ALLLLL BECAUSE MY HEAD IS FULL OF POISON AND MY HEART IS FULL OF DOUBT !!!!!!!!!! I GOT TOXINSS. IN MY BLOODSTREAM. YOU TRIED. SO HARD. TO SUCK OUT. AND IT FEELS LIKE MEDICATION. AND ITS GOOD FOR ME. IM SURE!!!!!!!!!! BUT IT DONT MATTER. HOW UR LOVE FEELS. ANYMORE. OKAY!
hamlet’s “i did love you once” and ophelia’s “indeed, my lord, you did make me believe so” is such an underrated gut punch. it’s betrayal it’s heartbreak it’s vulnerability it’s so over. truly no one is doing it like shakespeare
"I think there is a lot of trauma for Yasmin with men. Men just have never been a safe place for her. She has never found safety in her relationships with men, but she craves their approval. She thinks that one day the place that she will find the ultimate safety is beside, behind, underneath the umbrella of a man. That’s just what she has been taught to believe. But the truth is that in those moments when she genuinely needs to feel safe, she knows who to go to, and that person is Harper." - Marisa Abela on 4.07
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ bla bla bla, proper name, place name, backstory stuff ft. baelor targaryen
a/n: just watched a video of bertie carvel yapping about God knows what (i wasn’t really paying attention, i was just mesmerised by his handsome face), and all i could think of was that “bla bla bla, proper name, place name, backstory stuff” meme lol. So i decided to turn it into a short fic of baelor x reader hehe. Enjoy!
Rain drummed softly against the windows of Dragonstone. Outside, the sound of heavy waves clashed in the dark below the ancient stone, restless even at this hour. But inside, the castle had finally loosened its grip on Baelor Targaryen. At least a little.
Your shared chamber smelled of cedarwood and smoke and the faint lingering perfume from your hair oils, sweet beneath the heavier scent of candle wax.
He lay against the carved headboard in shirtsleeves with loosened laces, dark hair slightly a mess after hours of dealing with quills, papers, and matters of the realm. He spoke of grain levies in the Reach with all the gravity of a maester delivering prophecy.
“The lord insists the crown’s tariffs have bled his ports dry,” Baelor murmured, absently turning the signet ring upon his finger. “Though curiously, his cellars remain full enough to host feasts twice a moon.”
You had joined him in bed, cheek resting just below his shoulder, watching the firelight catch the silver threaded through his hair, softening the sternness of his face. You made a thoughtful sound to agree with him, or at least that’s what he assumed. In truth, you had not heard a word since he pushed open the chamber door looking exhausted and unfairly handsome.
“…and if young Lord Peake believes I shall simply overlook missing accounts because he smiles pleasantly, or if he ever thinks I have forgiven and forgotten which side his father took during the rebellion…”
His voice continued to fill the chamber with the affairs of the realm, but all you could think was how, at court, singers praised his strength, the princely solemnity of him. Ladies whispered over the broadness of his shoulders as though they were girls discussing tourney champions. Fools. None of them knew the true self of Prince Baelor Targaryen. It was this, the quiet intimacy of him after dark. With you.
You studied him carefully. The sight of him never failed to send shivers up your spine… and between your thighs. “Mhm,” you murmured.
“Darling,” Baelor said carefully, “are you listening to me?”
“Of course,” you said, trying to sound confident, but your eyes did not meet his. They wandered over the silver beginning to appear at his temples, making him look less like a storybook prince and more like a man carved from something old and steady and safe.
“You appear very occupied.” His hand stroked your left thigh loosely. “Are you tired?”
“No, no. I’m listening. Yes, the fool young Lord Peake. Continue…” you said, starting to run your fingers through his beard. The silver had become your favourite part, though he often complained it made him look older than you, his younger, beautiful wife. You had shushed him numerous times, assuring him his beauty was no different.
Baelor shifted slightly against the pillows, and the collar of his sleeping tunic loosened further. “…which is why I told him if he wished to continue insulting the crown’s judgement, he might do so from a dungeon cell instead...”
Your gaze drifted down his body. The texture of his beard fascinated you, yes, but the sculpted strength of his chest, this was different. A glimpse of skin appeared beneath the linen. Warm bronze touched with gold by candlelight, dusted with dark hair across his chest. You found yourself distracted once again by the sight of him. So your hand slipped lower, fingertips tracing idle circles through the soft hair at the centre of his chest.
