver fork you offered, his tongue darting out to catch the syrup that had smeared onto the corner of his lips.
He finished the entire plate, picking at the berries as you administered the promised pain meds, ignoring the smug look in his eyes.
You quickly returned to the kitchen once he was done, feeling a strange unease wash over you as you placed the dishes within the sink, trying to distract your mind as you began to rinse them. But it appeared as if Summerhall was your own personal purgatory; you could do nothing without being interrupted.
"Leave them." Maekar demanded, entering the kitchen as his gaze immediately latched onto your figure. You closed your eyes, another thing they commanded you not to do. The list was beginning to become quite lengthy.
You turned to snap at him, your head aching as you glared at the older Targaryen. But the words immediately died once you noticed what was clutched between his hands.
A gun.
A fucking gun.
What the actual fuck.
"Follow me." He grumbled, walking through the french doors and into the patio, his boots crunching against gravel as you found yourself following him. Maybe you shouldn't be following him. Shit, was this about the pancakes? Were you about to get killed over pancakes?
Fuck your fucking life.
Maybe you should run? (But he has a gun). That sounded like a good idea. (Not really). If you ran now, you would probably catch him off-guard. (He'll probably just shoot you).Just run into the forest. (He has a fucking gun). You were dead. You were walking to your literal death and —
Maekar turned once you were a considerable distance away from the manor, now within one of the many gardens on the property. Blushing gardenias lined the edges of the sprawling grass carpet, accompanied with smaller pale blossoms.
He guided you to sit on the chairs beneath the pale beige parasol, pushing the gun towards you as he sat across you, the plastic scraping against the metal of the garden table. He stared at you silently, lazily observing you as he slouched in his seat, watching as your gaze flickered between the gun before you and him.
Did he honestly think you would take it?
You weren't that stupid. There were far too many variables that could turn the situation to the worst — the gun could be empty, there could be people watching you, Kingsguard hidden in the foliage with their own weapons aimed at you, waiting for you to reach for the stupid lump of metal before they decided to shoot you.
Everything about it screamed that it was a test.
You pushed it back.
He rolled his eyes at you as he picked the piece back up, facing the barrel away from you as his fingers began working on it, quickly disassembling the components as he spoke.
"This is a glock." He stated casually, pulling the magazine out as he laid it upon the table, moving onto the next component. The way he laid down each component reminded you of your own rituals before a surgery, rearranging each scalpel, each piece of equipment until you felt prepared. He was doing the very same, rotating the gun as he inspected it in a manner that implied that it was more instinctual than deliberate. "Polymer frame, lightweight, capacity of 15 rounds. This version is smaller, better to conceal." He pointed at each individual component. "Slide, recoil spring, barrel, magazine."
He began reassembling the gun, making sure you could see where each piece was inserted. You interrupted him when he began talking about how to insert rounds into the magazine.
"Why are you telling me this?"
You watched as a slight scowl began to pull at his features, his hands still playing with components of the lethal weapon.
"Because this is yours." Maekar simply uttered, watching as a thousand different emotions crossed your face, until you reached one decisive one. Utter resistance.
"No. No." You blurted out, head shaking slightly as you stared at him with a shocked expression. "That's the most stupid thing I've ever heard."
He tilted his head, quirking a brow as he watched your complete rejection at the idea.
"Stupid?" He echoed.
"So stupid! Why in Seven Hells would you even think to give me a gun?" You rambled, your pitch becoming higher as you tried not to look at the gun, your mind becoming dizzy at the very sight of it.
"Because I'd rather you have it."
"Maekar." You stated incredulously. "You cannot be serious."
He parroted your name in a mocking tone. "Does it look like I'm joking?"
"You look like you don't even know what humour is." You mumbled.
"Stop changing the subject and focus." He chided, reaching across the table to grab your hand. You tried to pull away, the skin of his fingers rougher than you expected, but he was stronger, practically dragging you out of your chair as he once again guided you.
He didn't care to be gentle with you, didn't care at the sudden yelp that escaped your lips as he dragged you along, instead he forced you further into the garden before stopping, pressing the gun into your hands, the cold plastic replacing the warmth of his touch.
Laying more than 20 metres before you was a paper silhouette, the printed black outline of a man with white ovals with small numbers that you couldn't read. Your heart raced at the sight of it, that familiar feeling of your chest closing in on itself occurring, feeling as if the sharp of your ribs are scraping against your lungs with every breath.
The gun was heavy in your hands. Heavier than you expected, and Maekar had described it as being lightweight. You would hate to know how a 'regular' one would feel in your hands, you prayed that you never would.
You didn't even want to touch this once, the sudden iciness of polymer searing into your palms, feeling your hands trembled as you tightened your grip.
Maekar stood right behind you, his boot kicking in between your feet as he forced them apart, aggressively widening your stance. You let out a soft noise at the sudden intrusion, feeling caught off-guard as you felt his heavy hands fall on to your hips, adjusting them slightly, the warmth of his hands radiating through the cotton of your dress. They lingered for a moment, grip tightening as he stepped closer, his chest right against your back as they slowly travelled up the curve of your waist, goosebumps flaring in their wake, until he reached your arms. He guided your arms into the right position.
Hands cradling yours as he murmured about the different safety features, and you tried not to shiver as you felt his breath hit the exposed skin of your neck.
Your hands had stopped trembling, yet it almost felt even more difficult to breath when all you could feel was him. His warmth, the scent of his sandalwood cologne, the feeling of him pressed right against you, the sound of his voice. You might have even found it comforting if it had been anyone else.
But it was Maekar.
You exhaled a shallow sigh, tightening your grip.
"Every shot has the potential to be fatal." He murmured, his voice husky. "If you ever need to use this, it's best to aim for centre mass." You wanted to interrupt him, to tell him you would never have to use it, but the words died on your tongue as he released your hands, stepping away from you, uttering one singular command. "Shoot."
And you did, your finger pressing against the trigger, the deafening sound of the bullet piercing through the air, the gun rattling at the sheer force of the action. You winced violently at the sound, eyes screwing shut as you suppressed the urge to flee, to hide from the wailing sound that seemed to impale your eardrums. Your ears physically ached from the sound, ringing as you heard Maekar speak to you, yet the words seemed to be lost, his lips moving as you struggled to understand them.
His hands fell to your shoulders, forcing you to turn towards the target once more, and it was only then did you notice the brilliant grin on his face. The paper silhouette boasted a clear puncture right in the centre of all the white ovals,
You had made the shot in your first try.
"Good girl." He praised, his grip on your shoulders tightening a fraction more, the sort of aggressiveness that implied approval from a man like Maekar. You should have shared his happiness, to feel a slight sense of pride in being able to make that shot with zero experience. Yet you found yourself unable to even focus on the bullet you had fired, or the gun that your fingers were curled around.
The ringing in your ears became mocking, parroting Maekar's gruff voice, those two words causing your heart to dip violently, pulse racing from something you was certain was not caused by the sound of the bullet.
Your mind went completely blank.
Oh no.
Your face flushed furiously, feeling the blood rush to your cheeks as a certain heat seemed to radiate throughout your entire body. And you thanked the Seven that Maekar seemed to not notice, trying to pay attention to his voice as he began guiding you to the next target.
You tried to distract your mind from your reaction, to solely listen to his words as he guided you through the next target, yet it was difficult with the way he grinned at you each time you made the shot, each time the bullet you fired pierced through the target in a perfect bullseye. He seemed genuinely elated at your success, as if your aim had effectively shifted his perception of you.
But this very experience was the reason for you to cement your perception of him. You could not afford to be stupid. To make stupid mistakes like believing that they were good people.
The gun would join the necklace, stuffed into the bottom compartment of your nightstand, hidden so that you wouldn't have to see it. Yet unfortunately, their presence haunted your mind at night.
You decided that there could only be one opinion to remain in your mind.
You feel Valarr’s hands—warm and smooth—slowly tracing your face as if he’s making a map. As if he’s keeping tabs to memorise and paint out later. The sunlight pours in him room through the gap in the drapers. He grazes his thumb over your lips, the cushion of it, before moving upward, a fleeting, sparse touch like a margin on the slope of your nose, your hairline, your eyebrows. You stare, half-drunk, half so insanely, insanely relaxed, at him. Valarr’s eyes, one sea-blue, and the other amber, are clear and bright and puffed up from resting.
And they are fixed on you.
“I wish I painted,” he says as he cups your cheeks, his voice— raspy, relaxed—is reminiscent of what you’ve been doing. Sleeping in late, hands twisted to set in the crooks of the other’s body, lazy, sloppy morning sex with the day’s newspaper forgotten on the side of the bed. You both are still naked under the covers, his leg is trapped under yours, knee brushing over the tender skin of your thigh. It sends a jolt of electricity, each time either of you move—as if the reality of your skin brushing is enough to set your nerves alight. As if breathing is as fantastic as a magic trick.
You chuckle, abashed. “What? Why?”
“ Because .” He purses his lips, leans in. His eyes look smaller up close. His face more rounded than sharp. “Then I could paint you like this. In my bed. Naked. Unguarded.”
Yours, you think. And the simple word makes you blush again, heat rises to your cheek, spreads across your temples, making your head zing with senseless pleasure.
Valarr squints his eyes.
“Take a picture?” You offer. Still hazy, deceptively warm as you settle further in his arms, trying to ignore the shrill electric blush creeping down your neck as well.
He rolls his eyes. You chuckle.
“Paintings are… timeless. You take a snapshot with a camera. It takes a second. To make a painting you have to devote months. I would have to have you like this for months. Darling, you must see why I’d prefer that.”
“Hmm.” You let your hands trace the sparse hair on his chest. They’re dark brown, like his hair. They graze your fingertips and you feel a shock run through your abdomen.
“I’d have to make love to you every time...” he hums. “Just to have this specific flush in your face. And it’ll all be in that painting. The arch of your lips, like this—” Valarr traces the edge of your lips, the smile lines, with a reverence that matches Sunday church. “This would remind me of day one.” His hand moves to your clavicles. “And then there'd be a line of sweat, here, something that would make me crazy on day twelve." He grazes your elbow. "A bend there, while you are laying sideways—day thirty. I'd make it a memorabilia. I'd make everything last. I would leave it a little unfinished, every time, just so we can come back to this. I’d make you come six times just to I see this look in your eyes.”
You feel breathless. You feel infinite. “What look?”
“Like I'm the best you ever had.”
“Are all painters perverts, then?”
His thumb flicks below your eye as he picks up a rouge eyelash from your cheek. “Don’t tease. A man has dreams.”
“Right—”
“A man has desires.”
“A man is a fool.” You tap your index on the hollow gap between his clavicles. “A man might not be interested for too long…”
“Excuss me?”
There’s a sharp, sudden edge to his question. Like two metals striking against each other. You bite your lower lip, surprised. His palm settles on your cheek. Not hard, not tight, just… claiming something no one has ever claimed before.
“I only meant…” you try, still unable to keep the flush away. Unable to keep the haze—the post-coital, cheery, cheeky, dumb haze—away. “That you might lose interest. I mean, I am only—”
A woman. A normal woman. Regual. Unremarkable. Pretty in the way passing signs are pretty from one’s car window. There is nothing wrong with that—all your life you have heard it. And now you are too old to have any qualms about it.
You have ordinary eyes, ordinary hair, an ordinary prettiness that suited well with your ordinary life. Mostly ordinary, you think now, since Valarr Targaryen walked into your bookstore to hide from paparazzies.
Valarr’s jaw sets hard. His entire body sets. A little firm. A little more into you. He shifts closer and his knees hike up, just a little, just enough so it brushes against the inside of your thighs.
Your mind retracts, positions back with a sort of hazy helplessness. You remember half an hour ago like it’s happening right now. You woke up with Valarr’s fingers inside you, teasing your core, making you wetter before your brain even registered wakefulness. He kept his hand over your stomach to keep you in position when you finally woke, succumbed to his seduction and whispered, dazed and derilious, to do it again, fuck you again. Yes. Yes. That. Perfect. He thrusted inside you from the side, the bed rocking with a lazy, Sunday morning sweetness.
You blush at the memory, and you are blurting out the rest of the speech without thinking, without any finesse, “I’ve been told that my looks are, well, pretty, pretty enough. But not really a… a renaissance painting, Val. Or any painting, come on—”
“ Who have you been talking to?” His eyes widen, pupils dilated. His fingers taps on the tip of your nose, stop there and you—
You shrug. “You know, people.”
“ No ,” he says determinedly, like it’s an entire sentence.
“No?”
He runs his thumb over your lip as if he’s still contemplating kissing you. “I was visiting a friend’s house in Lys. It was around Christmas, I think. And his dad was trying to grow these pearls they saw in the Pacific, in the back of their house. So, my friend was giving me a tour and I saw that they had set this gargantuan pool set in the back, filled with waters of the South Pacific. With heaters and moss and fish and everything. And the water was so clear you could easily see the bottom. When I looked down, I saw hundreds—and I mean hundreds —of oysters with multiple pearls just hatching in the centre, more pink than white. They were catching onto the morning lights and when they reflected they had this—a kaleidoscope of colours, just catching onto the surface and the edges and the moss—the soft green moss surrounding it. It was… transgressing, you know? It was—it was like suddenly getting blindsided with a force of nature. And…”
He chuckles at this. Arduously. Casually . As if he hasn’t—as if he isn’t continuing to—turn your world wrong-side up, as if he isn’t twisting something soft and ruinously feral in your chest. “The day I ran into your bookstore, knocked over that history shelf, I was having the worst day of my life. And then you came. You… fixed everything and you even pretended that you didn’t recognise me so I could breathe and it felt as if… for the first time I realised why my father used to say we need people. That I would need someone to catch me if I fall. Because, it was the terrible Targaryen pride in me that thought I couldn’t fall. But I did, that day, I messed up a deal and the reporters were there and I made a mess of myself and still it didn’t matter at all, because you were there. I was… blindsided by you. There is nothing ordinary about you, darling.”
Despite the raw, heavy timbre in his speech, Valarr’s eyes are calm and lovely. Breathtaking in their mismatched glory. You can’t even begin to imagine how you look.
“That’s what you remind me of. The shallow pool of moss covered pearls. The magic, the… everything else.”
You hold your breath, suddenly scared. Suddenly awestruck by your insane, inane inclination to be scared. Of the wrong thing being said, by either of you. Both of you. Of taking a breath and fresh air into your lungs and brains and maybe quickstarting the day, maybe breaking the dream, finding out that this is just post-coital, pointless talks. You touch his jaw and his Sunday stubbles graze your finger. The silver in his hair is mused up, all from your touch and yank and pull and you are scared to the bones of ruining the moment.
You think maybe he’ll chuckle it off, maybe he’ll cough awkwardly and tell you to forget about it. He has a tendency to do that, sometimes. That’s the machine-like part of him, that Targaryen heir inside him that makes things a category, that compartmentalises time instead of a living them. The part that is just a little too scared to be human. You fear, for a second, that he’ll surface up, again.
But he only says, with all the warmth in the world, “Breakfast?”
SUMMARY - you fall ill and your husband Gwayne insists on nursing you back to health
CONTAINS - fluff, gwayne is whipped, reader recovers quick
A/N - im so sick rn but i couldn't stop thinking about gwayne so why not make something out of it
The draft blowing through the window of your chamber is bitter, but inside the curtains of the bed, the air feels insufferably hot. A sudden fever lays you low, turning your limbs stiff and making the canopy above spin in a blurred haze.
You expect the quiet, shuffling steps of a maester or a line of anxious handmaidens carrying herbal teas. Instead, the doors flung open, and in strides your husband.
Gwayne is still wearing his polished riding boots and a green velvet doublet, his usual posture taut with uncontained panic. His eyes sweep the room until they lock onto your frail form.
“Out,” he commands, voice cutting through the quiet room as he pins the lingering servants with a stern gaze. “All of you. Leave us.”
“Gwayne…” you croak, your throat feeling dry as sand. “You shouldn’t be here… it could be contagious. I know you have duties elsewhere.”
“Let them manage without me for a day,” your husband scoffs, marching straight to the side of the mattress. He drags a wooden chair right to your bedside, the legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. “And do not speak of contagions. I took vows to protect you, sweet wife. I certainly did not swear them just to abandon you to a few trembling handmaidens the moment you catch a chill.”
Without waiting for a response, he leans over you, his cool palm pressing firmly against your burning forehead. A defeated sigh escapes his lips as he measures the heat of your skin.
“Seven hells.” He stares down at you, eyes softening with worry. “You are baking.”
For the rest of the day, Gwayne flatly refused to let anyone else tend to you. His knuckles are red and damp from hours of wringing out wet cloths, his fine doublet lies discarded on the floor, leaving him in his linen shirt. Though he has no choice but to comply when the grand maester sends up a specific remedy meant to break the fever.
It looked to be a thick grey sludge in a small vial of clay, and the moment Gwayne uncorks it, a pungent odor engulfs your senses, passing through your stuffy nostrils.
He pours it into a shallow cup and holds it out to you. You take one look at the murky liquid—the wretched smell amplifying, and you gag, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth as you recoil into the pillows.
“Absolutely not!” you choke out, shaking your head violently. “I would rather let the fever take me than put that thing anywhere near my mouth.”
Gwayne chuckles, his free hand immediately moving to support the back of your head, fingers gently cradling you. “Don’t be dramatic, wife. They are merely herbs. A true Hightower doesn’t shrink from a bit of bark and leaf.”
“Then you drink it,” you challenge blindly, your voice thick with revulsion, trying to push the cup away.
Gwayne simply looks at you, his gaze dropping to your shivering lips. Without a word, he tilts his head. “Fine. Watch and learn how a knight handles a simple remedy.”
He brings the cup to his own lips and takes a swift, deep sip. For a beat, his expression remains unchanged. Then, a violent shudder racks his broad shoulders. His eyes widen, his jaw tightening instantly as he fights his own reflexes. He swallows hard, throat bobbing painfully, before his face twists to one of pure disgust.
“Gods,” he coughs, his voice cracking as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “That tastes like a stagnant pond.”
Despite your misery, a weak, breathless laugh bubbles up from your chest. The sight of him willingly ruining his own palate just to ease your fear warms you far more than the heavy furs.
You reach out from under the blankets, your fingers sliding over his hand to take the cup. “Give it here,” you murmur, a fond smile touching your lips. Closing your eyes, you throw your head back and swallow the rest of the bitter liquid in one agonizing gulp. Gwayne can’t help but laugh at your reaction and immediately leans closer, his palm rubbing comforting circles into your back as you shudder from the aftertaste.
Deep into the grueling hours of the night, the room grows quiet, save for the crackle of the hearth. The medicine is working its way through you, and you stir against the pillows to find him hovering close over you, adjusting the blankets.
His face draws near enough that you can feel the cool contrast of his breath against your burning cheek. His eyes soften, heavy with fatigue yet burning with determination. His gaze drifts down to your lips in a silent, instinctual pull.
Sensing his intent, you weakly lift a hand, pressing two fingers against his shoulder to halt his advance. You turn your face slightly into the pillows, hiding your mouth from him.
