decaying wouldn't be so bad if im with you

[cookieebutter]

your boyfriend’s just too big !

his dick is heavy in his hand, flushed and leaking, the head slick as he runs it slowly through the slippery mess between your thighs. your folds are swollen, twitching with every brush of his tip.

his voice is rough when he whispers, “gonna ease it in, baby… s’gonna feel big. you tell me if it’s too much, alright?”

but you’re already nodding, legs spread wide, cunt stretched open and aching for him. the first inch pushes past your entrance and your body clenches around him immediately, sucking him in with a wet, squelching noise that makes his whole body jolt.

“oh—oh, sweetheart…”

his dick is so fat it forces your walls to stretch around him, snug and slippery and tight, and he’s biting his lip hard to keep himself from rutting deeper too fast. the air’s full of heat and moans, your gasps high and breathy while his are low, cracked, almost desperate.

he’s panting into your neck, trembling from restraint as he feeds you more. your pussy gives a sticky noise each time his hips nudge forward, and you can feel the drag of every vein along your inner walls, your muscles fluttering like you’re trying to spit him out but pull him deeper at the same time.

by the time he’s halfway in, your nails are digging into his back and your thighs are starting to shake. there’s a thick pressure deep in your belly, like your body’s being filled too full, and when you glance down, you can see the faint outline of him under your skin, stretching you out from the inside.

“just a lil’ more,” he groans, voice cracked. “you’re taking it—so good, baby, so soft down there, you’re squeezing me real tight…”

you whimper as he finally bottoms out, dick buried to the base, the thick root of it pressed firm against your overstretched entrance. he doesn’t move, breathing hard against your cheek, both of you dizzy from how deep he is.

your cunt pulses around him, dripping mess down onto the hairy base of his cock.

his hand finds your lower belly, palm spreading over that swollen spot where his dick bulges inside you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, in awe. “my sweet girl’s stuffed so full.”

he doesn’t even need to move. just the feeling of being buried inside you for the first time, the sight of your pussy stretched wide around him, your gasping mouth, your fluttering lashes, your slick dripping onto his thighs—it’s all too much.

he grinds in once—just to feel the way you tremble—and you both moan at the same time, breath tangled, filthy and flushed and soaking the bed.

and when he finally pulls back to push in again slow and deep, your whole body arches.

“there you go,” he groans, voice ruined. “that’s it, baby. open up f’me.”

﹫𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑒𝑒𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟

[mariasont]

failure of imagination

you approach everything clinically, including poorly constructed sex scenes in books. dr langdon decides to take that as an invitation to give you a proper sex ed lesson.

pairings: nerd!reader x frank langdon

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, reader reading smut, virgin!reader (kind of implied more than outright stated), innocence kink, corruption kink, langdon supplying reader with an sex book?, literally so freaked out and for what, female masturbation, phone sex, langdon talking you thru it!!!

wc: 6.2k

You’ve always had a somewhat fraught relationship with imagination. People say you lack it, to put it plainly. They say you’re too literal. As if being literal isn’t the reason airplanes stay in the air and bridges remain standing. 

But you just happen to find reality plenty beautiful. More than beautiful, actually. Reassuring. There is dignity in a thing that can be tested, reproduced, and counted on.

Newton’s law. The sodium-potassium pump. Entropy. Even the grimmer systems at least are consistent if nothing else.

So naturally, medicine was what you pursued in college. Everything means something. Everything is attached to something else. Symptoms are not random; bodies are not whimsical.

Even if an answer is hidden, it exists, and if you are willing to stay with a problem long enough, turn it over enough times, peel it apart layer by layer and build it back from the inside out, eventually it reveals itself.

Fiction does not afford you that courtesy. Fiction wants you to tolerate blank spaces and gaps. You hate gaps. You love knowing.

Fiction gives you half a scene and waits expectantly, like congratulations, now you do the labor.

Build the room. Place the bodies. Infer the angles. Ignore, apparently, that the human body is not an abstract concept but a heavily regulated system of hinges and limits and gravity and very obvious spatial constraints. 

You are experiencing one of those gaps now, staring so hard at the page your eyes begin to sting a little, focus tightening to a punitive little point. You think if you look at it severely enough the scene might resolve into something you can understand.

The book says the woman is “on top,” which should be clear enough on its own, except the next sentence immediately ruins that clarity by describing angles that do not, as far as you can tell, exist in three-dimensional space. 

And you have so many questions.

Is there a bed involved here? A couch? A floor? Any surface at all?

You reread the line. Maybe you overlooked a prepositional phrase hiding in plain sight. A detail that will clarify whose leg is bent and why it apparently now has the range of motion of a paper clip.

Nothing. No luck. Still opaque.

Possibly more vague now, because repetition has begun to dissolve whatever confidence you had in your own reading abilities.

It is difficult to overstate how humiliating it is to be bested by mediocre smut. 

You sigh and look to your watch. 9:18 p.m. Late. The bus is always late. That’s why you have this book in your hand in the first place, wanting to turn dead time into something educational. Unfortunately that’s not how it’s going.

You blow out a breath as another gust of wind snakes over the exposed strip of skin between your socks and the hem of your jeans.

They used to hit lower on your ankle, but courtesy of your building’s shitty communal dryer, they don’t do that anymore.

“Interesting reading choice.”

It is not a voice you prepared yourself to hear. You weren’t prepared to hear a voice at all, really.

So when you hear the familiar pitch of Landon, your body overcorrects, sending you backward like a startled deer losing traction on ice.

You see the next ten seconds in a flash: the hollow thunk of your head on the pole behind you, the stuttering apologies delivered as your vision tunnels, the concussion protocols that will surely haunt you for weeks, months, possibly forever.

But those ten seconds never actually happens.

Instead, you cautiously peer up into the flat, coolly appraising expression of Langdon, whose hand is placed behind your head, taking the brunt of the impact.

“Oh. Hi. Dr. Langdon. I, um, this isn’t — I’m not —” You’re already floundering, trying to assemble something defensible out of a situation that is not defensible. “It was recommended,” you say at last, which is true, though not in a way that sounds remotely exculpatory once spoken aloud. “By Javadi. She said it was good, which I assumed meant, like, well-written, not — this. Which I know sounds — I hear it, I hear how it sounds, but I didn’t just, like, seek this out independently. I was curious from a clinical standpoint.”

Shit.

You just lobbed Victoria under the bus didn’t you? And unlike the literal bus, this metaphorical one arrived enthusiastically on time, probably even honked.

You add it to the growing ledger of things you owe her. Coffee, at the very least. Something artisanal, thoughtful, handcrafted.

A note, handwritten in apology, because email would be cowardly and texting would feel insufficient, and really — after what you’ve just done, you’re not sure anything short of ink, paper, and a tangible record of shame could suffice.

He removes his hand, the pressure at the back of your head disappearing as he shifts to rest it along the bench behind you instead.

“Clinical,” he repeats. His eyes flick briefly to the book in your hands, then back to you, unimpressed. “And what have you concluded so far, doctor?”

“Not a doctor yet,” you point out. Not sure why you do. “But, um, just that it’s just not very clear? Like, the scenes move really fast, and I feel like I’m missing steps in between, so I keep trying to visualize what’s happening and I just end up getting stuck on, like… where everything is supposed to go and —” You stop, frowning now. “You — you probably didn’t actually want an answer to that, did you?”

His mouth pulls just enough to suggest he’s entertained despite himself. “Not initially.”

You nod. “Okay, good, because I definitely wasn’t planning to provide detail. Just, you know — general plausibility stuff. Realism concerns.”

“Let me see,” he says, and before your frazzled brain can form an adequate objection, he's already reaching forward, extracting the paperback from your suddenly slackened grasp.

You stand abruptly, the bench scraping in a terrible sound against concrete as you reach for the book.

“You really don’t have to do that.”

A correct statement. Useless, however, as he lifts the novel out of reach without even looking at you, arm extending just enough to make it clear that this is not a negotiation, and also, somewhat insultingly, not even difficult.

You briefly consider climbing him. Scaling him like a distressed, socially compromised marsupial and retrieving the book by force.

It feels like a viable solution. You dismiss it only on the grounds that in the last five minutes alone, accumulated enough embarrassment to sustain a normal person for at least two lifetimes.

And theoretically there should be a cap.

There is not, apparently.

Because after a brief glance at the page, he starts reading aloud: “She sank down on him with an aching slowness, savoring the stretch of it, the sweet friction that made her pulse flutter faster with every roll of her body. His hands gripped her waist, guiding her, keeping her there while the pleasure mounted in teasing waves until she was shaking with it, desperate and almost there.”

You feel the heat spark up your spine and towards you neck before saturating your face. The intensity momentarily blurs your vision.

Your hands tighten uselessly at your sides, a strange, unfamiliar tightness coiling low in your stomach.

You try your very hardest not to let your mind start making substitutions. You try not to let the faceless bodies on that page acquire identifiable features. A chin dimple, for instance. You try not to let the voice in front of you fuse itself any further to the text than it already has.

You wrench your gaze upward, fixing it somewhere behind his left ear, hoping that physical distance might somehow dilute your newfound imagination that just five minutes ago you were bashing.

He closes the book with a snap, eyebrow arched. “Sounds perfectly reasonable.”

“I mean, maybe,” you respond, a little too quickly. “If there were just… more specifics? Like, about the positioning. The angle, or where —” You take a quick breath. “Never mind.”

“And exactly how would you clarify it?”

“I’d probably just… add another line,” you say. “Like, specify that her hips are lower, or that her weight is shifted forward so her center of gravity is closer to his. Just so it’s clear what’s actually happening.”

He doesn’t say anything right away and when his eyes flick forward again, they look a little different beneath the dark of the sky, the blue of them deepened into something richer. A little less straightforward, you think. Lapis held in low light, saturated in silver strips and a little too pretty.

You watch as his tongue drags across his lower lip, the briefest glimpse of moisture highlighting the subtle contours and fine, shallow ridges of texture there.

“If you’re that concerned with accuracy,” he murmurs, “I’m sure there’s ways to run a practical demonstration.”

You have a hard time understanding what he means by that and when your mind does attempt to furnish the words with imagery, you have to recoil from your own thoughts.

Does he mean with him?

No, surely not, that is not where he wanted this conversation to go, and besides, that interpretation feels reckless, egotistical even, considering he is almost certainly saying it in the most neutral, solution-driven sense possible.

If that’s what he’s saying at all. He might not be. You can’t tell.

He is offering a suggestion for you.

You are the one making it weird.

“Oh. Well, it’d probably end up being more complicated than it’s worth. I’d need a controlled setup, probably multiple attempts, and at that point it’s less a demonstration and more a full reconstruction.”

A muscle feathers along his jaw as he tips his face towards the moon-lit sky. He seems to do that a lot. Like he’s appealing to some higher power for fortitude to deal with you. Or maybe not you specifically, which would be preferable, expect it does feel rather like you are the central to the current crisis, you just aren’t sure how.

Then he exhales a small laugh, thin with disbelief, and shakes his head once. 

“You’re right,” he says, voice deadpan. “Clearly I wasn’t thinking this through. Practicality first.” He glances pointedly at his watch. “It’s late. I’ll give you a ride home.”

You accept his offer without arguing, you’d be a fool not to, and trail him out toward the parking lot. A step behind, then a half step, then back again. You can’t quite decide on the appropriate proximity.

When you reach the row of cars, you realize you’ve never seen his before.

It’s nice. Grey, practical, a four-door SUV that screams fiscal responsibility and weather-appropriate footwear, a vehicle with divorced-dad energy so specific you can practically invent the rest of the man around it: patient at youth soccer, quietly resentful in a grocery store parking lot, pretending not to be wounded by logistical disappointments. 

The interior only deepens the impression. It is clean, but not in a forbidding way, not scrubbed of personality.

There is a toy in the cupholder, a crumpled napkin tucked into the side compartment, a few fast-food receipts scattered near the floor like the residue of a life conducted at speed.

It feels lived in, which is somehow more intimate than if it had been spotless.

It is, disconcertingly, human. More human than you expected from a man who often carries himself like a sealed document. 

Nice, you think again, and then, unhelpfully, him, the two notions beginning to blur together before you can stop them.

It’s a relatively quiet drive to start. The radio tuned to some Catholic station it must have picked up nearby, murky and hard to decipher, while streetlights drift past in bands of orange and green, staining the inside of the car with color and then taking it back.

“Javadi really recommended that?” Frank asks suddenly, piercing the silence.

“Yeah,” you admit, then wince almost immediately. “Well, sort of. I mean, I probably should not make it sound like she shoved it into my hands in some kind of corrupting-the-youth campaign. She mentioned it, but I was already curious. It was not not my idea.” You glance down, suddenly very interested in your own hands. “I’ve just been trying to do a little research, I guess.”

His fingers tap once against the steering wheel.

“And what, specifically, are you hoping to learn?”

Your mouth presses thin for a second. You’re not sure if you should continue.

“I was mostly just trying to get a better sense of... how certain things work in real life,” you say, picking each word carefully. “As opposed to in theory. Or in whatever version of reality people usually pretend is self-explanatory.”

He says nothing at first. Then through grit teeth: “You mean because no one’s explained it to you?”

You glance over, caught a little off guard by the question. “Well, not in any useful sense.”

His jaw flexes. 

“And the alternative,” he says slowly, “was assigned reading.”

You wince. “When you phrase it like that, it does sound bleak.”

“When I phrase it like that, it sounds like you’re trying to teach yourself something most people learn by experience.”

“Well,” you mumble, “yes. More or less.”

The light changes and he brakes, the red wash from the signal pouring through the windshield and across his face, tinting his skin rose-gold.

He screws his eyes shut for a brief second, hands drawing tighter on the wheel before he exhales.

“In that case,” he says, opening his eyes again, “I’m not entirely convinced that’s the most reliable educational resource.”

“Why?” you ask, with enough sincere confusion to make it clear you are not arguing so much as requesting clarification. 

The light turns green.

“Because it’s not source material. It’s entertainment.” His tone stays level, but only just. “It takes whatever is most dramatic, most flattering, most appealing, and presents it like it’s standard. It leaves out the parts that are inconvenient or unsexy, which means if you treat it as educational, you’re going to come away with a very distorted sense of how any of it actually works.”

“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “There were definitely sections where I kept thinking, surely that cannot be how that happens. Or at least not without significantly more preparation, flexibility, or orthopedic intervention than the text was willing to acknowledge.”

“So I gathered.”

You fall quiet after that, though not for lack of further questions. In fact the opposite is true, because now he has accidentally positioned himself as a person with knowledge of how sex works.

But that would be inappropriate on at least six different levels. 

He is driving you home as a favor, not volunteering to become some kind of after-hours consultant on the mechanics of sex, and there is no universe in which asking for elaboration would make you seem anything other than catastrophically unwell.

You almost ask him anyway. 

But before you can make what would almost certainly be the worst possible decision available to you tonight, the car slows, turns, and then stops. 

You stare at the windshield, disoriented by the fact that you are suddenly at your apartment.

“Right,” you say, gathering your bag with the abrupt, clumsy movements of someone trying to recover from her own thoughts. “Thank you. For the ride.”

He gives a brief nod, one hand still resting on the wheel. “It was no trouble.”

