Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen - NSFW Alphabet
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
He is a king of aftercare.
Seriously. There is nothing Baelor Targaryen takes more seriously than your well-being after intimacy. The moment you both collapse onto the bed, chests heaving and skin glistening with sweat, he's not the type to roll over and fall asleep. No. Baelor turns to you immediately, as if afraid you might vanish if he doesn't keep you close.
His voice, that deep and serene voice he uses at court, grows softer. More intimate. It wraps around you like velvet.
—Are you alright? —he whispers, though he already knows the answer. He always asks the same thing. He needs to hear you say it.
Before you can respond, he's already reaching for a small bell he always keeps on the nightstand. A whispered order to the servant waiting on the other side of the door: wine, water, a clean cloth.
Then he returns to you. He holds you. Not hurriedly, not anxiously. With absolute calm, as if time had stopped and there was nowhere else in the world he'd rather be. His chest against your back, his arm around your waist, his nose buried in your hair.
—You smell like me —he murmurs, and there's pride in his voice. Satisfaction.
When the cloth arrives, he surprises you. Because Baelor doesn't hand it to you. Baelor takes it in his own hands, dips it in the warm water they've also brought, and begins to clean you. With the same devotion with which he prays, with the same attention with which he reads his sacred texts.
He cleans the sweat from your forehead. The salt trails from your neck. The marks his kisses left on your shoulders. And when he reaches your thighs, when with infinite delicacy he wipes away the remnants of his own seed, his fingers tremble slightly. As if the simple act of caring for you moved him more than anything else.
Afterward, he gives you the cup of wine. He brings it to your lips if you're too tired to hold it. He kisses your head.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
Of himself: his eyes.
Baelor knows exactly the effect his eyes have on you. He's not arrogant, not vain, but he knows. Because he's seen you melt too many times not to notice.
He loves it. He loves it in a way that perhaps should be sinful, but he can't help it. During the day, his eyes are kind, warm—the gaze of a devoted and approachable prince. But in intimacy... they change.
They darken. They become intense, deep, as if you were looking directly into the soul of a dragon. And the best part: he never breaks eye contact. Never.
When he's inside you, when the rhythm accelerates and pleasure threatens to cloud your senses, he looks at you. Directly. Without blinking. His eyes fixed on yours like daggers, and in them you can see everything: desire, devotion, hunger, love.
—Look at me —he asks, though you already are—. Don't look away. I want to see you. I want you to see me.
And you know, in that moment, that he's aware. He knows what he does to you. He knows that those intense gazes disarm you completely. And he never wants to stop doing it. Ever.
Of you: your thighs.
Baelor has seen many beautiful things in his life. He has contemplated stained glass windows, crown jewels, the most exquisite gardens in Westeros. But nothing, nothing compares to the image of your thighs wrapped around his waist.
He has that image burned into his mind. The way you cling to him, how your legs tense and wrap around him with each thrust, how you squeeze when you're close to climax. It's his undoing.
Sometimes, when you're in public, you catch him staring at your thighs. Not lasciviously, no. With a kind of silent admiration. As if he were remembering. As if he were already imagining the moment they'll wrap around him again.
And when you're in bed, he can't help but run his hands over them again and again. Caressing them. Biting them softly. Leaving marks that will disappear by the next day but that he loves to leave.
Because every time you wrap around him, every time you cling to him with that desperate strength, he only wants one thing: to increase the pace. To fuck you faster. Deeper. Until you can't feel your legs. Until the only thing that exists in the world is him, inside you, and your thighs squeezing him like you'll never let go.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
On your breasts.
Baelor is a pious man, devoted, respectful. But there is something, something, about finishing on your chest that transforms him into something primal. Something he doesn't even fully understand himself.
The first time it happened, it was almost accidental. He was so close, so desperate, that when he pulled away from you at the last moment, his seed spilled onto your stomach and breasts. The sound you made, that mix of surprise and pleasure, marked him forever.
Now he provokes it. Even seeks it out.
He loves kneeling between your legs and masturbating just to finish on you. He loves the image of his drops falling between the valley of your breasts, sliding slowly down your skin. He loves it when a drop splashes your face, when you blink in surprise and then smile mischievously.
