⌞synopsis⌝ - a plate full of responsibilities could sometimes leave even a man like baelor to oversee ones less demanding than the others— but it shall be tended to before time turns in disfavor of the latter.
⌞tags⌝ - 18+!, baelor targaryen x daughter! reader , targaryen incest! , age gap relationship! , father! x daughter! , smut! , taboo subject!
⌞wordcount⌝ - 3.3k
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king’s landing had been your home for as long as you could remember. the city where your childhood had formed into memories and adolescence greets you fairly well, was solemn for a particular amount of time caused by a rather unspoken reason— your mother’s passing. ten and four when you were stripped away of a parent, your elder brothers sharing the sentiment of your loss, valarr and matarys. yet not once had you catch sight of your father baelor show an ounce of anything but the proper regal prince he was. it’s rather fascinating, how a man with so much demands that awaited him from his title and birthright, carry himself with the same grace and honor he was born into despite the loss of his wife.
the gardens were always your safe keeping at moments of kept solitude, the bitter reminders of womanhood eliciting you of how truly deprived you were of a caring touch. staring out onto the great sea by the swaying flowers from the breeze and glimmering waters, all while your fingers fidget with the rings around them— a habit you had developed since you do not recall when.
matarys was good, he held you steady when he sees you barely holding it together in pressuring predicaments, unable to do much more than hold your hand with a quiet look of empathy for his younger sister. it was enough for you, to hold onto his kindness while facing through the burdens of being the heir’s sole daughter. valarr on the other hand, was less present in truth— occupied with sharpening his swordmanship and expanding his knowledge of both history and politics for preparation in being the throne’s first in line once your father baelor ascends it. but he’s gentle, heart a mellow space for you to cry on when shoulders weighed more than you’d wish them to. his split colored eyes carried a sort of discernment that mirror your father’s both physically and metaphorically. he’d inherited it, you remarked, valarr and his true calm demeanor.
you had more than what most girls in the realm could ever form in ambitions: fine jewelry, numerous flattering gowns fabricated in luxury, a regal title and a castle over your head. what else could a young twenty and one lady permit a wish for more? is that not a sort of greed in branches of thorns? to desire more over what one already possess— is blasphemy almost, you believed it so. fear ringing the bones of your ribcage, you had began to dress in even more decent clothing, refusing your maidens suggestion of less fabric due to the hot summer days in the keep to help you cool— shaking your head away as she laces your almost blanket like gown before your neck bared the symbol of the faith of the seven.
it’s unnoticeable alterations at first, the gowns, your sudden interest in faith, demeanor much hushed from all the crying now, less dependent on your brothers— who had taken notice each shift of your demeanor. knees sore from spending most of the day in the surreal serenity of the sept, kneeled before the candles you had spent hours lighting along side the septas. lips chapped at the amount of whispering you had shared in prayer over crossed pleading hands and curled knees in utter devotion— wishing, begging for the gods to hear your prayers.
the subject of said latter? you are not certain. mayhaps you were, but despair often times drive your vicissitude to fruition— swallowing the truth that burned in place of enunciating them even to your own. but the verity of your aching soul? is the covet you’ve mistakenly woven into your flesh in regards to seeking comfort by the sole man you have not once received from. your father baelor.
baelor was a good man, a great son and an even greater husband to your mother— yet, these description fall spurious in the looking glass of actual fatherhood. perhaps to valarr and matarys he was, it painted an unpleasant feeling of alienation and an even anchoring state of hebetude within the already aching bones of your ribs that you had began to regard your own father out of jaundice. praying and praying and praying and begging to the gods for at least a response as to what could possibly be lacking of your end that he deemed unneeded of his affections. a harrowing cycle you’d predicament yourself into.
then the modifications were no longer subtle, reaching the end of the sharp blade they had created whispers among the walls of the keep that sooner reached your grandsire’s ears— immediately calling upon baelor to halt these implications of your becoming wish of a septa.
he stood by the window of his study in the hand’s tower, fingers turning his rings in circles before the sound of the chamber doors open to the pace of footsteps he has memorized in mind. the heavy closing of the four walls had enfold both you and your father who continued to watch the city from above. the bile in your throat had brewed awake at the mere sight of him, let alone surrounded in an unusual tranquility together. you mirrored him unconsciously, fingers fidgeting with your own rings while gazing down to the floor with your taciturnity. he turns at that, two-toned colored eyes regarding you and your befitting gown and headdress that resembled a septa more than a princess— more than his daughter.
baelor leans against the study table of his filled with political parchments, scrolls of alliances and heavy history books— fingers tapping against the dark wood that matches one color of his eyes that continued to take you in.
‘’do you wish for me to announce the reason i have summoned you? or to that will you be as furtive as well?’’ his low voice questions your fidgeting form before him.
‘’.i.. apologize for the bother i had caused, your grace.’’
your response has him intake a sharp air straight to the pounding lungs of his, standing up straight before stepping just until the front of you. his hand does not raise your tilted head, no— it does not. instead, it takes into hold the pendant of your necklace, the symbol of the seven which had caused him to whisper:
‘’when has your faith grown so strong that you forget your station, my child?’’ his thumb stroking the metal against his finger, the barely restrained scowl on your features had spoken more of your truest to him before your lips could utter:
‘’..i do not recall, your grace.’’
‘’father.’’ he corrects you hastily, lifting your head now to meet his carving gaze— the same ones you’ve been too captivated in your own deceptions while wearing the green willow to heed at how it had never strayed from your being in every room you bore with him.
‘’when had i lost you completely, my dear girl?’’ his question earnest, but the abnegation of his neglect was much too strong for you to falter at the softness his tone carried. features slowly etching to your buried anguish before you could ease them back to insouciance.
‘’..i do not have it in me to discuss such plain matters, father. i wish to leave.’’ you utter in true discomfort— not from his knowing looks but by the grace of your own distasteful conclusions about the man you had began to despise.
to that, baelor simply humms, brushing your fallen strand of hair back into your headdress before pressing a tender kiss to your temple— allowing you leave after, which you had hastily taken wordlessly. hands gripping your gown while your chest pants in a sort of swell that threatens the newly self-proclaimed essence of your being to collapse.
if baelor considered your spacious acts a kind of limiting rope between what little relationship exist between the both of you, he had not taken it upon himself to grasp that it was the shallow you’ve demonstrated— head deep beneath the direness of your own ensuring. you were even more distant now than he had wished, in such way that even meals were left with an empty seat of yours, confining yourself in the stillness of the sept or your chamber— with the same kind of act you’ve fallen comfort in: praying.
it was more intense, heated than the flames of the burning candle wicks before you as tears threatened to spill from your close eyes much like their wax. the septas worry over you, worry over the realms princess. at the severity of your continuous murmured prayings that flown like gospels they felt as if old valyrian tongue had resurrected at how eerily resembling it was to your whispered begging to the gods.
baelor permitted your unverbalized demand of expanse from the jargon of your station, from your grandsire’s repeating tirade for proper footing in place of your befitting behavior, and from himself. baelor also ceased the vile whispers against you with a look at the court members— stern and grim, a rare sight of expression the prince carried.
and thus so, a shift within the tides decided your prayers were heard and shall heave you from sin-like turmoil within the pores of your very soul— perhaps the gods might even be so kind to bless their devoted longing child more than what is sufficiently invoked through heavy cycled gospels. oh you have not much time before it arrived.
your usual attempt of escape from meals were put to rest upon baelor fetching you himself from your chamber— compelling you of not a word to utter, merely to have your chair not be so vacant with the family. your father then pays visit in the sept where he often finds you kneeled before the weeping wax in quiet murmuring of your lips against the skin of your joined hands— watching, never to hinder your shown of devotion. it is books after, ones that displayed the subjects of your interest finding space in your own chamber besides the newly tailored gown to your liking.
it irked you indefinitely, how sudden his presence tainted your supposed tightly knitted abhorrence by undoing so through paced and careful gifting affection. you loathe it, repulsed by the thought of not his attempts of cradling your fragile trust once more— but the sentiment it leaves you after each acknowledgement.
his back was to you once you’ve entered his study in the hand’s tower, broad and wide beneath the black of fabric he bore. the doors closes from the hand of the knightsguard, gripping your fingers behind your gown— the fresh one he had gifted you just a few nights ago. red and ivory, laced in the ends like he knew you would appreciate. baelor turns to you with the same piercing eyes that conveyed an unreadable tint.
‘’come, my child. i have something for you.’’
your feet slowly steps uncertainly into the direction of where he stood, fingers still fumbling the rings in your behind until you reach him. once you did so, he offers just a small velvet box, bearing a necklace of silver of valyrian steel with red garnets adorning the chain just before your eyes set onto the pendant: a dainty symbol of the faith of the seven. gasping softly at his gift, he takes it from the box before you turned for him, unneeded to be told. baelor’s hand brushes your pale hair revealing not just your nape but the skin of your chest where the necklace now lay rest against.
you glanced down to it with flushed cheeks, unable to comprehend the much too haste of your thoughts. he turns you gently, just to meet his gaze and it aches— how overwhelming it is to face the fruit of your prayers regarding you in every way you had earnestly crave for. baelor’s hand admires the gift against your skin, thumb lifting to caress your cheek so lightly it felt almost a kind of intimacy.
‘’when have you grown so easy in the eyes, my daughter?’’
you glanced away instantly, unable to prolong contact with his piercing gaze upon hearing the words of innocent affection. baelor smiles to your expressiveness, brushing away strands to the curve of your ears before speaking lowly once again:
‘’i shall let you off for your prayers.’’ and you nodded, a tender kiss against the corner of your left eye before taking leave. heaving and trembling on your path towards the sept where your knees bruised in contact upon kneeling much too harshly from rush. lips taking in broken gasps in effort to still the pounding flesh of your heart between the rattling bones— unable to catch the words necessary for your prayers, hoping the thoughts were sufficient instead. but was this not what you’ve cried for? the labor of your devotion manifesting before you, yet upon so, you answer in disgraceful unappreciation?
shaking your head harshly as hot tears fall into your still flushed cheeks, eyes closed while your forehead press against your praying hands— chasing after air with gasps as the spine of you loom over with a certain kind of need that does not root from the habitual essence of your desire. it’s more. it’s grey, darker and digs into the crevices of what you’ve presumed was innocent. you weeped, you sobbed, you plead for mercy from the unbecoming of the fresh new wound of a much illicit itch— no longer understanding your own.
half a fortnight before you fractured into what you swore an oath before the gods. rising from the sept before your chest pants with adrenaline of choice you’ve fallen faint to, gripping the satin of your gown as your feet climbed the steps that led into the man you supposedly carried unforgiving for. hesitating first, always, then knocking before your mind could switch back to persuasion of solitude. it opens, of course it does— he’s known you by now, he’s always have like a loving sire would in regards of his children.
your lips quiver but remained sealed, eyes blinking up to him with an expression even your own mind does not comprehend— but baelor recognizes it without difficulty, permits you inside his study before he resumes the readings laid before him in the table. frozen in limbs for a few moments, the chair beside the open window was the target for your form; until his voice carries around the four walls enough to have your cease movement.
‘’come.’’ a single word he utters, and already, you nod your head in obeisance— contrasting the malice you regarded your father in only two moons ago. baelor takes your fidgeting hand in his, thumb soothing the smaller knuckles into ease before his eyes lifts to yours.
‘’you are much like me, i observed. entirely so i believe— only you possess much lovelier features from mine own.’’
you blinked back, still mute, incapable of finding your voice to respond, only listening until he rises from his seat— instantly towering over you. baelor takes your entirety selfishly, the hand on yours now commences a trail that followed a sparking path from your arms, into the slopes of your neck up to cradle his palm gently against your cheek— leaning subconsciously to the warmth it omitted.
‘’do the indignities of your childhood cause by my neglect truly rends you incapable of pardon?’’ he breathes, watching you carefully simmer the intent in your own pace. wordlessly, you glanced away and decide the pin on his clothing was much easier to gaze in contrast to his eyes. baelor rests his other hand to your waist now, thumb skimming the smoothness of the gown before murmuring:
‘’will you allow your father to make amends, hm, little dove?’’ eyes closing shut at the question and the fluttering endearment. rose hued lips parting not for response but to inhale sharp and quiet— that was enough for baelor to lean down and peck the smoothness of your flushing skin. temple down to the lashes of your eyes and into the curve of your nose and round of your cheek. your bottom lip finds refuge in between your teeth as he continues to shower you in utter affection: your jaw now and your neck next until the collarbone before.. the swell of your chest. he pulls away after to admire how affected you were from mere simplicity— despite knowing his actions were anything but.
panting and blushing under him and the flickering flames of candles surrounding you both in seclusion that bordered unethical intimacy. your eyes open to meet his darker ones, swirling with heat from what you wish reciprocated the sins you concealed. feeling it before your mind could conjure properly, his thumb traces the shape of your lips until he replaces it with his own— kissing you slowly as if anymore pressure would break his fragile girl.
his stomach curls at the sound you emitted, sweet sweet mewl for him to swallow before pressing your hips to his table. hands unlacing your gown to reveal the supple of your chest which he showers in the same tender affection. with that your head throws back with a gasped moan, holding onto his forearm.
‘’father—‘’ he tsks, pulling away to shake his head, kissing you again with a whisper.
‘’hush, little dove.’’
you nod, obeying any order he utters in fear of being deprived once more from the affection you’ve yearned for far too long. he kisses you as long as you’d demanded, offering every unuttered wish with earnest. your father is a patient man, he is, the realm subjects itself to it— but you’re much too enticing to prolong. facing the flat of his desk, bent over as he ravishes your neck and shoulder while your gown is pushed up to your hips as much as his trousers were pulled down. stroking himself firm in form first, spine curved for him in access.
kiss-swollen lip parts in what resembled the gasps that you’ve echoed in the sept, only this time, it’s much unholier in both the predicament and tone. baelor was not any better with the groan expressed at the at last feeling of condemnation— head falling to your shoulder blade as he slowly fucks himself into you. sobs threaten to draw out as his cock begins to ease you into mellow, head full of nothing but the unearthly feeling of pleasure he shares with you.
it’s filthy, corrupt and blasphemous, what you two indulged in. yet, morals were the last of thought to have because baelor begins to thrusts much harsher now, not enough to break you, but adequately to have your hand engulfed in his. and gods, the sounds and the sight of you together could cause the legitimacy of targaryen accusations.
your closed eyes open as you continue moaning deliciously at each slicked fuck his cock presses against your flesh— shaking your head until the ring on his hand catches your attention, resembling the gifted necklace that swayed on your neck. the thought merely makes you grip his hand harder with sobs now, so so overwhelmed at the blooming in your chest where a neglected wound once ached.
‘’father’s sorry, little dove.. will you forgive me?’’ he moans in your ear with matching impure thrusts that he himself feels the looming light of pleasure.
merely nodding your head for him, unable, incapable and helplessly ruined beneath to search for your voice outside of mewls. baelor bites his lips at the sight, his own ruin warning him of end— so turning your head instead, lips meeting his while you both swallowed each others cries of utter high. conjoined more ways now that you could have ever ambition yourself to wish.
baelor does not pull away, not immediately; instead, he buries himself to the hilt which pulls a whimper from you that he inhales within the kiss. parting for reprieve of air and for him to pepper your bare shoulder with gentleness, fingers brushing your hair away for space to press even more of his loving to your cheek. completely and entirely smitten for you— his pure white.
fin.
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⌞a/n⌝ so.. what do we think? may have taken a little longer than said but here is mr. baelor’s official version of the beloved taboo pairing you little filthy birds seem to flock to.. and who am i but your subject? anyway. thank you for the kind words and support i have received from mr. maekar’s fic! i am so full of inspiration at the moment so requests will come soon after!
House Dondarrion arrived in a ripple of purple silk and thunderbolt sigils, Lord Dondarrion himself broad-shouldered and loud of voice, his three daughters bright as summer lightning at his side.
Standing near her father’s chair in the hall, Saera wasn’t beside it but rather close to it.
Lord Dondarrion bowed deeply. “Your Grace. Blackhaven is ever proud to serve the crown.
“And the crown is glad of Blackhaven,” Baelor replied warmly.
Turning, the lord clapped his hand on his eldest daughter’s shoulder.
“Come now, Elenei. Show the prince how prettily you curtsy. I told you he is not half so fearsome as the singers claim.”
The girl flushed but stepped forward, and Baelor smiled.
“You are welcome here, my lady.”
Lord Dondarrion beamed. “All my girls are fierce riders, Your Grace. I have seen to it myself. No daughter of mine will sit idle with embroidery while her brothers take the field.”
He pulled the youngest close and kissed her temple. A tightening sensation shot through her ribs.
Baelor inclined his head politely. “The Stormlands are fortunate in such daughters.”
“And I am fortunate in them,” Lord Dondarrion said without hesitation. “A man with daughters must raise them strong. The world does not grow kinder.”
The daughters laughed. Saera’s gaze flicked to her father who smiled faintly but remained silent.
Elenei Dondarrion fixed her bright blue eyes on Saera.
“And this is Princess Saera?” she asked sweetly.
Baelor’s gaze followed, steady.
“This is my daughter.”
Saera curtsied.
Elenei studied her with open curiosity, neither cruel nor kind.
“We had not heard much of you, princess,” she said, still smiling. “Only of Prince Valarr and Prince Matarys.”
The second sister tilted her head. “Father said the princess was… delicate.”
Lord Dondarrion cleared his throat lightly. “Mind your tongue.”
His voice held amusement, and Saera maintained her chin high.
“I was ill when I was born,” she said evenly.
“How unfortunate,” the youngest said. “It must be dreadful to be kept away from everything.”
Elenei’s smile sharpened. “I cannot imagine being hidden so long.”
Baelor’s reply came at once.
“The princess was guarded,” he said. “As any wise father guards what is precious.”
His tone remained steady, and it didn’t need to be. A flush crept up the girl’s neck.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Tell me of the marches,” he said smoothly. “Have there been further disputes along the Dornish border?”
Yet Saera felt no larger for having been defended.
˖⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝୨୧⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝˖
The Dondarrion girls were allowed to watch the princes train. Valarr rode cleanly and powerfully. Matarys laughed when he unhorsed a squire.
Lord Dondarrion cheered openly.
“That is how it’s done!” he called. “Well struck!”
He wrapped an arm around his eldest daughter’s shoulders.
“You see? That is the way of it.”
Saera watched her father. Baelor was speaking with Lord Dondarrion about border levies and completely missed her standing alone.
Lady Elenei stepped closer.
“Do you ride, Princess?”
“Yes.”
“Truly?” There was polite disbelief in her tone.
“Father says girls must ride,” Elenei continued. “He says we must never wait for brothers to defend us.”
She smiled faintly.
“Does your father say the same?”
Saera hesitated.
“He teaches me history.”
“How… scholarly.”
The youngest sister giggled.
“You are fortunate,” Elenei said. “We are forever muddy.”
Saera overheard something unspoken. You’re confined inside, fragile and less than.
Baelor’s voice carried over the yard. “Valarr, steady your wrist.”
Clear. Proud. Direct.
She stepped forward.
“Father-”
He turned immediately.
“Yes, Saera?”
Before she could answer, Lord Dondarrion approached with a matter regarding Dornish outriders.
Baelor glanced to her.
“In a moment,” he said gently.
He meant it.
But governance is a jealous thing.
The moment dissolved beneath discussion of levies and watchtowers. By the time the matter concluded, Matarys was laughing with the Dondarrion girls and Valarr had dismounted.
Saera stepped back from the rail.
No one marked it.
˖⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝୨୧⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝˖
Aerion appeared beside her as though conjured.
“They do not even lower their voices,” he murmured.
She did not look at him.
“They mock what they envy.”
“They do not envy me.”
“Oh, they do.” His tone was silk. “You are a dragon. They are thunder. Loud, but fleeting. Filthy human beneath our feets”
Her jaw trembled despite her effort.
˖⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝୨୧⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝˖
Baelor found her where the torches burned low and the noise of the yard no longer reached.
Her posture was too stiff when she saw him.
“You left the yard early,” he said.
“I had seen enough.”
He studied her face. “The Dondarrion girls have sharp tongues.”
“They spoke plainly.”
“Plain speech is not always truth.”
She tilted her chin slightly. “Was it not truth?”
A pause.
“You were kept apart for your safety, you are the most precious thing in this world for me beside the realm” Baelor replied.
“Am I still in danger?”
“No.”
“Then why does it follow me still?”
He frowned faintly. “What follows you?”
“The whispers. The careful looks. The way they speak of me as though I might faint.”
“You are not responsible for what others think.”
“But you are.”
The words slipped out before she could temper them.
Baelor’s expression shifted from anger to something far more profound.
“Explain yourself.”
“They know what you allowed them to know,” she said quietly. “That I was hidden. That I was fragile. That I was almost… gone.”
His jaw tightened.
“I will not apologize for protecting you.”
“I did not ask you to.”
Silence stretched thin.
“You think I do not see you,” he continued. “I do. You are clever. Too clever, perhaps. You watch everything.”
“Because I was alone.”
The words weren’t accusatory which made them even worse.
“I came to you when you were four,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You do not remember the nights before that.”
“I remember the doors,” she replied. “I remember not knowing why they would not open.”
He flinched.
“I believed attachment would make it harder when…” He stopped.
“When I died?” she supplied evenly.
“When you died,” he finished.
There it was, laid bare.
“You did not wish to love me,” she said.
“I loved you.”
“You feared loving me.”
“That is not the same.”
“It felt the same.”
He stepped closer then, not touching her but close enough for her to feel his presence.
“I have failed you in ways I cannot mend,” he said quietly. “But do not mistake fear for lack of love.”
She looked at him, truly looked.
“Yes.”
The blade was barely a whisper. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat.
“When I was named heir,” he said slowly, “my father told me that duty must come before affection. I believed him. I still do.”
“And where does that leave me?”
He opened his eyes again.
“It leaves you as my daughter,” he said. “And as a princess.”
“I do not wish to be your princess,” she replied softly.
The hall seemed very quiet then.
“What do you wish to be?” he asked.
“Yours.”
It broke him, not visibly or dramatically but something in his shoulders lowered.
“You are,” he said.
She shook her head faintly.
“Not the way they are,” she whispered. “Not the way you are with them.”
He didn’t ask who she meant; he knew.
“I am trying,” he said at last.
“I know.”
It was somehow sadder than angry. She stepped back.
“I will not shame you again in front of guests,” she said formally.
“I was not shamed.”
“I was.”
“I will send for you tomorrow,” he said. “Before the council sits.”
Her shoulders eased, only slightly.
“Good night, Father.”
He watched her go, long after her footsteps faded.
˖⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝୨୧⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝˖
Brynden found her later in the rookery stair.
“You listened,” he said quietly.
“To what?”
“To the thunder.”
She did not answer.
“Men who love loudly do not always love best,” Brynden said.
“Do you know that?”
“You stand as though you await judgment.”
“I do not.”
“You watch him as though waiting to be chosen.”
Her fingers tightened around the dragon pendant beneath her gown.
“I am his daughter.”
“And yet,” Brynden said mildly, “you measure yourself against girls who arrived this morning.”
She said nothing.
“Fire burns brightly,” Brynden continued. “But it burns all the same. Be wary which warmth you seek.”
She glanced at him sharply.
“You speak of Aerion.”
“I speak of no one.”
His pale hair stirred in the breeze.
“Power is not in being favored,” Brynden said softly. “It is in being indispensable.”
“I do not wish for power.”
“Then you are fortunate,” he replied. “It has a way of wishing for you.”
He left her there with a gentle pat on her head.
˖⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝୨୧⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝˖
The corridor was quiet, lined with tapestries depicting the wars of old Valyria. Sunlight slanted through high windows, illuminating motes of dust that danced like tiny stars.
Saera crept behind Aerion, clutching the fabric of Aerion’s cloak.
“This way,” he whispered, stepping lightly across the polished stones. “The maesters and guards do not pass here often. Few notice the halls of old portraits.”
“It feels… strange,” she murmured. “Like we should not be here.”
Aerion’s grin was faint, precise.
“Exactly. That is the point.”
They rounded a corner and froze. Ahead, in a small solar, Baelor sat in a low chair, a book open across his lap. Valarr and Matarys lounged on the floor, their laughter echoing gently against the walls.
“-and so the dragon would not yield!” Valarr exclaimed, slapping the floor in triumph.
“Father!” Matarys laughed. “You cannot say it is not clever, for even the fiercest dragon bends to cunning!”
Baelor chuckled, dark eyes crinkling.
“Indeed,” he said, voice warm. “And the cleverest dragon is the one who knows when to hold fast and when to yield. You two have learned well.”
Saera’s chest tightened. Her small fingers clenched the silver dragon hidden beneath her gown.
Why am I never part of this? she thought, feeling an ache she could barely name.
Aerion glanced sideways at her.
He did not smile. He did not smirk. He simply looked. And he saw.
Her chin lifted too quickly and her shoulders stiffened. The careful stillness was anything but calm.
Her breath trembled.
“They look… happy,” she whispered.
Aerion’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
She swallowed. “I think I would like to sit there. Just once.”
The words were small. He did not know how to answer them. He watched her watch them.
Saw how she leaned forward without meaning to. Saw how her hand pressed the pendant harder against her heart.
Something hot and sharp moved through him, not anger at her. Not even at Baelor. Just… hurt.
For her.
He stepped back from the doorway.
“Come,” he said quietly.
She blinked. “What?”
“Before they see us.”
“I… I do not think they would mind.”
He looked at her.
“They have each other,” he said simply. “Come away.”
She hesitated. The laughter inside rose again.
Baelor’s warm, proud voice filled the chamber and Saera lowered her gaze, following Aerion.
˖⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝୨୧⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝˖
They did not stop until the castle stones gave way to the path that wound down toward the river.
The rushes swayed in the wind while the water beneath the sun flowed slowly and silver.
Saera frowned. “Why are we here?”
Aerion shrugged out of his cloak and spread it upon the bank.
“Because fish do not care who your father favors.”
Her lips parted despite herself.
“That is a strange comfort.”
He sat, boots dangling near the water.
“It is true,” he insisted. “They bite for whoever is patient enough.”
She hovered uncertainly.
“I do not know how.”
“Neither do I.”
She stared at him.
“You brought us here without knowing how to fish?”
He lifted one shoulder. “I thought we might learn.”
His voice lacked cleverness and edge; it was simply stubborn sincerity.
Saera sank down beside him.
The river whispered.
After a moment she said, “Do you think he does not see me?”
Aerion did not answer at once.
He plucked a blade of grass and tore it in two.
“I think,” he said slowly, “he sees you differently.”
“Differently how?”
“As something he fears to lose.”
She frowned.
“That is foolish. He barely looks at me.”
Aerion’s hands stilled.
“He looks,” he said quietly. “Just not when you are looking.”
She turned to him.
He did not meet her eyes.
“When you left the hall the day you cut your hand on the glasses,” he went on, “he sent for the maester before anyone else moved.”
Her breath caught.
“You lie.”
He hesitated, feeling that familiar flicker in her eyes; hope, fragile and perilous. Suddenly he couldn’t bear to extinguish it.
“I do not.”
Finally, he looked at her and there was no mockery just earnestness.
“Just like my father. They are not like other fathers,” Aerion said. “They are… iron. Iron does not bend easily.”
He scowled faintly. Why was he defending and explaining his Uncle? He didn’t want to understand him; he wanted to surpass him.
Saera studied the river.
“I would not ask him to bend,” she whispered. “Only to… sit with me.”
The truth of it sat strangely on his tongue.
“He would, you are his daughter, the blood of the dragon.”
He couldn’t understand why he’d given it to her. It would have been simpler to let her doubt and remain wounded and close. Instead, he found himself angry at the very thought.
Angry that she believed herself unseen. Angry that anyone could make her feel small.
He shoved his boots into the water suddenly, splashing hard enough to send droplets flying over them both.
Saera gasped.
“Aerion!”
He grinned now, wide and boyish.
“Then we shall sit here,” he declared. “And if no fish come, we shall curse them and say they feared dragons.”
She attempted to glare but failed. A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
He splashed again. Soon her slippers were off, her skirts gathered, feet in the cool current.
They talked about nothing significant: the lords and ladies, Matarys’ snoring and Valarr’s sword belt tripping.
The ache in her chest softened. Not gone. But gentler.
When the sun dipped lower and the castle bells rang for supper, she leaned back on her elbows and said quietly,
“Thank you.”
Aerion did not look at her.
“For what?”
