the limits of your longing | professor!baelor targaryen x reader
Content Notes: History professor Baelor, graduate student reader, Modern AU (modernized Westeros, not characters in modern real world), Dark Academia AU (tbh more like dimly-lit academia), professor/student relationship so therefore inherent power imbalance, age gap (reader is in her 20s), explicit sexual content, angst, hurt/comfort, dead spouse, brief drug use, alcohol, oral sex, pinv sex, choking (BARELY), reader is kind of existentially depressed but so is Baelor, reader POV, no Y/N.
Word Count: 5.7k
Author Notes: I am an American (#sorry) but I feel like modern ASOIAF universe fics feel strange if they're not Brit-ified. I've done my best to ignore my yeehaw-y'all-wudder-upbringing and make this modernized Westeros world feel cohesive (queue... jumper... flat...) but there will likely be gaps in my knowledge #mybad.
In terms of the reader-insert of it all, reader doesn't have a physical description or much of a backstory. She does have a pretty complex personality though. I come from OC territory so this is my first attempt at writing genuine second person reader insert... let's call this a craft exercise.
Gorgeous dividers are by @huraxy-dividers
Read it on AO3 here if that's what you prefer :)
You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
—Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. Joanna Macy
We can’t keep doing this, he likes to say, but he never ends it. He never meant for it to happen, you’re sure. You didn’t mean for it either. You’re falling asleep to the sound of him scribbling Needs further explanation on an essay he’s grading, your thighs still tickle from his beard, and you really don’t know how this keeps happening, it just does.
He must be lonely, you figure. Or sad. Or going through some sort of mid-life crisis. You’ve seen the pictures of his sons in his office: the younger one, the lanky redhead, grinning in a boarding school uniform, and the older one, a carbon copy of his father, off on summer holiday adventures in his university jumper. Barely younger than you.
And there’s the wedding ring he doesn’t take off. You tried reading the obituary in the library when you were supposed to be doing research and only got as far as “...passed thirteen months after a diagnosis of glioblastoma…” before you felt sick.
You’ve felt that ring inside you while you’ve fallen apart on his fingers. You’ve licked the warm metal clean after.
He’s probably making the same calculations about you. He probably wonders what fucked you up so bad that you’d rather spend a Friday night watching a man old enough to be your father make you chamomile in his delicate old teacups. What made you the kind of girl who gets wet seeing Brilliant point in his handwriting on your papers.
Whatever. If that’s what he’s thinking when he’s staring at you, at least he’s staring at you.
We can’t keep doing this, he says while you straighten his shirt in the dim office lamplight, but it just means not here.
We can’t keep doing this, he says while his cock presses deep enough to bruise, but it just means he’s close.
Sometimes you wonder if you just remind him of himself. Excellent historicization, he’s written on your latest essay. Your literature professors are probably sick of telling you to revise, cut to the criticism already, leave the historical details to the historians. There’s a fresh draft, cleaner, already edited in your laptop. You knew as soon as you wrote that paragraph that it was just for him.
“Are you trying to woo me or something?” You grin at him, tapping the note.
He sets a flowery cup of peppermint tea down for you. “Maybe I’m trying to convince you to change your field.”
“I’m not cut out for history.” You’d taken his class as an elective, after all. A change of pace from your normal literary seminars and creative workshops. You hadn’t expected to like it, let alone like him.
“What makes you say that?” Head tilted, he studies you with his two-toned eyes. “You wrote the best seminar paper I’ve read in ten years.”
Ten years. Ten years ago he was married, a father of two, already tenured, and you were… well. Doing whatever stupid teenage shit you were doing ten years ago. Your face feels hot while you think of something to say, avoiding his gaze, staring at the collection of matchbooks he keeps in a bowl on the center of the table.
“Because I’m a writer,” you point out. “You’re used to reading what historians write.”
Baelor seems to mull that over like you’ve said something profound. It’s odd, the way being in his kitchen seems to pry apart all your usual defenses. You’re so cold in the classroom, so analytical, so exact in everything you say. A dog with its teeth bared. Growling and barking so no one can see how frightened you are of being wrong. But here, with the light over the stove casting a tender glow over his face, you open your mouth and some half-baked thought comes spilling out.
He’s softer too, a half-smile on his face like you’re some sort of precious thing. “I’d like to read your work.”
“You wouldn’t like it,” is your knee-jerk reaction. The lines of his forehead crinkle as the smile fades.
“Why not?”
You shrug and sip your tea. “It’s just different.”
It’s not that you only write bleeding heart poems about him. Sure, you do, sometimes, but you wouldn’t care if he read them. It’s all the rest that you don’t want him to see. The threads that show up like fragile pieces of flesh under a layer of armor. The loneliness. The insecurity. The existential dread. You know there are parts of him that he’ll never let you see. You’re allowed to keep some of yourself hidden too.
It’s always fucking raining in King’s Landing. Always flooding the cobblestone streets. Instead of soaking your shoes and trudging home after your seminar, you find a seat in his lecture hall. He doesn’t see you amidst the sea of strung out undergraduates taking frantic notes while he moves through his slides. You don’t mind. It’s nice, sometimes, just to listen to him.
“You’ll have noticed that our readings for this week come from anthropologists, not historians. It is true that the pre-Andal period is usually considered prehistoric, but I think we would do well to remember that the early Andal people we’ll be reading about next week did not arrive into an empty void; rather, they stepped into a pre-existing culture.” He gestures to the image on the projector, ancient art spiraling over cave walls. “We know from their art and preserved burials that the First Men likely had complex relationships, storytelling practices, and religious icons. I want us to look at these engravings from about ten thousand years ago in the Mountains of the Moon. What might we say about the people who had created them?”
The sounds of rainfall and laptop keys pitter-patter throughout the hall while he leans against the podium. A gentle smile plays across his face. Not smug. Just curious.
“This isn’t a trick question, I promise.”
He fiddles with his hands while he talks. Flexing, tapping, twisting his rings. It’s charming. Unconscious. You think about it while you touch yourself later, making yourself come like it’s a punishment.
After you wash your hands and stare at yourself in the mirror for far too long, calling yourself a fucking pervert and every other name you can think of, there are two unread texts waiting for you.
Did you not have an answer to my questions in lecture? Or were you hoping I wouldn’t notice you?
I know you would have had something poetic to say.
Fuck. Okay. Maybe a little smug.
Two in the morning and your flat is haunted by the smell of a candle that burned out an hour ago. He calls, knowing you’re awake. You’re a pair of insomniacs who only seem to go to bed at a decent hour when you’re sleeping together.
“I was thinking about what you said the other night,” he says. “That there’s a difference between what you write as a historian and what you write as a writer. ”
“I guess… it’s the difference between academic and creative. Impersonal versus personal.” You’re not as eloquent as you wish you were. But you hear his curious hum, the sound he always makes when you’re treading toward a point and he wants to hear more.
“You don’t think history can be personal?”
“Maybe. But there’s more to hide behind.”
Silence on the other end. And then, “Keep talking.”
“I don’t really have a thesis here,” you admit. Even if you did, you’re too tired to spell it out in any sort of cohesive way.
“Then you’ll find one. Keep talking, sweet girl. I want to listen.”
So you do. You talk and talk and talk, spinning in circles and never quite landing on a point. You lose your train of thought. Somewhere along the way, you diverge into ranting about an article you’d read for class, about which table in the library is your favorite, about the trip you wish you could take to Dorne if your stipend weren’t so fucking abysmal. You’re sure you’ve bored him, you’re sure you’ve put him to sleep, but each time you stop yourself he’s humming on the other end of the phone. Keep talking.
