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perhaps he truly had unleashed the dragon in his blood - the one whose fire had slumbered deep within him before, the one no one had ever managed to see in him
We're getting freaky in here. Ever since I watched AKOTSK I had this impending need of writing this piece (so it's very kind of self-indulging).
How would Baelor and Maekar react to you having a size kink?
Includes: Baelor Targaryen and Maekar Targaryen x f!lady in waiting!reader
Warning(s): size kink (you have it), kind of suggestive but not NSFW just yet, lots of feelings.
Baelor realized something was wrong with you long before you intended him to.
Or perhaps not wrong. Simply dangerous.
Because lately, every time he came too close to you, your entire body betrayed you in increasingly humiliating ways.
You noticed the breadth of him constantly now. The size of his hands when he passed scrolls across council tables. The way his shoulders filled doorways. The warmth of him whenever he stood behind you, large enough that his presence alone seemed to crowd the air from your lungs.
And Gods, when he touched you, even casually, you felt it everywhere. And, tragically for you, once Baelor noticed it, he could not stop noticing.
The realization had settled slowly over weeks. You liked how large he was. Not merely admired it, enjoyed it; craved it. And, perhaps, the most devastating part was just how innocent your reactions seemed at first, as though you did not fully realize how transparent you became around him.
Like now.
The Queen’s solar had emptied for the evening, leaving only soft firelight and drifting silence behind. Queen Myriah had retired already, and you sat curled sideways upon one of the chairs, sorting correspondence while Prince Baelor stood nearby reviewing council reports.
Or pretending to, because he had caught you staring at his hands three separate times in the last several minutes.
Your gaze kept lingering where his fingers wrapped around parchment, broad palms flexing absently as he turned pages. You looked up at precisely the wrong moment, because Baelor was rolling his sleeves slowly, exposing strong forearms corded subtly with muscle from years of swordsmanship despite the duties that now kept him behind council tables more often than battlefields.
Your throat went dry instantly. Unfortunately for your dignity, he looked up and caught you staring directly at his forearms.
Silence stretched, and then one dark brow lifted slightly. “You are distracted tonight.”
Heat climbed into your face immediately. “I am not.”
Baelor’s mouth softened faintly at the corners, though his eyes remained terribly observant.
“I am sure you have read the same document three times.”
You looked quickly back down at the parchment in your lap despite retaining absolutely none of it. “That proves nothing.”
A quiet breath of amusement escaped him. Heat continued spreading through your face. Baelor noticed that too. His mouth softened faintly at the corners before he set his own parchment aside and crossed the room toward you.
And gods, there it was again, that impossible awareness the moment he approached.
Baelor moved quietly for such a large man, but his presence still filled the space around you effortlessly. Broad shoulders blocked firelight as he stopped beside you, one hand resting lightly against the carved wood of the back of your chair that rose above your head.
You had to tilt your chin upward to look at him properly. That alone sent warmth curling low through your stomach.
Baelor saw the reaction immediately, his eyes darkened slightly.
“Ah,” he said softly.
Your heartbeat stumbled. “Ah, what?”
“You truly do like this.”
Gods. You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
“I do not know what you mean.”
“You do.” His voice remained maddeningly calm. “You become very quiet whenever I stand over you like this.”
Your pulse turned traitorous beneath your skin. Because he was right.
The sheer size of him this close affected you in ways you struggled to explain even to yourself: the breadth of his chest, the quiet, gentle steadiness of his strength, the feeling of being surrounded completely by someone capable of overwhelming force who nevertheless handled you with unbearable softness.
Safe. You felt safe. And perhaps he understood that now.
Baelor’s expression softened visibly at whatever he saw in your face. Then, slowly, he crouched before you. Even kneeling, he remained large enough to make your breath catch.
“You should have told me,” he murmured.
“There was nothing to tell.”
A quiet laugh escaped him at that. “So, this means nothing?”
Before you could answer, his hands settled carefully around your waist. Warm and broad and completely spanning you.
The breath left your lungs instantly, Baelor felt it happen.
You saw the realization move through him all at once: the visible understanding, the dangerous tenderness entering his gaze, the sudden awareness of how deeply this affected you.
