maybe there’s a way you can get him to forgive you for that botched nose job, or maybe not
pairing: baelor targaryen x maid!reader
cw : modern au. really sensitive topics. dark. dub con, age gap, reader is 20s and baelor is early 50s, sex worker reader, past drug addiction,, abandonment issues, past abuse and rape, past sex trafficking, feelings of shame and disgust, tiny bit of smut, baelor eater agenda. mdni 18+
a/n: haven’t really proofread this but I remember promising to post this today and I have 2 minutes left so here you go.
maid for hire series
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
Baelor isn’t exactly how you imagined him. All the articles online paint him out to be this stone cold enigma, the Mr. Darcy type. Even his affair that was published six months before your arrival had a coldness attached to it that made you shiver, like he was entirely detached from it— like he hadn’t been the main cause for the downfall of his own marriage.
He carries himself around the house with a casualness that catches you off guard, if he’s not dressed in his workout attire, preparing for his morning run, then it’s loose jumpers and trousers that are so snug they outline everything. Everything.
You catch yourself looking at the most inappropriate times. Especially when he invades your space in the mornings, flicking over a few files in his study while you clean, not even sitting down in his chair. He lifts his arms, stretching and that knit jumper lifts up, showing the thick happy trail underneath. His eyes flicker over to catch you, catching you but he doesn’t smile, no.
He looks as well, letting his eyes wander from where the skirt of your attire falls just below your ass and the stockings wrap around your thighs. You’re used to men staring, but there’s something different about this. He isn’t leering like those men did before, it’s almost like he’s sizing you up, wanting to work you out.
You think if he asked, you’d let him work you out in whichever way he wanted.
He greets you when he sees you, nods his head politely but that’s it.
You’re used to men being hungry around you but with Baelor you feel like the animal with an appetite you’re dying to fill.
Pathetically you attempt to win over his hungry affections, placing yourself in his study when you know he’ll be coming in the morning. Cleaning something on the bottom book shelf, bending over so he can get a nice glimpse of your ass cheeks and the thong that rides between them. Only when you look back at him, he’s not even looking at you, all that signals that he’s seen the sight is that smug smile on his face.
You try repeatedly, making yourself available to him in ways that would normally have a man panting and crawling to you. Yet each attempt fails miserably until one does catch you by surprise.
“It won’t work.”
You’re bent down, in a mean doggy press on the floor as you clean underneath his desk, literally serving him your ass on a platter. Only you look around to see him standing over the desk not giving you the slightest bit of attention.
“What won’t work?” You ask, playing dumb.
He snickers, turning over another page. “This game you’re trying to play.”
“I’m not playing any game.”
He looks over to you then, with a look that sees right through you.
“Okay,” you stand up, hands up in surrender. “You got me.”
He hums, like he’s not even the slightest bit interested.
“Won’t you let me apologise at least?”
“Apologise, for what?”
“Your nose.” You step closer to him, one leg sliding between him and the desk. Your body pressing up against his and in a seductive drawl you whisper, “I can apologise in any way you want me to.”
Your finger reaches out to touch the scar over his nose but he catches your wrist. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
He leans in then so close you can feel his hot breath against the skin of your face. “I’m your employer and there are lines I do not cross.”
“I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”
“What if you’re a reporter? Got some sort of mic on you and you’re recording all this.”
“You can search me if you like?”
He rolls his eyes then, falling back and chuckles.
The noise is deep and guttural, almost drawing you in.
“Like I said, there are lines I won’t cross.”
You huff, letting out your frustrations but you don’t stop there. You strip, pulling the maid costume till it pools out your feet, then your shoes with it, until you’re in nothing but your lace thong.
His eyes lift up then, and you notice the way his jaw clenches.
“I think my next room is your bedroom,” you tell him, before turning back and walking out the door.
You’re on your knees when he enters the room, mouth salivating as closes the door.
He looks half impressed, unamused though as his eyes run over you.
“Sit on the edge of the bed,” he directs, and you listen.