Knees against the aged hardwood floor of his office. His fingers tense in your hair. It’s late enough that you can tell what phase the moon is in, hanging low over the crested rooftops of the University halls. But he still grits his teeth together while you run your tongue over the veins of his cock. Only the softest grunts echo low in his chest. You look up at him through watery eyes, choking yourself on him, and he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
You’ve never met a man like him. A man who listens to you talk for hours on end. Who wants to listen. A man whose cock you want to suck, because gods, he’s handsome, he’s tense, and the way he blushes while you go down on him makes your chest burn with a sort of pride you’ve never had before.
“Fuck, love,” he chokes out, his hand on your head going taut. “Sweet… sweet girl, I—”
And then his head drops back, all the muscles in his neck glinting in the moonlight. You savor every last drop of him, every sensitive twitch, until he’s pulling you off and up onto his lap. There’s saliva and come dripping down your chin. It glistens in his salt-and-pepper stubble after he kisses you.
“We can’t keep doing this,” he says, but there’s a breathy little laugh in his throat and the lines around his eyes are gleaming at you, so you just laugh along with him and whisper yes, yes we can.
“Are you there, sweet girl?”
There’s a crunched-up beer can in the gutter. Headlights and neon signs reflect off the aluminum. It’s a little mesmerizing. A small distraction from the gnawing ache in your chest.
“Are you alright?”
You’re not. You’re high and alone and not dressed for the crisp autumn night. You don’t know where your friends went. Fuck, you don’t even know where exactly you are. You’d stepped out of the club to breathe and now you’re curled up on the curb like a stray dog, tears and glitter running down your cheeks. Baelor’s disembodied voice drifts past you like a ghost before you remember that you’d called him.
“Are you there?”
“Can you come get me?” Your voice is so small. “I don’t… I want to go home.”
“Where are you?” Something clatters on his end. His keys, maybe. Your hazy eyes catch the time on your phone. One thirty in the morning, and he’d picked up right away.
“Flea Bottom.” Your head whirls as you search for a street sign. “Um, Gin Alley.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
He’s pulling up in just under ten. You practically fling yourself into your arms, babbling apologies through your tears.
“You’re alright? Look at me. Did someone do this to you?” He holds your face in his hands, eyes flickering over you, checking for damage. There's an edge to him that you've never seen before. As if the hands that hold you so delicately could just as soon snap someone's nose in your defense.
You shake your head, making the whole world spin again. You wish you could say yes. Wish you could blame it on someone slipping something in your drink or feeling you up, but the only problem is you.
“I’m just fucked up.”
You expect to be reprimanded. You want him to be angry. If he is, he doesn’t give you the self-deprecating satisfaction. He just shrugs off his coat and drapes it over your shoulders.
“Let’s get you home.”
Home. Not back to my house. Just home. You’ll forget that bit when you wake up tomorrow. For now, you roll that around in your head over and over while the radio airs a news story about birds’ changing migratory routes in the Stormlands he drives you home.
There’s a half-drunk cup of tea keeping a pile of papers company on the kitchen table. He pours you a glass of water, makes you drink it while he takes you upstairs and sits you down on the bed. Your sweat-stained clothes end up in his laundry hamper, replaced by an old King’s Landing University shirt. You’re staring listlessly at the floor while he fetches a damp washcloth from the bathroom and dabs away your ruined makeup. Warm damp. The kind of comfortable temperature that means he’d stood by the tap adjusting the water until it wouldn’t shock you. It’s so much more than you deserve.
“I’m sorry,” you say for the hundredth time, and once your mouth opens you can’t stop yourself. “I didn’t mean to be a mess, I just get so… it’s so quiet sometimes and I hate it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Nothing is wrong with you.” He unfurls a pair of socks and slides them onto your feet. His lips press to your kneecaps. You could shatter from the softness of it.
“Something is, though,” you insist. “I feel like a monster.”
He’s silent for a long time. “You’re cruel to yourself.”
So are you, you want to tell him. He buries himself in articles and research on a weekend like it’s a form of self-flagellation. Like enough sleepless nights will help him atone for whatever he feels guilty about. He buries himself in you. Fucks you as if it’ll purify him, but how could it when you’re just as bad? Irredeemably self-destructive, the pair of you.
Your shaky hand reaches for the collar of his shirt. A silent ask. Make me forget this. But he intercepts it and kisses the inside of your sweaty palm, melting your lust away like rain over snow.
“Come here. You’re alright.” Lights go out and he eases you into bed, keeping his hands anchored around you as if you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. “My sweet girl. Smart girl. You’ll be alright.”
And maybe you will. There are times when you nearly believe that. Mid-afternoons in his office, curled in a faded armchair, you doze off while he parses through an article at his desk. The light trickles through the old window panes just soft and just warm enough to blanket you. There are mornings when you wake up first and get to fix him coffee (really, you just like using his fancy machine). He keeps a container of your particular creamer in his fridge. You bring him matchbooks to add to his collection.
It’s sweet. Soporific. The kind of domesticity that almost fills the emptiness inside you. When you sit down to write, the page fills with lines about folding socks. Matchbooks. Heterochromia. Hands stained with ink.
You put on real estate show reruns while you try to thread enough of those images together to make a halfway decent poem. Strange how you can actually sleep next to him, instead of staring at the ceiling and spiraling like you do back in your flat. You’re half-dreaming, just holding on long enough to see which quaint Riverlands cottage the couple chooses, when—
“Thought they’d choose the second house.”
“Fucking hell!” Scared out of your skin, you thought he’d fallen asleep an hour ago. His laughter fills the room like a shock of warmth in the early winter air. He’s so beautiful with all the lines of his face framing his smile, silver-streaked dark hair grown out and mussed from the pillows. Fuck off, you mutter. You’re grinning too.
when are you coming back?
You’re an embarrassment to the women’s restroom queue. A line of the prettiest girls you’ve ever seen, chatting or giggling or drunkenly figuring out how to operate a digital camera, all shimmering in each other’s presence, and you’re texting a graying man who’s at an academic conference. Your lack of camaraderie is probably setting feminism back twenty years. You’d said yes to a night out because you’re young, you’re fun, you should be doing something young and fun on a Friday night, but now you’re one too many drinks in and sulking against the wall. You stare at the phone until he responds. The girl behind you is actively breaking up with her boyfriend on the phone and you can’t even bring yourself to eavesdrop.
Return flight gets in at 9:45 tomorrow night.
can i see you then?
You’re so fucking desperate. A week without him and you’re in heat, howling for attention. A group of girlfriends stumbles out of the restroom and finally, you’re nearing the front of the queue.
I’ll pick you up on my way home.
ok!
i miss you
It’s like typing it out makes it sound even more miserable. You’re about to triple text, lighten the blow with some quick diversion. He responds faster.
I miss you too. I’ve been thinking about you.
What are you doing tonight? Tell me about your day.
Your knees almost give out. Trying to blink your eyes into instant clarity, you manage to pull yourself together.
at th pub
with friends :)
Are you safe?
yeah i’m fine just bored
ive had more fun just sitting in your kitchen
i love your kitchen
At this point, your thumbs are moving of their own accord. You’re typing out something about how you love his matchbook collection, you love his stupid grandmotherly teacups, you love falling asleep to the sound of him marking up papers, you love him—
I know. That’s where I picture you when I think of you.
My beautiful girl.