“No, Gwayne,” you protest faintly, your voice a whisper. “You’re going to fall ill.”
Gwayne pauses, his face just inches from yours. A slow, offended curl lifts the corner of his mouth. “So you deprive me of your affection, wife?”
“I am trying to protect you, you idiot,” you grumble, weakly swatting at his chest.
Gwayne catches your wrist. He lifts your hand, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your knuckles, his gaze never breaking from yours. “I have no use for protection from you,” he whispers against your skin, chest heaving with a quiet sigh. “I would gladly take your fever if it meant easing a single moment of your suffering.”
By the following evening, the hold of the fever finally breaks. The relentless sweating stops, your vision clears, and a welcome strength returns to your limbs.
You’re sitting up in bed, propped comfortably against a mountain of plush pillows, a faint, healthy colour returning to your cheeks at last.
Gwayne remains right beside you. His gaze hasn’t left your face for hours. Leaning over the mattress, his hands come up to move the hair away from your forehead for the hundredth time.
“Hold still,” Gwayne tuts, his eyes scanning every line of your face. “You’re still sick.”
You look up at his face, a playful smile dancing on your lips. “Gwayne, I’m certain the fever is gone.”
“I am the judge of when the fever is gone,” he counters flatly. His thumb traces a lingering path across your cheekbone, his touch so incredibly gentle. “I didn't spend time in this miserable chair just for you to decide you’re cured the moment you feel a spark of life.”
You let out a bright giggle, the sound echoing warmly against the walls. You reach out, your fingers sliding up his forearm to grip his wrist. You slowly pull his hand away from your face without letting go of his wrist.
“I am perfectly well, husband,” you whisper, voice dropping as you lean slightly forward, tilting your head up to challenge his gaze.
Gwayne’s pupils dilate. It was great pleasure to watch him lose his composure. A breath or relief escapes him as he realises the steady strength of your fingers. His gaze drifts slowly down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, holding you trapped in his stare.
A wave of warmth rushes to your cheeks under the intensity of his look, your lips parting slightly.
“Is that so?” he murmurs, the concern on his face shattering, leaving nothing but adoration in its wake. He lets his hand slide from your grip, only to cup your jaw fully, his fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your face back. “No more shivers?”
“None.” You slide your hand up his chest, fingers gripping the wrinkled linen of his shirt. You close the remaining distance between you, tilting your face up in a silent invitation.
Gwayne doesn’t hesitate. He leans down, his lips finally meeting yours in a deep kiss. He pulls you flush against his chest, holding you tightly as though he was finally claiming the reward for the long vigil over the only thing in the world that matters to him.
forced to marry (smut, first time, death, jealousy, idk what more) 6,5k
You stood on the covered gallery overlooking the inner courtyard, wrapped in a black wool cloak with red trim. From there you could see everything without being easily seen: the men arming themselves, the maesters running with scrolls, and him, Jacaerys, your older brother, whom you watched as he spoke with Maester Gerardys and Ser Alfred Broome.
The war was carving him: a sharper jawline, a harder gaze, that voice that used to be enthusiastic now carried the weight of decisions that could condemn or save entire houses.
“…the North will answer. Cregan Stark swore it,” Jace said with that confidence that had always made you tremble. “We’ll send Vermax with a clearer message if necessary.”
You pressed your fingers against the cold stone. It had always been like this. Since you were a child, you had looked at him as if he were the embodiment of everything good House Targaryen could offer: brave, just, intelligent. A born strategist. A future king who would have a right to the throne not only by blood, but by merit. At some point, that sisterly pride had transformed into something far more dangerous.
It wasn’t just admiration. It was the way your chest tightened when he smiled, the way you dreamed of his hands holding yours differently, the burning shame you felt when you imagined him looking at you as something more than his little sister, the one he was meant to protect, but whom he had never looked at that way.
You heard soft footsteps behind you and didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
“Sister,” Jace’s voice was softer when he spoke to you. It always was. “You shouldn’t be out here in this cold. You’ll get sick.”
He turned you toward him. His eyes, so similar yet so different from yours, scanned you with brotherly concern. His hair was slightly tousled by the wind, and there was a small ink stain on his wrist, he had probably been writing letters until recently.
“I was looking at the stars,” you lied softly. “And… I saw you. You looked so sure talking about the alliance with the North. Like a true king.”
Jace let out a low, almost tired laugh and approached. Without asking permission, he adjusted your cloak better over your shoulders, a gesture so natural and protective that it hurt you deeply.
“I’m not king yet. I’m just…” He sighed. “The one trying to keep us all from being killed.”
“You’re much more than that,” you replied, almost in a whisper. The words escaped before you could stop them. “You’re the best of us, Jace. You always have been.”
For a second, something changed in his expression. A shadow of surprise, perhaps, but it passed quickly, and he smiled at you in the way he reserved only for you and Lucerys: with pure affection, with that warmth that made you feel both small and grown at the same time.
“Always so loyal, my little dragon,” he said, and ruffled your hair with his hand just like when you were eight years old. “Never change.”
The affectionate nickname pierced you like a dagger. My little dragon.
At that moment, as if summoned by fate, your cousin Baela appeared. He turned toward her almost immediately, and the smile he gave her was different from the one he gave you.
“Jace,” Baela said, approaching. “Your mother is looking for you. There is news from the Crownlands.”
He nodded, but before leaving he gently squeezed your shoulder.
“Go inside, rest, and tomorrow we’ll keep talking.”
And he left with Baela, while you remained there, with the cutting wind striking your face, feeling the warmth of his hand disappear from your shoulder.
The days following Vermax’s fall were a blur of blood, smoke, and prayers. Jacaerys had returned from battle more dead than alive: his dragon’s broken wing had thrown him against the rocks, and the black sea had nearly claimed him forever. They brought him wrapped in soaked blankets, his face pale as ash and a deep wound cutting across his right side where enemy steel had bitten into flesh and ribs.
You never left his bedside for a single moment.
Day and night you remained kneeling beside him in the cold rooms of Dragonstone, changing the cloths soaked in cold water on his burning forehead, cleaning the blood that flowed again every time he moved in feverish dreams. Your hands, once soft and unaccustomed to hard work, cracked and reddened from washing so many bandages and preparing infusions the maesters said barely helped. You didn’t eat. You barely slept. You only existed in function of his breathing: every weak inhalation was a victory, every pause that was too long was an abyss that swallowed you.
When the fever rose so high that his body trembled like a leaf in the wind, you lay down beside him, pressing your forehead to his, sharing the little warmth you had left, silently begging all the gods not to take him from you. If he died, you would go with him. That certainty was as clear as day. You couldn’t imagine a world where Jacaerys Velaryon no longer breathed. You didn’t want one.
You held his hand while he delirated, kissing his bruised knuckles, crying against his chest when no one could see you. The idea of losing him was worse than any death, but he did not die.
Little by little, the fevers subsided, the wound stopped suppurating, his skin regained some color, and his eyes refocused on the world. The first time he truly recognized you, he weakly squeezed your fingers, and that gesture almost broke your heart.
You continued caring for him with the same devotion, though now with a relief so great it made you dizzy. You fed him spoonfuls of broth, helped him sit up when coughing attacked him, read him old Valyrian scrolls in a low voice so he wouldn’t think about the war. Every beat of his heart was a gift you treasured in silence. And then the war continued devouring everything.
One by one, they fell.
Your mother, devoured by her own dragon in King’s Landing. Joffrey, dragged through the streets. Baela and Rhaena, disappeared in the chaos of battles and betrayals. The Velaryons… all swallowed by fire and steel. The Dance of the Dragons left almost nothing standing, and in the end, only the two of you remained.
The wind howled through the ruins of Dragonstone like a soul in torment. The black walls, once imposing, were cracked and blackened by ancient fires. The main hall was almost empty: only a few tattered tapestries remained, a long table with maps burned at the edges, and two makeshift thrones that no one dared occupy.
You were sitting on the sill of a high window, wrapped in a cloak that was too large and had once belonged to your mother. You looked at the stormy sea, but your eyes didn’t really see the waves. You no longer cried, the tears had dried up weeks ago, leaving only an icy emptiness that not even dragonfire could warm.
Jace stood in front of the fireplace, moving slowly through the hall, reviewing the remaining scrolls, absently touching the pommel of his grandfather’s sword. Every step he took echoed in the oppressive silence. There were no dragons roaring outside. Vermax was dead. Syrax too. Only the echo of the wind and the weak crackling of the fire remained.
You watched him all the time. You couldn’t help it. Even now, shattered and broken by the war, Jacaerys was still the most beautiful and painful thing you had ever seen, the way his shoulders tensed when he thought no one was looking, the way his fingers trembled slightly when holding a map, the depth of his gaze when he lost himself in memories he would never share aloud.
He approached the window where you were and stopped beside you, also looking at the sea. The silence between you was so dense it could almost be touched. You shared the same pain: the absence of your mother, your brothers, the cousins you had grown up with. You were the last ones. The only Targaryens left alive. Alone.
Jacaerys lowered his gaze to you. His eyes softened for an instant, that protective look he had always given you. He extended his hand and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that broke you inside. Then, without saying anything, he sat down beside you on the wide windowsill, so close that you could feel the warmth of his body through your clothes.
He leaned his head against the cold stone and closed his eyes, exhausted. You leaned slightly toward him until your shoulder brushed his. You didn’t speak. You simply existed beside him, breathing the same rarefied air, sharing the same infinite grief.
Life was a gray and bloody wasteland, but at least you had him. And he had you.
The following weeks passed in a gray and cold haze. The ruins of Dragonstone witnessed a strange forced rebirth. The few loyal lords who remained insisted on the inevitable: the Targaryen dynasty hung by a thread, and only two dragons of pure blood remained alive: Jacaerys Velaryon and you.
The decision was made in one of the halls. Jace was to be crowned king. And you, his younger sister, would be crowned beside him as queen consort. The marriage was necessary. Obligatory. The only way to ensure that the blood of the dragon would not be extinguished forever.
You accepted it with a heart divided between painful joy and deep sadness. The idea of being his wife, of carrying his name not only as a sister but as queen, of one day giving him children with dark hair and eyes that mixed yours… that fantasy had visited you in forbidden dreams for years. Now it was becoming reality, but tinged with obligation.
Jace, on the other hand, hated it.
He told you the night before the coronation, in the same empty hall where they used to share silence. His voice was hoarse with contained fury and exhaustion. He didn’t want a wife. He didn’t want this. He saw you as his little sister, as the last piece of his shattered family, not as a woman to share a bed and a crown with. He was angry at the world, at the gods, at the lords who pushed him into this, and especially at himself for not being able to refuse. The obligation of blood was stronger than his will.
The ceremony was brief and austere, almost funereal. It was held at dawn in the main courtyard of the Red Keep, under a leaden sky that threatened storm. There were no cheering crowds, no banners waving in the wind, only a handful of witnesses wrapped in dark cloaks. The septon joined your hands with a red and black silk ribbon while reciting the ancient vows. Jace wore a simple crown of iron and gold. His face was tense, his jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the sea.
You wore a black dress with crimson edges, your hair loose falling like a cascade over your shoulders, and a smaller, more delicate crown was placed on your head.
When the septon declared you husband and wife, king and queen, you felt the world tilt. For an instant, a spark of genuine happiness pierced your chest. His wife. But when you looked at Jace, that spark died. His eyes held no warmth, only bitter resignation and mute rage. He didn’t kiss you and barely brushed your fingers when you were declared.
That same night, in the royal chambers they now shared out of obligation, the distance became an insurmountable abyss. Jace didn’t touch you. He didn’t even approach the great canopied bed that had been prepared with clean sheets and dried petals. He stood by the window, staring into the darkness, fists clenched at his sides.
He told you, in a low and cutting voice, that he was not going to consummate the marriage. You didn’t insist. You simply lay down on the opposite side of the enormous bed, giving him your back, and cried silently against the pillow until exhaustion overcame you. The love you felt for him burned stronger than ever, but now it hurt in a new way: he was your husband before gods and men, and yet he had never been further away.
The days that followed were an exercise in separate existence.
You lived under the same roof, governed together in the few audiences you had, signed decrees side by side… but you shared nothing else. Jace spent the mornings training with the sword in the courtyard, trying to regain the strength the war had stolen from him, and in the afternoons he locked himself in the map room, planning the reconstruction of a kingdom that barely existed. You dedicated yourself to organizing what little remained of the court, reading old books in the library, walking alone along the battlements whipped by the wind.
At night, you slept in the same room but in different worlds. He went to bed late, when he thought you were already asleep. You pretended to sleep so you wouldn’t have to face his silence. The distance was greater than ever. You were king and queen, husband and wife, the last dragons… and two strangers sharing an empty castle.
The months that followed were a slow thaw in the midst of the perpetual winter you inhabited. It wasn’t a sudden or passionate change. It was something more subtle, almost imperceptible. Jace stopped avoiding you so much and began seeking you out to share the main meals, though in silence. Sometimes, when you walked together along the battlements at sunset, he would talk to you about the plans to rebuild King’s Landing, about the letters arriving from the North, about how he intended to restore order. You listened attentively, answered briefly, and never pressed.
You accepted what he gave you: deep, protective, sincere brotherly affection. A tired smile at the end of the day, a gesture to adjust your cloak when the wind was too cold, a quiet conversation about the dragons that were no longer there. It was better than the icy distance of the first days.
It was better than nothing. And although your heart bled every night when you lay in the same bed without him touching you, you silently repeated to yourself that this brotherly love was enough. You didn’t want to anger him. You didn’t want him to pull away again. So you smiled, kept your head high, and kept your true love buried deep, like a fire hidden under ashes.
But the realm was not so discreet. Rumors spread quickly. A queen who, after months of marriage, still showed no signs of pregnancy. A barren union. An ill omen.
People whispered in the halls, in the kitchens, in the letters arriving from the North and the Vale. An heir was necessary. A symbol of hope for a shattered kingdom. Every moon that passed without your belly growing was another dagger in your chest. You knew the truth: Jace didn’t touch you. He didn’t want to. And that hurt more than any rumor, because it confirmed that even as his wife and queen, you were still just his little sister in his eyes.
Time passed, and that night the Red Keep hosted a great dinner in honor of the Starks. The ties with the North remained ironclad: Cregan Stark had fulfilled his oath and sent men, provisions, and unbreakable loyalty.
The long table in the Great Hall was filled with roasted venison, black bread, spiced wine, and dried fruits brought from the south. Torches cast shadows over the newly hung tapestries showing dragons and wolves together.
You were seated to Jace’s right, dressed in a deep black and red gown, the crown shining on your hair. Jace occupied the head of the table, and across from you sat Cregan Stark, imposing as always. Tall, broad-shouldered, with long dark hair and a well-trimmed beard that gave him a severe and attractive air. Beside him, his wife spoke in a low voice with one of the maesters, but Cregan didn’t seem to pay much attention.
His blue eyes, cold and piercing as winter, rested on you far too often.
You felt it. Every time you looked up, there they were: watching you with direct intensity, without disguise. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was interest. A gaze that traveled over your face, your neck, the way the dress hugged your figure, without caring that his wife was less than a foot away or that your husband, his friend and ally, sat right beside him.
Cregan Stark did not lower his gaze when you caught him looking. On the contrary, he tilted his head slightly, almost like a silent greeting, and the corners of his lips curved into the shadow of a serious smile.
Jace, beside you, seemed not to notice at first. He spoke with Cregan about the fortifications of the Wall and trade routes, gesturing seriously, but you felt the tension growing.
Part of you felt flattered, seen in a way Jace had never seen you. Another part felt guilty, sad, furious, because the only man you wanted to look at you that way was beside you, talking politics, and only gave you brotherly, concerned glances.
The dinner progressed and the spiced wine flowed generously. The northern musicians brought by the Stark entourage began to play a slow, deep melody, the kind that invited movement more than conversation.
Cregan stood up, extended a large, calloused hand toward you, and bowed his head in a respectful but firm reverence.
You hesitated for only a second. You glanced sideways at Jace, who was still talking with one of his advisors, then accepted the hand of the Wolf of the North. His fingers closed around yours with warmth and security. You rose, feeling the eyes of the entire hall on you, and walked with him to the center of the hall where others were already turning gently.
Jace noticed.
His conversation cut off mid-sentence. His eyes fixed on you as Cregan placed a firm hand on your waist and the other held yours possessively. The music enveloped you and you began to move.
Cregan danced well for a northerner. His steps were sure, controlled, and he guided you with a soft but undeniable pressure on the small of your back. His hand there was large and hot even through the fabric of your dress. He drew you a little closer than strictly necessary for a formal dance, enough for you to feel the heat of his body and the faint scent of leather, pine, and hearth smoke that emanated from him.
For the first time in a long time, you laughed. It was a low, genuine laugh, provoked by something Cregan murmured in your ear as you turned. His lips were close to your temple, his deep, hoarse voice barely audible over the music. You spoke in low voices, almost whispers, heads tilted toward each other. No one else could hear.
His hands didn’t stay completely still. The one resting on your waist slid slightly with each turn, tracing a possessive path over the curve of your hip. It wasn’t scandalous, but it was intimate, too intimate. His fingers pressed with a firmness that made you aware of every point of contact: his thumb brushing just below your ribs, his open palm covering much of your lower back.
From the high table, Jace watched. He no longer pretended to pay attention to the conversation. His wine cup was forgotten on the table, his knuckles white around the stem, and his gaze followed every movement: the way you laughed with Cregan, how your head tilted toward him to listen better to his whispered words, how the northerner’s body pressed against yours in the tighter turns.
His expression was a dangerous mix of surprise, disgust, and something darker he couldn’t name.
Cregan, aware he was being watched, did not pull away. On the contrary, he spun you with more grace, drawing you even closer during a prolonged moment. His warm breath brushed your ear as he murmured another phrase in a low voice. You laughed again, a light, almost forgotten laugh, and for an instant you allowed yourself to enjoy the feeling of being seen, desired, treated like a woman and not like a little sister who needed protecting.
The dance ended with a final deep note from the musicians. Cregan still held your hand when he bowed his head and murmured one last phrase in your ear, something about the honor of dancing with the most beautiful queen he had ever seen. You smiled politely, your heart beating hard from the attention received.
Then came the sharp thud.
Jacaerys rose so abruptly that his chair fell backward with a crash that echoed through the entire Great Hall. All conversations ceased. Heads turned. Cups stopped halfway. The King of the Seven Kingdoms stood with his face hardened by fury, his eyes fixed on you and Cregan.
Without saying a word, Jace turned on his heel and began walking with long strides toward the exit of the hall, his black cloak billowing behind him.
You released Cregan’s hand immediately, murmuring a hurried apology, and ran after your husband. You felt the eyes of the entire court on your back, the Starks, the lords, the servants, but you could only follow Jace.
You caught up to him in the hallway leading to the royal chambers. His steps were furious. He didn’t stop and didn’t look at you.
“Jace…” you called, almost breathless.
