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A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Prince Baelor x Lady Jena x lady in waiting!reader
Rating: Explicit (MDNI)
WC: 4.7 k
AKOTSK Masterlist
Requests Open
Tags/Warnings: Threesomes, oral, blow jobs, rough sex, impact play: riding crop, finger sucking, nipple play, age gap, some D/s vibes, power imbalance, biting, blood, Jena and Baelor are a wee bit kinky, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader given, no beta we die like Baelor
A/n: Bi Pride! Bi Pride! Bi Pride! This came second in the poll. I envision Jessica Chastain as Jena. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to any tag lists.
Summary: You arrive at court to attend to your ailing grandmother, only to find yourself in a dalliance with the heir to the throne and his wife.
Love was not lost; it was simply dormant, lingering under the surface and waiting for the right spark to bring it back to life.
Baelor still felt fondness when he gazed at his good lady wife. The strong, beautiful woman who had given him two healthy sons, and when she expressed her desire not to have more, he respected her wish. Otherwise, he was certain they would have rivaled Maekar and Dyanna. He adored his boys, longing for more little ones to be following at his heels. But a good husband respects his wife's wishes, does he not?
They still lay together, nestled close and finding creative ways to bring each other pleasure, but Baelor missed spilling between her pliant thighs. In his youth, he would ravage her any chance he could, making her squeal and blush. Many gifts were bestowed upon her, and songs were sung of his devotion and love for her. It was not gone, nor did he suspect her desire for him had disappeared entirely, but perhaps these were just the curses of passing time. Now, with their two sons, one a man grown and the other on the cusp, they felt the effects even more, and disappointment settled deep inside.
A breath of fresh air swept through the Red Keep when you arrived at court, draped in yellow silks as if you were a sunbeam. One of Queen Myriah's ladies, Lady Dalt, was in failing health, and you were called to be by your grandmother's side to help nurse her and attend to the Queen in your grandmother's absence. Prince Baelor and Lady Jena were sent to greet you upon your arrival, and both fell under your bright enchantment.
"My lord, my lady," you said respectfully before lowering into a gentle curtsey.
"Lady Dalt, it is our pleasure to welcome you to court," Lady Jena smiled, red hair cascading down her shoulders. She wore a vibrant violet gown with diamond and pearl jewelry. A netting of pearls blanketed her shimmering hair. A glittering thunderbolt dangled from the silver chain around her neck. Her cheekbones were sharp and defined with a full mouth and kind, blue eyes. A stunning beauty.
"It is an honor to have you here, even under such sad circumstances," Prince Baelor said. His outfit was a more somber black with slashes of crimson woven through his doublet. Rings of gold and ruby gleamed on his fingers, but it was those eyes of differing shades that were captivating. One brown, one blue. Most intriguing.
"The pleasure is mine. The good queen is most kind to allow her personal maesters to attend to my grandmother in her time of need. I am happy to serve in whichever capacity is needed."
Baelor and Jena exchanged a look, their eyes meeting in a silent exchange. Both had felt that spark. It had breezed in with you. Sunshine and lemons. A rainbow spilling down the halls.
"Allow us to show you to your quarters," Baelor said, offering you his arms.
"I'm sure the heir of the realm and his good lady wife have better things to do," you teased.
"Nonsense, we would like to assure that you are settled properly. Your grandmother is a beloved in our court, and we will see you well tended to," Jena insisted, guiding you onto Baelor's arm before squeezing her husband's shoulder.
"Your grandmother's rooms are adjoining, should you need to assist her," Baelor explained.
"That is most kind and thoughtful," you smiled, slipping free of his arm to take a look around before pushing one of the windows open. "It is a bit stuffy." Your smile made Baelor and Jena's hearts skip a beat. They watched as the sun warmed your cheeks, longing to lay their lips over the sun kissed flesh.
"If there is anything you require, please let us know. We wish for you to feel comfortable here," Jena offered as her husband's hand slipped over her lower back. She was always so generous and welcoming, one of the many reasons he loved her.
"That is kind of you, my lady. I…if I am not overstepping, I would greatly appreciate some colorful cushions and bedding, if possible. To cheer it up a bit," you said kindly.
"I will talk with the steward at once," Jena said.
"We will leave you to settle and rest, but mayhaps you'd like to join us for dinner in the Tower of the Hand this evening? A private audience with just us before we expose you to the full court," Baelor stated.
"Oh, I would love that! Thank you, Your Grace."
"Until this evening, then," Baelor smiled, and the two left you to rest as the servants filed in to help unpack your belongings.
Queen Myriah had instructed the servants to prepare a bath for you, knowing the rituals from Dorne. You bathed in warm water, floating with jasmine, rose petals, and lemon rinds. It felt good to wash the grime away from your skin that had clung to it during your travels. After your bath, you looked in on your grandmother, dabbing her forehead and helping her drink the herb laced tea.
"My cough is getting better," she told you weakly.
"That is wonderful," you said, fluffing up her pillows. "Your cheeks have color in them as well. These are all good signs."
"Thank you for coming, my dear."
"I only wish you had summoned me sooner," you said gently, kissing her forehead and smoothing back her graying hair. "But I am here now, and you'll be feeling right as rain soon. Mother sent me with some treatments and a taste of home." Your mother wished to come, but such a tumultuous journey would have stressed her.
"With a fine Dornish queen, I do not lack for home," she chuckled.
"What about lemons from our gardens?" you teased. "Mother sent me with a whole trunk."
"Oh! Delightful."
"Now, rest. I will check in on you before supper." You kissed her cheek before returning to your chambers.
You peeled the rind from the lemons, steeping them in the hot water fetched for you, drizzling in some Tyroshi honey along with the lemon juice. After it was covered with a clean cloth, you left it to steep, intending to serve it with your grandmother's supper. Two handmaidens helped you get ready for dinner with Prince Baelor and Lady Jena. You chose another garment of dazzling yellow silk decorated with patterns of white lemons. White-gold hugged your throat and fingers with tiny matching hoops dangling from your ears. You dabbed a bit of citrus oil on your wrists, hollow of your throat, and behind your ears. Before departing for the Tower, you checked on your grandmother once again, helping her take sips of the brew.
"You look lovely, my darling girl. Enjoy your supper." You left her with a kiss as two guards escorted you up the winding stairs that led to the Tower of the Hand.
"Lady Dalt," the guard introduced before stepping aside to allow you passage.
Lady Jena bristled around you, her red hair braided and glittering with amethysts, and she wore a samite dress in an almost orchid color. "My, you are bright." Her tone was amused, and the curve of her knuckle trailed down your cheek, making your flesh warm beneath her touch.
"Should I change?" you asked, suddenly feeling nervous.
"Oh, no. Yellow is such a beautiful color on you," she praised.
Baelor wore a similar outfit to earlier this afternoon, except the doublet was the color of freshly spilled blood. He poured three cups of wine, presenting two to you and Jena.
"Thank you, Your Grace," you said, smiling as you drew it between your ringed hands.
"Please, you needn't bother with that fuss. You may call me Baelor when we are in private," he said.
"My, that makes me feel rather special," you beamed, touching your hand to your heart.
"You are special, dear girl," Jena mused before taking a sip of the wine, the red liquid staining her lips.
Your fingers lightly touched the necklace around your throat, nervously tugging and sliding the chain through your fingers as you gauged the looks Baelor and Jena were giving you.
"Why do I suddenly feel like I am being served up as the main course?"
Baelor and Jena exchanged a sly look. "You are perceptive," Baelor hummed.
Jena stepped closer, lifting your hands and pressing the lip of the cup to your mouth, prompting you to take a deep sip of the sour Dornish red. One of your favorites. Your grandmother had a loose tongue. "But not if you don't wish to be," she whispered, swiping away a stray opaque ruby droplet that dribbled down the corner of your mouth.
You took a deep breath. It seemed for a brief moment that you held all the power in the equation, and you should use it to your advantage. "Mmm, well, first I would like the supper promised to me and an evening to consider. I think that is fair, wouldn't you agree?" You were interested, but not too rash to quickly fall into an arrangement with them. You doubted that many made the prince and his wife wait for their desires to be fulfilled.
"I would," Baelor nodded, extending his hand and motioning you toward the table. There was an absence of servants, which was strategically planned, no doubt.
The olives were fresh and flavorful, crunching pleasantly beneath your teeth.
"You must try the duck," Jena smiled, nodding toward Baelor to serve you a piece.
He was skilled with the knife, cutting through the succulent meat to ensure you got a decadent slice with crispy skin.
"Thank you, Y…Baelor," you smiled after quickly correcting yourself. After lifting the fork to your mouth, you sank your teeth into the tender piece of meat and skin. "Absolutely delicious."
Those mismatched eyes were glued on you, as were Jena's stunning sapphire-hued ones, making you feel like the duck about to be devoured.
"I can feel you both attempting to wear me down," you chided playfully.
"Tis a compliment, my dear lady," Baelor said, though he was respectful enough to lower his gaze. Jena seemed bolder, never faltering. You could appreciate it.
"Indeed, it is," Jena murmured, finding herself enraptured by you. She had never felt such stirrings before, never dared to think of another besides her husband. But this little rainbow sent from Lemonwood had conjured her mind into a frenzy. Though she did not wish to have you simply for herself, she imagined you nestled between her and Baelor. Mayhaps you were a missing puzzle piece, sent to complete them. "Now I'm certain they cannot compare to what you can get from home, but there are lemon cakes for dessert."
"I could never refuse a lemon cake, good or bad," you grinned.
Jena lifted one with three fingers, the large amethyst on her ring finger catching in the candlelight before pressing the sweet to your lips. With a soft flutter of your lashes, you parted your mouth to allow her to feed it to you. The candied lemon rind was tart, the icing sweet, and the cake crumbled between your teeth.
"It is delicious," you murmured after swallowing it down.
"Good," Jena beamed, cleaning your mouth with her linen napkin.
"We are meant to be behaving, my dear," Baelor scolded gently.
"Oh, forgive me. Have I offended you, dear girl?" Jena's hand glided over the curve of your cheek, and you couldn't resist pressing into her palm.
"Not at all. A bit of teasing is acceptable, my prince," you said, turning your gaze toward Baelor and watching a mischievous smile curl across his lips.
His chair scraped against the floor shrilly before he approached you, wine cup in hand. Heat bloomed through your lower belly as he loomed over you, something dark in those mesmerizing eyes. "Open." A simple, sharp command. You were beginning to think they held a fascination for your mouth.
He tilted the cup, draining the wine into your mouth with one hand cupped beneath your chin, yet a few drops still plopped onto your yellow gown, staining the fabric. Your head spun, wine heady on your tongue as it filled your mouth, and you very nearly buckled to your knees, ready to accept their offer. Baelor reached for a linen napkin, dabbing at the burgundy droplets that clung to the bodice of your dress. A warm flush heated your skin, spreading down your neck and toward your chest. His warm thumb traced over your stained, swollen lips.
"Now, who is the one misbehaving?" Jena cooed, standing behind her husband and wrapping her arms around his waist with her chin resting on his shoulder.
"She said she didn't mind," Baelor reasoned.
"I fear I must take my leave lest I rush headfirst into this," you whispered, nearly stumbling as you stood up. Prince Baelor quickly steadied you.
"Of course, one of the guards will escort you back to your chambers. We eagerly anticipate your decision on the morrow," he said, bowing his head.
Closing your eyes, you inhaled deeply to gather your wits. "I assure you that you shall have one. Good evening."
"Might we give you a kiss before you depart?" Jena asked, and Baelor fixed her with a stern look. "To ensure sweet dreams."
"I…well, yes, I suppose that would be acceptable."
Jena took hold of your chin, drawing you close and pressing a chaste kiss upon your lips before turning your head toward Baelor. He followed suit.
The guard escorted you back to your chambers, where you fell face down on the bed, breathing in deeply and clutching a pillow tightly against your chest. Their taste lingered on your tongue. Thoughts swam through your head like a raging sea until dreams eventually pulled you into a deep slumber. When you woke the next morning, bright white sun streamed through the windows. You rubbed your face and entered your grandmother's room, still wearing your stained dress.
"The brew you made did me a world of good, dearest," she smiled, sitting in a chair by the window. "I can see you had an eventful evening." She raised a dark brown.
"That is wonderful news," you praised, bending to kiss the top of her forehead. You broke your fast with her, helping spoon feed her a hearty broth. "And it was nothing of the sort, just a simple dinner."
"Mmm," she hummed.
When you returned to your chambers, you discovered servants bustling about. Pillows, cushioned chairs, silks, and tapestries in vivid hues were placed, bringing warmth and vibrancy. Blues, yellows, greens, pinks, purples, reds, and oranges. You were particularly enamored with the tapestry depicting green trees bursting with ripe lemons. After the servants departed, you burnt a bit of jasmine incense and meditated with your thoughts. You requested a private audience with Prince Baelor and Lady Jena later that afternoon. Prince Baelor summoned you to the Tower nearly two hours later.
You wore a blue dress on this visit, like the calm waves of the sea, with silver jewelry, and your hair swept out of your face.
"There's our little rainbow," Jena smiled, wearing a lilac gown with long, billowing sleeves.
"I heard your grandmother is feeling better, very good news," Baelor smiled, standing to greet you.
"She is, thank you."
Anticipation hung in the air, and each one waited for the other to speak. You twisted the silver ring around your middle finger before doing so.