Throat suddenly dry, you feel fire in your core and a heat to your thighs that makes you hazy. The fact that he probably doesn’t even mean to be turning you on only makes it hotter. But fuck, you can’t help it, the sheer nice-ness of it makes you want to ride him within an inch of his life, right there in that kitchen.
And then, of course, he has to drive it home.
I hope I dream about you tonight.
Slamming the stall shut harder than you mean to, you take three tries to latch the door and then fumble to pull your top down. The lighting’s low and the picture turns out a little blurred, but you send the image of your pretty tits and your drunken smile without an ounce of the shame you ought to have.
wish you were here <3
You’re both insatiable after he returns. A dusting of snow makes the cobblestone streets slick and lures you the warmth of his house on weeknights when you really ought to be answering emails and polishing drafts for publication. You’ve barely crossed the threshold, snowflakes still melting on your coat, when he’s kissing you senseless. A muffled greeting gets lost somewhere in your smile.
Fireplace ablaze and turning the whole living room ochre, it doesn’t take long for you to thaw. Something crinkles as he presses your back into the couch cushions. You grab a stray pile of papers from under you, nearly tossing them aside before you open your eyes and blink.
“Is this mine?” Lust-drunk and thinking in slow-motion, you can still recognize your own handwriting. Had you given him an essay draft to look over? The uneven lines don’t seem like the usual literary criticism you ask him to review. You catch a handful of words—held in the matchbook of you… divining ink stains… all the dark matter of the universe—and then you realize.
“Fuck, did you read this?”
“You left it behind last night,” he murmurs, kissing down the lines of your throat.
“I didn’t mean to.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. Surely, he can see right through you now. All the cracks you’ve tried to plaster over, all the longing you’ve tried to hide. Not just for him, but for… something gentle. Stable. Something hopeful and bright that you’re not sure either of you know how to find.
His mouth back on yours, he pulls the papers from your hands, leaving a papercut on your pinky that bubbles with red instantly. “Ow!”
Whatever anger might’ve kindled within you dies as he takes your finger and sucks the blood away. Fuck, you love him like this. Starved and needy. Blown pupils making both eyes look entirely black. He asks with his hands and his mouth and you give, clawing at your clothes until you’re bare for him. You’re a pair of moonlit animals. If he’s already seen all the shameful pieces of you that you bury in your work, then there’s no point in holding out.
Pressing you back into the couch, Baelor bows his head to suck at your tits. Teeth graze against your nipples. Hungry. Insistent. You know what he wants as soon as he trails downwards, but you’re too impatient and too empty to let him.
“No, fuck—” you whine while he worships your inner thighs, even though the prickle of his chin over the sensitive, soft skin makes your spine arch off the cushions. “Please fuck me, I want your cock, please—”
“This first.” It’s firm. You can writhe and complain as much as you want, but when he spreads your legs and inhales the scent of your cunt, you know you can’t stop him.
He’s so diligent when he eats you out. It’s another form of study for him. Whatever makes you moan and tense gets repeated, honed in on. Tongue lapping at the hot core of you, his nose brushes up against your clit and your whole body goes taut with the shock of it. But instead of pulling back and letting your edge fade, he only nuzzles deeper.
A hand slides up your thighs to your stomach. You grab it and squeeze hard enough to cut off circulation. His rings stamp into your skin.
“Please—please fuck me now,” you’re moaning, begging, desperate to be full of him when you finally come. “I’ll do whatever you want, I fucking… I fucking promise, I just need it—”
His other hand opens you up. No resistance, only the pressure and stretch of three long fingers, you break for him and choke at the sensation of it. Combined with the tug of his lips over your clit, it’s enough to make you cry and come like the mess that you are.
“Sweet thing,” he’s humming as he eases you through it. “Good girl. Thank you.”
Thank you? You’re struggling for breath, and he’s fucking thanking you. You’d laugh at how sweet it is, but you finally clear your eyes enough to get a good look at his face, and… gods. He’s feral. That wasn’t for you. It was for him.
You grab at his face, pulling him near until he finally lets you kiss your own juices off of him. Salt and sweat washes over your tongue. You’re so blissed-out that you don’t hear the music of his belt, don’t feel the pressure against your cunt until his thick cock is easing inside you, slowly, making you feel every inch until his hips sit flush against yours.
“Is this what you need?” His voice is a string pulled dangerously stiff. You manage a weak mhmm, bucking against him insistently, but he doesn’t move.
“No. Look at me.” He wipes your eyes with his thumb, bringing you back to your body, back to him. “There she is. Talk to me, sweet girl.”
“I just want you.” Unrefined nonsense swirls through your head, all centered around him. “You’re so… so good, how can you… how can you be good to me?”
A shallow, experimental thrust makes you clutch at his sculpted biceps. “My angel. You’re easy to—”
“I’m easy?” Neurons finally firing fast enough to tease him, you grin at the blush that spreads across his crooked nose, over the lines of his cheeks, down to the old scars that are peppered across his chest. The drag of his cock inside you is torturously slow.
“Easy to be good for,” he finally manages to choke out once he regains control of himself. “You make… you make this so easy.”
That means something you can’t quite decipher. Right now, you don’t care. You just clench your cunt around him and spur him on, teeth clashing against teeth as his thrusts get faster and faster.
He doesn’t fuck you like he’s trying to be good. He fucks you like he’s trying to figure out just how far he can push you. How much he can take. Like he wants you to tell him slow down, enough, please be gentle, but you don’t. You take it all and still want more.
My girl, my angel, so good for me. The praise melts into you. Gods, you need him to finish. He’s getting sloppy, barely pulling out before he presses back into your cunt. The sound of it is disgusting and delicious. You’re soaking the couch, soaking him, leaving drool on the corners of his mouth when you kiss him, and he just keeps going.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” you cry out while he chases release, “you’re—”
Wherever that thought was going, you don’t get to finish it. His hand, the one that still smells like you, barely presses against the base of your neck. Your head drops back. Everything goes white hot and loud. The pain of overstimulation makes the orgasm bittersweet in the most savory way, striking through your whole body and leaving you raw. All your brain can process is how full you are and how warm, how strong he is.
“Oh, fuck, sw—sweet girl,” he stutters, and you know he’s getting close. You grip his arms hard enough to bruise and beam up at him through fresh tears. He’s so perfect like this, sweating and straining and vulnerable. It makes you want things you shouldn’t want.
“Inside?” You whisper, sweet as a song, and that’s what breaks him. A guttural sound, half-laugh and half-sob rips from his throat. He buries his cock so deep inside you that you can’t feel where you end and he begins. The warm flood of his come spills and spills and fills you in a way that’s hot and primal and perfect.
It feels right.
“Was it good?” You manage to ask while his cock goes soft inside of you. Your hands play with the coarse tufts of his hair that are overdue for a cut.
“You always feel good.”
That makes you preen a bit. It’s not what you mean, though.
“I mean my writing. Did you like it?”
“It felt like you.” It’s not a yes, but it makes you glow more than a simple yes ever could. “Alive. Intense.”
You turn your head so you can see blue and brown; your heaven, your earth. “It didn’t scare you?”
“Beautiful girl,” he furrows his brow, quizzical and almost amused, “why would you scare me?”
The truth of it is, you scare yourself.
There’s the void that seems to follow you everywhere. You’re used to that, though. You know you’ll feel it in your chest when all the noise of the day dies down. It manifests in your writing unbidden. It’s so familiar you might as well name it, put a leash on it, drag it around with you and feed it leftovers from your plate. And maybe it bubbles up, like it had that night outside the club, but for the most part it’s an unfortunate background noise.
