can we ever get some prof!baelor period sex drabble…
sanguine | prof!baelor targaryen x reader
summary: period sex with prof!baelor <3
content notes: headcanony little drabble. afab/fem reader. self insert (no y/n). period sex (of course). fingering. dry (?) humping. slight dumbification. set in the canon prof!baelor universe at some unspecified and unimportant point in the timeline.
author notes: this feels like a spiritual sister to incarnadine. if you're reading and you're bleeding... hey we're synced up <3 divider by @uzmacchiato
do not copy or reproduce any of my work & do not feed my work to AI!
His body heat is a beast you suffer. A price you pay for the satisfying weight of nearness. You swear, sometimes, you can see the sheets glowing with the way he warms them. You roll to the far side of the bed once he’s asleep, fleeing to the cold corners where you might not wake in a sheen of sweat. There’s some volcanic power inside him that keeps his temperature blazing hot, no matter how sharp the King’s Landing winters bite when the wind rolls in off of Blackwater Bay and turns the air brittle. It’s baffling. Endearing, a bit. But in the middle of the night, when his unconscious arms wrap around you in the midst of some sweet dream, it’s fucking excruciating.
Lucky you. Excruciating is exactly what you need when your entire middle aches and grates. When the highest setting on your worn-out old heating pad feels lukewarm, you press yourself into the furnace of his body and let yourself melt.
You don’t mind the sweat that gathers at the nape of your neck when the broad plane of his palm presses into your lower belly. Heat and pressure soothe the bitter ache. With your back slotted against his front, all that pooling pain in your back and your hips seems to ebb away. You’re boneless, shapeless, just a soft pile of flesh in the rattiest, most comfortable jumper you own.
How exactly you’re making him hard like this, while you bleed and press your broken-out cheeks into the pillows, you don’t know. There can’t be anything sexy about your stubbly legs, or the baggy bloodstained underwear you’ve got on under your joggers, or the way you probably reek. But there it is. A silent declaration of want.
You’d pity him for being turned on by your body at its rawest, but there’s a beastly little need in you that overrules embarrassment. You arch your spine, nestling closer and giving his cock just a hint of friction. Too tired and timid to put it into words, you let your body do the suggesting. He’s clever, you figure. He knows how to read your subtext.
The circles he’s rubbing over your belly gradually dip lower. His pinky skims your waistband. The heat of his hand feels so heavenly as it travels down, down, down—
“You don’t have to do that.” It feels polite to give him an out. To spare him from whatever carnage he might find between your thighs.
He pauses, lips ghosting over your shoulder. “Will it make you feel better, sweet girl?”
“Yeah.” It comes sliding off your tongue before bashfulness can stop you. He kisses your neck in response. You can feel his lips curling into a smile. Like he’s satisfied. Like he’s proud.
“Then I want to,” he murmurs, finally slipping his fingers over the slick, matted mess of your cunt until he lands on your clit.
The feeling is shapeless at first. Pinpricks of pleasure melt into the haze of warmth. Baelor nuzzles his chin against your neck and plants another kiss right behind your ear. With your eyes closed and your limbs falling asleep, you might rather drift off than come.
His little spirals draw tighter, move faster. “How does that feel?”
“Good.” You make a noise halfway between a grunt and a whine. “Do you want me to—”
“I want you to stop thinking about it, darling,” he croons against your neck, nudging your jaw with his nose until your mouth shuts. “Just feel. You can do that for me. I know you can.”
Oh. Okay, you think, you can do that. Whatever fool’s notion you’d had about dragging yourself to the bathroom, washing up, and grabbing a towel so he can fuck you evaporates from your head.
Pleased by your compliance, he presses his hips ever-so-slowly forward. The dual firmness of his cock against your ass and his hand over your cunt is like a weighted blanket that replaces shooting pains with tingling, electric pulses throughout your body. It’s so safe in the nest of his arms. So quiet. Your ever-racing inner monologue tapers away. How sweet it is, how simple, to be a molten mass of desire. Your body gives way to subconscious instinct: you can let yourself go when you’re with him. He’ll be good to you. He’ll take care of you. No performance, no effort, you only need to absorb the feeling of his fingertips swirling around those sensitive nerves.
Bubbling into focus, you can feel your orgasm just within reach. A warbling moan echoes around your throat. Baelor kisses your warm, oily cheekbones like they’re sacred, all while blurry fantasies flicker behind your eyelids. You’ll repay the favor someday. You’ll get on your knees and worship his cock until he can’t remember his name. You’ll let him mark you with his cum, take it on your face and on your belly, let it spill across your palms like the ink that always decorates his skin. You’ll be his smart girl, making him cuntstruck and dumb, and you’ll fucking love it.
That’s someday, though. Right here, right now, you rock your pelvis into his palm, seeking that last edge of friction. When you finally come, it’s blindingly hot. Delicious. Simmering you from your scalp to the soles of your feet, it rolls over you in waves while you wriggle and gasp. There it is, he hums while he works you through it, swirling slick and blood over the folds of your pussy. Perfect, pretty girl. That was what you needed, wasn’t it? I know. I know.
In the aftermath, blood roaring in your ears, you savor the numbness. Everything goes blissfully still. Despite the erection that still nudges against your tailbone, there’s no desperate grinding. He gives you this silence. Lets you savor it while he holds you against the constant anchor of his body.
“Thank you,” you whisper as you come back to yourself. Sweat gathers in your hip creases, in the pits of your knees. Such a smothering heat. Any other time of the month, you’d pry yourself away from it. Today, it’s divine.
Baelor’s breath tickles the base of your skull. “I know.”
There’s a cocky lilt to his voice. Of course he knows how much you needed him. His heat, his touch, his sureness. You’re a subject laid out for his learning, and gods, is he a quick study. But it’s hard to be annoyed by the pride in his voice. You nuzzle your head into the pillow and sigh. You’ll let him do all the knowing for both of you, just a little while longer.
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