His thumbs brushed lightly against your sides. “You like when I touch you like this,” he said softly.
Heat climbed higher into your face and Baelor looked devastatingly pleased by that, something dangerously close in resemblance to smugness dancing in his eyes. Because underneath the teasing calm, you could see what truly affected him: that you trusted him, that you relaxed beneath his frame instead of shrinking away.
“You make me feel very small,” you admitted finally, voice quieter now. The words shattered something visible in him.
Baelor inhaled slowly, eyes softening almost painfully. Hands tightening faintly around your waist before loosening again with deliberate care. No one had ever looked at you like that before, like your vulnerability was precious.
His forehead lowered slowly against the crook of your neck, pressing against it with utter tenderness. The intimacy of the gesture nearly stole your breath.
“You have no idea,” he murmured softly against you, “what that does to me.”
Your fingers slipped instinctively into his dark silvered hair and Baelor exhaled shakily, his warm breath sending shivers against the soft skin of where your neck met your chest . Then, before you could fully gather yourself again, he rose smoothly to his feet and lifted you with him.
Effortlessly. Completely effortlessly. A startled sound escaped you immediately.
Baelor held you securely against his chest as though your weight meant nothing at all, one arm beneath your thighs while the other supported your back.
The room tilted slightly with the sudden movement. Your hands grabbed instinctively at his shoulders. And gods, the look on his face afterward nearly ruined you entirely.
No longer smugness. Wonder. Like he could physically feel how much you loved this.
“You should see yourself right now,” he murmured.
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
“Yes,” he admitted softly. “Because you are looking at me as though I have hung the moon.” He smiled tenderly, the tip of his sharp canines showing.
You hid your face briefly against his shoulder in embarrassment and Baelor laughed quietly beneath his breath before setting you again safely on the chair. His arms remained firm around you, body surrounding yours entirely in warmth and impossible steadiness alike.
You could feel how carefully he handled you despite all that strength and that was the worst part by far. Not merely that he was large enough to overwhelm you easily, but that he chose gentleness anyway.
The armoury always smelled like steel and oil and smoke. You liked it more than you probably should have, perhaps because it carried traces of him everywhere.
Prince Maekar spent more time here than he did in half the rooms assigned to him in the Red Keep. The space suited him too well —dim torchlight glinting off blades and armour, stone walls holding the lingering warmth of exertion, the air thick with the sharp scent of metal and sweat alike.
It felt honest, and so did he. At least here.
You found him exactly where you expected: near the long wooden table at the centre of the room, still dressed in training leathers darkened slightly with sweat, one large hand braced against the edge of the table while the other adjusted the leather wrapping at his wrist.
Gods, the sight alone nearly sent warmth through your entire body. Maekar looked enormous beneath the low torchlight.
Broad shoulders stretched tight beneath dark fabric, white hair damp from exertion and half-loosened from his usual tidied placement, pale strands sticking faintly to scarred skin and beard alike. Every movement carried heavy controlled strength, the kind that made lesser men instinctively move aside when he entered rooms.
And unfortunately for your dignity, you liked it far too much.
You had tried not to, you really had, but the first time Maekar absentmindedly lifted you above a table in the middle of a conversation just because you had not wanted to look him in the eyes and that movement left you at the perfect height for him, something in your brain was forever altered.
Now every little thing affected you: the size of his hands, the breadth of his chest, the way he crowded close without realizing how overwhelming he felt physically.
And recently, gods help you, you thought he had started noticing.
You leaned lightly against the doorway. “You are avoiding dinner again.”
Maekar glanced over immediately, then paused. That always happened now too, that tiny hesitation the moment he saw you. Like some instinct in him shifted instantly toward you before the rest of him caught up.
“I was occupied,” he answered.
“With trying to bludgeon innocent training dummies into submission?”
“They lost.”
You laughed softly and noticed how the sound visibly affected him. His eyes darkened slightly while something warmer flickered briefly beneath the usual severity of his expression.
Then his gaze lowered, straight to the way your hands gripped the doorway while looking at him, and suddenly you realized, much too late, that you had been staring again.
At his arms. At his shoulders. At the sheer impossible size of him beneath torchlight.