The want, though, that’s… new. Something you don’t know how to describe. Ravenous. Unhinged. It burns through you and leaves you weak and raw.
It’s not that you want him in disgusting and depraved ways, though that’s part of it. No. You want to hear the story of every matchbook in his bowl. You want to know where he got the scars on his chest. You want to know if they have something to do with the military medal that’s framed on his mantelpiece. You want to learn the names of the people in his pictures. You want him to tell you about his sons, what they were like as boys, what they want to do with their lives.
You want him to take off that wedding ring. You want him to take you on a proper date. Dinner. Drinks. A shitty film. You want him to kiss you where people can watch and then take you home, and you want that home to be a place where both of you live. A place where there might be a picture of you on his fridge.
You want everything with him. In the best ways, in the worst ways. Everything.
He’s been marking up papers for an hour and you’ve probably just been staring at him for the past thirty minutes. Letting your mind wander. The sunset is turning his office rosy and warm, even though the ancient radiator can barely keep your fingers from going numb when winter gets this frigid. His blue eye seems nearly violet in this light.
You cast your gaze outside. In the courtyard, figures wrapped in scarves and heavy coats cluster and scatter. One on a bench springs up to greet another. They intertwine and melt, heading off towards a lecture hall hand-in-mittened-hand.
Baelor hmms about whatever he’s reading and you can’t help it, you lean over his desk and kiss him before either of you realize what’s happening. His pen clatters to the floor. Strong hands cradle your face. It’s gentle, easy. No lust, just soft lips on yours and the leather-and-paper scent of him filling your lungs.
When you pull away, there’s a dazed look on his face. “What was that for?”
“Dunno,” is your sheepish answer.
His gaze flickers toward the door, ever so slightly ajar. He’s quiet, contemplative, and also a fucking loud thinker. The warmth seems to seep out of the room in the space of a few seconds. You read his mind and feel something fragile and needy inside you snap.
“We can’t keep—”
“Will you stop fucking saying that?”
Blue-brown eyes go oceanic with hurt, but you’re already shoving your books in your bag. Not this. Not again. You can’t keep listening to the same tired line. Maybe it used to excite you. Now it’s a crutch he leans on and you just want to pull it out from under him.
“Just tell me if you don’t want me,” you spit, as though you wouldn’t come crawling back to him like a kicked dog even if he did. “You don’t need to make up excuses.”
“Stop that.” He’s stern all of a sudden. “You’re acting like—”
Fuck. You know what he wants to say, even if he catches himself before he lets it slip. It makes your eyes sting with frustration.
“Like what?” You push. “Say it.”
He sighs your name like a curse. Fuck it, you think. If he can’t bring himself to hurt you, you don’t mind hurting yourself.
“Fine, I will. I’m acting like a child.” You’re crying in earnest now, hoping that your tears sparkle just enough to make him guilty. “You’re here too, you know? It’s not just me. Either you like fucking pathetic girls or you’re just as fucked as I am, take your pick.”
“That’s not fair,” he snaps, though you feel like you’re being perfectly fair to both of you. “You’re a smart girl, you understand that there are consequences to something like this.”
“What is this, then? Your midlife crisis? Am I the treatment for whatever’s fucking wrong with you?” It’s cruel, cold, ripped from the ugliest depths of your heart. “Whatever. Suffer, then.”
He doesn’t call after you. His colleagues give you odd looks as you hurry out of the building and gods, the cold hits you in just the right way. One solid punch to the gut, forcing all the breath out of you. You hold the tears back. You walk all the way home without falling to pieces on the street. The emptiness is there to keep you company, your loyal little ghost. You’re glad to feel it. That fierce ache in your bones. You’d started to miss it.
You apologize. Because of course you do. You spend all of two days angry at him, and then you’re scrambling to clean up your mess before the withdrawal hits you like a train.
i’m sorry. can we talk? i was so wrong.
No, you were right.
Can I see you?
He doesn’t say what you were right about. He only whispers I’m sorry while he sucks at your neck, I’m sorry while he mouths against your breasts, I’m sorry when he turns you over and strokes the back of your head while he fucks into you. Please… please stay, when you’re sobbing through the overstimulation. Stay with me, when he starts to falter, chest stuttering against your back, his nose wet when he kisses against your shoulder. Please… fuck. Sweet girl. Can I come inside you?
You cling to him when he makes tea after. The kitchen tiles bite with cold against your toes. He presses his lips to your hair while the water boils and sways from side to side. Always oscillating. Always in-between.
There’s a new mug set out for you, a plain white one with his son’s university crest on it. “What happened to your teacups?”
“I dropped them,” he admits, pausing for a moment before he continues. “I’ve always been too rough with my hands. My brother used to call me Baelor-breaks-things when we were little.”
He’s never talked about his brother before. It’s the tiniest opening, a door inside him barely left ajar.
“I don’t want to break this,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to break you.”
“You won’t.”
You don’t know that for sure. Or maybe you’re the one who will do all the breaking just to spare him the pain. For now, you let the rise and fall of his chest measure the passing seconds. Fractured messiness pressed together. Almost whole. With your eyes closed amidst the sound of rain on the eaves, you can almost imagine that everything you’ve ever longed for is right here.
End notes: Come talk abt the old man & poetry with me. Thanks for thirsting :)
maekar leaving Ashford: one duckling, two duckling, th— hold on. I lost count. let me start again. one duckling, two duckling—where is… FUCK THIS SHIT CANNOT BE HAPPENING AGAIN.
Warning: Flirting, age gap, drunk sex, virginity lost, suicidal intention, no use of y/n
Summary: Your stepfather passed away, and the step-siblings agreed to share the inheritance only if you agreed to get married off. The family fell into poverty, and your mother desperately sought a good match for you. She managed to secure an invitation to a feast where nobles and wealthy men would be present, urging her useless daughter to quickly find a man and become engaged. Little did she expect that the daughter she deemed so disappointing would capture the attention of the heir to the Iron Throne.
Word count: 6.5k
Every morning when I wake,
Dear Lord, a little prayer I make,
O please do keep Thy lovely eye
On all poor creatures born to die
…
We are not wholly bad or good
Who live our lives under Milk Wood,
And Thou, I know, wilt be the first
To see our best side, not our worst.
(Under The Milk Wood - Dylan Thomas)
CHAPTER 1. One Night, One Life
Whenever people are compelled to obey a common custom without complaint, yet can offer no reason for it other than the fear of seeming strange, they call it an order of nature.
Marriage and reproduction could be considered as some of the oldest orders of nature, though no one is able to tell for sure if gods truly told them so or they just made it up in their narrow mind.
Some saw marriage and offspring as the fruit of love. Some might argue that marriage is just a financial and social alliance which costs them less money and brings them more benefits.
You had doubted yourself a thousand times, had wrestled fiercely with the choice between a life of your own and the weight of your parents' hopes. Yet still, those rules they called 'natural' felt anything but. And you suffered, agonized by the realization of your solitude, and by how achingly small you were in the face of it all.
At some uncertain points of your teenage years, you realized what you had in yourself and what you wanted for yourself weren’t the same. And based on what you had with you since birth, people usually expected you to become someone that might be totally different from your wish.
In the cold and dim house, silent men and women were invading corners that had once been private and warm. They walked from the front door into the living room, drank wine in the hallways, or chatted in the garden corners. Men wore a melancholy mask on their face. Women covered their mouths or dabbed handkerchiefs at the corners of their eyes, as if tears were actually seeping from their dry eyes.