You practically hop onto the bed, biting your bottom lip as he stands before you.
He grabs the back of your neck first, fingers tangling into your hair as he holds it with a bruising grip. His finger runs over your lips, pulling down on your bottom to release it from its hold. He leans in nose brushing against yours, only when you try to close the distance he pulls a few inches away, stopping you from catching his lips.
He chuckles and the sound runs right through you, and you can feel the heat in your pants.
Baelor notices it too, the way your thighs squeeze together and the way you wriggle your hips.
“Please,” you whisper so quietly you barely catch it yourself.
He drops, slowly falling to his knees and parting your legs with his big hands on either side of your thighs.
This isn’t what you expected, mouth falling open as he leans in between your thighs. Once again Baelor surprises you.
He kisses the inside of your thighs, gently pressing his lips against the flesh, before dragging his teeth along the skin all the way to your clothed pussy. You can’t help but whimper when he pushes his face up against the lacy material, burying his nose and sniffing it.
Fuck.
He goes to the other side of your thigh, teeth nipping at the skin before saying your name, twice, to get your attention.
“Yes,” you let out on a harsh breath.
He looks up with a smug smile, like he’s won. “An apology starts with ‘I’m sorry’. That’s all I need.”
“Huh?”
“I’m sorry,” he sounds out the words, drawing them out like he’s talking to a child.
“I’m sorry?” You repeat.
“Good girl.” He picks himself up off the floor, adjusting his jumper and not even turning back to look at you.
Smug prick.
Not smug enough though because you catch it, those trousers give it away. The thick outline of his hard cock, trying to force itself out its restraints.
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader - modern AU (see part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here, part 4 here, part 5 here, part 6 here, part 7 here)
You were no longer a teenager. You paid your own rent. You could fix electronics on your own. You had once argued with a tenured professor and won.
And yet you were pacing your bedroom because you had to call your mother and ask if you could go to Tarth with your boyfriend.
Aerion was sprawled across your desk computer chair, watching you with open disdain.
“You are an adult,” he said flatly.
“I am aware.”
“Then why are we behaving as though you require a signed permission slip?”
“Because my mother,” you replied tightly, “believes the world is a series of traps specifically designed to swallow me.”
He leaned back further. “Charming.”
“She didn’t pester me about you because you were ‘helping me study,’” you added, making air quotes. “Educational proximity is acceptable. A seaside trip is not.”
His lip curled faintly. “It is nobody’s business where I am taking you.”
“It is my mother’s business,” you said. “In her mind.”
“In her mind, perhaps. In reality...”
“In reality,” you cut in, “I would like to go without triggering a three-month cold war.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine. Call her.”
You stared at your phone like it might bite.
Aerion watched you for another few seconds before muttering, “Give me that.”
You blinked. “What?”
“If this is to be a negotiation, I will participate.”
“You don’t have to...”
“I absolutely do. If she is to imagine me spiriting you away to some lawless coastline, I would prefer to correct the narrative personally.”
“That is not how she thinks.”
“That is precisely how overprotective parents think.”
You hesitated. “You’re going to be polite.”
He looked offended. “I am always polite in front of elders.”
“You’re condescending.”
“That is not the same thing.”
Before you could argue further, he stood and smoothed down his shirt, glancing at his reflection in your dark laptop screen. He adjusted his collar. Ran a hand through his hair. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable: posture straighter, expression composed and earnest.
“You look like you’re about to attend a job interview,” you observed.
“In a sense, I am.”
You huffed a nervous laugh and hit the call button before you could lose your nerve.
Your mother answered on the third ring.
Her face filled the screen almost immediately. “Hi, sweetheart. Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” you said quickly. “Everything’s fine.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why do you look like you’re about to confess to something?”
Aerion stepped into frame smoothly, as though this had been choreographed.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said, voice measured and respectful.
Your mother blinked.
You watched the moment she assessed him: posture, tone, background, the fact that he was standing straight rather than slouching.
“Oh,” she said slowly. “Hello.”