Baelor faltered for the briefest moment, but he continued speaking, “…the Master of Coin insists the matter may yet be settled peacefully, though I suspect he would call a wildfire blaze an unfortunate warmth...”
Without realising it, you smiled faintly against him. The realm’s beloved prince. Your husband. Older than you, yes. Wiser, certainly. Worn thin by duty and councils and the endless burdens placed upon noble shoulders. And yet here he was, warm beneath your fingertips. Safe in your arms. Entirely yours. A frighteningly smug feeling settled inside your chest.
There was something deeply satisfying about touching him like this while listening to him speak. Perhaps because the rest of the realm treated him as though he belonged upon a pedestal somewhere. His honey-like voice filled your ears like music, serenading the space. He was always so composed and thoughtful, except for a few nights when he took you to bed and let his stress out of his system - where he could be cruel and torturous - but you knew the real man behind your beloved husband.
His voice vibrated pleasantly. “…and if the crown permits one lord to evade taxes, every lesser bannerman shall soon attempt the same...”
You liked his voice so much that sometimes you would linger in the council chambers, listening to him discuss matters that were not entirely important to you, but the sound of his voice somehow brought you calm.
You studied his features again. He was so handsome you almost found it irritating. The silver in his beard, the scar near his shoulder from some ancient tourney injury, the strength beneath softened fabric. Even the lines at the corners of his eyes suited him unfairly well. Ageing had not stolen his beauty.
After a while, you realised he had stopped talking.
“…darling.” Baelor looked down at you now, one dark brow slightly raised. “I am certain you are not listening to me at all.”
“Of course I am,” you tried to bite back laughter, your fingers continuing to comb absently through the hair upon his chest.
His hand caught your wrist, stopping your wandering touch. “Then tell me what I was speaking of.”
“The lord,” you shrugged.
“The lord,” he repeated.
You tilted your chin upward just enough to smile at him. “The deeply troublesome lord. You will send him to the dungeon if he dares question the crown’s taxes.”
Baelor stared for another moment before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Right,” he agreed, a mischievous look followed behind his eyes.
You returned to tracing patterns against his chest while he resumed speaking, his voice now had softened with amusement. Something about shipments, or ports, or perhaps prisons. Truthfully, you tried listening for nearly a full minute.
You could not stand it any longer. “You are very handsome,” you announced abruptly.
Baelor stopped mid-sentence. “I beg your pardon?”
“You are handsome,” you repeated, looking up, voice sounded entirely serious now. “Distractingly so.”
For a moment, the Prince of Dragonstone looked completely defenseless. Colour rose slowly across his cheeks. He blinked, then a smile followed, softening, unravelling, the one reserved only for you, his wife.
“I know you weren’t even listening, my heart. Does this old man really bore you with his lore?” he teased.
“You are not old, Baelor. How many times do I have to say that? And you are very handsome. It pains me,” your eyes found his mismatched eyes. The danger in those eyes could change depending on the mood he carried at times.
Baelor exhaled through his nose, dragging his hands further up your thighs, somewhere between amusement and surrender. “You have retained nothing from the past quarter hour.”
You brought a palm to cup his cheek, stroking it lightly. “I retained handsome.”
“That was not part of the discussion,” he said, turning his face to press a kiss into your palm. The gesture always sent butterflies through your belly.
“It should have been,” you said softly. Your hand found his where it rested against your thigh, large, warm, steady. Your gaze moved over him slowly; studying the colours of his eyes, his well-sculpted nose, his delicate lips, his strong jaw, his broad chest, even the full breadth of his body built by years of court training and rebellion.
And when you looked up at him again, the fondness in his gaze struck you with such force you nearly forgot your own teasing. That gentle tenderness of his made women write songs, men swear oaths, and kingdoms place impossible hopes upon his shoulders. Gosh, how handsome.
And as though he could read the thoughts behind your eyes, he drew you closer and pressed a long, unhurried kiss to your lips. Slow and certain, as if reminding you that he had always been yours.
“What would the court think,” you murmured against him, “if they knew the future king melts beneath his wife’s touch?”
He smiled into the kiss, “Then it is fortunate,” he said softly, meant only for your ears, “that they never will.”
And perhaps that was the truest thing he had ever promised you. Only you knew the truth of him. The realm might love Prince Baelor Targaryen, but you loved the man who laughed softly in bed while you distracted him from politics with wandering hands and shameless admiration.
Having a blorbo is SO wonderful bc you get free joy for thinking about them being happy but also free joy for thinking about them being miserable. No losing