In the room illuminated by the dancing flames of the fireplace and candles that had nearly burned down, a wooden coffin lay silent at the center. The man inside was in only skin and bone, his eyes closed and hands folded, he would never wake again.
Around the coffin, the stones on the walls seemed to have grown strangely grey and somber. Each time you looked up at them, a question you could not answer surfaced in your mind. To distract yourself from the torment, you turned your gaze to the guests gathered in small groups throughout the room. They huddled close together, trying to lower their voices as much as possible. But judging and probing glances could not hide their true intentions. You felt as though you were surrounded by a vast, dark ocean. No matter which direction you turned, you couldn’t see the situation differently. Even breathing had become so hard. The black dress you wore only sank you deeper. A sense of alienation and bewilderment burdened you. The fire in the hearth warmed your skin, but it couldn’t drive away the chill in your heart. You held your little sister tightly, like two lost lambs with no one to rely on but each other.
They say that a young lady of blooming age would have no trouble finding a suitable match if your family is decent enough. You could be motherless that mattered not, for a man is pillars and roof of the house. Whatever a mother could not teach her daughter, a handmaid could. You’d still be wife material. But when your father passed away, your value would plummet like a stone rolling down a mountain. After all, what could a wife and daughters do without the man who had always carried the family? Without property, they could only survive on sympathy, clinging to the fragile remnants of honor like an anchor keeping them from sinking into society. For this reason, widows and daughters were the most vulnerable to oppression. Unprotected, unrespected, unfeared - they were like donkeys sold at a lower price yet expected to work harder.
"It's all your fault! If you hadn't been so stupid, everything would be fine now. Your sister and I could keep our heads high and live with dignity. Why wouldn't you just shut up and marry into the Jewerry? They made their intentions perfectly clear, they wanted you as a bride for their second son. What more do you have to be dissatisfied about?"
After your step-father's funeral, the concerning letters from his two children by his previous marriage had become a real threat to your life. Their family had never truly got along. The two oldest children were both grown, fulfilled and married. They lived in manor houses not far away. The eldest son was a wealthy merchant, and his twin sister had married a nobleman. They had set a condition: they would only send money to support their stepmother and little sister when her eldest daughter - who shared no blood with them - married properly. As long as you refused to wed, your family would have to live in poverty and fear.
"How come you only care about reputation, about money, Mother! What about me… about my happiness? Have you ever considered that I would live in hell with a husband who frequents brothels and squanders wealth?" you looked at your mother through tear-filled eyes, your voice choked with emotion.
Instead of listening, your mother completely dismissed your anguish and distress. She stomped angrily across the floor and shouted at you. Blaming her daughter didn't make her feel any better, but she did it anyway. She needed a reason to explain her current circumstances. She was a woman of schemes and calculations. She would never admit that she could be wrong, but her plan could not fail without cause, so she had to find someone else to blame. Or at the very least, she needed to know how to deal with her youngest daughter if she followed in her sister's rebellious footsteps.
"Stop your useless whimpering! Even if that were the case, so what? What woman doesn't suffer? Endurance is all you must do. At least you'd live a lavish life, better than marrying some peasant. But now? Because of your ignorance, your stepbrother has every excuse to withhold our share of the inheritance. He uses your shameless lifestyle as a reason to starve us. And what about your sister? How will she ever find a husband?"
Your mother was exhausted from anger and from pacing the room endlessly. She collapsed into a chair and took a large gulp of wine. The liquid seared her throat but also clouded her mind, helping her avoid facing harsh reality.
"I would rather work to feed myself than live as a parasite clinging to my husband's family. Mother, do you understand the misery behind those stone walls? I thought at least you would know and wish for something better for me!"
You didn't want to argue with your mother. Endlessly quarreling with someone you loved and respected so deeply was a terrible torture. No one could force themselves to believe something just because it was supposedly beneficial. Was there truly no other choice for women in this world besides marriage or dying in disgrace?
Your words enraged your mother. She rose from her chair and slowly approached like a lioness on a hunt. She pointed directly at her daughter's face and snarled.
"I don't wish for what's best for you? You ungrateful wretch! I have done everything for you! Because of you, I left my homeland and wandered. I gave you the best of everything. I agreed to marry a man old enough to be my father, with a brood of treacherous children, all to give you a home! And now look at how you repay me. From now on, stay in your room and reflect on your behavior. You'll eat one meal a day, at noon. If I catch you sneaking out, don't expect even a single piece of bread."
You stumbled toward your room. Each step was as heavy as if weighed down by sacks of sand. Your chest tightened. Every breath was agonizing. You took off your mourning clothes, thinking it might somehow free you from the burden you carried. Wearing only your shift, you walked to the window in your room. You leaned half your body out, inhaling the cold air. Sobs were swallowed back down, and tears silently fell upon your cold cheeks.
You gazed down at the dark garden below your window. It seemed as if a hand was reaching out from darkness, inviting youto dance. youheart pounded wildly; your fingers clutched the window frame. The night wind swept through your hair, wrapping your body in a chilling embrace. Trembling, you placed your foot on the windowsill.
You wished you could fly, even into the endless night. Even if your wings grew weary and you never saw land again, at least you could touch the sky, if only once.
The moonlight that night was bright and infinitely clear. But its pure, lofty light did not reach you. It slipped past your body, and only the darkness stayed.
That was six months ago. And now, you wished you had jumped from the window that very night. With just the right tilt and a little more determination, you wouldn’t have to endure this hell.
More than anyone, you knew time couldn’t be reversed and you blamed yourself for it. It was just one night of reckless fun. You had been so naive to believe that when dawn broke, everything would return to normal as if that wild, passionate night with a man you should never have approached had never happened.
To refuse a marriage arranged by your mother, you had purposely fallen from a horse and sprained your ankle. That allowed you to stay in your room to recover for a long time, and you took full advantage of it to avoid your suitors. Instead, they decided to torment you with foolish, clumsy, and even somewhat crude love letters. You could only kill time by pointing out their grammatical errors and making caustic criticism on what they considered poetic imagery.
At first, you was still able to laugh at those ridiculous verses. But by the time you received the tenth letter with yet another nonsensical poem inside, you no longer had any patience left and became utterly irritable and harsh. You wished you could smash your right hand just to be excused from writing replies. But your mother watched you closely and forced you to respond with at least one page of writing. And you truly thought you were going mad.
A few lines from the poems you hated most went something like this:
Your eyes are as cold and troubled as the Shivering Sea
Urging me to dive deep inside
Your smile flashes like a thunderbolt
Yet you still don't know how it makes me feel.
”Oh Seven Above, what the hell is even this? Where did he find the confidence to send this crap to any woman?”
Another time, he wrote that your eyes were so beautiful that he thought they were borrowed from a portrait of some beauty he had seen in Lord Hayford's treasury. You truly didn’t understand why he had to be so elaborate when he could have simply said your eyes were beautiful and been done with it.
Men and the way they view women are absurd. Now, if there were a man who didn't send youhis self-composed love poems, you would accept his marriage proposal immediately, just to be free of this torture.
So when your mother invited a seamstress to the house and prepared new dresses for you to attend a feast, you agreed without giving it much thought. You knew your mother had also grown fed up with that incompetent man just like you. The last of their family's savings were poured into new jewelry and gowns, so you understood that your mother had decided to stake everything on this gamble. You didn’t dare to utter a single word in response, for you knew your mother had already chosen her prey and would stop at nothing to make him marry you. At this point, you began to feel sorry for the man your mother had set her eyes on.