“For seeing me.”
He swallowed.
“I always have.”
In that moment, he meant it genuinely, without any claim or ownership and free from hunger.
Just a boy beside a river. Trying to mend a hurt he could not name.
˖⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝୨୧⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝˖
Saera sat astride her grey mare, chin lifted in careful concentration as Baelor adjusted the reins in her small hands.
“Not so tight,” he said, voice calm. “A horse is not conquered by force. She yields to confidence.”
Saera loosened her grip immediately.
“Like Valarr says in your lessons,” she replied quickly. “That the clever dragon bends when it must.”
A flicker of amusement touched his mouth.
“So you do listen.”
“I always listen.”
The answer came too fast.
He mounted beside her, dark hair catching the light, and they rode slowly along the inner wall. The wind tugged at her braids; dust kicked up beneath hooves.
“You sit straighter than last week,” he observed.
She brightened at once.
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
She glowed under the word.
For a time, it was easy. He corrected her posture. She asked questions about Westeros. He told her of marches and treaties and why patience often won more than swords.
He laughed once, properly laughed, when her mare decided a pigeon was a mortal threat and danced sideways.
She laughed too, breathless. It should have been enough almost.
But as they dismounted, a voice called from across the yard.
“My prince! Lord Lannister has arrived.”
Baelor turned instantly. Saera sensed a change in the atmosphere.
“I will attend him,” Baelor said. “Walk the mare twice more and cool her properly. I will see you at supper.”
He brushed a hand briefly against her shoulder, his attention distracted, before striding away.
She watched him go. It was not unusual. It was not cruel. It was simply… what always happened.
˖⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝୨୧⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝˖
Later, as she passed the solar near the council chambers, she heard voices.
Baelor’s voice. Warm. Engaged.
“And Valarr’s form improves each season,” he was saying. “The boy has a natural seat.”
Lord Lannister chuckled. “A future Hand, perhaps?”
“We shall see,” Baelor replied. “He has discipline.”
Saera stood very still outside the half-open door.
She did not mean to linger. She did not mean to listen. But she did.
“Matarys lacks his brother’s patience,” Baelor continued lightly. “Yet he learns quickly.”
She was meant to be copying a passage on the Free Cities.
Instead, she was staring at nothing.
“You are quiet tonight,” he said, stepping beside her.
“I am always quiet,” she answered.
He frowned faintly.
“That is not so.”
She dipped her quill again, though the ink pooled too heavily.
“You spoke long with Lord Lannister.”
“Yes.”
“About Valarr.”
“Yes.”
“And Matarys.”
“Yes.”
He studied her profile.
“Did you wish to join us?”
She hesitated. The truth felt dangerous.
“No,” she said softly.
He reached to adjust the parchment before her.
“You need not hide from visiting lords. You are a princess of this realm.”
She nodded.
But that was not what she had meant.
He moved to sit across from her.
“You rode well today,” he said. “Better than either of your brothers did at your age.”
Her eyes flicked up.
“Truly?”
“Truly.” He said as the corner of his lips tugged up.
A small crack appeared in her composure.
“Then… why do you not speak of me so?”
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
He blinked.
“Speak of you?”
“With pride,” she said quickly, ashamed now. “As you do them.”
He stared at her, not in anger, but in surprise.
“Saera,” he said slowly, “I am proud of you.”
“But you do not say it,” she whispered.
There it was. Small. Childish. Terribly earnest.
Baelor leaned back, absorbing the weight of something he had not known needed tending.
“I did not think I must say what is constant,” he admitted.
She looked at him with wide, wounded eyes.
“Valarr and Matarys hear it.”
He was quiet a long moment. Then, more gently than before:
“You are different from them.”
Her shoulders stiffened.
“Because I am a girl?”
“No.”
He leaned forward.
“Because you do not clamor for approval. You assume your place. You carry yourself as though you already know you are worthy.”
Her lip trembled, barely.
“I do not assume,” she said. “I hope.”
That broke something open in him.
He stood, crossed the space between them, and crouched to her height.
“Look at me.”
She did.
“You have never needed to hope for my regard,” he said firmly. “You have always had it.”
She searched his face for any hint of courtesy or dismissal.
Found neither.
“Then say it,” she whispered.
And this time, he did not hesitate.
“I am proud of you, Saera. Of your mind. Of your courage. Of the way you endure without bitterness.”
Her breath caught.
He reached and smoothed a strand of silver hair from her brow, deliberate, not distracted.
“You are my daughter,” he said. “Not an afterthought.”
The ache inside her did not vanish. Children’s doubts rarely do. But it eased. Just enough. She nodded, blinking quickly.
“I will try to remember,” she said.
He smiled faintly.
“You need not try. I will remind you.”
And this time, when he left the library, she did not feel like a shadow trailing behind him.
Just a girl. Eight years old. Loved. Even if she still sometimes forgot.
˖⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝୨୧⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝˖
The Red Keep was quiet. Moonlight streamed through the narrow windows of Saera’s chamber, silvering the floor.
She hadn’t intended to dwell on it again, the godswood, the raven’s arrival when she focussed and the thread she’d felt.
She sat on the edge of her bed her fingers resting against the silver dragon charm at her throat.
“You are imagining it,” she whispered to herself.
Outside, somewhere in the rookery tower, a sharp clear raven cry pierced the air. Her breath caught. Another answered then another. The sound echoed strangely within her chest not her ears.
In her chest.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment. Initially, it felt like dizziness, as if she’d stood up too quickly.
The room tilted and the air sharpened. Then-
Cold. Wind. Open sky.
Her eyes snapped open but she wasn’t looking at her chamber. Instead, she gazed down at the stone walls far below. The courtyard was illuminated by torches and guards moved like tiny carved wooden figures.
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t feel her lungs moving. Instead, she felt air slicing beneath her wings. Her heart began pounding.
No.
Not her heart, but faster smaller rapid.
She attempted to move but the world lurched sideways violently. A wing beat brushed against her awareness like fingertips.
Panic gripped her as the image shattered.
She gasped and fell sideways onto her bed, her hands clutching at the sheets. The familiar solidity of her room enveloped her but her pulse raced wildly.
Staggering to the window, she saw ravens circling the rookery tower. One peeled away, flying erratically as if startled.
Her stomach dropped.
“No,” she breathed.
Pressing her hands to her temples, she felt something real, not like imagination, as if she’d been inside something or something had been inside her.
She turned slowly toward the door.
What if someone had seen?
What if someone had noticed?
Her gaze drifted upward instinctively. A raven sat on the stone ledge just beyond her window.
Watching her.
Still.
Its head tilted slightly, mirroring her own curious tilt. Despite herself, her breath slowed.
“I did not mean to,” she whispered.
The raven remained perched. For a fleeting moment, she felt it again, not sight this time but sensation. Cold air brushed against her feathers and a high wind howled around her. A distant glow of torches flickered in the distance.
She could almost push further but footsteps echoed in the corridor outside her chamber.
The connection snapped.
The raven took off sharply into the night and she staggered back from the window. A light knock echoed at her door.
“Princess?”
A handmaiden’s voice filled the air. Saera forced her breathing to steady.
“Yes,” she managed.
The door creaked open and everything seemed normal. However, her fingers trembled.
˖⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝୨୧⏝ׄ⏝˖⏝ׄ⏝˖
She hadn’t intended to try again; that was the part that terrified her most. It happened during sleep, at least she thought so.
The sound of wings woven into her dreams wasn’t loud or violent; it was simply there, persistent and pulling. This time, when the cold arrived, she didn’t fight it.
She was airborne. Higher than before. The wind was harsher, colder. Stronger currents beneath her. Below her-
Not the Red Keep. Not the familiar sprawl of King’s Landing. Instead, Black stone. Twisted towers. A coastline shaped like claws.
Her breath, or whatever passed for it in this body, hitched. She didn’t know this place but she did. In her bones. Dragonstone, but wrong. Larger and alive.
Smoke curled from volcanic vents. The air shimmered with heat. Dragons. There were dragons.
Three. Huge. Dragons.
Their shadows cut across the stone courtyards below. A roar shook the air so violently her borrowed wings faltered.
She turned her head, And saw him. Silver-gold hair whipping in volcanic wind. Violet eyes hard as tempered steel.
A crown of black iron, shaped like a circle, is set with square, cut rubies.
Standing before a burning skyline, his gaze reflected fire not fear or mercy but conquest.
Aegon.
She couldn’t explain it but she knew. Perhaps it was the crown or the three dragons she’d seen. He turned slightly as if sensing something.
As if sensing her presence, the raven’s heart pounded wildly. Then the scene fractured.
The sky darkened and the dragons vanished. The stone cracked and splintered. Ash drifted down like snow. Before her stood the throne room of the Red Keep, but it was different.
The Iron Throne loomed larger than life, jagged and hungry. A woman with silver hair sat upon the throne.
The flickering image made it hard to see clearly. Blood, trickled down the throne as the woman gripped it. The empty hall held only the seated figure.
For a moment, the figure looked up directly at her not at the raven.
It was as if the distance between them held no significance and time itself was a flimsy veil.
Saera’s mind whirled. The gaze was neither cruel nor kind but simply inevitable. Beneath the figure’s hand, the throne pulsed.
A roar filled the hall, a sound of dragons and human. Screams echoed and the vision shattered violently.
She woke screaming.
It tore out of her. Raw. Animal. The kind of sound no courtly daughter of future kings should make.
It echoed off the stone walls and down the corridor beyond her chamber. For a heartbeat—silence. Then boots. Heavy. Armored. Fast.
The latch struck the wall with a crack. Cloaks filled the doorway. Steel glinted in torchlight, swords half-drawn, helmets catching the flames.
“Princess!”
A guard crossed the room in three strides, eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. Another checked the balcony doors. A third hurried to her bedside.
She was upright now, trembling, hair loose and wild around her shoulders. Sweat slicked her temples. Her breaths came in short, jagged gasps.
“There was—” she began, voice raw.
There was nothing. No intruder, no shattered glass, no smoke. The chamber was intact. One guard moved to the window and peered into the dark night.
“Princess,” he said cautiously, “did you see someone?”
Her gaze slid past him. The rookery tower loomed in the distance, every raven perched along its edges, silent and watchful.
“I…” Her throat felt scraped raw. “…no.”
The guard closest to her lowered his sword, unconvinced.
“You cried out,” he said.
“I… had a dream,” she whispered, the words tasting hollow in her mouth.
The guards exchanged skeptical glances. None found a threat.
“Shall we send for Prince Baelor?” one asked gently.
Her pulse quickened. “No,” she said too quickly. She pressed her hands to her chest, trying to steady her ragged breathing. “It was only a dream.”
The eldest guard studied her face carefully. She slowed her breaths, unclenched her hands. Finally, he nodded.
“We will remain posted outside,” he said.
“Please….don’t leave,” she said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper.
The guards looked at one another, then one nodded. Two slipped quietly from the chamber, leaving one to take station near the door.
“I will guard you, Princess,” he said, voice low and steady. His eyes lingered on the silver dragons on her shelf as she fiddled with them, keeping one small hand wrapped around the familiar metal.
She moved slowly to the window once more. The ravens remained motionless, black sentinels on stone. And yet she could still feel it, the echo of fire and ash, the throne, and eyes that had looked directly at her, through time itself.
She pressed her palm to the cool glass. “What did I see?” she whispered.
One raven tilted its head. Then, as if by unspoken command, all of them took flight simultaneously. Their wings beat through the night sky, a sudden storm of shadow and sound that rattled the window panes like thunder.
The guard flinched but did not approach. He did not need to; he understood something had shifted, though he could not name it.
The chamber felt heavier than before, a weight pressing against the walls, the ceiling, her very mind. She turned from the window, shivering. Her bed no longer felt safe. Her own thoughts no longer felt her own.
If it was a dream, why did it feel so vivid? And if it was a memory… whose?
Pairing: Dark Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen x (female) Reader
▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.
More at Masterlist
Summary: You hate your father. You hate your uncle all the same, even though it’s his money that allows you and your mother to survive. But nothing ever comes for free in this world.
AN: Comments and reblogs are very much appreciated, but a reblog with a comment is even better. Thanks 💗 Let me know if you like this. Enjoy!
--
You open the fridge, scanning through the scarce contents while attempting to drown out the vibration of your phone. Your jaw clenches as anger builds inside you.
You hate your father. You hate him with all of your heart.
You hate him for never truly being a father to you, always an inconsistent figure that would drop by every few months to play house with you and your mom, always with the promise of getting better and trying harder, only to leave in the quiet of the night a few days later, your mom’s savings shoved in his pockets each and every time.
You hate him for giving hope and then snatching it right back, never truly fulfilling his end of the bargain, for never really caring enough for you and your mom.
You hate him for being such a ghost of a father, for never putting in the effort to be around you or to get to know you, for not taking you out on father-daughter dates, for looking at the five-year version of you and not being sober enough to remember that you were his daughter.
You hate him for all the times he promised to come back for you, all the times he kneeled down and told you to be ready cause this time he was finally taking you out to the movies or to that one amusement park you’ve always wanted to go to only to never show up, not a single phone call or a message to explain as the hours went by and you’d remain seated in the porch steps, trembling with cold but hopeful and insistent that your dad would show up, no matter how much your mom would try to convince you to get inside the warmth of the house.
You hate him for abandoning you and your mother in favor of needles and white powder. For not being strong enough to stop, for allowing the thrill and euphoria of the drugs to get the best of him.
You hate him because while he is a bad father to you, he was even worse to your mother, never once caring for your mom’s health problems and the bills that come with it or for rent or for your college tuition or for groceries.
And right now, as you stare at the nearly empty fridge with the loud buzz of the old appliance increasing the longer you stare at it, your hatred for your sperm donor only grows in volume.
The vibration in your phone sizzles down until it dies off. A moment later, it buzzes once and then twice, before finally quieting down. When the screen finally goes dark, you tap on the old phone’s screen.
A missed phone call and two messages.
You don’t even have to read through the text to know what it says. It’s unpleasant but routine by now. A clockwise visit that you’ve learned to expect as the days drag closer to the end of each month.
You hate your father for many reasons and one of said reasons being his brother’s monthly visits.
Uncle Baelor, like he insisted you call him back when you were a cheerful child and he would lift into his lap and sneak some candy into your hands like it was your little secret. You don’t like to call him that anymore.
Your mom’s eyes dig into you as she plates your dinner, a meager dose of omelette and a dry thin slice of bread.
“Who is it?” she seems reluctant to ask, much like she already knows the answer.
“Baelor.”
You hesitate for a moment. “He says he’ll drop by tomorrow.”
Tension gathers in your mom’s face.
Her face, once pretty and full of life, now turned into a rather haggard one, the hollow cheeks and dull skin coming as a reminder of her soul-sucking job and the health that keeps failing her and the dark circles beneath her eyes only seem to get worse with each month. Another reason to hate your father.
She opens her mouth, but no words come out.
“It’s fine, mom.” you shrug your shoulders and close the fridge, slamming the door harder than the old appliance deserves. “We’re almost running out of food and your meds also need a refill. It's good timing I guess.”
Her frown deepens at that, much like it does every month. She shakes her head, eyes carrying a helplessness so deep that you have to look away.
When she speaks, her voice is nothing but a frail, broken whisper. “I wish things were different…”
And in that moment, you feel just as helpless as she does.
–
You hate your father for a never-ending amount of reasons, but the one that cuts you the deepest is the fact that he was born into money.
A Targaryen, a family that revels in copious amounts of old money and their successful multiple-venture family business. A powerful surname, nearly as distinct as the silver-hair and violet eyes that the majority of the family members have.
You inherited none of them.
Not the surname and certainly not the looks. Your father never married your mother, never bothered enough to sign on the birth certificate and neither did his genes, allowing you to come out as an exact copy of your mother. And while you’re grateful for the latter, you can only dream of how much better-off you and your mom would’ve been had he given you his last name.
A whole world of out-of-reach fantasies haunt you at night, when hunger and stress won’t let you sleep.
Had you been given the Targaryen surname, not a day would be spent scraping and saving all the pennies you can, of counting every single note and coin only to realize you’re gonna be short for something, of having to stand in the lines of the food banks only to be told that there was nothing more to be given.
You wouldn’t have to make hard decisions, to pick between paying electricity or refilling your mom’s medicine, between paying rent or falling short on the college tuition. If you were a Targaryen by name you wouldn’t have to decide whether you preferred to skip breakfast and dinner altogether for the better part of a month or if replacing your only pair of shoes wasn’t worth it.
No. If you were a Targaryen you’d be a trust fund kid, spoiled and carefree, living your best life. Your mom would be taken care of with the best doctors and expensive treatments and she’d be able to rest instead of working her ass off for the minimum wage.
If you were a Targaryen you wouldn’t have to thank your uncle for the check he brings once a month, feeling your cheeks burn with shame as he gives you the money, fully aware that you and your mom are nothing but a side project of his, a little charity project he works on from time to time as you’re sure the rest of the family thinks.
As if he’s offering you the money out of his heart’s kindness instead of giving you what you are rightfully owed.
But then again - it’s not really charity work, is it?
There is no such thing as a free lunch in this world and you sure do pay a hefty price for what he gives. He gives you something and you give him something else in return. Because that’s how the world works.
If you were a Targaryen, you wouldn’t have to go through the humiliation of being a charity work of your billionaire uncle.
Things would’ve been so much different for you, and sometimes while laying awake at night, mind unable to shut off with all the bills and expenses that keep adding up, you like to imagine how different your life would've had been.
Maybe you’d be a less bitter person, less stiff, less negative.
Maybe you wouldn’t look at your classmates and seethe with jealousy at the clothes and phones and laptops they own. Maybe you wouldn’t cry hidden in the bathroom because someone mentioned that you’ve used the same jacket for nearly three weeks - because that’s the only jacket you have.
Maybe you wouldn’t have to juggle between college and the part-time job at the shitty restaurant, the long hours of standing and serving and tolerating disrespectful clients, all with a smile on your face just to earn scraps that barely get you by.
Life could’ve been so much different and it hurts when you think about it.
Maybe you’d be able to go shopping and have fun and drive a nice car. A sleek, expensive black car much like the one your uncle is parking in front of your house.
There’s uncontained jealousy as you observe him exiting the car.
It doesn’t go unnoticed to you that this is a different car from the one he drove last month, you don’t even know why you’re surprised. You live in completely different worlds and his family changes cars like someone changes socks. They’re filthy rich while you and your mom remain dirt poor - the sad reality of your life.
You hide behind the curtain of the window, bitterly watching Baelor lock the door of the shiny car before heading towards the house with quick steps.
The knock to the door comes a moment later but you don’t rush. Instead you take your sweet time walking to the door, not exactly eager to face him. A second knock resounds, more firmly this time. With a deep breath, you prepare yourself to face your uncle.
His face eases up when the door opens, a small smile dangling on his lips.
He stands confidently tall, dressed with a formal black suit and pants and silver personalized cufflinks much like he just came from the office. His outfit, judging by the appearance, looks like it cost more than your house.
“Y/n.”
“Uncle.” you nod at him as a greeting. You stopped hugging him years ago.
“May I?”
You pull the door wider and watch as Baelor enters with the confidence and steadiness of someone who knows their way around.
A hint of annoyance flares up at that, at the arrogant way he walks in much like he owns the house. Which he technically nearly does. It’s his money that pays for the rent and covers for the utilities, a thought that begrudgingly comes to you.
Instead of following Baelor to the minuscule living room, you head over to the kitchen.
You grab a clean glass and place it underneath the faucet. As it fills up with tap water, you check behind you and then quickly bring your face to the glass.
A globe of spit drops to the water as silently as you can. What Baelor doesn’t know can’t hurt him and God knows he deserves much worse than this.
When you enter the living room, you find Baelor seated on the couch, reading something off of his phone - which you vaguely recognize as the latest model of the expensive brand.
He has removed the black blazer, leaving it folded in the back of a chair. But even while wearing the simple white shirt and black formal pants, he still appears quite the tycoon. A tycoon that has no business sitting on a second-hand couch in the middle of a small living room whose walls have paint peeling off in pieces.
He looks up when you hand him the cup, thanking you. Petty satisfaction blooms in your chest as he takes an unsuspecting sip of the water. Serves him well.
He places the glass on the small coffee table and puts his phone face down next to it. And then looks at you, his gaze assessing you as you stand at short distance.
You stare back at him.
Same as you, your eldest uncle also failed to inherit the Targaryen genes. The short dark hair matches with his beard, both of them sprinkled with grey.
There’s a maturity and a severity in his face that often makes him look much older than what he truly is, though you know he just recently celebrated his thirty-seventh birthday. His eyes, one violet and the other brown, perspect you attentively.
He gives you a small, kind smile that you don’t retribute.
“How have things been? With the two of you.”
As if he cares. Fighting back the urge to scoff at him, you shrug your shoulders.
“Fine.”
He gives a small nod, eyes searching around the division. “And your mother?”
You try not to show how much that question bothers you.
“At work.”
Baelor’s attention returns to you. “And how’s college going?”
“Well, I guess.”
“That’s good. Education and knowledge are two things you can never have enough.” he says with an approving nod. “College is a good experience, prepares you for the future. Do you have friends there?”
“A few.” you lie.
“Good.” Baelor’s eyes dig into you. “And boyfriends?”
You shift the weight between your legs. You despise how every question sounds like an interrogation and you wish he’d just hand over the check and get over with the rest.
“No.” you speak the truth this time. “I don’t have time for that.”
Baelor lets out a quiet hum as he reclines on the couch.
“You do well. You should focus on your studies before anything else.”
The silence grows for a few moments. When Baelor speaks again, it’s with a softer tone.
“You didn’t attend my birthday celebration.” he gently brings up. “I was quite sad not to have you there. The whole family was in attendance except for you, that is.”
You know that.
Your cousin Daella’s Instagram is public and you’re not a stranger to stalking her posts from time to time, a habit that you can’t let go of, no matter how much you try.
She posted quite a lot for that day - mostly her own photos, with the stylish gown and glamorous makeup - but a few videos of the event also appeared through the flood of selfies.
Something had rotted in your chest while you used the college’s wifi to watch the numerous shots of the tower of cake and the huge pile of presents, all the sparkly designer dresses and the shiny jewelry and for once, you were glad you didn’t attend.
You would have made a fool of yourself, dressed in the best outfit you own - washed away jeans and a pink blouse. It’s not like you have a dress at your disposal when you can’t even afford a new pair of shoes.
Baelor continues.
“Matarys was quite eager to meet you. He kept asking for you, if at last he was going to meet you.”
You swallow and shrug your shoulders. “I was busy.”
The silence prolongs itself for a moment and Baelor looks at you as though he’s expecting you to elaborate. When you don’t, remaining with a blank face and arms crossed, he lets out a small sigh.
“Yes, I’m sure you were.”
You can’t contain the flare of anger at his tone.
“I was working the entire day. So, yeah, sorry for missing your fancy birthday party over that.”
Baelor grimaces at your small outburst. His hand begins to toy with the expensive, golden rings adorning his fingers.
“I know. You are a very hard-working girl and I did not mean otherwise.” he says, as a justification. “I only meant that you have a family that would very much like to meet you, if so you wished.”
You bite your tongue to avoid telling your uncle that if the rest of the family is anything like him or your father, you’re better off not meeting any of them. Your mom is all the family you need. All the family that is actually here for you, unlike those rich fake uncles and cousins.
“And it’s not just my son Matarys. Your grandmother Myriah speaks of you quite often. Asks me about you all the time.”
“Right.”
All the internet pictures of Myriah Targaryen showed a woman with kind features and grey hair, pretty jewelry always adorning her neck and hands. She looked much like a modern grandmother, dressed impeccably.
Then again she knows where you live, she knows where you study, she knows her eldest son comes to your house with a check every month. So what’s stopping her from coming to you herself or God forbids, giving you a call.
Your uncle’s eyebrows rise at your silence.
“She’d be most glad to meet you. All of the family would.” Baelor assures you, before adding. “If you agree, next month we could-”
“Like I said, I’m busy. College, work, my mom. My plates are full at the moment.”
You cut him off more indelicately than you should considering he’s the one with a big wallet but you’re getting tired of walking in circles. You’re growing impatient and anxious and you just want him and his arrogant ass out of your house, the only place you find some solace in.
You take a step forward.
“Can we… get it over with?” you ask. “Please. I’ve got exams to study for.”
Baelor expression falls in the slightest, brows furrowing and then easing up. He’s quick in molding his face back to normal, wearing that mask of composure he always does.
“Of course.” he answers. “Let me get it for you.”
You exhale shakily as Baelor stands up and reaches for his jacket, digging into the pocket until he retrieves the white envelope, where inside lays the check.
Finally.
Your skin prickles with anxiety and anticipation as Baelor places the paper on the coffee table before coming to stand before you.
He stands much too close, your nose catching the distinct fragrance of his cologne. A hand rises to your face, the back of his long fingers caressing your cheek with a feather-light touch.
His gaze darkens as it lands on your lips, still humid from the lip balm you put on earlier.
“I’ve done my end of the bargain.” his voice deepens as he inches closer, his hand slowly descending until the back of your neck is trapped in his palm.
“You fulfill yours now.”
–
You hiss at the uncomfortable feeling.
You dig your nails into the back of your thighs, the self-inflicted pain helping you distract from the thick cock that is splitting you in half. A single tear escapes from the corner of your eyes, quickly slipping down your neck.
Baelor leans forward until his body is molded on top of yours, his weight pressing you down on the bed. His forearms rest against the pillow on each side of your head, trapping you in.
“That’s it, sweet girl. Taking my cock so well.” he praises you, lips hovering over yours before capturing them into a kiss. He pushes his hips and swallows down your whimper as he buries himself to the hilt.
He groans, a deep sound that vibrates through your chest, but remains still, letting you get used to him. You squirm, feeling a dull ache at his cock stretching you to the fullest and yet twitching at the short curls at his base that tingle your clit.
His kiss turns insistent and you take the cue, obliging by parting your lips and letting Baelor deeper into your mouth, his beard scratching at your skin.
Nausea gathers in your stomach when your brain reminds you that the man whose tongue is inside your mouth and whose cock is balls deep into your pussy is none other than your own uncle.
You hate your father for an endless list of reasons, all of them valid on their own, but the one that truly breaks you is that he’s the sole reason why every month you have to lay on your back and let his older brother fuck you raw.
All because life is unfair and you were born with shitty luck, because your uncle has money and you don’t.
Baelor parts the kiss and presses his forehead to yours, mismatched eyes boring deep into your soul as he begins to move.
He starts at an excruciatingly slow rhythm, calm and unrushed as he intently studies every shift and expression that appears on your face, easily catching on whenever a sparkle of pleasure brightens your face and being quick in adjusting the angle to keep hitting that spot.
Your cheeks burn with betrayal and humiliation as wetness begins to accommodate his intrusion, as pleasure begins to build inside you and Baelor is fast in catching that, the corner of his lip twitching. He forces you to hold his gaze as he begins to build a steady, firm pace that has your single bed squeaking at the effort.
Your tight walls cling to his cock, the stretch feeling just delicious and it doesn’t help that his pelvis keeps brushing against your sensitive bundle of nerves, sparkling in a way that has you clenching around him.
You release your hands from your thighs that are now burning from the strain of keeping them apart for so long, and slither them around his back, clinging onto the older man as he fucks you vigorously. His warm breath fawns over your face, flushed cheeks and Baelor groans when your walls clamp around his shaft like a vice, eager to get the release you so desperately desire.
“Baelor…. ah, uncle, please.” you beg, feeling your climax right around the corner.
Baelor fucks you with strokes that reach deep enough to nearly make you lose your head, each slam of his hips against yours hard enough to have breathless sounds punctured out of you and the coil inside of you keeps dangerously tightening with each rigorous thrust.
“Go on then, sweetheart. Take what you need. Cum all over my cock.” he pants, clenched jaw and strained voice telling that he’s getting closer as well.
A few more strokes and the coil inside you finally snaps like a storm, pleasure exploding like a million little stars that have your back arching and your lips falling apart in a soundless moan and in this moment, you couldn’t care any less that the cock you’re coming all over belongs to your uncle, because your own fingers are never able to deliver such a devastating orgasm.
Your impending orgasm has Baelor reaching his as well, slamming himself home with a harsh thrust as he comes inside you with a heavy groan and a curse, forehead pressed against yours.
The aftermath washes away the pleasure and replaces it with something less pleasant, the disgust and horror slither underneath your skin like it always happens every month, after the deed is done.