And after, when you're both looking at the result, with your skin glistening and his scent soaked into you, Baelor feels a satisfaction greater than anything else in this life. Greater than winning a tournament. Greater than seeing a sept completed. Greater than any political achievement.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Baelor keeps a small chest hidden under a loose floorboard in his chambers. It doesn't contain jewels or important documents. It contains things of yours: a handkerchief you forgot, a ribbon you wore in your hair, a short letter you wrote him that he's read so many times the parchment is worn thin.
Sometimes, when your absence weighs too heavily or when he hasn't been able to have you, he opens that chest. He smells the handkerchief. Touches the ribbon. Reads the letter. And then, with the same devotion with which he prays, he takes himself in hand and allows himself to remember you. To remember your body. Your sounds. The way you look at him when he's inside you.
He does it in silence, in the darkness, with guilt gnawing at his chest. Because he knows what the septons would say. He knows that touching himself thinking of you, outside the marriage bed and without procreative purposes, is a sin. But he can't help it. You are his. You are his sweetest obsession.
And when he finishes, trembling and ashamed, he falls to his knees and prays. He asks for forgiveness. He promises it will be the last time. But it never is.
The worst part is that the next day, he looks at you in court with that serene expression, with those clear and devoted eyes, and no one suspects. No one knows that the heir to the Iron Throne, the most upright man in the Seven Kingdoms, spent the night on his knees for two very different reasons.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Look, he has two children. Two. That doesn't happen without knowing what you're doing. Baelor has experience, yes, but it's not the experience of a man who has passed through dozens of beds. It's the experience of someone who has learned with one person—with you—and who has dedicated every moment to studying each reaction, each sigh, each tremor of your body.
Before you, there was very little. A wife, of course, with whom he fulfilled his duty. There was affection, there was respect, but there wasn't this. There wasn't that almost animal need to have, to possess, to devour.
The curious thing is that Baelor could have had anyone he wanted. He's handsome, he's the heir, he's the prince that all ladies look at with desire. Even the cheapest prostitutes in the Seven Kingdoms have told him, with a smile, that if he wants, there's no need to pay. That it would be an honor. But Baelor has always rejected those offers with a courteous smile and a gentle refusal.
Because he doesn't seek sex. He seeks passion. He seeks something real. And that, he learned quickly, isn't found in beds shared with strangers. It's found in you. In the way you look at him. In the way you touch him. In the way you give yourself to him as if there were nothing else in the world.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Missionary.
It's not original, it's not daring, it's not one of those complicated positions some men seek out to show off. But for Baelor, missionary is everything.
Because missionary means he can look at you. He can keep his eyes fixed on yours while he moves inside you, without pause, without shame, without anything interrupting that connection that drives him crazy. He loves watching how your expression changes with each thrust, how your pupils dilate, how your lips part to let out those sounds that are only for him.
—Look at me —he always whispers, though you already are.
And you obey. Because you couldn't look away even if you wanted to. Because his eyes, those dark, deep eyes, have you trapped.
Plus, missionary has another advantage. An advantage that obsesses Baelor. When he's close, when he feels he can't take anymore, he can pull away slightly and finish on your breasts. He can watch his own seed falling between the valley of your chest, sliding down your skin, marking you as his.
That image, combined with the look you give him in that moment, is enough to make him want to start again before he's even recovered.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Baelor being funny in bed? Not exactly. Baelor in bed is serious. But not in a cold or distant way. It's an intense seriousness, concentrated, as if he were carrying out the most important task of his life. Which, for him, he is.
However, every now and then, he allows himself a comment. Some observation he says with that deep, husky voice, and with a smile on his lips. But it's not a mocking smile. It's not a joke. It's a smile of satisfaction. Of pride.
—Look at you —he whispers one night, watching you tremble beneath him—. You're so wet. So beautiful. So mine.
He's not laughing at you. He's marveling at you. He's marveling at what he's achieved, at what you've achieved together. That smile is the smile of an artist contemplating his masterpiece. Of a man who can't believe his luck.
Sometimes, when you finish and you're left looking at him with glassy eyes and heaving chest, he smiles and shakes his head.