The night of the feast had come. They hired a carriage to take them to the manor where knights, nobles, and their children were gathering. Along the way, your mother instructed you everything you needed to catch a fish tonight.
"I sacrificed what little dignity I had left to secure us an invitation. So don't you dare disappoint me. We have nothing left to lose. You have to make the most of this opportunity and leave a good impression, understand?"
"Yes, mother. I understand.” You replied wearily, just to get it over with.
Your mother shot you glare. "Hmph. If only you had behaved like this, things would have been so much easier."
Their home was not far from the feast. When the carriage stopped in the manor courtyard, you almost tripped and embarrassed yourself from the extravagant sight in front of you right now. Massive, magnificent carriages lined up in long rows. A servant approached, urging the three of them to alight quickly so the carriages behind could proceed. You knew you must have looked foolish, standing there gaping at the towering walls that seemed to pierce through the night sky and the thousands of blazing torches illuminating the entire manor. The air was laced with the scent of wine and flowers. The stream of guests was gradually making their way into the hall, each draped in silks and gold, furs and jewels. The unfamiliar faces smiling at one another made you deeply uneasy. Everything was too brilliant, too far beyond your reach.
Ever since your mother got married and you were allowed to live in a spacious house with your own room and servants at your side, you had felt perfectly content. The house fitted you perfectly. It was where you believed you truly belonged. But in this hall where meats and fruits were continuously brought out on large silver platters, where music played all night long, where wine and laughter never ceased; you suddenly felt lost and deeply unsettled.
“Mother, are you sure we’re not in the wrong place?” You asked your mother nervously.
She ignored your question to greet the man who threw this feast. Since the hall was too noisy, you could vaguely hear his name and wasn’t so confident about it.
The man was in his mid-forties, short and pot-bellied. He had curly reddish hair and was nearly balding. His eyes were very large, but the drooping corners made him look as if he had drunk too much and could barely stay sober. He had a low, broad nose, while his lips were thin and red as wine. On his sagging cheeks were speckles of crow's feet. When he smiled, he revealed teeth that were not very even. He wore a black cloak adorned with patterns embroidered in gold thread. On his pudgy fingers were gleaming rings. Beside the man stood his wife and little daughter. you did not see any son standing with them, so you assumed this family was not your her target.
Throughout the feast, your mother introduced you to several other noble families, but none left any particular impression on you. In those social exchanges, your mother was the only one who seemed enthusiastic, chatting animatedly with anyone who would listen. Meanwhile, you simply stood obediently to one side, smiling and drinking wine. When the feast was about halfway through, you found yourself far more drunk than you had intended. You asked for her permission to sit and rest in a quiet corner, and she did not object. You cast your weary eyes upward, gazing at the magnificent chandeliers on the ceiling, unaware that your step-siblings were also present at the feast. They came to greet and converse with your mother for a while, and the chatty woman suddenly no longer appeared as cheerful as before. She stomped over, pulled you up, and whispered urgently into your ear.
"Stop wasting our time! Go show them what I taught you!"
She pushed you into a crowd of strangers. Everyone turned to look at you with strange eyes. Once again, you had to endure that suffocating feeling like you did at your stepfather's funeral. Dazed, you stumbled forward, though you had no idea where you were going or what you were supposed to do. Before you appeared a vast, dark ocean. Moving forward or backward would lead you to the same fate. Unconsciously, you dropped your glass of wine, staining your expensive dress. In your dizziness, you felt someone approaching. When you lifted your confused eyes, the very person you least wanted to meet was standing there, grinning with the most despicable smile. It was that prodigal son of the Jewerrys, the one you had almost buried your life in the marriage with him. He was a dissolute, ill-mannered rake. He was tall but very thin, probably from excessive debauchery. His face bore mischievous, mocking features, nothing like a man ready to carry a family.
"I heard your mother has been running all over the city trying to marry you off after your refusal to my family. Oh, stupid little bird. Who do you think you are, acting so high and mighty?"
"Let go of me! Or I'll tell everyone how filthy and shameless you are!"
You threatened him. But contrary to your tension, Jewerry only sneered. He touched your shoulder with his grimy fingers and said.
"Relax, darling! Behave, and I'll go easy on you. Or the whole city will know how much of a slut you are. How do you think your mother would react to that? I hear she’s quite frustrated with you already."
Every word escaped his foul mouth filled with disgust. You pushed him away with all your strength, but the more you struggled, the tighter he held on.
"You pig! Let me go!" You cried out in despair.
Just then, a man appeared behind Jewerry and yanked him away from you. Jewerry was lifted like a dog by the scruff of his neck and thrown aside, feeling both furious and bewildered. He looked up, about to shout, but when he saw the tall, broad-shouldered man who was clearly far stronger than him standing protectively beside you, his limbs went weak with fear.
"This lady asked you to keep your distance. Be a gentleman and leave her alone. Understood?" The man spoke, his voice gentle and calm yet somehow full of authority.
Jewerry stammered something, then scrambled to his feet and fled. you stood there dumbfounded, looking at the man next to you. He was even taller and more imposing up close. He was quite older than you, perhaps close to your mother's age. He had short, silver-flecked hair and beard. His eyes were incredibly gentle yet utterly captivating with one brown and the other blue. As he spoke, you noticed he had a canine tooth you secretly thought was rather endearing. The thought startled you back to your senses, and you quickly greeted him.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I-I'm fine. Thank you for your help."
The man nodded and said, "You don't look well. Shall I send someone to seek your family for you?"
You shook your head. "No, thank you, my lord. Please excuse me, I just need a moment outside to catch my breath."
"Of course."
You thanked him again and quickly left the feast. Somehow, you followed the scent of flowers and the breeze to find the garden. The clamor of the feast grew increasingly distant. Around you, only the crackle of torches and the hurried steps on stone remained. You greedily inhaled the cold air, as if you had been suffocating for too long. When your feet touched the lush green grass, you nearly collapsed, had it not been for a steady arm catching you.
The man had followed you until you stopped, reaching out to catch you the moment he saw you stagger.
He said, "And yet you told me you were fine. Poor birdie… What did that wretch do to you?"
"My lord, may I sit down?"
"You wish to sit here, right on the grass?"
"Yes, if you'll allow it," You whispered in reply.
The man helped you sit, then settled down beside you. Beneath the moonlight, with flower petals dancing in the wind, you lay back on the grass. The cool, fragrant air brought you peace and made your breathing easier. You closed your eyes, slowly savoring this rare, tranquil moment. The man remained beside you, watching your exhausting, tense face gradually grow serene.
"You know," You suddenly whispered, "sometimes I just wish I were a wind and disappear without any trace. I would fly through fragrant pine trees, dance with clouds, and kiss tiny flower buds. Everything would be so easy, so free. That would truly be living, not this constant torment."
"Would you allow me to ask why?"
"Because wind doesn't need to attend a feast full of strangers, exhaust herself listening to tedious stories, or be put on display like an object."
Somehow, your lament struck the nobleman as unusually amusing. He let out a soft laugh and said.
"That, I understand. I've lost count of how many times I've felt exactly what you're feeling now. But I know how terrible it is. In fact, I'm always looking for an excuse to escape that chaos myself."
You sat up and pointed at the garden around you. "This garden, too. So ostentatious and cluttered. If only those wealthy people understood that throwing money around doesn't prove one's nobility. I look at this garden and see nothing but vulgarity and garishness. Don't you agree?"