"How would this arrangement work?"
"Please, sit," Baelor said, waving toward the cushioned bench and pouring you a glass of wine. Jena moved to your left side, drawing your hand into her lap while Baelor sat to your right, placing the cup in your free hand. There was a comfort in being between the two; the sweet fragrance of rose wafting from Jena and an earthy spice clinging to Baelor.
Details were discussed. They wished to share you. You would become their mistress, which was not unheard of in the royal household, but it would be treated with utmost care. You would not be paraded around like a conquest, but cherished and valued. Nearly all the wine in your cup was gone by the time the discussion ended. Your mother's nagging voice circled the back of your head, cautioning you against his, that Prince Baelor and Lady Jena were nearly old enough to your own parents. But you did not heed the phantom warning; you wanted it more than anything.
One word was all that was needed. "Yes." It toppled from your lips with ease.
The amber glow from the candles and the orange firelight illuminated the room, bathing you in warmth as Baelor unlaced your crimson gown, letting it billow around your feet. Jena pressed a sweet kiss to your lips before removing your under shift, leaving you in just jewelry, slippers, and stockings. Baelor's calloused hands cupped your breasts, thumb circling around your nipples until they hardened. Ravenous teeth scraped over the delicate skin of your neck. A dragon looking to pierce its prey. Lady Jena's fingers were like sparks over your bare skin, lightning strikes searing your flesh. Each one left their mark.
You settled in Baelor's lap, stockinged thighs thrown over Jena's shoulders as her hungry mouth pressed against your damp cunt. A rose flush clung to her pale cheeks, her pink tongue delving between your folds, making you whimper against Baelor's palm clamped over your mouth. You could taste the salt of his skin. His other hand skimmed down your belly, seeking your swollen pearl and circling it. They worked in tandem to bring you to a sweet release, leaving you trembling and panting in the aftermath. You had never been touched in such a way before. Just stolen, secret kisses, and once a squeeze to the arse. This was utterly divine.
The next night, Jena demonstrated how to pleasure her husband's cock. That rosy mouth wrapped around his stiff flesh, sliding alluringly over it and stretching her lips crudely wide. She pulled away just before his seed spilled, guiding you into her place. It was a strange feeling, making your eyes water and triggering a gag reflex, but she coaxed you into relaxation while Baelor stroked your hair.
"You're doing so well, sweet girl," he praised, which was a remarkably high compliment in itself and one you wished to chase. His seed spilled down your throat; sticky and salty, while Jena's fingers tangled in your hair.
The evenings bled into long hours before you snuck off in the early dawn before the rest of the Keep roused. Thighs marked with pink bumps from Baelor's beard, Jena's red nail scratches on your hips and down your back, and cunt aching from their sweet abuse. Pillows muffled your yawns as you managed to sleep for a bit until the time came for you to look after your grandmother, who was doing much better. You wondered if you would have to return home soon, now that she was in better health. Quickly, you shook such thoughts from your mind. Queen Myriah was delighted at how well you got along with Lady Jena and moved her into her service for the duration of your stay.
"We have a present for you, little pet," Jena cooed, pulling you into her lap and kissing you.
"Oh?" you asked, eager to discover what it was.
Baelor presented you with a necklace on a velvet cushion. Jewels of various colors hung from the golden chain. Ruby, sapphire, emerald, amethyst, citrine, a fire opal, and an indigo hued tanzanite. Every shade in the rainbow.
"It's beautiful, thank you," you beamed as Baelor fastened it around your neck.
They treated you like a princess, spoiling you with trinkets and attention. It was easy to become wrapped in it, to become enveloped in them. You weren't brazen about it; you weren't flaunted around the Keep as a plaything, all of it kept private. Which is perhaps why your meddling grandmother arranged a meeting between you and Lord Leo Tyrell's son when the vassal was visiting at court. You were polite and agreed to tea, not wishing for any suspicion to arise, but you had no intentions of marrying him. You were able to fake a smile for an hour, sipping on your tea and eating cream cakes to keep from screaming as he blathered on about upcoming tourneys.
Though that night at the feast, he asked you for a dance, and you could feel Baelor and Jena's eyes on you. You didn't think you could refuse and accepted his offer, gliding across the stones and twirling as the musicians played.
"What a lovely couple they would, don't you think, Your Grace?" your grandmother whispered loudly to Queen Myriah, who gave a sly smile. Mayhaps you should not have worked so hard nursing her back to health.
You returned to your seat, feeling irritated, and scraped your fork down your plate, relishing in the abrasive sound it made. Your mood did not lift as the night ended and you returned to your chambers. The guard arrived at his usual time to escort you. While part of you wished to be in their company, to be wrapped in their arms, you resisted. Your mood was foul, and you wished to stew in peace.
"I am not coming," you told him crossly before slamming your door and strewing in front of the fire, digging your bare feet into the stone beneath them.
Nearly an hour passed before there was a knock on your door. You put on your slippers and flung the door open. "I told you that I'm not coming!" The words garbled in your throat when you saw Baelor and Jena standing there instead of the guard.
"Yes, so we came to you," Baelor replied coolly as Jena slipped into your chambers.
"I do not recall inviting you in," you growled.
The prince shut and bolted the door behind him before taking hold of your chin, fingers digging into your flesh. You had not seen this side of him before. Jealousy laced through his eyes.
"Is that any way to talk to the heir of the throne?" he accused.
"Oh, so now are the heir with me?" you scoffed.
"I fear our little pet has forgotten her place. Parading about with that Tyrell boy," Jena said, shaking her head and clicking her tongue. She dipped her finger into the pot of sweet cream on your table, coating it. You craved a sweet treat during the hour of the ghosts. Baelor turned your face toward hers, and she shoved her cream-coated finger into her mouth. "We must remind her, husband."
"Indeed."
All you could do was mumble around the finger shoved in your mouth before Jena withdrew it, and a soft, wet pop vibrated through the air. She peeled the robe down your body before capturing you in a violent kiss, teeth gnashing and blood spilling from where she split your lip. You nearly tripped as Baelor spun you around, lapping the blood away and trapping you into an intoxicating kiss that nearly drew all the air from your lungs.
"Do you think that Tyrell boy can make you feel as we do?" Jena whispered in your ear, tugging on your hair.
"N…no," you whimpered once Baelor pulled his mouth away from yours. "I do not care for him; that was my grandmother's doing."
He withdrew his dagger, slicing through the silk of your nightdress, leaving it in tatters. The flat of the blade pressed against your nipple.
"Look at the wildnesses you bring out of us, sweet girl," Baelor whispered, gold flickering in his brown eye.
"I like it," you admitted, heart pounding in your chest. There had been nights when you had been bound with silk or leather, resting on your knees while you pleased them. Soft fabrics wrapped around your eyes as they teased you, competing to see who could make you peak the quickest.
Jena's teeth sank into your shoulder, hard enough to break the skin and leave a mark. It seemed the ravenous dragon blood had somehow toppled into her veins, searing deep in her skin just like it was slowly doing for you. They may have lost their actual dragons, but their allure and power shone brightly. Through your heavy-lidded eyes, you saw the riding crop attached to Baelor's belt. Tonight would be painful, but you would walk on hot coals for them. You would run through fire. A little pain seemed of no consequence.
Your upper body rested against Jena's lap after Baelor bent you across the bed. Arse upturned and vulnerable. The leather tenderly caressed your skin before the sharp crack marred it. Baelor was methodical, striking your skin precisely and criss crossing over the delicate flesh until scarlet welts bloomed. The pain made your skin itch and burn, making the throbbing and need between your thighs almost impossible to ignore. He knelt behind you after, kissing each mark he left while Jena stroked your hair and let you suckle on her fingers.
"Our good girl," she purred while Baelor's hands stroked your hips. "Sweet little pet."
There was a rustling of clothes before he entered you from behind, while Jena continued to hold and stroke you. His thrusts were more powerful this night, driving himself deep inside you.
"Would you like your prince to fill you with his seed?" Jena whispered, her blue eyes turning dark, almost an indigo. She knew what her husband desired above all else. A soft pair of thighs to rut against and a willing cunt to spill in.
"Y…yes please, my lady," you whimpered.
"He desires it above all else, sweet girl; it would make him happy," she whispered, stroking the back of your neck.
"P…please, Your Grace, spill inside me," you begged.
His hips slammed into your sore, bruised arse before he spilled, sending his seed deep inside your cunt and spilling down your thighs. But you weren't satiated yet; you needed them embedded inside you. Flesh burning next to yours. You clawed at Jena first, as Baelor's amused laughter filled the room.
"Our little pet has claws," Jena purred, letting you do as you wished. You suckled on her rosy nipples, tugging them between your teeth. Your tongue trailed over her soft belly before it buried in her cunt. Nails dug into her hips while you tongue fucked her until she mewled like a needy cat in heat. Her naked body arched, hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her moans before she spilled against your mouth.
You set your sights on Baelor next, dragging your nails down his furry chest and the V leading to his ruddy, leaking cock.
"Might you need some time to recover, Your Grace?" you teased wickedly.
"Should I whip you again for such insolence?" he asked sternly, tugging on your hair.
"I fear I might need many beatings before the lesson stick." You felt brazen tonight.
"Do not fret, little pet. I will guide you well." His cock slowly stirred to life, and you wasted no time engulfing him with your mouth. He hissed, bucking his hips.
Jena shifted behind you, the curve of her pelvis pressing agaisnt your arse while you sucked on Baelor's cock.
"We should get you a cock, wife," Baelor grunted.
"Yes, I should like that," she purred, moving her body to the side and sinking two fingers inside you.
Wish fulfilled. Caught between them both, stuffed full and drooling, weeping with desire. Baelor had enough spend to spill into your eager mouth as you clenched around Jena's fingers, soaking them with your release. But it did not end there. It ended with Jena astride Baelor's face with you riding his cock. You milked him dry that evening, hoarding each delicious drop. Jena's mouth melded against yours in a brazen kiss while she soaked her husband's mouth, and you soaked his cock. That morning, they were the ones to sneak off into the early dawn light.
Fate would assure you remained in their favour, forever bound to them.
Two full turns of the moon later, brought you unannounced to the Tower of the Hand, wringing your hands nervously.
"What has you so distressed, sweet pet?" Baelor asked, concerned written all over his face as Jena poured you a cup of pink wine from the Arbor to help soothe your nerves.
Thinking about bigender! Trinity Santos and affirming his identity on days when he's feeling more masc…
Cw: smut/nsfw content, gender neutral reader, bigender! Trinity, I use he/him pronouns and masculine terms to refer to Trinity here, strap usage, strap sucking, riding/penetrative sex (reading receiving, obviously not specified as either vaginal or anal due to this being gender neutral), slightly sub! Trinity, praise kink
A/n: this post crept into my mind and wouldn't leave so I had to write my own little thing with it </3 also I totally get if this isn't for everyone but if you don't like it just scroll
Trinity sat before you, slumped down on the sofa as he observed with hooded eyes where you knelt in front of him, your lips wrapped around his silicone cock. The way you bobbed your head up and down, taking him deeper and deeper, all while maintaining eye contact--it was enough to almost cause him to bust in his boxers, right then and there.
He swore that deep down he could feel your wet and warm mouth as it gagged on and fondled his length, the obscene sucking noises filling the air and mixing with his pitiful little whines of arousal. It was too much and yet not enough at the same time, and he found himself desperately wanting more.
You finally pulled off him with a soft popping sound, the strap now covered with the drool from your mouth and glistening tantalizing in the light from it. "Pretty boy," you instantly cooed, and he felt his face flush despite himself.
How dare you use such petnames against him when you know he's already mere seconds away from falling apart.
"I wanna get on top, is that okay?" You murmured out the question in a low and soothing tone, your eyes holding reassurance that you'd be okay if he said no.
But he didn't, because right now he wanted you to be on top of him as much as you did. "Y- Yeah, that's okay," he somehow managed to breath out, hoping to God the sound of his heart pounding in his chest wasn't nearly as loud as his own two ears deemed it to be.
You nodded in acknowledgement at his words, removing your pants and underwear (which you left behind on the floor) before carefully getting in his lap and lining up the tip of his strap with your hole. You reached out to hold onto his shoulders, using your grip on them to help steady yourself as you slowly and steadily lowered yourself onto the waiting strap, easing it inside.
Trinity couldn't stop himself from staring in awe at you, his hands fumbling and fidgeting with the fabric of the couch cushion he sat on before the sound of your voice drifted into his ears.
"It's okay, Trin. You can touch me if you want to."
At that, his hands hesitated only briefly before shooting out to grab onto your hips, fingers sinking into them in a last ditch effort of keeping himself grounded. The feeling of his touch caused you to let out a quiet groan, and he whimpered in turn at the sound of it.
Only after you'd properly adjusted to the length and width of the fake cock resting inside you did you begin to move, rolling your hips and bouncing lightly in his lap to a steady rhythm that only you seemed to be aware of. He certainly wasn't, far too busy trying not to pass out from the sheer level of horniness he felt upon not only having you on top of him, but hearing the words that were falling from your lips also.
"You're so handsome, Trin… Such a pretty and handsome boy, did you know that?… You're making me feel so good, baby, so good…"
His brain was foggy from all the praise being sent in his direction, and all he could do at that point was sit back and live in the moment, far too lost in his haze to properly react to anything that was going on. It was an absolutely heavenly thing to experience, and in that moment he was certain there was no place he'd rather be.