You do not believe that for even a second. Still, you murmur goodnight and let yourself out, hurrying inside with as much dignity as can be salvaged after a conversation like that.

A couple days later, you’re sitting in the breakroom with your head propped in your palm, devoting a frankly heroic amount of effort to not drop face-first into the laminate.

You are exhausted, which is surely unrelated to the fact that you stayed up too late conducting what can only be described as independent research.

There is, it turns out, an astonishing amount of positions.

More than seems necessary, honestly. Far too many names. Far too many diagrams. So many that appear to require either exceptional upper body strength or a level of mutual coordination that feels statistically unlikely in the average civilian population. 

Some are perfectly straightforward. Many are not. Several seem just down-right wrong.

The door opens and you glance up, prepared to offer some vague nod of recognition to whoever has come to interrupt your private collapse. 

Langdon.

“Oh,” you say, straightening a little too quickly. “Hi, Dr. Langdon.”

That seems to be your automatic response to his presence.

His eyes narrow. “Rough morning?”

You give a small shrug. “M’fine.”

“You’ll have to excuse my skepticism.” He drags the chair across from you and sits.

“Just stayed up too late.” 

You hope that doesn’t inspire follow-ups.

He slides something across the table toward you. A book. You stare at the cover. Then at him. 

“This,” he says, tapping two fingers once against the cover, “is at least designed to explain things.”

Slowly, as if touching it too fast might make this more real, you pick it up and turn it over.

The back is dense with tidy paragraphs about desire, arousal, and the science of how women’s bodies actually work, all written in the reassuring language of expertise, which would be comforting if your pulse were not currently behaving like it had something to hide.

“That’s… unexpectedly thoughtful,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make too much of it.”

“I won’t,” you say, which is a lie so poorly constructed it barely qualifies as one.

You are, in fact, almost certain to make too much of it later, probably in bed, probably while staring at the ceiling. 

Then the door opens again. You nearly jump. You pull the book against your chest like you are protecting classified material. Langdon’s eyes narrow a fraction.

Garcia steps inside a second later, pauses, and looks between the two of you.

“...Am I interrupting something weird?” she asks.

You stand so quickly the chair legs scrape against the floor.

“Nope,” you say. “Not at all. Nothing weird. Not even slightly.” You clutch the book tighter. “I do, however, suddenly need to go be elsewhere. For work-related reasons. Very legitimate ones.” You nod once. “Okay. Bye.”

It’s late when you finally start to read the book Langdon gave you. Your first mistake, really. You have to be up in four hours. Four.

But the book turns out to be more useful than expected. It has information. Real information. Terminology and diagrams and explanations that move in a sequence a human brain can follow, one thing leading intelligibly to the next instead of that gauzy, vague, everyone-just-knows-what-to-do, magical event nonsense.

And this all should, theoretically, be enough to satisfy you.

Except every answer you get splits open into three more questions, hydra-style, the whole thing multiplying the second you think you have a grip on it.

And yes, sometimes Google is enough. But sometimes it is not.

Too broad, too contradictory, too many tabs open at once, too many Reddit posts written by men with misplaced confidence.

So now you are sitting on your bed staring at your phone, typing a message, deleting it, retyping it, deleting it again. Because this is weird. It is weird to text him.

But then again, he did hand you the book.

He did, in a very real sense, amplify this situation. And maybe giving you additional reading material counts as tacit approval for further questions. A follow-up. Continuing education.

You hit send.

hi dr. langdon. sorry. i have a question about the book!

It takes only a couple seconds for him to answer.

Go ahead.

You sit up so fast the book slides off your leg and drops onto the bedspread with a soft thump.

You stare at the screen.

You expected eventuality, a response tomorrow morning maybe, sometime after sunrise, sometime under the polite cover of daylight when everybody involved could collude in pretending this was a normal academic exchange and not you texting a senior resident after dark about sex-adjacent material like you were requesting clarification on electrolyte imbalance.

You glance at the clock and frown.

What is he even doing up?

Surely you didn’t wake him. You cannot imagine he sleeps with his ringer turned up loud enough for that. No, he feels like a phone-on-silent, notifications-curated, emergency-contacts-only kind of man.

You spend four minutes composing the question. You send six words.

what does “building sensation” actually mean?

Need more context than that.

You photograph the page. You send it. You put your phone face down on the quilt and do not look at it for a full minute.

When you finally make yourself turn the phone over, he’s answered.

It’s the physiological buildup to orgasm. Increased blood flow, heightened sensitivity, pelvic muscle tension. Sustained and constant stimulation. The sensation compounds on itself.

Your thumb catches idly on the hem of your pajama shorts, worrying the fabric back and forth while you stare at the screen. It takes a long amount of time to realize you’re doing it. You stop. Then start again without meaning to, fingertips slipping under the edge to press against your thigh. 

is consistency about location or pressure or both? the book implies they're interchangeable.  

Both. Generally location first, then pressure. If you keep changing where you’re touching, it’s harder to build anything. If the location is consistent but the pressure is erratic, same problem. They’re related, but not interchangeable.

Your free hand has drifted north to the waistband of your shorts, thumb pressing little crescent moons into overheated skin. Almost feverish.

Location first. 

An unfortunate instruction to receive while being aware of the exact location in question, muted now by two thin layers of cotton.

You should stop there. Obviously.

You should set the phone down, turn off the lamp, go to sleep, and revisit all of this in the morning when you are less suggestible. 

Instead your hand keeps moving, slow enough that you can perhaps pretend you have not consciously decided anything, slipping lower until it hovers over your underwear, where your clit presses back against the fabric. Swollen. And then lower than that, wet.

That startles you more than anything. From what, exactly? A sex manual? A few texts? Him?

No. That last one is inadmissible. Wildly inappropriate.

So you drag your mind back to the book instead, using it as a kind of corrective, something technical to blunt that he is, however indirectly, implicated in this. 

Start with indirect stimulation. Let the body acclimate. Don’t rush the thing. Let the thing, apparently, arrive on its own like a skittish woodland creature you are trying not to scare off.

Fine. Whatever. 

You press your thumb down and make a circular motion, sucking in a breath so sharply it almost hurts, mostly because the sensation is immediate and strange and good. You wouldn’t say overwhelming. Though maybe you would. You can’t think straight. Surprising, then. Concentrated.

Like pressing a bruise, except the complete inverse of that, if they lit up instead of aching. It makes you want to do it again.

So you do.

Small circles. Experimental. Testing the waters.

And it’s not like this is technically new. You have tried before.

But before was rushed and graceless and was the sort of thing done half-curiously and abandoned quickly, with no patience for your own body.

You were raised sheltered, and beyond that, serious. Preoccupied with things that seemed more pressing, more worthy of your attention, as though this part of yourself could be indefinitely postponed without consequence. 

You pick the phone back up with your unoccupied hand.

okay. that makes sense.

You stare at it, dissatisfied. Too final. Too capable of ending the conversation. You add another line before you can overthink yourself out of it.

and if the sensation is building, when are u supposed to switch? like to inner stimulation, i mean. or are you not supposed to unless what you’re already doing stops working?

The typing bubble appears instantly.

You don’t have to switch. That’s the first thing.

External stimulation is usually more important, especially early on. Inner stimulation is optional, not a required next step.

Little gasps keep escaping you as you refine the motion, not changing much, just enough pressure to sharpen it, back arching into the mattress.

It feels good. You don’t remember it ever feeling this good.

Maybe because before did not involve a very attractive doctor explaining your own body back to you in real time.

It is getting harder to text. Harder to think in complete sentences. Still, you manage, so if it’s working, is it better to not change anything? even if it starts feeling a lot more sensitive?

Your phone starts ringing.

You freeze when Frank's name flashes across the screen.

For a moment you can only stare. Your pulse jumps in your throat, fluttering there like something trapped, and then you are yanking your hand from your shorts and grabbing for the phone with fingers that suddenly seem to belong to someone much less coordinated than you.

“Hi —,”

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, though your voice already sounds guilty, chest rising and falling unevenly. “I’m — nothing. I’m just reading.”

“You’re not a very good liar.”

You frown at the dark ceiling. “I hate the confidence with which you say things.”

“It’s usually earned.”

You make a face at that, even though he cannot see it.

“I wasn’t prepared for a pop quiz,” you mutter. “You called out of nowhere.”

“A call seemed appropriate,” he says through the soft buzz of static.

“Why?”

Your whole body feels keyed up now, strung too tight, humming with a surplus of energy like you have been plugged into the wall and simply left there to glow.

It's hard to keep still under the blankets. Harder with his voice in your ear, that low grain of it roughened by the hour, touched with that tired edge that makes him feel closer than he is. He sounds warm. He sounds half-undone.

You can picture him without trying. In bed. Hair rumpled from sleep or from his hand shoved through it one too many times, one stray piece fallen near his eyes. Maybe in pajamas. Maybe not. Either option is equally disruptive. You brain offers a shirt pushes up a little, one arm behind his head, a strip of stomach, a line of hair disappearing into plaid boxers.

You shift on the mattress. Your hand trails back down your front, fingers resuming their place on your underwear.

“Because your last text didn’t read like a theoretical question,” he says. “I wanted to hear whether I was right.”

The words move through you, like he has reached through the phone and pressed a hand flat to your lower stomach.

“And were you?”

Your hips shift on the mattress again, angling into your own touch.

You bite your lip around the small throb of pleasure that follows.

“Yeah. I was.” His voice comes through coarser now, the line fuzzing around it, but not enough to hide the change. “And if I’m hearing you correctly, you haven’t stopped.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“...maybe.”

There's a brief pause on the line. You hear the rustle of him moving, before he speaks again. “Tell me exactly what you're doing.”

“I’m, uh…” You mouth goes dry. “I mean, you know.”

“I can’t tell you what to do if you won’t tell me what you’re doing,” he says. “You need to be specific.” 

You swallow.

“I’m touching over my underwear,” you admit finally, the words coming out hushed and a little uneven. “Just with my thumb. I’m not really… doing anything more than that.”

A soft exhale crackles through the phone.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “Tell me if it feels good.”

Your lashes flutter at the words. Your thumb keeps tracing the same spot, a little more rhythmically now, and every so often your hand falters when the sensation catches unexpectedly bright, a live wire under your skin.

Flashing hotter and hotter and hotter until you can barely stand it.

Your thighs draw in on instinct, then ease apart again, restless, unable to decide whether they are trying to hold the feeling or escape it.

“Mhm.” It’s all you can manage. 

You start to picture him again. Existing in real time in the dark on the other end of the line now.

It sends the throbbing in your cunt up tenfold, sharp little bursts of color flying behind your eyelids, green and orange and something almost gold.

You use your imagination to conjure up the image of him doing the same. Him with the phone in one hand and the other moving in lazy unhurried strokes around his cock, like this is no great strain for him, like he is as controlled in private as he is everywhere else.

You wonder what it looks like. His cock. Probably big and pink and veiny.

You know, rationally, that he is probably not doing that at all. He is probably just lying there in the dark, listening, talking, being composed for both of you.

But it is a nice thought anyway. More than nice, really. Your body answers it before you can caution it otherwise, your clit going heavier and more swollen, as you move to touch yourself without the barrier of your panties. It’s more sensitive that way. And your whole lower half seems to lean vainly into your own hand, practically preening toward the touch.

“Now I’m, um, touching myself directly.”

“Alright. Want you to try something. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. A little too eager. “I can.”

“Good girl.” The praise makes your stomach tighten. “Want you to slide two fingers into yourself a little. Not all the way, just enough to get them wet, okay? Then bring them back to your clit and keep using your thumb, or your fingers if that feels easier. Same pace as before.”

You nod even though you know he can’t see it and slip two fingers down, enough to feel the sticky warmth of yourself, coating your digits.

You bring it back up, smearing it over your nub.

“Oh,” you mumble breathily.

“Yeah?” he teases quietly. “That better?”

“A lot.”

“Good. It’s easier like that. Less friction. If you’re getting more sensitive, too much drag starts working against you.”

He’s right. He’s always right. You feel a little strange and floaty now, like your whole body has narrowed down to one incandescent point.

“How do you know all this?” you prod.

A pause. Then, “Experience.”

“Right. That.” Another circle, another spark of pleasure down your spine. “I don’t exactly have that.”

“I gathered.”

Something in his tone makes you go a little still. Not enough to stop, but your hand falters, tightening around a thought before you can even identify it.

He notices immediately. He has some terrifying sonar for you specifically, some private frequency calibrated to every tiny shift in your breathing, every dropped beat, every half-second hesitation.

“Hey,” he says pointedly. “Don’t get in your head now. Never said it was a bad thing. Keep going. Think about something else.”

“Such as?” you whisper.

There’s the sound of breathing from the phone before he answers, “that’s up for you to decide.”

You suck in a sharp breath, squirming as you adjust phone closer to your ear

“Can you just… keep talking to me?”

There’s a huff on the other end, almost a laugh. “That’s not very specific.”

“I know.” You’re sure you’re not making much sense right now. “I just — don’t stop. Please. Just wanna hear you say anything.”

He’s quiet for a second, like he’s trying to decide what, exactly, you’re asking for. The problem is, you’re not entirely sure either.

You only know there’s a strange, tightening warmth low in your stomach, something gathering there, and his voice seems to nurture it instead of breaking it apart.

You hear something clang on the other end of the phone.

“Fuck. Okay. First need you to breathe, okay? You're tensing up, I can hear it. Relax your legs.”

You try to do as you're told.

In. Out. In. Out.

Each breath feeding the whole thing oxygen, driving you nearer and nearer to the vanishing point until your eyes threaten to roll back and your body feels like on extended nerve.

“I —” A breath. “Sorry, I just —” Another one. “Frank I think I'm — I'm close, I think, I don't — It's really intense and I don't know what I'm —” You lose the thought entirely. “I just don't know what I'm supposed to do when it starts feeling like this. Do I stop, or —”

“Shit baby, you've never gotten there before? Not even —”

“No,” you manage.

“Oh, poor thing.”Quiet. Almost to himself. “Okay. ‘S okay. Don't stop. I need you to stay with me and just let it happen, can you do that?”

“I think —”

“Don't think,” he cuts you off. “For once in your life, don't think. Just feel it.”

Something in you finally gives.

You feel all of it at once.

Your orgasm peaks so fast it almost feels like losing power everywhere at the same time, every room going dark together, and your back comes off the pillows and your hand presses harder before you even mean for it to and a gasp tears out of you, high and helpless and so unlike anything you have ever heard from yourself that for a second it barely sounds like yours.

“That’s it,” Frank says, low in your ear.

It rolls. That's the only word for it.

It rolls outward from your pussy in a slow, stunned series of tremors moving through your thighs, your spine, your chest, each wave its own distinct thing and yet not distinct at all, each one its own event, its own brief undoing.

You cannot do anything except lie there and take it, receive it as it passes through you, because there is nothing else available to you now, no other function left online, no thought, no dignity, no language, only this long bright aftershock and your body answering it whether you understand it or not.

Your breathing takes a while to come back to anything recognizable.

At first it is just air dragged in and let back out. Sweat has glued a few strands of hair to your forehead. Your hand has gone slack.

“You still with me?”