He didn’t respond. He kept walking until you reached the doors of your private chambers. He pushed the heavy oak door with such force that it slammed against the wall. You entered behind him and closed the door behind you. The silence inside the room was immediate and suffocating. Only the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the agitated breathing of both of you could be heard.
Jace stopped in the center of the room, giving you his back for a moment. Then he turned sharply.
“What the hell was that?” he spat, his voice low but laden with rage. “You were laughing with him? You let him touch you like that in front of the entire court? In front of me?”
You stayed near the door, your hands trembling.
“It was just a dance, Jace. Cregan is our ally. His house has helped us rebuild all of this. I couldn’t refuse without offending him.”
“A dance?” he repeated with disbelief, taking a step closer. “His hands were on your waist as if you were his. He was whispering in your ear and you were laughing as if… as if you were enjoying it. In front of me? In front of your king? Your husband?”
The word “husband” came out of his mouth with bitterness. You felt something break inside you. The tears you had been holding back for months began to rise.
“My husband?” you replied, your voice breaking. “Since when am I your wife, Jacaerys? We’ve been married for months and you haven’t even touched me. You sleep beside me as if I were a stranger and you look at me as if I were still your little sister who needs protecting. And now it bothers you that another man looks at me like a woman?”
Jace clenched his jaw, fists tight at his sides.
“That’s not it. Cregan Stark is my friend, but he has no right to…”
“To what?” you interrupted, taking a step toward him. “To make me laugh? To look at me as if he truly sees me? You don’t see me, Jace. You’ve never seen me. You accepted me as queen because they forced you to, because we are the last ones. But you don’t want me as a wife, and I… I accepted it. I’ve accepted every crumb of brotherly affection you give me because I prefer that to losing you completely.”
The tears were already running down your cheeks. You tried to wipe them with the back of your hand, but they wouldn’t stop.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice broken. “I’m sorry I danced with him. I’m sorry I laughed. I’m sorry my belly is still empty and the court whispers about it. I’m sorry I love you in this stupid and painful way when you only see me as an obligation. I’m sorry for everything, Jace. But I can’t bear this silence anymore. I can’t bear being your queen in name only.”
Jace stared at you. For the first time in a long time, his expression cracked. The fury was still there, but beneath it was confusion, guilt, and something deeper he couldn’t name. He took another step toward you but stopped halfway, as if unsure whether to approach or pull away.
“It’s not that simple…” he murmured, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “You are my sister. You grew up beside me. I watched you grow. And now… now I look at you and I don’t know what to feel. All of this…”’he gestured to the room, to the crown you still wore “was imposed on me. Just like on you. But seeing you with him… seeing you laugh like that…”
He fell silent, breathing heavily. You continued crying silently, shoulders shaking, not daring to get any closer.
“I just want you to love me, Jace…” The words came out trembling, almost inaudible. “Just… love me truly, even if it’s only a little.”
Jacaerys closed his eyes for a moment, as if your words had driven a dagger into his chest. When he opened them again, his gaze was bright and tormented.
“The gods know how much I love you,” he murmured in a hoarse, almost broken voice. “I have loved you my whole life. I protected you. I cared for you… but I never allowed myself to see you this way.”
He took the final step that separated you. His hand rose slowly to your face, wiping away a tear with his thumb. His fingers trembled slightly.
“And damn the gods and this imposed marriage,” he whispered, “because yes, I do love you. More than I should. More than I ever dared to admit.”
Before you could respond, Jace tilted his head and kissed you.
It was a desperate, urgent kiss, as if he had been holding it back for years. His lips were warm and firm against yours, laden with all the frustration, longing, and repressed love. One hand sank into your hair, holding you possessively, while the other rested on your waist, pulling you against his body with strength.
You froze for a second, eyes wide with surprise. Your heart beat so hard you thought it would burst from your chest. This isn’t happening, your dazed mind thought. But then the heat of his mouth, the familiar taste of him mixed with wine and desperation, pierced you like Valyrian fire.
You returned the kiss. Your hands rose to his chest, clinging to the fabric of his black tunic as if afraid he would disappear. You stood on tiptoe, returning the kiss with all the passion you had kept silent for so long. Your lips moved against his with greed, tenderness, and hunger. The tears kept falling, but now they were different: of relief, of overflowing love, of happy disbelief.
Jace let out a low sound, almost a growl, and deepened the kiss. His tongue brushed yours shyly at first, then with more urgency. He pressed you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The kiss became more intense, more desperate, as if both were trying to recover lost time in a single caress.
When you finally separated, barely a few inches apart, your foreheads rested against each other. Both of you were breathing heavily, your eyes shining with a new emotion, darker and more tender at the same time.
“Don’t cry anymore,” he whispered against your lips, wiping another tear with his thumb.
You could only nod, your heart racing and your lips still tingling from his kiss.
Jace kissed you again, this time softer, slower. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that contrasted with the urgency of the first kiss. It was as if he were savoring something he had denied for too long. One of his hands cradled your cheek while the other rested on your waist, holding you carefully.
You sighed against his mouth, your heart pounding. When you separated barely an inch, you whispered in a trembling voice laden with desire.
“More… Jace, please… I want more.”
He stopped, breathing heavily against your lips. His eyes searched yours with intensity, looking for any trace of doubt.
“Are you sure?” he asked in a low, almost hoarse voice. “We don’t have to…”
“Yes,” you answered without hesitation, looking at him with all the devotion and love you had kept for years. “I’m sure. I want you. Only you.”
That seemed to break the last thread of restraint he had left.
Jace kissed you again, deeper, while his hands rose to the laces and clasps of your dress. With fingers somewhat clumsy from emotion, he undid them one by one. The heavy black and red fabric slid from your shoulders, then from your torso, finally falling to the floor with a soft whisper. The inner chemise followed the same path until you were completely naked before him, illuminated only by the golden light of the hearth fire.
Jace stepped back and looked at you. His eyes traveled over your body with reverence, as if he were seeing something sacred.
“Gods…” he murmured, his voice full of admiration. “You are beautiful. More beautiful than I ever imagined.”
His words made you blush to your ears, but they also ignited a deep heat in your belly. He approached again and kissed you with renewed passion, his hands exploring your bare skin with delicacy: tracing your back, sliding down your sides, caressing the curve of your hips as if he wanted to memorize you.
He slowly guided you toward the great canopied bed. Your legs trembled as you lay back on the fresh sheets. Jace quickly removed his tunic, leaving his torso bare and revealing the war scars that marked his body. He climbed onto the bed and positioned himself over you carefully, supporting his weight on his forearms.
You felt a knot of nerves in your stomach. Despite all the desire, fear appeared.
“Jace…” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m scared.”
He stopped immediately. He rested his forehead against yours, looking at you with such tenderness that it almost broke your heart.
“Trust me,” he murmured softly, kissing your forehead, then your cheek, and finally your lips with infinite patience. “Everything is going to be all right. I’ll go slowly. If you want me to stop, just tell me. You are my wife… and I love you. I’m not going to hurt you.”
His words calmed some of the fear. You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck. Jace kissed you again, deep and reassuring, while his hands continued to caress you with devotion, preparing you patiently for what was to come.
Jace kissed you slowly, savoring every sigh that escaped your lips. His hands roamed your body with devotion: he caressed your breasts tenderly, brushing your nipples with his thumbs until they hardened under his touch. He lowered his mouth down your neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses, and then took one of your breasts between his lips, sucking gently while his tongue played with the sensitive skin.
You moaned, arching your back. A liquid heat gathered between your legs, intense and unknown. Every caress from him sent waves of pleasure through your entire body. His fingers slid down your belly, tracing soft circles, until they reached your center. He caressed you there with patience, sliding a finger between your already wet folds, rubbing that sensitive spot that made you gasp his name.
“Jace…” you whispered, trembling.
“Shh… let me take care of you,” he murmured against your skin, carefully inserting a finger, moving it slowly inside you while his thumb continued to stimulate you.
He added a second finger shortly after, stretching you gently, preparing you. The pleasure was overwhelming; you felt your body growing wetter and wetter for him, your inner walls contracting around his fingers.
When he felt you were ready enough, Jace sat up a little and removed the rest of his clothes. His member was hard, thick, and heavy against his belly. You looked at it and a knot of nerves tightened in your stomach.
“It’s… it’s very big,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I don’t think it will fit, Jace.”
He leaned over you, kissing you deeply as he aligned his member at your entrance. The thick head pressed gently against your wet opening.
“Trust me, my love,” he said in a hoarse voice, looking into your eyes. “It will fit. Your body was made for mine. I’ll go very slowly. Breathe.”
He pushed carefully, only the tip. You gasped sharply, feeling a slight burning as he stretched you. It was an intense pressure, almost too much, but beneath that sensation a deep pleasure began to bloom. Jace stopped, giving you time, kissing your neck and whispering words of love.
“Like that… very good,” he murmured. “Relax for me.”
Little by little, inch by inch, he entered you. You felt every vein, every pulse of his thickness opening a path inside your tight heat. It was an overwhelming sensation: full, complete, almost too much. You moaned, digging your nails into his shoulders.
“Jace… it’s so much…” you gasped.
“You’re so tight and hot…” he growled against your ear, restraining himself with effort. “Gods, it feels incredible. Perfect for me.”
When he was finally fully buried inside you, both of you let out a long moan. He stayed still, letting you adjust to his size. The feeling of being so full was strange but exquisite, the initial slight pain quickly transformed into a deep, pulsating pleasure that radiated from your center throughout your entire body.
He began to move. Slow, deep thrusts, pulling out almost completely before sinking back in. Every time he entered, he brushed a spot inside you that made you see stars. Your moans grew louder, more desperate. You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him deeper.
“It feels… so good,” you whispered between gasps, surprised by how pleasurable it was. “Jace… more…”
He gradually increased the rhythm, but always with control, watching you to make sure you only felt pleasure. His hips collided against yours with a steady, deep rhythm. The wet sound of your bodies joining filled the room along with your moans.
“You are mine,” he growled against your neck, gently biting your skin. “My queen. My wife.”
“Jace… please… I want you to fill me. I want to carry your baby.”
He froze for a second, surprised. His eyes darkened immediately, a spark of pure animal desire crossing his gaze.
“What did you say?” he asked in a hoarse voice, almost breathless, as if he needed to hear it again.
You looked him directly in the eyes, without shame, while tightening your inner walls around his still-hard member.
“I want you to fill me,” you repeated, clearer this time, your voice broken by desire. “I want to carry your child. I want you to fill me again and again until my belly grows with your seed… please, Jace.”
A low, deep growl escaped his throat. Something primal awakened in him.
“Gods…” he murmured, biting your lower lip. “You have no idea what you’re asking me.”
His thrusts became deeper, more deliberate, as if he wanted to imprint himself in the deepest part of you. He pulled out almost completely and sank back in with a sharp thrust of his hips that made you moan loudly.
“You want a baby…” he growled against your neck, accelerating the rhythm. “You want my seed to take root in your womb, don’t you? For the whole realm to know you’re mine… that you’re swollen with my child.”
“Yes…” you gasped, digging your nails into his back. “Yes, Jace. Please… fill me.”
His movements became more intense, almost wild, but still controlled. Every thrust was deep and precise, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. His hands gripped your hips firmly, holding you in place as he penetrated you again and again.
“You’re going to look so beautiful…” he whispered against your ear, his voice broken with pleasure. “With your breasts full, your belly round and heavy with my heir. Everyone will know I fucked you until I was exhausted. My queen. My wife. The mother of my children.”
You felt the pleasure growing and growing, a hot wave accumulating in your lower belly. Every thrust brought you closer to the edge. Jace slid a hand between you and rubbed that sensitive spot while continuing to thrust into you with controlled force.
The orgasm hit you hard. You tightened around him, screaming his name as waves of intense pleasure coursed through your entire body, contracting rhythmically around his member.
Jace held on for only a few seconds more before following you, sinking deeply one last time and spilling inside you with a long, hoarse groan, filling you with his heat. He collapsed over you carefully, supporting his weight on his forearms, breathing heavily against your neck.
He stayed buried deep inside, not pulling out, keeping his seed within you while he caressed your belly with an open hand, pressing gently as if he could already imagine how it would swell.
“Stay like this…” he whispered in a hoarse voice, kissing your nape. “I want it all to stay inside. I want your womb to take every last drop and grow with my child.”
Both of you trembled. He kissed you tenderly, again and again, while your bodies were still joined.
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “I truly love you.”
You could only hold him tighter, with tears of emotion and pleasure in your eyes, feeling for the first time that you were truly his in every sense.
Afraid to Feel (Sex Therapist!Baelor Targaryen x Reader)
A/N: Virgin Island is actually good for inspiration whaaaaa…
(Goes without saying but pls do not take any sex therapy/intimacy counselling advice from this. All my knowledge is from Virgin Island and even then it’s probably all unethical so just… yeah. Also, I googled it, and usually surrogate partner therapy requires three people but we’re going to pretend that it’s ok that the therapist IS the surrogate partner…)
Summary: After your therapist recommends that you seek intimacy counselling, you find yourself in Baelor’s office, pouring your heart out about your fears and inexperience. You’ve just started dating someone new and you want to be comfortable getting intimate. Baelor is committed to getting you comfortable experiencing intimacy, even as the lines begin to blur…
Word count: 22.1k (ummm… sorry)
Tags: 18+/MDNI, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (of legal age), virgin!reader, very inexperienced!reader, probably unethical practices, discussions on fear of intimacy, personal insecurity (particularly around body image and one’s self perception - while it is not specified that it is a curvy/chubby/plus-size reader, there is mentions of worry of being too heavy), discussion of mental health (i.e. having bad mental health but no details), SMUT: oral (f!receiving), fingering, PinV sex, kind of cheating in a way (reader has a boyfriend but is getting down with Baelor in the name of therapy), never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
The waiting room was… normal. You weren’t sure what you had been expecting. Of course it was normal. Why would this office be any different to the other waiting rooms and offices you had been in? Just because it was a… yeah, ok. You still couldn’t quite admit it, couldn’t quite get yourself to say it, to even believe that you were doing this. How had you been convinced into doing this? No, no, this was a good thing, Vivian had said so, and you trusted Vivian.
The chairs were soft and comfortable, which was the most surprising thing about the waiting room, you supposed. The lighting was low and comfortable, warm yellow lamps on the little corner tables. The receptionist had checked you in, but this space was after her desk so you felt quite alone. The walls were painted a dark colour, and the wood accents were all dark as well. You felt rather cozy now that you thought about it, snug and protected. There was something to be said about the dark actually being good for comfort and vulnerability.
You were dressed comfortably, soft trousers and a full sleeve top, trainers on, light jacket for the cooler weather (despite it being springtime), and your usual bag on your arm. You resisted the urge to keep checking your phone, to use it as your safety net as you usually did. You and Vivian had been working on that too, a sort of side bit of homework to help you become more comfortable being in your own skin, of being on your own.
There was art on the walls, and you turned your eyes to it. It was all beautiful, the kind of paintings you yourself enjoyed, a mix of impressionist and renaissance style, either blurred or hyperrealistic, glossy and shadowed in the lamplight. There was one of a dragon, black and sharp, tall and imposing, looking down at a singular man standing on a beach. It was stormy around them, and the man was a miniscule thing next to the beast. But there was a connection between them, something soft and unspoken, mutual respect perhaps, or even care. It was a rather simple picture on the face of it, but you fell in love with it at that moment.
There was only one door going off from the waiting room, and it had been shut since the moment you had arrived, but now it opened, a little swiftly, and a man stepped out just enough so that his feet were over the threshold but he was still holding onto the doorknob with one hand. In the other was a clipboard, held up a little so he could read from it, then he turned up to look at you and smiled gently.
“Hello, Y/n, is it?” You nodded quickly, eyes a little wide, lips parted. “Am I pronouncing that right?” He asked kindly, frowning a little and mouthing it again.
“Yes! Yes, perfectly, thank you,” you jumped in, nodding and clutching tightly onto your bag strap.
He paused for a moment, looked you over, then with that same soft smile he stepped back a little into the doorway and nudged his head into the room.
“Would you like to come in?” He asked, and you nodded quickly, eyes still a little wide as you jumped up and hurried into the room, like a little mouse scurrying around when the cat has finally found them.
You could not quite absorb what he looked like. It felt… too good. That was an odd thing to say. You shouldn’t be describing an intimacy therapist like that… But it was also true.
He wore a dark turtleneck, black and rolled up at the sleeves to display strong tanned forearms. He had little freckles on the skin there, dark but fine hairs, and big hands, long fingers and veins. He had a beard, a little scruffy but well-looked after, and wavy hair that had gone grey and was now scattered with white. It was a bit messy too, rather like the beard. He seemed to run his hand through it in thought, ruining whatever combing he might have done in the morning, but you liked it that way. It made him more human. He had a soft set to his face when he smiled, deep lines creasing between his cheeks and his mouth, and he had one blue eye and one brown eye.
That was a little jarring at first, the stark difference, and you sort of wanted to compliment him on them, but he probably heard it a million times over, and you didn’t have the confidence to say anything like that to him just yet. Perhaps after working with him for a while you might do, but not yet.
His office was similar to the waiting room in the sense that everything was dark in here as well. There was a desk in the back corner, with framed degrees and certificates and awards on the wall behind it. A cork noticeboard was on the adjacent wall, the one that the side of the desk touched, and it was pinned with lots of things, calendars and reminders and pictures and cards. The desk itself was fancy, dark wood and carved with designs, and the computer on it was all sleek lines and high-tech. There were papers and folders on the desk, pens and post-it notes, but it was all neatly organised and he even had picture frames facing toward him. That warmed your heart a little.
The main bit was right in front of you though, a black leather couch with end tables on either side facing an armchair with its own end tables. There were already pens and paper and notebooks on the end table by the armchair, and there were lamps on each of them too, low yellow light with coloured and patterned lampshades. There were cushions on the sofa which made you happy, something to grab, something to hide with. All of this on top of a dark rug that looked lovely and plush. The sofa faced a wall of windows, lovely and big but covered by blinds right now to keep the room all cool and dim.
He gestured you toward the sofa, waiting for you to sit down before taking his own seat, fiddling with his clipboard and all the pens and papers on the table beside him. As he did that, you took your bag off and put it to the side of the sofa, rocking back and forth a little in your seat, looking around, frankly anywhere but right at him. You felt far too awkward. You took one of the sofa cushions and brought it to sit on your lap, feeling a little more settled with it covering you, but then you felt rude for taking it without asking. Finally, he settled a little into his chair, slouching slightly and looking far more comfortable than you, and smiled directly in your direction.
“Did Marion have you sign all the paperwork when you came in?” He asked kindly, just getting the ball rolling, you supposed, and you nodded, pursing your lips a little. “Just to go over it again, I prefer being as transparent and open as possible, even if it’s a little tedious. Everything you say to me, whether that be in this room or over correspondence is private and completely confidential unless I perceive that you intend to cause real harm to yourself or another person. While I will not record anything, I do take notes during the session and of course there will be a record of any communication via phone, message, or email, but again, this is all protected under confidentiality. Is that alright?”