Baelor breathes heavily on top of you, attempting to catch his breath and you remain underneath him, frozen like a statue. Feeling impure and disgusting for doing what you did, even if there was no way of escaping it.
And then the silent, cold anger returns and you feel upset. At yourself for just giving in without much a fight, at the world for being so unfair but most especially, at your father because he’s the root of your problems.
And with your uncle’s cum slowly dribbling down from your pussy and his cock still stretching you out, you close your eyes and swallow back the disgust.
It's done now. For this month, at least.
Four more weeks to pretend that this never happened before the money runs out and your uncle comes back knocking at your door.
i keep flooding ur inbox :( this is like my third ask RIP u lol but like there’s not many dark!askosk writer so we’re in this dark pervy together
soo i read this fic ages ago where reader wakes up from modern world into akosk— and like in it Baelor was her uncle and he was her husband and he was clearly uncomfortable when she wakes up n calls him “uncle” (as she last remembers him in her world before waking up in this one) bec he’s her husband here too. i raise you;
modern reader who wakes up in this weird fantasy world where she’s a princess and she’s married to her uncle who she barely even knew.
except this baelor is soo weird. he’s not uncomfortable at all w her being his niece.
he thinks she’s acting up when she wakes up— she calls him uncle when she used to call him husband (albeit tearfully). she shies away from his affections, twisting her face when he leans down to absentmindedly kiss her. takes her meals in her rooms, (and he gives her some leeway in the beginning; she is sick, truly. temporarily confused, he’s sure).
spends more time w a maester than her husband,reigns sick when he called upon her for his husbandly rights.
and he just snaps one day— he cares little for this life you led. tells you what life you’ll lead.
he’ll lay you down on your sheets, gentle. he’ll tell you he’ll recreate their first night for you again. laugh when he plugs you cunt up, telling you the face you’re making is the same— groaning as he looks as your betrayed tearful face.
all you can feel is disgust as you realize you please, no, uncle aren’t softening him or grossing him; their making him thrust harder. all you feel is dismay when you realize he’s flipping you over to fuck you, he isn’t stroking you hair to comfort you like your uncle baelor had last year on christmas, he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pushing you face first into the pillows.
like the idea of reader who didn’t grown up in a world where targcest is acceptable waking up in a world where her uncle is her husband and he’s evil and so fucking into it and her. he’ll break down down again, fuck you brainless. he’s got the cheat book for how to fuck you, break you, make you his.
you’ve already lost, he’s done it already. he’ll do it even better this time.
poor you :))
I just imagine that he quite enjoys the fight she's putting up, having grown used to the quiet obedience she serves him with now. She's suddenly struggling under his grip, twisting fearfully as he walks with her.
And then he's taking her to bed, fed up with her behaviour after no more than a week has passed. She's crying, weeping at him to stop, that it hurts, that he's her uncle. He grins, thrusting harder and faster until she's scratching at his back, maybe his arms too, trying to get him off her. And then she's flipped over, and he's back inside of her – and somehow, he's even rougher now. Now she can only feel the way his large cock hits at her cervix, sending shooting pains through her. Her uncle is shoving her face down into the pillows, and for a moment she swears that she gets a memory, but of a life that's not hers – a dining table, her father. And then she's shrieking as his fingers reach around to rub harsh circles at her clit and she's cumming, squeezing him tightly and Baelor's groaning as he fills her up. He knows her. A few quick circles of her clit always has her cumming over him – she might be pretending to be different, but he knows her body in and out.
And in the morning, after she's awoken sore and aching, he's taking her to the nursery, watching her confusion. The maester had told him that she was fragile – that bringing the children to her in this state would be too distressing. But he knows she'll stop this act soon. And so, to her absolute horror, he's introducing their sweet, chubby-cheeked babes to her, their little hands reaching for their mama as she backs away in fear. She's realising that not only is she married to her uncle, but she's had two children with him – a boy and girl with her hair and his mismatched eyes. To add to her horror, Baelor is crowding in to her now, his chest pressed up against her back, and his hand moves to her stomach.
"The maester gave me some wonderful news, darling. He thought it best to keep it from you while you were in such a state, but it's time you come back to me now," he uttered lowly, bringing his mouth to rest beside her ear, "another gift is coming to us soon."
With the slow rub of his palm against her stomach, she, for the first time, notices an ever-so-tiny swell. No. No, no, no, no, no. Her hopes of escape feel miniscule, and the likehlihood of her ever returning to the modern world dwindles.
summary: you thought you could leave baelor targaryen. you had the lawyer, you had the papers, you had every reason in the world. what you didn’t have was any idea how far he was willing to go to make sure you didn’t. (6k)
pairing: baelor targaryen x fem!reader
contents: modern au, canon divergent, age gap, established marriage, jealousy, toxic!baelor, obsessive!baelor, dark!baelor, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, he loves you badly but he loves you completely cw: toxic relationship dynamics, manipulation, blackmail, threats, dubcon elements, baby trapping, smut 18+ (MDNI): unprotected sex, possessive sex, he will not let you leave and your body is a traitor about it, don't like the tags don't read it.
You had been sitting in the dark long enough to finish two glasses of wine and start a third, long enough for the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows to stop being beautiful and start being just light, long enough to rehearse what you were going to say so many times that the words had stopped feeling like words and started feeling like something final, and you were still sitting there, in the dark, on the couch you had picked out together, wondering where it had gone all wrong.
Your family had no name and no money, not the kind that mattered in this city, not the kind that got you into rooms like this one, and Baelor Targaryen had both in quantities that other people spent their lives chasing and never caught, and you had never understood, not when he first looked at you across a room and decided, with quiet certainty of his, that you were the one he wanted, and not in the years since what it was he had seen in you.
You still didn’t. You had turned that question over in your mind for years now and still had no answer for it, and maybe that was the problem.
Or maybe the problem was something else entirely, something that smelled like Chanel No.5 and worked the front desk on the forty-second floor of Targaryen Group and had absolutely no business being the reason your three year marriage was falling apart.
You had tried for longer than you wanted to admit, not to believe it. Had told yourself it was nothing, that you were merely just being foolish, that Baelor Targaryen was many things but he was not that, he had never been that. You tried telling yourself that he was just busy, that the acquisition was demanding, that the late nights were the industry and not the woman, that the business trips were exactly what he said they were. You had told yourself that story so many times it had almost started to sound true.
And then there was the office party.
He had wanted you there, had said it was expected, had kissed the top of your head and said he didn't want to go alone, and you had gone because you loved him and because saying no to Baelor when he looked at you like that had never been something you were particularly good at.
The venue was the kind of place that made you very aware of your own posture, all clean lines and open bars and people who wore their money, and you had been standing beside him, his hand at the small of your back, feeling almost like yourself, until she appeared.
She had smiled at you first, which was the thing you remembered most. That smile, bright and deliberate, her red lipstick immaculate, her eyes moving over you with an assessment so quick and so thorough you almost missed it. “You wouldn’t mind if I steal your husband for a few quick minutes,” she had said, and her hand had gone to his upper arm as she said it, her red nails against his sleeve, easy and familiar, the touch of someone who had done it before. “Something just needs to be checked in the office, urgently.”
Baelor had given nothing away. He had looked at you, said he’d be right back, and followed her, while you stood there with your drink and your smile, and your very well-practiced composure and told yourself it was nothing.
Seconds became minutes, minutes became an hour.
You had found daeron at the bar, Baelor’s nephew, who was good company in the uncomplicated way of someone who wasn’t trying to be anything other than he was, and you had drunk more than you intended to and not questioned out loud why an hour was somehow still a few minutes, but when Baelor eventually reappeared you had let him put you in the car, and take you home and you said nothing, because what were you going to say, because you had no proof, because you were his wife and you trusted him.
You told yourself that too. For months.
There were always secretes, you had come to understand, in lives like this one. Wealth like Baelor’s didn’t come clean, it never did, and you had known that when you married him, had chosen it anyways, had told yourself that the way he looked at you when it was just the two of you made up for everything else that came with his name.
But now you weren’t sure you still believed that.
And so you sat in the dark, and you drank, rethinking the choice of getting married to a guy who was a widow for years, and waited for the sound you had gotten very good at waiting for.
His key in the door.
It came at two forty-seven am, because you had been watching the clock the way you had started watching everything lately, tracking the evidence, and the lock turned and the door opened, the light from the hallway came in first, a rectangle of it falling across the floor, and then Baelor, still in his suit blazer, his tie loosened, looking down at his phone as he came in, the way he always looked down at his phone.
He reachedd for the light switch without looking up.
The lamp came on.
He saw you.
“What–” He stopped. Looked at you properly for the first time, at the glass in your hand and the bottle on the coffee table and whatever was on your face, and something shifted in his expression, the phone coming down to his side. “What’s going on?”
You looked at him from across the room, this many you had married, this man whose shirts you wore on a regular basis, whose coffee order you could recite in your sleep, whose laugh you had not heard properly in months, and felt the words that you had been repeating sitting in your chest like stones.
“Where have you been,” you said, and your voice came out softer than you intended, the kind of soft that wasn’t calm at all, the kind that came from trying very hard to hold something together.
He heard it. You could tell he heard it by the way something in his face settled into a careful expression, the one he put on when he was deciding how to manage a situation.
“Work,” he said. “I told you I had a late meeting, I sent you a–”
“You sent me a text at seven saying you’d be home by nine.” You kept your eyes on him, and kept your face as still as you could make it, “It’s nearly three in the morning, Baelor.”
He set his phone down on the console table by the door with quiet deliberateness, and came further into the room, loosening his tie the rest of the way, and you watched him move through your home like a man with nothing to answer for and felt something tighten in your chest.
“How much have you had,” he said, glancing at the bottle.
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“I’m asking you something first.” He said it the way you said things to children, patiently, reasonably, and you felt your jaw tighten. “How much wine have you had tonight?”
“Enough,” you said.
“Clearly,” he said, the word landed with a lightness that was worse than if he had shouted it, and he draped his jacket over the back of the chair and turned to look at you with a patient expression, one that made you feel like a problem he was calculating how to solve. “Come to bed.”
You felt something flicker across your face that you couldn’t quite stop– something between disbelief and the exhaustion of a woman who had been having this conversation in her head for months and was only now having it out loud. “I don't want to go to bed.”
"You've been sitting in the dark drinking by yourself," he said, evenly, "which means you've been in your head all evening, which means whatever you've decided to pick a fight about is going to seem considerably less significant in the morning." He said it like he was being reasonable. He said it like he was doing you a favour. "Come to bed."
"The phone calls," you said. Your voice was steady. You were proud of that, how steady your voice was. "The ones where you leave the room."
He looked at you and said nothing, and you looked back at him and kept going.
"Every time," you said. "You look at the screen, you get up, you go to the kitchen or the hallway or wherever it is that you go, then you come back, kissing me like nothing happened and sometimes you say you need to go back into the office and you leave. Every time." You swallowed. "Who are you talking to."
"Work," he said, simply, like the word was self-evident, like you were being slow.
"At ten o'clock at night."
"I'm the CEO of a private equity firm with holdings across three continents," he said, still in that patient voice that was going to make you lose your mind, "yes, sometimes at ten o'clock at night. You know this."
"The business trips." You pressed on because if you stopped you would lose your nerve. "Four in the last two months. You used to go twice a year."
"The Essos acquisition–"
"The dinners." Something in your face shifted, something you couldn't help, the particular look of a person trying very hard not to feel what they were feeling. "Date night, three weeks ago, you cancelled an hour before. Our anniversary dinner, you were two hours late and you smelled like–" your voice caught on the word and you pushed past it, "you came home and you kissed me and you smelled like her perfume, Baelor, and you said you needed to go back in, there was something you forgot, and you left, and I sat here–"
"The wine," he said, "is clearly getting to you."
You stopped.
You looked at him, at the calm of his face, at the patient set of his mouth, and felt something that had been soft in you go very quiet and very cold.
"I'm serious," he said, and his voice had gone gentle in the way that made it worse, the way that said I am the reasonable one and you are not, "you've been sitting here alone for hours working yourself up into something and I understand that you're–"
"Don't," you said.
"I understand the last few months haven't been easy, I know I've been distracted, I'm not dismissing that–"
"You're doing it right now." Your voice came out harder than you planned. "You're making it about how I'm feeling instead of what I'm asking you. You're making me the problem."
“Because how you’re feeling is relevant,” he said, and glanced at the bottle, “when you’ve had most of that by yourself and you’re sitting in the dark waiting to–”
"I'm waiting for my husband," you said, and your voice cracked on the last word, just slightly, just enough, and you saw it land on his face, saw something move through his expression that you could not name, and you looked away from him because you were not going to cry in front of him tonight, you had promised yourself that, "who told me he'd be home hours ago."
The room was quiet.
He crossed to the coffee table and sat down in front of you, close, closer than you wanted, close enough that you could see his eyes clearly in the lamplight, one brown and one blue, both of them on you with attention that had made you fall in love with him and was now making you feel like a witness being cross-examined, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and said, low and even, "I am not cheating on you—”
"I want a divorce," you said suddenly.
Something moved across his face. Raw, just for a moment, before the composure came back down like a shutter.
"No," he said.
“Baelor–”
"No." Flat, absolute, the voice of a man who had made a decision and was not interested in discussing it. "We are not doing this."
You stood up. Your legs were steadier than they had any right to be. "I'm getting a lawyer."
He stood too, and he was broader than you forgot sometimes, his bearded jaw set, something in his face that was no longer the patient composure, no longer the careful evenness, it was something that had dropped its mask, and his hand closed around your arm, not hard but firm, and he said, "Stop. Just– listen to me for one minute–"
"No." You pulled your arm away, sharply, and the sharpness of it surprised you both. "I have listened to this bullshit for months! Every single excuse, every single reasonable explanation, I am so done with listening, I'm getting a goddamn lawyer–"
“A lawyer.” He let out a short sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You think it’s going to be that simple.” His voice had gone low again, and he looked at you with those mismatched eyes and said, “I know every lawyer in this city. Every single one. You think one of them is going to take a case against me because my wie has had too many glasses of wine and decided I’m cheating on her.”
You went still.
You looked at him, at the cold certainty of his face, and felt something move through you that was not quite fear and not quite fury but lived somewhere between the two.
You let out a short laugh, humourless, and shook your head. "Of course," you said, quietly, more to yourself than to him.
“I’m serious–”
"So am I." You turned away from him and started toward the bedroom. "I'll find someone. I don't care how long it takes, I'll find someone who will make you sign the papers."
"You're drunk out of your mind." He was following you, his voice behind you, still with that controlled edge that was unravelling at the seams. "You're not thinking straight. I'm telling you it won't go the way you think, I'm asking you to stop and talk to me properly, we are not getting a—"
You slammed the bedroom door in his face.
The force of it shook the frame, and you turned the lock before the sound had finished echoing, and stood there with your hand still on the handle and your chest heaving and the silence on the other side pressing back against the door like something solid.
"I'm getting a lawyer, Baelor." Your voice came out steady, which was the only thing you had left. "I mean it."
Nothing came from the other side. Then, after a long moment, his footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving away down the hall.
You stood there in the dark for a long time after that.
Eventually you lay down on the bed, still dressed, and looked at the ceiling, and did not cry, because you had been crying alone in this penthouse for months and you were finished with it. You were so finished with it.
He had started coming home early.
That was the thing you hadn't anticipated, the thing that made the week after considerably harder than it should have been, because you had built your anger on a foundation of absence and he had removed the absence, which left you standing on something that felt less solid than it had.
You avoided him at all costs. You lay in bed and listened for the sound of the front door closing, and only then, only when you were sure he was gone, did you come out. You padded around the flat in one of his shirts, which was too big for you and which you had grabbed in the dark one morning without thinking and then refused to acknowledge the irony of, and you made yourself coffee and ate whatever was in the fridge then moved through the rooms like you were the only person who lived there.
He had tried to talk to you the morning after. You had heard him outside the bedroom door, and when you opened it he had looked at you with something on his face that you didn't want to name and started to say something careful and measured and you had cut him off before he got three words in.
"I want the divorce," you said. "It's not changing."
He had looked at you for a long moment and said nothing, and you had closed the door again, and that was that.
The days that followed had their own particular shape. He came home earlier than he had in months, which you noticed and did not comment on. The late calls stopped, or became shorter, or moved somewhere you couldn't track them. He left coffee for you one morning before he left, made exactly the way you liked it, and you stood in the kitchen in his shirt looking at the cup and felt something complicated move through your chest and then put it away and went back to looking for lawyers.
Because that was what you spent your days doing. Searching, calling, being passed from one firm to the next, each one either conflicted out or quietly unwilling the moment you said the name Targaryen. He had not been exaggerating about that, which made you furious in a way you had not expected, a cold and very specific fury that had nothing to do with the perfume or the late nights and everything to do with the fact that even trying to leave him was something he could make difficult without trying.
You found one on the ninth day. His name was Gerold Hightower, a small firm, old school, the kind that had been around long enough not to be impressed by anyone, and he listened to everything you said without writing anything down and then looked at you over the top of his glasses and said he'd take it.
You had explained everything– the trips, the calls, the hours, the perfume, the office party, the hour that was supposed to be a few minutes– and he had listened to all of it and nodded and handed you the papers and told you they needed Baelor's signature, and that if Baelor declined, they were going to court.
You had signed your name on the line and felt, for the first time in weeks, like you could breathe.
You did not go home first. You drove straight to Targaryen Group.
The building sat in the middle of the city the way everything Targaryen sat– like it had always been there and always would be, like the city had been built around it rather than the other way around. You had walked through those lobby doors on Baelor's arm more times than you could count, had smiled at the staff and taken the private elevator and sat across from him at his desk while the city spread out below the floor-to-ceiling windows and thought, more than once, that you would never entirely get used to the scale of it.
Today you walked in alone, in a baggy tracksuit, your hair barely done, the red folder under your arm, and you didn't care even slightly about the way the lobby staff clocked you and looked away. Who were you trying to impress? You were here to end a marriage, not attend a board meeting.
You pressed the button for the lift and waited, and that was when you heard it. The click of heels on marble, and underneath it, the obnoxious rhythmic sound of someone chewing gum, and you turned your head and there she was.
Elizabeth. You had learned her name somewhere along the way, in the particular grim investigative way you had learned a lot of things over the past months. She was dressed the way she always seemed to be dressed, like she had given the morning a great deal of thought, her red lipstick already immaculate, and when she saw you her jaw slowed on the gum and something moved across her face that she recovered from quickly but not quickly enough.
"Mrs Targaryen," she said, and her voice came out bright and smooth, the voice of someone who had done customer-facing work long enough to smile through anything. "What a pleasure, I wasn't expecting you–"
"Can't say the same," you said pleasantly, and watched the smile flicker.
The silence that followed had an uncomfortable quality that she tried to fill. "How have you been lately?" she asked, and she was clicking the heel of one shoe against the marble now, a small unconscious tap, her eyes moving briefly to the closed lift doors and back.
"Honestly?" You tilted your head, like you were considering it. "Really quite good. Better than I've been in a while, actually. I'm getting a divorce, which I think is going to suit me very well."
Her mouth opened then closed, then the hell stopped clicking. “You’re–”
The lift doors opened.
You stepped toward them and then stopped, and turned back to look at her, and held out the red folder. "You're going up to his office, aren't you."
"I have some paperwork to– he didn't say anything about a–"
"He wouldn't." You pressed the folder to her chest, and she grabbed it before it could fall, both hands closing around it with a startled instinct, and you looked at her very directly and said, "Be an angel. Before you get up to whatever it is you both love getting up to after everyone else goes home– tell him to sign those papers. Tonight. Or I'm dragging him to court, and I have a very good lawyer who is very much looking forward to it."
"Mrs Targaryen, I genuinely don't know what you think is–"
You left her alone as you walked back out from where you came from, and ignored the doubt that settled into your gut, as you recalled her confusion.
You did not look back, you didn’t dare to.
You came home later than him.
You knew before you even opened the front door, some animal awareness of the changed quality of the air, the particular stillness of a space that had someone in it waiting, and you turned your key slowly and pushed the door open and reached for the light.
He was sitting on the couch. Just like you had, days ago, except he had already turned the lights on, and his blazer was off, his tie was loosened all the way and he was sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, with the red folder that was open on the coffee table in front of him, the papers spread out, looking at them when you walked in.
He looked up at the sound of the door.
"You signed them?" The surprise in your voice came out before you could stop it. Maybe Elizabeth had finally gotten what she wanted. Maybe the mistress had made her case in person and he had decided the easiest thing was to just let you go, so that he could finally be with her, without any complications.
He looked at you for a long moment, his expression giving nothing away, and then looked back at the papers.
"No," he said.
Something dropped in your chest. "Baelor–"
"I'm not signing this." He sat back, unhurried, and looked at you, the corner of his mouth moved into something that was almost a smile, small and certain, and the sight of it made your blood run hot.
The absolute audacity of him, sitting there smiling at you like this was amusing, like you were amusing, like three years of marriage and a week of silence and a folder full of divorce papers were something he found faintly entertaining.
"Just sign the damned papers." You let your bag slide off your shoulder and drop to the floor, as you looked at him across the room and felt the desperation of it, how tired you were, how much you just needed this to be over. "Please. Sign them and let us both out of this."
"Let's talk about what happens if I don't." He tilted his head, still with that smile, and there was something in his eyes that was cold in a way you hadn't let yourself see before, or hadn't wanted to.
"You take this to court. These people, in this city, outside of this city– they kiss the ground my family walks on, the ground I walk on. You know that. You've seen it. You think a judge is going to look at you, at where you came from, at what you had before me, and side with you?" He paused, letting it land. "You leave me, you leave with nothing. Your family leaves with nothing. Everything you have, everything they have, it all came through this name. You know that's true, beautiful, so stop playing stupid."
"Sign the papers," you said, and your voice had gone flat.
"And then there's the other thing." His voice dropped into something quieter, and he picked up one of the papers and looked at it like it mildly interested him, like he was reading the weather and not dismantling your life. "The video."
You went still.
"Few months back. You came to the office after hours." His eyes came up to yours, slow and certain.
"Security cameras in that building are thorough. Very thorough that they got a clear shot of you coming in. Got a clear shot of you going to my office. Got a very clear shot of you on your knees under my desk with your pretty mouth wrapped around my cock." He said it the way he said everything, evenly, without drama, like it was simply a fact he was presenting. "My face isn't in the frame. The angle never catches me. But yours is. Every second of it, your face, perfectly clear." He set the paper back down.
"You want to think about what a courtroom makes of that. The Targaryen heir's wife, caught on her own husband's office security footage, on her knees for someone whose face the camera never caught." The smile returned, small and dark. "They won't know it's me. That's the part that's going to be very difficult for you to explain."
"You sick–" Your voice broke on it and you hated yourself for it, hated the burn behind your eyes, hated that he could still do this to you, that after everything he could still make your hands shake. "You would actually use that. You would stand there and threaten me with that."
"I'm not threatening you." He looked at you patient and cold and entirely focused. "I'm telling you what exists. I'm explaining the situation clearly, the way you've always said you wanted things explained." He stood up slowly, and crossed to the coffee table, and looked down at the papers spread out across it. "You walk into that courtroom and I promise you, you will walk out with nothing. No settlement, no name, no dignity, and that video somewhere it cannot be recalled. And I will be very, very sorry about all of it." The corner of his mouth moved. "Seems like a great deal of trouble for a divorce you don't actually want."
"It's blackmail!" The word tore out of you and your voice cracked on it and your tears fell and you didn't even try to stop them, because you were past that, you were so far past that. "That is blackmail, that is a threat, you are threatening me, and you have the absolute audacity to stand there and do this when you've been the one–" your voice broke again and you pressed your hands over your face, your fingers shaking against your cheeks. "When you've been cheating on me. You've been cheating on me this whole time and you're standing there threatening me with a video of me and acting like I'm the problem–"
"That," he said, and something shifted in his voice, the coldness dropping out of it entirely, replaced by something that sounded almost like frustration, like genuine frustration, like a man who had reached the end of something, "is where you are completely wrong."
You looked at him through your hands.
"I never cheated on you." He said it simply, without the performance of it, without the careful evenness, just the words. "I never did. Not once. Not even close."
He stood and walked toward you slowly, and you watched him come and couldn't make yourself move, couldn't make yourself do anything, your hands still pressed to your face and your tears still falling and all of it, the whole terrible weight of the past weeks, sitting on your chest. "I know how it looked. I know what the late nights looked like and the calls and the trips, I know exactly how it looked, and I should have–" he stopped. His jaw tightened. "I should have seen what it was doing to you and I didn't, and that's on me. That is entirely on me."
He reached up and took your hands away from your face, gently, and held them, and then his hands moved to your face, cradling it, his thumbs moving across your cheeks and catching your tears, you looked up at him with all of it written on your face, the hatred and the hurt and the desperate exhausted want for any of this to make sense.
"I'm not lying to you," he said, low and close, his eyes on yours. "I have never lied to you. This–" he glanced briefly toward the papers on the coffee table, "this is how far I am willing to go to stop you from throwing away something real because of something that isn't. You made me come to this point. You pushed me here."
"Don't you dare," you said, and your voice came out wet and furious, "make this my fault–"
"I'm not." His hands tightened slightly on your face. "I'm saying I love you. I'm saying I am not letting you go. Those are not the same thing."
You looked at him, at those mismatched eyes close to yours, at the particular quality of his certainty that had always undone you and was undoing you now in a way you resented completely, you felt something pull in your chest that you did not want to feel, and so you reached up, pushed his hands away from your face and stepped back and shook your head, you turned and walked to the bedroom with fury carrying your feet because if you slowed down you were going to fall apart.
"Do whatever the fuck you want," you said, shoving the bedroom door open hard enough that it swung back against the wall. "I'm leaving."
You went straight to the wardrobe and grabbed the first bag you could reach and started pulling things off hangers, off shelves, underwear, shirts, whatever your hands found first, not folding anything, not thinking, just moving, because moving was the only thing that was holding you together.
"I'm talking to you." His voice from the doorway, and then his footsteps behind you.
"I'm not listening," you said, and grabbed another handful of clothes.
"Look at me."
"No."
"Look–"
His hand closed around the bag and yanked it out of your grip and threw it across the room and it hit the floor with a dull thud that landed in the silence like a full stop.
You spun to face him. He was right there, closer than you'd realised, and he looked at you with something that was past cold now, past the boardroom composure, past all of it, something that was just raw and furious and desperate all at once, the face of a man who had run out of patience and hadn't found anything calmer underneath it.
"You're not getting this," he said. "Are you? You genuinely don't understand that I am not letting you walk out of here."
"Just let me go!" Your voice came out ragged, and you meant it, you meant every word of it, and you tried to move past him but his hands found your arms and held you, not hard, just immovable, and he walked you back slowly, step by step, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you sat down hard and looked up at him.
"Tell me what you need," he said. "Anything. You name it, it's done. You want me home every night, I'm home every night, no exceptions. You want the trips stopped, they stop. You want Elizabeth out of that building by tomorrow morning–" something moved across his face, "she's already gone, I'll call it in tonight, I don't care." His hands tightened around yours. "You want me to prove it to you, I will spend however long it takes proving it. Whatever it is. Just tell me."
You looked at him, at his face this close to yours, and felt your chin tremble and hated it.
"You can't just say that," you said. "You can't just say whatever I want and expect–"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart." His voice was low against your skin, as he laid you back against the bed slowly, his hand pressing into the mattress beside your head, and pressed his lips to your jaw, your neck, moving down with unhurried patience, the patience that had always undone you, that you had spent months missing without letting yourself name what you were missing.
"Baelor–" His name came out unsteady and you hated how unsteady it was, hated what it gave away.
He didn't stop. His mouth moved to your collarbone, your neck, and then lower, to the neckline of the shirt, his shirt, one of the many you had been wearing around the flat for a week without acknowledging why, and he paused there with his lips at the edge of the fabric and looked up at you, and his eyes in the low light of the bedroom had that quality they sometimes had, the one that made you feel like the only thing in the room worth looking at.
You tried getting up, but it was to no avail as he pushed you further into the bed, his weight shifted and you weren’t going anywhere, and some part of you that you weren’t proud of didn’t entirely want to.
"Have I not given you everything," he said, his voice dropping against the slope of your neck, his lips finding the skin there, slow and deliberate. "Have I not given you all of it."