That is when your brain comes back. All at once. Hard. Fast.

Because now you are not just a body coming down from an orgasm.

Now you are yourself again. And Frank Langdon just talked you through getting off.

Frank Langdon, your coworker. Frank Langdon, your superior. Frank Langdon, whom you have just used as a combined anatomy instructor, practical demonstration guide, and live sex education resource.

“Yes, yeah, sorry.” You swallow, wipe at your forehead with the heel of your hand. “I'm here.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Your sensitivity's going to be elevated for a minute, so just let your muscles relax and let your breathing even out. If you feel shaky, that's normal. If you heart's racing, also normal. Get some water when you can. Sit up slowly if you're going to move.”

“Okay,” you murmur, because he sounds so certain that for a second it is easy to borrow some of it. You try to unclench by degrees, thighs, stomach, shoulders, one thing at a time. “I am a little shaky, which is good to know is normal and not, like, a sign that I’ve accidentally broken something."

“No,” he says, and there is that low note of dry amusement under it now, just enough to catch. “You didn’t break anything. If you had, trust me, we’d be having a very different conversation.”

“Right, no, I know. Though sex-related injuries are not exactly unheard of. Do you remember that girl in the ER who had a condom stuck in her for over two months and didn't realize it? That would suck."

"Mm. It would," he agrees. "Protection is important. Equally important to make sure it actually comes back out with you."

You let out a small giggle at that and shift on the bed, drawing yourself up a little slower this time, careful like he told you to bed. The quilt bunches under your legs.

A quiet opens up. And it might be comfortable if it with anyone else. But it is not with anyone else.

You break first.

“So what happens now?” you ask, trying for light and missing by a little. “Do we pretend this was a totally normal educational exchange and never speak of it again?”

“I don’t think you’re capable of pretending that,” he says.

You flush hot all over.

“And you are?”

A pause.

“No.” The room goes still around you. You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t, but he does say: “You should get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Probably.”

You have to be up in three hours now. Have to see him in four.

Another beat. Neither of you hangs up.

Then, very quiet, very even, he says, “Next time, ask sooner.”

“Next time?”

“If you’re going to use me as a reference source,” he says, all dry composure again, though now it feels a little put on, “I’d prefer a more reasonable hour.”

Your cheeks heat with the power of a thousand suns.

“Oh, well, Dr. Langdon, I think —”

“Goodnight.”

The line clicks dead.

You lie there staring into the dark, phone still pressed to your ear, and understand with awful, perfect clarity that this has not ended anything at all.

More gaps in your knowledge.

And you really hate gaps.

A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts 4 ten thousand yrs!!!!!!!! thinking about writing a part two but we shall see. anyway thanks for reading!! love ya always

YOU CAN FIND MY FRANK LANGDON MASTERLIST HERE

[j4ckr4bbits]

perv! dr jack abbot x fem! reader.

content warnings: oral sex (f rec), cheating, manipulation kinda, medical setting, praise, implied cucking(?)

you're a little stressed after spending the night with your boyfriend. he simply could not get you wet, even though he tried soooo hard... so you head to your physician, dr jack abbot.

jack listens with restrained satisfaction at the desperate note in your voice, at that hint of concern, like you're worried that something is wrong. he wants so badly to tell you that your boyfriend is just fucking useless, that it's nothing to worry about, that you're being a good girl…

but first, he wants to be sure. "let me see, honey."

he lays you out on the exam table, then his hand withdraws from your trembling thighs, moving down to grip the back of your knee. "spread a little more for me. i wanna check something."

you watch as he pushes his stool forward, his head and shoulders lowering between your legs. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, positioning himself closer to your pussy, his gaze roaming over your skin.

he presses a warm peck to your inner thigh. "there," he murmurs. "let me take care of you, honey. do you trust me?"

"yes," you reply, and you barely have time to exhale before he's pressing a feather-light kiss to your clit, making you gasp. "doctor abbot?"

his chuckle vibrates against your skin as he lifts his head just enough to meet your wide-eyed gaze. "just making sure everything's working right," he mutters, the innocence in his tone at odds to the way his tongue flicks over your clit in a quick, teasing stroke.

his hands slide up to grip your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there. "relax," he orders, lips brushing your inner thigh again. "let me show you what your boyfriend should've been doing."

then he lowers his mouth to your cunt properly and licks a hot, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit. "what– what's this test for?" you breathe out, your chest heaving with arousal.

his mouth moves against you, tongue taking broad, languid laps. "it's called the clitoral glans test," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "to see how responsive you are. and you're being a very, very good girl, i must say."

it's not long before you're leaking all over his tongue, your slick pooling onto the paper sheets. "sweet girl," he praises. "taking my mouth so well. your boyfriend ever do this to you?"

you exhale shakily, the shame gnawing at you again as you shake your head. "no... he... he said he doesn't like doing it..."

his tongue swipes over your hole again, almost thoughtfully lapping up your juices, the ones that spilled out of you just for him. "he doesn't like it, huh? well, he's an idiot, honey, because you taste incredible."

"t-thank you," you stutter out at the praise, your hips bucking up against his mouth. "ah- sorry-"

"no apologising, sweetheart," he says, his breath hot against your folds, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin for reassurance. "i like your desperate little movements. keep going, honeygirl. let me see just how responsive you are." then his tongue is back between your legs, stroking slow, up and down, as he gauges your reactions.

"and don't you worry, honey," he says conversationally between licks, as if he wasn't making a mess of your pretty little cunt, "you make another appointment, i will be teaching your boyfriend how to eat your pussy very thoroughly, no matter how much he says he doesn't like it. cunt like this deserves to get eaten."

he hums, low and thoughtful. "maybe i'll even make him take notes. have him write up a full report on the experience."

[breakspearz]

— (baby, there's no other superstar) you know that i'll be (m);

modern!baelor targaryen x fem!reader.

summary: lights, camera... action? baelor targaryen has the best numbers in the business, and, finally, also has you, away from the cameras and in the backseat of his car, with your pretty legs wrapped around his head.

themes and genres: smut (+18, MDNI!). modern!au, pornstar!baelor, pornstar!reader. age diference relationship. co-workers to lovers, he's yearning!

word count: 1.80k words

content warnings: canon divergence. age difference (ages not directly stated but baelor is implied to be in his late 40s and reader in her mid to late 20s), semi-public sex, oral (female receiving), whole lot of praise, humping, cumming in pants.

author's note: chapter two is finally here and baelor is even more pussydrunk than before! the song recommendation (metal again hehe) for this chapter is thornhill's cover of lady gaga's paparazzi. seriously, guys, this cover is so fucking sexy. anyways, i hope everyone enjoys this! also, let me know if you'd like to see more parts for this au!

part one | crossposted on ao3.

He had only meant to give you a ride back home.

It was the right thing to do, after all. His apartment was not too far away from yours, but he had still picked you up at the beginning of the night, and he’d be damned if he let you walk back on your own in the middle of the night. He was a gentleman. And he was courting you.

Besides, the night just had to end in the same way it had started: absolutely perfect. Absolutely perfect, with his breath catching in the base of his throat every time he set his eyes on you, and wondered just how lucky he was to even have you wanting to go on a date with him.

He had picked you up: knocked on your door just as his watch signaled six, holding a bouquet in his right hand while he rested his left inside the pocket of his trousers. He had taken you back to his apartment in his vintage Mercedes, and cooked you dinner while you listened to music: white truffle risotto, roasted asparagus, a bottle of Dornish red, and a David Bowie vinyl. He held your hand over the table and caressed your knuckles with his thumb before serving the coffee and passing the dessert.

He talked, and listened, and reveled in the domesticity that encompassed the moment. He talked, and listened, and let himself be overcome in the bliss he felt at merely being allowed to exist by your side.

He had taken you on a date. He wanted to ask you on a million more.

And he had really, truly only meant to give you a ride home, give you a kiss as you stood on your front porch, and ask you out to breakfast as soon as tomorrow. 

He took your hand in his as he drove, kissing the base of your knuckles when the first drops fell over his windshield, and The Smashing Pumpkins were playing on his stereo when rain began to pour harder; but it was dangerous to keep driving when it rained this hard, and so Baelor did the responsible thing and parked by the side of the road with his blinkers on to wait for the rain to mellow down.

It continued to rain, and his lips found yours over the console. His hand caressed the side of your torso before you climbed over the space between the seats to move over to the backseat, with your pretty fingers holding onto his tie as if it were a lifeline, and he followed.

And the clock had not yet signaled twelve by the time he had your pretty legs draped over his shoulders, with your dress bunched up at your middle and his lips trailing up the inside of your thighs.

This was not how he thought the night would end. But by the Seven, he sucks on your cunt over the fabric of your panties and realizes it does not matter. He’s right where he wants to be.

“Been thinking about this pretty pussy all night,” he mutters, voice low and slurred as he lays his tongue flat against your covered clit. “Missed her taste so much, pretty girl. She’s always so sweet for me.”

A whine breaks past your lips, and your hands find the back of his head. Your fingers curl around short, soft strands, and your digits trace upon the edge of a scar: old, and fading, and smooth under your touch. Your fingertips dance over it for a moment in a gentle caress, and then flex again when his tongue circles your pearl.

“Please,” you whisper, quiet and desperate. “Please, Baelor.”

Baelor pecks your clit before he chuckles. Hot. Quick. Tender.

“Oh, you know you don’t have to worry, pretty girl,” he mumbles, tracing his fingers up the side of your thighs. “You just—mhm, just have to ask, my love. I’ll give you anything you want.”

He runs his tongue down your slit, coating the whole of it in your juices, and is sure he’d bring down the moon for you to hold upon the palm of your hand if you wanted to feel its weight. He sucks on your clenching hole over the fabric of your panties, and he knows he’d carve his own heart out of his chest if only you wanted to feel its beating.

“I’ll give you everything you want, won’t I?” He whispers, and uses the tip of his pointer finger to drag your panties to the side, exposing the whole of your cunt to the hunger in his gaze. “You’re my pretty girl.”

And you know he means it. You know he means it when he finally sucks your clit into his mouth, your fingers curling against his scalp and pulling his face closer to you as the pleasure grows in the bottom of your stomach. His mustache grazes your folds, rough and prickly and completely covered in your arousal, and you want more.

You want more, and more, and more, and he’s sucking on your clit, his eyes set on yours, pupils blown wide with desire and want and need, and you know he'll give you anything you need.

“Mhm, I really have been thinking about her the entire night,” he mumbles, and enters you with his tongue. Your walls clench around him, and he kneads the flesh of your thighs as he pulls you even closer. “You made me feel so good, pretty girl. Made me feel really good.”

A pause. A breath. “Yeah?”

He nods, laving up the velvet of your walls with his tongue while his nose bumps against your clit. He cannot help the way his hips move against the seat at your taste. “Yeah. So, so good, looking all dolled up and pretty for me. You—mhm, you always look beautiful, don't you? But it was just for me, and I—All I could think of was how much I wanted to eat this pretty cunt out as a thank you.”

Your head falls back against the car seat.

Your eyes fix on the windshield for a moment, gaze following a raindrop as it falls down the glass in a straight line. And another. And another. And another, and Baelor’s lips trail up your slit until he’s circling your clit with his tongue. He leans back to spit on the bud before he sucks on it again and it’s too much.

It’s too much, and it feels too good, and the inside of his car smells of worn leather and a trail of his cologne: vanilla, amber, spiced rum? You close your eyes and he nips at your clit with his teeth, your hips bucking up against his face and your legs wrapping around his head, and everything threatens to swallow you whole. Vanilla, amber, spiced rum. Pleasure grows with each swipe of his tongue, your heart beating against your ears, your entire world consisting only of him.

“Please, pretty girl,” he whispers, breath hot as it drapes over your skin. “Let me make you cum. Let me make you cum when it’s just—just me, yeah? No cameras, no crew. Just us, as it should be. My pretty girl.”

It’s enough.

Everything around you fades into white noise when your orgasm rips through your body. The softness of his touch, the warmth of his breath, the way the seat moves when he rubs himself against it—You sink further into the leather as an entire galaxy erupts in the back of your eyes with the force of a supernova, and it all feels like him.

A hoarse, breathless moan breaks past your lips when he grunts against your cunt, lapping at your release like a man starved while he continues humping his hips against the seat. Baelor keeps his eyes on you, tasting your pleasure as he revels in the sight of it. God, you’re so beautiful. Such an ethereal creature, coming undone over his touch.

His cock is hard under his pants, hot and throbbing as it strains against his briefs. He cannot help himself. He replays the date in his mind, and he conjures the same image he’s but engraved in the back of his mind: you, in his bed, with his ring adorning your finger.

And he plays it all back. He thinks of the way in which you had wrapped your pretty lips around your spoon when he brought out dessert. He thinks of how you complimented his cooking and asked for seconds, and remembers how he had wanted, oh so badly, to bend you over the table and eat your pretty cunt until you came.

He remembers the way you looked, having dinner in the middle of his kitchen, and thinks of how perfect it felt. How fitting.

It materializes before him in a ray of light. Translucent, brilliant, all-encompassing. He feels its warmth and allows himself to close his eyes, resting his forehead against your thigh as he humps the bottom of the seat one more time. He turns his head, pressing a kiss on your fluttering cunt, and spills inside his briefs in ribbons of white.

He does not care. He’s overcome with pleasure and made up of want, and pants against your skin as he rides out his orgasm. He moves his hips and thinks of you, and feels your warmth under his touch, and tastes your sweetness on his tongue. He does not care about anything else.

And you can taste yourself on his mouth when he straightens, lips glistening with your slick, and pulls you in for a kiss. You can taste yourself on his mouth when he sticks his tongue deep inside, caressing yours in slow, tender motions, and your hole clenches around nothing. You can taste yourself on his mouth when he cups your jaw with his hands, big and veiny and yet uncharacteristically soft, angling your face upwards so he can suck on your tongue. He bobs his head up and comes back down, his mustache kissing the top of your lip when you open your eyes, and all you can see is him.

And you can taste yourself on his mouth as he swallows, his digits tracing the line of your jaw, claiming you as his, declaring himself as yours.

It lingers when he pulls away, grinning and panting, lips swollen and red and still coated with you. 

His left hand moves, tracing his thumb over your lips as he keeps his gaze on yours. The tip of his digit breaks past your lips, and he takes in a breath. His other hand travels down your body once more, greedy in its descent, gently caressing your pussy over your ruined lace panties after he’s put them back in their place.

“Do you mind if I keep this pair?”

©BREAKSPEARZ — thank you for reading, let me know what you think! do not copy, translate, modify, repost, or claim as yours.

[wholoveseggs]

Lesson One

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

{Baelor Targaryen x f!Reader} Newly married and still untouched, you seek out your husband in the tower of the hand. Luckily, the prince is always willing to set aside his duties... for a hands-on demonstration.

♡♡ He's so fine... dark haired targ supremacy!! ♡♡

2.7k words - Warnings: smuttttt, age gap, teaching, virgin!reader, innocent!reader, heavy on consent because I don't play about that, fingering, daddy without saying daddy lol, lots of praise && more lessons to come...

{Lesson Two} {Lesson Three} {Lesson Four} {Lesson Five}

"Your Highness," You dipped into a curtsy at the threshold of the Hand's office.