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Summary: “I did. Hiding in the middle of shrubbery. A small child. I thought it was—Well, I thought it was you at first. For he ran to me and I saw he had your eyes.” How Baelor would handle having a dreamer wife, even as she tries to hide it from him.
Tags: dreamer!reader, arranged marriages, falling in love, brief mentions of dysfunctional families, brief nsfw
A/N: this is how i cope with my insomnia
The marriage had been arranged, but your feelings for him were not.
You dream of him your first few nights in the Redkeep. A welcome change from your usual dreams. Not violent, not loud or bloody. You are walking behind him, the sun haloing the cropped dark hair atop his head. He turns his head towards you, just an inch, revealing mismatched eyes and a twice broken nose, and that is when you wake.
It is the few times you have had peace to yourself. You do not question it, you cherish it.
When you do meet the prince, it feels as though the air rushes out of the room. You realize then that the crown prince, Hand of the King, has been the same man in your dreams. You do not really know what it means.
You had expected him to be as arrogant and boorish as anyone in the proximity of power. Yet what met you was gentleness and kindness, a presence that levelled the room with that same mismatched gaze that has fixed you in your dreams.
You stare at him a little too much during feasts, or when you chanced upon him in the training yard, and when you had accompanied your father in the small council chamber, those eyes fixing men in their seats or persuading them with that voice of his that you finally chanced to hear. All this staring caught his eye, and Baelor, naturally curious, found a way to start a conversation.
You are quiet, yet observant, he notes. He’s heard the other lord’s remarks about you: your beauty accompanied by your eerily serene expression. So he pays closer attention, every reaction, no matter how miniscule and files it away. He sees when you decide to listen, when you decide to appear as if you aren’t listening but actually has a keen ear in the conversation. He sees it in your eyes that sweeps over a new room, as if turning every crevice, every important person in your palm. But even more so the way you stare at him, as if a little struck, as if you have seen him before.
You have been having vivid dreams since you were a child. Your mother has taught you to hide it, keeping the benefit of your future husband in mind, so much so that she fails to consider your wellbeing in the matter. You had hidden it well enough, had managed to rearrange your entire life around it, especially since the offer of betrothal to a Targaryen prince was presented to you during your time at the Keep.
The court sings praises of a wise match, of dowries and fleets, strategies and alliances, unaware of something that has been burning there steadily, unaware of your dreams.
He had chanced upon you by the balconies looking over the garden of the Keep. There were no other witnesses other than the crickets in the night and the wisps of the trees.
“I thought I was the only one awake at this hour.” His voice makes you jump and you know it is him before you’ve fully turned around.
“Your Grace.” You curtsy.
“My Lady.” He returns. His cloak is the color of the night, the familiar black and red of House Targaryen making him seem more formidable even in a chance encounter.
“Forgive me, your Grace, sleep does not come easy to me.” The stone wall is cold underneath your hands.
“There is nothing to forgive, I am the intruder here.” He bows his head, stepping forward to fall into step beside you. “Though it is a nice surprise, I usually work into the late hours and rarely see other living creatures at this hour. How are you faring, my Lady?”
“Quite well though… It is certainly an adjustment, though I have always been told I sleep at odd hours.” He casts you a sidelong glance. “I prefer the night, it seems more to yourself does it not? It is lonely but it is yours.”
When the betrothal is confirmed a few moons later, your mother makes note of talking to you after the ceremony, reminding you to maintain your secret. You return to the high table tense and you think you are hiding it well until your husband’s hands find yours under the table, giving a reassuring squeeze. It is then you realize after feeling displaced in your own home that you have finally found something you can call your own.
Later, in performing your duties, he is gentle as one can be. More than that, he learns what you like, and when you ask for more, he is not shy in giving it, as if it is the permission he has been waiting in bated breath all along. He memorizes the sound of your panting breaths, the twitch of your hips. He plucks the pleasure out of you like a skilled artist attuned to his instrument.
You’re basking in the afterglow of it all, laying side by side in attuned breaths. Your husband was handsome, and you were more than aware of the gossip that plagued the court. More Dornish than Targaryen. You never understood why that was such a terrible thing as you lay next to him, the firelight dancing along his features.
“I have seen you in my dreams.” You do not realize saying it out loud, a mere mindless mumble, until he laughs. Not mocking, not demeaning. He laughs as if flattered, and his cheeks go a little flushed, as if you had not just spent the past hour doing ungodly things to each other.
“There’s no need for you to woo me, sweet girl. We are already married.”
You return his smile then, moving to perch yourself upon his chest, the contact sending warmth through your whole body and causing him to make space for you in his. “And if it is not flattery, but truth?”
His hands find your hair then, winding his fingers mindlessly through them. “Then what sweet dreams you have.” If only he knew, you think. He is as you have dreamt of and that night is one of the few nights you have slept dreamlessly.
The moons turn and you settle into a peaceful routine, though your secrecy slowly mounts your chest with guilt. The visions are often in your dreams, so vivid and almost real that any threats in your unconsciousness are registered as real to your senses. So much so that you cannot help your reactions to them.
You are awoken one night to a form at the foot of your bed, like a terrible assassin, illuminated by the dozen candlelights in the room. You do not question why the candles are all lit when you have retreated to bed nearly an hour ago. You register the threat as real, yet when you shoot up from bed, he is not there, and the room is nothing but shadows.
Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you move to curl up against his side then, counting your breaths, eyes wide and searching the room for the assailant. But nothing comes. Baelor does not wake, merely wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you slither closer to him. He must think that you are simply seeking warmth, unaware of the war drums banging in your chest. You sit up then, simply to watch him, the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps half on his side. He looks good like this, unbothered and untethered. You wonder what he dreams of or if he dreams of anything at all.
He must be so tired, you think, more tired than I. You walk over to the dying hearth to tend to the embers, looking for something else to occupy your mind. Over the years, you’ve become familiar with the night.
You jump later when a hand brushes against your arm, and you look up to be met with your husband’s face, ladened with sleep yet amused at your reaction.
“What are you doing here?” He rasps, occupying the seat next to you.
“Night terrors.” The lie keeps him placated, though you did not fathom for how long.
Although now you cannot think of that, or anything else. His hair was ruffled from sleep, in a simple sleeping tunic, yet you found yourself unable to look up.
He is looking at you from where he sat, eyes bearing that same intensity.
“I apologize if I woke you.” You say just to say something, to stop him from looking at you as though he means to devour you whole. “I could suggest separate quarters to the maids. There are so many rooms, I’m sure no one would mind—”
“Is that what you would like?” He asks with an air of finality, a gentle end to your ceaseless string of words. He does not challenge, but when your eyes meet, his mismatched ones illuminated by the fire, it seems determined to draw an honest answer out of you.
“No, but if— I am quite a light sleeper and I don’t want to be a bother.” Another lie. You’d prefer to be alone in the chambers so if you woke, which you will, you will only have yourself to frighten.
“You’ve never bothered me.” He stands with a quiet grunt, offering a hand to you. “Save for when you decide to wander when I am searching for you in my sleep. Come, please.” You follow his movements, then save one last look to the hearth before you take his hand and follow him back into bed.
“I’m frightened.” You admit in a whisper, settling back against the pillows and tucking yourself underneath the covers. “I know it is so childish, to be frightened of one's dreams, but…” It is the closest truth you can give him. His hand finds a pattern on your hip.
He watches you. “Do you have them often?”
You nod. “Since I was a child.”
“Then you have nothing to apologize for. You’re safe here. This is your home.” He sees the worry on your face. He wishes he had the power to take it away, though he knows it is not that simple. “Why did you not wake me earlier, if it bothered you so?”
“I know how tired you are.” You cover his hand with yours, absent of any rings that adorned his fingers in the day. “You need your sleep.”
Wake me, he whispers, a kiss against your shoulder, if it gets worse. His tone does not leave room for arguments. His words remain with you as you get dragged into a fitful slumber, dreamless as you hope.
–
Fire blooms in the walls of your chamber, glowing coals etching itself into the cracks there. The crackling of it is vivid and real, orange glow consuming the stone walls. It sets the room alight on its own accord, casting its own shadows to dance along the wall as if they are their own living and breathing bodies. The smell is putrid, unlike woodsmoke or the rising of smoke from the hearth.
In your state, you had picked up a porcelain washing bowl and hurled it at the door. Exactly when Baelor had decided to come in. That is the moment you wake up. You do not know why you did it. Perhaps it was frustration coming to the surface, of no longer knowing what was real and what was not.
He ducks deftly, just in time so the pieces fall on his back and do no real harm. For a moment, the both of you stand there, frozen in shock.
“Stand down,” he responds to the Kingsguard’s inquiries almost immediately. “I’m fine.” When they try to come in, he shuts the door behind him, taking in the room, your state. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, cupping the apologies spilling from there.
“I’m sorry—I thought I—” You stutter, eyes welling with tears unconsciously. You had almost harmed him, someone that you cared about, that welcomed you into his home and made it yours after years of feeling displaced on your own. “I thought I saw—” There is no fire there, the room is intact and not engulfed in flames.
“What did you see?” He asks, taking a cautious step forward. His tone remains calm, as if he already had his own suspicions, but his heart is hammering in his chest. You feel it later when he takes you in his arms, attempting to soothe you, running a hand along your back.
He begins to reach for you, unsure if you’d like to be touched, and preparing for you to create some sort of distance between the two of you. But when you don’t, when you simply take his hand and let yourself be maneuvered to him, a relief wells in his chest.
You admit it to him that night, your secret that has been weighing on you, how horrible they get, how keeping it hidden was almost as worse as the dreams themselves. It is a relinquishing of sorts, of the burden of a secret, of your exhaustion. You expect the worst: anger, fear, disgust, caricatures of a man you’ve grown to know well enough to understand that he would never act like that towards you. Yet you expect it, and it doesn’t come. He understands, and a part of him has known, you think. All those nights you could not sleep through, twitching awake at the sensation of falling in your dreams, jerking awake.
Later in bed, he asks against your hair, “Have you ever had good dreams?” He sounds genuinely curious.
“I do,” you answer, fighting to keep your eyes open. For how much you dreaded sleep, you were only human, and you were exhausted. “I dreamt of you before I met you.”
From then on, he takes note of what calms you, and cultivates it without a word. If it is the gardens, a seat by the sea or a quiet nook in the Keep, it is yours without even having to ask for it. He makes a passing, yet calculated, request to a handmaid, a knight, a servant, and suddenly no one dares to pass by that part of the Keep. The space wordlessly becomes yours and you do not have to fight to keep it. Baelor had grown used to it rather quickly. You’ve suggested separate chambers on numerous occasions and he has turned it down all the same.
You’ve taken to writing your dreams down, sometimes in detail, sometimes in vague scrawls. But you learn to live with the dreaming, and you find that ceasing to fight it proves to be a better comfort than suppressing it these past few years.
In talks of politics, he will heed your warnings, but he does not like his wife to be used as a pawn. So, he keeps it hidden. The Red Keep had taken note of your habits. Night owls, they call the pair of you, though you’ve given them no other reason to gossip badly. There is little whisper of how the heir apparent’s wife is a dreamer. The little whisper dies down with no evidence, a flame with no kindling.
The lack of sleep is concerning for the both of you. He has been known to work until the late hours of the night. You’ve taken to accompanying him more often in the late nights in his solar and not complaining when you rose in the early mornings. Your body has learned to function on as much sleep as it can take. It is a refreshing change for Baelor, to find his lady wife already up before him.
Once, you had attended a feast with little to nothing but a nap and your head lolled to the side once, in the middle of a lord’s gratitude to King Daeron. At everyone’s applause, you jolted awake and he silently took your hand underneath the table, an amused smile on his lips you’ve come to know too well. You mumble your own gratitude against his cheek, stumbling down the hall towards your shared chambers, when he excused the both of you, needing to retire early with his lady wife.
Other than that, the Keep have whispered of heirs, of little princes and princesses running around the Keep once more. On more than one occasion this was announced in your presence, you have caught your husband’s eye across the room, an uptick of his lips then.
The confirmation comes to you first—in a dream. Baelor was more than happy to hear that you had a good night’s rest, but even more so if you had good dreams more than night terrors. In a way, he had seen it as his duty, that if the Realm, his responsibility was well-taken care of, so would your dreams.
“Baelor,” you whisper to him one night. The candles had burned low into their iron pots and the hearth had slowly died down into the night. You’re curled up against him for the sake of warmth. “I had a dream.”
“What was it about, dearest?” He hums awake, reaching for you even as his eyes remain closed.
“We were in the gardens of the Keep. ‘Twas a good, bright day out, like the ones you favor. And I was searching for someone.”
“Did you find them?”
“I did. Hiding in the middle of shrubbery. A small child. I thought it was—Well, I thought it was you at first. For he ran to me and I saw he had your eyes.”
He turns his face to you then, expression open. You had never seen that look on his face before. You realize then you had never seen the prince so well caught off-guard. “I think, perhaps, we should send for the maesters.” You whisper to him then, unsure, yet a smile has found your lips.
He sits up then, a rustle of sheets. “Are you certain?”
You nod and he cradles your head, pressing a kiss there. The maester had been sent for in the middle of the night, discreetly. The next day, the bells had been rung every hour of the day to welcome the news.