“Aerion,” you supplied.
“Yes, I remember.”
Of course she did. The mysterious study partner, a Targaryen. The one with the voice too confident and the surname too old.
“We were calling,” you began carefully, “because I’ve been invited to spend a few days on Tarth before I come home.”
Your mother’s expression shifted instantly. “Tarth.”
“It’s very calm,” Aerion interjected smoothly. “Blue water. Quiet coastline. We’ve rented a small place. It’s well-populated, not remote.”
You shot him a look. We?
He ignored you.
“You’d be alone?” your mother asked, gaze sharpening.
“No, ma’am,” Aerion replied evenly. “With me.”
There was a pause.
You could practically hear your mother recalculating every scenario.
“And your parents?” she asked.
“They are aware of my plans,” he said, which was technically true. Maekar had grunted something that might have been approval. “But this would not be a large family gathering. Simply a short trip before your daughter returns home.”
He sounded infuriatingly composed. Not defensive. Not flippant. Not the man who sneered five minutes ago about it being nobody’s business.
Your mother looked at you. “And this is what you want?”
“Yes,” you said quietly.
She studied your face for a long moment, searching for pressure or hesitation.
Aerion didn’t interrupt. He just stood there like a candidate awaiting a verdict.
Finally, your mother sighed. “I don’t like the idea of you being so far from home.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t like not knowing the people you’re with.”
“That’s why I wanted you to meet him properly,” you said gently.
Her gaze shifted back to Aerion. “You understand that she is my daughter.”
“I do,” he replied without hesitation.
“And that I worry.”
“I would be concerned if you did not.”
It was such a measured answer that you almost stared at him.
Your mother’s expression did not soften. “You’re responsible for her safety.”
Aerion inclined his head slightly. “I take that very seriously.”
Another long pause.
“Five days,” your mother said finally. “And you call me every morning and evening.”
Relief washed through you so fast you nearly swayed. “I will.”
“And if I feel something is off...”
“You won’t,” Aerion said calmly. “But you may call at any time.”
Your mother eyed him for another beat, then nodded once. “All right.”
When the call ended, you exhaled like you’d run a marathon.
Aerion remained standing for a second longer, posture still formal, before the tension left him all at once.
“That,” he said, rolling his shoulders, “was more exhausting than any lecture.”
“You were very well-behaved.”
“I am capable of diplomacy.”
“You sneered ten minutes ago about it being nobody’s business.”
“It isn’t,” he said immediately. “But if performing civility ensures you are not grounded, I will perform.”
You laughed, stepping closer. “She likes you.”
“She tolerates me,” he corrected. “That is sufficient for now.”
You studied him. “You really did treat that like an interview.”
He looked down at you, expression softening. “If I am taking you across the sea, I would prefer not to begin by alarming your mother.”
“And if she’d said no?”
His jaw tightened slightly. “We would have found another solution.”
You smiled faintly. “You mean you would have.”
“Obviously.”
He huffed leaned down, brushing a brief kiss against your brow.
“I am not the one who requires supervision,” he murmured.
“According to my mother, you absolutely are.”
He almost smiled at that.
Tarth was exactly what Aerion had promised, the water blue in a way that almost looked artificial, the sea stretching out beneath chalk-white cliffs, the air clean and salted and far quieter than Lys could ever claim to be.
It would have been perfect.
If not for the morning calls. And the evening calls. Your mother did not miss a single one.
The first morning, you were half-asleep and very warm, tucked securely against Aerion’s chest, his arm heavy over your waist. The curtains were still drawn. The sea could be heard faintly through the open window.
Your phone began ringing and vibrating against the nightstand.
You froze. Aerion groaned softly and tightened his hold, instinctively pulling you closer.
“Ignore it,” he murmured into your hair.
“I can’t,” you whispered back. “It’s her.”
He went still. “Already?”
“It’s morning.”
“Barely.”
The phone continued vibrating.
You wriggled, trying to extract yourself. His grip tightened in sleepy protest.