You had no answer for that. Because the honest answer was yes, and you both knew it was yes, and the yes of it didn't make any of the other things less true– the manipulation, the threats, the cold certainty of a man who had decided you belonged to him and acted accordingly– but it sat in your chest anyway, heavy and real and deeply inconvenient.
"You did– and I know that," you said, and your voice came out shaky in a way you couldn't help, and your eyes were burning again, and you were so tired of your own tears at this point, so tired of how easily he could bring them out of you.
His hand found your throat.
Not hard. Not hurting. Just the weight of it, warm and certain, fingers curving lightly at your jaw, and your hand came up without thinking and rested over his, and his eyes moved to yours and stayed there. His breathing had changed. Something in his face had dropped every last layer of the composure, every last bit of the boardroom and the cold and the careful patience, and what was underneath it was something rawer and considerably more dangerous.
"You say that, my love," he said, very quietly, "and then you spend a week locking doors and walking around in my shirt like I'm supposed to pretend I don't notice." His thumb moved once along your jaw. "I think it's time I reminded you what you keep trying so hard to forget."
"Baelor–" His name came out wrong again, too soft, not enough warning in it.
His lips came down on yours and it wasn't gentle. It was hungry and certain and relentless, the kiss of a man who had been patient for a week and was completely finished with patience, and you felt it move all the way through you, your hands coming up to his chest without quite managing to push.
He followed when you turned your face, his mouth finding your jaw, your neck, and then back again, and his hands were warm and certain on your skin, pulling the shirt over your head before you had entirely decided not to stop him.
The cold air hit you and you pressed into him without meaning to, and he was already there, arms pulling you in, and his lips were at your throat and his hands were everywhere and you felt your thoughts go quiet one by one, the lawyer and the papers and the week of locked doors and all of it dissolving under his hands until there was nothing left but the warmth of him and the dark of the room and the specific, devastating patience of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and had all night to do it.
"Baelor," you said, against his shoulder, and it didn't sound like stop anymore.
"I know," he said, low against your skin. "I've got you."
You hadn’t even realised when your pants had been pushed down and discarded somewhere on the floor. The only thing that made it register was the sudden pressure of Baelor’s knee sliding between your thighs, forcing them apart with a quiet insistence that made your breath catch.
He didn’t rush.
That was the worst part of it.
Baelor moved slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world. His mouth trailed down your body in unhurried kisses, each one lingering just long enough to make you tense, waiting to see where he’d go next. There was something restless in the way he touched you, an impatience buried beneath control, like he was holding himself back by sheer force.
You watched him through a haze as he straightened briefly, unbuttoning his top and letting it fall somewhere beside the bed. The movement was quick, careless, his attention never really leaving you.
When he leaned over you again, his gaze was darker.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and rougher than usual. His hand slid up your side, slow enough to make you shiver.
The shift of his weight stole the breath from your lungs. Your vision blurred again as you clutched at his shoulders, tears slipping past your temples from the intensity of it.
Baelor let out a strained groan under his breath, the sound deep in his chest. For a moment he pressed his forehead to yours, jaw tight like he was trying to keep himself composed.
“God,” he muttered quietly, almost to himself. His hand tightened slightly where it held your hip. “You’ve no idea what you do to me.”
The restraint didn’t last.
His grip grew firmer, movements more certain, like the control he normally carried so carefully was beginning to slip. Each breath he took sounded heavier than the last, his composure unraveling piece by piece.
“You want to leave?” he said quietly, his voice rough now, but still controlled enough to cut. “You think you can just walk out and untangle yourself from me like I’m a bad investment?”
His hand slid down your side, slow, deliberate, possessive.
“You don’t understand,” he continued moving inside of you, eyes locked on yours. “There is no version of this where you and I end separately.”
Your heart was beating too fast. Too loud. You hated that your body still reacted to him, hated that even now he could make your thoughts blur.
His forehead pressed to yours again, but this time there was no softness in it.
“I’ll never let you go.”
“I promise I’m going to be good to you,” he said softly, like he was offering you something generous. “It’s going to be us… and a baby.”
Your eyes widened instantly, panic breaking clean through the haze.
The word landed heavier than the threats had. He felt it. You knew he did.
“Baelor, no what are you talking–” you said, your voice sharp with fear now, hands pushing at his chest.
He caught your wrists easily. Not hurting. Just immovable.
“Yes,” he corrected, calm as ever.
“You wouldn’t leave then,” he continued, quieter now, studying your face like he was already seeing the future play out. “You wouldn’t take my child away from me. You wouldn’t drag this through court when there’s something tying us together.”
His hand slid up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing under your eye where tears had gathered again.
Synopsis. Six months since you’ve broken up with Toji Zenin - hotshot center for the men’s national team, perhaps the most feared man in ice hockey - and you’ve moved on…somewhat. Six months since you’ve broken up with him, and listen- Toji doesn’t mean to be a homewrecker, but he’d totally still wreck that p—ahem. Now if only he could get that two-timing boyfriend of yours out of the way…
Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, ice hockey player!Toji, ex-boyfriend!Toji, Winter Olympics AU, exes to Iovers, second chances, ice hockey finals, ice hockey games, jerseys, Naoya cameo, channeling my Naoya hate tbh, fights, sIight vioIence, Toji being in his feels, yearning, pússydrúnk Toji, oraI (fem rec.), p talking, p sIapping, P WORSHIP, he’s GONE, he’s better than HIM and he proves it, fíngering, spítting, overstím, manhandIing, doggy, Iocker room s, he’s big, making it fit, ‘teaching’ your p, cervíx smooches, multiple o’s, he’s JEALOUS, desperate s, rough s, slight marathon, sIight exhíbitíonism, needy Toji, FÉRAL Toji, creampíes, cúmpIay, proposals, sIight bréeding, happy ending, Shiu cameo heheh, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 12.1k
A/N. SURPRISE!! Hiiiiiiiiighly request hehehe- inspired by this scrumptious Tiktok by the lovely @/bellursjournal <33
234 fights.
234 won.
Ice hockey wasn’t just about the hard-hitting, fast-paced, ice-cold adrenaline that coursed through each and every single player there—outreaching like a gale towards the rows of audiences that jumped up in elation. Shivering at the impact of every skate, glide, and punch.
No, ice hockey was also about bringing people together.
And as corny as it may sound, it was part of why Toji loved these games so much. As one, he made them stand. He made them shout. He fired them up until they became immune to the frigidness of Milano Santagiulia Ice Hockey Arena.
So it wasn’t exactly out-of-the-ordinary to see a fight start up during one of these games - between players (him especially) and between fans.
What was slightly unusual was to see a fight occur between a player and a fan. Which is exactly what he was watching happen right now.
And even more unusual was just who it was.
You—arguing with some brute he assumed to be your boyfriend.
Tch…Toji’s scarred lips curl without him even realizing it. He’d noticed you the second you stepped into the rink - he always did. The second you’d stepped into his life, the second you’d stepped out of it. It was like this undeniable tug at the pit of his stomach, this rush of victory, this sudden warmth that he couldn’t explain - and couldn’t quite imitate no matter how many layers he wore.
Not that he would reminisce, of course.
You’d met at one of his games—and to this day, no matter how many other matches he played in, he still considers that one of his best. It was in the feeling that you gave him - that game felt different. It was.
His eyes kept drifting to where you sat behind the plexiglass, and his skates have never glided smoother across the ice. It was a win for the records. After the game, Toji himself had been mulling over whether or not he should approach that pretty university student that had been shouting his name throughout the entire game- when you yourself had shyly walked up to him in the fan-signing section.
Steps tentative, a book crushed to your chest.
You’d asked him for an autograph in that sweet voice—and he’d scribbled his number out then and there. Media training be damned.
And when he’d asked you who your favorite player was- lo and behold, you’d replied that it was…Shiu Kong. He doesn’t think he’s laughed louder in his life.
That was also the game that got him on the radars of national team scouts.
You’d dated for a year. Almost exactly.
And to be transparent, it’s already been six months since the two of you broke up. Over some…honestly, he doesn’t even remember properly. He knew it had to do with his updated training regiment and the way he’d been pushing himself during the Olympics drafting season - and because of it, Toji knew he fucked up. He knew he missed dates, missed quality time, missed milestones. Barely came home from the rink.
You didn’t even care about that, he thinks. You wanted him to pace himself and take some breaks, he thought that sounded like a nightmare. Eventually, the last straw had been when he’d missed your one-year anniversary, and it’d accumulated into an explosive argument- that, he could remember.
He’s gotten better since then, he thinks.
But Toji was just about as over it as any man would be over the love of his life- fuck, did he really get his cringe after the break-up? That probably wasn’t good for his health. But it’s just that…he hasn’t felt that particular rush of victory ever since you left.
Not even when he was chosen for the official Japanese ice hockey team, not even when they landed in Milan, not even when they progressed to the finals.
But today…
The fucking finals of the Olympics and he was sitting on the players’ bench before the game, scouring the stands for but a glimpse of you. The fuck have you done to him?
He could feel that surge of warmth, however. As though every fibre of his body had long since attuned to you, wasn’t whole without y- fuck off. The point was that you were somewhere here.
And Toji was reminded of those days you’d be sitting in the very first row of his games- front and center, waving a banner with his number, wearing one of his red jerseys. ZENIN—it would say on the back. Not one from the merchandise store, of course, though those sold out so fast that even Toji himself wouldn’t be able to get his hands on one.
So his eyes slid along the first rows of fans. The turnout was incredible.
Japan vs. the US.
And Toji could guise his sudden alertness towards the audience as checking for any distractions in the stands - he didn’t want to be off his game during the fucking finals, now, did he? Especially not considering that their newest recruited defense player was…
But he knew that was bullshit.
Nothing ever threw Toji Zenin off his game.
And yet…and yet once he spotted you - seated amongst a clump of blue-wearing supporters on the other side of the rink, right opposite where he sat on the players’ benches - he couldn’t help the sudden jitter that ran through his body. Honestly, he thinks he might just break that streak of (substantiated) overconfidence before a match-
Fuck, how beautiful you were.
Just as beautiful as the day he lost you, it makes everything almost move in slow-motion. If this were a movie - and it somewhat feels like one right about now - then the music would swell, and Toji’s eyes would turn to hearts, and perhaps there’d be a dance number or two and then a montage of-
Bullshit, bullshit! Toji Zenin wasn’t thrown off his game.
Toji Zenin was unaffected by your presence- and the fact that you were wearing a jersey clearly representing the other team. He didn’t fucking care.
He didn’t. Not even about the fact that you were currently in the middle of a very heated argument with one of the US players. Blond hair. Black tips. Shorter than him. Not even by how close you leaned into him. And Toji doesn’t bother to wipe the scowl off of his face as he perks his ears in your direction - one could never be too sure whether you were trading secrets with this e-boy blue-team boyfriend of yours.
You would never, to be clear, but just- just let him fucking evesdrop-
“—can’t believe you would do this to me.” Your voice carries, and the little tremor in your tone makes his eyes widen.
Sure enough, he could see the glimmer of tears in your eyes.
You’re rising up from your seat slightly, and it draws the attention of fans around you. Seething, “I can’t believe you would-”
“Shhhhhhhh—” The man has the audacity to bring a finger to his lips and shush, likely louder than you were being in your controlled tone. Trembling, but controlled. His half-blond bangs sway just a little as he looks towards his own team and coaches, then back towards you. “You’re being crazy right now.”
“I’m being crazy?” Laughing in disbelief. Holding up a phone that seemed to be the other man’s, presumably given to you for safe-keeping during the match. “I’ve seen the messages, and you say I’m being crazy-”
“You are. You’re acting hysterical and I need you to calm down.” Toji couldn’t see the man’s ugly face, as he had his back turned towards the benches. But he could see every bit of how this particular sentence made your expression crumple- “Look I don’t know what you think you saw on those texts, but it isn’t what you think it is. It’s locker talk- I went out with the other players, got some drinks, met some fans and…nothing happened with any-”
“You’re cheating on me-”
“You’re paranoid.”
Your eyes flash, “But-”
“You know I always hate to talk to you like this, baby. I really do.” He reaches up and puts a pale hand on the plexiglass, “But you’re just being paranoid. And I don’t want to call you insecure, but-”
“Don’t you dare—” You’re standing up now.
“See? This is exactly what I mean.” From the ruffling of his uniform, Toji could tell he was crossing his arms. Oh, how he wished this son of an asshole would turn around right now- just turn around and let him get a good look at what gave him the right. His cruel lips curl just a little bit in a way that just looked so familiar. It makes his blood boil. “You’re being crazy.”
And Toji sees the exact moment you furl in on yourself. “But…” It makes his fists clench.
Before he knows it, he’s gritting his teeth so hard he tastes metal.
“I’m a hockey player, baby, I’ve gotta network.” With such a tone of finality, he ends off—“Stop being so hysterical, and maybe we can have a civil conversation after.” The man kicks his blades into the ice and starts to push off, “Cheer for me loud during the game. My teammates are going to be watching.”
You don’t say a thing.
But he does, “You’re lucky you’re dating me, y’know?”
And that’s when Toji’s eyes finally fall to the text upon the man’s uniform.
ZENIN.
He knows who it is even before he turns—and Toji falters. Not out of reconsideration, or anxiety, or fear - but out of the sheer surprise that ah, this was going to be convenient.
Because Toji Zenin knew the bastard - more than he would have liked to.
Naoya Zenin was a part of his past whether he wanted to or not. He was the snot-nosed, bratty second heir to Zenin Industries that would hide behind corners and snicker to himself whenever Toji got caught sneaking out to the arena again. Whenever he was told off for going against Zenin family values - against his duty to become the head of their sport equipment business - by whichever higher-up happened to be feigning for a stress outlet that day.
Short and sweet, Toji Zenin wasn’t supposed to become an ice hockey player—let alone the fucking best in the country. But he digresses.
And how fucking hilarious was it that the (second) heir to a family so vehemently against Toji becoming an ice hockey player…also became an ice hockey player? He had an inkling this would happen - when Naoya’s mean-spirited amusement turned into surveillance attempting to catch him sneaking out of the estate, turned into watching him play at the local arena. Turned into awe.
He knew the boy was stunned ever since the first time he watched Toji play. And he never laughed when Toji was caught after that day.
But it seems that that still hadn’t stopped the kid from growing up into a fucking asshole like the rest of them.
He was damn glad he’d escaped from that household the very second he’d gotten an offer from a local team, the Tokyo Ice Bucks. Though a morbid part of him wished he’d stayed just long enough to be there for when Naoya announced that he, too, wanted to become just like their disgraced once-heir. How he wished he could’ve seen the reactions of his high-strung relatives, his uptight family friends, his parents, his council—though, seemingly it hadn’t worked out too bad for Naoya.
As he climbed up the ranks, he’d heard through the grapevine that his cousin had been sent to some of the most expensive training centers in the world. Ultimately getting signed onto a team in the US (though the hefty sum his family had paid likely helped, but those were just rumors of sports business…). He also knew that the other man had gotten naturalized recently, getting chosen for the Olympics team. He knew it all.
Toji just didn’t know that Naoya would also be your fucking boyfriend.
“Major scene, eh?” Kusakabe clatters himself down on the bench, slightly winded after a practice run. He fixes the laces on his ice skates, “I saw your ex-girlfriend there, she’s gotten even more beautiful. She seemed to be arguing with-”
“Mhm.” Replying absent-mindedly, Toji stands.
“Something about cheating- what a fucking bastard. Doesn’t deserve her, but then again neither did you.”
“I know.”
And Kusakabe frowns, “Does she know that she’s dating your weirdo estranged cousin?”
“No fuckin’ clue.”
“Oi…” Comes the slightly wary tone at Toji’s swift, dismissive responses—Kusakabe looks up at his teammate. “Don’t do something stupid.”
But Toji doesn’t answer, too fixated on watching the remains of your argument with Naoya: you sitting down weakly in your chair, looking around to make sure no one notices as you wipe away the tears in your ears before they overspill. He sees red.
He shoots up to a stand.
“Oi-” Kusakabe’s more panicked tone echoes across the ice- did Toji already get inside the rink? He was skating on the ice before he even registered it. “Oi, fuck-face. Asshat. Toji—”
But Toji’s eyes were set on one thing, his ears were listening for the commentator announcing the imminent start of the game.
“Toji, don’t do something stupid-”
And maybe he was stupid. Because it wasn’t for nothing that Toji Zenin was named the most feared man on the ice by The Hockey News just this year. He stood big. He stood tall. He stood unafraid to fight his entire childhood, so why should he be afraid to fight on the ice?
234 fights since the start of his ice hockey career.
234 fights won.
And right now the man wasn’t afraid to get blood on his hands, even if it suspended him.
Their coach barks at the rest of the Japanese team to get into position, and it’s a blur as he bends low at the faceoff spot, awaiting the referee to release the puck. Toji Zenin: captain of the Japanese Ice Hockey team.
His eyes shift past the US captain before him—to where Naoya Zenin was lined up as well. And he can see the precise, exact moment that the other man registers- and a shiver courses down his spine.
The puck drops.
It goes to the Japanese team.
Toji swoops the puck using the blade and attacks between the forwards- pitiful, honestly. He could almost let out a slight burst of laughter as he senses the dumbfounded looks on their faces—and yet, he doesn’t spare them a single glance backwards as he races between members of the other team. Past center. Past forward.
A right-winger attempts to steal the puck. He’s ignoring Kusakabe’s call to pass and toe-dragging around his bland-faced opponent to skate right past. Right winger. Left winger.
The forward surpassed yet again.
At the speed of light, screaming audience members meld into one.
All but you.
You—you’re all that’s on his mind as Toji makes it unscathed up to the defense- past left defense.
Until he’s left facing the very man he hasn’t seen in ten years. Eyes like his, though they were dark and widened in fear - somewhere in the far distance of the stadium, Toji hears one of the commentators make a remark about their relation. He doesn’t listen.
He feints the puck slipping out from the leash of his hockey stick for a split-second—just long enough for excitement to flicker in Naoya’s eyes and for his own hand jerk to claim it. Only to smile- hah, you fucking thought.
And Toji’s slamming at the back of the puck - straight into the net of the goal.
Bursts of cheers and commentary as the Japanese men’s ice hockey team scores the first goal of the Olympic finals. Fans getting up onto their feet. Hands high in the air.
But Toji’s own curls into a fist that meets Naoya Zenin’s jaw.
The sickening sound of bone crushing against flesh, knuckles - it’s never sounded sweeter in Toji’s ears. The baffled man is on the floor before he can even register what happened. Thud! There’s a gasp that echoes throughout the stadium, before the two-toned man haplessly attempts to get up and get at least one hit in for his own dignity—but it’s too late, he raises a feeble hand but it falls. Meanwhile Toji pummels punch after punch.
Hard enough that it makes the ice floor shudder.
Long enough that the referee glides over and their team starts surrounding them.
Naoya’s now spread-eagle on the floor and sobbing for mercy, which Toji genuinely didn’t hear - he genuinely didn’t. Couldn’t. His ears were ringing and his eyes were seeing red- no, they were seeing that vision of you wiping away your tears.
His prominent knuckles met the swoops and structure of Naoya’s face, features that he can’t deny make him wonder…did you see Toji in him? The proud slash of his mouth. The high cheekbones of the Zenins.
It made something twist within him to think that not only might you have seen Toji in him- but then he would’ve betrayed you as such. As if Toji ever would.
Naoya made you cry.
He couldn’t beat this fucker harder.
It takes four of his own teammates to pull him off.
And by then, even the commentators had stopped speaking, the audience watching in a mix of interest and horror. Their hands on their mouths. Toji staggers onto his feet and yet his hands were still clenched - still twitching as though he was in the middle of the fight.
Kusakabe’s nails dig into his skin even through those thick uniforms, and he’s muttering something in his ear about the referee and a five-minute timeout. But Toji doesn’t care.
Toji isn’t looking at the referee, or the coach, or any of his teammates.
He turns his head over his shoulder to look at you—
You with your mouth agape, your eyes fixated reciprocatively on him, your blue jersey taken off to reveal your normal clothes underneath. There was a slight tremor in your body as you take in your ex-boyfriend, Toji.
Victorious from beating up your cheating boyfriend.
And the black-haired man can only smirk.
He tastes iron, and it’s only then that he realizes he had a nosebleed. Dripping from his left nostril and down across his lips, his garish grin; not from a single thing Naoya did, of course - that fucker hadn’t even gotten a single hit in…Toji was almost reconsidering whether the bastard was a Zenin at all - but perhaps from his teammates fighting against his fighting, perhaps from his sheer anger, perhaps just from looking at you for the first time in six months.
Even from here, he could see the slightest snippet of your bra strap peeking out from underneath your t-shirt.
It was the Japanese national ice hockey team red.
Or more like, Toji Zenin red.
He smirks even wider.
.
.
.
Needless to say, Naoya Zenin was carried out of the game in a stretcher.
Toji didn’t feel any regret about it - not even a single speck. His penalties still applied as well- for about five minutes before he was back to kicking ass in the finals. Metaphorically, this time.
He was about to show them why exactly he’d become the captain of the national team in such a short time.
And he could take on whatever shit they were commenting about a ‘family feud’ and a ‘beau stuck in the middle’ (who the hell even told them that? He was sure it must’ve been that loudmouth Kusakabe) if only…every time he circled the perimeter of the rink, he could see that smile of yours through the plexiglass screen. No banner with his name, but still cheering him on in a sea of blue.
Also needless to say—Japan won gold at this year’s Olympics for men’s ice hockey.
The celebrations were overpouring - streamers, confetti, fans attempting to jump their way into the rink. This was about tenfold the intensity of celebrating any local game they’d won, and yet…his eyes were anywhere but on the commentators, the audience, the teammates that were huddling around him.
Toji was turning his dazed head left and right- only attempting to find you.
“We won—” Kusakabe yelled out at him, giving him a hefty thump on the back and pulling the man into his embrace. “We fucking won, you asshat-”
“We did.” Toji’s lips felt parched. He couldn’t see a single sign of you through the chaos. “I think.”
They - meaning the rest of the team, with their captain tacked-on and looking slightly astray ever since he lost sight of you - celebrated for the pictures, for the podium. They celebrated on the ice and off it.
Eventually, the celebrations extended past the rink and towards their locker rooms. It was a sprawling room that’d been especially constructed; white walls and wood-panelled furnishings, even whiter ceilings that gloried down even more spotless racks for each, swathing the end of the room in a semi-circular fashion. It was where they kept their helmets and their jackets, took them off like armor after such a win. Towards the other end of the chamber were the stalls where they showered, large enough to house a small group in each of them, with benches of clean wood.
The tile beneath was colorless except for five familiar rings intertwined, spreading their wings from one end of the locker room where the showers were—and down to the benches where the celebration had bled out.
The players had long since filtered out to celebrate with food and family, except for one particular captain of which he had no family visiting. But also because he was getting his final warnings on pulling such a stunt like that…
“—I have no idea what-” Coach Shiu Kong peers through his stern eyebrows at the man seated on the bench, his head bowed low. “-or who triggered you to start enforcing like that, but know that you are walking on very thin ice.”
If Toji hears the other man - his best friend - then he doesn’t show any sign of it.
“Their defender practically needed to be hospitalized.” Shiu sighs, “I don’t give a shit if you beat the boy up, but keep it within guidelines. I overheard some of the officials discussing whether we should’ve given you a much tougher penalty.”
At that, Toji flinches.
“A much tougher penalty.”
Being a player himself not too long ago, however, Shiu could understand the other man somewhat. And he knows the captain would do it all again.
Gladly.
Toji remains silent, and Shiu pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look- you’re lucky you got off with a five-minute penalty this time. Insanely lucky. Next time you’re not gonna be so lucky, so I suggest you keep your fists to yourself.”
“Tch…” Their star player wrinkles his nose and looks away.
To which Shiu claps him on the shoulder, “Look, you did good out there.” Looking closely at the other man, “And I know the girl- I’ve seen her around practice when you used to bring her, before she stopped coming around. Gorgeous. But keep your head on straight.”
One final clap. “You did good.”
Before he, too, leaves.
The locker doors swing behind him. And then there was one.
As the celebrations raged on outside, Toji doesn’t know how long he spends sitting on that bench - thinking to himself. About what? Everything and anything. He couldn’t quite pinpoint one thought before it flowed into the next one, and even then just as he’d register it—suddenly it was speeding into the next. Aqueous.
But one thing was for sure, they were all about you.
You.
You.
You.
Knock-knock-knock.
Who the hell knocks on locker room doors?
Slightly bemused and perhaps wondering whether this was a paparazzi hoping for a good shot, Toji leans back in his seat and lets the knock reverberate. He doesn’t answer before the doors are clicking open, and a set of footsteps ring across the vast, dampened chamber - a set of footsteps that he’s memorized far better than his own heartbeat.
It was you.
This realization doesn’t damper his shock a single bit as your head peeks ‘round the tiled corner. Breathing out an exhale of relief as you realize that he’s the only one there, you’re revealing yourself properly in his line of vision now.
“Oh, good.” And your voice- fuck, even your voice doesn’t feel real. It echoes slightly in the space, and makes you sound even more dream-like in Toji’s ears. “I didn’t feel like walking in here and seeing an eyeful of ice hockey dick.”
“Think about ice hockey dick a lot?” They’re the first words out of Toji’s mouth to you in six months, and suddenly he feels like banging his head against a wall.
“You mean Naoya?” Your nose crinkles in distaste, and he feels like spitting. “Hell no—” He feels like laughing. “I told him we’re breaking up the second he got put on that stretcher.”
He startles himself with a guffaw, “As the bastard was being carried off?”
“As the bastard was being carried off.” You’re nodding, before awkwardly shifting on your feet. “I’m sorry.”
One of his brows raise, “For what?”
“I didn’t know he was your cousin. I just thought the last name was a coinci-”
“Nah- forget about it.” Waving off one hand - roughened with so many years of training, of holding a hockey stick as though a lifeline - in your direction. “No harm done, girlie. Guess that jus’ means you have a type- though obviously…” Toji stabs a finger in his direction, “-I’m the handsome one of the family.”
“As humble as ever, I see.” You tease.
“Always.” He shrugs in a nonchalant attempt, though his green eyes kept straying to you. “You look good.”
You’re meeting his eyes slowly. “You look good, too.”
And whatever he sees in your expression makes him gulp. “Fuck-” He whispers underneath his breath, reaching up and rubbing the burning back of his head. “Now, not that I mind ya being in the men’s locker room but…”
“O-oh.” You jump slightly, as though just now reminded of your objective. “I wanted to thank you.”
He’s taken aback. “Huh?”
“For…well not that I condone violence buuuut—” Averting your gaze from his, “I wanted to- thank you.”
“Y-yeah.” Breathless, “No harm done. The fucker didn’t deserve you anyway.”
“Oh yeah?” There’s a slightly challenging look in your eyes now, “I wonder who did.”
Toji Zenin then stands from his seat, and you’re taking a half-step back as if you’d forgotten just how much the athlete towered. His shoulders had gotten broader since the last time you saw him, fitting out the shape of his brand-new uniform snugly. His biceps bulkier. His hips more defined. His face more ruggedly handsome. His sage eyes sharper—and currently locked in on you…
“To be quite honest…” Toji starts, a slightly husky timbre to his tone, “I don’t think anyone did.”
You jut your chin up in defiance, “I disagree.”
“Clearly the current dating pool isn’t good enough if you ended up dating fucking Naoya of all people.” And was that a silent seething you could hear in his tone? “Never would I blame you for what he did, girlie. Never. I’m just wondering what the hell attracted you to him in the first place.”
And your hand’s reaching up to touch him- “I have…I have no idea.”
“Because don’t you know what you deserve?” His large right hand reaches out to cup your cheek tenderly- before he’s gliding it to the back of your neck and squeezing you meanly. “Tell me.” He tightens his fist and makes you look up properly at him, “Tell me what you deserve.”
To which you’ve just finished grabbing onto his red jersey. Tugging him to you—you’re walking backwards and dragging your ex-boyfriend with you. “Someone…handsome.”
He grins, “Mhmmmm?” Fingers tap-tap-tapping the cute column of your throat. “And what else?”
“Someone big n’ strong.” Step by step, you head towards the nearest vertical surface you can remember - one of those wooden partitions that separated the shower stalls from the changing area. “Someone really good at hockey.”
“Heh-” He fails to hide the glint in his eyes, “And?”
“Someone sweet, though he pretends not to be.” Giggling at his huff, “Someone interesting. Someone that opens up. Someone that won’t give up.”
“And?”
“Someone filthy rich-”
“Heh, gold-digger.”