Realizing the depression is not seasonal is like: Wow! What a beautiful flower! The birds are singing! I sure do love spring! I think I am fundamentally unlovable as a person.
Modern Ser Duncan “the tall” X F Girlfriend Reader
Tags: established relationship, friends to lovers, slight edging (m receiving), hand job, doggy, spanking, reader is a BRAT, dunks still shy-ish, birthday sex, size difference, oral (f receiving), watching porn together.
Word Count: 3.6k
Summary: Your birthday gift is getting to pick out how you and Dunk will have sex tonight. Which is quite the thrill for you since he’s so shy about exploring new things in the bedroom!
A/N: @niceforcum22 really indulged my thoughts on these two and I just couldn’t not see how things are going once they were official together. Is a continuation of Crossroads and Genesis but can be read on it own!
“Wait-“ you glance back at him having to strain your neck to look over your shoulder. “Did you take the bins out?” You asked. Sat with your lower back seasoned by one of his large thighs. His arm looped around you and his hand was spread over your stomach holding to you.
“yeah-“ he responded quickly nodding. He wasn’t exactly sure why you were thinking about the recycling bins at this exact moment but he also had longgg stopped trying to understand the confusing web that was your mind.
“okay good, I forgot again-sorry.” You smiled up at him and pressed a soft kiss to his jaw.
“s’okay, you’re busy.” He would do every chore in the house if that was what was required of him. He really didn’t mind. He wasn’t nearly as busy as you were. Between your classes and clinical rotations starting he would have preferred to just handle all the stuff that had to get done around here. He worked, but it was odd hours, coaching youth sport programs, he had the time.
“though… it might of been fun slipping out in my pajamas brining stuff down to the curb at this hour.” You tease a bit darkly.
“don’t even joke about that-please doll.” He sighed, the worried line appearing on his forhead and you pout a bit.
“But I like when you get all overprotective and grabby.” He’d probably have a fucking heart attack if held caught you walking down the driveway in your matching silk shorts and tank. There were always people wandering back through here on their way home from the pub. You guys move into an apartment together just off the high street by your university a year ago.
“Fucks sake-“ he groaned, but it wasn’t one of grievance because of your wreckless plans to make him go crazy.
It was one of barely restrained pleasure. You’d been stroking his cock on the couch for approximately a hour now and he’d gotten close to finishing probably four times.
“don’t make me wait.” He groaned fingers digging into your stomach a bit as he sunk deeper into the couch cushions, a new layer of sweat developing over his brow.
“No-I want you to cum in me…” you whined and squeezed his balls, juggling them gently between your fingers. “It’s my birthday you promised I could pick what we do.”
Earlier, after enjoying takeout Chinese and some glazed donuts with birthday candles stuck in them, he’d handed you a card and a small box.
You’d both agreed to no presents, that was the rule for birthday and holidays!
You two were trying to build a life together, committed to making sure your lives in the future would never be similar to the crap you to have grown up around in Flea bottom. The friendship, the shared history and deep understanding of one another’s past made a lot of aspects of being in a relationship easier. There was already established understanding between you two. Really the only challenge had been that you’d both known each other through the lens of platonic friendship for so long that exploring both of your sexual sides was sort of awkward at times. Especially because Duncan was generally sort of shy about this stuff. He got flustered easily and lost in trying to determine if things were “too crazy”
The card was sweet and lovely…and at the end he’d written that it was your night, no judgment. He wouldn’t really answer any of you initial questions, just brought you over to the couch and urged you to open the small box. When you got the wrapping off and pulled out the TV remote you laughed, not understanding how this was a gift to you? He let you pick the nightly TV show almost every night, unless football was on!
You rolled your eyes when Dunk told you to just turn it on and see while opening his knees more so you could sit down between them. That was how you two always relaxed on the couch. It was just habit at this point.
Duncan, who could barely stand the idea of watching porn, because it “wasn’t you” had linked your laptop up to the TV screen and set up your Reddit page that he’d seen you scrolling on before. Your previously liked videos all over the dashboard and now the flat screen. You’d shown him stuff, occasionally, but it got him all flustered and red in a way that seemed cruel so you’d attempted to be a bit less forthcoming with what, other than him, was making you wet as of late.
He knew that, and although he appreciated that you were mindful of where he currently was with sexual exploration he didn’t want to stifle you-especially not on your birthday. He was kissing at your neck and hour prior…telling you how much he loved you, and informing you that he wanted to watch this stuff with you…let you pick something fun for them to do out of it.
He’d gotten the giddy reaction he had anticipated and that made this all worth it…even before you’d pulled his jeans off and began playing with his half hard dick!
Duncan’s forhead pressed against the back of your head breathing in the grapefruit scent of you shampoo to try and steady himself as he twitched in your grip.
“mm…okay keep going.” He squeaked out and you turned back to face forward and hit the down button to move the the next video.
You hummed in satisfaction as a man, dressed fully in a knights costume stood towering over a women knelt fully nude on the floor.
“Jesus-“ dunk blinked watching the man put his foot out a bit and drag the toe of his boot between her spread legs.
“I know…” your biting your lip and stroking him faster as you feverishly watch the women settle down against the guys boot and rock her hips back and forth.
“Just wait…it gets even better.” You tell him without moving your eyes from the video. He does, to look down at you, take in the fact that your nipples are peaked against the fabric of your top, that you are breathing faster than before and that he can feel your thighs clenching. This was getting you off. Majorly apparently.
“Look-“ you squeeze around his tip making him moan and he looked ahead again. Just in time to see the guy yank her hair so hard that she falls back off his shoe some and he the guy tells her to open her mouth.
“no-Christ not that one doll, m’sorry.” He blurts out when the girl opens her mouth wide and lays there while he spit onto her tongue.
He couldn’t understand why you were into all this degradation stuff, he didn’t think it matched with how you carried yourself outside of the bedroom. He didn’t realize yet that it was really a compliment to him, that you wanted to explore this stuff with him. You knew he was safe, knew he would stop as soon as it stopped being fun for you or you started to second guess things. You trusted him more than anybody else in the world.
Quickly you blinked out of the trace and moved to the next video. Surprised to feel his hips suddenly jerk up against your hand. You glanced from him to the screen and saw his eyes were locked to it. Glued to the image of a guy railing this girl from behind. Hands grabing her back and ass to drag her whenever he needed her to be positioned.
You knew the spank was coming, you’ve watched this one a few times in the past so you stayed turned towards him waiting to see what his reaction was.
Smirking when the loud slap sounded and Duncan’s light eyes rapidly grew darker. He liked this.
His hand grabbed your wrist suddenly to stop the stroking and he kissed you.
“That one…let’s do that baby.” He breathed eyes still glancing at the screen a few times. You eagerly nodded standing up and pulling your shirt off, shimmying the thin shorts down off your feet as well. Strings of your arousal connected from you to the crotch of those. You got appallingly wet. Constantly. Your thighs squelching as he grabed your waist with both hands and pulled you back to him. He kissed down your chest, his ear brushing your nipples as you ran your hand through his hair.
“You won’t hurt me” you promised him. The moans from the TV still playing out behind you.
“I’m serious Duncan, you wont.” His bright topical sea blue eyes looked up at you as he kissed down your stomach, hands gently following and moving from your waist to your lower back. He swallowed when the weight of you ass warmed his cupped hands.
“and even if you do…” you bent a bit kissing his lips “It’ll just make me cum harder.” You hummed in his ear before bending over onto the couch cushion looking back at him like a minx as his mind fought to catch up to this moment.
Though when he watched you settle onto your hands and knees at the other end of the couch Duncan was quick to gather his mind, and his slack jaw and quickly got behind you.
“you’re soaked-“ he kissed at your back, and you moaned when his hands gripped your thighs opening them up some more by pulling the soft skin.
“I’ve been playing with your cock and watching porn for a hour…I should hope I’m wet.” You laughed dryly and smiled when Dunk kept kissing lower, mouthing at your ass a bit and you held to the couches arm rest arching your back more to present yourself better. He took his time groping your butt, squeezing the cheeks and smirking when you’d whimper.
“fucking hell,” you groaned, cheek pushed against the armrest and you gripped the fabric some when his teeth flared against your smooth skin.
You reached a single arm back when one of his hands dropped to drag over your slit. His knuckle brushed your clit because it peaked slightly out from between your lips since you were so worked up by this point. You whinned and grabbed just under your ass and pulled yourself open, smiling and moaning because that parted you open enough that his fingers dragged right against your hungry core, clenching desperately at even just the slight dip in his finger made.
You gasped when he seemed to see you needed some relief asap, swatting your hand away and heaving you up slightly by your arse so your pussy was level with his face. He leaned forward, tongue aimed first to lick at your drooling core and you groaned lowly. Nodding into the couch when his tongue flattened to flick back and forth over your bud. Nosing at your vagina some which made you instinctively push back towards his face.
Your eyes shut, enjoying the feeling, savoring it. He devoured you, constantly, he was happy to do this for both of you every night. It helped you relax and get to sleep, generally just assisted in unwinding after a crazy clinical day. There wasn’t anything better than having him eat you out to climax, clean you up, and then snuggle you in bed!
He had don’t it enough that he knew just how to push you over the edge. Your fingers dragged over the arm rest and your face pressed to it, hair hiding you from him as your mouth opened and forhead contorted. You couldn’t move from this position because he had your hips up high and so you had to take everything he gave you.
“I’m coming-fuck my gods Dunk!” You exclaimed, with a gasp. You tensed some as the climax ripped through you.
He pulled his face back from you licking slightly at his lips as they glistens from your orgasm. His hands rubbed up and down the outer side of both your thigh and whined because that made goose bumps rise all over your legs, only made worse because of the cool air hitting your warm messy pussy.
“that was nice.” You giggled once recovered, and slowly moved your hips from side to side trying to coax him to keep going.
Duncan was hypnotized by your lower have swaying in front of him. He was fisting his cock at the moment making sure he was as hard as possible for you.
“greedy girl,” his hand dropped his dick and he tapped his palm against your ass. You lowered into a more serve of an arched back and moaned. “Just finished and already need me in ya?” He gave your bottom another tap and shifted so your other cheek was pressed to the sofa and you could look back at him.
“harder.” You demanded, eyes blazing with need. “Please Dunk, it’s my birthday-AaaHhh!” Suddenly his palm slammed down against your right cheek and you moaned loudly at the stinging feeling the prickled you ass now.
He squeezed the reddening flesh and then spanked you again watching your face as you drooled a bit against the bed and your eyes contently closed.
“this what you been needing, needed to be spanked?” He raised a brow and you nodded.
“mhm…” you push yourself back against him and earn another wack for being to over eager.
“fuck me like a whore!” You suddenly cried out ass beat red on both sides and you reached back with both hands to spread yourself open more for him. He got up on his knees behind you, and instantly grabed your hips pulling you back until his tip hooked into your core. You pulled your hand back and used them under you the brace yourself so you wouldn’t suffocate face down against the couch.
“you want that? What me to use you to cum? To get off as quickly as I can? That’s what you want?” You nodded beaming because that’s exactly what you want!
The ability to use your voice to form any coherent words leaves you entirely for a moment because he had placed one hand against the center of your back to hold you still and the other found a warm home between the fold of your thigh and pelvis as he pushed himself forward.
“ohhh, fuck….yes thank you. Mmm” you groaned lowly eyes shutting with a flutter as his balls slap into your clit. He hadn’t ever gotten so deep that quick. He always worked into you slowly.
The thrill of having to adjust to his large…giant cocks intrusion left you whimpering and clenching.
He was so deep in you that there was a a slight physical protrusion of your lower belly and you gasped when you managed to shift your weight onto one arm and shoulder so you could reach down and feel at that spot.
“Fucks sake.” Dunk gulped at the additional pressure your hand provided. As if your snug pussy wasn’t more than enough for him! He’d slammed into you but thrusting was a different story. He couldn’t bring himself to keep going until he knew you could handle it so he kisses at your back, rubbed his fingers over the welted skin on your ass and waited until your tense whimpers became warm, needy, disgruntled whines!
“Y’so patient tonight,” Duncan stretched to kiss the back of your head. Smirking a bit when he saw your cheek squished against the cushion.
“Mmm no just full up.” You mumble squeezing yourself around him for good measure. Eyes watery from him being within your fully. It did not matter how often you two slept together, he was still beyond well endowed and your body had to adjust to him every time.
“I could just stay like this?” He kissed across your shoulders and his hand moved down from your hip to reach for the top of your slit and he rubbed two fingers against your clit. You liked a side to side motion with his fingers over circling for what he’d noticed. “Could get you off easy like this.” He breathed in the scent at the nape of your neck and groaned lowly when you whined and pushed yourself back against him. You were already feeling your stomach tighten from what his fingers were doing to you.
“no….” You groaned shaking your head and trying to look back at him. “Fuck me p-properly.” You begged him, voice cutting out from a gasp.
“So Greedy.” He taunted and you rolled your eyes huffing.
“it’s my birthday.” Your legs squeezed together a bit because his hand was working you really close to your edge and you worried you’d get to oversensitive to keep going if you came again!
“aye, it is. Happy birthday my girl.” He leaned over your fully, hand leaving your wet pussy to grab your jaw and turn you to him a bit more. He kissed you hungrily while stroking your cheek.
“fuck!” You pratically bit his lip when his hips stuttered back mid kiss and then snapped back against your ass.