—Impossible —he murmurs.
—What? —you ask, breathless.
—That you exist. That you're mine. That this is real.
And there's not a hint of humor in his words. Only wonder. Only gratitude. Only love.
Then he kisses you, softly, and starts again.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Baelor isn't one of those men who meticulously grooms himself. He's not obsessed with aesthetics, doesn't spend hours in front of a mirror. His approach is more... natural.
Between his legs there's a small bush. Nothing too thick, nothing too tangled. It's simply him. But if you look closely, if you take the time to observe (and you have, many times), you'll notice it's not completely uniform. There are wild curls, small strands that grow in unexpected directions, as if they had a mind of their own.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Romantic? Perhaps not in the traditional sense. Baelor doesn't whisper poems in your ear (though he knows them all by heart). He doesn't compare you to flowers or stars (though he thinks you're more beautiful than both). No, Baelor is another kind of lover.
He's passionate. He's intense. He's a man who gives himself completely to what he's doing, and what he's doing is you.
During the act, there's no room for scattered thoughts. His mind is completely focused on you. On every sound you make. On every small movement of your hips. On every change in your breathing. He studies your body as if it were a sacred text, and each new page leaves him more absorbed.
But what truly defines him isn't what he does during, but what he does after. Because Baelor cannot go to sleep knowing that perhaps you didn't enjoy every second. He needs to be sure. He needs to know.
—Did you finish? —he always asks, with that soft voice.
If you say yes, he smiles and kisses your forehead. If you hesitate, if you falter, if you say "almost" or "it doesn't matter," he's already moving again. Because for Baelor, it always matters. Your pleasure isn't a complement. It's the main objective.
One night, after an especially long encounter, you were so exhausted you could barely speak. He had made you finish three times, and you were convinced it was enough. But he looked at you, with those intense eyes, and shook his head.
—One more —he said.
—Baelor, I can't...
—One more.
And he did it. And when you finished for the fourth time, crying and laughing at the same time, he held you against his chest and whispered:
—Now yes. Now you can sleep.
That's Baelor. He's not a sappy romantic. He's a man who needs, needs, for you to know how much he desires you. And the only way he knows to show it is by making sure your body remembers every moment.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Not often. Baelor is a man with self-control, with discipline, with a schedule full of responsibilities that don't leave him much time to think about himself. But when you're far away, when days turn into weeks and the bed is empty beside him... then yes.
He does it in silence, in the darkness, with his eyes closed and your name on his lips. It doesn't take him long. He doesn't need to imagine complicated scenarios. He only needs to remember. Remember how you moved the last night you were together. Remember the sounds you made. Remember the way you looked at him just before you came.
And that's enough.
K = Kink (A kink they have)
Baelor isn't a man who came to bed with a list of fantasies to fulfill. He hasn't spent hours imagining forbidden scenarios or searched ancient texts for ways to stoke desire. He's simpler than that. Or more complex, depending on how you look at it.
He discovers his kinks with you. With you and your body. With you and your reactions. And the most revealing one, the one that took him completely by surprise, was your neck.
The first time was an accident. He was on top of you, moving with that rhythm of his that you know so well, when his hand slid from your hip upward. It was going to rest on your cheek, was going to caress your cheekbone while he looked into your eyes, but along the way it found your neck.
And it stopped there.
He didn't squeeze. Not at all. He just held. His hand surrounded your throat with an almost reverent gentleness, as if holding something fragile and precious. Inside, he was terrified. What if he hurt you? What if he scared you? What if he crossed a line he shouldn't?
But you didn't complain. Quite the opposite. For a moment, just an instant, your eyes opened wider and your body reacted in a way he didn't know how to interpret until later.
He didn't do it again. Not without permission.
Until one day, in the middle of the act, with breathless gasps and nails digging into his back, you asked him.
—Squeeze —you whispered—. Squeeze hard.
And he did it.
He didn't cut off your air, he wasn't brutal, but he squeezed enough to feel your veins pumping against his palm. Enough to feel your accelerated pulse, racing, beating to the same rhythm as his hips. Enough for a primal roar to awaken somewhere deep in his being.