The man laughed and nodded in agreement. "You're right."
"What is your name? Please, tell me." You leaned closer, looking at him with sparkling, expectant eyes. Your voice was soft, half shy, half curious.
The man reluctantly shook his head. "I cannot tell you my name just yet.
Disappointment showed on your face as he refused to tell you his name. You wonder what prevented this man to introduce himself to you. Was it because you were not a high-born as he was? Something about him told you otherwise. He seemed like an honest and honourable man. So you told him your name anyway. It was rare and pleasurable to meet a man like him.
Perhaps feeling a little guilty for not letting you know who he was, the man said. “But I have a nickname. People call me Breakspear."
"Why do they call you that? It doesn't sound lovely at all!" You tilted your head in puzzlement.
"Lovely? You think they should call me something more endearing?"
"Yes!" you exclaimed enthusiastically, lifting your arms as if to express your impression of the man before you though somehow, you looked like a child reaching out for a hug.
"Breakspear sounds so frightening. And you're not frightening at all."
"Really?" The man raised an eyebrow.
"Yes," you nodded. "You're very gentle, very trustworthy… And you don't take up too much space, either."
For the first time ever, Baelor “Breakspear” Targaryen - Prince of Dragonstone, hand of the King and heir to the iron throne - found himself amazed and even dumbfounded by a little bird. You seemed lost and scared at first, but now, when you finally relaxed around him, you started to talk a little too much for your own good.
“I’m not talking about physical space, you know. You’re a tall, broad man but not like a giant. Somehow, I feel like you’re a man of authority, or a warrior. And you’re not loud. You speak gently, like everything is fine and there’s nothing to worry about. You are here and constantly make me feel safe and sound. Some men try to prove their power by speaking loudly and slamming the table. I don’t think those men are as great as they think they are. If one is truly powerful, one doesn’t need to remind people with such unnecessary behavior. One’s physical body is here, but when they speak up, their voice travels farther and reaches more people. That’s why I say you don’t take up a lot of space.”
“You have very intriguing ideas in your head, you know that?” Baelor praised.
“I think creativity is born out of pressure and boredom. It’s a gateway to escaping a harsh reality.”
For a moment, Baelor didn’t have any idea of what to say next. He was a mature and experienced man. But when it came to advising a young lady, his mind went blank.
Obviously, you didn’t expect him to empathize with a woman’s struggle. So you stood up by yourself and cheerfully asked.
“Will you help me get out of here?”
Baelor nodded without a second thought. Of course he would help you and ask for no payment. He just found you interesting and wanted to mess with you a little bit. Escorting a lady out of a feast would do him no harm, right?
“In exchange for what, my lady?”
“Well, I know a tavern with better ambience. How about I show you?”
Baelor should know better that an unmarried lady walking in a tavern like a patron was not a normal thing. Perhaps he drank more than he thought.
Both of you were drunk enough and drawn to each other enough to remain entwined throughout the night. The two of you wandered together through quiet, misty streets of the capital, talking and laughing like kindred spirits. You felt as if you had known each other for a thousand years and longed to stay in each other's company even longer.
The tavern you led Baelor to was the very place where your mother had once worked as a barmaid before marrying a wealthy man. People there welcomed you like a regular since they had watched you grow up. Here, you could be yourself, and be happy without worrying about tomorrow. The tavern was small but vibrantly lively and warm. In the glow of the red fire, laborers enjoyed hot food and drink after a long, exhausting day. They chatted and laughed casually. They were poor, humble, and rough people. But deep in their souls lay kindness, and they wished for nothing more than a peaceful life. All they needed was no war, no tyranny just to work to feed themselves and their families. That was enough.
They might fight and spit in each other's faces. That was because if they didn't brace themselves against life, life would trample them into mud. Occasionally, these people also liked to cause trouble or harass someone on the street. But that was because no one had ever taught them to be polite. Sometimes, they themselves saw no point in behaving like lords or ladies, for they would never live in luxury like those people. They would go home and shout at their wives and children. Yet these same men would continue to bear the burden of feeding their families. Their wives, in turn, would vent their frustrations with their husbands onto their children or other women. “If I suffer, then you must suffer too.” Hardship was a medal they pinned to their chests with pride because they found no way to escape that suffering. They believed that endurance was all they could do to get through. And only once they had overcome so much pain did they dare hold their heads high enough to welcome something better.
But tonight, melodious music made them want to dance. And dance they did, as if they had no pain or exhaustion of making a living. They danced through all their quarrels and disagreements. They danced and laughed until they could no more, finally collapsing onto the floor in exhaustion.
Baelor and you held hands, leaned against each other as you two danced, listening to the rhythm of your hearts. You two sat beside weathered men and women, hearing them cry about life and share their hopes for tomorrow. You drank again, intoxicated in each other's company. You let yourself drift, allowing yourself one night to cast off all rules and shackles, just to be yourself.
After all the drinking and dancing, you led Baelor to your home. By this hour, the servants were all fast asleep. You and him slipped in through the garden and crept into your room without anyone noticing. Your laughter warmed the chamber. And you two held each other tightly, craving each other's touch and warmth more than ever.
His wet tongue pushed into your mouth, entwining with the sweet taste. But his tender kiss gradually became more passionate, relentlessly penetrating deeper and more forcefully sucking on your tongue. You craved more and more.
Your clumsy hands unbuckled Baelor's belt and pushed him down onto your bed. He drew you into his arms, devouring your lips as his hands slid beneath your dress. Baelor’s hand wandered higher, his fingers trailing over your bare hip and around to the small of your back. He slowly slipped his hand between your thighs, gently touching your cunt. A strange, burning sensation coursed through your body. Your back arched, your hip unconsciously pressed against his fingers to feel more of him inside your cunt.
"You’re untouched," He realized aloud, not quite a question and something darkly pleased flickers across his face.
Baelor showered your face with kisses, then buried his head in your fragrant hair. His hot tongue nibbled your earlobes and neck, while his hands swiftly removed your elaborate dress. Kisses scattered from your neck down to your breast. His unfamiliar, masculine scent filled your mind. His hot breath on your nape sent shivers down your spine. Below, his long, slender fingers stimulated your softest spot. His touch is rough at first, calloused fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh, but he quickly learns what makes you arch and whimper. You trembled slightly, trying to adapt to the burning pleasure rising through your body. The heat between you two increased with each passing moment. Whispers and breaths mingled, filling the quiet space of the room.
"Such a good little birdie," he crooned, bringing his face closer to yours, his lips just barely brushing your ear.
Desire surged like powerful waves, rising from your lower body. Your eyes were tightly closed, soft moans escaping from your beautiful lips. Your fingernails dug into his shoulder and your legs trembled violently. Just as pleasure was about to reach its peak and your insides were frantically contracting, swallowing his fingers deeper, Baelor suddenly pulled out. The emptiness below made you sigh in discomfort.
You moaned. “Why did you stop?”
“Baelor, birdie… Call me Baelor,” He lifted his head up to look at you and said. “Let me hear you say it, birdie.”
“Yes, Baelor… my Baelor!” You said through your giggles.
“You’re such a good girl to me, aren’t you, birdie?”
Baelor kissed and sucked along your alluring bare breasts, leaving bright red hickey marks on your smooth skin. He laid you down on the bed, then undressed himself.
Thinking about the lewd things that a respectable man like Baelor was doing to you, you felt like crying from shame. But the embarrassment didn't last long as his lips relentlessly kissed and sucked on your cunt. His tongue slipped into your wide-open, inviting hole, igniting the most primal and wild desires in your body.