“fuck…oh fuck!” That was the only vocabulary in your mind at the moment. Which was fair because Dunk had let got of your cheek, grabed both your hips and was currently dragging you back and forth to meet this movements of his twitching cock.
“like this? This is how you want to be fuck?” He groaned out, it did feel quite good. Everytime he pulled back he pushed your hips forward and then dragged your butt to smack into his lap when he thrusted in. It meant his cock was hitting the deep sensitive place within you each time.
“yes! YES!” You nodded finger nails digging into the fabric of the couch as you gasped and groaned. Eyes shut tight as you took the pounding. You’d wanted this for so bloody long and it felt like a dream now that you were finally getting it. “Fuck keep going-don’t stop Dunk.” You begged him throughly gritted teeth. It was alot for you to handle, you’d probably have a limp tomorrow…and this sort of sex was probably going to bring on your period a few days early but all of that was more than worth it for this moment.
Duncan was grunting, quite an anomalistically behind you, chasing his own high and that even warmer heat he knew would surround him when your finished with him still inside. Both of you were pretty addicted to feeling the other cum.
“Oh fucking hell-ugh, harder!” You cry and gasp when he pushes your hips down suddenly so you’re trapped flat on the sofa. “I love you. I love you so fucking much.” You whimper when he begin to take you at this new angle, his hips smacking into your round arse and the angle made yoh feel like his tip was going to just barrel right through your belly button. “Fu-dunk! fuck!” You shriek suddenly, going stiff? Holding your breath and shaking a bit under him as your pussy spasm and you reach quite the peak against him.
He was spilling his own release into you the moment your cunt gripped him tighter than he’d ever felt before. You were still in the throws of your orgasm when Duncan’s shaking body leaned over you, his knees pressed in the space of yours and you whimpered at the warmth of his chest laying over your back. Eyes opening a bit to see his tense hand was pressed into the cushion beside your head to keep himself up slightly. He would crush you, as much as you wanted to let him just crumble onto of you, it was legitimately suffocating.
“roll over baby.” You managed to get out eyes clearing and your senses coming back before his. He always took a long time to recover. But you found that sweet. That you made him feel so good he was pratically drunk after!
“come er’ doll” he flopped onto his side, back against the backrest of the sofa and he moaned at the feeling of slipping out of your warmth. You quickly shifted against him, smiling at how sweaty he was. “I love you too.” He responded to your climax blubbering and opened his eyes hand stroking your cheek that was red from the effort of what you two had just done.
“So much.” You closed your eyes and laid your head over his chest making sure your ear was in a spot that you could feel his thundering heartbeat.
“thank you for my present.” You whisperer keeping your eyes closed as you dangled one arm down between your tight to feel the mess.
“let me catch my breath and I’ll get us to the shower.” He promised. You nodded gently against him.
“mkay.” You had a lot less of a bite, then you had earlier because of how throughly fucked and satisfied you felt. “Thank you.”
He kissed your temple, fingers trailing through your hair as he studied you, your dark lashes, the little marks on your face from the sun or maybe acne when you both were younger, and then he groaned a bit. A low, needy, aroused groan when he reached your lips and they were parted. Filled with two of your fingers as you sucked the mess of both your orgasms off you fingers.
“You are bloody wild woman” but the amused tilt to his voice was so warm it made you beam up at him.
“you love it…admit it.” You squeezed his side, licking your lip chuckling when he bent to kiss you as his response.
✨LMK if you’d like to be added to a Dunk Taglist!✨
I want Baelor spiraling about the mere concept of lady in waiting!reader getting marriage propositions. I need him having 27 panic attacks.
This request was totally sending me— 😭 my poor man would've loved a xanax
done considering
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x f!lady in waiting!reader
Warning(s): Baelor has anxiety (prob), but it has a happy ending!!
The first proposal arrived on a Tuesday.
Baelor knew this because he had been in his mother's solar when the messenger came — had been in the middle of a sentence about grain yields in the Reach, which was not a subject that had ever previously caused him difficulty — when Myriah had accepted the sealed letter, read it with the pleasantly neutral expression she deployed when delivering information she intended to observe him receiving, and said: "Lord Ambrose Celtigar has written to your father regarding a match."
Baelor had finished his sentence about grain yields. He had said I see with the composure that had served him in war councils and throne rooms and every demanding context his life had presented him with. He had excused himself at a reasonable hour and walked back to his solar and sat down and looked at the wall.
Lord Ambrose Celtigar was thirty four years old. Not unpleasant looking, by general report. He held a respectable seat, had no significant character defects that Baelor was aware of, and was by every measurable standard a perfectly suitable match for a young woman of good family and accomplishment.
Baelor sat with this information for some time. He thought about it with the same thorough attention he brought to tactical assessments and pieces of legislation that required careful consideration. He thought about Lord Celtigar's seat and Lord Celtigar's reported appearance and Lord Celtigar's presumably functional absence of character defects. Then, against his better judgement and with the inevitability of a man who has been trying not to think about something for several moons and has finally encountered a reason he cannot maintain the effort, he thought about you. He thought about the particular way you laughed when something actually struck you as funny rather than merely requiring a polite response. He thought about all the moons of carrying something carefully that he had been meaning to do something about and had not yet done something about, and he sat with the full uncomfortable weight of that gap until the candles had burned considerably lower than when he sat down. Then he went to bed and did not sleep particularly well.
The second proposal arrived on a Thursday. Ser Willam Waxley — twenty eight, well regarded, good family, reportedly personable in the specific way that made Baelor briefly and irrationally consider what reportedly personable actually meant in practice and whether it was a quality you would find appealing, which was not a line of thinking he pursued to its conclusion because he had more self-respect than that. He received the information from his mother over correspondence review, said I see, finished his tea, and continued with the correspondence. It took longer than usual. He kept losing his place.
The third proposal arrived the following Monday, and Baelor heard it from one of his mother's ladies who mentioned it to another in passing while crossing the training yard without any awareness that he was within earshot. Lord Patrek Mallister — young, wealthy, the kind of man described by other men as having prospects, which was a phrase Baelor had always found vague and now found specifically aggravating. He held his sword incorrectly for the remainder of the session. His master at arms observed this with the expression of a man who had seen many things in training yards and had made a professional decision to comment on none of them today.
By the second week Myriah had stopped pretending she was telling him incidentally.
She told him directly now, with the pleasant composure of a woman delivering information she had every right to deliver, and watched his face with the specific attentiveness she had been applying to him since he was approximately four years old and had not, in the intervening decades, become any less accurate. "Lord Rowan," she said one Wednesday morning, in the same tone she might use to note the weather. "He sent a very thoughtful letter. Apparently he is an articulate man — the letter suggested genuine consideration of the match. He mentioned his gardens specifically. Considerable, by his account."
"How nice for him," said Baelor, examining his correspondence with the focused attention of a man who was absolutely reading every word and not at all conducting a parallel and involuntary assessment of whether considerable gardens were a meaningful advantage in the context of a marriage proposal.
"They are in the Reach," Myriah offered. "Lovely climate."
"I am aware where the Reach is, Mother."
"I am simply noting that Lord Rowan appears to be a man of—"
"I am aware," he said, with the measured evenness that cost him slightly more than it usually did, "of Lord Rowan's considerable attributes."
Myriah looked at him over the rim of her tea with the serenity of a woman who had already drawn her conclusions and was simply allowing the conversation to confirm them at its own pace. Across the room you turned a page of correspondence with your habitual focused attention, entirely unaware that a man three feet from your queen was conducting his seventeenth silent assessment of the morning of whether the Reach's climate was in any way a disqualifying characteristic in a prospective husband and arriving, frustratingly, at no useful conclusion.
The problem — and he had examined this problem with the thoroughness it deserved, sitting with it in his solar across several evenings while the candles burned and the city went about its business outside his window — was not that the proposals were coming. Of course they were coming. You were accomplished and intelligent and the kind of person who made rooms better by being in them, and proposals were the entirely predictable result of other people having eyes and using them. The problem was that he had been meaning to do something about a feeling he had been carrying for far too many moons and had not done something about it, and now other men were doing something about it, and the window in which doing something felt like a considered and deliberate choice was rapidly becoming a window in which doing something felt like a response to a crisis. He did not want to do something as a response to a crisis. He wanted to do something because it was right and honest and because he meant it entirely, not because Lord Rowan had considerable gardens and the Reach had a lovely climate. The distinction mattered to him. The distinction was, currently, making his life significantly more difficult than it needed to be.
The fifth proposal was from a lord whose name he forgot immediately upon hearing it, which concerned him more than anything else that had happened so far. He had a good memory. He did not forget names. He went back to his solar and sat with the wall for an hour before acknowledging that the wall had never once been helpful and he should probably stop consulting it.
Maekar found him on the battlements on a Thursday evening, which was not unusual — Maekar found him in various places occasionally and delivered his opinions without invitation, which was simply a feature of having a brother that Baelor had long since accepted. "You look terrible," Maekar said, by way of greeting, leaning against the stone beside him with the air of a man who had come here with a specific purpose and was not going to be deflected from it by pleasantries. Baelor thanked him with the composure of someone receiving a compliment and returned his attention to the city. The city, like the wall, was not particularly helpful.
"The proposals," Maekar said.
"I am not discussing this."
"You have been discussing it with yourself for two weeks. Loudly, in the sense that everyone can see you doing it even though you have not said a word." Maekar paused, with the brief patience of a man making a concession to tact before abandoning it. "She does not know. She has no idea — she sorts the correspondence and answers the proposals politely and has absolutely no indication that you are standing on battlements losing your ability to remember lords' names because of it."
"I did not forget his name."
"You called Lord Fossoway Lord Forrest twice in council," Maekar said flatly, "and his name is Fossoway and you never forget names. Do something about it."
"It is not that simple."
"It is exactly that simple. You consider things until other men act and then you consider the consequences of other men acting. Do something about it." He let that sit for a moment, then pushed off the wall and left with the decisive efficiency of a man who had said what he came to say and had no interest in discussing it further.
Baelor stood on the battlements for a while longer. He thought about Lord Fossoway, whose name he had apparently been calling wrong. He thought about Lord Rowan's gardens and Lord Lyonel Tyrell, who had not yet written but whose existence as a potential candidate Myriah had mentioned with the casual precision of someone planting a seed and fully expecting it to grow. He thought about you sorting correspondence with your focused attention entirely unaware that he was up here mangling names. Then he went inside, because the battlements were cold and the wall had already established it was not going to be helpful and Maekar was right, which was an irritating thing to have to acknowledge even internally.
The sixth proposal arrived on a Friday morning and was, by his mother's assessment delivered with a serenity that he found specifically challenging, the most serious one yet. Lord Lyonel Tyrell. Young. Wealthy. The heir to Highgarden.
He sat in his habitual chair and looked at the correspondence he was not reading and thought about Highgarden with the sustained focus of a man attempting to locate a flaw and being unable to find one. Highgarden had gardens that made Lord Rowan's look modest. It had resources and position and climate that were objectively difficult to argue with. Lord Lyonel Tyrell was, by every measurable standard, an excellent prospect, and Baelor was a fair enough man to acknowledge this even when the acknowledgment was deeply inconvenient.
You were at the correspondence table. You were wearing the blue dress — you always concentrated better in the blue dress, he had noticed this some time ago, something in the colour seemed to settle something in you. You had a small ink stain on your left forefinger from where the pen had slipped earlier and you had not noticed and he had noticed and had said nothing, because saying you have ink on your finger would have been a reasonable and unremarkable thing to say and for some reason this morning reasonable and unremarkable things felt slightly beyond him. He was going to lose you to Highgarden. Lord Lyonel Tyrell was going to take you to his considerable gardens and his considerable resources and you were going to sort his correspondence and make his rooms better by being in them and—
"Your grace."
He looked up. You were looking at him from the correspondence table with an expression of mild concern, which meant the expression on his face had apparently communicated something he had not intended to communicate. "Are you well?" you asked, and he said yes, and you looked at him with that observational patience that had always seen more than he planned for, and said he had been quiet, a different kind of quiet, and he told you he was perfectly well with the composure he had left and you returned to the correspondence and he looked at the window and thought, very clearly and very finally, that he was done thinking about Highgarden.
He stood up.
He crossed the room.
He stopped beside the correspondence table and you looked up and he looked at you — at the ink on your left forefinger and the blue dress and the expression that was currently hovering between curious and concerned — and he thought about Maekar saying do something about it with the bluntness of someone who had run entirely out of patience for watching things not happen. He thought about Lord Fossoway, whose name he had been mangling. He thought about Lord Lyonel Tyrell's gardens, which he was done thinking about.
"There is something," he said, "that I should have said some time ago."
You put down your pen.
"Alright," you said quietly, a light frown appearing on your face.
He looked at you — at your face, which was giving him its full attentive consideration the way it always did — and he thought about how he had wanted to do this properly. Considered rather than reactive. Chosen rather than pressured. He had wanted the moment to be right and he had been waiting for the moment to be right and the moment had apparently decided not to wait for him and had gone ahead and arrived anyway in the middle of a Friday morning over a correspondence table with an ink stain on your finger, and he found, standing here, that he did not mind this even slightly.