That night, Baelor discovered there were things he didn't know he needed. And that all of them had to do with you.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Baelor is, above all, a man aware of his position. He knows he's the heir. He knows that every eye at court watches him, that every mistake will be used against him, that his image must be impeccable. That's why, when it comes to locations for intimacy, he's terribly... conservative.
The bed. His bed. The bed in his private chambers, with the door locked and the curtains drawn and the absolute certainty that no one will interrupt them. There he feels safe. There he can let himself go without fear of consequences.
But every now and then, when need presses and blood boils, there's a second option: the desk.
It's not comfortable. It's hard wood, with edges that leave marks and just enough space for what they need. But there's something about the transgression, about doing it in a place where he should be signing documents and planning the future of the kingdom, that excites him more than he wants to admit.
That said, never outside his chambers. Never. Baelor has fantasized, of course he has. He's imagined what it would be like to have you against a wall in an empty hallway, or in the garden under moonlight, or in the chapel (that thought always comes with immediate guilt). But the reality is that he can't take the risk. A curious servant, a guard passing at the wrong moment, a son looking for his father... the price is too high.
So the bed. Always the bed. And sometimes, when you're especially needy and especially naughty, the desk.
But the door always locked.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Baelor notices everything. It's one of the things that makes him a good prince and an even better lover. Nothing escapes his attention: your mood, your level of tiredness, the clothes you choose, the way you look at others. He notices everything.
That's why, when you change something even slightly, he detects it instantly.
A kiss on the cheek that lasts a second longer than normal. A hand that rests on his arm and stays there, in no hurry to leave. A glance you share with him from across the room that you hold a moment longer than socially acceptable. That's all he needs.
You don't have to be explicit. You don't have to sit on his lap in the middle of a feast or whisper obscenities in his ear. Baelor is a man of subtleties. An accidental (or not so accidental) touch can ignite a flame that will burn all day.
And then, when you're finally alone, when the door closes and the key turns, he looks at you with those dark eyes and says:
—You've been playing with me all day.
And you smile, because it's true.
—And what are you going to do about it?
He's already moving toward you. And the answer, as always, comes without words.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
There is no "no" in Baelor's dictionary when it comes to you.
Seriously. This man would do anything you asked him to. Anything. You've tested it again and again, with shy questions at first, with bolder suggestions later, with direct requests when trust became absolute. And never, not once, has he said no.
—Are you sure? —he always asks first. He needs confirmation. He needs to know it's what you really want, not what you think he wants.
But when you nod, when you tell him yes with that look of yours that he loves so much, he gives himself completely.
Do you want him to hurt you a little? He will. Carefully, attentively, with his eyes fixed on your face looking for any sign that he should stop. But he'll do it.
Do you want him to humiliate you slightly? Also. With words whispered in your ear, with soft commands he knows turn you on. Without crossing the line into what could truly harm you.
Do you want things he himself hadn't imagined? He'll do them. He'll learn them. He'll turn them into new forms of worship.
Because Baelor has reached a simple and absolute conclusion: with you, everything is pleasure. Everything is discovery. Everything is an extension of the love he feels. And he won't hold back out of fear, shame, or insecurity.
If it's with you, the answer will always be yes.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Let's be honest: Baelor is not a master of the oral arts. He doesn't have that refined technique some women seek, doesn't know all the tricks or all the ways to bring someone to climax with just his tongue. But what he lacks in skill, he makes up for with enthusiasm.
When he goes down between your legs, he does it with a devotion bordering on religious. He opens you with his hands, looks at you as if you're revealing the secrets of the universe, and then... he begins. And he doesn't stop.
He kisses. Licks. Sucks. Tastes. Sometimes he hits the exact spot, sometimes he misses, but he never, never, loses rhythm or desire. He eats you like you're the best feast of his life, like he's been fasting for years and you're his first meal.
Do you finish? Maybe not. But you're ridiculously close. So close that when he comes up, with his chin glistening and a satisfied smile, and positions himself to continue another way, the slightest push sends you over the edge in seconds.
And he knows it. That's why he does it.