“Someone that can change for the better for me.”
It’s with a quiet thud—! that you’re hitting the partition now- taking Toji with you. He braces himself with a large arm pressed on the area above your head, and from here you can ogle every single muscle, vein, and twitch.
Every single scorched pant as he leans in.
Blinking up at him, your heart races at the question you were about to ask. “Someone that’ll fuck me right?”
He smirks and you swear you can feel it against your mouth. “Why the question mark, doll?”
And then his lips are on yours.
Rushing. Ravenous. Famished.
Toji massages his scarred lips against yours, smacking at the taste of that dewy cherry lipgloss you had on. And he doesn’t hesitate for a single second before letting the tip of his tastebuds draaaaaaaag right down that gloss, humming. “Missed this taste.” He trails his right hand up to rest against the edge of your chin—widening the gap between your pretty lips n’ swiping his eager tongue in. Hot and open-mouthed.
Kissing you so filthy.
Toji fucking groans something feral as his tongue slips even deeper, reclaiming those velvety spots inside you. And as he feels your mouth water, feels your hips start to squirm, the ice hockey player can’t help but chuckle.
Lifting his left hand off of the wooden surface to run down your front, managing you away from the partition and inside the stall. You’re walking blindly backwards, being led by solely his hands - nothing inside but the showerhead above and the wide open space. Toji pushes you against the cold tile and kisses you even more fervently—“Missed how wet she’d get just from kissing me.”
Cupping your pussy through your short, short skirt.
“Is she purring already?”
You gasp, “You can’t just say that-”
“What was that?” Toji cocks his head in near-innocent confusion, “Can’t hear you over her congratulations.”
“You fucking-”
The next thing you’re seeing is enough to knock the wind out of your lungs - and the words. And it’s not because of anything Toji says, it’s not because of his expressions or his gestures, or even the way he rubs the mountains of his palm against your clothed pussy—it’s because of the way he doesn’t hesitate before letting his knees hit the tiled ground with two deep thuds.
Fucking kneeling before you.
Toji throws your non-dominant leg over his shoulder, and bores up at you with half-lidded eyes. Heavy. Darkened with arousal- he wanted you so fucking bad.
He was a man deep in thirst.
In a single motion, the hockey player flips your skirt up n’ tucks the hemline into your waistband.
It’s almost as if he’s in a daze - as if he’s hypnotized - as he brings his face closer to your throbbing core. Where your pussy was nearly beating out of your red panties—before Toji flares his nostrils and gives that dampened spot on your panties a gooooood sniff. “Mmm, s’like coming home.” Your mouth gapes as you wonder whether he even realized what he was saying- was it possible to even act so starved? So animalistic? Open-mouthed, he breathes out a scorching hot pant that makes your legs shake. “Shit—shit, shit shit-”
“What?” You squeak out in—well, perhaps in surprise, perhaps because of the way your ex-boyfriend doesn’t waste a second more before nudgin’ your legs apart and sticking his nose right between your clothed slit. Slurp!
And his mouth merely opens with a gasp.
With a groan.
A sudden jolt courses through the hockey captain’s muscular body. And before you know it- before Toji himself knows it, he’s clasping onto either side of your hips and draaaagging your pussy all down his face.
All across every handsome feature of his. It doesn’t matter if you still have panties on, he’s gaping his dampened maw wide open and saaaaalivating across every nook n’ cranny he could reach. That cute crevice of your pussylips growing even wetter as you start to feel his nosebridge rub uuuup and down, uuuup and down- up and down.
Gurgling those sweetened wads of slick at the back of his throat as he ebbs himself even closer- “Oh my god, pretty girl…” And for a second there, you think he’s talking to you—only to find Toji pulling away with a squelch! of fabric. His half-lidded eyes remain fixated between your legs, and that sinful mouth of his glistens eagerly with your juices. “Fuck, oh my god-”
“Wh-what is it?” You’re squealing out, despite fully knowing that he’s talking to your pussy by now. Just your pussy.
And Toji croons upwards, his glazed eyes flickering towards you. “Your sorry excuse of a boyfriend doesn’t eat you out, does he?”
You gape.
How the fuck did he know?
“Because she told me- duh.” Toji rolls his verdant eyes as though the answer should’ve been obvious - the answer to a question you clearly don’t remember asking. Out loud, at least.
Although…your mind isn’t clear at all.
It’s so clouded by the way he massaged the top of your folds with his tongue. Those rugged, textured tastebuds flicking aaaaaall over your outer lips, dipping into the outline created by your slit. In and out. In and out.
It’s as though he was already attempting to fuck you through your damn panties- perhaps the only thing holding him back right now. Toji taps the flattened surface of his tongue across your sopping slit once he’s completely sure he’s slurped up every ounce of you there was to slurp-
“Can you hear her?” He utters hoarsely. And he doesn’t even need to wait for your response - Toji surges in once more in a way that was almost uncontrollable—“She’s purrin’ so much- heh.”
Eyes rolling to the back of his head at the cloying, clingy taste.
You were just so weeeeeet and warm.
“She’s been so neglected. Poor pussy.”
“Oh—” Your mouth drops.
And that’s the last thing you’re managing out before Toji tucks the rounded tip of his finger beneath your ruined red panties, making it snap- once before tuggin’ them aside and spitting. Letting the vertical line of saliva lubricate you a bit more for him to swab his tongue everywhere and anywhere—“She- she hasn’t been tasted like this in aaaaages.”
“I haven’t, I haven’t-” You sob.
That pointed chin of his plasters against your cunt, nearly hitting the back. And Toji’s pushed up so deeply against your pussylips that you’re wondering whether he even has the space to breathe- crushing his face between your folds. What was that saying about big noses? “She hasn’t been tongued the way she likes it.”
Wrenching your head off of where it’d been rested against the cold tile wall. “H-huh?”
With a growl, you’re shocked as his four thick fingertips come slammin’ down on your pussy. “Pay attention, doll.” And he’s juuuuust nudging aside your sensitive folds to lap up the sap leaking between them. Feeling that cute orifice of your hole that was just clenchin’ around him, “She hasn’t been tongued the way I know she likes it. Dirty girl.”
And you’re shivering as the very first inch of his girthy muscle slips inside your entrance. “Fuh-fuuuuck-”
“She hasn’t been tasted like she deserves.” He pants out between rovering movements with his head now, baaaaaack and forth. Baaaaack and forth. Faster each time. Deeper each time. “She hasn’t been spat on. She hasn’t even been fingered-”
“Fuh-fuuuuck, ngh—yes.” You’re keening out, your voice crackling dangerously. “I mean no- no, he didn’t.”
Feeling the leer of his lips against your other ones, something almost cruel to their shape. “I know.” His severe timbre - mixed with the scrape-scrape-scrape of those textured tastebuds inside you - make you see stars. No warning—and he’s reaching up to plaster the crown of his thumb against your throbbing clit. “And I’ll fuckin’ kill him for it.”
Without thinking much of it, you’re grabbing onto a handful of his jet-black hair and bowing your body forwards. “Toji—”
“Look at her.”
As though he wasn’t even hearing you right now- Toji’s eyes were widened, his voice slightly breathy. Both of his hands were positioned on either side of your cunt n’ spreading your puffy pussylips apart. “Fucking look at her…”
Toji’s tone was trembling.
Toji’s tone was wrecked.
And you’ve never seen the man knot his dark brows like this- as though he was at the feet of a shrine and worshipping you with looooong, deep thrusts into your wet cavern.
So watching him between your legs like this- you already knew that Toji was a ravenous eater from your relationship. But to hear him be so desperate?
You couldn’t help the next words that fall from your mouth, “N-Naoya always thought it was emasculating to-”
There’s a brief squelch then a smack!
He’s tugging his hands away from your stinging clit, before kissing all over it. Sucking. It made your knees weeeak to feel him unabashedly press up against your pulsing nub as he thrusted his tongue inside - sniffing, moaning, breathing you in. “How can ya have a pussy like this…”
Letting his jaw droop even further open as he presses the tip of his tongue inside, swabbin’ into every geysering orifice. “How—?” He’s massagin’ your tight walls apart from one another, accelerating with every soft gasp you’re letting out. “How can ya have a pussy like this n’ not just fucking drown yerself in it?”
You’re bucking off of the frigid tile, leaking out a few more dewdrops of slick.
He moans as he watches that bead of translucence exit from your hole n’ cascade between your legs- “Some men die of thirst whilst others fucking- fuck, fist their cock to the thought of this pussy every night.”
Excitement zips down your spine as you realize he’s talking about himself- every night? For six months straight? “Every-”
“Every night.” Toji affirms. “Six months straight. I thought about how many times I’d make you cum on my tongue.”
“Shit—” He’s then fucking your poor hole battered, harder than the strokes he had before. Those were just to fit the first few inches of him inside, these were to make your velvety pussy feel him.
“Every fuckin’ night. I missed this pussy soooooo—” Spitting. “-much. Every night, I thought about how much my poor girl must be missin’ me. Every night, I thought about how much better she’d taste than any sweet dessert in the world.”
“Toji—” Your whines rattle through the locker room. “Shit, it feels so good-”
“And it’s the fuckin’ least she deserves.”
Without any further warning, Toji then slides the larger end of his thumb between your sopping wet slit. Collecting a few wads of your clingy juices, he’s pushing it back in—
“Fuck, she’s so tight.” He whispers underneath his breath, nose crinkling at the way your gooey walls immediately rush to clench around him. His tip being engulfed by the warmth. Not only were you sucking him in, but those cutely trembling hips of yours were jerkin’ off the wall expecting more, more, more- “She hasn’t been fucked properly in a while…”
And before you can even register it, he’s removing his thumb with a wettened plop! Rapidly replacing it with his lengthy middle finger, his index.
Scissoring those scouring tips open inside you.
Swabbing them into those ridges n’ sweet spots.
Letting them jostle against one another and against your most tender areas-
Fuck, you’re throwing your head back.
Those thoroughly thick fingers of his kept filling you up so much more than his tongue did, and you’re gnawing down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from making too much noise—even more than you already were. In and out. In and out.
How you missed the pleasurable burn of him stuffin’ you.
The way it sends carnal shockwaves up your spine- especially every time he pushes past the shy squeezes of your first ring of muscle. The first restraint.
“T-Toji…” You’re wailing out in that pretty tone that makes his ears perk up immediately, “Please—” Your hips rut upwards, “So close to…”
“Tch- d’you even have to ask?”
And you didn’t think that Toji Zenin was ever the type to forget anything to do with your cunt, did you? Did you?
Because this wasn’t his first damn rodeo: you best believe that the first time Toji ever had the chance to feel you clenchin’ around his fingers, he took the time to memorize every nook and cranny inside. He’d mapped it all out.
He’d drilled it straight into his brain that if he quirked his fingers juuuuust so to feel the spongy depths of your roof- then shovelled his fingers along that pathway…juuuuust so. He’d be greedily swallowed up until his joints, and it’d only take a few more vulgar thrusts for him to locate that special bundle of nerves inside of you.
The one that made you see stars. The one that made you call his name out loud enough for the neighbors to hear-
“Heh…” He dares crack a smirk, “And he hasn’t found this spot yet, right?”
And right now, your prettily cracking whine was echoing across every corner of the locker room. “T-Toji—” He’d found your g-spot. Reeling his slick-glazed fingers back just enough to roughly push and push, to dig his rounded fingertips against that throbbing area. Constantly. “Right there- k-keep going. Right there-”
“Heh- keep going? You seriously ever thought I’d stop—?” The captain of the national theme looks genuinely baffled you’d asked, disbelieving of the words. Him? Stopping when you’re completely begging for him not to? “Doll, I’d rather fuckin’ die than let this pretty pussy down.”
And with that said, Toji wraps his swollen lips around your clit once more.
He was stimulating you with twice the blissful waves now- once with his fingers probing into you and pinpointing each sensitive nerve inside you. The other through the wet smacks! of his lips, latching onto your knobbly clit and sucking as though the sweetest candy in the world.
You watch as Toji’s handsome cheeks hollow out because of his suctioning. His pretty pink lips were all glossed over with layers of your sploshin’ cunt, rolling drunkenly over that nub.
“I need you to cum on my tongue.” The black-haired man sputters against your wet, treacly cunt—his breaths becoming more n’ more ragged by the second. Tone thick, “I need you to cum on my fuckin’ tongue so bad-”
“M’so close—” You’re using the leverage you have on his sweaty bangs to tug him in even deeper- not that Toji could go even deeper.
But he smirks at your sheer desperation and you can feel the formulation of his expression against your sodden pussy. And that’s when your panties are being properly ripped off your hips- straight off. Clean. With his teeth. As you buck and gasp, he’s spitting out the useless lace remnants into his left hand and snakin’ it between his legs.
And you’re not quite sure - you can’t see beyond his hunched core - what Toji’s doing with that particular treasure. But by the way his biceps suddenly flex as though gripping something, by the way he lets out a sudden grooooooan deep into your pussy- you can already guess.
Toji’s sculptured arm starts flying up and down at a rapid pace.
In the same sloppy, striking cadence as he’s fuckin’ his tongue between your soft pussylips. He jerks himself off furiously, a thin line of sweat drizzling down his forehead the more, and more, and more-
“Toji, baby—” You’re whimpering out, tugging on his shaggy strands a bit to make him look at you. “M’gonna cum- so don’t stop, m’kay?”
“Has-” Panting out a murky breath, “Has he ever made you cum before?”
To which you’re almost embarrassed to shake your head, “N-no…”
“Can’t believe he’d- fuck.” Toji grumbles, his thick brows marrying together. Those sharp canines of his make an appearance as he snarls, “M’gonna kill that bastard. M’gonna fucking kill him-” Slapping the velvety underside of his tongue down-down-down—“But first m’gonna make you cum.”
And since the last time you saw him, Toji Zenin has learned to keep his promises. And he’s proving it.
Which is why it takes only a few more vicious strikes at the very bottom of your pussy - at the very target of your g-spot - for you to throw your head back n’ start shaking with your orgasm. The white-hot pleasure coursing through your every blood vessel makes you cry out, so much better than you remembered.
This wasn’t the same as idly prodding yourself with your vibrator while your boyfriend wasn’t home.
This makes you buck. This makes you gasp. “C-cumming—” Your thoughts coming belated to you as you’re riding out Toji Zenin’s handsome face, elongating your high on the prominent curve of his nose or the puffiness of his lips. “Cumming, Toji, shit…s’the best it’s ever felt.”
“Uh-huh?” He murmurs up wetly at you. “Only the best for m’girl.”
“Your girl?” And that makes something within you tremor almost as much as your orgasm.
“Shhhhh, and ride out your orgasm-” He’s talking you through those soaring peaks of your high - incredible.
Because not only was Toji curving his fingertips just right against your g-spot, but he smirked against your clit and gently bit down on that nub.
You’re flinching upwards- never having experienced something so strong. At least, not in six months.
And it seems like forever before your high passes - not that you were complaining. That orgasm left you all heated and raw, feeling so wound-up that you honestly thought a mere brush of Toji’s fingers would be enough to get you cumming again.
Your overwhelming wave of pleasure is just barely finished before Toji stands up to his full height again.
Blinking away the tears in your eyes, you’re looking up at him. The slightly-dimmed lights of the locker room created the effect of a halo around his head- how ironic…because the way he’d made out with your pussy made you think of Toji to be someone from quite the opposite realm.
But you don’t get to comment on that right now.
No- you were too busy watching slack-jacked as he tugs off his national team jersey.
And you’d already seen Toji shirtless before - of course, you have. You’ve already seen him in every state there was to see him—but it’s seeing him after so long that really makes your cunt twitch. Your eyes sweep across his broad shoulders, those toned pecs with a certain familiarity- you note that he still had that unruly line of his happy trail. It was deep black in color, a ruggedly handsome look to it as it started off at his abs then snaked all the way down, down, down…
His chiselled abs. His slightly-tanned skin.
The only real difference that you could’ve pointed out was that Toji, in fact, seemed a little…bigger than you remembered him. Bulkier. Beefier. Broader around his arms and his pecs.
And perhaps that was in part to do with memory- but more likely it was that his new training regiment with the national team had been serving him well. Very well.
And his cock, fuck, his cock…
Toji hadn’t fully exposed himself as he jerked off whilst eating you out- but it was more than enough. Just enough of his black hockey pants getting nudged down—they stuck around his meaty upper-thighs, and you’re left starin’ at the thiiiiick throbbing cock in-between.
Toji was big. Toji was hard. Toji was so reddened at the tip of his bulbous shaft that you wondered whether it must be painful-
You hadn’t forgotten just how big he is, had you?
But you swear Toji had been around seven or eight inches the last time you’d…seen him all those months ago. But this? This was about nine- fuck, if you pulled out a ruler than you wouldn’t be surprised if he was around even ten inches.
Perhaps that was just your imagination refusing to concede that your ex was the largest you’ve ever had. The best, too.
Thickened so much that it made your legs squeeze. Covered in veins from underneath his reddish tip, and aaaaaaaaall the way down to his tanned base.
Those hefty balls of his clenched at your attention, and you’re both thinking at the same time that he must’ve really missed you.
Toji reaches his right hand up to his face and spits—slithering it down to give his aching erection a good tug. That mere touch was enough to make him ooze out a few more droplets of pre, capping the top of his crowned tip as though the prettiest glaze.
He has to cough ever-so-slightly to rip your attention away from his cock.
Even then, you could barely keep your eyes off of your ex-boyfriend as he turned his hockey jersey the right way. About to throw it over his shoulder when—he looks at you and seemingly gets an idea.
“Off, doll.”
And suddenly it’s a blur of hands and grabbing - Toji’s pulling your own clothes off, ultimately leaving you in absolutely nothing. He tucks those remnants of your panties in his pants pockets, and tugs your head through the holes of the jersey—
“Y-you’re making me wear this?” You’re babbling out stupidly as he steps back to admire his work, “And only this?”
Toji lets out a low whistle, “Fuck, yeah.” Before gesturing for you to twirl- “Now turn around n’ put your hands on the wall- hah, I want to see my name on you while I fuck you.”
Nevermind the fact that technically this was his last name, as well.
But that didn’t matter - never would. These were Toji’s colors, Toji’s number.
And right now, it was Toji’s fat- aching cock that was making your pussylips bulge apart. Slowly and sensually.
He might’ve been ravenous when he was tasting you for the first time in six months - but Toji was taking his goooood time filling up your driveling orifice. Stuffing back the beads of slick that kept on spraying out of you, letting his pointed tip stretch your entrance out.
He’s letting his breath hitch as he reels his hips back a bit, pushing his twitching cock iiiiiiiiiinside and then out. Iiiiiiiiiinside and then out.
Baaaaack and forth.
Baaaaack and forth.
That ruddied roundness of his cockhead gets stuck between your lips, and Toji’s brows furrow- he attempts to pull out. He really does.
But you’re just gobbling him up so damn greedily- inch by fucking inch. That he can’t help but arch his toned hips against yours- soothing the globes of your ass cheeks a bit before Toji gives a nice, honed thrust. Pointed deep towards the back of your pussy.
Though he isn’t getting that far with your snug channel.
“O-oh—” The captain groans out as he’s sucked in deep, push by fuckin’ push. The intrusion of his girth makes its way ‘round your first ring of tight fuckin’ muscle - slotted between your legs and enough to leave your knees weak with only a few shallow thrusts.
Toji’s having such fun holding onto the side of your waist- eventually moving to hook ‘round your pretty thighs when it seemed as though you were going to collapse.
His pretty girl, so desperate to take him that you can’t even stand.
“Fuck, you feel so good.” He breathes out, scorching breath gusting down the curvature of your spine. “Fuck, my girl’s pussy feels so good—”
“Toji-” And for the first few of his semi-thrusts, you’re letting your eyes roll to the back of your head. But thereafter you’re jerking your hips back in desire for more, craving all those carnal itches inside of you satisfied by Toji’s thick cock. “N-need it.”
Toji opens his mouth to tease - you’re sure of it - but at that very moment you’re using your velvety walls to give him a thorough clench that makes him break off into a groan. “This pussy’s been so hungry f’me, hm?”
Shivers wracking through your entire body. “Y-yes-”
“He didn’t fuck you like he should’ve, hm?”
“He didn’t—fuck.”
“Always wished it was your- heh, ex beside you, huh?”
Tearily, you’re looking back at him with an expression of sheepish guilt. “Yes…”
“Oh—” And the mere fact that you said that - your mere answer - is enough for the towering man to hunch his body into yours. To buck his hips into you like an animal.
It wasn’t even planned.
Just an instinctual movement to graze his dribbling tip against the very forefront of your womb- Toji lets his cockhead pulse inside you for a moment before starting to fuck you again. Slightly speedier, slightly deeper.
Slightly rubbin’ the line of his flared ridge against your dewy insides—it made the man’s balls clench to watch the way you’d drip n’ suction around him. You were fucking thinking of him? Just as much as he was thinking of you? “So this pussy has been greedy f’me.” As if to prove his point, he’s easing in just a few more puckered inches to swipe the front of his burning divot against your spongy cervix. “How many times have you touched yerself to the thought of me?”
“I-I—” It takes you a sudden slap on your pussylips to realize that he was genuinely waiting for an answer.
“How many times?” Toji gasps between his clenched canines, Adam’s apple bobbing in fervor. “And don’t lie to me, girlie- I know s’been more than once.”
“So many times-” Just the most sultry scrape against your g-spot- the sensation of Toji’s pulsating cockhead pressing on those nerves feels so good. Good enough to reveal your secrets, your hazy brain seems to think. “T-too many times to count-”
“Fuck.” He has to gnaw down on his bottom lip to keep himself from cumming too soon. Too fast. If anything, he wasn’t going to be like that (likely) two-pump chump boyfriend of yours.
Which is why the older man finds himself smearing his left hand over your pussylips once more- this time, however, it wasn’t to place a mean spank. It was to spread those folds open and roll his fingertips over your neglected clit. “Dirty girl. And h-how many times have you cum just from the thought of me?”
“All of those times, Toji.” The constant rhythmic nudgin’ of your favorite spot was enough to leave your mind absolutely shattered by this point in time. “All those times I—ngh, can only cum if it’s you.”
“Oh?” Fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck. D-don’t even fuckin’ say…” He reaches down and slams his hand against your clit once more - partly to take his mind off of those sinful words you were babbling, partly out of punishment for exactly those. And if you were in any better state of mind, then you’d have marvelled at the fact that you’d just made Toji Zenin sound damn starstruck. Just with your pussy. “Don’t even fuckin’ say that shit.”
He leans over you and nuzzles his cheek against your own.
Scarred lips muttering into your ear, “I know she’s been- fuck, needing me just as much as I need her.” They’re kissing down your sweaty temple for a few seconds before sinking his teeth into your ear lobe, “I know she’s been fucking—dreaming of me, wishing for me, fantasizing about me, getting so fuckin’ aroused at just the thought of me that- hah, locker rooms like these were a problem.”
Blinking the tears away from your eyes, “W-wait…”
“Or maybe that was just me.” Toji finishes off. Though he really didn’t have to for you to realize that he’d been talking about himself the entire time.
Toji had been craving you these past six months.
Desiring you.
Fucking his fist and his pillows at the thought that - perhaps one day - he’ll have you underneath him like this again.
And perhaps that’s why there was a strange reverence to everything he did. Something jittery at his fingertips, something that made him hold you a little tighter - as though to make sure that you were really real.
He’s looping both strong arms around your tremoring figure and gluing you to his toned front. There, you were being massaged after each rub n’ puuuuuull of his vein-decorated cock down your swallowing insides. Hand still reaching downwards.
Toji lets out the most lecherous slurps once he still manages to loop his hand between your sodden pussylips n’ toy with your clit. Finger pinching. Thumb rolling. Just by how sensitive you were - still getting re-used to the sultry sensation of someone else’s hand upon your nub - he knew that that damn Naoya wasn’t properly lovin’ on this part of you, either.
And it makes his blood boil just as it did on the rink today.
His fingers move on top of your clit at an almost frenzied pace- back arching, head throwing back.
Naturally, your lips spread wide open to let out an echoing moan—but it’s too late. Toji’s already leaning in and replacing it with a dollop of his sweetened saliva, “Yeah…” He looks down at you as though you were a dream, “M-maybe that was just me- fuck, but I have one question, doll.”
“Yes—?” Sobbing out.
“Have you ever…” Almost as if it was a precious secret, meant to be between the two of you and the locker room, Toji leans down to whisper against your ear. “-imagined me while he was fucking you?”
Your jaw drops.
Your cunt twitches.
And Toji feels the flooding of your walls with arousal- it’s splashin’ either side of his cylindrical girth. One that was probing and pushing—and speckling every sweet spot inside you with his sap, Toji was fucking you as though he was furious with you.
Long, hard pummels of his hips.
Hard enough that the skin surrounding his pelvis area was reddened.
Long enough that your mind was already completely muddled - filled with only the probin’ pressure of his plump cockhead. Pointing against the cute button of your g-spot once more—“Yes.” You whisper.
And if there was anything - anything - that could make the Toji Zenin falter, then it would’ve been this. Because for two split-seconds you’re feeling the constant sloppy scouring of your innards pause- before it’s resuming harder than ever.
Before he’s fully bottomed-out now and slamming against the gooey depths of your womb.
Before you’re cumming from just that single thrust-
“Y-yes—?” Even Toji’s voice shatters on the repetition of your answer - and he’s looking down at you with his deep, probing eyes. “You- you thought about m-me fucking you when you were still with that bastard?”
You turn around at the amused disbelief in his voice, and nod. “Always thought about you, Toji.” You’re not blind to the way this particular sentence makes the other man flinch—“Every time. He must’ve thought that- ngh, he was the one making me feel good this whole time but it was- oh. It was you.”
“And it…felt good?”
“So good-”
Unsure what to say - unsure what to even do- Toji merely leans down and bites the tender side of your throat. Sure for anyone to see past your collar.
Claimed.
You squeal as you’re fucked through your second high of the night, “A-always you—Toji.” Though loooooong and rugged smooches of his tip, perfectly pointed to graze your ridges inside and ultimately end up on the g-spot.
Tears bursting to your eyes. Hands slipping with sweat along the tiles.
Toji pulls you even deeper into his embrace - grabbing ahold of your neck with his free hand, the other reaching down to pinch your clit in short, staccato pulses. Matching the peaks of your high. He makes sure to wait just until your wracks of pleasure are at their highest, before plummeting his throbbing cock inside.
Maximizing the rub-a-dub of those prominent veins of his. Sending spurts of pleasure shivering all throughout your body at their massage.
Ridged shaft stretchin’ out those spots that feel the best, his sheer length splitting you up from the inside - you couldn’t possibly forget how well Toji’s cock filled you. Reaching into any deep crevice and orifice, markin’ himself out aaaaaall across your channel with the rounded bruises he left behind.
The captain of the ice hockey team was ruttin’ into you so hard that it was causing the heels of your feet to lift off the floor.
His thick fingertips dig into your body, plastering you against him- “Always you, my girl.” His words come out sharp and exhaled, “Only you.”
“O-only—ngh.” He catches you from slipping down the vertical wall, scorched chuckles dusting down the crook of your neck. “Toji…”
“Hmmmm?”
Slight panic bleeding into your tone, “Th-there’s someone in the other l-locker room—fuck.”
“Fuckin’ what?”
Still wracking with the waves of your high. “There’s someone in the other locker room-”
Growling, he’s bowing his powerful lower half towards you - where you were frantically gesturing and miming something at the other side of the wall. The locker rooms were positioned as such that they were side-by-side, sharing a single wall split down the middle of its vast cavern, from which they ignored the existence of the other out of courtesy.
And no matter what one might fear about rowdy ice hockey teams, it never did cause any issues. Yet.
Right now you could hear someone’s footsteps through the tiled wall, you could hear someone’s existence, you could hear someone muttering.
Seemingly not having the best of days - though after that loss, you couldn’t blame them - your mystery US player was banging on locker doors and hissing out swears. It’s only once he seemingly drops something on the floor by accident, letting out a string of expletives starting with ‘b’ that it’s clicking just exactly who this player is—
“Oh, look-” Toji’s the first to start, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “-your wittle boyfriend’s here, too, doll.”
“He’s not my-”
“Why don’t we give him a proper welcome, hm?” Toji’s crooning out meanly, “Why don’t we cheer him up? That little ah- incident on the ice must’ve really been a blow to his ego.”