"I love you," he said. Quietly. Plainly. With the full weight of the words and several proposals in his mind and one brother's bluntness behind it. "I have loved you for some time. I had wanted to tell you when the moment felt properly considered rather than — I had wanted it to be right rather than reactive, and in attempting to ensure that I have apparently been calling lords by the wrong names and holding my sword incorrectly and consulting walls, none of which has been productive. It has been brought to my attention, with some force, that I consider things at the expense of doing them. I am attempting to correct this."
The solar was very quiet.
You looked at him for a long moment, something moving across your face through several registers — the attentive reading quality, and then something warmer and more wondering beneath it, and then something that was almost but not quite a laugh — and you said: "Lord Tyrell."
"Has excellent gardens," he said. "Yes."
"And Lord Rowan."
"Lovely climate."
"And Ser Willam Waxley and Lord Celtigar and—"
"Yes," he said. "All of them. I am aware of all of them in considerable detail, I have been aware of all of them in considerable detail for two weeks, and I would like, if it is at all possible, to stop being aware of them."
The almost-laugh became something more definite, and he stood beside the correspondence table and watched you laugh softly and found that the moons of careful management had nowhere left to go except simply — out. Released. Like something that had been held very tightly finally being allowed to exist without the holding.
"I was not going to accept any of them," you said, when the laugh had settled into something quieter and warmer. "I had no intention of accepting any of them. For reasons that I think are probably apparent."
He went still. "How long," he said.
"Longer than two weeks," you said softly.
The solar was warm and golden and entirely, completely quiet. He reached across the correspondence table and covered your hand with his — the one with the ink on the finger, the one he had noticed and said nothing about, the one he was done saying nothing about — and felt you turn your palm and close your fingers around his with the ease of something that had always been going to happen and had simply required a Tuesday and too many proposals for his liking and one correctly remembered name to arrive.
"I would like," he said, "to have a conversation that is considerably overdue."
You looked up at him with that real smile — the one underneath all the others — and said: "Are you going to consider it first, or simply have it?"
He looked at you for a moment. "Simply have it," he said.
Outside the solar a Friday morning in spring continued with cheerful indifference to the fact that Prince Baelor Targaryen had just resolved moons of careful management in approximately four minutes. Somewhere in the castle Myriah Martell set down her tea with the expression of a woman who had been waiting for this particular Friday since approximately the third moon and found it entirely satisfactory. In the adjoining corridor Maekar, who had absolutely not been listening at the door, walked away with the expression of a man who had said do something about it and had been correct and intended to bring this up at the earliest opportunity and every opportunity thereafter.
You were still holding his hand across the correspondence table. Baelor looked at that for a moment — at your fingers closed around his and the ink stain and the blue dress and the smile that was still present in the corners of your mouth — and thought that he intended to do something about that too. Properly this time. Without the walls and the battlements and the involuntary memorisation of other men's garden statistics. Simply and directly and without further delay, in the manner Maekar had recommended and that he was now prepared to fully endorse.
He was, after all, done considering.
A.N.: I have been sitting with this request for some time. Sorry for being this late, I have not been as inspired as I would have wanted to. Some people have noted that the AKOTSK is kinda dying (or dozing off) and I think I have the same feeling, idk. Guess I need to take it easy for a minute or two. Thank you all for your constant support, you are all champs <3
summary: bobby has been missing for months, last seen with his manager and no other word. you’ve cried, you’ve put up posters, you’ve answered questions. and most of all you’ve waited. but one thing you didn’t expect, was when he actually came back..
a/n: his back and forth was kind of inspired by nikki from obsession (besides the wish stuff and it’s just the backrooms fucking with him) i wanted to make this more than just smut, so i hope you sexies enjoy !!
The morning the call came you felt it. It came early, far too early than a call should come. One that was normal.
The shift came first. The unease settling into your stomach, your hand hovering over the phone as the bedsheets shrugged down your body. The other side, his side, was empty, cool and dull where it once would have left you kicking off the covers from your legs. An annoyed groan coming from being shoved too far into the pillow. How you missed that noise.
Your fingers wrapped the cord with a desperate hesitation. Push and pull back before you finally plucked the courage to press it to your ear.
“So sorry for the late call. But you were the only contact.” A man’s voice comes through the speaker, tired and gruff, one you’d expect to hear from the movies. Like he was torn between duty and doing right and falling asleep where he sat.
“No.. it’s okay, what is it?” You spoke quickly, stuttering it out as sleep cling to your eyes, falling away every second the anxiety crept in.
The officer droned on, and from consistent lack of sleep and your cheek shoved hovering over the receiver, you’d hardly listened. You waited for words, something to make your ears prick up. And it came, slowly.
“There’s no simple way to put this..”
The breath caught in your throat, hitching and drafting in the cold. You didn’t say anything, you couldn’t, your heart thumped too loud in your chest and ears to do anything other than breathe. This was news. It could be anything, it could be bad, it could be—
“We’ve got someone you might want to talk to.”
A sound escaped your mouth, about to speak, about to ask, pushing yourself up onto your one arm.
“Miss it’s—“ Suddenly, his voice stopped. The other end crackling with static before settling to an anticipatory silence. And that’s when it came, tired and shaky, and all him.
“Hey baby, it’s Bobby..”
The phone suddenly weighed a ton, and it shook in your hand. You hadn’t finished what you were even about to say, the way you felt the sob erupt in your throat, before you sprung out of bed. It dropped back onto the nightstand with a clatter and you didn’t pick it back up. In fact you didn’t pick up anything. Only a hoodie that lay on the chair, his, no car keys.
He came back to you in arms of police. Slumped on a bench in a hallway after questioning in a dimly lit corridor with his hands in his lap. The hoodie they gave him was different to his own, the clothes he’d worn the morning he’d disappeared were gone. They stitched his face in two places, one across his nose, the other at his jaw, and bruises littered in other place, his hands twitching and feet tapping impatiently.
Bobby didn’t have time to speak, your had flung your arms around him as soon as you met eyes around the corner. He embraced you tighter, arms circling around your waist, and a hand holding your head into his neck. He felt thinner, his body sagging against yours as he fell into it. Your tears stained his shoulder, and his own fell into your hair, soft sobs wracking your bodies.
“God I’ve missed you..”
“Yeah, no kidding..” You mumbled through your tears, offering what smile could reach your face. Your fingers finding their way over his face as his does yours, taking each other in with a disbelief that makes your eyes grow wide.
No one else had been accounted for. Clark, Kat, even a mention of Clark’s therapist, Mary that he’d mentioned to you once on one of his drunken rants. The time he had shouted at you and Bobby to get out of the store far before closing time. That was months ago, weeks before they all had even gone missing. But you didn’t leave time to question it, and neither did the detective standing in the doorway.
He sent you both away with a curt nod, and a careful order to get him some rest and ‘take good care of him, he looks pretty banged up’. And he does, he looks like he’s been through hell. His face paled and sunken in, eyes dark around the edges, but his body is warm against you, gentle.
And he didn’t let go all the way home, didn’t even stop looking at you. His hand threaded through yours over the gearstick as you drove, the last hours of night falling around you.
He was here, he was home..
—
“You might want to slow down..”
“Mmhm.. no way.” His spoon scrapes the bowl with a screech and he shovels another spoonful of cheerios into his mouth. He eats the way a dog would. Shameless and happily. Though he’s never been much for manners.
Bobby, always in a rush. And he does it in a way that almost makes you forgive him on the spot. Flashing that soft grin with a mouthful you, and that twinkle in his eyes.
You hadn’t asked him what he ate there, where he was, and he didn’t tell you. He only began to speak of some of it in detail, the things he could remember, or rather the things he could put into words, after days.
But there’s blips in his memory. things that don’t add up.
There were walls, and doors. An endless place where nothing made sense, and he wasn’t alone. The thoughts you conjure up look like something from someone on a bad acid trip, and for a while you wonder if it was. If someone laced some of his pot and he took off. But the look in his eyes says something different.
The look says others were involved, says that the evidence is all there, but even that couldn’t account for what happened. It’s real. And whatever, wherever he’s been, he doesn’t want to relive any of it.
You’ve seen it sometimes in mirrors and reflections. Where he passed by the bay window and stares too long in the bathroom. His eye, his body. It’s no different to how it’s always been, save for the bruises. But there’s the same slouch in his frame and swagger in his hips. But he pauses.
Almost inhumanly, like when someone forgets what they doing and have to counteract and rethink. But it’s more than that with him you notice, it’s like he’s recalibrating, like how a machine would.
Shut down, start again, think it over, and carry on.
It starts with small things. And then he becomes hyper fixated on you, and how you hurt.
He notices you flinch when you burn your hand on the stove. It’s nothing, just a quick sting, a sharp breath you barely mean to take back.
But Bobby sees it like it’s an emergency.
His eyes track your hand immediately, “That hurt.”
You shrug it off, turning to face him, “It’s fine, it’s just—”
“It shouldn’t be.”
The way he says it isn’t angry, but it’s final.
From then on, he watches. Not constantly, obviously, but it’s enough that you feel it. Like everything around you is learning you, like he is.
The next time you cut your finger, he’s already there before you even register it. He takes your hand gently, like he’s afraid of pressure itself.
“You don’t need this,” he says.
You blink. “Need what?”
“This.” He turns your hand slightly, studying the tiny line of red like it’s an error in something perfect. “Getting hurt and just… accepting it.”
You let out a breath. “Bobby, people get small cuts all the time.” His gaze lifts to yours.
It’s flat again. Focused.
“But why should you? Why should any of us?”
There it is again, that wrong kind of logic. His voice gets breathy then, almost like he’s about to break, tears under the laughter that comes from his mouth.
You try to laugh it off, try to pull your finger back, but he holds it in his, “Because that’s life.”
He tilts his head slightly, like the word “life” doesn’t translate correctly anymore.
“You had to adapt in there.. just to survive. It became everything.”
His thumb brushes just above the cut, small droplets beading with sting down your skin and you wince.
“And now you don’t have to adapt anymore.”
Your words register, but he doesn’t answer to them. Because it’s true, he doesn’t. Whatever that seems to mean.
“I’d take it away if I could.”
You go still.
“What do you mean?”
His eyes don’t move from your skin, and it tells you what he doesn’t say.
Your hurt, I’d take it all away if I could. I don’t know how, it doesn’t make sense, but I’d try. I’d try it all for you. I’d make being here count.
That lands wrong in your chest.
“Bobby… no. That’s not how it works.”
He finally looks up again.
And there’s something almost offended there now. Not at you, but at the idea that he can’t do that, that his brain is working far too fast for his thinking.
“I can take it away.. let me take it away for you baby.”
His hand raises to your cheek, your finger still clutched in his other, drawn right close to his face. It’s like it had something to give, and it’s almost him, it’s so close to being. It’s rushed and soft and careful, and it doesn’t know where to land. A finger slides through your hair, your breathing sharp as your finger presses to his lips, leaving a trail of blood.
“I’m better.”
The words crack strangely, and he’s repeating something he needs to believe.
For a second something flickers across his face. Confusion like grief, a fracture opening beneath the surface that leaves his smile appearing and disappearing in the same breath.
“I’m better,” he says again, quieter this time.
And God, part of him seems almost devastated by it.
Because whatever happened to him, whatever was taken apart and put back together wrong, it left one thing untouched.
You.
His eyes search your face with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.
You know that look.
Bobby used to look at you like that when he was in love. His jaw ticking and eyes blinking carefully. Now he looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored.
Like if he can just fix enough of the world around you, maybe the pieces inside him will stop rattling. Because he tries to silence it, he wants to so bad, he wants to take away every memory from that fucked up place. But he just.. can’t.
He leans closer, voice lowering, almost intimate
“I can make it better for you too.”
Your hand stays in his, threading through his fingers. But you realise, distantly, that this isn’t relief breaking through him.
It’s obsession.
Every time you wince, every time you get tired, every tiny hurt catches his attention and never quite lets it go. He circles back to them hours later. Days later. Asking if it still aches. If it’s gone. If he can help.
As if he’s collecting evidence, as if loving you has become tangled up with fixing.
And somewhere inside that fractured mind he’s decided that if you’re safe, if you’re comfortable, if nothing ever hurts you again, then maybe all of this was worth it.
Because that's when it dawns on you further. He hasn't let go since he came back. Not once. And now the way he holds you feels less like reassurance..
But it's still him. It's still Bobby, yours. And he reminds you of it. He reiterates it over and over everytime he sees the change in your eyes.
Because he does, he notices everything. The flicker of uncertainty, the gentle blow of your pupil with everything you can't name, the wanting, the longing. The fact he knows he's been missing for months and he left you alone, and that he is so sorry baby..
But he's here now. And he's good, great even, and he can prove it, he swears up and down that he can.
He just wants you.
And it’s not that you don’t. You do. You feel the want in every tug in your bones, every brush of his hand and breath at your ear. He’s been gone too long, the apartment empty and wrong. Now somehow it feels whole again. It’s sharper now, but hungry in all the ways it ever has been. When his teeth graze your throat and hands slide down your sides. They dig in. Searching, groping at the flesh, and his breathing is so ragged it consumes you.
You pull away. It’s instinct, it’s not want. Something creeping inside of you tells you it in harsh pangs in your gut.
He lets you, resting back into the kitchen counter, hands bracing there as he watches. His eyes follow you as you stand there, motionless and thinking. Bobby can’t read your mind, no amount of burning his gaze into your skull can do that, but the weight of it undoes you.
“I think you need rest..”
He just nods and lets you again. Allows you to lead him, and to take the first few steps as you turn away from him before he pushes mindlessly off of the counter. after you.