Now, receiving is another story. Baelor loves when you kneel before him. Not for the act itself, but for what it represents. Seeing you there, with your gaze lifted toward him, with your hands ready to please him... it's an image that feeds something deep in his being.
It strokes his ego, yes. But it also reminds him how much you trust him. How much you desire him. And when your lips surround him, when you close your eyes and focus on his pleasure, Baelor has to bite his fist to keep from finishing in seconds.
—You're incredible —he whispers, voice broken—. I don't know what I did to deserve you.
You can't answer. But you smile at him, with your mouth full, and that's enough.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
It depends.
Baelor is a man who reads the room, who reads your body, who knows exactly what you need in every moment. That's why his rhythm is never the same. It changes. It adapts. It follows you.
Sometimes it's slow. Insufferably slow. He moves inside you with a deliberateness that borders on torture, sinking in to the hilt and pulling out just barely, again and again, while whispering in your ear how beautiful you are, how good you feel, how much he loves you. On those nights, the orgasm takes its time arriving, but when it comes, it completely destroys you.
Sometimes it's fast. Urgent. Almost animal. That's when too much time has passed without having you, or when you've spent the day provoking him with glances and touches, or when need simply overwhelms him. Then he takes you against the mattress with a force that leaves marks, that pushes you into the headboard, that makes you moan without control. On those nights, you both finish in minutes, trembling and sweating and laughing at how quickly it all passed.
Sometimes he combines. Starts slow, building, taking you to the edge again and again without letting you fall. And when you can't take anymore, when you beg him with your broken voice, he accelerates. He fucks you with an intensity that leaves you breathless, that brings you to climax in waves, that makes you see stars.
Baelor knows how to read you. He knows what you need. And he never, never, denies you.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Baelor has a complicated relationship with quickies. On one hand, he's a man who enjoys taking his time, who loves drawing out pleasure, who prefers a long, leisurely session where he can worship every part of your body. But on the other hand... sometimes life is too short and the stress too great.
Quickies are his escape valve.
When he's spent the entire day in endless meetings, listening to lords complain about taxes and his father complain about the lords, when he feels the crown weighs heavier than usual and responsibility is consuming him alive... then he seeks you out. Not with words, not with explanations. He appears in your chambers with that look of his, the intense one, the one that says "I need you now."
And you understand.
There are no long preliminaries. No soft caresses or romantic whispers. There's hurry. There's need. There's Baelor lifting your skirt, Baelor lowering his trousers, Baelor entering you with a groan of relief that seems pulled from the deepest part of his soul.
It lasts as long as it lasts. Sometimes five minutes. Sometimes ten. But when he finishes, when he leans against you with ragged breath and his forehead resting on your shoulder, you notice how the tension leaves his body. You notice how the weight of the world lifts, if only for a moment.
—I needed you —he always murmurs afterward, as if it were a shameful confession.
You stroke his hair and say nothing. Because you know. You know everything.
Quickies aren't what he enjoys most. But they are, without a doubt, what saves him most.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Zero. Absolutely zero.
Baelor doesn't take risks. Not in this. Not when it comes to you.
The idea of being discovered, of someone seeing you, of a rumor beginning to spread through court... it chills his blood. Not for himself, not for his reputation (though that too), but for you. He couldn't bear the thought of people pointing at you, of whispers behind your back, of you becoming the talk of the gossips in the Red Keep.
Plus, there's the practical matter: Baelor knows that if he's worried about someone seeing you, he won't be able to concentrate on you. And for him, not being able to concentrate on you is a greater sin than anything they might be doing.
So no. No sex in risky places. No dark hallways or secluded gardens or empty chapels. Only the bed. Only the desk, when they're especially naughty, but with the door firmly locked.
—Have you never wanted to do it somewhere forbidden? —you asked him once, with a mischievous smile.
He looked at you with those serious eyes and shook his head.
—Of course I have. But what I want more than that is for no one to look at you with malice. And that means not giving them reasons.
You couldn't argue with him. He was right.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Baelor is a beast. There's no other word.
The man can last for hours. Hours. You've lost count of the nights when dawn has broken and you're still at it, with aching bodies and marked skin and silly grins on your faces.