Baelor rubbed the tip of his cock against your clit, then asked, "Will you allow me?"
You looked up at him with eyes full of adoration and nodded in agreement. He crushes his mouth back to yours, kissing you with brutal hunger as one hand fists in your hair while the other yanks down his trousers just enough to free himself - a thick, heavy length that throbs against your heat. Your hips rose, a mixture of nervousness and anticipation.
With a single rough thrust, he buried himself inside you, claiming what’s been offered so sweetly. His cock gently widened your entrance, penetrating the most sacred part you had always guarded. A tearing pain overwhelmed you. You breathed heavily, tears silently streaming down your beautiful face. Cold sweat poured down your small forehead. You clenched your hands, trying to endure the uncomfortable fullness as you took him without uttering a single cry.
Baelor brushed your hair behind your ears and stroked your head, gently comforting you. "It's going to be okay, birdie!”
Baelor placed your hand on his back and said, "Let me feel all the pain with you... Don't suffer alone!" Tears rolled down your face, but not from pain or fear. Your hurt suddenly felt incredibly warm. Your small hand slowly reached out and placed itself on Baelor’s large, strong shoulder.
"Good girl!”
Baelor smiled and kissed your head. His skin felt a burning sensation under your butterfly-like touch. He kissed you deeply and continued to caress you. You could feel his body trembling above you. Baelor moved slowly in and out, drops of sweat from his neck dripping down your chest, his forehead furrowed in patient endurance.
"You're so tight..."
The wet sounds of your bodies intertwining filled your ears. Your mind drifted into a dreamy haze. Instead of the intense fullness from before, a numb sensation began to spread below. As you unconsciously arched your hips to receive Baelor’s thrust, he sighed softly and stroked your waist.
"Look at you," he murmured to your mouth, watching your face twist with pleasure beneath him. "So eager for my touch…"
But you couldn't restrain yourself any longer. Your hips writhed, eagerly pushing his hard erection deeper inside. Both your mind and body were filled with desire and longing. You wanted Baelor to do the most intimate things to you, no matter how depraved or shameful it might be. Your body was demanding more of the strange pleasure he brought you.
"Baelor... please, give me more. I want you so!"
Baelor growled. Your soft moans traveled straight to his cock, making it so difficult to restrain the beast that was frantically devouring you.
"Baelor... Faster!"
You pleaded, your hands gripping his waist tightly. You gasped for breath, struggling to inhale the thick, rich air infused with the scent of lovemaking. A deep, guttural sound teared from Baelor’s throat at your moans, raw and unfiltered. His control snapped.
Baelor groaned into your mouth at the feeling of you wrapping around him, your legs locking tight, your hands fisting in his hair like he’s yours to hold.
Baelor leaned forward, his chest brushing against yours as he towers over you, one hand braced beside your head to keep him steady. The weight of him was like a heavy blanket, enveloping you in his presence. He looked down at you, the dim room lit by moonlight from the window, his eyes gleaming.
With a sharp shift of his hips, he grinded down hard against you. You bit down your lips to lower your voice, yet it was impossible to conceal the whimpers.
“Don’t hurt yourself, birdie. Let me hear you sing!” Baelor pressed another kiss on your lips and drank your sound greedily before breaking away just enough to watch your face as pleasure rippled through you again and again from friction alone.
Baelor growled, his hips driving forward with a relentless rhythm, each thrust deep and stretching you around him. He gazed at the flush creeping up your neck, the rapid rise and fall of your chest beneath him, intrigued by your beauty. He palmed your breast fully, rolling your nipple between thumb and forefinger with growing pressure, watching every twitch of pleasure on your face.
"Good girl," he snarled against your ear between ragged breaths. "Taking me so well… clenching like you were made for this."
He pounded into you harder, chasing that primal need.
"Such a pretty little birdie," he muttered darkly. "Sensitive… responsive."
Your mind went blank, and your vision blurred. The sounds of your bodies colliding filled the space with lustful sounds. You could even feel his balls slapping against your ass, incredibly stimulating. You felt soft and melting with each thrust of Baelor’s hips. The bed shook with each of his movements. The man craved you, desired everything about you. His lust filled you, extreme pleasure coursed from your lower abdomen to the top of your head. You let out a moan, your body convulsing. Your eyes closed tightly, slowly savoring every bit of the swirling pleasure from deep within you.
”Baelor… give it to me, please!”
Baelor’s eyes blazed at the sound of your plea, your voice trembling with need, body clenching around him like a vice. He knew you were close. He wanted to watch it happen.
"Yes, birdie…" he growled, thrusting even harder, deeper as his hand slid down. His thumb found your swollen clit and rubbed in rough circles: not gently, just pressure where it ached most. "Come for me," He commanded against your lips before biting down your neck, marking what’s his.
Baelor felt your climax hit you like a storm. Your body tensed as wave after wave crashed through you. Your moan echoed softly in the steamy air. But he didn’t let up until every last tremor had passed through you, until your thighs were slack and shaking around him.
Your walls convulsed around him as you screamed. Your body shattered in his arms, and that was all he wanted.
With a feral groan, Baelor buried himself to the hilt, pulsing deep inside you as his own release teared through him. Hot and thick, he filled you completely, claiming every inch like a conqueror marking conquered land.
He rode out the waves of pleasure with slow, grinding thrusts until there was nothing left but heavy breaths and tangled limbs beneath moonlight.
Only then did he collapse slightly over you, not gently but possessively, his face buried against your neck where sweat glistened on your skin.
“My pretty little birdie... It’s been so long since the last time I felt like this.”
Baelor scattered sweet kisses upon your face, your shoulders, and your hands. He let your fragrance fill his chest. He drew you into his arms, tenderly holding you against him after your passionate sex.
If it had happened only once, you could have claimed it was a mistake. But throughout that night, the two of you clung to each other without parting, bringing each other from one climax to the next until both bodies were utterly spent and you finally drifted into sleep together.
The next morning, your drained body and mind lazily savored the warmth and steady heartbeat of Baelor as you rested your head on his chest. Pure morning sunlight draped over your naked bodies like a thin veil. Suddenly, urgent knocking came from outside your door. You startled, lifting your head. It was only then that you realized with horror the situation you were in. Your clothes were scattered haphazardly on the floor. Your body was marked everywhere with traces of Baelor. And the way your bodies were still intertwined at this moment was undeniable proof of your madness the night before.
"My daughter, are you awake yet? There are some people who wish to speak with you!"
Your mother's voice came from outside the door. The gentleness in her tone seemed to conceal a terrible, simmering rage. The pounding of your heart merged with the frantic knocking. You trembled, stammering, unsure how to respond.
Baelor seemed to have been woken by the knocking as well. He sat up, squinting against the bright light. He rubbed his face to shake off his drowsiness, then drew you close, kissing your shoulder and your hair.
Suddenly, a second voice came from outside the door - not meant for you, but for Baelor.
I’m silly. The previous comic I posted here (🔞Trapped, hehe) was really long, and I couldn’t divide it into more than 50 pieces. But I can easily do it with this one. Therefore, I'm reposting it here too, so you can read it without going on AO3 💜
Inspired by "An Equal Partnership" By @justme--emily
What if she's exploring an old vault and hears his voice call out to her and turns around all excited thinking the Ghoul's returned for her and it's just a busted TV set playing a Cooper Howard movie and Lucy realizes two things in that moment?
origamiaround
gracieabrams
prguitarman
dailybridgerton
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
titsay