“If you move,” he warned, voice low and rough, “I will consider it betrayal.”
“I have to look awake.”
“You are awake.”
“I have to look like I’ve been awake.”
With visible irritation, he released you. You scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over your own discarded shirt as you snatched it off the floor and dragged it over your head.
“Good morning!” you answered a second later, breathless but smiling brightly at the screen.
Behind you, Aerion collapsed back against the pillows with theatrical suffering.
Your mother’s face filled the display. “You’re up early.”
“Yes! We were just about to...” You shot a warning glance at the bed, where Aerion was very clearly not up. “...go for breakfast.”
He made a quiet, offended noise. You coughed to cover it.
The routine repeated every morning and every evening. Each time, you untangled yourself from him while he muttered darkly about surveillance states and maritime privacy laws. Each time, you angled the camera carefully to exclude the very obvious evidence that you had not been “reading on the balcony” or “organizing”.
By day three, he had begun timing your mother’s calls with visible resentment.
“This is psychological warfare,” he informed you one morning as you slid out of his arms yet again.
“She’s being protective.”
“She is interfering with momentum.”
“You sound deranged.”
“I sound inconvenienced.”
Despite his complaints, he made no attempt to disrupt the calls. He simply lay there, watching you with narrowed eyes as you performed alertness, then pulled you straight back into bed the moment the screen went dark.
During the day, he was less irritable.
He taught you to ride on the second afternoon. The horse was patient; you were less so. Aerion stood beside you at first, one hand steady at your thigh to help you mount.
“You look insufferably pleased,” you told him when he smirked at your concentration.
“You are glaring at the horizon.”
“It’s very high.”
“It’s a horse.”
“That is not reassuring.”
He walked beside you until you found your balance, his hand occasionally brushing your knee to correct your posture. When you finally managed a controlled trot without panicking, he actually laughed, sharp and bright and proud in a way that caught you off guard.
“That,” he said, “was not disastrous.”
“Your standards are low.”
“They're realistic.”
You went swimming every morning. The water was cold enough to shock and clear your head. He swam easily, confidently, diving beneath you and resurfacing close enough to make you yelp.
“You’re intolerable,” you sputtered once, spitting water, laughing hysterically.
“Yet you followed me into the sea.”
He brushed water from your shoulder with absent intimacy, gaze lingering for a moment too long before he leaned in to kiss you, tasting of salt.
It was on the fourth night that you drank too much.
The wine had gone down easily. The sunset had been unfairly beautiful. You had felt light, untethered from the constant awareness of expectations.
Back in the house, flushed and laughing, you flopped onto the couch and declared, “I am going to text my mother.”
Aerion, halfway through removing his watch, paused. “Why?”
“So she doesn’t worry.”
“You spoke to her a few hours ago.”
“Yes, but she expects the evening call.”
He watched you squint at your screen, thumbs moving with exaggerated focus.
You read aloud, solemnly, “Hi Mum. I’m fine. There’s a power outage so I can’t call. Love you.”
He stared at you. “There is no power outage.”
“She doesn’t know that.”
He crossed the room slowly. “You little liar.”
“She’ll worry less if she thinks it’s technical.”
“You are drunk.”
“Only a little.”
He took the phone gently from your hand before you could add anything incriminating. “Go to bed.”
“Noo!...I lied because of you.”
Aerion arched an eyebrow. “Because of me?”
“Yes!” You jumped up and looped your arms around his neck. “So we could spend the evening uninterrupted.”
He smiled crookedly despite himself. “Oh, well, in that case, how can I possibly send you off to bed?”
You grinned back and kissed the upturn of his mouth.
The five days passed faster than either of you liked to admit.
On the morning you left, the sea looked deceptively calm. You stood on the small porch with your bag at your feet while Aerion locked the door behind you.
“You’ll call,” you said lightly.
“I am aware of the expectation.”
“No sulking.”
“I do not sulk.”
“You absolutely sulk.”
He gave you a look but didn’t argue.