It's not magic. It's training. Baelor has competed in hundreds of tournaments, spent hours riding horseback in armor, developed a physical stamina that most men would envy. And it turns out that stamina translates perfectly to the bedroom.
He can maintain a steady rhythm for what seems like eternities. He can alternate speeds, change positions, make you finish again and again, and he's still there, hard, ready for more.
The best part is that not only does he last long, but he doesn't lose intensity. His final thrusts are as powerful as his first. His desire doesn't wane with the hours. If anything, it grows.
There are nights when you give in before him. When your body says "enough" and he, with a understanding smile, holds you and lets you sleep. But there are also nights when you match his rhythm, when you equal his stamina, when you both end exhausted at the same time, looking at each other with a mix of pride and exhaustion.
Those are his favorite nights.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Baelor had never thought about toys. It's not that he was against them, it's that they simply hadn't crossed his mind. His most primitive thought, the one that appears first when facing something new, was inevitable:
Why would she want those when she has me?
But he didn't say it. He's not that much of a brute. Instead, he listened. He listened to you explain what you wanted to try, how you wanted to use them, what role you wanted him to have in the meantime. And as you spoke, his expression changed.
His eyes darkened. His jaw tightened. His mind, that cavernous mind that had jumped to conclusions, suddenly filled with new images. Images of him sitting, watching, while you writhed with something that wasn't him. Images of him using something on you that made you moan louder. Images of the two of you exploring unknown territories together.
—Now I understand —he murmured when you finished talking.
—Now you understand what?
He smiled at you. That smile.
—Now I get it.
Since then, toys have appeared from time to time. Not always, not often, but when they do, Baelor throws himself into the experience with the same intensity he puts into everything else. He uses them on you with absolute concentration, studying your reactions, learning what you like and what you don't. And sometimes, when you're especially receptive, he uses them on you while he watches, without touching you, just observing how you fall apart.
That, he's discovered, he also likes. A lot.
But he never takes the initiative. He always waits for you to bring it up, for you to bring out the toy, for you to tell him "today I want this." Because Baelor needs to know what you desire. The rest, his part, what he gives you without any help, he already knows you always want.
But if you want something more... he'll be delighted to give it to you.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Baelor is an expert in the art of teasing. And the worst part is that he does it without realizing it.
Well, no. That's not true. Baelor knows exactly what he's doing.
It starts during the day. A hand that rests on the small of your back as he passes you at court. A glance that holds a second longer than necessary during dinner. A brush of lips on your cheek when no one's looking, right at the corner of your mouth, close enough for you to feel it but chaste enough that no one suspects.
And you're left burning. And he knows it. And he smiles.
At night, when you're finally alone, the teasing reaches unbearable levels. He loves kissing you slowly, caressing you lazily, taking you to the edge again and again without letting you fall. His fingers play with you while he whispers things in your ear, pretty things, dirty things, things that make you clutch the sheets in desperation.
—Do you want more? —he asks, with that velvet voice.
And you nod, breathless.
—Tell me.
You tell him. And still, he waits. He looks at you with those dark eyes, enjoying your need, savoring the moment when he'll finally give you what you ask for.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Baelor is a quiet man. At court, in meetings, in hallways... always controlled, always serene. But in bed, that control slips. Just a little. Just enough.
He's not one to shout. He's not one to roar like a beast. His sounds are more subtle, more contained, but for that very reason, more revealing.
Heavy breathing. Deep gasps that escape through clenched teeth. Low, almost guttural moans that come from the depths of his chest when he's about to finish. And your name. Always your name, whispered like a prayer, like a secret, like the only word that matters.
—Baelor —you moan, and he answers with a hoarse groan that runs down your spine.
When he's especially close, when pleasure overwhelms him, sometimes he makes a sound you couldn't describe. Something between a sigh and a whimper, something vulnerable and animal at the same time. That's when you know he's lost, that for a moment he's stopped being the crown prince and is just a man, just yours.
The best part comes after, when he finishes and stays on top of you, catching his breath. His breathing is still ragged, his chest rises and falls against yours, and each exhale is a warm sigh in your ear.
—I love you —he murmurs then, with his voice broken.
And it's the only thing you need to hear.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Baelor has a secret habit: he watches you sleep.