The sight that greeted you made you pause. Papers carpeted the floor in drifts, quills lay scattered like fallen branches after a storm, and an open inkpot teetered at the very edge of the desk, one careless elbow from disaster.

Baelor hunched over his work, scratching at parchment with single-minded focus. An empty glass sat by his side, a half-empty bottle of wine beside it. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles, and his tunic bore wrinkles that suggested he had slept in it. Or simply never bothered to change.

"You needn't call me that in informal settings, my dear." Baelor did not even glance up. "I am nothing but your husband when we are alone."

You still did not know quite how to behave around him. He was a good deal older than you, a widower with two grown sons. The rushed wedding had been more treaty than ceremony, your house’s loyalty in exchange for your hand. In the fortnight since, you had shared meals, exchanged polite conversation, and slept alone in chambers that felt far too large.

But you remembered how he had looked at you in the sept. Not with the cold appraisal you expected, but something softer. Almost wondering.

You stepped further into the room, picking your way carefully over the strewn papers. You reached for the empty wine glass, intending to fetch a clean one from the kitchens. You were not much for politics, but you understood enough to know his position was stressful. The least you could do was bring him fresh wine.

He watched you fuss from the corner of his eye, setting down his quill as you collected his empty plate. "You do not need to do that." His voice was quiet, gentle, though still he had not fully turned to face you. "There are servants who can tend to it."

"I want to." You smiled, moving the inkpot to safer ground and wiping at the black splatters staining the wood.

He rose and rounded the desk, his hand closing over yours. The touch sent a strange tightening through your belly, a knot pulling taut, low and warm. You were still learning the weight of his hands, the way they dwarfed yours completely.

"Leave the papers be." He squeezed your fingers, smiling gently down at you. "Come and sit. Tell me of your day."

"You have been busy. I did not wish to disturb you."

"You are never a bother."

He led you to the chaise by the window, where the afternoon sun cast warm light across the cushions. He sat and tugged your hand, urging you to join him, you sat a respectful distance from him. Your hand was still clasped in his, his thumb tracing a line over your knuckles. 

"You have been married to me a fortnight," he said, "and I have been locked away with ledgers and ravens. I wish to make it up to you."

You flushed, feeling the heat creeping up the back of your neck. "It is your duty to rule. I would not expect you to abandon that for me."

"I am your husband first." His hand settled on your hip, heavy and warm through the fabric of your gown. "And I have neglected my duties to you."

You swallowed hard. You had heard the whispers…servants who thought you could not hear. Still not consummated. Poor thing, probably terrified of him. Or perhaps he is too old to-

You shook the thoughts away, glancing at him from beneath your lashes. He was strikingly handsome, with dark hair and mismatched eyes.  His face bore the marks of his years, the lines beside his eyes when he smiled, but they only made him look distinguished. Powerful. His chest was broad, his hands large and gentle. It did not matter what the servants said. They were not the ones married to him.

"What are you thinking, sweet girl?" His thumb stroked the curve of your hip.

"Nothing important."

His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, fingers splaying wide. "Let me try again. What are you thinking?"

Your face burned. "I... the servants talk. They say we have not…that you have not-"

"Taken you to bed?" He said it plainly, without shame or hesitation. "Consummated our marriage?"

You nodded, unable to meet his gaze.

His sigh was soft, not frustrated but something tender. "You were forced to wed a man near twenty years your elder and brought to a court you do not know. I wanted to give you time. Time to know me, to trust me, to want me.... Not because duty demands it. Because you choose it."

You sat silent, his words settling over you like a warm cloak. Your flush deepened. Choose. No one had ever asked if you would choose.

"Have you chosen me?" he asked quietly.

Slowly, your hands reached out and came to rest against his chest. You felt his heartbeat there, steady and strong. You were still learning him; his warmth, his patience, the way he watched you like you were something precious.

"Yes," you whispered. The word felt enormous. "I choose you."

His arms came around you, drawing you closer until you found yourself in his lap, knees bracketing his hips. You could feel him beneath you, solid and warm, and you leaned in, pressing your lips to his, all gentle and questioning.

He answered by kissing you back, soft and slow, letting you set the pace. His lips moved against yours like he had all the time in the world. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

Then his hand slid from your back to grip the curve of your backside, and the sudden boldness startled a gasp from you. He took the opportunity, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as his fingers kneaded the soft flesh through your gown.

That strange feeling in your belly had returned, hotter now, spreading like honey through your veins. You clutched at his shoulders, unsure whether to pull away or press closer, that terrible knot drawing ever tighter.

"My prin-husband," you gasped, breaking the kiss. "I fear I ...feel strangely."

He chuckled, low and warm against your ear. His hand crept to your stomach, pressing gently against the tension. "This is what you should feel, sweet girl." His palm slipped lower, fingers sliding down to brush against the apex of your thighs. "It will only grow from here."

"I - ah." You grasped his arm, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

He smiled, kissing the hollow of your throat. His fingers moved in slow, firm circles, the friction growing warmer and wetter by the moment. 

"A woman is different from a man," he explained, his mouth pressed against your ear. "When we touch each other, it is not the same."

"Yes," you said softly. "I know how it's supposed to happen. My husband... I mean- you put your cock inside me."

He chuckled, a sound that rumbled through his chest. "A crude description, but yes."

A wave of embarrassment washed over you, and you hid your face in the crook of his neck.

"Tell me, my dear," he whispered, "did your mother explain it to you?"

"She...she told me not to struggle."

He stiffened, his fingers pausing their gentle motion. "What else did she tell you?"

"She said...she said that once the lord finishes, I will be bound to him." You felt foolish, reciting the words as though they were a poem or a lesson.

"My dear girl." His tone was pained, and you dared to look up at him. "It is a good deal more than not struggling."

He drew his hand back and cupped your face, his mismatched eyes searching yours. "Your husband should never hurt you."

You swallowed. "Is ...is it not painful? your highne-"

"Baelor," he corrected, his lips curving into a smile.

"Baelor." Your heart fluttered, your skin prickling at the way his name sounded on your tongue.

He leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. His hands moved to the front of your gown, finding the delicate laces that ran from your chest to your waist. He did not rush. Each tug was slow, deliberate, his knuckles brushing against your breasts through the fabric.

"I have thought of this," he murmured against your mouth. "Since the moment I first saw you in the sept. The unwrapping. Like a gift I do not deserve."

Your heart hammered. "You deserve everything, my prince."

He shook his head slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I deserve nothing. But I shall endeavor to earn you, all the same."

The laces loosened, and his fingers slipped beneath the edges of your gown, pushing the fabric aside. Cool air kissed your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and chest. You wore a thin shift beneath, the linen so fine it was nearly transparent.

Baelor's breath left him in a long, slow exhale. His hands smoothed over your shoulders, pushing the gown down your arms until it pooled at your  waist. The shift clung to you, revealing the shadowed peaks of your nipples, the curve of your breasts.

He bent his head, his lips skimming the bare flesh above the neckline. His beard scratched pleasantly against you, and you squirmed. His hands moved to your breasts, cupping their weight. His thumbs circled your nipples, and they tightened into hard points beneath the thin linen. 

"So soft," His voice was thick with admiration. 

He nudged the shift down with his chin, his tongue darting out to flick against your nipple. You gasped, your back arching. He closed his mouth over you, sucking gently, and you felt the wetness between your thighs growing, that terrible pressure building.

You had never felt anything like it. It was a pleasure so sharp it was almost painful, a wanting that was both a comfort and a torment. Your fingers tangled in his dark hair, holding him to you.

"Baelor," you gasped, your hips moving unconsciously against his, seeking something you did not understand.

He released your nipple with a soft pop, switching to the other, giving it the same attention. His hands slid down your back, gripping your backside again, pulling you flush against him. You could feel him, hard and thick against your stomach.

"That's it, sweet girl," he murmured against your skin. "Move with me. Let your body feel."

His words were a permission you didn't know you needed. You let your hips rock against him, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through you.

He guided your movements, his hands on your backside, until the rhythm was set. He trailed kisses from your chest up your throat, to the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

"Can you feel it, my love?" he breathed.

"Yes," you gasped.

"Good. Do not be afraid of it."

His hands slid beneath your skirts, his fingertips tracing slowly how your bare thighs, his palms warm and rough against the soft skin. He urged you to part them, his fingers dipping between your legs.

You gasped as his fingertips brushed against the source of the ache, your most private place.

"It is alright," he murmured, stroking the seam of you, his thumb teasing the nub at the top. "Your body knows what to do. Let it."

His touch was a revelation. Your hips canted forward, searching for more of the sensation. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into the soft linen of his tunic.

He dipped his fingers lower, tracing the edges of your entrance. You felt the wetness gathering there, coating his fingertips.

"That is how it is meant to feel," he said softly. "Not a duty, not a burden. Pleasure. For you and for me."

He gathered the wetness, dragging it back up to that sensitive spot, his movements smooth and sure. He watched your face, his gaze intent, cataloging every shift in your expression.

His fingers dipped back down to circle your entrance, testing, teasing. Then, slowly, one finger pushed inside you.

You gasped at the foreign sensation. His finger was thick and calloused, stretching you as it slid deeper.

"There," he whispered, his middle finger slipping inside you. "Does that feel good?"

You could only whimper in response, the sound needy and high. He curled his finger, stroking the velvety walls of your cunt, the heel of his palm still pressing against that sensitive spot.

"It will be a stretch at first," he murmured, sliding his finger out before pushing back in, all the way to the knuckle. "But we will take it slow."

You had heard the whispers, the jokes, the lewd suggestions. But the reality was different. It was not some awkward tumble in the dark, a quick, painful thrusting. It was this, the press of his palm, the rasp of his beard against your collarbone. Not just one sensation, but many, all working together to build something new and wonderful inside you.

He added a second finger, and the stretch was more pronounced. You felt your walls flutter around him, and his soft chuckle tickled your skin. "Easy, let it ache a moment."

You forced yourself to breathe, the pressure giving way to pleasure as you followed his guidance, rocking your hips against his hand.

"Yes," he breathed. "Just like that. Ride my fingers, sweet girl."

Your blush returned, but it was distant. Your body's needs eclipsed any sense of shame, and you ground against him, your eyes squeezing shut as the tension coiled ever tighter.

"Eyes open," he murmured, his voice gentle but insistent. "Look at me, my love."

You forced yourself to open them, looking into his eyes. They were darker than usual, swallowed by his dilated pupils. He watched you, his gaze roaming your face, your chest, his lips parted slightly.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let it take you."

You did not know what that meant at first, but then it struck you all at once, a wave crashing over you. The tension snapped, a flood of wetness coating his fingers as pleasure radiated from your core, spreading to every inch of you. Your hips stuttered, no longer able to keep a rhythm, and a soft moan from your throat.

He held you as the wave crested, murmuring soothing words against your hair. He slowed his fingers, drawing the sensation out, his palm pressing gently.

You collapsed against him, breathing hard, and he slipped his fingers from you. They glistened with your slick, and he brought them to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste them.

"My sweet wife," he murmured. "You honor me."

The haze of pleasure had not yet left you, and you blinked at him, your stomach twisting at the sight, a fresh heat blooming within you.

He smiled and kissed you softly. You could taste yourself on his tongue, a bitterness that was not unpleasant.

"That is only the beginning," he said. "You will learn, and I will show you."

You nodded, dazed, unable to find words. He kissed you again, lacing your dress back into place. "But for now, let us stop there."

"I-" You did not know how to tell him the way his touch still made you ache, the way your body seemed to crave more. "You're still..." You gestured vaguely to the place where his breeches strained.

"I am." A rueful smile. "But that is not your concern tonight."

Before you could argue, he shifted you gently from his lap. He stood, adjusting his breeches, it was quick, almost private, and you felt a strange pang at being shut out.

He turned, offering his hand, helping you to your feet. His hands found your hips and he pulled you close, his lips finding yours.

"Will you join me for dinner tonight?" he asked, his nose brushing against yours. "In my chambers?"

You nodded.

"In a few hours." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "Wear nothing beneath."

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, your hands clutching at his chest. He chuckled, low and warm, and kissed you once more before stepping away.

You hesitated, feet rooted. He stood by the desk, papers waiting, but his eyes were still on you.

A smile tugged at his mouth. "You can walk down the steps, can you not? Or do I need to carry you?"

"Oh- no... I can walk." You flushed and turned, forcing yourself not to look back as you stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind you.

As you walked toward your chambers, you couldn't stop thinking about his hands, his words. His tongue. And the promise of the evening.

You couldn't wait for all the other lessons to come. 

{Lesson Two} {Lesson Three} {Lesson Four} {Lesson Five}

[gwonty]

You can hear the whoosh of Toji taking a piss in the en-suite bathroom.

You waltz over with a yawn and lean against the doorway, his big shirt dangling off your shoulder. Toji doesn’t bat an eye at your presence.

You tilt your head at the beautiful sight of your big man in nothing but undies, cock out. He’s not even holding his dick as he pees.

“You got a license for that thing?”

His stream is undisturbed, side glancing at you with a sleepy gaze. Minutes ago, Toji’s loud groan and the rumble of the bed as he sat up awoke you. It’s still dark out, the middle of the night.

“We this comfortable already?” He speaks like it’s more of a statement, making you shrug with much amusement on your face.

“I can’t watch you pee? You’ve literally been inside me.”

He turns back to idly stare down at his dick. “I have,” he agrees and scratches the side of his abdomen.

Toji notes that you often seem to bring that up, like it makes you happy to reminisce with him on that fact out loud.

Your bare feet lead you to stand right beside him with your hands held behind your back, facing the side of the toilet. You stare down at his cock, he briefly eyes you.

“You don’t hold your dick when you piss?”

Toji huffs and shakes his head at your ability to be silly after being woken up mid REM. “You havin’ fun, baby?”

You idly teeter on the tips of your toes, glancing up at his panty-dropping, lopsided grin.

You nod with a smile. “Yeah.”

“Mmm,” he hums, content with your blatant joy, glancing back to his dick. “Don’t have to,” he answers your question.

You lean down and get a closer look at his sparse black hair leading up to his bellybutton and veiny, dark-pink cock with a steady stream coming out of the little slit. It’s a monster of a thing, really, but it fits a man of his size.

“How are you not getting pee everywhere like a flyaway hose? Do a lot of guys not have to hold it?”

He snickers as his stream turns into dribbles. “What kind of force do you think I’m pissing with?”

You chuckle and shrug. “I don’t know how it works. I can’t even tell if you’re hard right now. Are you hard right now?”

A little smirk befalls his lips as he gives his dick a little shake and flops it into his underwear. He drops the lid and flushes. “Questions, questions.”

He stretches his arms overhead with a loud grunt before pushing into your personal space, purposely making you stumble. He leans down and presses a kiss to the side of your neck.

“You want it to be?”

You hold back a laugh and push at his chest. “Toji, wash your hands. You still touched the toilet.”

He snags his sharp canines on your neck to hear that little squeak before pulling away to face the sink with self-satisfaction.

“You didn’t even wipe,” you tease, hopping up on the counter with your feet dangling.

He side glances at you as he washes with soap. “Don’t need to.”