Heat crept into your face immediately. Maekar went very still.
“You are doing it again,” he said quietly.
Your heartbeat stumbled. “Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
Oh, no.
You tried for innocence. “I do not know what you mean.”
Maekar stared at you for one long moment, then slowly, deliberately, he straightened to his full height.
Seven hells. It should have been illegal for one man to look like that.
The movement only emphasized the terrifying breadth of him, heavy muscle beneath dark fabric, towering height, the raw physicality of someone built more like a warhorse than a prince.
And the worst part? He was watching your reaction now. Carefully.
Your pulse fluttered traitorously beneath your skin and Maekar noticed immediately in the way you faltered. The realization moved visibly through him. Not arrogance, but rather something similar to shock. Like he genuinely had not expected this.
“You like it,” he said quietly. The words landed directly in your stomach.
You crossed your arms instinctively. “You are imagining things.”
“No.” He stepped closer. “I am not.”
Gods. Every step of his felt unfair.
The armoury suddenly seemed much smaller with him crossing it toward you, torchlight catching sharply against pale hair and violet eyes alike while his sheer size crowded warmth and tension into the air around you.
You held your ground anyway. Mostly because your knees might have failed if you attempted retreat.
Maekar stopped directly before you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back fully to maintain eye contact. And gods, that was part of it too: the feeling of being small beside him. Of being physically surrounded by someone so much larger and stronger while knowing with absolute certainty he would never hurt you.
Your breath caught softly and, unfortunately for you, Maekar heard it. The look that crossed his face afterward nearly ruined you. Slow understanding. Heat. Something dangerously close to hunger.
“You truly do,” he murmured.
His hand settled against your waist then. And gods, just one hand. One massive hand spanning nearly the entirety of your waist through the fabric of your gown.
Your entire body reacted instantly. Maekar felt it happen. You saw the exact second realization struck him fully: the widening of his pupils, the deeper pull of breath into his lungs, the way his fingers tightened instinctively before loosening again with visible restraint.
“You become nervous when I stand close,” he said softly.
“I do not.”
“You stop breathing properly.”
Your face burned hotter and Maekar looked devastatingly affected by that. Not smug, more like emotionally overwhelmed. Like the knowledge that you desired him this way genuinely unsettled him somewhere deep beneath the ribs.
His other hand came up slowly until both palms rested at your waist now, entirely surrounding you. The contrast nearly made your head spin: you looked tiny beneath him. Maekar noticed you realizing it too. And gods, something in him snapped quietly at the sight.
Before you could fully gather your thoughts, he lifted you. Effortlessly.
A startled breath escaped you as your back met cool stone beside the doorway a second later, Maekar settling you easily atop one of the lower storage tables built into the wall.
The movement had been so casual. So easy. Like your weight meant absolutely nothing to him. And gods, that affected you embarrassingly much.
Maekar stepped between your knees immediately afterward, large hands still firm at your waist while his chest pressed close enough for warmth to radiate through your clothes.
You could feel every inch of how much larger he was like this. The breadth of him. The weight of him. The sheer, overwhelming presence surrounding you entirely.
Your fingers caught instinctively against his shoulders. Solid, broad, immovable. Maekar looked at you then with an expression so raw it nearly stole your breath entirely.
“You like when I handle you,” he said hoarsely.
The vulnerability hidden beneath the observation shattered something soft inside your chest.
“Yes,” you finally admitted quietly.
He closed his eyes briefly, like the answer physically affected him.
When he looked at you again, something darker had entered his gaze now —unadulterated hunger tangled tightly with emotion.
His forehead lowered slowly against yours.
“You have no idea,” he murmured roughly, hands tightening carefully at your waist, “what that just did to me.”
It is the first time I am writing something this suggestive and I really don't know how it turned out. What do you think?
you will never catch me complaining about an actress on a tv show having an imperfectly concealed pregnancy or a character going on a sudden trip somewhere while her actress is on maternity leave. so many actresses (and women working in any other field) are fired, punished and pressured into making reproductive decisions for their employers' convenience & if i have to try a bit harder to suspend my disbelief then that's absolutely what i'm going to do if it means people are getting to exercise reproductive & bodily autonomy without punishment
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