You’re shivering at the implications, “D-don’t you fucking dare-”
“Whaaaaaat? M’not doing nothing.” Scarred lips quirking up into a grin- you’re noticing that Toji hasn’t slowed his hammerin’ down for a single second. In fact, he’s reeling his slick-glazed cock backwards and leaning the weight down upon your lower half, probin’ you at even deeper angles. The smooth, slippery tip of his shaft was swabbing away into those nice bundles of nerves- “I didn’t even say that you should do anything.”
Hiccuping at the feeling of him funneling you full - all the way to your throat. “Th-then—”
“I just need you to be a—mmm, good girl f’me and- hah, take it.” The constant smacking of his toned hips get even harder, louder. Ricocheting off your eardrums and off the walls- “Take aaaaaaall from tip to base.”
The utmost amount of squelches n’ slurps leaving you.
You wondered if Naoya could already hear you…
Shivering at the carnal feeling of him stretchin’ those tiniest orifices within you up. You loved the way his honed tip would ease in, only getting thicker and longer and thiiiicker and loooonger the more he’s fucking you. The more.
“Take it aaaaaaall until this greedy pussy’s satiated-” He pinches your clit once more, lining down the spot of your nerves. “Take it all until this pussy remembers-”
There’s the sound of another locking being slammed from the other side of the wall.
And you’re shivering-
To which Toji grinds his hips in close - so close - that you’re unable to buck n’ swerve your hips away. Eagerly taking those deeply probing grinds of his, “Take it until this pussy remembers who’s always fucked her right.”
You’re mewling through your tears, “Y-you—”
And Toji grins before bunching up that red, red jersey of his in his free hand. Looking at the name that flashed upon your arched back, jostling with each thrust - “And who’s that? What’s the name on the back of this jersey?”
“But he has the same—fuck.” Moan echoing so fucking loud this time- you’re swearing you hear the other man pause whatever he was doing. Hear him listen. Hear him wait. “Zenin.”
Something drops to the floor on the other side of the wall, as if fallen in shock.
And Toji smirks.
“That’s right-” He pants out open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, “Can’t hear you- what’s the name?”
“Zenin-”
“Still can’t hear you-” Thrusts and bursts of pleasure steadily climbing up in intensity. Even though you’ve just cum, you could feel a twitching at the pit of your stomach. “What’s the name?”
“Zenin-”
“What’s the fuckin’ name?”
There was no way he couldn’t hear by now. The slapping. The clenching. The moans. “Zenin—”
He slaps your clit once. “And who’s last name is that?”
You knew you were going to fall apart soon. You knew that all it’s going to take was one final thrust- reeling his rounded, glossy tip back as far as it would go. It’s letting just a few tears cascade down your cheeks, and you’re looking back - “Y-yours, Toji?”
“No.” He grins—chiselled core pummeling into yours. He teases your clit with a cute lil’ heart drawn on top, “S’gonna be yours.”
“Oh—” With the loudest, most lecherous moan yet- you’re falling apart all over Toji Zenin’s cock. So sensitive that your orgasm rips through your stark and primal - nothing but a resurgence of bliss that leaves your limbs feeling all weak.
They’re shaking just a lil’ as you’re riding out your high on his vein-covered cock, the perfect number of strikes before your g-spot feels raw.
The perfect number of strikes before your clouded mind gets even cloudier—and Toji’s throwing his head back with a sharp, busting orgasm. Toes curling. Abs clenching. Beading from the drooling divot of his shaft, he gushes out constant volumes of cum.
Letting it dribble all the way from your deepest depths to your sultry hole- and then spotting even the tiniest crevices inside of you with his pearly white juices. “Shit-” His crackling tone breaks out into the heady air, “Sh-shit, now she’s properly mine again- heh.”
As Toji fucks his wads of seed deeper inside you, they’re letting off the most lewd squelches.
“Now she’s shut up her yowling a bit- ngh, my girl’s been wanting this for so long, huh?”
“Yes.” You nod.
“She’s been starvin’ for my cum?” He coaxes, “She’s been all empty without me?”
“So filthy…” You’re mumbling out. Uncaring anymore of what Naoya would think - you didn’t hear anything more from his side of the locker room—maybe he’d disappeared?
“Damn right.” Toji chuckles. Dark bangs covering most of his vision as he’s pumping his thickened tip inside, swervin’ aside your sopping wet walls to make even more room for his thick cum. “She’s now all full I think, hmmmm?”
And you certainly felt full.
You could feel the splashin’ around of those gooey puddles of sap inside you, clinging onto the tiniest spots they could. He was only messing your insides even further with every single thrust—leaving a wet puddle of most of it seeping into the very back of your womb. “I th-think so-”
“What was that, Mrs. Zenin?” Toji goads, his voice ringing out loudly. “Think yer all full with my cum or do you want even- hah, more?”
You’re murmuring something unintelligible that he has to lean in to hear.
“What was that? Can’t hear you, doll, you’ve gotta speak up-” Suddenly, he leans away and addresses the other side of the wall. “Whaddaya think, Naoya? Think she deserves some more-”
“Toji, shut up—” Swatting behind at him.
Toji escapes with a burst of gruff laughter, “Of course, I wouldn’t ask that fucker-” He presses a somewhat chaste kiss onto your lips, “Tell me, doll, what do you want?”
“I w-want…” You’re repeating from before.
“Hmmmm?”
“Think I might want your baby, Toji.” Peering up at him with such pretty heart-eyes.
And that makes his breath hitch.
That makes him stall.
Toji’s green eyes widen just a fraction- before he’s pulling out and turning you around. Staring deep into your eyes, the captain urges you to jump - wrapping your legs around his toned waist, your hands on his shoulders, your body being easily hoisted by his own - so that he can lift you off the floor.
Probin’ that rock-hard tip of his inwards-
“Guess there’ll be one more Zenin this time next year- heh. ”
.
.
.
Naoya Zenin was stunned. He was speechless.
Which is highly unusual, because Naoya Zenin is never shocked. Never speechless.
Except for when he saw the estranged Toji Zenin at the game…and when he got beat up by Toji Zenin at the game…and right now, as it’s slowly dawning upon him that Toji Zenin was fucking his girlfriend after the game-
Naoya didn’t think you were serious, alright?
Because how many fuckin’ times have you threatened to break up with him over stupid shit like that? This was just a little outing with the boys - to a few nighttime establishments with a few nighttime girls - that was being blown majorly out of proportion.
And sure, Naoya might have embarrassed himself thoroughly in front of you and a couple million spectators today.
But what couldn’t a 5000 yen bouquet fit?
He was planning on making up with you right after, telling you to stop being paranoid and perhaps this will only make your relationship stronger in the long run. And he’d just gotten back from the medic to get his shit back when…when the noises had started up.
It was a slightly damp noise at first, almost like water.
Then came the soft groans.
The impact of skin-on-skin.
The voices that made it undeniable—if only he couldn’t recognize them. And he almost couldn’t, to be quite honest, Naoya had never heard you making such noises when it was him in bed.
But he knew it was you.
Worst of all, with Toji fucking Zenin of all people.
And it was when Toji had loudly announced your engagement to him, the way you’d be taking his last name (Naoya had no clue the two of you had dated before, and he didn’t want to know) that’d been the last straw for him. He dumps his bangs and his uniforms behind, storming out from a locker room that was now thoroughly invaded by the sounds of your sex.
Muttering some unrepeatable phrases underneath his breath, Naoya’s so caught up in his wallowing that he nearly doesn’t notice the man he bulldozes over in his effort to get away.
“Oh, hey—” Shiu smiles sheepishly at the younger man, “I just wanted to check on y-”
“I’m fine-”
And with that he’s storming off. To where? He doesn’t know, he’ll probably have to come back and get his shit later but…
He takes it that you’ve now officially broken up with him.
Meanwhile, suit-clad, clipboard-holding Shiu is left utterly confused at what just happened. He’d expected a screaming match, maybe several lawsuits by the spoiled heir of the Zenin Industries at least.
Refusing to believe his luck, Shiu takes a peak inside the opposing team’s locker room just to make sure that everything was alright- and that’s when he hears it. “—think I might want your baby, Toji.”
Oh.
Oh.
It was coming from the other side of the large wall- their locker room.
And he’s recognising the voice- wait, that’s your voice. Toji’s ex that he’d been moping over for these past six months, the one that triggered their captain to get in that fight today in the first place.
Though, he doesn’t blame you- with that fucker as a boyfriend? Shiu doesn’t think he’s biased for claiming that his best friend’s leagues better.
But, at the end of the day, Shiu was their coach above all.
And as their coach, he couldn’t allow his players to get into anything reckless or anything violating the code of the Olympics. They’d all be in such deep shit if you happened to be caught - so you must forgive Shiu for doing what he has to do.
For rounding the other side of the locker room entrances and stepping into his own team’s chamber. Heady with sweetness, with sex.
He’s here as a coach to warn the two of you- really. That’s just it.
That’s it.
Nothing else. Nothing else at all.
No ulterior motives.
His pants tighten, cock twitching traitorously at the barrage of noises leaking into every corner of the room.
Shiu raps on your stall door as a…coach.
A/N. Mwahahaha…come to me coach… ALSO TO MY PHILIPPINES BABYGIRLS WE MISS YOUUUU <33
summary: you didn't know that making a mistake was so exquisite
word counter and tw: (2,4k) smut, age-gap, sex without protection, cheating
It all started by mistake. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself every time you think about it, as if repeating the word could soften the sharp edges of what you did.
It was just an ordinary Wednesday, one of those days when the routine of the house felt heavier than usual. Your mother had left for a night shift at the clinic, and Tom was in his room, immersed in some video game with headphones that isolated him from the world. You had come back from the bar exhausted, feet aching and your body smelling of other people’s cigarette smoke. You went down to the kitchen looking for something quick to eat, and there you saw him.
Simon was sitting at the central island, with a half-finished glass of whisky and his gaze lost on the window overlooking the dark garden. It wasn’t his usual posture, that of a man who always seemed to have everything under control. His shoulders were hunched, his tie loosened and hanging loosely over his chest, and there was something in his expression that stopped you dead in your tracks. Or at least that’s what you thought you saw.
Perhaps it was just your own projection, your own loneliness reflected in him, but in that moment it felt real. He looked vulnerable.
You didn’t plan to approach him. You were just going to walk past, mutter a “good night” and go up to your room. But something made you stop.
You leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, and said the first thing that came to mind…
“Are you okay?”
He raised his eyes slowly, as if he hadn’t expected company. His gaze locked onto yours, and for a second you saw something that wasn’t his usual hostility. You saw concern, or at least that’s how you interpreted it. He let out a low, humorless laugh and took a sip of whisky.
“Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix,” he said, but his voice sounded hollow.
You didn’t leave. Instead, you took one step closer, pouring yourself a glass of water just to have something to do with your hands.
You talked, or something like it. He spoke vaguely about work, about pressures he didn’t specify, and you listened, nodding at the right moments, asking just enough to keep him talking. It wasn’t real compassion, it was more like an opportunity to see him unraveled, to confirm that beneath that perfect facade there was a broken man like any other. But as you spoke, the air in the kitchen grew thick with something unexpected.
His eyes occasionally dropped to your mouth, to your neck, and you felt a treacherous heat rising across your skin.
You don’t quite remember how it happened. One moment you were standing next to him, the next he stood up, closing the distance. His hand brushed your arm and the silence became dense. He looked at you with an intensity that wasn’t just sadness, but something rawer, hungrier.
And you, instead of pulling away, stayed still.
“You’re too good at listening,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.
You didn’t answer. You just looked at him, and that was enough.
He closed the distance completely, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that started tentative, almost as if testing whether you would reject him. But you didn’t. Your lips parted under his, and the kiss turned urgent, desperate. His hands moved to your waist, pulling you against him, and you felt his erection pressing hard and insistent against your belly.
Before you could process it, you were responding, tugging lightly to deepen the kiss.
Simon lifted you easily, sitting you on the counter, and positioned himself between your legs. His hands slid to your thighs, pushing under your skirt, and he yanked your underwear off in one rough pull, exposing you to the cool kitchen air. You gasped against his mouth, but you didn’t stop him. Instead, your hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it with trembling fingers, freeing his hard, hot cock. You felt it in your hand, thick and throbbing, and a moan escaped your lips as you guided it to your entrance, already wet from adrenaline and forbidden desire.
He thrust into you in one deep stroke, stretching you with a force that made you arch your back and let out a muffled cry. The pleasure was immediate, intense, a fire spreading through your body as if it had been waiting for this moment. His hips moved urgently, thrusting again and again, each stroke hitting that deep spot that made you see stars. Your nails dug into his back through his shirt, and he growled against your neck, biting the skin there with teeth that left a red mark.
It was brutal, but not violent. It was as if he were unloading all that feigned, or real, sadness into you, and you took it, pushing down to meet every thrust, your legs wrapping around him to pull him closer.
“Fuck… yes…” you murmured, voice breaking, as pleasure coiled tight in your belly. His hands gripped your hips hard, guiding you, and one slid between your bodies to rub rough circles over your clit that made you whimper. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed in the kitchen, mixed with your gasps and muffled moans.
You came first, convulsing around him, clenching his cock in rhythmic pulses that made him gasp.
He kept fucking you through your orgasm, drawing it out until the aftershocks made you tremble, and then he came inside you with a low groan, spilling in hot pulses that filled you completely.
Afterward, he stayed still, breathing heavily against your shoulder, his cock still inside you as sweat cooled on your skin. Guilt hit you instantly, a knot in your stomach reminding you that this was your mother’s husband, that this was pure betrayal, but the lingering pleasure drowned everything else. He had made you feel alive, desired, whole in a way no one else ever had. And though you knew you should stop, that this was a mistake that couldn’t be repeated, a part of you already knew you wouldn’t be able to let it go.
Now here you were.
It was one of those nights when the house seemed quieter than usual, as if the outside world had withdrawn to make space for what was happening within these walls. Gemma had gone to a dinner and Tom was at a friend’s house. Simon had texted you that afternoon, “Come to my study at 10.” It wasn’t a question. It was an order disguised as an invitation.
You entered without knocking, as had become customary. He was sitting on the study sofa with a glass of whisky in hand and his tie loosened. The light from the table lamp was dim, casting long shadows across the walls lined with books no one read. He looked at you as you entered, and his eyes traveled over your body with that deliberate slowness that made you feel exposed, desired, claimed. He said nothing.
He just set the glass on the side table and leaned back a little more, spreading his legs slightly in a silent invitation.
You approached slowly, feeling your pulse race in your throat. You were wearing a loose t-shirt and shorts, but the way he looked at you made you feel already naked. You stopped in front of him, between his knees, and for a moment you just stared at each other. His eyes were dark, charged with that mix of residual hatred and need that now defined him.
He reached out, grabbed your hip, and pulled you toward him, seating you astride his lap. You felt his erection already hard against you, pressing through the fabric of his trousers, and a shiver ran down your spine.
You leaned in and kissed him, a deep, urgent kiss that tasted of whisky and surrender. His hands slid under your t-shirt, pulling it off in one smooth tug, exposing your breasts to the cool study air. His thumbs brushed your nipples, hardening them instantly, and you let out a low moan against his mouth. His hands moved to your shorts, sliding them down your hips along with your underwear, and you lifted just enough to let him remove them completely, leaving you fully naked on top of him while he remained dressed.
His eyes dropped, raking over your body with an intensity that set you on fire. “Fuck,” he growled, voice low and ragged. “You’re perfect.”
You looked at him, feeling that rush of power and vulnerability mixed together. Your hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it with fingers trembling with anticipation. You freed his cock, hard and hot in your hand, the vein pulsing under your palm as you stroked it slowly, up and down, feeling it tense under your touch. Simon hissed through his teeth, his hips pushing forward slightly, and that gave you the courage to take control.
You positioned yourself over him, the tip of his erection brushing your wet entrance, and sank down slowly, inch by inch, feeling how he stretched you, how he filled you completely. The pleasure was immediate, intense, a fire spreading from your core to every nerve in your body. You let out a choked moan, hands braced on his shoulders for balance, and began to move.
At first slow, rising and falling with deliberate rhythm, feeling every glide, every friction against your inner walls. It was exquisite, addictive, the way his cock slid in and out, hitting that deep spot that made you see stars.
“Simon…” you whimpered, voice breaking, almost a sob, because the sensation was too good, too overwhelming.
Your hips moved with more urgency now, tilting slightly with each downward motion to increase the pleasure, grinding against him where your bodies joined. You felt the heat of his skin through his open shirt, the beat of his heart under your palms, and it only made it better.
“God, it’s so… so good… don’t stop…”
He stared at you fixedly, eyes locked on your face, on the way your expression twisted with pleasure. His hands rose to your hips, guiding but not fully controlling you, letting you set the pace. But his fingers dug slightly into your skin, leaving red marks that would ache deliciously tomorrow. He growled low, an animal sound that vibrated in his chest, and one hand moved to your breast, pinching your nipple with just enough pressure to send waves of pleasure arching your back.
“Move faster,” he ordered, voice hoarse, but there was a hint of pleading in it, as if he too was on the edge.
You obeyed, speeding up, riding him harder, your thighs trembling with effort. Each downward motion was a delicious impact, his cock hitting deep, brushing that sensitive place that made you whimper uncontrollably.
“Simon… please… oh fuck… yes, like that…” The words came out in broken sobs, your nails digging into his shoulders as you moved up and down, circling your hips to feel everything, to maximize that friction driving you insane. Sweat beaded on your skin, sliding between your breasts, and you felt the orgasm building, a tight spiral in your belly threatening to break you.
He was panting now, hips thrusting up to meet yours with each movement, deepening the contact.
You whimpered louder, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes from the sensory overload.
“I can’t… it’s too much… Simon, please… you’re going to make me…” You didn’t finish the sentence. The orgasm crashed over you like a wave, convulsing your body around him, clenching his cock in rhythmic pulses that made him growl with pleasure. You moved erratically now, chasing the aftershocks, sobbing his name over and over as ecstasy coursed through you.
But Simon wasn’t finished. With a fluid, powerful motion, he gripped your waist and flipped you, laying you on your back on the sofa. He was over you in an instant, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the cushions. His still hard cock slid back inside you easily, deep and possessive, and he began to thrust with a slow but relentless rhythm, each stroke hitting that sensitive spot that made you gasp.
He looked down at you, face contorted with pleasure, sweat shining on his forehead. His hands pinned your wrists above your head, immobilizing you, and that only intensified everything. You felt every inch of him, every deliberate movement, and the post orgasm sensitivity made every brush send sparks through your body.
“Kiss me,” you begged, voice a broken whisper, almost a plea. “Please…”
He didn’t hesitate. He lowered his head and captured your mouth in a deep, possessive kiss, his tongue tangling with yours as his hips kept moving, fucking you with an intensity that was both punishment and worship. The kiss was wet, desperate, his lips devouring yours as if he wanted to consume you entirely. You moaned against his mouth, legs wrapping around him to pull him closer, deeper.
He kept thrusting, faster now, his control fracturing as the kiss grew wilder. You felt his cock pulsing inside you, nearing the edge, and it aroused you again, pleasure building once more.
Simon growled, breaking the kiss only to pant against your neck, his thrusts turning erratic.
“Mine… fuck, you’re mine…” he murmured, and then he came with a violent shudder, spilling inside you in hot pulses that made you arch your back.
But he didn’t stop there. While still trembling inside you, he lifted his head just enough to look into your eyes, his ragged breathing brushing your skin.
“Mine,” he repeated, this time lower, firmer, as if imprinting it on himself and on you. “You’re mine. All mine. No one else touches you like this. No one else makes you feel this. Do you understand?”
You nodded, still panting, body sensitive and trembling beneath him.
“Yes…” you whispered, voice cracked from the lingering pleasure and from something deeper you didn’t want to name yet. “I’m yours.”
He stayed on top of you for a long while, breathing heavily against your skin, his hands releasing your wrists to caress your face with a tenderness that contrasted with the earlier intensity. You held him, feeling the aftershocks in your body, heart racing.
Neither of you said anything afterward. You just stayed there, entwined, in the silence of the study.
Synopsis: When his heirs are lost and the realm demands stability, Baelor Targaryen must choose between grief and duty,taking a young bride in a union that will shape both their fates
Tw: Drunk reader, intoxication,Dark themes,non/dubcon,targcest, pregnancy,Birthing, morning sickness, age gap (reader is 20 baelor is 45),forced marriage,power imbalance,happy ending.
The Vows We Do Not Choose. (part ii)
A knock came just before dawn, too gentle to be the septons. Ellyn entered without waiting, her arms laden with lavender oil and a fresh shift. The girl watched mutely as the woman worked, fingers deft as they unlaced the knots in her hair.The scent of rosewater clung to her sleeves.
The water in the copper tub was scalding when Ellyn guided her into it, but the girl didn’t flinch. Heat was better than feeling nothing at all. Lavender oil swirled on the surface, clinging to her skin like a second layer of shame. Ellyn’s hands were firm as they scrubbed her back, the coarse linen scraping away the night’s sweat. "They’ll braid your hair with golden thread," the woman said, her voice carefully neutral. "A Targaryen tradition." The girl stared at the water, watching her reflection warp and ripple. She wondered if she’d recognize herself by the end of the day.
The bridal shift gown was heavier than she expected. Ellyn hesitated before draping it over her shoulders, her lips pressed into a tight line. "You look so beautiful my lady.." she said,smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the fabric. The girl clutched her gown closed at her throat, her fingers trembling. Outside, the Red Keep stirred to life, boots scuffed against stone, voices rose in brusque command. The sound of the realm preparing to witness its prince remarry. Preparing to witness their farce of a union.
The sept smelled of charred incense and wilted lilies. The girl kept her eyes fixed on the septon’s gnarled hands as they hovered over the sacred oils,hands that had anointed babes, blessed corpses, and now, would bind her to her uncle. The weight of the ceremonial cloak nearly crushed her, white velvet lined with rubies, so heavy she swayed on her feet. Baelor stood rigid beside her, his jaw clenched tight. She could feel the heat of him, the way his breath hitched every time her sleeve brushed his.
The septon’s voice droned on, the High Valyrian phrases twisting like smoke. She caught only fragments *blood*, *fire*, *duty* before the old man reached for the ribbon. Seven strands, woven tight. Her fingers were numb as Baelor took her hand in his, his grip warm and familiar. The ribbon coiled around their wrists, pulling them closer until their knuckles knocked together. She flinched. Someone in the crowd coughed.
Then came the moment she’d dreaded. The septon pressed the ceremonial cup into her hands,sweet wine mixed with blood from their pricked fingers. "Drink," Baelor murmured, so low only she could hear. The rim trembled against her lips. The wine tasted of copper and spoiled fruit. She gagged, but forced it down, her stomach roiling. Baelor drained his share without blinking, his throat working as he swallowed. The septon beamed, declaring them *one flesh, one blood*. The applause was polite, perfunctory. No cheers, no laughter. Just the rustle of silk as the court shifted uncomfortably.
The feast was worse. They sat at the high table, the length of the hall between them and the door. Platters of roasted swan and honeyed figs went untouched before her. Baelor drank deeply from his goblet, his gaze never lifting from the table. Across the room, her father glowered, his fingers tight around his knife. Maekar had dressed in black mourning colors, though no one dared remark on it.
The bedding ceremony loomed. She’d begged Ellyn to tell her what to expect, but the woman had only pressed a vial of dreamwine into her palm. "Drink it all," she’d whispered. Now, the vial burned a hole in her sleeve. The first hands reached for her,lordlings with too-bright smiles, their fingers snagging on her laces. She stiffened, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Baelor’s voice cut through the din: "Enough." The hands fell away. He swept her up before the crowd could protest, her feet dangling above the rushes as he carried her from the hall.
The bridal chamber smelled of rosewater and burnt herbs. Baelor set her down gently, then turned to bolt the door. The sound of the bar sliding home made her flinch. He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "The dreamwine," he said without turning. "Take it." She fumbled with the vial, the liquid bitter on her tongue. It hit her fast,a sluggish warmth pooling in her limbs, blurring the edges of the room.
The dreamwine made her limbs heavy, but not heavy enough. When Baelor's hands settled on her hips, she whimpered,a small pathetic sound that seemed to startle even her. "Uncle baelor....please," she slurred, her fingers scrabbling weakly at the bed linens as he settled her on the bed and rolled her onto her back gently. The canopy above swayed drunkenly, embroidered dragons swimming in and out of focus.
Baelor's breath came in ragged bursts against her neck, his fingers working at the laces of her gown with methodical precision. She kicked out blindly, catching his shin. He grunted but didn't stop,he wanted this to be done and be over.His knee slotted between her thighs to still her thrashing body. "U-uncle!" she sobbed, the word thick with dreamwine and despair. His hands stilled. For a heartbeat, she thought she'd reached him,then his grip tightened, and she felt the tear of fabric as her clothing gave way.
"Shh, little dragon," Baelor murmured against her temple, his voice roughened by the wine and the weight of what he was doing. His hands,hands that had once lifted her onto ponies and wiped away childish tears,now pinned her wrists to the mattress with terrifying ease. The dreamwine made her limbs feel like lead, but panic lent her strength,she arched her back, a choked sob escaping as her thighs squeezed tight against the intrusion of his knee.
Baelor exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip shifting to hold her wrists with one hand and to cradle her face with his other instead. His thumb brushed away tears that wouldn’t stop coming. "I know," he whispered, the words raw. "I know, I'm sorry" His lips grazed her forehead,a benediction or an apology, she couldn’t tell,before trailing down to her trembling mouth. She turned her face away, but he followed, the kiss clumsy with her muffled pleas. She tasted salt and the metallic tang of the ceremonial wine still on his tongue.
His fingers traced the line of her collarbone, a touch that might have been tender under different stars. She whimpered again,twisting away,her struggles weak, her protests slurred. "Please!" she begged, her voice cracking on the word. "Uncle, *please*." Baelor’s huffed, his lips pressing into a grim line as he continued.
She shuddered when his hand slid lower, her body arching involuntarily as his palm smoothed over the curve of her hip. "No!" she gasped, her fingers clenching in his hold. His free hand slipped between her thighs. She cried out, a raw, broken sound, her legs kicking weakly. Baelor shushed her, his voice rough but low. "Easy, little one," he whispered, the endearment bitter on his tongue. "Easy,this will make it easier"
He lowered her arms, holding both her wrists with one hand still over her tummy,his mouth was hot against her as he mouthed his way from her face to her breasts and down her tummy and mound.She wriggled, twisting her hips away, but his grip tightened as a warning, he squeezed her wrists like a manacle. "I don't want to..." she slurred. The scrape of his stubble made her twitch, her breath hitching in panic.
Then...warmth. Wetness. A broad, rough flick of his tongue that sent a jolt through her like lightning splitting a tree. Her back arched off the bed again, a startled cry catching in her throat. Baelor groaned against her, the vibration making her toes curl involuntarily. His fingers dug into her hips now, letting go of her hands and dragging her closer as his tongue swirled in a slow, merciless circle. She sobbed, thrashing weakly, but the dreamwine and his weight kept her pinned still. "Avy jorrāelan, ñuha dōna riñītsos" he murmured into her skin, his voice wrecked.He moaned against her honey dripping core,the words sent shame crawling up her spine.
Her hands fluttered to his face, trembling fingers pressing against his head in a futile attempt to push him away. "Kepa!" she sobbed, her voice frayed at the edges like torn silk. His breath hitched against her inner thigh, hot and damp, but he didn’t stop only gripped her hips harder, fingers bruising in their urgency. "It feels weird-" The word dissolved into a whimper as his tongue swiped over her again, deliberate and slow, the sensation sparking something traitorous deep in her belly.
She clawed at his hair,her nails catching in black and silver strands as she twisted beneath him. Baelor grunted, his breath ragged against her skin, but he didn’t relent. Instead, he hooked one of her thighs over his shoulder, spreading her wider. The gown,what remained of it,slid off her hips, pooling around her waist like a discarded shroud. "S-sto— ohh!" Her voice cracked, raw with tears, but the protest was swallowed by the wet, obscene sound of his mouth on her.
The first breach of his finger was a violation she never felt before. She squeaked as he worked the digit inside her tight, resisting flesh. Baelor cursed under his breath, half at her unwilling wetness, half at himself but didn’t withdraw. Instead, he bent his head again, his tongue lapping at her with rough, practiced strokes until her thighs trembled with something that wasn’t quite revulsion. The dreamwine dulled the pain, but not the shame, she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood as he crooked his thick rough finger, searching for her sweet spot.