The bed is warm with both of you in it, the sheets pulled tight over your bodies in the first bit of normality you’ve both allowed yourself. He stills, splaying out on his back with one arm tucked behind his head in the pillows. You half expected him to fumble with his camera, mess about with it and keep the red light blinking for hours. Like he always has. But he doesn’t. Instead, his breathing evens out, an unusual slow.
But you curl around him anyway. He’s only just gotten home, the rest will come with time. For now your just thankful he’s even here, thankful for the fact he holds you even tighter, and you can hear the stuttering of his heartbeat in his chest, so calming that you surrender to it. The beating in your ears is a lull, its safety, its home. And he’s home. The tears almost fall again, welling at your eyes as you force them shut with a sting.
You don’t want to unnerve him, not after everything he’s been through. He deserves normalcy, and time, and this is it. So you push it down, swallowing it sharply until you succumb to sleep, fingers clutching tightly just to reassure yourself he’s there.
But Bobby hears it, the bobbing of your throat as you hold everything back. He doesn’t say anything, he knows better than to push. Because that’s it, he already knows.
He dreamt every space of time in there wondering, hoping, driving himself crazy just with the hope that he’d be in your arms again, and he is. He can’t seem to cry, even though he feels he could, but it claws deep in his chest, right where you lay, an empty void.
One they told him would be normal. That it’s common in his circumstances to feel an emptiness, a reintegration with society, particularly without knowing where, how and why can be difficult. It will be. But there was no telling how much.
Because where he went wasn’t on some crazy bender, it wasn’t a break from reality like the “kids these days and their down sides of smoking too much pot”. Where he went wasn’t Santa Clara. Where he went wasn’t anywhere at all, but he’d been there.
A place one you’ve been, you don’t truly leave.
The world around just seems surreal, like peeling back the chipped paint and cracked sidewalks would reveal everything. And maybe it could, after all it’s nothingness he fell into. His mind drifts as he stares up at the ceiling, fingers softly soothing at your back. He thinks of Clark, and Kat, and whoever else might have ever found that place. He wonders if they ever got out, or if the screams he heard were real, if the blood that caught under his nails and the dirt that sifted over his clothes were by his hands.
There’s no telling. But these hands, they hold you, that’s all he can think of. And they continue to rub at your back and comb through your hair. And because of it, somehow, some part of him feels together, and he’s able to for once close his eyes and feel sleep ways over him.
—
You try to ignore his words, the odd things they come out of his mouth, the things he mouths to himself when he thinks no one is looking.
But you can’t help it, it’s everywhere.
The first few days, he bounces back fast. He’s himself, and you’re certain he is. He’s bright and smiley, flashing you that grin even where it pulls at the stitches across his nose and chin. His hand folds into yours, threading through your fingers and curling at your knuckles and the kiss he pressed to your lips is tender.
But he has moments. Blips in his memory, like when he tells the stories of what he saw in there, he becomes jittery and lit of place.
You reassure him. You try. The store has been closed for further investigation, yellow banded tape crossed over every window and door. As if hadn’t cautioned out customers before, but that was the last place, the place where he disappeared. Even after all the pointing and the answers to the questions, he gives the detectives a direction, a complete map of what he saw. But they turn a blind eye, they don’t even look.
They just pave over the whole thing. Some even look at him likes he’s gone crazy.
You went through a wall?
Not through the wall, it’s.. listen, it’s a door. I don’t know how it works, but Clark, he showed me. It’s literally downstairs, the lower level I can show you.
Okay, that’s enough kid..
He patted him on the back, turning the pair of you away. They’d only called him back into questioning just to get a better idea, thinking that sitting down and retracing steps would work better than forcing him to speak the night he ran into the station.
Bobby never looked so angry, so ready to jump if you didn’t have your arm around you. He knows how it sounds, how stupid and crazy it sounds, and it really does. But he was there, he did go through the wall, and he didn’t come back until he found himself back months later. And that was only luck.
You watch him carefully. All the things he does. The checking, the overcompensating.. The way he wants to break back into the place, to show you everything on the camcorder, everything he picked up and that the police don’t want to hear. But how can he, because everytime he looks your way, the way he glances at you just to ask.
You don’t think I’m crazy do you?
—
The light reaches you before you can barely open your eyes all the way, rubbing them just to blink through the weariness. The bed dipped earlier but you thought nothing of it, just the steady warmth returning until it didn’t. You could hear him in the bathroom for a while, stepping back into the room with a creak in the floorboards, and he stopped for a moment. Watching.
But he didn’t come back to bed. And after a while, your body already wired, it kept you awake.
The static flickers on the tv, a dark greyish blue consuming the room.
His back faces you, his legs pressed over his knees from where he sits on the floor. Nothing plays on the video, just the grainy black and white shuffling over and over again with the noise over the top. Your steps reach the back of the couch, squinting just to see him properly.
“You scared of me now?” His speaks through the dark almost expectantly.
“Bobby what are you doing?”
“Answer me..”
“No I’m not.. why..” You answer gently.
“Then why’d you pull away.”
The shadow of his nose turns toward the light, golden strands of hair slipping into his eyes, leaving you out of view. But not unseen.
His gaze finds you anyway.
“When did I—”
“The other night. In the kitchen.”
Silence comes then, and his jaw works, chewing the inside of his cheek with everything pent up.
Like he’s chewing on something he doesn’t know how to swallow.
“You remember that?”
The question comes out quieter than you expect, but it’s not defensive, part of it is hopeful, part of it hungry.
You nod, only once and Bobby exhales through his nose. For a second his shoulders loosen, as if something had been handed back. Reassurance.
“You stayed.”
Your stomach twists. His voice seems smaller, shaky where he can’t seem to fully look at you, but he tries.
“Of course I stayed.”
His eyes flick over your face. Searching and searching. He’s looking for the moment you’ll take the words back, that you’ll call him crazy like the rest of them and leave him. But you don’t. And part of him knows that.
And he can’t let go of that, he never could before, and he wasn’t going to now. So he seizes it, rising for his feet in barely a blink and he’s in front of you. The static still mumbles on the tv, but it just shadows you both.
A hand clamps harsh around your waist, moving you in his grip to face him. His face is wet with tears, twinkling in the light where they remain following you.
“Bobby..?” You call out to him softly and he only presses into you.
“Shh.. it’s okay,” His breath hits your neck, breathless and snarling, but his face hardly moves. Your fingers brace around the counter he backs you both up into, his thumbs rubbing circles at your flesh where you don’t move away. You don’t pull away. You can’t and you don’t want to. But you feel the shift.
“I want you.”
His hand curls at the back of your back, backing you both into the edge of the couch, your legs hitting it with a thump. His mouth slides down to your ear, shaking you into his hold, pressing himself, his aching need into you. The motion makes you gasp, lips parting and he catches them, messy and wet with his own mouth.
“I want you to be mine again..” He mumbles against your lips, rolling the plumpness between his teeth.
“Bobby I’am yours..” His face comes into full view then, patterned by the moonlight breaking through the blinds.
“You promise ?”
His head falls back, body contorting around you, rocking back just to get a better look at you.
In this light, his canines just look that bit sharper, longer, glinting in the crackle of the tv set. The whites of his eyes keel over and roll back as they take you in, pupils blown in a black that covers the iris completely.
You don’t question it, something tells you not to. Some part of it is alluring, drawing you in like a dangerous honey, and you nod softly.
And that’s all he takes. In every way he can, in every way Bobby does. He collides. It’s slow but it’s desperate, his mouth consumes yours skillfully, tongue licking into yours as his hand circles to the back of your head.
“All mine.. just mine.”
He kisses you like that until your back hits the wall and your legs stumble, just so thy he can catch you into his arms. He wraps them around his waist, carrying you all the way, shedding your sleep shirt over your head and tossing it to the floor. There is an ache in the way he takes his time, gripping and tugging at every bit of flesh, kicking the door open with a careless groan.
You drop onto the bed with a huff, arms splaying out just for a moment until he’s on you again. His knees rise over your hips, squeezing you from the sides, caging you in.
His face goes blank where it drapes at your neck. Blue eyes faded to nothing but desire and primal hunger. And need. The primal urge is all too much, it consumes him, lights a fire deep in his belly and he knows in every shiver that creeps his spine, he has to have you. His hands hook around the waistband of your shorts, shrugging them off in one quick motion along with your panties, sliding down the thin fabric down your legs.
Then it’s all mess and warmth, the steady descent of him drowning in you, giving in to what he’s spent so long thinking of, dreaming of.
The sensation coasts down your body in waves, left by open mouthed kisses sucked over your skin. His lips press sweetly before they part, biting down roughly, catching you in his arms before you can pull back. The wince wracks your whole body, shivering under his touch as his fingers dig into the flesh of your navel, following the arch of your hips. It chases the feeling against you, the hard rip of teeth slicing into your skin, drawing red marks that bruise underneath it.
The one at your thigh drips languidly, acrid and tacky in thin droplets. Blood, your blood. And it’s his tongue that smoothes over it, soothing the wound where it opens, tears pricking your eyes where you become entirely undone. Your eyelids flutter, hands fisting the sheets around you and whatever else you can grab at.
He traces down where the trail follows, down across your thigh where the blood smears, down over the mound of your pussy where it mixes with your arousal, slick and dripping in your heat.
Bobby takes one longing look, one dark one shooting straight between your legs where you can see him. His touch is reverent, his mouth is hot right where you ache, and his eyes are completely blown black. Animalistic.
He delves in shamelessly, drinking you down with a long, flat suck through your folds, tongue dragging along your hole and circling at your clit.
“Taste s’good..”
He laps at you mercilessly, loud and unclean, claiming in a way that only comes from longing, or in Bobby’s case, devotion. His nose drags across your swollen clit, the skin rippling where you shake and tremble but he doesn’t let up. He devours you. Hands curl underneath you, tugging your further down onto him than even possible from the flesh of tour ass, your thighs fallen limp and curled over his back, the taut muscle flexing where he eagerly fucks you with his tongue.
His mouth closes over your pussy, rising just to catch where he sucks down hard on your clit, as it pulses and clenched around nothing.
“Good girl, so needy for it..” Wet muscle works its way into your hole, delving and lapping, feeling for where your moans pitch highest, working you there until you come undone. And you do. In hot pulses of pleasure that sift through your body, leaving your fingers tangled into his hair, holding and gripping as you rock yourself through his high. His tongue doesn’t relent, and neither does he, simply lets you chase the high until you’re dripping down his chin, sweet wetness that he slurps back into his mouth with a dark grin.
You whine out his name, eyes fluttering closed as your head lulls back onto the mattress. Something snaps again in him, harder this time, and unrestrained. One that leaves his fingers pinned around your wrists, shrugging the rest of his jeans down right to his knees.
“Open up your eyes.. look at me.”
Slender fingers cup your jaw, the other spreading your legs wider, thighs parting so he settles between them. He frees himself and his cock is dripping, twitching from where it sits so hard, an aching red and leaking from its tip. The sight makes you salivate, drenching the back of your throat near as much as your thighs.
“There she is..”
His hand wraps around it once, fisting it in a heavy pump that makes him groan, his throat bobbing as he rises back over you. The muscle of his biceps tick as they frame you, laying right beside your head, fingers flexing out to pat the strands of your hair. A delicate softness for all the depraved things he wants to do, that he’s compelled to do to you.
The tip of nose brushes your cheek, breath stuttering where he slides his hardness through your slick folds, resting himself with short thrusts on your pussy. The whine catches in your chest, your breaths mingling, and he looks down at you, and it takes a few blinks for you to notice. He’s really looking. Committing you to memory as if he’s seeing you for the first time all over again, his head tilts, only slightly, studying you once over.
His mouth claims your own, lips shoving into yours in a biting kiss, and then he gives in. He rolls his hips back to punch them into you, nestling right deep where you take all of him at once, stretching you deliciously to the limit.
“Oh, fuck..”
You gasp into his mouth, breath mingled with his own as his eyes squeeze shut, cursing at the clenching of your pussy around him, sucking him in greedily.
“I know, I know.. So good for me..” He rocks into you then, silencing your whines with his mouth, slipping his tongue so deep whatever is left of your faded mind swears it hits the back of your throat. His hips grind and ride over you until it punches deeper and consumes you.
“My angel, my girl..”
His cock drags inside of you, pounding over and over again until the breath is stolen from your lungs, constricted by his arm around your neck and the sheer weight of him pressing into you. biting into the back of your neck. Sweat coats your bodies, a sheen of arousal that grows hotter between you, beckoning him more, to give you more, to never leave your side again. And he vows it, pledges it into your body with his own.
Just like he won’t let you go.
His teeth bare sink into flesh without thinking, settling at the curve at of your jugular, not enough to tear, but enough to feel the pinch constrict. The tears fall over your cheeks, pattering in droplets right into where his mouth sits on your skin. He licks them away steadily right with the flick of his tongue, salt and sweat coating his lips with every other part of you that he’s collecting.
“Come on that’s it.. you got another one f’me yeah?” He rasps darkly, smirk pulling where his teeth graze your ear, smug and merciless.
Your whines keen into the sheets, shoved with a gasp every time he tugs you back onto him, mouth roaming relentlessly, restlessly where he can’t get enough of you. The feeling is too much, not enough, it’s burning hot where your skin slides together, his hips cracking into the curve of your ass just to drag further into your sopping pussy.