“But isn’t your tip all wet?” You cringe. “Your underwear is gonna get all— bleh.”

He dries his hands on a small towel, sighing. He tosses the towel and pushes in between your thighs, leaning over you.

“The only way my tip gets wet is when you’re in a good mood.”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “Shut up.”

He grabs your hand and slides it down his hard tummy to his clothed cock. It’s warm, hard, and thick.

“I’ll tell you everything you wanna know, baby. Feel hard?”

You swallow, lightly squeezing his dick as you eye it. “I don’t know, it’s squishy and kinda hard but I can’t tell.”

He hums, moving his hand aside to let you feel his cock up as you please.

“Morning wood keeps it just hard enough to point downward some. Enough to piss with no hands.” He hisses when your little hand caresses the sensitive underside of his tip, “Easy, baby.”

“Oh,” you mumble glancing up at him with gleamy eyes, “So holding it for you while you pee is off the table?”

His brows furrow a bit, amused. “That’s what you want?”

You shrug, curious caresses turning into an idle, but thorough stroking of his dick over his boxers. “Maybe just curious if you’d let me.”

“You’ll get piss everywhere.” He loosely holds one of your hips, rubbing his thumb back and forth, soothingly.

“What happens if you get really really hard in the middle of peeing?”

“Why would I get hard mid piss?” He licks the corner of his lips, abs lightly flexing when your hand gives a particularly proper stroke.

“Like— if I kissed the side of your dick while you peed.” You smile, playful and adorable. The two of you aren’t really acknowledging the fact that you’re basically giving him a handjob now, it’s slow enough to be more of a heavy tease anyway.

“Oh yeah?” He chuckles, butting his head into yours, softly. He loves the domestic intimacy of you and him in times like these.

“Yeah c’mon, hypothetically.” You nudge your head into his in return, eyes briefly fluttering shut.

He leans back with a heavy exhale, wracking his thoughts.

“Well,” he looks down at you, “I’d have to hold it down so I don’t water the ceiling. You might get wet, baby.”

“Your dick never points up when you’re hard though, it’s so heavy.” You bite your lip, smiling and leaning into his lips to lay a nice wet kiss. “But, I don’t mind getting a little wet.”

He nudges your thighs wider and pushes a large hand between your legs to cup your thinly clothed pussy. You softly gasp, eyes trained on his calm eyes and scarred lips.

“You wet right now? Seeing me take a piss get you all horny?” He gently strokes your warm slit. “My dirty girl want some ‘heavy’ cock now?”

Your eyes roll back as his fingers and voice work tingles up your tummy.

“Fuck,” you urgently yank his boxers down, making his weighted arm of a cock twitch like it just knows its favorite girl is ready to give it a nice, wet hug. “Okay, yes actually. I wanna fuck. No more playing, wanna feel you inside me.”

Toji’s head sags as he chuckles, patiently watching you yank your panties to the side and shimmy to the edge of the counter.

“Ah ah ah,” he stops you just as you’re lining his tip to your throbbing folds, “You sure? Might have some piss drying on my tip, sometimes it gets stuck in there and drips out. Thought it was— ‘bleh’?”

He grips your chin, tilting your head upwards. He exhales right into your face and presses his lips to yours. “You don’t want my piss in your pussy, do you, baby?”

“Shut the fuck up,” you slur, aggressively smashing your lips harder into his. He leans over you as you lick and lick into eachother’s mouths, truly indifferent to how sloppy it is.

“Jesus,” he laughs, not truly expecting you to be so eager when he’s teasing you.

You jerk your hips forward to the best of your ability and the tip of Toji’s cock penetrates your pulsing entrance.

You moan right into his mouth as Toji slams his hands down to grip the counter behind you, coping with the warm, smooth pressure of your insides. His jaw ticks with the pressure of clenching his teeth, groaning in his throat.

His hips jerk forward, forcing your deeper insides to make room for a whopping half of his monster cock.

“Oh fuck!” You cringe breaking your stringy kiss to slap and grip his chest. “Have to— to go slower, Toji, fuck.”

“Shhh,” he hushes you, nudging your head to the side with his face to mouth wetly at your neck. His hips make nice little thrusts to aid your hole in warming up to him.

“Gonna feed you the rest,” he warns into your ear in a raspy soothing tone, “you’ve got it. You’ve got it. Gotta do it quick, baby.” He knows it hurts less when he gets this part over with.

You gasp as he shoves the rest in, but the warm sturdiness of his hips pressing into the bottom of your thighs helps to calm you. You’re so full, it’s slightly cramping right above your bellybutton.

“Ahh,” Toji breathes, throwing his head down over your shoulder. His cock jumps inside you, happy to finally be completely encased in its warm home again. “Shoulda spread your pretty little legs earlier so I coulda saved up some piss for your sweet pussy as a thank you for being so fucking good. Want me to say sorry?”

He chuckles with that lopsided grin, waiting for you to slap his chest and scold him for being gross like he intended with such a fuck ass joke— but you don’t! In fact, it seems.. did you enjoy that?

Your back arches dramatically, letting out a loud, breathy moan with eyes shut in wonderland.

Toji lifts his head to eye you with a quirked brow, a little confused and slightly wincing when your insides clench so hard around his sensitive dick.

His eyes widen when you slap both hands onto each of his asscheeks and use all the force you can muster to force him to thrust forward, into you.

“Oh,” Toji says in amused, mild shock, but it quickly turns into a groan as you force him to fuck you.

He drops his head back and closes his eyes blissfully, letting you do all the work with your own hands and arms that must already be aching. It’s like you’re reverse riding him. It’s more of a subtle rocking since Toji is quite heavy, but it feels fucking good to be pushed in and out of that slimy gripping heaven between your legs like this.

“God, fuck, feels fucking good. Okay, I got it, I’ll do what you want, give you what you want. It’s okay, shh,” he soothes your frustrated whine as he finally begins to do the work, brutal jackhammers that make your body literally jerk up and down. Your legs and arms curl around his big back for any semblance of balance as you whine and moan for the sleeping neighbors to complain about later.

His brow is furrowed in concentration as his hips snap on and on, gripping the counter rather than you, which makes you look like a little flesh light that can manually hold on like a spider monkey.

He huffs as sweat falls down his brow, kissing your neck affectionately.

“Look at me, Toji. God, you feel so good,” you whine, making him pull away enough to look you in the eye. With a dazed expression, you connect your lips like second nature, but the kiss is more of a choppy rubbing of your lips at best due to his relentless humping.

“Thought of my piss in your cunt really got you going, huh?” he chuckles into your mouth, unable to resist teasing.

But again, he does not expect such a drastic reaction of obvious pleasure from his fucked up joke. Your eyes visibly roll all the way back and you shove your tongue across his lips and begin licking his cheek and jaw like a feral cat, moaning and clawing his back. You even start to fuck your hips down into his with every thrust, making the mean impact of his tip smashing into your cervix that much harder.

“Jesus Christ,” Toji huffs in disbelief, eye wincing at the pleasure you’re enforcing.

“Do you have a piss kink, baby?”

You shove his hand down to rub your clit with his fingers, head thrown back and the next second you’re—

“I’m cumming! I’m cumming!”

[jagiellonczyk]

Dalgliesh The Black Tower S1E3&4

[cintoasted]

baelor accidentally stumbles upon your only fans account

warnings: incest. daughter x father incest. dark. non con. dub con. smut. modern au. 18+

a/n: i read this fic here and it inspired me. also sorry for not being super active i've been busy and we'll get round to replying to you all soon. Not proofread.

you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics

Just imagining modern dad!Baelor stumbling across your only fans account one night. Only he doesn’t realise it’s you.

Well not at first anyway…

He’s never been in to this thing really, he’s used to going on dates and charming women in person. He only found out about the damned app through his son, wondering why Valarr's credit card bill was strangely high one night.

It’s only when he comes back completely drained from a long work trip, that he finds himself scrolling through the app himself, deciding on a faceless video of a woman that was half his age with the most gorgeous body. He didn't really date younger, and yet watching you struggle with the mere tip of this dildo had him on the edge.

He timed his strokes with each push of your hips down onto the dildo, his breathy sighs mixing in with your wet whines. When he came, it was a hot mess, white liquid covering his hand and hitting against his chest.

After weeks he's addicted to you. Top tipper, requesting custom videos of you in all sorts of positions.

Months go on and he's paying for new lingerie sets, new sex toys and messaging you throughout the day like your some dirty secret. His mood is genuinely changed and when you visit for the holidays, you ask him who's the new woman in his life.

Both of you are none the wiser.

He finds out when he's visiting you for the weekend, treating you to some new things in your oddly familiar dorm room. Sure he's been here to help you first move in but he can't help that shake he knows this room better than he should do.

That night in his hotel he sees your new video and closes his laptop immediately. He opens it again and then does a double take of the surroundings. He's sick to his stomach.

Let's just say he's on the first flight back home and you don't even see him that morning. Not even leaving a text.

Another month or maybe two go by where he's back to his old ways, dating women his own age and fucking them after it. But he can't make it work until one night pressing a woman down on her stomach and fucking her from behind reminds him of you. Your hair, your skin tone and for a few moments he allows himself to slip to that dark place.

The shame he fills after cumming is horrid. And yet he can't help but go back to your page to do it all again.

Your big tipper is back. More requests and even more money to apologise.

He knows he shouldn't keep doing this but he can't stop.

The requests get stranger...

One week he's sending a dildo replica of his dick. He delightfully enjoys the way you squirm and struggle to stuff him all in but when you do, he can't help but ingrain the image in his memory.

Then comes the request for pictures throughout the day, just normal pictures of your outfits at first and then pictures of your tits or ass in the bathroom and when the money was really generous, pictures of your pussy.

The worst is when he asks you to send him a video calling him dad.

Not daddy. Dad.

You really don't like the idea at first. But with the amount of money he offers you, you're not in a position to refuse. It's like what you make in four months.

The video sends him feral. Eventually you start to refer to him as dad in your messages all the time until it becomes second nature.

Until one day he calls you by his nickname, something your real dad has only ever called you. You freeze, the texts coming to a halt immediately as you run over the nickname again and again...

You cross reference messages and can't help but feel sick at the thought of it. Things add up in your head, the fact you barely hear from your own dad, certain phrasing in messages that feel oddly familiar.

It can't be.

Yet it freaks you out so much you block him. Remove him from all forms of contact he has with you and go back to the rest of the fan base you had created. It may be quite a loss in the money department but you don't care.

Baelor doesn't like that. He also doesn't like how his own calls go to the answer machine every time he tries to reach you, or how you always message back with the most simplest of answers. No more I love yous anymore.

Maybe he visits you or maybe you have nowhere else to go back to apart from home in the summer. But eventually you have to face him, he is your father after all.

Yet you try everything to avoid him. Until one day he picks you up from town drunk, and in the car ride home everything spills.

He's so sorry.

So sorry as he pushes your frame on his mattress.

So sorry as his clothes fall into a pile with your own.

And so sorry as he thrusts himself into you.

Only you don't think he's really sorry at all.

a/n: i may be going to hell but im taking you all down with me.

dividers by @ chrisssiren

[ladysoupmuncher]

Rise of The Dragon Dreamer - Yandere A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Changing of the original AKOTSK plot. (Read the introduction to understand; this will help you guys avoid confusion.)NON-CON kissing, I am sorry, but this is for the plot. Not Proofread(I'm too lazy)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Beneath the shade of a great tree, you sat in quiet repose, the wind stirring your silver hair from time to time. Beside you was Aerion, uncharacteristically silent. It was a rare thing, his silence, and you found that you did not mind it.

“Do you promise you will marry me?” he asked at last, breaking the stillness you had so been enjoying. His gaze fixed upon you, intent and expectant.

“Why should I?” you replied, your eyes remaining forward, not granting him so much as a glance.

“What do you mean, ‘why should I’?” he demanded. “You must marry me. Dragons wed dragons. I have told you this, have I not?”

You sighed softly. Though Aerion was older, he did not often behave as such. “Do you wish to marry me only because you claim I am a dragon?”

He stared at you then, caught off guard by your question. “No, it is not only that.”

That, at least, drew your interest. “Then what more is there?”

Aerion crossed his arms and leaned back against the tree, as though the answer cost him some effort. “You are agreeable. You are not tiresome.”

There he was. That was Aerion.

“That is all?” you asked, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

“I- no, that is not all,” he said quickly, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. “Must you press me so?”

“I must,” you returned calmly.

He hesitated, his gaze faltering for but a moment before he exhaled, as though yielding to something he would rather leave unspoken. “You are composed. You do not fawn or bend as others do. When I am with you, I feel something uncommon. It is warm, like flame, yet it does not consume. You are suited to me. Most simply obey my will. You do not.”

He paused, jaw tightening faintly, as if the next words resisted him.

“And… you do not look at me as the others do,” he continued, more quietly now. “Not with fear, nor with hollow praise. You answer me. You question me. I find that I would sooner have your defiance than their obedience.”

His fingers curled slightly against his arm, his voice lowering despite himself.

“I...like your presence,” he added, the admission reluctant, almost begrudging. “When you are gone, I feel empty."

You were silent at first. You had not expected such words from your cousin, Aerion. The very same boy who insisted you accompany him wherever he pleased, who would seize a girl by the hair for speaking ill of you, who would leave boys bloodied for standing too near.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he was not so insufferable as you had long believed.

“Will you marry me now?” he asked, drawing you from your thoughts. A soft smile touched your lips before you could stop it. “We shall see,” you replied. Aerion groaned and slumped back against the tree. “Must you be so cruel?”

“I do not get to decide such things, and neither do you,” you said evenly. “I must remind you that your father intends to betroth you to Liriana Tyrell.”

Aerion rolled his eyes, his head falling back. “I despise her.”

You turned to him. “I have met her, I think. She would make you a fine match.”

“If ever I am made to meet her, I shall see her cast down a flight of steps,” he muttered.

“And you say I'm cruel,” you returned.

He huffed, turning his gaze upon you once more. “I do not want her. I want you.”

“You do not get to decide,” you said.

“Must you always say that?” he asked, irritation creeping into his tone.“It is the truth,” you answered softly, turning your face away from him.

Aerion turns away from you, not knowing what else to say. You were the only person who could silence him.

“I have a gift for you,” he said, breaking the silence. “I know you favor flowers. I have seen you in the gardens often enough, gathering them as though they were some quiet solace.”

You turned to watch him as he reached into his pocket and drew out something small, holding it carefully in his hand. He extended it toward you with a steady gaze.

It was a necklace.

Delicate yet finely wrought in gold, the chain caught the sunlight as it hung between his fingers. At its center rested a tiny flower, shaped with perfect precision, each petal crafted with care. Simple, elegant, and undeniably beautiful.

You gently took it from him, your fingers brushing against his, and he met your gaze evenly, his usual confidence present.

“Flowers are fleeting things,” Aerion said softly, his voice less sharp than usual. “They wither, no matter how often you return for them. I thought you might prefer one that does not fade.”

“So you need not search for them every day,” he added. “This one will remain as it is. Always.”

You held the necklace between your hands, feeling the weight of his thoughtfulness, and for a moment, the brash, imperious Aerion you knew seemed softened, his words carrying a rare and quiet tenderness.