He had no judgement on his face, just a serene look, this spiel practiced by now. You nodded again, and then felt stupid for not having said anything yet.
“Yes, uh yes, of course, uh… Mr Martell? Is that what I call you? Sorry, that’s a stupid question,” you wanted to hide your face in your hands, to physically shut your mouth by pinching it with your fingers, but you just clenched them in the cushion and darted your eyes away from his face, feeling hot all over from embarrassment. But he was smiling, nodding, twisting his pen around in his hands.
“You can call me what you like. If you prefer Mr Martell, that’s alright, and if you’d prefer Baelor, that’s alright too,” his smile was far too kind, it made you more conscious somehow. You nodded and attempted a smile of your own, but you could bet it came out strained and stupid.
Baelor had been careful since the start of his career to use his mother’s last name. He did not need his family’s reputation following him into this office, not in the career he had truly curated for himself. He had become used to being Mr Martell in one room, and Mr Targaryen in another.
You couldn’t look at him for too long, it was too intimidating, which meant your eyes travelled a lot, especially to the covered windows behind him. He noticed, because of course he did, that was his job wasn’t it, and turned to glance at them as well.
“Would you like me to open the curtains?” He asked kindly, half-twisted in his seat and looking back at you. You felt hot with mortification again, for whatever reason, and instantly shook your head.
“Oh, no, it’s ok.” You waved it off, chewing on your lip and glancing down, clutching the cushion a little tighter.
“Are you sure? It’s rather a lovely view,” he added, smiling still and you smiled at that, this one a little more relaxed than before, and a quiet huff of a chuckle left you.
“Yeah, no, it’s alright, don’t worry. Maybe next time,” you answered, rubbing at your cheek a little to attempt hiding your smile. It went quiet again, that heavy silence that came with expectation.
“It’s alright if you’re nervous,” he said then, something softer coming into his eyes, as if he was keenly aware of how you were feeling, as if he had seen it a million times before and wanted to comfort you. “It’s natural to feel that way.”
You let out a breath, closing your eyes for a moment and nodding, smoothing your hands over the cushion then looking at it instead of him.
“I’m really nervous. I don’t even know why, I agreed to this, but… I don’t know, I just am.” You felt a bit pathetic, your lips drooping a little naturally, and you heard his pen being placed down on the notebook. When you glanced up, he had laced his fingers together and was nodding at you, the smallest frown creasing his brow, concern it seemed like.
“Well, why don’t we start with why you’ve come to see me?” He asked gently.
You settled into your seat, leaning back a little into the softness of the sofa, allowing yourself to get comfortable. You liked his voice. It was silky, soft but intentional in your ears, and you had the sneaking suspicion that he only spoke words he deemed necessary. You liked that, it made you feel comfortable trusting him. You had been preparing for this question too, but now you felt a bit blank in the head.
“Um, well, my therapist, Vivian, recommended I try this, coming to see you, I mean. I’ve been working with her for a while, on a lot of stuff, but recently… Hm, I feel really awkward saying this,” then you did actually put your head in your hands, shaking it a little as you felt overcome with nervousness again, but he didn’t say anything, just shifted in his seat a little and gave you the space to say it. You cleared your throat, brought your hands down, and spoke facing the cushion on your lap. “I’ve never really been with anyone in a relationship before. No one asked me out at school, no one asked me out at university, nothing’s ever really happened. It’s not even for a lack of trying, which sounds so pathetic. Like, I tried getting on a dating app but I just couldn’t take it seriously, and the guys I talked to were either weirdos or it just didn’t amount to anything. Which leads me here, never even having kissed someone, and terrified of ever doing anything with anyone. And it gets worse, because finally, finally, a guy has asked me out, and he’s… amazing. He’s literally everything I could want, kind, patient, handsome, and I just can’t get over myself. He’s happy to take things slow, to work at my speed, but… I just feel wrong. I feel like I can’t get over this fear, and until I get over that, I can’t be a good partner for him.”
You pressed a hand to your face as you felt the overwhelming rush of tears to your eyes. You didn’t want to cry in your first session with him, didn’t want to cry over just explaining this, but you had felt so bogged down by it recently, overwhelmed by your own inability, that it was constantly on your mind and constantly tiring you.
You heard some shuffling, and without saying a word, Baelor had stood, taken a box of tissues and brought it over to the sofa. He placed it down near you, then went back to his seat, crossing one leg over the other and twisting his pen around in his hands again. He nodded wordlessly at your quiet thank you, waited for you to dab at your eyes and take a few deep breaths in, to look at him again, before speaking.
“Let’s unpack some of what you said there. You’ve met someone recently, and you’d like to be able to be intimate with him?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling a little at the thought of him. “It’s still quite new, but I think he’s the kind of guy I could see myself marrying. But I feel like I can’t even imagine a future with him without addressing… this.” Baelor hummed and nodded, writing something down.
“And you spoke about your lack of experience. You mentioned that you haven’t really been in a relationship before?”
“Yeah,” you swallowed, grimacing a little. “I… All throughout school I watched my friends get boyfriends, or I watched people get partners and start having all these experiences that I just… never got. No one’s ever asked me out, no one’s ever seen me in that way. It’s embarrassing. I’ve confessed to my crush like three times and every single time I was rejected. I know it shouldn’t be, but it’s so demeaning and confidence killing. And then I’ve just never had the confidence to ever confess again. I got busy in the middle too, life and stuff, and my mental health was so bad for a while and just… I don’t know. I feel… I feel ugly, and unlovable.” You closed your eyes, swallowing harshly again, unable to look at him at the confession. You were opening your mouth too much, being too vulnerable too soon, you were sure of it. It was irrational, you knew that. You knew he wouldn’t get you up and throw you out and tell you all of this was true, but that irrational bit of your brain was rather annoying even at the best of times.
“I know it’s only your first time meeting me, but I can assure you with full confidence that you are neither ugly nor unloveable.” His voice was quiet when he said it, gentle but firm, and you blinked open your eyes, blurred with tears and stared right at him. He was not smiling now but serious, sure, firm in his belief. You licked your lips and nodded, eyes a little wide, and you wiped at them haphazardly, gathering yourself.
“We can take this slow as well, hm?” He asked then, gentle and smiling a little to comfort you. “We’ll start with just some more discussions, what you are comfortable with, what you actually want to achieve, and then I can make some other recommendations. Does that sound alright with you?” He tapped his pen against the notebook, punctuating his sentence with it, and you nodded quickly, smiling with relief.
And you felt it too, relieved. When you walked out of the session, there was already less of a weight on your shoulders. Instead it was replaced with the lightness of faith, of trusting that Baelor would help you, of trusting that you might actually be alright in the end.
“Why do you think there’s something wrong with being a virgin at your age?”
You were back in the office again, the same pillow on your lap. This time you had removed your shoes before stepping onto the plush rug. You had wanted to feel it a little closer, just under your socks, as soft as you had imagined, and you sat with your feet up on the sofa, curled around the cushion, chin on your knees.
“I don’t know,” was your first answer, automatic, too easy, and you knew by now that he wouldn’t let you get away with it. He stayed silent, waiting for you to actually think, to be honest. He always did that, you realised, stayed silent until you gave him something worth responding to. You would appreciate it more if it wasn’t so frustrating sometimes when you truly didn’t know how to respond.
He was wearing a button-up today, blue and white stripes, neat and ironed, unbuttoned at the collar so it was a little more casual. He had his smart trousers on, as he always did, with a dark belt that blended into the fabric, navy blue socks, and leather dress shoes. He was always smartly dressed, and though sometimes it made you feel a little insecure, underdressed, you also really liked it. It made him look lovely and clean, trustworthy.
“I feel left behind I guess. Like there’s something wrong with me because so many other people my age have already done this big milestone.” You picked at a corner of the pillow, almost mumbling as you spoke. “It’s not even just that I’m a virgin, it’s that I haven’t done anything. I haven’t even held hands with a boy let alone had sex with a guy.”
Baelor sighed and nodded, wrote something down then placed his pen flat on the paper, folding his hands on top of it. He looked you right in the eye, that serious and determined expression in them that always came with him saying something important that you should remember and pay particular attention to.
“I know it may feel odd, or wrong, but before anything else, you should know that there is nothing wrong with being experienced, whatever age you reach. It may not sound comforting, but unfortunately, sometimes that is the way life happens, with different experiences defining people differently. But again, there is nothing wrong with being inexperienced at your age.”
You nodded, but then stayed silent, chewing on your lip and glaring at the floor. Usually you would say something in response, would agree with him or repeat what he said to affirm it to yourself, but this time you remained lost in your own head.
“What is it?” Baelor asked, not allowing you to stew alone.
“It’s just… of course you would say that. Like… look at you. You probably never had to worry about this. You’re all… handsome and charming and older, like of course you would say that.” You said it with such confidence all of a sudden, like you believed it wholeheartedly, but when you finally absorbed the words that had slipped out of your own mouth, you instantly felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach. You could not believe you had actually said that. How could you have said that to him?? Just because it was true didn’t mean you should have said it! Oh gods, now he knew you thought he was handsome and charming. Oh gods, he would terminate this. He would say it’s inappropriate, that you had crossed a line, that you didn’t deserve to get help and that this stupidity was the obvious reason why you were still a virg-
He was chuckling. You looked up to find him smiling brightly, eyes squinted, shoulders moving up and down a little as he giggled at your words. You smiled too, couldn’t help it because his own was so contagious, and all the tension that had begun to build inside you slowly melted out of your bones.
“While I appreciate the sentiment,” he finally said, still smiling as if you had charmed him with your little moment of unfiltered yammering, “my words are still true. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s the truth.” You harrumphed a little, but nodded just the same, repeating it to yourself that you were normal, that this was normal.
You discussed a little more, spoke about how you should not feel shame, or should not take your lack of experience as a judgement of your worth and beauty, and you felt sufficiently exhausted by the end of the session. When there were about ten minutes remaining, Baelor paused and looked at you with that serious expression again.
“I’d like to propose something. I do not need your answer now, or even during the next session. Take as much time as you would like to deliberate, ask as many as you would wish, but please do consider it thoroughly. I think you may benefit from a more intimate approach to this. Your worries about your lack of experience seem to overshadow much of your other thoughts and I think it prevents you from moving on from some of your other insecurities. I would seriously advise you to consider surrogate partner therapy. I think it would allow you to gain some experience in a safe environment where you can ask questions and learn without feeling any possible judgement for your lack of experience.” He said it all with such a calm face, hands folded in his lap, and you nodded in response, chewing on your lip as you stared right at him, focused.
“Do some research of your own of course, to gain a better understanding of the concept, but essentially, you would have guided experiences with another person the same way you would with a romantic partner, and you would learn how to conduct it in a real-world scenario. Do you understand?”
“Um, I think so,” you answered quietly, nodding and chewing on your lip with a small frown as you flicked your eyes back up to meet his. “So… I would like… practice kissing with this person?” He hummed and nodded.
“You could. You would only do what you are comfortable doing, would go only as far as you wish to go. You could stop at hugging or hand-holding if you wished. It’s meant to be a comfortable environment to help you push past the physical elements holding you back.” You nodded again, glancing up at him with wary eyes.
“Who… would you be… who would… would it be with you?” You finally got out, heart clenching in your chest. He hummed and nodded, then moved his head side to side a little.
“It could be. While I am trained, I do not conduct it myself often. I haven’t in many years, and you should be aware of that. There are professionals we could find for you if you would prefer to do it with someone else, but I would be comfortable providing that experience for you if you are comfortable to have me do it.” He nodded again and placed his palms on his thighs, moving to stand up as he looked at the clock and realised the time.
“Ok,” you sighed quietly, standing up as well and moving to put your shoes back on, slinging your bag over your arm and heading for the door. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”
“Of course,” he replied kindly, smiling at you as he waited for you to head for the door before reaching out and opening it for you. “I would hope you do. Take all the time you need. I’ll ask again during our next session but do not worry if you have not come to a decision.”
You nodded once more, smiled kindly at him, then bid him a quick goodbye before hurrying out of the office, popping your headphones into your ears and trying to sort through the million thoughts running through your head.
Baelor closed the door behind you, gathered up his notebooks and went to sit at his desk. He began typing up the notes he had taken during the session, adding anything he hadn’t thought of before. He paused for a moment, staring off into space. He hoped this would help you. He hoped you would say yes.
The weather had gotten a bit warmer, so you ditched the jacket for only a t-shirt during the session. You wore one of those pretty white cotton skirts, the tiered ones that everyone had nowadays and you thought sort of looked like a wedding cake, but again, you wanted to take advantage of the warm weather while it lasted.
You took your shoes off again before walking on his carpet, this time feeling the plushness between your bare toes, and you sat with your legs folded up and tucked beside you, making sure to keep the skirt appropriately covering you. You wrung your hands in your lap, fiddling with the fabric of your skirt, and only looked up at Baelor in short glances.
Baelor was a little dressed down too, a plain white undershirt peeking out at his chest under a vibrant electric blue button-down, his usual smart trousers in navy and his shiny dress shoes still making an appearance. He sat down with a quiet huff, bringing his notebook to his lap and tapping his pen on it as he smiled at you.
“You look rather more nervous than usual. Is everything alright?” He watched you carefully but without expectation and without judgement. You nodded quickly, an innate reaction, then paused, chewing on your lip before looking up and meeting his eyes.
“I- yeah, I’m fine, but it’s just… I think I’ve come to a decision about… what we talked about last time,” you finally broke out, smiling nervously and letting out a pathetic little chuckle.
“Oh? That’s good to hear. What is it?” He asked, settling a little more comfortably in his seat.
“I… think I’d like to give it a go. I trust you, and if you think it could help me then I’ll do it. But…”
“But?” He asked, raising one eyebrow as he watched you look down to the pillow you clutched in your lap again, picking at a thread by the zipper.
“I want it to be with you,” you mumbled, looking like a shy, scolded, child. You couldn’t meet his eye as you said it, couldn’t face your own decision despite making it. You knew he had said he would, that he felt comfortable doing it, but you didn’t want it to be that he had suddenly decided that he actually wouldn’t do it, and you would be embarrassed for asking. You didn’t want to see any sympathy in his eyes as he decided to let you down gently.
“Of course,” he answered gently, and when you looked up, he had that small serene smile on again. “Like I said last week, I haven’t done it myself in many years but I would be willing as long as you were comfortable.” You let out a long breath, sighing and smiling again, nodding quickly in response.
“Yes, yes, I am. Thank you,” you breathed out, smoothing your hands over the pillow in your lap and finally looking at him properly once more.
“Right, we don’t have to start right away if that was a worry for you. I won’t force you to jump into anything yet. We can just talk some more today, continue with what we discussed before,” he explained, gesturing with his hands and pen. You smiled again, nodding as you breathed deeply to calm any last jitters you had been feeling before. “But I would like to make one change if you are comfortable with that.” You looked at him with wide eyes, blinking slowly as you waited for him to expand, suddenly feeling tense all over again. “Would it be alright if I came and sat on the sofa with you? Just on the other end.”
“Oh,” you let out, blinking quickly before shifting so you were right on one end of the sofa then glancing at the other end, the spot he wanted to take up. “Yeah, yes, of course, if you want.”
He smiled kindly at that then stood up. He was tall. You had noticed it before of course, but now you were sitting down, sunken in a little into the plush cushions, and it made him seem even more imposing. He walked over and sat down on the other end of the sofa, relaxed and without worry. You felt it move under you, shift a little with his weight, and you curled up just a tad more, making sure your feet were tucked under your skirt and wouldn’t go near him. He sighed, slumping comfortably into the pillows, and crossed one leg over the other, ensuring he was at an angle so he could still speak facing you. His legs were quite close to you, and if you reached out with your hand you could place it on his knee. It was odd that you wanted to.
“Is this alright?” He finally asked, eyes flicking all over your face as you swallowed and nodded, your heart pounding a little.
“Mhm,” you assented, but your voice was a little higher pitched than usual and he could see you clutching the cushion on your lap a little tighter, but he decided not to comment.
“Does this make you nervous?”
“A little, yeah,” you whispered, fluttering your eyelashes at him. Baelor felt a pang of something in his chest but chose not to focus on it, looking instead at the way you settled further back into the cushions and watched him in return.
“What about this makes you nervous?” He asked quietly.
“I don’t know. You’re just… very close, and I’m worried that I’ll do something wrong.”
“What could you do wrong if we’re just sitting together?” He asked without an ounce of judgement. It pointed you toward the absurdity of your thoughts without making you feel bad for it.
“I don’t know. I guess that’s a good point. I don’t know, I guess I feel like I would sit weird or touch you accidentally when you don’t want me to and you would just instantly be repulsed by me.” You spoke quickly, as if suddenly desperate to tell him everything you were thinking, and he hummed and nodded. “Like, if you were the guy I have a crush on, and you came and sat like this, I would be freaking out. I am freaking out.”
“What would sitting weird do? Or accidentally touching me? What do you think would happen?” He asked gently, tapping his pen against the notebook in his lap.
“Realistically, nothing. In my crazy head? You would be repulsed by me and never want to come near me ever again and you would tell everyone that and I would die alone.” Baelor raised an eyebrow at you and you pursed your lips, nodding for a moment before sighing and giggling a little, hot with bashfulness. “I know. I know that’s unrealistic.”
“Good,” was his simple answer. Then he reached down and patted the side of his thigh. “Stretch out your leg, and imagine you’ve accidentally kicked me.” You looked at him, both eyebrows raising.
“Really?”
“Yes. Let’s play out the scenario. Reach out and tap my leg as if it was an accident,” he patted the side of his thigh again, face all seriousness, and waited for you to comply. He looked away to give the illusion of this being anywhere outside of a therapist’s office, and waited.
You reached out, gentle and hesitant, and lightly tapped the side of his thigh with your big toe. It was barely a touch, just enough to be felt, and he reached down and lightly tickled the sole of your foot. You squealed, jumped a little, and instantly curled your foot back into yourself, staring at him with wide eyes as he attempted to hide a smirk behind his hand.
“Baelor!” You squealed, mouth dropping open as a shocked laugh punched out of you.
“Is that not something you would have expected to happen?” He asked teasingly, and you giggled freely, perhaps for the first time since he had met you. He watched the way your face lit up, the way you rocked back and forth a little as you laughed. His chest felt warm at the sight. He was happy to see you happy.
When you finally caught your breath again, you leaned your elbow on the arm of the sofa and rested your cheek in your hand, looking at him from under slightly hooded eyes. “Weirdly effective strategy Mister,” you responded teasingly, and he hummed and nodded, smiling brightly.
You spoke for a little while. He asked how you were feeling over the past week, if you had seen your guy again, and you told him how you had been a bit busy with work, how you and him had been texting back and forth but you had been hesitant to accept any invitation to meet up. You still felt too nervous.