Her breath hitched when he found the spot,a sudden long flutter of pressure that sent sparks skittering up her spine. Baelor groaned against her, the vibration making her hips jerk involuntarily. "There...." he murmured, his voice thick with wine and want. His tongue circled her clit in tandem with the slow thrust of his finger, the dual sensations pulling a ragged whimper from her throat. She clutched at the sheets now, her knuckles whitening.
The second finger was worse,not for the stretch, though that burned, but for the way her body betrayed her. She gasped, her thighs clamping around him as if to trap him there. Baelor’s breath gusted hot against her inner thigh, his beard scraping sensitive skin raw. "My beautiful sweet niece," he groaned, the words muffled against her flesh. His fingers curled, pressing up into that spongy place inside her that made her toes curl against the sheets. She sobbed, her hips jerking while his palm grinded against her clit with every shallow thrust.
His tongue replaced his fingers,broad, wet strokes that dragged a whimper from her throat.The scrape of his teeth, the suck of his lips, the relentless rhythm of his fingers plunging back inside her. She whined but the protest died in her throat when he crooked his fingers just so.She couldn’t stop the way her hips rocked into his touch, chasing that flicker of pleasure like a moth to flame.
The orgasm tore through her like a stolen thing. She arched off the bed with a strangled cry, her thighs clamping around him tighter,Baelor moaned against her, the vibration sending aftershocks rippling through her,shame and pleasure tangled in a knot too tight to unravel. His tongue lapped at her lazily, coaxing out every last tremor, until she collapsed back onto the sheets, spent and shaking.
The aftershocks still pulsed through her when she saw it,the thick, hard length of him imprinting underneath his undergarments. A sound tore from her throat, half-squeak, half-sob, as she scrambled backward across the bed. Her thighs, still trembling from the forced pleasure, tangled in the ruined fabric, ripping it further as she kicked futilely.
Baelor caught her before she could flee, his grip like iron around her wrists. "My heart...plesse stay still..." he gritted out, the word strained as he pinned her arms above her head once again. He forced himself between her thighs,the heat of him pressing her deeper into the mattress. She thrashed, her breath coming in panicked hitches, but his weight was immovable,a dragon atop its hoard.
Then she heard the rustle of fabric, the sharp intake of his breath, and turned her head just as Baelor shoved his smallclothes all the way down his thighs.
She froze. His cock stood long, thick and flushed against his belly, the tip glistening where it curved. A desperate whimper clawed its way up her throat,high, reedy, the sound a rabbit might make before the wolf's jaws closed around it.
His lips crashed into hers before she could turn away,a clumsy, wine-slick kiss that tasted of salt and shared misery. She whimpered against his mouth, her hands fluttering weakly against his chest, but he only deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips as if begging entry elsewhere. The blunt head of his cock pressed against her entrance, hot and insistent, and she stiffened, her thighs clamping shut around his hips in a futile attempt to bar him.
Baelor hissed against her mouth, his breath ragged. She sobbed into the kiss, her fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as he pushed forward,just the tip, just enough to stretch her unbearably. Then, with a shuddering breath, he thrust deeper.
The moment he breached her, she screamed into his mouth,a raw, shattered sound that dissolved into sobs against his lips. Baelor hissed through clenched teeth, his grip on her thighs tightening as he fought the instinct to sheath himself fully in one brutal thrust. "Gods," he ground out against her cheek, the word ragged with restraint. Her cunt clenched around him like a vice, hot and impossibly tight, her inner muscles fluttering in panicked resistance.
Her nails raked down his back, scoring crescent moons into his skin as she twisted beneath him, her hips jerking in a futile attempt to escape the intrusion. Baelor caught her wrists again, pinning them to the mattress with one hand while the other cradled the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her sweat-damp hair. "Breathe," he commanded, his voice rough with strain. His hips rolled forward in shallow, measured moves, each tiny advance drawing another broken whimper from her throat.
The pain was sharper than she'd imagined,a white-hot lance splitting her in two. She whimpered, her thighs trembling around his hips as he pressed deeper, inch by relentless inch. Baelor's breath came in ragged bursts against her temple, his lips brushing her damp skin in desperate kisses. "My sweet innocent girl..." he murmured, the endearment thick with guilt. His thumb found the swollen bud between her legs, circling with a tenderness that belied the violation of his cock stretching her open.
She gasped, her back arching as pleasure splintered through the pain,another spark that made her toes curl against the sheets. Baelor groaned at the way her cunt clenched around him, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. The sudden thrust drew a sharp cry from her lips, muffled by his mouth crashing down on hers. His tongue tasted of sorrow, tangling with hers in a mimicry of the union below.
The first strong thrust was a blunt, brutal thing,a hot iron splitting her in two. She shrieked, but Baelor swallowed the sound with his mouth, his kiss more suffocation than solace. His beard scraped her chin as he groaned against her lips, his hips snapping forward again, deeper this time. The pain crested, white-hot and dizzying, her vision swimming with tears that spilled sideways into her hair.
He drove into her with a ragged groan, his hips meeting hers in a wet slap of skin that echoed off the canopy above. The pain flared white-hot again,then dulled, treacherous as a tide receding, as his calloused thumb found her clit and circled with practiced precision.
Baelor's mismatched eyes,one violet as dusk, the other black as a starless sky,locked onto hers. The pity in them made her stomach lurch worse than the thrust of his cock. "I'm sorry, sweetling," he gasped, the words slurring with wine and want. His breath hitched as he sank deeper, the drag of him inside her obscenely slick now. "Uhh—*fuck*—I'm so ssorry—" The apology dissolved into a moan as his hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt.
His thumb circled faster now,rough, insistent strokes that sent sparks skittering up her spine despite herself. She whimpered, her thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tight in her belly, warring with the shame clawing at her throat. Baelor kissed her feverishly, his lips hot and wine-slick, swallowing her broken moans as his hips pistoned forward with increasing urgency. The bedframe groaned beneath them, the heavy oak shuddering with each brutal thrust that drove her deeper into the mattress.
She arched off the sheets with a gasping cry as the pleasure crested,wave after wave of guilty ecstasy wringing her body taut before shattering her completely. Baelor growled against her mouth, his large frame shuddering as his own release overtook him. His hips stuttered to a halt, buried to the hilt inside her, his cock pulsing as he spilled hot and thick white cream into her quivering core. Their shared climax left her trembling, her nails digging half-moons into his sweat-slick shoulders as she fought to catch her breath.
"Uhhh....uncle baelor..." She protested weakly,his arms,thick with muscle from years of wielding Dawn,wrapped around her like iron bands, crushing her into a suffocating hug against his sweat-slick chest. She whimpered, her oversensitive core still fluttering around him, as he pressed his lips to the crown of her head. "It's done...," he murmured, his voice hoarse with spent desire. "It's alright, little dove. We're done." The endearment, once paternal, now dripped with a sickening aftertaste of violation.
The silence that followed was worse than the act itself,thick with the scent of sweat and spilled wine, the metallic tang of blood lingering beneath. Baelor's weight pressed her into the mattress, his chest rising and falling against her back in ragged bursts. She lay motionless, her fingers curled into the ruined sheets, her body still pulsing with the ghost of unwanted pleasure. A single tear traced the curve of her cheekbone, disappearing into the damp tangle of her hair.
Baelor exhaled sharply through his nose, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple. His grip loosened,the moment Baelor withdrew, she curled into herself like a gutted animal, her thighs pressing tight against the wetness leaking between them. She heard the rustle of fabric as he righted his breeches, the creak of the bed as his weight shifted away. The cold air hit her exposed skin like a slap.
Baelor hesitated, his shadow looming over her. "I'll call a servant" he said hoarsely. "To clean you."
The door creaked open before Baelor had even finished speaking.Ellyn’s silhouette filled the threshold, her face unreadable in the dim light. She carried a basin of steaming water, the scent of lavender and something sharper, medicinal, cutting through the musk of sweat and spilled wine. The girl didn’t move, her body still curled tight around the ache between her thighs.
Baelor cleared his throat, avoiding Ellyn’s gaze from his guilt as he adjusted the fall of his tunic. “See to my wife,” he muttered, the words thick with something that might have been shame, if she cared to name it. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving only the sound of the woman's measured footsteps and the girl’s own uneven breathing.
The woman set the basin down with a clatter that made the girl flinch. The sound was too loud in the heavy silence,a punctuation mark to what had just happened. The older woman’s hands, rough from years of lye soap and embroidery needles, moved with practiced efficiency as she wrung out a cloth. Steam curled upward, ghostly in the dim light.
"Turn over," the woman said. Not unkindly.
The girl twitched when the damp cloth touched her inner thigh. Ellyn’s hands were brisk, clinical,wiping away the sticky evidence of Baelor’s violation with the same detached efficiency she’d used to lace the wedding gown hours earlier. The lavender water stung where his beard had scraped her raw, the scent cloying as it mixed with the metallic tang of blood. She stared at the canopy above, her fingers twisted in the ruined sheets, while she worked in silence.
When the cloth dipped between her legs, she gasped,a sharp, involuntary sound that made Ellyn pause. The older woman’s eyes flicked up, assessing. "Hurts?" she asked. The girl pressed her lips together, shaking her head even as fresh tears welled. Ellyn sighed through her nose and continued, her touch lighter now, though no less thorough. The water in the basin pinkened.
The bedchamber smelled like lavender and rusted iron.
The days that followed were a slow unraveling of silence and stolen glances. Baelor avoided her chambers,ostensibly occupied with matters of state, though the servants whispered he drank himself into stupors in the solar instead. When they did cross paths in the hallways, his gaze skittered away from hers like a kicked hound, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. She, for her part, learned to make herself small,a shadow slipping along the castle walls, her steps soundless on the stone.
By the third week, the nausea began. It started as a faint roiling in her belly each morning, escalating until she was retching into chamber pots while her maid held back her hair with one hand and pressed a damp cloth to her forehead with the other. The older woman said nothing, but her lips thinned when the girl’s monthly courses failed to arrive. By then, the castle maester had already begun leaving tonics at her door bitter brews that made her gums tingle and her limbs heavy.
The morning she vomited bile into the chamber pot, Baelor finally came.
She heard the scrape of his boots against stone before she saw him,a deliberate sound, warning of his approach. The girl curled tighter around the ache in her belly, her back to the door, fingers clutching the porcelain rim. When his shadow fell across the bed, she didn’t turn. Let him see what he’d made of her: the sweat-damp shift clinging to her thin frame, the hollows under her eyes gone dark.
It was the first time Baelor found her retching over the chamber pot, he froze in the doorway like a man caught mid-thievery. Dawn's light bled through the window, illuminating her sickly form. His niece—*his wife*—shook like a sapling in a storm. She didn't look up when his shadow darkened the threshold, but her shoulders stiffened, fingers whitening around the pot's rim.
"Maester said—" He cleared his throat, stepping forward as one might approach a spooked mare. "They mentioned you've been... unwell", a warm hand settled between her shoulder blades. His palm pressed firm circles against her spine, the rhythm matching the rise and fall of her gasps.
"you did this to me..." She said bitterly like a child complaining about being sick.
"I know, I'm sorry.." He pressed the damp linen to her forehead. The coolness made her shudder, her clammy skin prickling at the contrast. Behind her, Baelor's heartbeat thudded steady against her back,an anchor in the storm of her body's rebellion. His other hand drifted lower, settling over the small bump of her belly with a hesitation that felt almost reverent.
The nausea ebbed slowly, leaving her limp against him. His breath warmed the crown of her head as he exhaled, long and slow. "Ellyn will bring ginger tea," he murmured, then as he was about to pull away to leave her be she grabbed him by his sleeve "please stay....".
He stilled,for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, quietly,almost cautiously,he sat back down.
At first, he lingered only at the threshold, his presence stiff, uncertain, as though he expected to be turned away. His boots would scuff deliberately against the stone before he entered,a small warning, a courtesy she had not thought him capable of.
But she never sent him away.
By the third morning, the distance between them had lessened. He moved about her chambers with a quiet, practiced care,bringing water before she could ask, steadying her when the sickness overtook her, gathering her damp hair back from her face with a gentleness that did not match the callouses of his hands.
He did not speak much.
He did not need to.
And somewhere between one dawn and the next, she stopped bracing when he touched her.
Eventually, he no longer left at night.
It was not spoken of. It simply… happened. A chair drawn closer became a place at the edge of her bed, and that, in time, became his place beside her. For her comfort, he told himself. For her safety.
Yet it was him who slept easier for it.
The first time she felt it, she lay with her back to him, his warmth steady and unfamiliar against her spine.
A flutter.
Soft. Sudden.
She went still.
Again,stronger this time, a strange, quickening pulse deep within her, like something small and insistent pressing against the walls of her.
Behind her, Baelor shifted.
“Is it—?” His voice was low, roughened,but his hand, when it came to rest at her nape, betrayed him. It trembled.
She did not answer.
"Is it—?!!" His voice was gruff, but his fingers trembled against her nape.
Instead, she took his wrist,hesitant, but certain,and guided his hand down.
There,another movement,this time, unmistakable.
She drew in a sharp breath as the child kicked, a sudden, startling force beneath her skin. Baelor’s hand tightened instinctively against her, as though to shield both her and what lay within.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, slowly, his forehead came to rest against her shoulder.
Not a prince. Not a husband by decree.Just a man, undone by the life they had made.
And she did not pull away.
"Your son has his father's temper," she gritted out, arching away from another brutal jab. Baelor's palm settled gingerly against the spot where the babe kicked, his callouses catching on the thin fabric of her shift. The moment his skin made contact, the movement stilled,as if the child recognized the weight of that scarred hand. Baelor exhaled sharply through his nose, his thumb tracing the taut curve where a tiny elbow or knee pressed outward.
"Again?" The midwife sighed, pressing her palm flat against the swell of the princesses belly. "You’re kicking like a foal trying to bust out of its dam."
She rolled her shoulders back against the pillows, wincing as another sharp movement fluttered beneath her ribs. "Tell that to the heir," she muttered, "who seems intent on rearranging my insides before he even greets the world."
Baelor leaned against the bedpost, arms folded, watching with amused detachment. "He’s spirited," he said, as if that excused the bruising rhythm of tiny feet against flesh.
"Spirited," the girl echoed flatly. "A diplomatic way to say *a terror*."
The midwife’s fingers pressed deeper, tracing the outline of a foot—or maybe an elbow—as it jutted sharply against the girls skin. "Gods be good," she muttered, "this one’s got your husband’s stubbornness."
Baelor snorted, pushing off the bedpost to kneel beside the bed. His hand hovered over her belly, hesitating before settling lightly atop the curve. The moment his palm made contact, the kicking stopped.She exhaled, shoulders slumping. "Traitor," she said to her stomach. "You’ll listen to *him*, but not me?"
"Respect for the crown prince," Baelor said dryly, but his thumb brushed a slow, absent circle over the spot where their child had just been thrashing.
The midwife straightened, wiping her hands on her apron. "Another fortnight, if the gods are kind. Any longer, and we’ll have to lure the babe out with promises of ale and a good brawl."
The fortnight passed like honey dripping from a spoon—slow and golden and thick with anticipation. Then, on a night when the torches in the Red Keep burned low and the stars pressed close, her waters broke.
Baelor woke to her sharp gasp, her fingers digging into his wrist. She didn’t need to speak; the way her breath hitched, the way her body tensed like a drawn bow,he knew. "Fetch the midwife," he barked to the shadows beyond their bed, where a servant had been dozing. The girl servant scrambled away, bare feet slapping against stone.
Her grip tightened. "It’s too early,I'm scared" she said, voice thin.
Baelor pressed his lips to her knuckles. "Not by much."
The midwife arrived in a flurry of lantern light and brisk efficiency, her wrinkled hands already slick with oil. "Too early, you say?" She clucked her tongue, prodding the princess belly with the certainty of a woman who’d seen a thousand babes born. "This one’s been ready since the last moon. Stubborn, like his father,holding out for dramatic timing."
Baelor hovered like a restless shadow, torn between the instinct to command and the helplessness of a man who could do nothing but watch.The girl's nails carved half-moons into his palm as another contraction ripped through her, her breath hissing through clenched teeth. "You," she gritted out between waves of pain, "are never touching me again."
He laughed, low and warm against her temple. "It's okay my dove, I'm here."
The chamber dissolved into a blur of sweat and torchlight, the midwife’s voice a steady drumbeat beneath the girls gasps. "Breathe, girl. Push when I say—*not yet*—oh, save your curses for the babe, they’ll serve you better." Hours folded into moments, or perhaps the other way around, until a final, ragged scream tore from the princesses throat and then silence, thick and sudden, split by a wail that shook the drapes.
The wail was raw, indignant,the sound of a prince who already resented the indignity of being born. The girl collapsed back against the pillows, her body limp as a wrung-out rag, her chest rising and falling in shallow, exhausted heaves. The midwife’s hands moved deftly, clearing the babe’s mouth, wiping the slick of blood and fluid from his furious, scrunched face. "A boy," she announced, as if the volume of his protests hadn’t already made that clear.
Baelor’s knees hit the floor beside the bed. He hadn’t realized he’d fallen. His fingers trembled as he reached for his wife's hand, her palm damp and slack in his. "Look at you," he murmured, brushing a sweat-soaked curl from her forehead. "A dragon and a queen." Her laugh was a weak, breathless thing, but her fingers curled around his, squeezing once.
The midwife bundled the babe still howling into a linen wrap and pressed him into her arms. "Meet your heir," she said, stepping back with a knowing smirk. The weight of him was startling, warm and solid and *alive*, his tiny fists flailing as if he meant to challenge the very air. Her throat tightened. She traced the curve of his cheek with a fingertip, marveling at the downy softness, the way his face screwed up in outrage at the touch. "Gods," she whispered. "He’s *real*."
Baelor leaned in, his breath warm against her temple. His thumb brushed the babe’s forehead, smoothing the angry furrow between his brows. The prince’s cries hiccuped into silence, his dark eyes—*Targaryen eyes*—blinking open. For a heartbeat, the chamber held its breath. Then the babe yawned, his entire face stretching with the effort, and settled against her chest with a contented sigh.
The silence stretched precious, fragile before the babe’s fingers curled around Baelor’s thumb with a grip that belied his size. "Strong," the prince murmured, his voice roughened with something that might have been pride, or awe, or both. She exhaled, her lips brushing the crown of their son’s head, inhaling the scent of him salt and warmth and something inexplicably *theirs*.
Outside, the first light of dawn painted the sky in hesitant streaks of pink and gold, but within the chamber, the world had narrowed to the three of them: the exhausted princess, the prince who had knelt as if struck by lightning, and the squirming bundle between them who had already begun to root against his mother's breast with single-minded determination. "Someone’s hungry," she murmured, shifting to guide him. The midwife, long accustomed to royal modesty, discreetly turned to gather soiled linens, but Baelor didn’t look away. His gaze tracked the babe’s every movement as if committing it to memory,the furrow of concentration, the way his tiny mouth latched on with surprising force, the way the princesses breath hitched before settling into a rhythm that matched their son’s.
"Jaehaerys," Baelor said suddenly, the name a quiet rumble between them.The girl glanced up, startled. He hadn’t spoken of names before had deferred to her with uncharacteristic patience through every moon of her pregnancy, as if the choosing were a battle he refused to wage. Now, his thumb traced the curve of the babe’s cheek, his expression softening in a way that made her chest ache. "After the Conciliator. A name for peace."
*Peace.* The word settled over her like a mantle. Peace after the restless nights, the endless council meetings where she’d bitten her tongue raw to keep from snapping at lords who eyed her belly more than her counsel; peace after the whispered japes about Targaryen appetites, the way even her own ladies had tittered behind their hands when Baelor’s touch lingered too long at her waist. She studied her husband the way his shoulders had lost their usual tension, the faint tremor in his fingers as they brushed their son’s forehead and found herself nodding. "Jaehaerys," she echoed, testing the weight of it. The babe paused in his feeding, as if considering, then resumed with renewed vigor.
people are still complaining about Targaryen!Reader in fics? Idk if you’ve noticed but reality fucking blows. so if I want to read/write about being a princess who has a dragon and fucks her brother/uncle/cousin/nephew/knight/guard, I will
The way Baelor ignores his own little girl and treats her badly, as if it were natural for him. Poor little girl, her mother probably spoiled her so much. He keeps her punished by keeping her in her room without contact with people and having her meals there, as if her punishment was not interacting with them. He just doesn't realize that he's been doing this to her since she was a baby. She's just a little girl, too clever for her own good, and she longs for affection and love. I'd like to see more of her with Maekar and Baelor.
eagerly awaiting the next chapter.
Omg I just saw this 😭 I didn’t ignore it on purpose I swear.
And yes… Baelor is a bit OOC here, but very intentionally. I see him as still shattered from losing his wife. When she was born prematurely, he probably expected her not to survive….because realistically, in that world, most don’t. I think he distanced himself to protect his own heart from grieving twice.
But then she lived.
And he just… never adjusted. He kept seeing her as fragile, weak, someone who needed isolation to survive. He convinced himself he was protecting her health by limiting contact. He thinks he’s being cautious. He doesn’t realize he’s been withholding affection since she was a baby. In reality, it became emotional neglect.
She absolutely did nothing wrong. She’s just a clever little girl who wants affection. And Baelor absolutely has a LOT of making up to do.
Also I love that you want more scenes with Maekar and Baelor, their dynamic around her is going to matter a lot 👀
Omg I’m yapping but thank you so much for your thoughts. It makes me so happy you’re this invested.
girl i feel like an obsessive ex bc i keep checking ur profile every hour to see if there’s an update 😭 no worries just tyt thooo…
girl don’t expose yourself like that 😭😭 but also… thank you?? I’m giggling and typing as we speak. Update tomorrow!! I’m genuinely so flattered you’re waiting for it 🥹
summary : you survive a plane crash — only to wake up in a world that isn’t yours. they call it Westeros. lost and alone, you try to survive… until a joust goes terribly wrong and you save the heir to the Iron Throne, changing the fate of the realm.
words : 6k
warnings: aerion, blood and graphic violence, sexism and misogyny, medieval-typical attitudes, political intrigue, power imbalance, and other classic ASOIAF themes ect ect…
a/n : should I .... continue this ???
part 1
When Baelor rides onto the field to stand in defense of his nephew, a coldness settles along your spine so sharply it feels almost like a blade laid flat against bone.
You are positioned beneath the striped awnings of the noble pavilion, tasked with overseeing the trays and flagons as servants circulate among silk-clad lords and jeweled ladies. From this slight elevation, the lists stretch wide and merciless beneath the sun — churned earth already darkened in places where blood has soaked into it.
He has made his decision, and did not tell you.
After your conversation by the hearth, he dismissed you with measured courtesy, and that was the end of it. No hint, or promise. And now he is there.
Armor gleaming, lance lowered. The heir to the Iron Throne riding into what can only be called sanctioned slaughter.
Knights colliding in splintering bursts of wood and steel. Horses screaming. Men dragged from saddles only to rise again in mud and fury. What began as ceremony has dissolved into something far more primitive — not sport, not honor, but survival.
Your hands move mechanically, pouring wine into waiting cups, replenishing platters as though this were any other spectacle. The nobles murmur, gasp, applaud. They lean forward eagerly when a helm cracks, when a body falls.
Your gaze, however, does not wander. It remains fixed upon him, upon Baelor.
You must be a fool to even entertain the thought... You remind yourself of that often enough : you're a peasant. This isn't some ridiculous courtly romance or traveling play where a prince falls in love with a nobody and defies the realm for her. This is a medieval kingdom, titles matter. Blood matters. Marriage is not a game whispered about behind silk curtains.
Here, girls of sixteen are handed off like treaties, sealed with vows instead of ink. Gwin told you that herself, her tone practical and unsurprised. There is no room for fantasy in a world like this.
And yet...
You just can't help it. For the first time since arriving in this cursed place, you feel something stir in your chest, something reckless and alive. Of all the souls in this brutal court, of all the men you might have looked at and forgotten, you had to be attracted to him. The heir to the Iron Throne.
You watch him fight with a precision that borders on restraint. He does not rage. He does not posture. He moves with economy, shield raised, strikes measured ... not wasteful, not cruel. A man fighting because he has chosen to, not because he delights in it.
Across the chaos, you glimpse Aerion locked in vicious struggle with Ser Duncan, their movements frantic and uneven, pride driving them harder than skill.
And then — you see it.
Prince Maekar, composure shattered, drives forward in raw desperation. He calls out to his son — not as a prince commanding troops, but as a father terrified of losing his child. The sound of it carries even through the din.
Your breath catches.
Maekar does not strike gently.
The mace arcs through sunlight — a brutal, heavy sweep meant to clear space, meant to defend his son. It connects, the sound is sickening through the cheers. Baelor falls.
You gasp aloud before you can stop yourself.
A nearby lord turns toward you, goblet extended expectantly for more wine. His brows lift in mild irritation at your lapse. You murmur an apology and complete the pour, though you scarcely see the liquid entering the cup.
Your eyes are already back on the field.
He is not rising, you know that kind of blow.
You have seen concussions before. Skull fractures, the subtle stillness that follows when the brain has been shaken within its cage too violently.
At best, you think wildly, at best he is merely stunned.
At worst — the field dissolves into chaos. Trumpets blare, dust rises in thick choking clouds as men shout and converge. Somewhere amid the tumult, Aerion is forced to withdraw his accusation against Ser Duncan, the words wrenched from him more by circumstance than humility.
The trial is declared ended.
You are ordered beneath the stands at once, sent running with water and cloth for the wounded being dragged out of the blazing sun.
Under the pavilion, it is another world entirely.
The roar of the crowd fades into something muffled and distant. Here there is only blood, sweat, and the low, broken sounds of men trying not to scream.
As you hurry forward with a bucket sloshing against your skirts, one thought pounds through your skull with dreadful certainty:
You knew this would happen.
You spot the young prince (Egg? Aegon?) hovering wide-eyed as Ser Duncan is lowered onto a bench by two men. The giant looks half-dead already, armor torn away, his body a ruin of bruises and blood. And yet he still has the strength to groan, to speak.
Your instinct is immediate and violent: go to him. Help him, you idiot.
But you freeze, and remind yourself miserably once again : you are a maid. Not a surgeon who fell through time into some brutal, backward century.
"You shouldn't be here," you say gently to the small bald boy as you approach with the water.
"I'm his squire," Egg replies defensively, his high voice tight, small hands clenched into fists.
You sigh softly.
"The others..." Dunk groans, his voice rough as gravel. "Has anyone died?"
He looks toward Raymun Fossoway — the newly knighted one, bruised and battered himself, though not nearly as broken as Dunk.
"Beesbury," Raymun answers quietly, kneeling before him. "In the first charge."
Your eyes return to Dunk's side, and your stomach twists.
Steely Pate, the camp armorer, is bent over him, thick, unwashed fingers pressing into the torn flesh where the lance struck. You wince. The rings of mail have been driven into the wound.
"Gods be good," Raymun murmurs as he watches. "The lance points drove the rings deep into his flesh."
You shift the weight of the bucket on your hip, helpless, horrified. Every instinct in you is screaming.
"One moment I feel drunk," Dunk mutters through clenched teeth. "The next like I'm dying."
And that is when you snap.
"Stop touching him like that," you say sharply to Steely Pate.
All three men look at you.
Egg stares at you as though you have grown another head.
"It'll worsen the wound," you continue, forcing your voice steady. "He could die of infection."
"And what would a maid know of such matters?" Raymun asks, suspicion flickering in his eyes.
You bite back the urge to roll yours. To tell them you have spent years in operating rooms, that you have held a beating heart and a brain in your hands. That you have studied anatomy in sterile halls with lights brighter than the sun.
Because here, that would make you a witch.
"Because — " you begin.
But Steely Pate cuts you off with a dismissive shake of his head. "We'll get him drunk," he mutters, turning back to Dunk. "Then we'll pour boiling oil into it. That's how the maesters do it."
Boiling oil.
Your mind reels. You've heard of maesters — scholars, healers, teachers bound in chains of knowledge. There was one at Ashford Castle, you remember. There is always one, no matter how small the house.
And this is what they do?
You have kept your silence since arriving in this cursed place. When Clare complained of her back, when Gwin spoke of stomach pains or fevers spreading through the camp, you swallowed the truth. You never explained bacteria, never spoke of internal bleeding or organ failure. You were careful, too much knowledge would damn you.
Better a silent maid than a burned witch.
But this — this is too much.