“Thank you. It’s… it’s beautiful,” you murmured, offering him a soft smile.

Aerion nodded, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Let me help you wear it,” he said, taking the necklace from your hands.

He reached forward, brushing your hair gently aside, his fingers lingering just a moment against your neck as he fastened the delicate chain. The warmth of his touch was brief, but it sent a quiet flutter through you.

“There,” he said, stepping back slightly, his gaze meeting yours with a mixture of pride and something softer, something unspoken. “It suits you.”

You touched the pendant lightly, still feeling the faint impression of his fingers, and for a heartbeat, neither of you spoke, the garden around you holding its quiet witness.

Your time together with Aerion had come to an end when a maid approached, her voice trembling yet urgent, calling you to your parents.

You remembered how Aerion had sneered at her, only for you to silence him with a single, piercing glance. You exhaled softly, the weight of duty settling on your shoulders, and followed the maid through the cold, echoing halls of the keep.

You were about to turn a corner when a strong hand seized your arm, pulling you into the shadowed recess of a corridor.

“I would not follow her if I were you,” said Daeron.

His eyes were heavy with sleepless nights yet sharp with warning. “What do you mean?” you asked, unease curling in your chest.

“Your parents were not calling for you, cousin,” Daeron said in a low voice. “Nyssa has been dismissed. I believe it was because she made a jest about your dreams. Our uncle, Baelor, intends to appoint a new personal maid who will care for you properly and will not mock you. But the maids who remain are angry. They see Nyssa’s exile as unjust or at least as an opportunity for mischief. They plan to take it out on you.”

He glanced around the hall and lowered his voice further. “They have a plan. They will grease so that you slip in front of the entire council. They hope to turn the loss of Nyssa into your humiliation. If you go, every step will be watched, every turn a potential trap. Their malice is patient and cunning.”

You were stunned. You knew the maids did not favor you; they found you odd, and over time you had learned to avoid them whenever possible.

“I… thank you for warning me, Daeron,” you said, offering a soft smile, watching as the maid disappeared down the corridor, probably still believing you were following behind her.

He nodded, releasing your hand when he realized he had been holding it. “You were with my brother, weren’t you?” he asked. He had dreamed of it, after all. His dreams often came true, while yours, though vivid, never seemed to manifest.

“Yes, I was,” you admitted.

He gave a brief nod. “You could have looked for me, you know. I would not have minded,” he said, staring at you steadily.

A pang of guilt struck you. “I… I’m sorry. It’s just that Aerion was the closest to me and—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he interrupted. “You were scared, weren’t you? You did not want your parents to scold you.”

You sighed, nodding slowly. Daeron glanced around, then leaned a little closer. “Do you want to get back at them?”

“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The maids. Do you want to punish them?” Daeron pressed. “No, I don’t. They can be cruel, but punishing them will not make them like me,” you said.

Daeron considered this, then nodded. “If that is the case, we can do something not so serious, but enough to even the score,” he suggested. “Like what?” you asked.

He leaned closer, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “They made a fresh batch of lemon cakes. They mean to serve them. We can take them and leave them with nothing. They will surely get in trouble.” You frowned, imagining the idea of you stealing the lemon cakes. “I think that’s too far,” you said.

“They meant to harm you earlier,” he reminded you, making your thoughts shift. They had plotted against you. You had never acted like this before, yet he was right—and you were hungry for some lemon cakes.

“All right… but just this once,” you said.

Daeron smiled, gentle and triumphant, and took your hand. Together, you made your way toward the kitchen.

You could smell the warm scent of the lemon cakes from across the hall and your stomach growled at the thought of them. You had skipped your meal earlier and the sweetness of the cakes now seemed almost unbearable in its allure.

“Hungry, cousin?” Daeron asked, his voice teasing yet soft.

You nodded as he led you behind the kitchen door, waiting for the last few maids to leave. Their laughter echoed down the hall, sharp and high.

“Hurry, Sera. We will miss it,” one maid called to another. You frowned, realizing they were probably talking about you as they ran. Their footsteps faded but the giggles lingered.

You lowered your eyes, letting the sounds pass before the hall became quiet again. The world seemed to hold its breath around the kitchen, leaving only the warmth and the scent of the cakes.

“Come,” Daeron said, taking your hand and leading you inside. The kitchen was unfamiliar to you, a labyrinth of pots, spices, and ingredients. Your eyes scanned the room until they rested on the prize. A fresh batch of lemon cakes sat on the table, golden and steaming.

“Grab as many as you can before they notice you are not there,” Daeron whispered and ran forward, taking as many cakes as he could hold. You followed, gathering as many as your arms would carry until the table was empty.

“Come, let us go,” he said and guided you behind a large stone pillar. You both collapsed behind it, laughter bubbling out of you despite your attempts to be quiet.

“How does it feel to break the rules for once, cousin?” Daeron asked, grinning as he bit into a cake.

“I feel like a thief,” you admitted, feeling guilty yet exhilarated.

Daeron chuckled, crumbs falling onto his tunic. You looked around, wondering why you were hiding behind a pillar instead of a more secure place.

“Why are we here?” you asked softly. “Do not worry, it is safe here. I saw it in my dreams,” he said with certainty in his voice. “What?” you asked, confused.

He put a finger to his lips and pointed toward the kitchen. You could hear hurried footsteps approaching.

“I made a fool of myself. The princess was not there. I slipped on the grease for nothing,” one maid exclaimed. Another groaned behind her. You could hear the clatter of pots as they searched the kitchen, confusion filling the space.

“Where are the lemon cakes?” one cried. You imagined them running in every direction, overturning trays, searching shelves, and muttering to each other in panic.

You giggled, covering your mouth, and Daeron laughed with you, taking another bite of his cake.

Soon the head maid entered. Her presence commanded attention, and the smaller maids froze. You could hear her voice rising. “Where are the lemon cakes? We need them now.”

The maids scrambled to offer excuses. “Perhaps a rat took them,” one whispered. Another said she thought she saw them just a moment ago.

“Did I not tell you to watch them?” the head maid demanded, her tone sharp. You felt a twinge of guilt.

“Come on,” Daeron said, taking your hand and guiding you toward his bedchambers. You followed silently, your heart still racing from the thrill.

Once inside, he lay down on the bed, still holding a cake. You settled beside him, taking a careful bite of your own.

“I believe they did not put enough lemon in this,” he said, studying the cake in his hand.

“I suppose so,” you replied, savoring another bite.

Daeron leaned back against the pillows, crumbs falling on the sheets. “You see, cousin, sometimes the smallest acts can shake even the grandest of halls, even if only for a moment,” he said, smiling at you.

You smiled, crumbs clinging to your fingers. “What if they catch us next time?”

“Then we will hide again. Or perhaps we will dream of a better escape,” he said, eyes gleaming with mischief.

You leaned back beside him, finishing your cake in silence. For the first time in the halls, you felt clever, daring, and free.

Time passed quickly. The lemon cakes were gone, crumbs and sticky fingers the only evidence of your small rebellion. You lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, letting the warmth of the room and the soft glow of the afternoon sun settle over you.

Daeron reclined beside you, propped on one elbow, his gaze fixed on you. He twisted a strand of your hair around his finger absentmindedly, watching your face quietly.

“You always stare like that when you are thinking,” he said softly, sighing as you took a few seconds to answer, he didn't mind.

“I am not thinking,” you murmured, though you knew he could see through the lie. He smiled faintly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Do you always lie so well?”

The quiet of the room was heavy, and it made your chest tighten. You shifted slightly under his gaze, uncertain.

He let your hair slip from his fingers and tucked it behind your ear, his hand lingering at your cheek. The silence stretched between you. You stared up, heart racing, while Daeron twisted another strand of your hair around his finger.

Then, without warning, he gently grabs your face and kisses you. His lips pressed to yours. You froze, eyes wide, your body stiffening. Your hands instinctively moved to push him away. “Daeron… I—”

But before you could finish, he kissed you once again, more insistently this time, his hand gently cupping your face. Your stomach knotted, and your pulse jumped. You pushed back harder.

“Daeron! Stop!” you exclaimed, your voice sharper this time. Your hands pressed against his chest, trying to create distance.

Daeron froze, his eyes finally widening with understanding. He recoiled slightly, the space between you restored, and his expression shifted from longing to guilt.

“I… I am sorry,” he whispered, voice low, raw with remorse. “I should not have… I wasn’t thinking. I—”

You sat back, not knowing what to do. You felt weird, you knew what he did was not right. "I...I think I have to go."

Daeron nodded quickly, the weight of his mistake clear in his posture. “Alright...I'm sorry for that. I did not know what I was doing,” he said, eyes lowered. The warmth in his expression remained, but now it was tempered by respect and regret rather than desire.

The room fell silent again. You stood up hurriedly, fixing yourself as you left his chambers, you felt wrong, you did not like what he did to you.

Once you open his chamber doors and leave, you wipe your lips with the back of your hand, Gods...you were disgusted with yourself.

You walked slowly toward your chambers, each step feeling heavier than the last. Your hands trembled slightly at your sides, and the memory of Daeron’s kiss burned in your chest, twisting into shame and confusion. Tears pricked your eyes, threatening to spill.

When you reached your room, you closed the door quietly behind you. The familiar walls offered no comfort, only a cold reminder that you were alone. You moved toward the bed, dropping onto it fully, curling up under the blankets as though the soft warmth could shield you from yourself.

Your face pressed into the pillow, and finally the tears came. Quiet at first, then louder, shaking through your body. You felt disgusted with yourself, a bitter knot twisting in your stomach. How had you let him get that close? Why hadn’t you pulled away sooner? You could not stop thinking about the kiss, replaying it again and again, each memory making your cheeks burn and your chest ache.

You hugged your knees to your chest, rocking slightly, letting the sobs take over. The shame and embarrassment gnawed at you, leaving your body trembling even as the tears slowed. You pressed your face into the pillow, your breathing uneven, trying to rid yourself of the queasy mix of anger and self-disgust.

Eventually, the crying faded into quiet sniffles. Exhaustion weighed heavily on you, your body aching from the tension and the fight to hold yourself together. You lay back on the bed, curling into the blankets, the pillow still damp from your tears. Slowly, sleep claimed you, heavy and unsteady, as your mind began to drift from the harsh reality of the day.

The world around you darkened. Shapes and shadows melted together, the edges of your chamber dissolving. You felt yourself pulled downward into something unfamiliar, deep, and heavy. The air became thick, metallic and bitter, pressing on your chest with every breath.

From the darkness, a vague shape began to emerge. You could not see clearly, only sense movement, weight, and something enormous. A low rumble resonated through your bones, vibrating with something ancient. Then, in the gloom, a blue shape began to take form. A dragon, hatching, immense and coiled, scales faintly glimmering in the pale light of the dream.

It moved slowly, deliberately, the cracking of eggshells echoing like distant thunder. The darkness seemed alive around it, the shadows twisting and writhing as if the room itself were breathing. Its eyes glowed cold and pale, and the presence of the creature pressed in on you, filling the dream with awe, fear, and something unnameable.

You could not look away. The dragon’s gaze seemed to pierce through everything, seeing you as clearly as you saw it. The weight of the dream pressed down on you, and the darkness closed in, leaving only the immense, hatching blue dragon before you.

You woke with a start, your sheets tangled around you, damp with sweat. Your heart pounded in your chest, and the shadows of the dream clung to your mind. The blue dragon, immense and hatching, pressed itself into your thoughts, vivid and alive, though you could not explain why it felt so urgent.

A strange pull tugged at you, insistent, almost whispering. Your chest tightened as though your body remembered something your mind did not. You sat up slowly, wrapping the blankets around yourself. Where were you supposed to go?

The answer came to you in a flicker of memory. Dragon eggs. Your father often kept them not hidden away, but displayed, preserved as treasures of the bloodline. Some were ancient relics, cold and lifeless, yet heavy with history and meaning. They were artifacts, symbols of power, reminders of dragons that had once ruled the skies.

You rose from the bed, heart still racing, compelled to follow the strange pull. Wrapping a shawl around your shoulders, you stepped into the hall. Your feet carried you down familiar corridors, but every step felt urgent, purposeful, as if guided by some instinct you could not name.

Soon, you reached the room. The moonlight slanted through tall windows, glinting off the ancient shells displayed carefully on pedestals. The room was quiet, empty of servants or guards, and the eggs themselves seemed to dominate the space. Blue, black, and gold, each one was immense, cold, and perfectly still. Even lifeless, they radiated presence, power, and centuries of memory.

You stepped closer, your hand hovering above a deep blue egg. Its surface shimmered faintly, catching the light. Your breath caught. For a moment, you could almost see your dream reflected in it, the hatching dragon, immense and alive. The memory of the dark, vivid dream pressed against your chest.

The room felt both empty and alive. You could hear nothing but your own breathing, yet the weight of the egg seemed to press on you, filling the air with history, loss, and an unspoken warning. You shivered, unable to tear your gaze away from the blue egg.

It felt as though it waited for you to notice something, a secret too heavy to name, and for a moment you thought you could see it pulse faintly, as though it remembered the dragon that had once lived within it. The room was quiet, but the silence was dense and suffocating, pressing down on you, making your chest tighten.

You stepped back slightly, feeling your heart still hammering in your chest, and sank to the edge of the nearest pedestal, your mind still caught between reality and dream. You were here, yet the dream lingered, vivid and unrelenting. The blue egg seemed to watch you, silent, immense, and unknowable.

"Please," you whispered to the egg, your voice trembling as you stared at its cold, smooth surface. "Please hatch… please prove to them that I am not crazy."

You knew it sounded insane, talking to an old, lifeless artifact that had never been meant to hatch. The room was silent except for the soft crackle of the fire, and yet you could not stop yourself. Your fingers brushed gently over the shell, tracing the ridges as if your touch could somehow awaken it.

You let out a shaky sigh. "Please work," you murmured. Your hands trembled as you carried the egg toward the fireplace. You had read in old books that your ancestors often put dragon eggs near heat to encourage hatching. It should work. It had to.

You set it carefully by the fire, staring at it with a mixture of hope and fear. Minutes passed, each one heavier than the last. The flames crackled and hissed, warm light flickering across the room, yet the egg remained unchanged, cold and still.

You slumped back, your shoulders sagging, and lifted the egg into your lap. The weight of it felt unbearably heavy, pressing down on your chest along with the weight of your own despair. Maybe your uncle was wrong. Maybe you were not a dreamer. Maybe you truly were as mad as the maids whispered.

Tears welled in your eyes, hot and bitter. Gods, you felt so small, so pathetic, talking to a dead egg as if it could understand you, as if it could save you from yourself. You hugged it to your chest for a moment, trying to cling to the last fragile thread of hope.

Finally, with trembling hands, you rose. Each step toward the shelf felt like walking through lead, and your chest ached with exhaustion and shame. You placed the egg gently back where it had been, your fingers lingering for the briefest moment before letting go.

You were ready to leave, ready to admit defeat, ready to let the cold, lifeless relic confirm everything you feared about yourself. Then… a sound stopped you.

A faint, almost imperceptible crack.