“Why don’t we try something else until the end of the session?” Baelor prompted after a moment, putting his pen down and shifting to sit up a little. You nodded, clutching the pillow to you. “Would you like to hold my hand?” He asked, leaning forward to rest his hand palm up on the seat between you. You glanced down to it, swallowing harshly, then nodded. You reached out, hesitant, and placed your palm on top of his.
His hand was warm, the comforting sort, like the kind of heat that emanated from a hot water bottle. His palm was soft, but he had callouses here and there, like he used his hands for more than just writing. Did he play sports over the weekends? Did he have a manual labour job at some point? Did he do a lot of DIY at home? You wanted to know all of these things all of a sudden, wanted to know how his hands became the way they were the moment you first held them.
He didn’t say anything, just watched you carefully place your hand in his. Yours was smaller than his, soft in the way that hands became when one was diligent about moisturising them. Gently, he threaded his fingers through yours, turning your joined hands over so his was atop yours, then turning them back over. He caressed the back of your hand with his thumb, slow strokes, and dragged his eyes up your arm then to your face.
“How does this feel?” He asked quietly, voice hushed to match the new heaviness in the air.
“Lovely,” you sighed, holding his hand a little tighter. You had gotten used to it far too quickly. You did not want to let go now. It felt safe, right. “I like this. It makes me feel good. Makes me feel… chosen.”
The two of you sat there together in silence just like that. You held his hand, and he held yours right back. He softly caressed the back of your hand with his fingertips, watching you shiver occasionally at the silky touches, at the teasing little drags. You could not say anything, and he chose not to. You were hit with the sudden urge to lift your hands and kiss his. You wanted it so much you were blindsided by it. The embarrassment at your own feelings burned in your cheeks and you tightened your grip on him as if he could read your mind and would throw you off in an instant.
The two of you sat like that until the end of the session, absorbed in your own thoughts, softly feeling each other’s palms. When the clock struck the final possible minute, you quickly pulled your hand back, breathing in deeply and looking anywhere but at him. Baelor smiled, soft and kind, and reached over to gently pat you on the back of the shoulder.
“I’m very proud of you for taking these first steps,” he said simply, fully sincere. He stood and waited for you to pull your sandals on before opening the door for you. You were still hearing his words in your ears, still feeling all warm and mushy inside because he was proud of you. You had made progress, done something scary and made him proud in the process.
“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly, but your face couldn’t help breaking into a smile. “See you next time.”
“See you next time,” Baelor waved once then shut the door when you had disappeared around the corner. He was smiling too.
“Might I hold your hand again?” Baelor asked, slumped comfortably on the other side of the sofa. He had sat there at the start of the session rather than taking up his seat in the armchair, and you were all tucked up on the other side, watching him.
“Mhm,” you answered softly, reaching out without hesitance this time and threading your fingers through his. This was the third session where he had asked this, and you were beginning to expect it now. You sat a little closer to him than before, bringing his hand to your lap so you could hold it there, fiddle with his fingers and his rings as you spoke. You hadn’t realised how comforting it actually was to be holding his hand during the session, to have that warm presence just there that somehow made it easier to delve into the darkest and saddest parts of your mind.
It was a couple sessions later when you initiated for the first time. The two of you sat down, and before he could ask, you gently reached out and said, “would you… would you hold my hand?” Baelor smiled, the kind that shined in his eyes too, and he nodded, reaching out and gripping your hand firmly.
He wore a dark brown, almost maroon, shirt today, with white buttons. It looked soft, thick like a jumper, but you didn’t think it was wool. You wanted to feel it. Another thought you batted away quickly.
“Have you become more comfortable with this action, do you think?” He asked, caressing your hand gently with his thumb as he readied his pen to write on his notebook atop his leg.
“Yeah, I think so. It doesn’t feel so daunting now that I’ve done it,” you answered honestly, smiling shyly at him.
“That’s good to hear,” he responded, “I’m proud of you for taking initiative.” You beamed again, body alight with the praise, then he slowly unthreaded his fingers from yours and put his notebook and pen onto the table beside the sofa on his side. “Why don’t we move it along again? Why don’t you come and sit right here?” He patted the spot directly beside him, “Right by me.”
You gulped and nodded, swift and shaky, then slowly began shuffling over the sofa seats. He was smiling softly, encouragingly, and you moved until the side of your thigh pressed to his and you could feel the warmth of his body gently emanating against your side. Your breaths were shallow, too light in your chest, and you attempted to focus on anything but how nervous you felt.
You could smell his cologne, something cool scented that you enjoyed, that inadvertently soothed you. You kept your arms tucked close to you, your hands clasped tightly together and pressed to your stomach. He was looking down at you, watching you situate yourself back against the sofa, and then he carefully raised up his arm and lay it along the back of the sofa behind you.
“Would you be alright with me wrapping my arm over you?” He asked then, his voice almost a whisper, and you turned to look up at him. You could see the peppering of white in his beard closer here, could see the occasional little freckle on his skin and the flecks in his eyes that added so much dimension and beauty to them. You nodded because your throat was too thick for words. He nodded in return before moving his arm to come rest along your shoulders, his hand curling around your upper arm lightly.
His arm was a little heavy, but it was the comforting sort, the kind of weight that made everything feel real and secure. He tucked you up close to him, bringing you in even further so your shoulder pressed into his ribs under his arm and you were practically leaning your entire body into his side.
You were hesitant to allow it, worried you would somehow make him uncomfortable or put him off, but he seemed determined to tuck you against him, to wrap his arm tight and snuggle you into his side. You brought your legs up, bending them and tucking them against you on the other side to where he sat, and it leaned you even further into him. He hummed a little and you felt the rumble in his chest, the transfer of it into you.
You breathed slowly, sucking in lungfuls of his cologne, shivering into his warmth. You wondered if he ran hot. He must do with how warm he was. You brought up the hand not tucked against him and carefully splayed it onto his chest, a bold move but one that felt right despite the tremble in your arm. You tipped your head back a little so you could look up at him, and he pressed his chin down to ensure your gazes met.
“Is this alright?” You whispered, allowing your hand to spread over the soft material of his shirt just above his heart. He nodded, the smallest motion.
“Of course,” he answered kindly, voice as low as yours, then his free hand came up and began caressing your hair. You hummed softly with pleasure, your eyes fluttering a little. His hand was big and his fingers were careful, threading through your hair and caressing along your scalp. You shivered, full body, and he felt it, smiling a little to himself at the way you began snuggling a little further into him, your limbs beginning to fully relax. You allowed your head to rest against the place where his shoulder joined his chest, your cheek pressing into the material of his shirt and the thick muscle there. Your eyes had closed now and you just rested there in his arms. Eventually he rested his cheek on top of your head, taking soft breaths that ruffled your hair a little. He smelt your shampoo, the lovely scent of it, and allowed his own eyes to be closed.
“How does this feel?” He asked, the smallest whisper, and you only hummed in response at first, far too busy enjoying the closeness, the softness and the warmth of being in his arms.
“Really good,” you finally breathed out. “I could fall asleep right here.” He chuckled, low and soft and the motion of it in his body moved through you too, like a baby being gently rocked.
Then Baelor lifted his head a little before leaning down so he was a bit closer to your face and said, “would you like to sit on my lap?”
He felt you tense against him, threaded through with steel all over again. He felt you shift back, sit up a little so you weren’t as cradled against him, and your hair brushed against his chin as you tipped your head back, muttering a quiet, “what…”.
“You can refuse if you do not wish to. I don’t want to push you farther than you are ready for. But if you would like, then why don’t you try sitting in my lap for a little while.” He had that soft patient look in his eyes again, the one that showed gentleness, care, trust, and not one ounce of expectation or judgement. You sometimes wish you could take that look from his eyes and wrap it around yourself like a safety blanket, carrying it with you everywhere you go.
You chewed on your lip a little, instinctively fiddling with the fingers on his hand, twisting his rings around as you mumbled, “are you sure? I… I might be too heavy.” Baelor’s face softened even further at that, and he gently caressed the back of your shoulder, a warm and comforting pet.
“Well, why don’t you sit on my lap and we’ll find out? If you are, I’ll tell you.” He paused then, stopping his comforting caress, and he gently brought his hand around to nudge the underside of your chin until you were looking up into his eyes. “Even if you are, that is not a judgement on anything. It does not somehow take away from you, nor signify anything about you. You remain a beautiful young woman.” He could see your eyes go glassy, the way you chewed on your lower lip as it naturally began to pout a little more with your tears. You breathed shakily and nodded hesitantly, shifting forward to get on your knees.
Baelor placed one hand carefully on your waist, shifting towards where you had sat before to give you a bit more space to bring your knee over. You slotted it into the space between his thigh and the arm of the sofa. When you were straddling him, both his hands spanning on either side of your waist, he looked up at you. You looked concerned, chewing on your lip, a furrow to your brow. Your hands had naturally come to rest on his shoulders, your fingers clutching the strong muscles there a little tightly. You could tell he worked out even through the shirt.
“Just sit back on my knees for now, hm?” He prompted quietly, watching you nod quickly then rest yourself down onto his thighs. He resisted the urge to caress up your body, to run his hands over your sides and cup your face the way he would do a lover. You licked your lips and glanced up at his face, the worry clear in your eyes. “Is this alright?”
“Yes,” you breathed out quickly, hurriedly, as if to appease him, and he just raised an eyebrow while waiting for your real response. “It is, I promise. I’m just nervous. I don’t want to do anything wrong.” He nodded, caressing his thumb back and forth over your waist. Your mind honed in on the motion. You prayed he would never stop.
“What could you do wrong?” He asked, so similar to all those sessions ago, and you almost smiled. Actually, you did, just a little one.
“Not sure, knee you in the groin?” He chuckled at that, squeezing your waist a little, and shook his head.
“Hm, realistic, but as long as you try not to, then I think we’re safe. And even if you do, then I’ll know it was an accident, and it won’t change anything. Right?” He nudged, nodding as if to guide your answer.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Good. It’s alright to be nervous,” he continued, tilting his head back to look into your eyes. “Even in a real situation, many people are nervous when conducting actions like that. It’s perfectly normal. But communication and trust are very important, and the more experiences you have with your partner, the more comfortable you’ll become.” You nodded, blinking quickly as you met his eyes and the small smile he offered you again.
“Can… Can I hug you?” You asked hesitantly, feeling hot with bashfulness. Why in the world were you so nervous just to ask for things? You wanted to berate yourself, to swallow the words back, but when his smile brightened, as if he was proud of you for taking the initiative again, your brain instantly quieted.
“Of course, come here,” he slid his hands around to your back, waiting for you to lean forward and tuck yourself against his chest. You shuffled your hips down a little then snuggled up against his chest, fluttering your eyes shut as you took long slow breaths. You tucked your face into the side of his neck, wrapping your arms over his shoulders and pressing yourself right against him.
You loved everything about this moment. If you were to die now, you could be sure you at least died happy. He was so lovely and warm. Truly, like having the heating on in winter, cozy and soft and… perfect. His smell was lovely too, his cologne something cool-scented. You imagined if water had a smell, that’s what it would be like, clean and smooth. He was strong and muscular, a firm presence under you. His thighs and hips forced your own open wide, and his stomach, chest, shoulders, were all expansive and perfect for you to find refuge in. The place where you tucked your face now, the soft stretch of his neck, was warm and his cologne was stronger there, probably sprayed there just before he left this morning.
You could feel his beard brush against your ear when you shifted, and you couldn’t help yourself from letting out a little sigh of pleasure. You snuggled a little further into him, eyes fluttering a little but remaining closed as you somehow relaxed even further into his grip. Baelor ran a palm up your back, gently caressing you along your spine, his large hand spanning far. He sighed too, the soft breath rustling through your hair, and allowed himself to rest his cheek against the side of your head comfortably.
“Mmm, this is nice, isn’t it?” He said quietly, and you gave a small nod, humming softly again. “While I do not claim to speak for all men, I cannot imagine that many would complain at having the comforting weight of a pretty young woman on their lap.”
You felt your entire body go hot. The flush crept through you, pulsing in your stomach and core, then gently reaching its warmth into your legs and arms, all the way up to your cheeks and ears and down into your toes. You held onto him a little tighter, swallowing down the whimper that wanted to tremble out of you. Hearing him call you pretty might be everything you needed in your life and more.
The two of you sat like that for a long while, just enjoying your shared warmth and softness. He would occasionally murmur something in your ear, something to speak about or something to remember if this ever comes up in a relationship. The two of you would shift sometimes, just to get a little more comfortable, but it was relatively still and silent.
When the session was nearing its end, he rubbed his hand up and down your back again and murmured, “you’re a good girl. I’m proud of you for taking these steps for yourself.” Your hands clenched into his shirt, your entire body feeling ready to tremble. Your legs tightened around him, a strong pulse clenching in your core. You felt it searing your insides, in your chest and right through to your nipples. This time a breathy sound left your lips, like a strong exhale, and you were instantly filled with embarrassment at it, curling in on yourself even further.
But Baelor didn’t say anything, just paused his rubbing and pressed his palm a little harder into your back. You pulled back a little, suddenly feeling too hot, and you blinked quickly at him, your eyes still a little dazed and lost. Your lips were parted, and his own were open just so, soft but quick breaths falling from him. You looked right into his eyes, trembling properly now. His hand came up, caressing over your shoulder, his fingers grazing your neck before he cupped your cheek. His thumb stroked over the side of your face, along your cheekbone and just grazed the corner of your mouth. His fingers were threaded through your hair, splayed along your scalp, and you felt engulfed by him, totally in his control.
You licked your lips, the quickest flick of your tongue. You would have kissed him if you had any confidence. He watched the motion, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes. He would have kissed you if he had any less propriety and control.
The ticking of the clock signifying the end of session pulled you both out of whatever trance you had fallen into. He glanced in its direction, head tilting to the side and giving you a lovely view of his jaw, and you quickly slid off his lap, falling back onto the sofa beside him before standing and beginning to smooth out your hair and clothes. You felt like you had been caught doing something wrong. You weren’t quite sure why.
Baelor cleared his throat a little, smoothed his hands down his thighs then stood as well, gathering up his notebook and pen from the table beside the sofa and holding it close to himself. He smiled at you, attempting a comforting look, though it came out a little strained.
“I would usually sit and debrief with you for a bit but I’m afraid we got a bit distracted. We’ll continue next time, alright?” He asked kindly, watching you nod hurriedly, a bit of a panicked look in your eyes. You had pulled your shoes on again and were clutching the strap of your bag tightly. “Y/n,” he called to you, gathering your attention once more. He reached out and gently patted the back of your shoulder, his smile a little softer now. “Well done.”
You smiled in return, taking a deep breath and nodding. You looked into his eyes once more, blue and brown, but both soft and comforting. One look there and you could feel your entire chest become smooth and soft and relaxed. You nodded once more and headed out the door, knowing you would be thinking about that moment for a long time to come.
“I didn’t feel very good yesterday,” you murmured to Baelor, chewing on your lip as you sat curled up in your corner of the sofa. He sat on the other end again, one leg crossed over the other, slouched down as he usually was, notebook on his lap and pen scrawling away.
When you had entered that day, he could tell you needed to speak. He didn’t attempt to initiate anything, just smiled and gestured for you to sit then sat down himself and waited. You were wearing jogger bottoms and a hoodie today, grey and black, far more colourless than you would usually be. You had toed off your shoes and curled yourself up into the corner of the sofa, barely even looking at him.
“How are you?” He had asked once you had both settled in, voice quiet and silky in your ear, and you had shrugged at first.
“I didn’t feel very good yesterday is all,” you murmured, like it was nothing, but he nodded without saying a word. After a moment of silence, you continued. “Some of my friends were going to the beach and I was just feeling like crap about myself. I was so scared of having to wear a swimsuit, of having to be so open with my body that I couldn’t… I didn’t even go.” You shook your head and brought your knees up close to you, chewing lightly at your fingernail and keeping your eyes focused on the floor. You curled your arms around your shins and just kept yourself tucked up, safe, hidden.
Baelor watched you carefully, the picture of despair before him made his chest hurt. He wanted to reach out and pet your head again, to grip your chin and force you to meet his eyes, to kiss lightly at your face and- no. No he didn’t want to do any of that. He knew that just telling someone they were beautiful didn’t necessarily do anything. You need to learn to believe it yourself.
“I don’t know, it feels worse somehow. I thought I was doing better. That insecurity hasn’t been that bad in a while. I’ve been swimming and to the beach, but… I don’t know. Yesterday I just felt horrible and I couldn’t… could barely look at myself in the mirror.”
Baelor placed his pen down and moved to put the notebook on the table beside the sofa. His chest felt a little too tight, and he took a moment to breathe before sitting up properly and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He looked at you for a long while, waiting for your face to smooth out from the pained expression and for you to open your eyes to look at him again.
“Before I tell you anything else, I want you to know I only see a beautiful person in front of me. Inside and out.” His voice was quiet but full of conviction, and you felt it right in your chest. You blinked quickly, the tears overflowing, wet streaks down your cheeks. You nodded quickly, the hot lump in your throat rendering you incapable of speech, and swiped haphazardly at your cheeks and eyes. You opened your mouth as if to say something then shut it again, pursing your lips and licking your tears off them.
Baelor took the box of tissues and placed it between you, nudging it gently in your direction. You nodded in thanks and quickly grabbed one to dab at your face and eyes. Baelor cleared his throat and leaned back into his seat once more.
“I have some homework for you,” he began quietly once more when you looked a bit more settled and your breaths did not rattle through you.
“Ok,” you whispered, nodding and looking at him with wide, innocent, eyes.
“I want you to think of at least three things you like about yourself. Real things, things that you can see in yourself. And I want you to tell yourself about those things. Say that you like those things about yourself, at least once every morning and evening until our next session. Alright?” His eyes were firm again, his mouth set in a straight line, and he waited to see you nod before going on. You were hesitant, chewing on your lip and tugging on the strings of your hoodie, but you did eventually nod, glancing up at him in quick little flicks.
“Right, good. I have more though,” he continued, and you smiled a little to yourself. Of course he wouldn’t let it be that easy. “I want you to take some time in the evening, whether it be tonight or tomorrow, to strip down naked, and look at yourself in the mirror.”
You reared back a little, snapping your head to the side to stare at him with wide eyes. His expression did not change save for the slightest raise of his eyebrows. You spluttered a little, curling your hands close to your chest.
“I don’t think I can do that,” you told him quickly, shaking your head and chewing on your lip again.
“You can, and you will,” he affirmed, and his tone left no room for argument. You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him you truly couldn’t, but he shot you one look, hard and steely, and you snapped your lips closed once more. You were sure that with that look he could make the entire world listen to what he had to say. So you bit your lip and nodded, and he nodded in return. “Good.”
You wore a pretty dress this time. Baelor felt… bowled over by it. He had not seen you in a dress yet. Though it did not show on his face, at least he hoped it didn’t, he felt his breath catch in his throat a little. Your hair was mostly loose, a cascade over your shoulders, a few strands from the front pulled back to keep it clear of your face. You looked better than last time, healthier, smilier. You wore something of soft cotton or linen, a wonderful pastel butter yellow, soft and beautiful on your skin. It was a simple summer dress, something pretty and easy to run errands in, and you wore matching ankle socks which made him smile.