Your tits bounce with the force of his grinding, Bobby’s fingers pinching around to cup them, face pressing further down your body, curling over you. He growls low and guttural, suckling over every patch of skin he can find, “Shit.. take it baby, take all of me," His hands roam, scooping at the back of your thighs where they fall. He feels you falter, your thighs twitching and shaking, and he snags them, squeezing them as he shoves them up to your chest as he rises, moving you closer into him.
“Bobby.. fuck—“
He ruts into you at a pitiless pace, fingers pinching tight as they curl around your knees and legs, snapping right into your wet heat, and the whole of your body tightens. His thumb, or his fingers, you can’t tell, swipe over your throbbing clit, already too much and he circles, thumbing it in a rhythm that sends you over the edge. Your body leans forward, shooting up into him with a sharp cry of his name, heat bursting through your body, right deep where he kisses your cervix and all the way into your the tips of your toes.
Your pussy flutters around him, and the pulse is dizzying. He stutters, staggering where he tries to keep himself upright, fucking you through your high as it filters out, your hips spasming at the touch. He thrusts sloppily into you, slowly grinding down, rolling properly into you until he is collapsing.
He wants to keep you like this, to fill you, to do it over and over again until neither of you can take it. It burns in his chest, with every aching drag of his cock inside of you, and every loud ring of your moans in his ears.
“That’s it, that’s my girl..” His groan is hoarse, breaking at the edges where it’s rough, bordering on a whine as he shoves his face into your neck. His breath brushes your damp skin, inhaling your scent heavily, still suffering inside of you.
“Fuck I’ll..” His chest falls over yours, unhooking your legs carefully to lay down at his dies, “I’ll give you everything..” He punctuates with one last pump, stilling as his lips purse against you.
Neither of you seem to disconnect from one another, his arms releasing you just enough to curl around the back of you. The sleep that was lost before gently intoxicating you both in your bliss. He kisses at the back of your neck and your shoulder, the sheets swarmed over you and his arm that hands over your waist.
“I love you..”
Are the only words you hear, over and over again as he whispers them into your ear. You mumble it back softly with your eyes closed, falling back into the warm wall of his chest.
And only then does he drift, soothed at your side, where he belongs. Where he’s home.
—
Part of him wants back there, and it’s not conscious, it’s the twitch in his sleep and the tug in his peripheral. Part of him wants to take you with him. But he can’t, he won’t subject you to that, nor even to change it. So he holds you tighter, pulls you closer.
It’s more calculated than it once was, but it’s just as warm, inviting, sometimes too much. That you have to remind yourself to be careful, that he’s hurting and it’s going to take time.
But some things don’t change, they don’t change at all.
He was protective over it at first, scrolling through tape after tape just to jam up the roll so none of it could be seen again. Only the old ones came through, the soft memories, not the evidence. Screams and questions were replaced with gentle laughter and cursing when he’d drop it from zooming too close.
The camera sits in your hands, heavy and jarring. The noise whirrs sharply, echoing in the thin halls of your shared apartment, and you go to cover it, even though he’s out. You sent him on a grocery store run minutes ago, just before he slipped you a kiss through the screen door.
You flicker through every video. You wanted to see for yourself, to hear him out and find the evidence that you believe from him. But there’s nothing, and you go to put it down. You’re so close to. But then it comes up, flashing blue and broken before the colours come through.
It’s titled from back then. A week or so only after he went missing. Your eyes squint at the small screen just to get a better view, and it shakes you.
It’s Bobby. Yellow walls are tall behind him, like old wallpaper you’d find in an office, more like an abandoned one. The lights flicker and buzz around him, but it’s dark, only half of his face showing up.
“Okay. I’m not sure what this place is.. it’s fucked up. It took Kat, I don’t where where the fuck Clark is. I haven’t seen either of them.. But.. this thing, whatever it is keeps coming through. It’s followed me for days.. I don’t get it, it’s like it’s trying to be me. It mimics, and it.. changes.” A sharp crackle fills the audio, and all you can see is his face. It’s scared, panicked even, holding the camera with two hands just to keep it in hand.
You go to turn it off, clapping it in your hands just to get it to work again, but all you can hear is the buzzing, his voice following after his mouth moves.
“.. not me..”
The clip jumps, scratching along with the distortion of the video. Bobby’s face phases out, a loud beeping sound coming from the tape, until he comes back into view.
He doesn’t look panicked this time, in fact his face is relaxed, calm with an uneasy curve at his lips. He’s smiling. Not wide, but hopeful, soft like he’s looking right through the lens and at you. The sound doesn’t come through until the video fades, static covering the screen and a muffled,
─ summary: Baelor catches you, his perfect daughter and favourite child, with his favourite brother.
─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x niece!reader, Baelor Targaryen & daughter!reader
─ content: 18+ MDNI | targcest | age gap | angst | shame | Baelor is momentarily kind of an asshole | old men coming to blows | fluff | implied smut |
─ a/n: part two is finally here! Part one here. As always, thank you for reading. 🖤
For a heartbeat, the world was silent save for a choked curse from Maekar beside you. Your hands flew to your bodice, fingers clumsy and numb as they fumbled with the laces. The silk felt rough against your skin. You could feel the heat of shame crawling up your neck. It had nothing to do with the act itself and everything to do with the look on your father's face.
Beside you, Maekar was already fastening his breeches, his movements economical and swift. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his eyes, usually so full of a molten warmth for you, were now wide with panic you had never seen before. He took a step toward the door.
"Maekar, no," You grabbed his arm, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his bicep. "Do not."
"I must," He tried to pull away, but you held on. "I must explain this to him."
"Explain?" A harsh, broken laugh escaped your lips. "He will kill you. He will run you through and not think twice on it. Did you not see his face?"
A sob tore from your throat, your shoulders shook, as you pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, as if you could physically hold the grief inside. Maekar reached for you, trying to pull you into an embrace. "My love,"
You slapped his hand away. The hurt that flashed across his face made you feel guilty, but you could not bear to be touched. "Do not," you choked out, turning your back to him, wrapping your arms around yourself. "Just… do not."
You could feel his gaze on the back of your neck. "I am sorry," he said finally. "I am sorry it happened thus. Yet he was always going to learn of it. I did not wish to keep you a secret."
You hated the words. In that moment, his declaration sounded almost like relief. As if this terrible, earth-shattering confrontation was a necessary step he was glad to have taken. You knew it was not fair, you knew it was your own pain twisting his meaning, but you could not help it. You turned back to him, face streaked with tears, and stepped into the circle of his arms.
He held you tightly, one hand stroking your hair, the other pressed firm against the small of your back, anchoring you. He rested his chin on the top of your head. "He will be angry," Maekar said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "But he cannot stay angry with you for long."
He could not have been more wrong.
The week that followed was an exercise in silent torture. Baelor did not speak to either of you, refusing to so much as look at either of you or be in the same room longer than necessary.
Where you had always stood at his side you found your place now occupied by your brother Valarr. He looked deeply uncomfortable to be in the middle of a squabble he did not understand. His pleading, apologetic gaze meeting yours. You felt like an exile in your own home.
You tried to bridge the chasm. Each morning, Baelor would break his fast with you, yet when you went to his solar, the place where you had always been welcomed without announcement, you were stopped by the guard. "My apologies, Princess. The Prince has asked not to be disturbed."
"Disturbed by me?"
"By anyone, Princess," he replied unconvincingly.
But the cruelest cut of all, the one that truly shattered you, was the tea. Since you were a small girl, you and your father had shared a private tea every seventh day in a small, sun-drenched room in the gardens. It was the one place in the world where titles and duty fell away. You would talk, he would listen, give you counsel, make you laugh as he sipped his tea, his eyes soft with affection. Here, he was just your papa.
You went to the sun room, fussing over the servants' work until it was just as you wanted. The tea was brewed, the little lemon cakes you both loved were on a plate, and the sun was high in the sky. You waited until the room grew cold, until the tea was undrinkable. He did not come.
You were utterly alone.
What you did not know was that Baelor had come. He had stood by the door only a few steps away, close enough to hear you singing a little tune. He had pictured you inside, waiting for him, your face bright with anticipation, and the weight of what he had seen, what he had lost, crushed him. He could not bring himself to walk through the door and retreated to the silent, cold comfort of the library, where he worked through the night. The ink from his quill blurring with tears he would not allow himself to shed.
That evening, you poured all of it out to Maekar. You sobbed against his chest, your hands fisted in his tunic as he held you, his body rigid with fury on your behalf. This could not continue.
You were in your language lesson the next afternoon when a steward arrived for you. "Princess," he said with a formal bow. "His Grace, the King, requests your presence."
Your heart seized as you walked the familiar path to Daeron's chambers, your stomach a knot of dread.
The room was exactly as you remembered it. Walls lined with books from floor to ceiling. Massive windows overlooking the city, and there, standing as far apart as possible, were your father and Maekar. The air between them crackled with tension and volatile energy.
Your grandfather, Daeron, sat behind his desk. He saw you immediately, his gaze softening as he took in your defeated face and the tremor in your hands.
"Oh, my child." He rose from his chair and came to you, his hands reaching out to take yours. "The days have not been kind to you, have they?"
You simply shook your head, the gesture releasing a fresh wave of tears you had not realized were still trapped inside.
Daeron tutted softly, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbing at your face. "There, there, we cannot have you weeping over this."
He released your hands and turned, addressing the room, his statement for everyone and no one. "Maekar has asked for your hand in marriage," he announced. "I have decided to agree to the match."
"Father?" Baelor snarled, his mismatched eyes blazing. "How could you? Without even consulting me?"
"Someone must think of her," Maekar said, his voice laced with contempt. "Since her own father cannot be troubled to—"
That was it. Baelor flew across the room, his face a thundercloud, lunging for his brother, his fist connecting cleanly with Maekar's cheek. "Stop! I beg you," you shouted, but they continued grappling, a mess of furious muscle and royal silks.
"Boys, please," Daeron said, his voice weary from a lifetime of mediating squabbles. "Stop this, you are men grown."
Baelor shoved Maekar away, his chest heaving. "I have always given you everything that was mine," his voice trembling with pain. "Freely! Without complaint! Yet it is not enough. You would steal my daughter?"
You moved to Maekar's side, your hand finding his, fingers lacing through. "I am a woman grown," you said. "Free to make my own choices, as you have always claimed."
Your father looked at you for the first time in a week. The anger in his eyes seemed to fracture, replaced by hurt. He shook his head slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I do not understand this," he whispered, the words meant only for himself.
Daeron sighed. "Children will astound you," he said, turning to glare at his youngest son as he spoke. "They do not always behave as you would wish them to." He sighed again. "Come, Maekar. Let us leave them to speak."
He placed a hand on Maekar's shoulder and guided him toward an adjoining room, the door closing softly behind them, leaving you alone with Baelor in silence.
You turned slowly to face your father. He was staring at the spot where Maekar had been, his profile sharp and unreadable.
"Papa. Look at me."
He would not.
Tears pricked at your eyes again, a fresh well of sorrow. "I am so sorry," you choked out. "I am sorry I have shamed you. You are right to hate me, and I shall understand it if you do. But I need my father, please."
That finally turned him. His eyes searched your face, and the hard mask of anger crumbled. He saw his girl, weeping and broken, because of him.
"Petal," he breathed, crossing the space between you, his hands coming up to cup your face and gently wipe away your tears. "I could never hate you."
You blinked up at him, confused.
"It was never about you being with him. Not truly." He shook his head, his gaze distant. "Since you were small, you have told me everything, from the ladybug that landed on your finger to the quarrels amongst you and your friends. You never once kept a secret from me, even when you feared you were in the wrong. I cannot understand why you would keep this from me. It makes me feel as though… the trust, the closeness, was never real."
His voice broke on the last word, and the sight of it, your strong, unshakeable father brought to the brink of tears, was more than you could bear. "The act wounds me," he continued, his voice a whisper. "But the lie… the secret is what has broken my heart."
Then you pulled him into a hug, and he held you so tightly you could barely breathe, his face buried in your hair. "I am sorry," he murmured. "For how I have behaved. For the silence. No amount of apologies can undo it, but I am sorry, petal."
You clung to him, the week's worth of ice and fear finally thawing in the warmth of his embrace.
He held you for a long time, just rocking you gently, until the tension had finally drained from both of you. Then he pulled back, his hands on your shoulders, and a faint, wry smile touched his lips.
"You know," he said, his tone lighter. "I might yet find you a better match."
You pushed lightly against his chest, a laugh bubbling up, startling you both with its sound. "Stop it," you said, swatting at his arm. "I love him."
He eyed you, his head tilted. "Are you certain? He is a dark cloud, and you my sunshine. I cannot imagine what the two of you could possibly speak of."
"Father!" you said, indignant, pushing away from him more firmly this time, a smile gracing your face.
He relented, his hands held up in surrender. "Very well, very well," he chuckled. "I accept it. You have my blessing." His expression then sobered slightly, a glint of the old, protective fire returning to his eyes. He leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone.
"But if he ever misbehaves," he said, his gaze hard and deadly serious, "if he ever causes you a single moment of unhappiness, I will run him through."
You looked at your father, at the fierce, unwavering love in his eyes, and smiled. "Do not fret," you said softly. "Maekar is well aware of it. You ought to beg his forgiveness for striking him."