You froze, heart hammering in your chest. Your eyes widened as the thin line appeared along the shell, a fracture small but definite, spreading slowly like a spark of life where there had been none.

Your breath caught in your throat. You could not move, could not speak. The world around you seemed to hold its breath with you. For the first time in what felt like hours, a flicker of hope, trembling and fragile, pulsed through your chest.

The egg was not dead.

Your breath caught. You reached out, trembling, and gently pressed your fingers against the cool shell. It moved beneath your touch, small but undeniable, quivering as if it were alive. Your pulse raced, a mixture of awe and disbelief coursing through your veins.

You lifted the egg into your lap again, clutching it close, careful not to drop it. Your hands shook as you whispered to it, voice low and raw. "Come on… please, you can do this… please."

The shell shifted again, this time more violently. A tiny sound, almost like a whimper or a whisper, escaped from inside. Your eyes widened. You had never heard anything like it before. You pressed your ear gently against the egg, and it vibrated faintly, a heartbeat of some ancient creature inside.

It wiggled slightly in your hands, rolling just a fraction, and you instinctively adjusted your grip, holding it more firmly but carefully. "It's okay… just keep going," you murmured, your voice breaking. Heat from the fireplace flickered across the room, casting long shadows over the walls, and you realized the egg needed warmth.

With trembling hands, you carried it back to the hearth. The fire crackled and hissed, licking the edges of the cold stones. You set the egg carefully on the floor near the flames, leaning close to watch it. Small cracks spiderwebbed across the surface, shifting, moving, as if the shell itself were alive with strain and pressure.

Your pulse raced. You could see it now, tiny movements, almost imperceptible at first, like fingernails scratching from inside. You reached out and brushed your fingers lightly over the shell, willing the creature inside to keep going, to push through whatever had held it dormant for so long.

The cracking intensified. Bits of shell began to flake away, falling onto the hearth with soft clinks. A low, almost guttural sound emanated from the egg, vibrating through the floor and into your bones. Your breath came in shallow, rapid gasps, and your fingers pressed lightly to the shell, both supporting it and urging it forward.

It shifted again, rocking slightly, more insistently this time. You leaned closer, speaking softly, almost pleading, "Come on… please, you can do it… you have to… you have to live."

A shard of shell broke free, revealing a glimpse of something dark, slick, and glimmering beneath. Your heart stuttered, and you let out a quiet gasp. The egg trembled violently now, rocking toward you as though it were straining against your hands. Carefully, you picked it up and returned it to the warmth of the fire, cradling it in your arms with desperate precision.

The shell cracked further, long lines spreading across its surface. Tiny vibrations ran through your palms, and the soft, wet sound of movement came from within. You could hear it now, a scraping, a shift, like claws testing their way through centuries of stone.

Your chest ached, a mix of fear, disbelief, and hope pressing down on you. The egg wobbled violently in your hands. You leaned over it, murmuring encouragement, "Yes… yes, you’re almost there… just a little more…"

And then, a small piece of the shell popped free, falling to the floor. A strange warmth radiated through the egg, pulsing beneath your fingers. You felt it squirm, writhe, and push upward with increasing force. Your breath caught in your throat as you pressed it gently toward the fire, coaxing it into the heat, urging it to continue.

A second, larger crack split the shell, jagged and irregular. You gasped, gripping it more firmly, holding it close as the creature inside fought its way into the world. Tiny, dark shapes shifted beneath the surface, slick scales glimmering faintly in the firelight.

The sound grew louder now, a wet, almost liquid scrape, the creaking of the shell against something alive. You could feel its tiny struggles against your palms, its desperate need to emerge, and your chest tightened with a strange, anxious exhilaration.

Another shard broke free, larger this time, revealing a slick, dark snout glimmering faintly. You could see movement beneath the shell, tiny limbs stretching against the confines. The egg shuddered violently in your hands. You pressed it closer to the fire, offering heat, encouragement, and support, holding your breath as you watched the impossible unfold before you.

The room was filled with the soft clinking of shell fragments falling to the hearth and the wet, squirming movements inside. Your heart pounded so loudly you feared it might be heard above the sound of life struggling into existence. You could not look away, could not stop holding it, could not stop whispering.

The shell cracked again, long and deep, revealing more of the slick, dark form inside. The creature writhed violently, pressing against the edges of its prison, and you felt a thrill of terror and awe that made your knees weak. You held it firmly, guiding it toward the fire’s warmth, whispering words of encouragement as the impossible miracle continued.

The final fragments of the shell crumbled away, and the dragon emerged with a wet, shuddering gasp. Its scales were a deep, midnight blue, glinting faintly in the firelight. Steam rose from its body, and its limbs trembled as it struggled to right itself, slick and trembling from centuries trapped in stone.

You could feel the warmth of its tiny body against your hands, the rapid beat of life pulsing beneath your palms. It was smaller than the dragons of legend, but immense in presence, sharp and alive in ways that made your chest ache with awe and fear.

It let out a low, almost plaintive whine, wobbling on its legs, and before you could react, it scrambled toward you. Its claws were sharp but delicate, gripping your arms and chest with an insistence that startled you. It clung to you as though you were its only anchor, its only safety in the unfamiliar world.

You froze, heart pounding, unsure what to do. The dragon pressed closer, nudging its wet snout against your shoulder, wings trembling as it tested the air. Its large, luminous eyes looked at you with an intensity that stole your breath.

“I...I must be dreaming."

The dragon stirred against you again, small claws digging slightly, as if urging you to decide quickly. You hesitated, then whispered, almost reverently, “Dalaxrys… that is your name. Dalaxrys.”

At the sound of the name, it tilted its head, letting out a low, vibrating hiss that felt almost like acknowledgment. Its body clung tighter, curling against you, wings folding close, tail wrapping around your side. You felt the heat of its body, the weight of its trust, and a shiver ran through you, fear, awe, and something like awe-struck wonder all mingled together.

You sat back against the hearth, cradling Dalaxrys in your arms as it rested against you, wet scales warming slowly from the fire. Its small limbs clung to you instinctively, as though it had chosen you above all else, and you could feel the rhythm of its heartbeat mingling with your own.

“I… I will take care of you,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the soft crackle of the fire. "I will keep you safe.”

It nudged its snout against your cheek, a strange, almost affectionate gesture, and you shivered, feeling a weight of responsibility heavier than anything you had known. Your heart ached in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

You ran a trembling hand along its wet scales, watching the dark blue shimmer in the firelight. It had emerged from the shell helpless, desperate, and it had chosen to cling to you. And in that moment, you understood that this bond, fragile and fierce, was unlike anything you had ever felt.

Dalaxrys chirped softly, a strange, musical sound that made your chest tighten again. Its tiny claws dug slightly into your arms, and it pressed closer, as though trying to merge its body with yours for warmth and safety.

The room was silent except for the crackling fire and the soft, wet movements of the dragon against you. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a strange, trembling peace. The chaos of the day, your doubts, your tears, all seemed to fade under the weight of Dalaxrys’ trust.

You were alone, and yet, somehow, you were not.

Author's note: Sooo, I hope this chapter was fine. You finally met your dragon!!! YAYYYY! He will be bigger don't worry, he is still a baby.

Sorry about Daeron, I just needed something to make the plot more intense...so ya. haha.

This is not proofread so there is for sure a lot of mistakes, and I'm really tired rn so yah lmao.

taglist: @readersassemble5 @noone1233nobody

[saintxlaw]

“It’s not exactly a secret—” well, at least not anymore… [Qin Shi Huang x Reader]

Summary: You might not be in trouble but oh are you in for it. Your lie isn’t the only thing that’ll get messy…

Warnings: SMUT, of the filthiest kind my word😭, I’m sorry, also this is long, I ran my vibrator out of batteries with this one, cursing, fem!reader disguised as male, misgendering, anxiety mentions, intimidation, painful realities women face, some manhandling, you like it tho don’t worry, Qin Shi finds out ur actually a baddie and gains like + 100 rizz, petnames, “baby” “pretty girl” “sweetness”, bath s*x, unprotected too, oral (f.rec), he’s HIGHKEY a pǔssybully, dacryphilia, multiple ✪rgasms, size k|nk, size difference, kissing, looottts of kissing, nobody here has self control, whoops, he’s got the fattest of fat coc—, he’s so nasty about fucking you through your spine for some reason hmm how odd :/, choking, biting, creampies, dirty talk, they really go at it, fainting, everything is consensual, kinda rough but everyone is having a very good time I assure you :), squ!rting screaming creaming and more we’ve got it all at the hardware store 😂

A/N-> this is a continuation of the end of part 2 so go read that. English is not my first language and enjoy.

My cuties ^///^ -> @kainnnee + @thulhu ♡꙳°✿

‘Attractive’ wasn’t enough to describe him.

His eyes are black with hazy light pupils but somehow they seem to have a gleam about them, the centipede tattoo runs down his cheek stopping next to a deliciously pink mouth. Pinching your lips in, you gulp— keeping your eyes on anything else but his broad shoulders and handsome face framed by short eyebrows.

Fuck, he’s so built. Need that, really.

“And not a moment too soon I see”, he continues, trailing his gaze over your form. “Undress and get in. You look unwell but I believe this should help.” He raises an eyebrow as the fidgeting on your feet becomes incessant. It’s something you do a lot when it’s just the two of you he’s noticed. The corner of his mouth tilts up as he watches your toes take turns covering each other.

How curious.

Your hair is still tied behind you in the low bun you always wear, shoulders slightly hunched in your baggy clothes. Being fed steadily along with the others in the year you’ve been with him, he’d hoped you would gain some muscle or weight but you don’t seem to. Maybe it’s connected to the stress caused by your former peers? Either way as one of his favorites he’d like very much to help you feel better. Smiling in what he means to be comfort, Qin Shi gestures to your clothing.

You hesitate— moving to step back before a large hand wraps around your ankle, lightening fast as he holds you in place.

“I-i..”, you stammer, acutely aware of the heat from his wet hand bleeding through your skin.

“I can’t…” You finish lamely and he huffs mainly in confusion but also annoyance. He’s trying to help so why must you fight him at every turn of it?

“And why not?”

It’s straightforward— not something you can talk your way around and fuck if it doesn’t make you sweat. For once you wish his blindfold was on as his eyes bore into yours even as they actively avoid him.

You’ve been acting strange…why? He’s been suspicious at times but now he’s sure. There’s more you’ve been leaving out, the question is what?

Without so much more as a warning than the sound of suddenly disturbed water, Qin Shi hoists himself out of the bath to stand before you completely naked— water dripping generously from every thick, delicious muscled curve. Gasping, you try to step back but a thick arm shoots out, hand closing around your shirt in a tight fist, dragging your face close to his.

“What are you hiding, boy?”

He growls against your face, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Qin Shi watches your face drop— something like panic setting in as you gulp so hard you almost choke.

“N-nothing! My Lor-“,

“Bullshit.”

Your heart beats so fast and thudding that he can hear it. The words leave your mouth too quickly, furthering his suspicions. Dark eyes search your pretty face wildly for any hint of what it could be. He doesn’t believe you to be a threat but he doesn’t believe in taking unnecessary risks with just the two of you— mind racing from least to worse scenarios for your secrecy. And he so irritated for some reason though he’s not entirely sure it’s all on you. At this point he’s prepared for pretty much anything.

“It’s a bath— take your clothes off.” You shouldn’t be— especially with him being so rough but that’s precisely why you are.

Wet.

You can’t help it. Briefly you wonder how different things would be if you told the truth from the start. Would you be where you are right now? Would he treat you gentler? You find that you don’t want him to. A firm hand suited him too well.

Apparently, you take too long— a stark contrast to your usually instant initiative. Leaning down so his nose almost touches yours, the gesture is meant to be intimidating but all you can think is how good he smells and looks even better. It’s hard to focus with him so close and you slowly shake your head.

“Um…I- forgive me my lord”, you squeeze your eyes shut. Bracing for impact, “but no. I truly cannot.”

“Oh?” He scoffs, minutely indulging you, “But I wasn’t asking.”

“B-but”, you try feebly, “but why?” For a second he’s caught off guard by how cute you sound.

“You’ve piqued my curiosity,” your heart stops at that. “Whatever it is, I’d very much like to know. Besides, keeping secrets from your Lord just won’t do.”

“I’m…shy?” You can’t help but try one more time— one last ditch attempt to dodge the hangman.

He’s quiet for a beat, thoroughly looking you over with an expression you can’t read before stepping back…

and pushing you into the water.

Gracelessly you fall into the hot bath, flailing around until you resurface. You could swim but that wasn’t your main concern— your clothes are sticking to you. Your eyes blink the water away furiously as you wade to the edge like a wet cat. Hoisting yourself up, you jump only to feel your pants be yanked down as soon as you hop up, pulled clean off you.

Immediately you try to drop back into the water but muscled arms hook under your ass and push you back up. With a speed to rival his own, you slam your legs shut. You even go so far as to cross them at your calves, effectively blocking his view.

Is this the big secret? You weren’t a eunuch? Still, he’s too curious to just go off his own assumption. He needs to hear it from you,

“Open.” Voice deep and stilling as he commands you. Looking at him with wide pleading eyes, you open your mouth to stutter out what he knows is another excuse or distraction but he cuts you off before you can even start.

“Now.” A thrum of heat pulses through you. The dominance in his order has you trembling, natural instincts begging you to just submit. Impressively enough, you don’t.

He’s out of patience.

Yanking you to the edge like he’s making to drag you back underwater, you flounder to catch yourself, unhooking your legs in the process.

You only realize your mistake when you feel him suddenly freeze. Hurriedly, you look down with a wince and certainly enough…

His eyes are locked right on your pussy.

Qin Shi blinks once, then twice— wordlessly hooking his arms around your thighs before you can hide again. Heart in your throat, it still manages to race out of control, making your voice shake.

“Please— I- I can explain”, you speak clearly now, he notes. Not that hoarse whisper you always seem to have and now he understands its reason. While lovely, your voice was undeniably that which belonged to a woman. Huffing out a weary sigh, he flicks his eyes off your snatch when it twitches at the feel of his breath and shakes his head. He said he was prepared for anything? How wrong he was.

“It”, you swallow, “It’s not exactly a secret—”,

Cutting off your appeals, he asks the first thing that came to mind when he saw your naked sex.

“What’s your name? Your real one.” Since the cat was out of the bag, you suppose there’s no need to hide it; whispering it to him so softly that the steam almost carries it away.

He repeats it, looking into your eyes as you nod before he continues— this time as a request.

“Can I? See the rest?” He doesn’t have to elaborate, you know what he means. Wriggling atop the warm limestone, you lift your waterlogged top off you; revealing your bound chest before undoing that too. Letting your breasts bounce to their natural state and immediately, it all begins to click.

You weren’t all stick and bones, the oversized clothing was to hide your shape, he realizes trailing his eyes from your now loose hair with you propped up by your elbows down your body. And what a shape you had— all soft and pretty.

He’s not mad which is good because that means your life is no longer in danger. But he still needs to know—

“Why did you lie?”

You sigh, the sound heavy with weight of your truth. “It was just safer.” His eyes widen as yours slip shut. “I needed work without the high chances of being kidnapped and sold.” Ah. The life of young women wasn’t exactly a relaxing or safe one. You just needed work. Work meant money and money meant food and housing but you lucked out. Working at the palace under the guise of a man meant you didn’t have to worry about any of that.