“How are you today?” He asked, resting his arm casually along the back of the sofa.
He wore a plain white shirt under a black cardigan today, simple and soft. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows giving you a wonderful view of his strong forearms. You felt like a demure Victorian maiden getting hot at the sight of them.
“Good. Really good. I went out for dinner with him a couple nights ago,” you told Baelor with a bright smile, hiding it a little behind your hand. He smiled too, nodding happily at your pure joy. It was lovely to see again. “And, you know what, if you tell yourself something enough times, you start believing it.”
“Ah, so you’ve been following through on your homework. That’s good to hear,” he perked up at that, picking up his pen once more and writing something in his notebook swiftly without even looking down at the paper.
“Mostly,” you told him hesitantly, looking a little embarrassed once more. You fiddled with a strand of your own hair, curling it around your finger and tugging on it gently.
“Mostly?” He prompted, raising one eyebrow in question.
“I’ve been doing what you said, picking out three things that I like about myself and telling myself that I like them every night. It’s been good. But…” you cleared your throat then, looking down at your lap as you mumbled, “I couldn’t get myself to do the other thing.” He paused, nodded once, wrote something in his notebook then looked at you again.
“Did you attempt it?” He asked.
“Sort of,” you nodded, “I stood in front of the mirror. And I looked at myself. I couldn’t… I couldn’t get naked. And I felt like crying every time I tried to say the words. I did eventually. But I couldn’t look at myself for very long.” You kept your head bowed, staring at your own lap rather than at him. You didn’t want to see his disappointment. You didn’t want to see his brow furrowed, his head shaking, a tut falling from his lips. He of course did none of those things.
“That’s alright,” he finally spoke, his voice quiet and comforting. He offered you a small smile when you glanced up to his face. “It’s a good start, I’d say.” You nodded in response but found you had nothing else to say.
Baelor stood up and walked over to the wall of windows. You followed him with your eyes, frowning a little when you noticed the thing he walked toward. It leaned against the wall but was covered in a brown cloth, and when he whipped it off, you realised it was a full length standing mirror. He brought it over to the open space between the windows and his armchair, standing it securely before turning to you.
“Come,” he beckoned, waving you over with one hand as the other sat comfortably in his pocket. You gaped at him, standing only because your body innately followed his orders. You padded over to him, hands sliding into the pockets over your dress and clenching into fists there to stop the trembling in your limbs. Despite your wariness, you still stood close to him, your arm brushing against his. You were careful not to tuck any closer despite how much you wanted to.
Baelor walked behind you, carefully placing his hands on your upper arms. His palms were warm and dry against your skin. He looked into your eyes in the mirror, waiting for you to nod to say you were comfortable before continuing. He walked you forward until you were in the centre of the mirror, reaching around to nudge your chin slightly to make sure you kept your head up and your eyes on the reflection. Your face felt too hot. Then he let go of you, not stepping back but not holding on either. The smell of his cologne stayed in your nostrils though, something hot and a little spicy today.
“Right, look at yourself,” he guided quietly. He watched on carefully, making sure you followed his instructions. He watched you peruse your eyes up and down yourself, something hesitant and a little pained in them. “Good,” he whispered, before carefully dragging his fingertips down your arms. You felt them touch the curves of your elbows, felt the whisper of them on your forearms, and you shivered. He grasped your wrists and pulled your hands from your pockets, placing them at your sides before removing his grip and putting his own hands into his pockets.
“I want you to look yourself in the eye, and I want you to say, ‘I am beautiful’. Can you do that?” He was patient, so so patient, you thought, and you wanted to do this for him. He probably would have told you to do it for yourself if you had voiced the thought, but you felt it anyway. You gulped, a harsh movement in your throat, and nodded. You met your own gaze in the mirror and trembling said, “I am beautiful.”
Your voice came out a whisper, hesitant and stilted, but the words were out in the air now. You glanced up in the mirror and he was nodding, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes, and you wanted to bathe in it.
“Wonderful,” he murmured, “once more.”
“I am beautiful.” Your voice was more confident now, more firm, and you even nodded a little, standing up straighter. Perhaps if you pretended it was true, it might feel like it. Again he nodded, pacing a little behind you.
“If you feel comfortable, and only if, you could try taking off your dress,” he broached. He stood just behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. You couldn’t feel him per se, just his presence at your shoulder, and you blinked quickly up at his reflection. You wrung your hands together, looking down as you contemplated it. You could do it. You knew you could. You could.
You glanced up again, nodded, then reached back to grasp at your zipper. Your fingers were a little clumsy, slipping off the small thing, but eventually you managed to grasp on with a blush burning in your cheeks and pulled it down. You slid your arms out of the off-the-shoulder straps and then pushed the dress down until it fell at your feet.
Your eyes were clenched shut. You couldn’t look in the mirror knowing he was looking at you. You didn’t want to see anything akin to disappointment, to disgust and repulsion, on his face. You did not want to see pity, to see that look that said, “oh poor thing. No wonder no one wants her.”
You shivered a little at the cool air and crossed your arms tightly over yourself. You were wearing a pair of skin-coloured safety shorts, and your favourite go-to bra. You were not naked, but you felt it. Your breaths shook through you.
“Will you open your eyes?” Baelor whispered, and you felt him closer now, this gentle warmth at your back. You wanted to shake your head. You wanted to tell him no, that you could not, that you would put your dress back on and sit on the sofa and cry as much as you wanted. But you didn’t. You nodded, and carefully pried your eyes open.
You looked at his reflection before your own, and he was… he was smiling. His face was open, bright, proud. His eyes crinkled at the corners and his smile was breathtaking. You wanted to hug him. Rather, you wanted him to hug you, to wrap you up in his arms and tell you you were safe and beautiful and everything was going to be alright.
You shivered once more then looked at yourself. You ran your eyes down your neck, over the slopes of your shoulders and arms. You looked at your bra straps and the cups holding onto your chest, the expanse of your stomach and thighs, the waistband of your shorts and the crinkles of your knees. You looked over it all, and before he could prompt you, you swallowed and murmured, “I am beautiful.”
He sucked in a breath and nodded, whispering a “good” as you chewed on your lip and nodded too, the tears filling your eyes. Your face crumpled, and you felt a bit stuck. You could not look away, but you wanted to. You could not believe the words you had said, but oh how you wanted to.
Baelor stood just behind you, this young woman who could not see what he saw, and he felt this desperate sense of urgency inside of him. He wanted to hold your face in his hands, to curl you close and look into your eyes and tell you how beautiful you were. He wanted to whisper it right into your brain, to say it right to the source, to press it into your mind so you were forced to believe him. His breath was too thick in his chest as he looked at the tear tracks begin to shine on your cheeks. He… he wanted to kiss you. Yes, he wanted to turn you around, to wrap his arm around your back and hoist you to him, to cup your cheek and kiss you until you were breathless, until he was breathless.
Baelor blinked quickly, rubbing a hand over his mouth and looking away. No, he did not want those things. He did not want those things because wanting them was wrong, was unprofessional, was inappropriate, was unethical. You trusted him. You came to him for help and guidance, and he could not want that without betraying everything else. He should… he should separate from this. He should tell you that this could no longer continue, that he was too emotionally invested and it was not healthy for either of you. He should refer you to someone, perhaps pass you along to Rowan in the offices near Ashford or that new therapist from Lys. He should… he should let you g-
You turned away from the mirror, your hands clutched tight to your chest. Your face had well and truly crumpled now, and you were shaking with your sobs. Without a word, you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his torso and pressing your face to his chest. You cried into the warm shirt there, eyes shut as you shook with your tears. He shushed you gently, his own pain at the sight clenching in his chest. He instantly wrapped his arms around you, bands over your back and shoulders. He tucked you close, his voice whispering softly against the top of your head, his lips pressing gently to your hair.
“It’s alright,” he soothed, “it’s alright.” You trembled in his grip. “Well done, darling. I’m very proud of you. Well done.”
Baelor held you tight and continued murmuring softly to you, rubbing one hand up and down your spine as the other kept you tucked up against him. He rested his head against yours softly, feeling you slowly quiet down, allowing his own heart to settle with yours. But when he glanced back up, when he met his own eyes in the mirror behind you, he only saw himself on the edge of a precipice, teetering far too close to the edge, only the gentlest push away from falling off…
You were sitting in his lap again, sideways on this time, leaning back against the arm of the sofa. You wore a white tank top and a pair of flowy black linen trousers, your fingers fiddling with the drawstrings.
“Is kissing really that good?” You asked quietly, your shoulders curled in a little. He rested one arm over your knees and caressed the outer side of your leg just so, his thumb running back and forth on your thigh.
“What do you mean?” He asked, brows furrowing a little as he turned to look at your face.
“I mean like… is it really that good? People are always making out and stuff… is it really that nice?” You chewed on your lip as you looked up at him, truly seeking an honest answer, and he smiled and nodded.
“Kissing can be wonderful. Done right, it can be extremely pleasurable,” he informed you, not stopping in his caresses. You nodded, still chewing on your lip, and he waited patiently for whatever it was you clearly wanted to say.
“The guy I’ve been seeing… he tried to kiss me last night.” You finally blurted it out, looking up at him with wide worried eyes. “We were on his sofa watching a film, and it was really nice. We even cuddled for a bit, and I felt… I felt so good. We were talking about something that happened in the movie, and he was smiling and looking at me, and then he started leaning in, and I just- I panicked, and I turned my head so he kissed my cheek. Then I pretended like I thought that was what he meant to do and just sort of cooed about how sweet he was. I kissed his cheek in return and like ten minutes later I made some pathetic excuse to leave and ran.” You groaned loudly and pressed your face into your hands, shaking your head in despair. “I can’t believe I did that. I must look so crazy and pathetic to him. For the first time in my life I have a guy who actually wants to kiss me and I can’t even do it.”
“Sh, do not say things like that. We do not call ourselves mean things in this office, hm?” He nudged quickly, grasping one of your wrists and tugging your hand down so he could look at your face. You kept the other hand up for a moment before dropping it too and meeting his eyes. You nodded but didn’t take back your words and he sighed. “There is nothing wrong with what you did. It may have been better for you to communicate openly, to tell him that you weren’t comfortable, or perhaps you didn’t know what you were doing, but there is nothing wrong with avoiding a situation you did not feel ready for. I do not want to hear you berate yourself for it any further.”
You nodded, sighing and allowing your shoulders to slump a little as you relaxed back against the arm of the sofa. You returned to fiddling with your drawstrings, glancing back up to Baelor’s face every now again.
“I’m just scared I’ll fuck it up. I have zero clue on what to do. Like, zero.” You looked him right in the eye as you said it, nodding your head as if to emphasise the point. “I know you put your mouths together but after that… nothing.” Baelor hummed in acknowledgment and turned back to you. His notebook and pen were on his other side, carefully out of your view, and he put his pen down once more. He looked up at you, smoothing a hand over your knee as he said,
“Would you like to practice?”
You blinked quickly, excitement surging in your chest. You bit your lip, hands tightening into fists as your insides began to flutter. Perhaps it was stupid and manipulative, desperate and naive, to have wished for this. You had wanted him to suggest this, had wanted him to want to teach you. You trusted him more than anyone, you had quickly realised, and the evening before had cemented it. You could only tell him these things, could only hope that he would help you with these things.
“Yes please,” you whispered, the smallest smile on your face as you reached out and softly traced the collar of his shirt. He was wearing another button-up, this one in pale blue, and it was impossibly smooth under your hands.
“Right, why don’t you straddle me again, like before, hm?” He prompted, shifting a little as you nodded and moved off. You stood just in front of him, your knees brushing his, and you looked down on him. His head tilted back to meet your eyes, and one of his hands automatically came up to rest on your hip. Your breath hitched a little in your throat, that simple touch searing, and you felt everything inside you tighten.
Baelor’s eyes drifted down over your body as you moved forward, bringing your knee up and into the space between his thigh and the sofa. His eyes traced down over your breasts, heaving a little with your quick breaths. Your nipples had hardened, and he could see them poking out through your bra and the thin tanktop. His mouth watered. He wanted to lean forward and press his mouth right there, to close his eyes and focus on the sounds that you may let out.
He gulped harshly, forcing his eyes away, and ran his hand down the side of your leg as you brought the other up and settled down on his lap. You sighed softly, running your hands along his shoulders, back and forth, before finally settling them on either side of his neck. You looked right at him now, not bashful little glances but an unabashed stare that traced over his salt and pepper beard, over the strong bridge of his nose, the small freckles that decorated his skin like kisses from the sun. You wanted to kiss each one, to press your mouth more places than just his lips.
His eyes were bright, colourful, and you looked right into them as you leaned a little closer, moving purely on instinct. His palms traced up your sides, one settling on your hip, the other continuing up and to your neck, then cupping the side of your jaw. You gasped, his grip was firm and tipped your head back just a little. His lips parted as he flicked his eyes down to your mouth. Your fingertips traversed up from his collar and gently touched the warm skin of his neck, the lightest trace, and he shivered a little. You felt it through you, in the places where your thighs touched his ribs, and you sighed breathily, leaning in even closer until your chest touched his and the tip of your nose whispered against his.
“Will you kiss me, please?” You asked, your voice barely a breath. You were trembling in his grip, and he let go of your hip to wrap his arm around your waist and hoist you even closer, until your core pressed right into his stomach. A small gasp left you. You felt hot all over, tingles turning to flurries in your stomach and chest. He was firm there, and you tilted your hips a little to press your core even harder there.
“Close your eyes,” he murmured, and you felt the barest hint of his lips against yours. You breathed shakily again, a small sound falling from your mouth, and his arm around you tightened, his grip on your face became firmer, and as your eyelids fluttered shut, he fully pressed his mouth to yours.
You hadn’t expected to be so… aware. You could feel everything. The tip of his nose pressed into the crease of your cheek. His face was warm and you could feel it against your own skin. You could feel his lashes brush the high points of your cheeks. His hands were searing on your body, somehow hotter now that his mouth had joined yours. His lips were wet, hot, moving gently against yours, coaxing your mouth in small suctioning motions. His beard was rough against your face, ticklish at your chin and cheeks and upper lip, and you almost felt overstimulated by it, torn between pulling away to make it stop and pressing harder into it. You chose the latter.
A small moan left your mouth and Baelor groaned a little, the sound rumbling through you and triggering another little sigh. Your fingers curled at the nap of his neck, clenching a little in his hair. Your body rolled a little against him, your breasts pressing into his chest and your nipples rubbing into the fabric of your bra. Baelor’s hand slid further back and into the hair at the base of your neck, his fingers clenching a little as a high pitched sound left your mouth.
He pulled back for a second, not far, just enough for him to be able to push back in again, a little more hurried, a little more fervent. He coaxed your mouth open with his lips, and you gasped, twitching against him at the feeling of his tongue slowly licking into you. Your nails pressed into his scalp, scraping there, and he shivered, groaning harshly into your mouth.
You pulled back quickly, huffing and heaving in his lap. Your eyes fluttered but you didn’t want to open them fully just yet. You were… overwhelmed. Your heart raced and your hands trembled and you so desperately wanted to dive back in again, to taste his mouth until you died from lack of oxygen. He tasted like the green Extra gum, sweet spearmint, and you hoped you tasted half as good to him in return.
Baelor looked at you with heavy eyes. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He felt… wild. Yes, that was the word. He felt like a wild animal. He wanted to grasp you by the back of your neck and pull you in again, to devour your mouth, to lick your tongue like a lion with a kill. He wanted to thrust his hands under your shirt and feel along your skin, warm and smooth and simply perfect under his palms. He wanted to know the weight of your breasts, to feel the ripple of your arse against him. He wanted to know how soft the skin of your inner thighs was and how wet your core could get. He wanted to run his fingers there, to press against your clit until you shook. He wanted to taste everything.
“That was…” you panted, eyes shining and sparkling. He had never seen your eyes like that. They were full of wonder and joy and made him want to kiss you again.
“That was very good,” he finally broke out, licking his lips and nodding, attempting to recapture a professional tone as he looked up at you. You shifted on his lap, not back or forward, just pressing down a little, and his breath hitched. He hoped you couldn’t feel the situation brewing…
“Yeah,” you sighed, blinking slowly but still looking into his eyes. “Yeah, it-it felt good.”
“Kissing can be quite instinctual sometimes,” he told you softly, allowing himself to relax into the sofa as you softened in his arms and nodded, brushing your nose against his without thinking. He caressed your cheek with his thumb, feeling the soft skin there. “You follow each other, listen to what seems to pleasure the other person. It is give and take.” You nodded again, glancing between his eyes and his mouth. Now that you had caught your breath, you wanted to kiss him again.
“Can we do it again?” you asked quickly, heat burning under your skin as you bit your lip and curled in on yourself a little.
“Yes,” Baelor sighed out just as hurriedly, and then he was leaning in once more.
Baelor sipped slowly from the crystal glass, his eyes unfocused where he looked out of the windows. He had pulled the curtains back after you left from another session, as if a vampire punishing himself with the sun. But the view was lovely at sunset, and he needed something to look at as he contemplated. He did not usually indulge at the office, but it had seemed necessary and the decanter was calling his name.
The clinks were satisfying, the stopper, the pour, the stopper again. It was a lovely amber in the glass, expensive even in its colour, and it slipped down his throat like water, hot and smooth. He drank the first glass quickly, one throw back, but was now savouring the second. He rested his elbows on the desk, slumped forward a little as he thought back to your session.
He was getting far too used to you crawling over to him now, to your sweet eyes as you batted your lashes at him and asked if you could sit in his lap again. He should have started saying no to you. He should have started building that separation back up again. You said you felt comfortable in his lap now, that you really liked it, it made you feel safe and honest. He should have stopped it right then when you had carefully admitted that in a whisper against his neck as you snuggled into him. He should not have wrapped his arms around you and hugged you a little tighter. He should not have pressed his mouth to your hair in a silent kiss and allowed his eyes to flutter shut.
You were becoming too close, too dependent, and it would not do. It was his duty as a professional to stop this at once and pull away, to refer you to someone else. Not just because you were too dependent, but because his own mind was straying. He looked at you sometimes and found it impossible not to smile. He felt things in his chest that he should not have been feeling as an objective professional. His hands were always tight with the need to reach out and touch you. His lips were always tingling with the need to kiss you.
Baelor sighed, clenched his eyes shut, and shook his head. He took another long sip from the glass, rubbing a hand over his face. He was not viewing you as a client anymore, and that was the most dangerous part of it all.
He thought back to the session earlier, to your face, the way your eyes lit up as you spoke about this man you were seeing.
“It’s been really good, Baelor! Really! We went out for dinner the other night, and he held my hand, and we went for a stroll after and he wrapped his arm around me and I didn’t even flinch. And… and he even kissed me goodbye. It was small and soft but it was a real kiss!” You giggled then, clenching your hand in the lapel of his blazer as you told him all the news excitedly. How odd that he should be happy and sad hearing this at the same time. Your excitement was beautiful, infectious, and he felt proud that you had come so far since your sessions began. He felt proud at having had even the smallest part in building your confidence. But he also felt shamefully jealous of this man, whoever he was, and how he got to do all these things with you.