The drive back to King’s Landing was filled with conversation. The closer you got to the airport, the more tangible the end felt.
At the drop-off lane, he stepped out with you, pulling your bag from the trunk before you could protest.
“This is unnecessary,” you said.
“So is your mother’s surveillance schedule. Yet here we are.”
You smiled faintly.
Inside the terminal, he didn’t make a spectacle. No dramatic declarations. He simply stood close, one hand resting at your waist, gaze fixed on you like he was committing something to memory.
“You will text when you land,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And if your mother attempts to restrict communication, I will consider that an act of war.”
“She won’t.”
“You have more faith than I do.”
You hesitated, then leaned in and kissed him properly, uncaring of who might see. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there.
“Five days were insufficient,” he murmured against your lips.
“Greedy.”
Another kiss. “For you.”
You sighed fondly and kissed his nose. “As am I.”
You pulled away before the goodbye could stretch into something heavier.
He watched until you disappeared through security.
The first morning you were home, your phone rang at precisely eight.
You blinked at the screen.
Aerion.
You answered groggily. “Hello?”
“Good morning,” he said briskly. “Just ensuring you are alive.”
You squinted at the time. “It’s eight.”
“Yes.”
“That’s early.”
“So is nine in Tarth,” he replied smoothly. “And yet.”
You sat up slowly, realization dawning. “You’re taking revenge.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
He ignored that. “What are your plans today? Who will you be interacting with? Are there cliffs?”
You laughed despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Am I? I believe I am demonstrating appropriate concern.”
“And you’ll call tonight too?”
“Of course.”
“Eight in the morning,” you said finally. “You’re worse than she is.”
“Untrue,” he replied. “I do not require visual proof.”
You choked on a laugh.
“Yet,” he added dryly.
And just like that, the calls became routine again, this time from him.
part 9: pending...
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a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist <3
i cannot overstate how good it feels to watch older movies where the actors were still allowed to look kinda weird and not be conventionally attractive. like it is genuinely healing
rambly little brain hairball featuring netrunner gaz, because netrunner gaz is genuinely one of my favorite things to think about
just thinking about how if netrunner gaz wants you, he can get you. there'd just be no fighting it. not only does the man have the capability to cut off your optics, intercept and divert any messages you try to send, and hack your rides- he's been in your therapists files. has sensors pointed at your windows so he can 'hear' your conversations. overrides your building's security protocols and lets himself in. he could make himself nigh unescapable if he wanted to- but he chooses to make you fall in love with him instead.
so he uses what he learns about you to plan a meet-cute, to figure out what will get you talking, get you to open up to him, a total stranger. there's endless planning, script writing, surveillance. he bides his time, runs the simulations he's programmed based on his data, and tries to engineer the perfect way to woo you. he's already got the charisma to carry it (and knows what an asset his face is), once he refines his plan, you're sure to fall in love with him-
-except you don't. he can't understand it- he hit all the talking points, he was perfectly polite and charming, he even made sure to wear a cologne you'd mentioned liking in an old blog post. it blindsides him to fail like that- you'd been perfectly polite, sure, but you were also very firm in your rebuff. it threw him for a loop, but simultaneously stoked the fires of his obsession. after all, you surprised him. he'd thought he was thorough, thought he'd done the research, knew everything that there is to know about you... but he'd clearly fucked up somewhere. and now his desire to have you close, to inspect you, to understand you fully has amped up to a level previously unexplored.
the most terrifying thing about gaz is that he can justify everything he does- overriding your locks is a method of showing you how unsafe you are without him, forging a resignation letter to your job is to help with the high stress levels and reduce the threat of corporate assassination, drugging you and hauling you back to his little nest is just to keep you safe as he demonstrates how well he can take care of you.
and best believe that when you open your eyes and find, to your shock, that the impossibly handsome guy who'd asked you out a few weeks back has absconded with you into a run-down apartment in pacifica, that he's got the perfect lie in place to keep you sweet, complacent, and most importantly, in his bed for the forseeable future.
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