Not in an unsettling way, no. It's more... contemplative. Some nights he wakes before you, or nights when you fall asleep before him, and instead of getting up or trying to sleep himself, he stays still. He watches you.
He watches how your chest rises and falls with each breath. He watches how your lips part slightly. He watches how your eyelids sometimes flutter, when you dream. He watches how you seek his warmth even in sleep, how you curl against him without being aware of doing so.
And he thinks.
He thinks about how lucky he is. He thinks about what his life was like before you, emptier than he knew then. He thinks about the future, about all the days ahead of him, and how he wants to spend every one of them by your side. He thinks about how small the worries of the kingdom become when he sees you like this, at peace, trusting him with your sleep.
Sometimes, very softly, he whispers things. Promises. Words of love. Things he might not say to you awake because he's embarrassed or because he can't find the moment.
—I love you —he murmurs one night, as moonlight streams through the window—. I love you more than my life. More than the crown. More than everything.
You don't hear him. You keep sleeping, unaware.
But he smiles anyway. Because saying it, even if you don't hear, still tastes like truth.
Then he closes his eyes, holds you tighter, and lets sleep take him with a peace that only you can give.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Beneath his clothes, Baelor is a map of small marks and scars that tell the story of his life.
His chest is broad, strong, covered in that dark hair you love so much. But if you look closely, there are details. A thin scar under his right collarbone, memory of a tournament in his youth when an opponent didn't control his lance well. Another, longer, on his left side, from a hunting accident. Small marks here and there, none serious enough to worry about, all visible enough to remember that he's not just a prince, but also a warrior.
His arms are strong, muscular, with veins that show when he holds you. His hands, large and warm, have calluses in specific places: the base of his fingers, from the sword; his palm, from the reins. They're the hands of a man who works, who fights, who builds.
And then there's that. His member, when erect, is imposing. Long, thick, slightly curved upward, with the tip always pink and glistening when he's been desiring you. The hair around it is darker than on his head, more unruly, with those wild curls.
When soft, it rests against his thigh with a naturalness that you find adorable. But when hard, when he's inside you, there's nothing adorable about it. There's only pleasure. Only Baelor.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
High. Very high.
Baelor has a libido that many men would envy and that he himself, sometimes, doesn't know how to manage. It's not that he thinks about sex constantly, it's not that he walks around with his breeches open like a teenager. But when he thinks of you, when he sees you, when he smells you... desire ignites fast.
Very fast.
He can be in a council meeting, discussing taxes with boring lords, and suddenly remember how you moved last night. And he has to clench his jaw, shift position, pray that no one notices anything strange. Because his body responds instantly. Because his mind travels straight to your bed.
It's not just physical. It's the desire to be near you, to touch you, to hear your voice. But it's also physical. It's also that almost primal need to have you, to possess you, to lose himself inside you.
There are days when he needs you twice. There are whole weeks when he can't sleep without having had you first. There are moments when a simple look from you is enough for him to have to drag you to his chambers without a word.
—Again? —you sometimes ask, laughing.
He looks at you with those dark eyes and answers:
—Always.
And it's not an exaggeration.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Immediately. But not in the way you think.
After sex, Baelor doesn't fall asleep instantly like a log. No, what he does is relax immediately. As if a switch turned off inside him. The tension leaves his body, his jaw unclenches, his shoulders drop. He becomes a softer, more vulnerable version of himself.
But he doesn't sleep. Not yet.
First comes the aftercare. The wine, the damp cloth, the slow caresses. The questions about how you've been, if you enjoyed yourself, if you need anything. The kisses on your forehead, on your eyelids, on the knuckles of your hands.
Then comes the embrace. That embrace of his, strong and warm, with your head resting on his chest and his fingers drawing lazy circles on your back.
Then comes the silence. A comfortable, full silence, where you both breathe at the same rhythm and the outside world doesn't exist.
And then, only then, when he's sure you're okay, that you're comfortable, that you're with him... then he sleeps.
And he does it quickly. Within minutes, his breathing becomes deep and regular, his body grows heavy against yours, and his face, finally, loses all the seriousness that characterizes it. He looks younger. More at peace.