“That’s wonderful news,” he had told you, softly caressing a strand of your hair, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Yeah… yeah it is,” and you smiled so brightly, giggling a little with your giddiness, and it took an otherworldly sort of strength to stop him from leaning in and kissing you. “I think things are getting serious. I can’t really believe it but… he likes me. Like, he really likes me. I guess I never thought it would happen.” Tears had gathered in your eyes and he had simply held you as you cried, daintily wiping one from your cheek before you pressed your face to his neck again and sighed softly.
There were a million things he had wanted to say in that moment. He had wanted to tell you that you deserved all the love there was to be given. He had wanted to say that he believed it, that he believed everyone was in love with you, because how could they not be? He had wanted to tell you that… that he loved you.
Baelor clenched his eyes shut again and drank what remained of his glass before gulping down another. He picked up his pen and quickly wrote at the bottom of the page, “SEND FOR REFERRAL”. He underlined it three times, then slammed the notebook shut.
You were wearing a red dress. Perhaps it was to torture Baelor, a punishment for not following through and referring you on to another therapist. It was another summer dress, vibrantly red, softly flowing around your shins. You seemed to favour off the shoulder straps, this one having lovely puffy and ruched short sleeves, and he could almost imagine the dress sliding down your body, piling on the floor at your feet.
You were back to your old positions, you curled up in the corner of the sofa, and him in his armchair, attempting some form of separation lest he get too lost again. But this felt worse somehow, because now he had a clear view of you. He could see your ankles and smooth shins where the dress had ridden up. He could see the goosebumps on your arms and the place where your earring was stuck in your hair. And he could see the way you chewed at your lip, looking at him nervously as if there was something on the tip of your tongue that you were attempting to gather the courage to say.
“I-” you began, then swiftly stopped. You glanced up at him and then shook your head, bringing your hand up and chewing at the side of your finger. “Nothing,” you murmured, waving your other hand in the air and looking back down to the floor.
Baelor put his pen down and cleared his throat, waiting until you were looking at him before raising his eyebrows to prompt you into speaking. It was that look, the expectant one, the one that would have even the most disciplined of monks crumbling in their vows of silence.
“Stop looking at me like that, it makes me want to tell you everything,” you grumbled, scowling a little. Baelor chuckled, shaking his head and sliding his hand over his mouth before resting it there, leaning into it on the arm of his chair as he watched you.
“You should attempt to do so then,” he answered wryly, raising his eyebrow again as he waited for you to finally become forthcoming during this session.
“Why are you sitting over there again?” You asked instead, looking back to the spot he usually took up then back to him. He paused a moment, jaw clenching for the smallest second (though hidden well behind the cover of his beard).
“So I can see you better,” he finally answered, shrugging as if it meant nothing. You nodded, earnest, and he felt a twinge of guilt for the lie. Then you snorted a chuckle.
“You know what? That makes you sound like the wolf from red riding hood,” you giggled, hiding your laugh behind your hand and looking at him with sparkling eyes. He smirked, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly but unable to hold off his smile at your joy. He much preferred seeing you like this, especially compared to the nervous wreck from moments before.
You chewed on your lip again when your laughs subsided. You rubbed a hand down your face, shook your head, then looked up at him from under your lashes as you said, “can you come sit here again? I like it better that way.”
He didn’t move instantly. It was a war inside him, the desperate desire to do as you asked, and the weaker, sensible, side of him that told him to stay put, to tell you that it would be better to remain this way. He could see worry begin to descend in your eyes at his inaction, could see the gnawing at your lip become harsher, and that sensible side of him failed once more.
Baelor stood and moved over to the sofa, sitting down on the other end and settling his notebook in his lap. Perhaps if he kept his notebook there this time, and didn't allow you to settle on his lap, then everything would end up alright. You smiled a little once he was sat, and he felt it like a kiss on his heart.
You pulled your knees up close to your chest and he could see your toes poking out from under your dress. You fiddled with your fingers on your lap and glanced up at him one more time before you blurted,
“I think he wants to sleep with me.”
Baelor paused where he had been twisting his ring around, eyebrows raising and eyes widening as he met your eyes.
“Oh,” he breathed out, nodding, pausing to pick up his pen and twirl it around once.
“I… I think so. Last night, I went over to his place again. We watched a movie, had a cuddle, it was… it was amazing, as usual.” Your eyes were off in the distance, a distracted but warm smile on your mouth. “We kissed, for a while. Like, properly. Like, his mouth went places other than mine.” You felt heat burn through you as you told him, glancing back to Baelor as you pressed a hand to your hot cheek. “He… he kissed down my neck and his hands started moving around, you know, like-like he started feeling me up and it was really nice. He asked me if I wanted to go to his room to get more comfortable. I panicked and said I had an early morning so I had to leave. He’s so nice. He’s like, the absolute sweetest guy ever. I don’t know why I keep lying to him about this stuff but I just feel like if I tell him how scared I am, he won’t want me anymore.”
Baelor pursed his lips and nodded, writing in the notebook again before looking at you. Your eyes were hesitant, looking to him for guidance, assurance, anything really.
“Is someone who would be angry about their partner being inexperienced the kind of person you would want to be with?” He asked after a while, carefully enunciating each word. Your eyes widened a fraction, lips parting, and you lifted your head to look at him properly. It should not have been such an epiphany but it still felt groundbreaking.
“I mean, of course not,” you answered, shaking your head and pursing your lips for a moment. “But I don’t think it’s about that either. In my head, I know he wouldn’t dump me. Honestly, I think it would be the opposite. I think he would be really kind about it all. But the anxious irrational side of my head feels like I just can’t. It’s not about him being nice or not, it’s about me not being able to do it. I don’t want to have the experience with him like that.”
You glanced up at Baelor with worried eyes. It felt wrong to admit that somehow, that you wanted to be picky and choosy about this when you should just be grateful that someone wanted to be with you in the first place.
Baelor hummed and nodded again, brows furrowing a little in thought, and you scooted down in your seat a little to watch him. His hair was a little neater today despite his habit of running his hand through it. His beard had been trimmed recently, you could tell now, and the intense desire to feel it against your own cheek hit you so suddenly you went breathless. His lashes fluttered prettily when he blinked, and those eyes, blue and brown, warm and cold, were the perfect reflections of the balance that seemed to live within him.
“Hm, that is rather tricky. I suppose you need to decide if you want to eventually push through this, obviously not pressuring yourself but working on it until you feel comfortable, to have the experience with him. Or if you wish to break it off and try with someone else.” Though his tone was careful, not unkind, you felt as if it was so final.
You nodded first, pursing your lips and then pressing them tight together as tears began to burn at your eyes. Your face crumpled slowly and you pressed it to the backs of your knees, shaking your head as you sucked in a wet, crackling, breath. Then you lifted your head and shifted, slowly crawling closer to him until you were kneeling right beside him on the sofa.
“Can I please have a hug?” You asked, your voice small and watery as the tears continued to pour. You sniffled as you waited and Baelor’s face contorted with pain. He nodded quickly and pushed his notebook to the side, bringing you into his arms. He hushed you quietly, wrapping both arms around you, one hand softly petting the back of your head as you burrowed your face into his neck and shoulder and cried quietly.
He kept you there until your sniffling quieted and the hand that had clenched at the collar of his button-up loosened a little. You pulled back to look him in the eye, but your faces were impossibly close. You could feel his breaths brushing lightly against your nose and mouth. You reached up with one trembling hand and wiped at your cheek and undereye. Your nose brushed against his lightly, and you blinked once, slow and long.
“Would you… would you do it with me?” You asked, voice hushed and small. Baelor stiffened a little under you as he attempted to comprehend what you were truly asking. His eyes flicked up from your lips and to your own. His hand stilled on your back.
“Y/n…” he said your name as a warning, but it sounded far too lovely from his mouth for you to heed it. You rolled your lips against one another and shifted a little in his lap, pressing impossibly closer, until your face was all he could see.
“Please, Baelor,” you begged, voice soft and breathy. He could feel it almost against his lips, and his eyes fluttered closed at the sound, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed harshly. You begged far too prettily for it to be anything other than seductive, anything other than a punishment. “I trust you more than anyone, especially for this.”
Baelor’s eyes clenched a little where they had shut, his breaths harsher now. His throat moved again, and you followed it greedily with your eyes, suddenly desperate for it all. Gods, you were hot with want. It was a fire in your core, pulsing hot at the apex of your thighs and in tingling sparks in your breasts. You shifted your hips again, not thinking, not knowing how it dragged you right over his cock, hard and pulsing under his trousers and underwear, how it made him want to bite down on the naked skin of your shoulder.
“It would not be right,” he finally managed to grit out, his hands coming down to settle on either side of your waist. You worried he would push you away, but his grip on you only tightened, neither pushing nor pulling.
“You would be helping me, please,” you begged again, your breaths shuddering along his mouth and chin. He wanted to open his lips and suck them in, wanted to swallow everything you had to give.
“I…” but he could not continue because somehow your mouths were joined together. Somehow his tongue was pressed past your lips, licking strong and wet into the heat there, tasting the fruit flavoured gum you had been chewing on just before the session.
You moaned into his mouth, small and quiet, but it made everything from his neck down pulse hot and had him dragging you even closer to him. He tried not to hurry as he kissed you, tried to maintain a steady pace, deep and dragging with each movement of his lips, but it became increasingly difficult.
You felt hot all over, like your skin was touched by the sun, and everything inside you was electrified, sensitive to every breath and graze. His arm was strong where it wrapped around your waist to drag you closer. You were straddling him, the dress ridden up to expose your knees, and the motion of him moving you closer dragged your core right over where his cock had hardened along his leg. You were wet under your panties, slick in a way that moved your lips against each other and lightly teased your clit. Your cunt pressed right into the seams over his zipper and you let out a high-pitched keen, your mouth falling open against his. The drag of it, the pressure right there, it was electric.
He did it again, grasped your hips in his hands and dragged you back then forward again, pressing down a little more. Again that feeling, that lovely clenching inside you, the wet pulsing and rubbing feeling. He felt your moan against him, your hot damp breath over his lips, and he kissed you again until you were breathless and tingling from the rub of his beard.
“If we are going to do this,” he finally panted out, pulling away from your mouth to reach up and begin pushing your hair out of your face. “We are going to do it properly, hm?” He nudged your nose with his, making sure you were looking in his eyes when you nodded frantically. “I’m going to teach you, and you’re going to communicate. You’re going to tell me if something feels good, if something feels bad, if something hurts or you want to do it differently. Understood?” You nodded once more and licked your lips.
“Yes, yes I will,” you hurried out, sitting up and resting your hands on his shoulders. He groaned softly, hands flexing on you, and nodded once.
“Right, stand up,” he ordered, patting you on the side and watching you quickly scramble off him, huffing and puffing as if you had run a mile. The movement of your chest made your breasts push against the dress and it took significant willpower not to reach out and grasp them.
Baelor followed after you, standing up to his full height and gazing down at you. Your hair was dishevelled now, your eyes and lips glossy, and your dress had become rumpled and wrinkled. But when you looked up at him with such trusting and expectant eyes, he could not help himself from leaning down and giving you a quick, chaste, kiss on the lips before pulling back and refocusing.
“Depending on the situation, you may undress yourself, or your partner may undress you. It happens in the moment, and can depend on how fast or slow you are going, but it does not hurt to communicate here either.” As Baelor spoke, his hands went up to his own shirt, slowly beginning to unbutton and exposing the white vest he wore underneath. You stepped closer to him then, licking your lips and reaching out to caress the backs of his hands.
“Can- can I do that?” You asked, hesitant and small, but he smiled appreciatively and nodded, removing his own hands and instead busying them in caressing the skin of your upper arms and shoulders. You shivered at the feeling.
Carefully, you undid each button, moving all the way down to his waistband and pulling up to untuck the shirt. You pushed the sides open and carefully touched along his chest and stomach over the vest, feeling the soft material and the firm muscle underneath. He shrugged the shirt off and tossed it onto the sofa, leaving you to gawp at his arms. They were big, thicker than you were expecting and was belied by his shirts. You carefully splayed your palm on one, feeling the soft skin there, and squeezed a little, blushing hot when he chuckled.
Baelor reached down and undid his belt, pulling it from the loops and tossing it where his shirt was. You gulped at the motion, eyes dragging down his abdomen and to the place where you could see something pushing against his trousers. You reached out and pulled his vest from his waistband as well, gathering the white material up and up until it was bunched in your hands and you could begin pulling it up his torso. You dragged your knuckles up the lines of his stomach, up to the definition of his chest, and held your arms aloft so he could grip the vest and take it fully off. When that too was tossed on the sofa, you allowed yourself free reign, pressing your palms to his chest, to the scraggly hairs there that were the same mix of dark brown and grey.
You could see freckles here and there too, how his skin had gone softer as he had aged, and you carefully dragged your nails along his stomach. He shivered, huffing out a breath as he felt the scratching down over his stomach and toward his waistband. You followed his happy trail. You had finally felt a happy trail, you thought giddily, and you just allowed yourself to rub back and forth along the hair there until he was reaching down to grip your wrists.
You glanced up at him then, a new openness and almost-smiling quality to your mouth. You blinked quickly and flipped your hands so you could loosen his grip from your wrists and grab his instead. You brought his hands to your body, gulping as you placed them on your waist.
“Will you take off my dress please?” you asked, and he nodded, slowly dragging his palms up your sides, taking a moment to just cup your breasts over the dress. Your nipples rubbed against the inside of your bra as he did it, and you let out a shaky breath.
Baelor hooked his fingers into the neckline of your dress, sliding his fingers out to the side and stretching the elastic so you could pull first one arm out then the other. He held onto the neckline and brought it down, stretching it over your breasts then dragging it down your stomach, over the curves of your hips and arse and then down your legs. Each new inch of skin exposed was another he ate with his eyes, absorbing the details of pores or freckles or marks or hairs. When the dress was at your feet, you stepped out of it and he picked it up, gently draping it on the sofa beside his own clothes.
He looked back to you, to the white bandeau bra and panties, to the wet spot he could see there that made his mouth salivate. He reached out and placed his palms on your waist again, flat to bare skin, and you shivered at the searing warmth. He dragged his hands up and down your sides, feeling along the skin, heating you up further, and your shaky breaths left from parted lips.
Baelor leaned down and kissed you once more, that same soft chaste style, then pulled away to nudge his head in the direction of the floor.
“Lie down,” he ordered, pulling away from you to grab a cushion from the sofa and drop it on the floor for your head. You nodded, getting down on your knees first. You looked up at him, gulping at the angle. He looked impossibly taller like this. You paused there, watching his hands go to the button of his trousers, flicking it open before pinching the zipper and dragging it down. You were fluttering, in your stomach, in your veins. He paused there to toe off his shoes, nudging them off to the side before gripping the waistband of his trousers and pushing them off.
You watched him as he had watched you, greedily. He wore black underwear, the tight shorts kind that had seams around the bulge area. You could see that he was hard under them, could see his cock pressing harshly against the fabric. You licked your lips, trembling, and watched him bend a little to cup your cheek with his hand. You tilted your head back to look at him, but he bent at the waist and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. You preened at it, going warm in the chest, and shuddered with pleasure.
He stepped back and held up a finger to you, then moved around the sofa towards his desk. You watched him as much as you could from where you leaned, but you only got a lovely view of the tan skin sprawled along his back and his firm buttocks under the black fabric. He opened a desk drawer, rummaged around, grabbed something, then shut it and walked back over. You traced his legs with your eyes this time, the strong muscles of his thighs, the tight lines that moved up and down from his knees, the black hairs that dusted him all over.
Baelor placed the thing down on the edge of the sofa and you realised it was a condom, the foil wrapper crinkling a little. You hadn’t even thought about that in your desperation, and you felt a zap of embarrassment through you. Baelor kneeled down in front of you then, cupping your neck on either side and kissing you, licking into your mouth and emptying the thoughts from your head. You ran your hands down his chest, taking comfort from the warm skin. He pulled back, flicking his eyes down to your bra then tracing the band that lay just under your breasts.
“Do you want to take this off?” he asked, running his thumb over the curve of it, over where your nipple was firm under the fabric and you let out a breathy sound as you nodded. He hooked his fingers under it and dragged it over your breasts, watching them as he raised it up and over your outstretched arms. You shivered, the cool air brushing places no man had ever seen before, and you raised your hands quickly to hide behind them. Baelor didn’t say anything, just reached up and caressed your cheek as you clenched your eyes shut.
You felt scared suddenly, scared at him seeing such intimate parts of you, parts that you worried would disappoint him. He leaned forward, a soft kiss to your forehead, to your left cheek, to your right, to the bridge of your nose, and when your eyes fluttered open again, he nudged your nose with his.
“You do not have to do anything. You can put your clothes back on and leave. You can leave the bra on and continue. Tell me how you’re feeling.” You gulped and nodded, slowly moving your hands away and resting them on his shoulders instead.
“I want to continue. Please. I just… Do you think I’m ugly?” Your eyes were a little teary as you asked it, your lower lip trembling, and his hands tightened on you. His eyes flashed, his brow creasing with concern, and he traced your bottom lip with his thumb.
“I think you are beyond beautiful. I think you are stunning, and sexy. But I want you to think that too.” He traced his thumb down, watching your lip bounce back into place before moving it down your chin, to the underside of it and down the middle of your neck. Down it went, over your chest and to the space between your breasts, the flat of your sternum. Then the thumb followed the curve of your left breast, pressing into the underside before pushing up and simply feeling the soft flesh there. “Anyone would be lucky to see you in this way,” he murmured, and you shivered.
Baelor leant down and pressed a feather-light kiss to your jaw. His lips pressed another and another along it until he reached your ear. He kissed under the lobe, a soft spot just behind it that reacted to his hot breath like water on hot coals. He kissed down your neck, big, open-mouthed, kisses that had his tongue pressing out and licking the skin. His teeth gently caught some skin between them, rolling it back and forth before letting it go and kissing down.
You allowed him to push you back until you were slowly being laid down, your head settled comfortably against the cushion. Your eyes fluttered closed as you focused on the sensation of his hot mouth on the plush skin of your breasts and his beard rubbing. You felt his lips close around your nipple, wet, the tightening feeling of the skin there puckering with desire. You felt his teeth tease it, felt his tongue lap against it, felt the air begin to cool the saliva there when he pulled away and did the same to your other nipple.
Baelor kissed down your stomach, light presses of his mouth to the fluttering skin, and you cracked your eyes open and pushed your head up to watch him. He rubbed his big hands along the sides of your thighs, groping your behind a little, before he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties.
“Off?” He asked quietly, looking up at you from between your legs. The sight of it, of his blue and brown eye, of his beard, of his mussed hair, all situated comfortably between your thighs and peering up at you had you gulping and pulsing once more. You could feel the slick pouring out of you, hot and slippery, and you felt the cold air there like a kiss.