You look at Dunk's ashen face. At the dirt grinding deeper into open flesh, the hands that will kill him in the name of healing. And for the first time since you arrived in this brutal world, you decide silence is no longer an option.
You are drawing breath to argue (to insist, to overstep your place yet again) when the murmur beneath the pavilion shifts and parts for another figure entering from the glare of the lists. The armor is unmistakable even through dust and shadow: blackened steel chased with the three-headed dragon. Not one of the lesser sons, not a hedge knight aping glory.
Royalty.
For half a heartbeat you fear it is Maekar, hard as the blow he delivered.But then the knight speaks.
"Wine. Not oil." The voice settles the question at once. Prince Baelor.
You feel something dangerously close to disbelief unfurl inside your chest. You saw the strike land. You saw the unnatural snap of his helm beneath the force of it. You saw the way his body absorbed the violence of that impact. No one walks away from that without consequence. No one.
Yet here he stands — though "stands" is generous. The sword he drives point-first into the ground is not ceremonial; it is structural. His weight leans subtly, almost imperceptibly, into the hilt as though the steel were an extension of his spine.
"Oil will kill him," Baelor continues.
The irony does not escape you.
He surveys the scene with concentration : Dunk pale and bloodied, Egg hovering stricken and stubborn, Raymun kneeling, Steely Pate bristling — and at last his gaze settles on you, absurdly still clutching your basin like a talisman of competence in a world that refuses it.
"I will send Maester Yormwell to see to him," he says, turning slightly toward the archway where the haze of churned earth still drifts. "When he has finished tending my brother."
There is that unmistakable affection of brothers when he speaks of him.
Behind you, Dunk groans, a fractured sound dragged up from somewhere deep.
You should remain silent, you should bow and withdraw into invisibility.
Instead, professional reflex overrides social survival. "And who is tending you, Your Grace?" you ask, the words emerging before caution can restrain them. "I saw the blow you received — it needs tending."
The pavilion stills, and fuck.
Baelor turns with slowness, the cracked visor obscures most of his face, yet something in the angle of his head suggests mild amusement (or perhaps curiosity) that a maid would dare such familiarity.
Before he can respond, Dunk drags himself from the bench, refusing dignity in favor of loyalty. With assistance, he forces his battered body upright enough to kneel.
"Your Grace," he rasps, voice raw with devotion. "I am your man. Please. Your man."
The plea is not political, it is profoundly personal. Baelor lowers a gloved hand to Dunk's shoulder in benediction.
"I need good men, Ser Duncan," he replies.
The cadence is wrong... not the vocabulary, but the delivery.
There is a thickness to his speech now, a subtle distortion as though the musculature of his tongue is laboring against invisible resistance. The vowels blur at their edges, consonants lack precision.
He reaches to touch Dunk's head with almost paternal gravity. "The realm — "
The sentence fractures, his posture wavers. Not dramatically or theatrically, but undeniably.
You do not think; you react. The basin slips from your grasp and strikes the ground, water spilling uselessly across trampled earth as you move to steady him. Your hands close around his left arm — solid beneath the armor yet strangely unreliable in its resistance.
"Your Grace," you murmur, lowering your voice so that it does not carry accusation, "you require a maester."
"Nonsense," he answers, but the word arrives softened at the margins.
His eyes attempt to focus on yours. They blink with effort, the tracking is delayed, as though his mind is negotiating distance through fog.
Behind you, Dunk is guided back to the bench.
Baelor remains upright only because the sword bears a portion of his weight.
"Ser Raymun... my helm... if you would be so kind."
Your mind arranges the data with merciless efficiency. The initial trauma did not incapacitate him. He rose, he spoke, he functioned. A deceptive stability. Now — minutes later — the decline announces itself in subtle neurological deficits: slurred articulation, impaired fine motor control, disequilibrium.
"Visor's cracked," Baelor adds faintly, his gauntleted fingers fumbling at the damaged metal. "My fingers feel... like wood."
Paresthesia.
Raymun steps behind him at once, calling to Steely Plate. "Good man, I need a hand."
Your thoughts accelerate into clinical clarity. The helm was tightly fitted; minimal interior space, rigid containment. The impact likely produced a depressed or linear skull fracture along the occipital region. The cerebellum could be compromised; his unsteadiness suggests involvement of coordination pathways. Swelling has begun — inevitably. Intracranial pressure rising within a confined vault.
The helmet, ironically, is performing an external tamponade. The metal encasement is stabilizing the fracture, maintaining uniform compression. It is preventing displacement.
If they remove it abruptly, they risk destabilizing the fragmented bone. They risk altering the pressure gradient catastrophically. If there is an epidural bleed (and the lucid interval strongly suggests it) then what is contained may suddenly expand without counterforce.
A rapid shift, herniation and then immediate collapse.
Raymun's hands find the clasps.
You tighten your hold on Baelor's arm, feeling the tremor beginning there, subtle but undeniable.
And you know, with dreadful certainty, that the next few seconds will determine whether the heir to the Iron Throne remains a living man, or becomes a cautionary memory whispered.
Steely Pate continues speaking (something about the steel having been driven inward, about how the metal was crushed and forced against bone) but the words dissolve before they reach you. They sound distant, muffled, as if you are hearing them from underwater.
"My brother's mace, most likely," Baelor murmurs faintly. He tilts his head toward you, and even through the warped visor you see it — that faint, crooked smile. "He's strong."
There is affection there, no bitterness, not even anger. Only the warmth of an elder brother remembering boyhood scuffles in sunlit courtyards instead of mortal blows on a battlefield. The tenderness of it nearly shatters you.
You see it clearly now — this is the lucid interval.
He is speaking, standing, and even smiling. And he is dying.
"Don't." The word leaves you before fear can cage it. It is not timid. It carries command — a tone entirely unsuited to a servant wrapped in dull grey and faded orange.
The men turn toward you in unison.
Baelor's eyes shift last. They snap toward you with effort, struggling to focus. They are unfixed, glassy, fighting to remain present.
You take a step forward, the pitcher hanging useless at your side.
"Do not remove the helm," you say again, slower this time, forcing each syllable to land with intention.
Ser Raymun exhales through his nose. "And what would a maid know of such matters?"
His tone is not merely irritated — it is offended. The natural order of the world has tilted, a servant is instructing knights.
Four pairs of eyes are on you now. You feel your pulse in your throat, in your temples.
But you do not retreat.
"If you remove it without preparation," you say carefully, "you may cause a sudden and fatal worsening of his condition."
The terminology means nothing to them — you see it plainly in their faces.
So you shift, forcing your knowledge into language they might grasp.
"The blow he took did not simply dent steel. It struck bone. The helm is holding what was broken in place. If you lift it carelessly, without keeping his head completely still, you may worsen the injury beyond repair."
They stare at you as if you have begun reciting incantations.
You step closer to Baelor now, ignoring the invisible line you should not cross.
"If you remove it," you continue, your voice tightening with urgency, "the pressure inside his skull will change. Whatever balance is holding will be lost."
"A maid. What would you know of skulls and pressure?" Raymun rebukes again, more agitated now.
And that is when something inside you tears loose.
"Shut the fuck up and listen to me, will you!" The curse cracks through the pavilion like a whip, and the silence that follows is immense.
You have just sworn at a knight of noble birth.... You know the weight of that, you know the danger, and yet, you don't care.
"He's in danger," you continue, voice no longer trembling but burning. "You remove his helmet without stabilizing his head, and the very thing keeping him alive may fail. The force that struck him likely fractured the back of his skull. The steel is compressing it! It is keeping the fragments aligned. It is containing the swelling."
Blank incomprehension flickers across their faces, but they understand the tone.
"You pull it away too quickly," you press on, desperate now, "and whatever is contained inside will not remain contained. Would you prefer his brain spilled into the dirt beneath your boots?"
The brutality of the image lands, you see it in the way Raymun's jaw tightens and eyes widen.
Baelor is staring at you in a strange, distant way.
"Let ... " he says softly. Your name is uneven on his tongue.
You step closer and take his arm more firmly as he sways.
"Do not speak," you murmur to him, lowering your voice just for him. "Save your strength."
His weight shifts against you more heavily now. The subtle tremor in his stance is worsening. His fingers, once steady on his sword, twitch faintly as though the signals between mind and muscle are faltering.
He tries to straighten, tries to maintain dignity, but you feel it — the gradual loss of coordination.
Raymun hesitates behind him, Steely Pate hesitates too. The unthinkable has happened: they are pausing because a servant girl has told them to.
Baelor exhales slowly. The sound is not quite right — slightly uneven.
You can see the signs accumulating now with horrifying clarity, and you know what comes next.
And you do not know how to stop it in a world without surgeons, without imaging, without sterile instruments or drills to relieve the pressure building inside a prince's head.
All you have is your voice, and the terrible knowledge that time is almost gone.
Then Baelor's knees buckle. The change is subtle at first (a deeper sway, his grip loosening on the sword ) and then his weight collapses fully into you.
"Your Grace — !"
You barely keep him upright.
His head lolls slightly inside the damaged helm, his eyes are no longer focusing.
"Lay him down," you order sharply, the authority in your tone no longer accidental but deliberate. "Flat, and carefully. Keep his head completely still."
They hesitate again — not out of defiance now, but uncertainty.
You twist toward a passing maid frozen near the pavilion entrance.
"You — find something rigid. A door plank, a table board, anything long and solid. Now. And clear a path back to the castle. He needs to be moved immediately."
She stares at you, wide-eyed.
"Go!" you snap.
She runs.
Raymun steps closer, agitation bleeding into his voice. "We cannot simply rush the Hand of the King about like a sack of grain—"
You round on him, fury blazing hot and clean.
"The heir to the Iron Throne and the Hand of the King are in our hands," you say, each word sharp as a blade. "If you do not wish to watch him die beneath this tent, then you will either listen to me or you will step aside — and if he dies because you chose pride over sense, that will be on you."
The pavilion goes still.
Raymun's jaw flexes, but he does not argue again.
Baelor is sagging now, barely conscious. A low murmur spills from his lips — broken fragments.
"Sons... the realm..." The words drift apart, unfinished.
"Do not let his head move," you instruct Steely Pate. "Not even a finger's width."
The maid returns at last, breathless, dragging a long, solid plank of wood — likely torn from a supply table. It will have to do.
"Good," you say, already kneeling. "Slide it beside him."
You lower Baelor carefully to the ground, supporting the base of his skull through the helm so that no rotation occurs. Every motion is slow, controlled. You guide the men with your hands.
"On my count," you say, breathing rapidly. "We lift together... keep his body aligned with his head. Do not twist him."
They obey. One, two, three. They raise him just enough for you to slide the plank beneath. You lay him flat atop it, adjusting his shoulders and hips so his spine remains straight.
He is no longer responding.
"Baelor," you say firmly, leaning close. "Your Grace, can you hear me?"
No answer.
You press two fingers carefully at his neck beneath the jawline, searching. There, a pulse. Still present, still alive! Strong, but slightly irregular.
"He still has a pulse," you say, more to steady yourself than them. "We move now."
Steely Pate takes one end of the wooden plank without another word, his large hands surprisingly steady despite the blood still drying on his knuckles. You move to the other end immediately, not allowing yourself a moment to think about the impropriety of it — a servant lifting a prince — nor about the tremor running through your arms.
Raymun positions himself near the prince's head, both hands hovering awkwardly near the damaged helm as if afraid even his breath might shift it. Egg stands frozen for a second longer, his wide violet eyes glossy with tears, staring at his uncle's slackened form as though the world has tilted irreparably.
But you need him.
He is the only one whose word will open gates and doors.
"Slowly," you instruct Steely Pate firmly. "No sudden movements. Keep him completely level." Then, without breaking stride, you turn your head toward Raymun and the cluster of maids hovering uselessly nearby. "Find a maester for Ser Duncan. Now. Do not let them pour oil into that wound."
Your voice does not waver.
"Prince Aegon," you call urgently, your breath already tight from the strain of holding the stretcher. "I need your assistance."
The boy startles as if pulled from a dream. He looks once toward Dunk (who, pale and sweating, nods faintly at him) and then Egg runs to your side, wiping at his face with the back of his sleeve.
They begin moving.
The path back to the castle forces you between the lists, where the dust of combat still lingers thick in the air. Nobles remain perched upon the stands, some standing now, craning their necks to see which knights still rise and which do not. Wounded men groan in the dirt. The festive banners flutter obscenely bright above a field that smells of iron and churned mud.
Ahead, you glimpse Prince Maekar kneeling in the mud beside his fallen son, helmet cast aside. A maester bends over the young man, murmuring urgently. Maekar looks up at the commotion — sees the dragon on the battered armor you carry — sees Egg running alongside you — and something primal and terrified tears from his throat.
"What is happening?" he shouts, rising to his feet.
No one answers. You do not answer.. There is no time to soothe a father while the Hand of the King's breathing grows shallower with every step.
The castle looms closer. The guards at the gate lower their halberds automatically when they see a group of servants rushing forward with a plank of wood. Their expressions harden.
"Halt — "
"Move!" Egg snaps, his voice breaking but carrying unmistakable authority. "That is Prince Baelor!"
The guards hesitate only a fraction of a second —(ong enough to see the dragon sigil, long enough to register the blood) and then they step aside.
You do not slow.
"Faster," you urge under your breath, though every instinct warns you that speed risks jostling the injury further. "We need a chamber. Clean linens. Boiled water. Vinegar, if they have it. And someone send for Maester Yormwell immediately."
You turn to Egg as you cross the threshold into the stone corridors of the castle. "Where is his chamber?"
He swallows hard and points. "Up the east stair — the second tower room."
"Show us."
The stairwell feels impossibly narrow as you ascend, each step measured and agonizing. Baelor's head shifts slightly despite Raymun's careful hands, and you feel your stomach clench at the motion.
He makes no sound now, not even the broken murmurs of before.
When you finally reach the chamber, you push through the door without ceremony. The room is large, tapestries drawn back to let in the afternoon light, a heavy carved bed dominating the center.
"Clear it," you order.
Servants scramble to strip the bed of decorative cushions and furs. Raymun and Steely Pate lift the plank carefully and transfer Baelor onto the mattress at your direction, keeping his spine aligned as best they can manage.
"Do not remove the helm," you remind them sharply.
They step back, breathing hard.
You turn to Egg, who stands pale and shaking near the foot of the bed.
"I need you to fetch the maester," you tell him firmly. "Tell him this cannot wait. And bring anyone he trusts to assist him. Go."
The boy nods and runs. You face Raymun and Steely Pate next.
"Find the largest basins you can," you instruct. "Fill them with water. Have it boiled. Bring clean cloths. As clean as you can manage. Quickly."
They exchange a look — uncertain still, but no longer arguing — and then they move.
For the first time since the pavilion, you are alone beside him, you step to the head of the bed and kneel.
Carefully, gently, you slide your fingers once more to his neck.
The pulse is still there, fainter now. You watch his chest.
You place your palm lightly against the damaged helm, stabilizing it without shifting it.
"Stay with me," you murmur under your breath, though you do not know whether you are speaking to him or to yourself.
Because now comes the part where knowledge alone may not be enough. And you are about to attempt to save a prince in a century that does not yet know how to save him.
You stand at the head of the bed, both hands braced against the warped helm, and for the first time since the chaos began there is no one giving orders but you.
The chamber smells of dust and old stone. Light spills across red-and-black tapestries, across carved furniture, across a prince who may die within the hour if you miscalculate.
You force yourself to breathe slowly. You do not have a drill. You do not have sterile instruments. You do not have imaging, suction, cautery, clamps.
You're fucked, but hopeful.
You have metal bent inward against fractured bone — and a skull that is likely cracked along the occipital line. The helm is compressing the fragments, preventing displacement. It is also containing swelling. But it is unstable containment. If removed without counter-pressure, the fracture may separate, the swelling may surge outward, and the delicate structures at the base of the brain (brainstem, cerebellum) may shift catastrophically.
You cannot simply pull it off... but you cannot leave it on forever either.
His pulse flutters beneath your fingers, he's warm, too warm even.
The door bursts open.
Maester Yormwell enters with two younger acolytes trailing him, chains clinking softly against his chest. He takes in the scene at once — you at the head of the bed, the dragon-helmed prince motionless, Raymun hovering like a sentinel.
"What madness is this?" the maester demands. "Why has the helm not been removed?"
"Because if you remove it carelessly, he will die," you answer without looking at him.
Silence follows.
You finally lift your gaze. "I need bandages. Thick linen. As many rolls as you have. Leather straps. Vinegar and Wine. And something small and sharp enough to cut metal ties, not pry the helm open."
One of the acolytes scoffs. "It is our place to tend him."
You do not raise your voice.
"If you remove that helm without stabilizing his skull externally, the fractured bone will shift. The swelling inside will worsen. He will stop breathing, and you will call it the will of the gods. I will call it preventable."
The maester narrows his eyes at you. "And how would you know this?"
Because I have seen it before, because I have watched patients talk and smile and then collapse from epidural hematomas, because I know the pattern.
Instead you say, "The blow was to the back of the head. He walked. He spoke. Now he fades. That is not chance. That is injury progressing beneath containment."
One of the acolytes whispers, "She speaks like a witch."
You turn your head slowly toward him.
"It's not witchcraft, you imbecile" you say evenly. "It is knowledge, science! And if you would rather let the Hand of the King die than listen to a woman, then stand aside and watch."
That lands.
Yormwell studies Baelor's breathing. The irregular pulse, the cracked visor, the blood under the helm now staining the bed.
"What do you propose?" he asks finally.
You exhale once. "We do not pull the helm upward. We cut it away in sections. Slowly. While maintaining external pressure around the skull."
You move your hands to demonstrate.
"We wrap his head first. Tight bandaging around the helm itself to keep the metal from springing outward suddenly. Then we cut the side straps and hinges piece by piece. As the metal loosens, we replace its support with firm wrapping."
The maester's brows draw together. He understands enough anatomy to follow.
"You intend to create an outer casing of cloth," he says slowly.
"Yes."
"And if the bone beneath is shattered?"
"Then the cloth becomes the brace."
One of the acolytes shifts uneasily. "And if she is wrong?"
You meet his gaze steadily. "Then he dies here instead of later."
No one speaks after that.
"Bring the linen," Yormwell orders.
The chamber fills with motion.
They wrap Baelor's helm first — thick, tight spirals of folded linen around the crown and sides, compressing the damaged metal gently inward so it cannot shift suddenly. You guide their hands, correcting tension, adjusting placement so pressure distributes evenly.
"Not too tight at the throat," you warn. "His airway must remain clear."
Wine is poured over your hands, over the cloth, over the metal edges. It is not sterile — but it is what this century has. When the wrapping is secure, you nod.
"Now we cut."
The maester uses fine metal shears normally meant for trimming chain links. Carefully, painstakingly, he begins cutting the side straps that secure the visor and cheek plates. You keep both palms firm against the helm, preventing outward expansion.
Each snip sounds thunderous in the silent room. Baelor still doesn't move.
His breathing stutters once — you freeze — then resumes.
"Slowly," you whisper. "Do not lift. Let it separate outward into the cloth."
Piece by piece, the helm loosens. A cracked cheek plate falls away into the bandaging.
The visor hinge snaps free, sweat beads along your spine.
Finally, only the back crown remains — the portion most deeply dented.
"This will shift," Yormwell warns.
"I know."
You press one hand at the base of his skull through the wrappings, the other steady at the crown.
"Cut."
The final metal tension releases with a dull metallic snap.
For one horrifying half-second, you feel movement beneath your hands, a subtle give, and you compensate immediately, tightening the linen, pressing evenly, preventing expansion.
The helm comes away in pieces. Underneath, matted hair. Blood. A visible depression along the occipital ridge, but the skull has not separated. You don't allow anyone to gasp.
"More linen," you say quickly. "We bind him now."
You begin wrapping directly over his hair and scalp, creating a firm, circumferential compression bandage to replace the helmet's structural containment.
"Not crushing," you instruct. "Supporting."
The maester watches your technique with dawning comprehension.
"You are countering the swelling," he murmurs.
"Yes."
When the final layer of linen is secured and tied firmly into place, you allow yourself to step back — but only just enough to slide your fingers once more to the side of his neck. You press gently, counting beneath your breath. The pulse is still there, faint, but steadier than it was before.
You lift your eyes to his face. He has slipped into unconsciousness fully now, no longer hovering in that fragile space between speech and silence. His skin has lost its usual warmth of sun-touched bronze; it is pale, almost ashen against the dark spill of his hair. Without the helm, without the tension of command in his posture, he looks younger. Smaller.
His mismatched eyes (one dark, one lighter, always so sharp and attentive) are hidden now behind closed lids.
You watch the slow rise and fall of his chest as if it is the only movement left in the world, then ou lean close.
"My prince," you whisper. "If you can hear me, breathe."
For a long, terrifying moment, nothing changes, then his chest rises — deeper this time. A slow exhale follows, the room collectively releases a breath it has been holding.
"He lives," the maester whispers.
"For now," you correct quietly.
Maester Yormwell watches you in silence, and the look he gives you has changed. The suspicion from earlier has dulled into something far more complicated — wary consideration, edged with reluctant respect. He says nothing as you begin tidying the space around Baelor's head, wiping away excess blood with cloth dampened in wine, ensuring the bandages remain firm but not constricting.
Raymun and Steely Pate have already withdrawn at the maester's instruction, likely to wash and steady themselves, find Dunk.
"I need help removing the rest of the armor," you say, glancing toward one of the younger acolytes. "Carefully. We cannot jostle him."
The acolyte kneels hesitantly beside you as you begin loosening the metal plates from Baelor's torso one strap at a time. As you work, you frown slightly.
"It sits too tightly across the shoulders," you murmur. "This wasn't fitted for him."
Egg, who has not left the side of the bed since returning, lifts his head quickly.
"I know that armor," he says, voice still thick from earlier tears. "It's Valarr's. My cousin's."
You pause for just a moment. Baelor's son.
You have seen him in these halls before — a quiet presence at his father's side, often tucked into the corner of the study while Baelor worked, or seated straight-backed at tournaments, watching with solemn attention rather than childish excitement. A polite, disciplined boy. Thoughtful. He carried himself with a restraint uncommon for his age.
And he looked so much like him : the same dark hair. The same mismatched gaze, the same air of contained gentleness beneath royal bearing.
Your chest tightens, you wonder where he is now.
"He must have lent it to him for the trial," Egg continues quietly. "My uncle did not bring his own. He never meant to fight."
The maester looks at you again, even more confused. "And how would you know a thing like improper fitting? of medicine?"
You open your mouth, already scrambling for something plausible (something that sounds harmless enough for a servant) but before you can form an excuse, the chamber doors slam open with a force that rattles the hinges.
Prince Maekar stands in the doorway.
Mud still clings to his boots, his face is thunderous, grief and fury barely contained beneath a veneer of rigid control.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demands, striding into the room. His gaze snaps to the bed. "I saw him rise. Why is he here? Why is he lying like this?"
You straighten slowly.
"You struck him with your mace, Your Grace," you say evenly. "The impact fractured his skull."
Maekar recoils as though you have slapped him.
"No," he says at once. "No. I did not strike him so."
"It was likely accidental," you continue carefully. "The blow was not meant to kill. But the force—"
"My brother cannot die," Maekar interrupts, his voice cracking despite himself. "He cannot."
And there, the iron façade fractures.
You do not see a prince then, no, you see a younger brother — the boy who once sparred in palace gardens beneath summer suns, wooden swords clashing in laughter instead of fury. The boy who had been lifted first into Baelor's arms before any of the others. The brother who rode beside him into war.
Baelor the hammer, and Maekar the anvil.
Different in temper, in bearing, in light yet forged together in the same fire. Bound not only by blood but by years of battle, counsel, rivalry, and unspoken loyalty. The kind of closeness that does not require softness to exist, the kind that is proven in steel and silence.
It is written across his face now — that history, that terror... but the vulnerability seals over almost immediately.
Maekar straightens, jaw hardening as if remembering exactly who stands before him. The chamber is full of witnesses. Servants, a maid who dared to command.
His silver-white hair hangs in disarray, streaked darker where mud and drying blood have dulled it to ashen grey. The smear across his cheek has not yet been wiped away. He looks less like a prince in that moment and more like a soldier dragged from the field — except for the authority that settles over him again like armor.
The grief is still there, he simply locks it behind his teeth.
"You presume much," he says coldly. "Who are you?"
You meet his gaze, though every instinct urges you to lower it. Almost unconsciously, you take a small step backward (closer to the bed, closer to Baelor) as if the unconscious man might somehow shield you simply by his presence.
And yet you position yourself beside him all the same, as though standing near the Hand of the King might lend you a fragment of protection.
His gaze drags over you slowly — from your face down to the plain fabric of your dress, to the sleeves rolled and stained from blood, to the unmistakable shape of you beneath it all. He takes in the absence of a chain at your throat, the lack of a maester’s robes, the simple shoes of a servant.
You are not a man, you are certainly not a maester... and in his eyes, that alone is accusation enough.
You tell Maekar your name. "I am a maid in service."
His eyes flash with disbelief.
"A maid?" His voice sharpens dangerously. "A maid laid hands upon the Hand of the King?"
You don't flinch. "I stabilized his skull and prevented further damage when the helm was removed."
"You presume he needed such intervention."
Maester Yormwell steps forward carefully. "Your Grace, I assisted her. Her method was... unconventional, but it was not without merit."
Maekar barely glances at him. "And you allowed this?"
"It was either attempt her method," Yormwell replies measuredly, "or remove the helm outright and risk immediate death."
Egg moves closer to his father, voice trembling but determined. "She knew what she was doing, father'She stopped them from pulling it off in the tent. Father, she saved him."
Maekar's jaw tightens. His gaze returns to you — assessing, furious, frightened.
"You speak of fractured skulls and swelling as though you have studied in Oldtown," he says. "You command knights. You curse at nobles. And you expect me to believe you are merely a maid?"
"I did what was necessary to keep him alive," you answer steadily. "What happens now rests with his body —" you pause," and the gods, if you prefer that phrasing."
His nostrils flare.
"Maester," Maekar says sharply, without looking away from you, "go tend to my son. Aerion remains unconscious."
Yormwell hesitates only briefly before bowing. "At once, Your Grace."
He casts you a fleeting glance (apologetic, perhaps?) and leaves with the acolytes.
Maekar's voice turns to ice. "Guards."
Two men appear in the doorway immediately, you watch confused.
"Take her," he orders. "To the dungeons."
Egg spins toward him. "Father — !"
Maekar does not raise his voice, yet it carries the burden of final judgment.
"Until I determine whether she is savior or sorceress, she will not walk freely within these walls."
"My prince —" you try, the words breaking apart in your throat.
This is not how it was meant to unfold. You were supposed to save him, you were supposed to step back into shadow once the crisis passed — not be dragged from the chamber like a criminal.
The guards seize your arms without ceremony. Their grip is firm, impersonal, and you flinch as iron fingers clamp around your sleeves, pulling you away from the bedside.
You twist just once, looking over your shoulder.
Baelor lies motionless beneath the tight linen wrappings you fashioned in haste and desperation. The bandages encircle his head where the crown once rested. His skin remains pale, almost translucent in the afternoon light, but his chest still rises and falls .
Alive... for now.
You have done everything you could, everything this century allowed. Now you must trust that it was enough.
A bitter thought slips into your mind; that perhaps this was always the bargain. That saving a prince might cost you your own life in return, that death may be the gift granted to the one who interfered with fate.
You swallow hard, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.
"My prince — " you try again, meant for the man on the bed rather than the one condemning you.
Egg is pleading now, his young voice rising in desperation as he clutches at his father's arm, insisting that you saved him, that you knew what you were doing. Maekar silences him with a look alone.
The guards begin pulling you toward the door.
You do not know what awaits you below, whether it will be questioning, chains, or something far worse. You do not know if Baelor will wake, you do not know if the realm will remember the maid who tried.
As the chamber doors close behind you, one fragile hope anchors itself in your chest: If death is coming, let it be swift.
And if the prince lives — let it have been worth it.
A/N :
this is how I grief … ( I hope maekar wasn’t too ooc)
Everyone’s fine with Targcest if it’s Uncle/Niece, Cousin/Cousin, Brother/Sister, but the fun police draw the line at Father/Daughter. Where is Baelor x Daughter!Reader, Aerion x Maekar x Baelor x Sister!Daughter!Niece!Reader foursome?? The self proclaimed freaks are suddenly silent.. Wake it up!!!