He dragged your panties down to your ankles then pulled them off, tossing them onto the sofa with everything else. Carefully, he had you bend your knees, then reached between them to splay his hands on the insides of your thighs, thick fingers spanning the sensitive skin before he began pushing them apart. You shivered and licked your lips but allowed it, following the press of his hands until your legs fell naturally open.
He gazed down at you, eyes fixating on the flushed and wet skin. You looked soft and damp, dewy and puffy in a way that called to him like nothing else. He could see your clit where your lips pulled apart a little, the swollen little nub begging for his tongue and touch. He could see your hole, fluttering a little where you clenched and unclenched with every pulse inside you, the slick and shiny wetness that coated you. He rubbed your inner thighs once before he looked back up at you.
“As it is your first time, it’s always best to have some preparation. We’ll start with my tongue, maybe a finger or two before we attempt anything, alright?” He watched you lick your lips, eyes lighting up, and nod quickly. “This goes for the future as well. Foreplay and preparation are essential to having a pleasant time. Some can handle penetration without preparation once they become regularly sexually active, but others need preparation every single time. It all depends on how you feel and what you communicate with your partner.”
You nodded eagerly once more. Your mouth was full of saliva no matter how much you swallowed, and your skin tingled everywhere. You wanted to tell him to hurry, that you were desperate to feel him now, but that would not do. He was trying to teach you something. It was not his fault that he was also the reason you were so riled up you couldn’t focus.
Baelor nodded once then sighed as he shuffled down and lay his stomach on the carpet in front of you. He caressed a finger up the back of one of your thighs and you shivered, your leg twitching at the ticklish sensation. He smiled a little and began moving you around, taking one of your legs and draping it over his shoulder before doing the same with the other. Once they were secure, he shuffled forward until suddenly you could feel him breathing against your core.
You clenched your eyes shut, your thighs tightening around his head, but he just shushed you gently and began blowing softly along your hot skin. You shivered, the cold air caressing your hot slick. He curved one arm around and splayed his hand over your stomach, carefully holding you there. The other hand slithered up and his thumb began touching the soft lips of your cunt. He rubbed the slick into the skin, then separated the lips so he could look properly at your clit.
He breathed in your small, warm and dewy, and his eyes fluttered shut. He moaned low in his throat then pressed forward, lightly touching the tip of his tongue to your clit.
He mouthed at you there until you couldn’t tell your body apart from a series of electric sensations. You felt his tongue licking at you, hot rough drags that pushed and pulled at your clit, that made something that was already on fire burn like an inferno. You felt each touch inside you, felt the sparks and the zaps and the tingles like someone was playing the triangle right inside you, hitting the thing that reverberated within you over and over.
He groaned against you, his rough beard overstimulating the skin of your thighs. He pressed his tongue into your core and the feeling of it breaching your hole sent you into your first orgasm, built too quickly and crashing fast. You clenched your hands into the carpet beside you and twitched, legs stretching and pressing into the floor beside his ribs. He licked you until you were whining then brought the tip of his index finger to where he had just pulled his tongue from. He looked up at you then, lifting a little between your legs to meet your eyes.
His beard was wet. It shined in the light. The sight of it was orgasmic in itself. His lips were shiny too, and he licked them like he had indulged in a delicacy, like he needed to savour it, and you would have twitched into another orgasm right then.
“I’m going to push my finger in now. Tell me if it hurts or you wish to stop at any time,” he ordered, and you nodded, your lips parting as you panted.
Baelor touched your clit softly with his index finger and your hips jerked harshly, a strangled sound falling from your mouth. You would have whined at him that it was sensitive if you didn’t think he did it for that exact reaction. He pressed the back of his middle finger between your lips and dragged up and down, making sure it was wet with your slick before he brought it down to your hole and began pressing in.
You closed your eyes again and allowed yourself just to feel the sensation. It was an intrusion, and you clenched and unclenched around it. You were warm and wet on the inside too, but it was ten times as much, like a perfect furnace. The texture of your walls was soft and fleshy, pushing and pulling and pulsing, and he pushed his finger to the hilt then dragged it back and forth.
You felt that hot sparkle inside you again, those waves that increased in frequency until it was a frantic up and down. He held your hips steady with his other hand as you writhed and humped against his hand. In and out, in and out. His thumb moved up and dragged against your clit, taking your wetness and smearing it along the swollen nub until you were whining and moaning from your tight throat, calling his name. He pressed another finger in with the first, watching you writhe a little more at the stretch and burn. He pushed and pulled, panted as he watched you twitch and stretch and cum against his hand.
This one had been even more intense. It left you splayed out and trembling, melted into the carpet and spinning in the head. You focused on the shadows behind your eyelids, panting and slowly loosening. Baelor caressed your legs, the outside of your thigh and the expanse of your stomach. He watched you carefully, waited patiently until your eyes fluttered open and you were looking at him with amazement. He tilted his head and kissed the inside of your knee.
“Would you like to continue or stop here?” He asked quietly, his voice a murmur against your skin. You gulped and wet your lips.
“Continue, please,” you breathed out, and he nodded, bringing your knees from his shoulders and placing your feet on the carpet either side of him.
He rose onto his knees and pulled down the waistband of his underwear. He dragged it down his thighs then under one knee and then the other. You blinked at the sight of his cock, flushed red at the tip and ready. Perhaps that was your biggest vote of confidence, that he was already hard. Surely that meant you did something right, that he found you even a little attractive. The sight had you both tensing and melting further into the carpet.
His cock was flushed red and thick, just the right size all over you guessed. It was shiny with precum and as he reached over for the condom, his other hand dragged over it, rubbing up and down once or twice as he shivered. With shaking arms, you pushed yourself up, leaning back onto one palm as the other began reaching out for his cock.
“Can I touch it?” You asked in a ragged whisper, flicking your eyes up to his. You watched him rip the packet of the condom open with his teeth, and you almost threw yourself at him. Why was such a simple sight so frenzy inducing?
“Of course,” he answered, shivering when your fingers gently wrapped around his appendage. He was hot to the touch, damp with cum, and softer than you had expected. You weren’t quite sure what you had been expecting, but it was nice. You kept your grip relatively loose, not realising how teasing that felt when you traversed it up and down him. His breathing became ragged, his chest heaving at the light touches you dragged along his cock and down to his balls. You touched the skin there too, fascinated by the tightness there, and he huffed and puffed from his mouth, not wishing to stop you but becoming more and more desperate to be inside you.
When you had had your fill, you pulled back and leaned on both hands to watch him roll the condom down onto his cock. He did it with practiced ease, slipping it over the head and rolling it down securely. Once it was done, he was quick to lean over you, pressing his mouth to yours. He kissed you, laved his tongue between your lips, rubbed his beard to your chin and cheeks as he pushed forward until you were laying back down and he was hovering over you, his hips encased between your thighs. You could taste yourself on him and his beard, could taste that dewiness as he smashed his mouth to yours until you couldn’t breathe.
He pressed his weight down on you, your chest to his, your nipples rubbing against his skin and chest hair. Your stomach rubbed his with every heaving breath, and you could feel his cock just touching your cunt. He caressed your cheek with one hand and looked into your eyes.
“You can say no at any point. You can ask me to stop whenever you wish, to end everything without any consequences or questions. Understood?” You nodded hurriedly in response but you were so close now, so desperate despite your fear and hesitance.
Baelor nodded once then kissed you as he reached down with his hand and notched his cock at your entrance. He began to push in, groaning into your mouth as your wet heat enveloped him. You felt it press through you, separate places that had always been together. You felt it all the way inside you, heavy and hot and rubbing against those spots that pulsed electricity into the rest of you. He kept a steady pace and kissed you to distract from the discomfort and stinging at your entrance. Your muscles were too spent from the previous orgasms to fight against his cock too much.
He paused at the end, panting against your mouth. He felt your hands splay against his back, your nails curling into the skin at his ribs. He felt every shift of your hips, the tightening of your thighs over his waist. The place just above his cock pushed at your cunt and rubbed against your clit, forcing it to pulse frantically and send your brain reeling.
He waited for the contortions on your face to loosen a little, for your panting breaths to slow and the way you clenched your cunt around him to become more steady and deliberate. You ran your hand down his back and cupped his waist, just feeling his skin and muscles. He kissed you again, pressed his tongue past your lips, then began to move. You felt it drag through you, as if pulling the pleasure and then pushing it back in.
You whined against his lips, head dropping back as your body went weak. One of his hands threaded under your arm and then up to cup the back of your neck, holding you tight to his body as he sped up his thrusts. His other hand held tight to your waist, pulling you up against his thrusts.
Every motion your body made felt instinctual, involuntary. Every twitch was wrought from the fiery pleasure that pulsed from the drag of your clit against his skin. Every moan was punched from your throat as he thrust his cock back into you, a little harder than before. You pressed your mouth to his shoulder, biting a little when the drags began to push you higher onto the precipice.
“Baelor,” you moaned, turning your head to begin mouthing at the skin of his neck, kissing and sucking at it.
He groaned loudly, a low and rough sound in your hair, and his grip on you tightened. His thrusts became quicker, the sound of skin slapping and wet squelching unmistakable now. You whined. The pleasure was a pulse between your thighs. Everything was electric. Your ears were dull thumping rushes. Your fingertips were blunt and twitching. Your nipples taut, rubbing against his chest and zapping your insides with heat. You panted, clenched, pressed into his thrusts. Your fingernails dug into his back, your arms trembling. You trembled entirely.
And then the wave washed over, your mouth dropping open on a long moan. It covered you from head to toe, warmth and throbbing and weakness. You were spent, a mass of flesh and skin and pulsing warmth.
He bit down on the side of your neck when he came, groaning loudly and huffing and puffing. He held you tightly as his hips twitched, the last drags of his own pleasure swimming out of him. He attempted to roll off of you, but you whined and wrapped your arms around him, whimpering a ‘stay here please’ at the pleasant weight of him there. He hesitated a fraction, blinked quickly to try and look down at your face, ask if you were sure, but you whined again and pulled him back down and he went with it.
He hummed softly as you caressed his back, pressing gentle kisses to your shoulder. He murmured little words of praise, how you did so well, how you looked beautiful, how you were utterly perfect. It felt almost like another orgasm, a soft wave of warmth over you, stemming from the whispers that entered your ears.
When you had finally caught your breath enough to deem your mind coherent, you caressed a hand through his hair and pressed your lips to his cheek for a chaste kiss before dragging them up to his ear and whispering, “thank you.”
Baelor hummed quietly to himself as he quickly sliced an entire cucumber. ‘Here Comes The Sun’ by the Beatles played softly in the background just over the boiling of the pasta and the hum of the oven. It would be a late lunch, he thought, as he looked out onto the back garden through the sliding doors, to the lovely sunshine on the green grass and the little table set with plates and cutlery and glasses.
He was in a particularly good mood that day. He woke up rather late, slowly and without an alarm blaring to the bright sunshine streaming through the sheer white curtains. He had rolled out of bed, ambled his way to the bathroom and carefully examined the now slowly fading marks of your teeth on his shoulder, the one purplish bruise just above his collarbone. He pressed lightly on them, thought back to how he had been wearing collared shirts and turtlenecks for the past week, and smiled slightly, shaking his head as he hopped in the shower.
He was dressed casually, a black polo that Matarys deemed his most ‘dad’ shirt, and a loose pair of jogger bottoms. He ate a quick breakfast over the counter as he put on the tv in the background, and now here he was, finishing off lunch just in time for his sons to arrive. He had more than one reason to be happy today. He loved Saturdays, because they meant family lunch with Valarr and Matarys, and you had a session booked in for Monday which meant he would get to see you very soon. He was almost scared by how much he longed for it…
“Daaaad!” The door opened and then a long call, surely Matarys returning from his hockey practice if the rustling and banging by the door was anything to go by. “Val’s here too!”
Baelor smiled brightly, wiping his hands on the dish towel and walking around the counter to head in the direction of the entryway. It was a particularly big day for another reason: Valarr was bringing his girlfriend home for the first time.
Baelor rounded the corner, a warm smile already pulling at his lips as he spotted his youngest son, his hair a sweaty mop as he toed off his shoes and turned back to speak quickly to his elder brother. Then Valarr, sunglasses pushed up onto his head, wearing a navy blue button down casually opened at the top and a pair of jeans, smiling softly at the girl beside hi-
There you were, standing in a beautiful navy blue dress, lips parted and staring at him like a deer in headlights. Baelor felt his heart stop beating. Your hair was neatly pinned in a half-up half-down style, the dress was respectfully modest, and you clutched a bouquet of flowers and a candle politely in front of you. Baelor couldn’t get his body to cooperate. Your hands began to shake, your lips parting as you stared up into his mismatched eyes. Valarr rubbed the small of your back gently looking between you and Baelor, his smile a picture of restrained excitement. He had been telling you non-stop how excited he was for you to meet his father.
There's absolutely no way i got to read this for free what!!! Oh my.. the tension, the PLOT TWIST, and just everything was unreal
At some point it stopped being simply reading, a whole ass movie was playing in my head. Every scene was delicious. Baelor please i need a gentle man like you
you seem so sweet and friendly! is that mother cain on ur bio? whats your fav song ohemgee
- sincerely another skins fan
This is so cute, thank you baby!! Yes in my eyes we are all friends, i love you all 🫵
AND YES!! YES YES YES im so glad u asked nonnie. I love her whole discography but smth about gibson girl just speaks to me, sun bleached flies is a close second 🙂↕️ what about you lovely??
I saw the second one earlier when i was scrolling and ive never seen anything more true, this is my truth 😛✊ daeron dropping out is so real lmao
As for the first.... Gwayne 😫😫 freddie fox is so baby he looks like prince charming 2.0 right after nikolaj waldau. I so badly need him please just ONE chance gwayne
FEED US MORE BAELOR. FEED US MORE BAELOR. FEED US—
dinner is served then
18+ (smut, reader gets bent over the desk, hella praise, breeding? idk it’s a creampie from a certified dilf so…..)
there is a gentleness in your husband’s nature, a softness in his mismatched eyes and a tenderness in his guiding hands, that often make you forget he is of dragon blood. he is a targaryen, born from the ashes of great conquests and forged from the steel of a warrior’s blade.
but where shadows stretch thicker, more dense where they cling to stone walls, and where doors bolt shut and candles illuminate in thin veils of amber, you find yourself remembering. you find yourself remembering just how potent the targaryen bloodline is.
baelor’s hands on your hips are bruising in their hold, fingers gripping flesh as you bend yourself over the sturdy wooden desk in his solar. your trembling fingers curl over the edge as you arch your back, your skirts bunched up tightly around your waist as your husband drives into you over and over.
there’s a dull ache seated in your womb from the force of his thrusts, and a tension in your thighs as you part your legs for him. skin slaps against skin, the sound echoing throughout the room, a nearby candle flickering with your joint movements. you rock against the desk, sweat building beneath your bodice, clinging to the curve of your spine and beneath the swell of your breasts where they’re pinned to the wood.
baelor grunts loudly above you with each rut of his cock. your pussy opens for him, silken walls split wet and hot around the thick of his cock. he grunts like a fighting man—like a man battling with his own pleasure, heavy balls landing firmly against your clit, a honey-thick tension pooling at the base of his spine.
he holds you tightly, heart leaping against his sternum as he listens to the whines and whimpers that drop from your lips. the clutch of your cunt sucks him in, warm and deep and his, and he can’t stop the groan of your name that follows a particularly deep, rolling thrust towards the plug of your womb.
“such a sweet girl,” baelor manages, vowels hoarse around another grunt. he feels your pussy flutter around him, and he coos, “my perfect girl, bending and taking me so well, aren’t you?”
you nod with your cheek pressed to the desk, but it doesn’t work too well. instead, you dip further into an arch, sucking him in even deeper as he ruts up towards the base of your cervix, the angle pulling him in close. you moan loudly when the head of his cock nudges up against that perfect spot inside you, and you can’t help the way your legs begin to tremble when he drives into that spot over and over again.
“my best girl,” baelor continues his praise, rolling his hips in a way that has you writhing beneath him. but he holds you firmly, unyielding in his strength as he fucks you. “you always do so well for me.”
“baelor,” you gasp out, suddenly feeling breathless. your orgasm looms like a phantom, hovering just out of reach but drawing nearer the more you chant—sporadic moans of baelor’s name and title as your body grows hot. you whimper, a stiff knot of pleasure in the very base of your tummy. “oh gods, baelor.”
baelor groans in response, hips stuttering for a moment before he collects himself with a whisper of your name. “my girl. all mine—you’re all mine, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
you can’t respond. his cock pushes so deep inside you that it knocks the air from your lungs, and you’re too busy trying not to drown in your own pleasure to string together a proper sentence. but your husband won’t settle for that: he rucks his hips hard into you, shunting you against the desk and forcing a yowl from the back of your throat.
“aren’t you?” baelor repeats, panting as he moves. sweat beads high on his forehead, a sticky heat trapped beneath the thick material of his tunic and doublet. he continues, “you’re all mine?”
“yes,” you blurt out around a moan as you shake against his desk, the glass bottle of a nearby inkwell trembling with you. your pussy clenches tight around the thick of his cock, stretched out and drooling where you bend for him. the heat of your orgasm rapidly begins to cook you alive, and you’re panting before you can stop yourself. “yes, baelor, oh my gods.”
“ah, such a good listener,” baelor says, lilting and almost mocking as you hurtle towards release. he brings you back against him, admiring the ripple of your flesh as he moves you against his pelvis. he takes a hand and palms the fat of your arse cheek. “i love it when you do what you’re told.”
the way he says that undoes the knot of pleasure inside you, and you come with one final moan of his name. he fucks you through it, thrusting deep and hard towards the plug of your womb, grunting as you come apart beneath him. you shake, limbs trembling as you huff and moan and mewl, sounds bouncing off the stone walls. your pussy clenches around his cock, fluttering with the hammering of your heart, and the tension in your body releases.
“oh there she is, that’s it,” baelor murmurs, patting your arse before taking hold of your hips again. he pulls you to him, desk groaning in protest as he ruts into you again and again. the pressure inside him builds, and builds still, until he feels the muscles in his jaw working as he grits out, “and now she’s going to take my—ha, uh—my cum, yeah? s’that what you want?”
because you’re such a good listener, you nod. you nod deliriously, mewling for him to spill inside you, stuff you full. his response is a deep, resonating groan that echoes more dragon then man, followed by a hushed whimper of your name. then, he’s shoving himself to the hilt inside you, a sheathing of valyrian steel, hands bunched tightly on your hips, and spilling.
his head falls back, the lump in his throat working as he moans and comes deep inside you. his balls jerk, drawing up from where they rested against your slick folds as his hips falter to a stop. baelor groans again, emptying himself until he’s satiated. he folds himself then, when his heart no longer clatters against his ribs, across your back, pressing you even harder into the desk.
“my best girl,” he whispers, nosing your cheek. “my special girl.”
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