Qin Shi now knew of that painful reality.

Shaking his head again, he lets his forehead drop against your tummy— your startled squeak making him chuckle. All this excitement after an already draining day has him feeling more over it than usual.

“Sorry for being so rough with you earlier…”, his muffled apology vibrates your skin as warmth creeps up your body, pooling in your face.

“S’okay…”, your shy little reassurance has him giddy as he lifts his head, wading backwards further into the bath, offering his hand to you.

Trying to shrug off your embarrassment at being completely naked in front of The Emperor of all men, you take it, following him in. You knew your luck was shit but damn. Slipping into the water, you dip your body deeper, leaning your head back with a pleased sigh.

Amiable silence fills the space as you slowly relax, getting used to being who you are so openly while Qin Shi struggles to adjust. To the point where it’s hard to relax with the weight of his eyes on you as the puffs of your nipples peek through the water from you floating lazily on your back.

The hot water is absolute heaven on your aching body and the oils in it have you feeling oh so smooth as you let out another breathy sigh. You feel his movement by the rippling of the water as he wades closer to you. Breathing in some of the steam, you peek your eye open at him.

“Is there something troubling you, my lord?” He shakes his head, flowing around you as he grins.

“Not at all, I just wasn’t expecting to have such lovely company tonight is all.” Both eyes pop open at that, hot cheeks dimple softly as you stifle a flattered giggle, glee rushing through you and you stop floating to face him. He called you lovely.

“Lord Qin-“,

“Ying Zheng,” he corrects you. If you were going to be a man who was actually a woman then you could use his birth name. It sounds just as sweet as he thought it would coming from a beauty like yourself.

“—are you flirting with me?” You try to keep your tone neutral, unaffected but you sound too tickled, voice light and teasing as you swim around each other. He hums in contemplation,

“Should I not? Are you wife to anyone?” He keeps his voice even, breezy while he waits eagerly for your answer. Much to his delight, you shake your head no.

His grin spreads into something that makes your thighs clench, excitement making you jittery as you tease, splashing him lightly before you go back to floating on your back.

“Any more questions?”

Qin Shi laughs, low and pleased in his throat, nodding slowly. “Actually I do..”, you make a sound for him to continue.

“Does anyone else know-“, you cut him off with a dry snort. “Absolutely not.” He hums again, eyeing you all over and his intensity makes you shiver, nipples hardening.

“So all this time I should’ve been calling you pretty girl, no?” You’re positive that your flush has spread all the way down to your chest, not expecting him to be such a sweet talker.

“You could— but then you’d give me away.”

“Ahh. Then only when it’s just us two…”, his low voice trails off as you give a delayed hum not even surprised that you weren’t fired.

What an interesting night this was turning out to be.

Tapping your thigh from beneath the water, Qin Shi pulls you to stand before answering your confused look.

“I still need to check you over— see to your wellbeing and all that, remember?” Your heart skips a beat. Fuck, you forgot about that and the circumstances now compared to when he said it are completely different. Still, you can’t help the anticipation that wells up inside your chest.

Wading backwards, Qin Shi follows; helping you hoist yourself up on the warm stone, eyes following every drop of water running down your curves. Bringing your knees in and out the water, you go to stand up when he stops you with a hand around your calf.

“No need to strain yourself, I can check juuust fine from here.”

He’s eye level with your pussy and you both know that. You stifle a shiver, remembering how his breath felt against your exposed pussy.

Taking your silence as hesitation, he comforts you by massaging your legs— rubbing up and down your soft skin warmed by the heat of the water. “Is that okay, pretty girl?”

Fuck yes.

You nod vigorously, gasping at the bolt of electricity to your core as he firmly kneads up your calves to your thighs, asking here and there if anything hurt.

The pressure of his large hands feels so good that you feel yourself slip, moaning weakly as you point to your knee. “..hurts there.” The discolored bruising from all the times you caught yourself after being pushed by your childish peers. Poor girl. Cooing softly, he hooks his hands under your knees— making you lie flat on your back as he brings one to his mouth, kissing the skin tenderly before laving his tongue across.

You jolt, hand flying up to cover your mouth from what you don’t doubt to be a whorishly desperate moan as he does the same to your other knee before sucking hot kisses up your inner thighs. Defined jaw working hard while he slurps at the hypersensitive skin next to your drooling cunt.

Now, in his defense, Qin Shi really did plan on holding back it’s just… he’s always had a strong preference to you. It’s why he kept you so close. You were competent and funny and soothing— pretty too and he was more than content just keeping you around as he wasn’t sure a relationship would be suitable with a man since he was expected to produce heirs but now? He wants to keep you under him, full of him, dripping off him and whatever else.

Spreading your thighs even further, he takes his time kissing everywhere around your folds. You’re so sensitive the anticipation makes you restless, squirming as you switch between looking down at him and the sparkling ceiling. Looking up your soft stomach to the swells of your chest, Qin Shi wonders how the hell he could’ve missed it.

Your breathy sigh bursts into a sharp moan as he lets his tongue fall out, lapping a firm strip through your wet pussy lips. The muscle hot and greedy as it laps from your slippery hole up to your throbbing clit. Qin Shi groans deep in his chest at your taste, so gushy that each time he licks his palette is replaced by another wave of your honeyed slick as you cry for him.

Seriously, how the fuck could he have missed it?

Your keening voice makes his blood simmer, sharp and restless under his skin making him hungrier with each dulcet whine from your pretty mouth. The cute nub at the top of you pulses erratically and he spits on it, making you gasp at the depravity of it before he’s slurping it into his mouth— scorching tongue stroking hard beneath the hood and your skin just about vibrates off your skeleton. White bursts behind your eyes, raw pleasure making them roll back into your skull, hips bucking wildly while you scream.

Fuck.

His cock throbs in response to you, hooking his beefy arms around your thighs to still you. The sounds of him sucking you off are obscene at this point— wet and messy as he hums; popping off your overworked clit to fuck you with his tongue.

Your chest caves from how hard you gasp, hands shooting down to pull at the wet strands of his hair, struggling with everything in you not to break under the spine tingling pleasure.

He’s in his own little world as he drinks in your pussy like it really was the last thing he would taste, curling the thick muscle against your walls— mouth suctioned over the entirety of your cunt as his tongue puts you through hell with every delicious ‘schlick’.

“O-Oh god-!”

Mmm, he’s preening at that. You’re so sweet, calling out to him— your god. Hiccuping wails turn into bleating sobs as you undulate your hips into his face, big hands sliding underneath your ass to help you fuck yourself on his mouth.

The air is heavy not just from the steam but the suffocating heat of your shared desperation. Your sweetness making him a little insane as he curves his thrusting tongue towards your bellybutton, slick thumb coming up to roll your clit in mean, thorough circles…

You go slack, head and body dropping against the ground as you cum violently.

Qin Shi moans at the first spurt of cream from your cunt, doubling down to pull you through every debilitating wave of ecstasy; slurping filthily as your release floods his mouth— coating his lips and tastebuds.

When he finally decides to pulls his mouth off you, you’re boneless. Staring listlessly up at the ceiling as you try to catch your breath through the cotton filling your ears.

You never came that hard in your life— not even from your own hand and maybe that’s a good thing because you’re positive you pulled something. Qin Shi kisses up your body, burying his face in your neck as he sucks his marks onto your skin; sharp canines tracing the area before he’s licking up your jawline. Ravenous and primal which is exactly how he kisses you.

His mouth is wicked as your tastes mix together. You’re warm, and so soft. The plush skin of your lips impossibly tender under his mouth and he growls, forcing himself to pull away before he really loses it.

The sound your lips make when they part is luscious and full, stirring heavily at that ignited something in his core but gods the way you look at him… rushing back to your mouth is all he can do— sucking your bottom lip between his and you make that needy little noise dragging his most primal instincts to the surface.

Groaning raw with the promise to ruin you, he coaxes your head to the side so he can kiss you deeper, taste you deeper.

Even though he already did but he needs more.

He can’t get on top of you fast enough.

Deliriously he swears that he must be drunk, must be high— moving his head to the rhythm of your languidly deepening kisses like a man hypnotized. But stars above, he can’t stop, he just can’t. The air is so hot as your kisses grow thick and sticky and so goddamn needy. The rise and fall of your chests quickens as your lips become wetter and raw. Your fingers tighten in his hair, triggering a hail of shivers along his neck. There’s no time to choke his soft groan and so you take it for yourself with hot suck to the corner of his mouth.

Hissing, Qin Shi presses the contours of his beefy muscles flush against you, feeling your softness yield to his hardness as he chases your tongue with his own. A hungry hand squeezes at your ass, making you squeal in delight. He can taste you even better now, savoring the sweetness on your tongue.

You absolutely overwhelm his system with your nails against his scalp, your other hand grabbing and caressing all over him as you thoroughly enjoy his body— your own writhing one pressed to his. The enthusiasm you return with each simmering kiss is fucking him up in the best ways, your noises melting like candy in his mouth.

So, when you slip your hand between your bodies, taking his girthy length in your hand as you position it at your entrance— he doesn’t hesitate to thrust right in, pulling away so he can watch your face melt in pleasure.

He’s big. Dizzyingly so.

You go a bit brainless at the full stretch of him stuffed snug up your dripping pussy, brows drawing together as your jaw drops, a weak punched out moan escaping your lips; staring dead in his face. He cooes at you, at the dazed little look in your blown pupils— sliding out then thrusting back in with a wet slop. Setting a back arching pace.

“Feelin’ good, baby?”

You nod slowly, cunt tightening around him at the sound of his voice. It’s like you’re blissed out all over— moaning prettily as he starts to speed up now that he knows his size isn’t causing you any pain. The way he rolls his hips as he fucks into you has you feeling feverish from the inside out.

He doesn’t even need to actually try to hit those spots in you that make your toes point because he’s just that big. Fucking you so good and so full as the fat head of his cock smacks against your g spot in hot, leaky kisses.

The room fills with the lewd sound of your coupling and distantly you’re grateful for the fact that nights are specifically reserved for his private baths because if anyone were to walk by the door— the evidence would be damning. Jostling your body with every harsh thrust as he fucks you right out of your mind. You cry his name and his eyes roll back at the want in it, moaning down at you.

“Yesss”, he hisses around the concentrating heat curling in his gut while he rearranges yours, “Know it feels reeaaal good…so wet f’me, pretty..” and you were— dripping all over his balls every time he buried himself in your syrupy cunt.

Unable to take any more of your tits bouncing in his face, Qin Shi cups the fat of your chest, squeezing them together and bringing his head down as he sucks both your nipples into his mouth. Back arching, you wail, raking your nails down his incredibly built back but the sting only pushes him more; tongue swirling around the stiff peaks in his sloppy mouth before he bites down on the puffy nubs.

“N-nghh! Fuucck!”

The sound of him inside of you changes— sounding a little less wet and a lot more creamy. It makes his spine tingle, teething off your nipples to look down.

White rings cling to his cock with every deep slam into your pussy and the sight knocks the air out of his chest as he’s abruptly flung closer to orgasm. He can’t cum though because he needs you to cum first. His pretty, clever girl.

Drooling, you’re totally useless to the way he folds you, hands sliding down his back to grab his ass while he’s railing you stupid with how the angle puts him even deeper.

Ruthlessly fucking you through the stretch with everything he’s got, he brings a hand down to strum your twitching clit until that burning chasm in your stomach sucks you in crushing you in the pressure and intensity of your brutal orgasm.

So overstimulated, you sob through it and that combined with the way your wet cunt sucks his cock— hurtles Qin Shi off to his end as he flounders to hold onto something to ground himself in the storm of euphoria. Blindly, his hand clamps around your windpipe in a tight grip.

Choking, your pussy gets even tighter from the sudden cut of airflow, sharp arousal prolonging your high as you get fucked through both your orgasms. Grappling at his thick arm, you squirm— trying to fight the pressure that’s right there but one last hump to your clit as he empties himself in you and you erupt.

Liquid bliss jets out against his lower abs with surprising force as you cum until you black out, jaw going slack as your eyes roll back, tears streaming down your face.

“Thaaat’s it, sweetness… lemme have it..”

Groaning throatily, he watches the erotic display lodged deep in your overstuffed pussy, rolling against you until the stream eventually stops.

Kissing softly at your cheeks, he cradles your unconscious body gently as he slowly slips out of you.

Taking a deep breath, he tries to settle his heart from all the adrenaline pumping while he busies himself by guiding you back in the water, laying your back to his chest, your lower half floating in the water as he wades you both through the large space.

He hasn’t felt this good in a while. Relaxed and tingling, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek, tightening his arm around you, mind full of all the precautions you two would now have to take. You didn’t want anyone else to know you’re a woman and he’s more than okay with respecting your wishes. Also, he knows he’ll have to at least try to treat you the same for appearance’s sake but he already sees the list of rules you two are bound to stay breaking.

Eventually, consciousness returns to you in a dawn of lights. Blinking blearily, you feel lips press into your cheek and you snuggle deeper against the firm body holding yours in the heated water with a pleased sigh.

Qin Shi smiles at your contentedness, leaning down to kiss you again because he can’t help himself.

“How do you feel? Sore at all?”

His worry is sweet. You don’t hurt anywhere right now but you’ll definitely feel it in the morning, more than anything though you’re tired. Being put through the floor will do that to a girl.

Smiling softly, you shake your head, closing your eyes as you let him shift you through the water. You’re almost too relaxed— suddenly remembering something and your eyes pop open, gasping as you grasp his biceps.

“I need to get back to my room! I’ll be late for roll call in the morn—“, your panic is cut off by the face lovingly nosing up your throat.

“Nonsense. You’re staying with me tonight”, he whispers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You’d argue, really— it’s just you’re so tired and it’s such bliss finally being in the arms of someone that you’ve had your eye on that you find yourself shrugging.

Tilting your head back onto his broad shoulders, you give into his distracting kisses with a breathy hum.

“I guess I can, if you say it’s fine…”

“Mhmm”, he hums, audibly occupied by the luscious feel of you and you whine for his more focused attention.

“You— ah! You just can’t keep me up all night, okay?” Since you still had duties to attend to in the morning and all day after which he should know considering half of those duties involved him.

But it seems luck won’t stay on your side when he cups your chest, rolling your nipples with a hot lick up your ear.

“No promises…”

Im giggling🤭

[faelinda]

Velvet Ropes 1/5

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Baelor Targaryen x fem!reader

Rating: Mature (Minors DNI)

WC: 4.2 k

Tags/Warnings: Modern AU, sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamics, unprotected sex, ass slapping, a smidge of daddy kink, possessive behavior, jealousy, mentions of the reader having a past relationship with Lyonel

A/n: This idea has been nagging me, and finally, the muses lined up for me. My asks are always open for fun ideas and general fangirling. Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. Let me know if you’d like to be added to any taglists.

Summary: The heat of Summer sets in, and you find yourself in an arrangement with Baelor Targaryen.

You swirled the golden liquid around in the glass, watching it splash against the tulip shaped bowl. Finally, you lifted it to your mouth and took a generous sip. It had been a while since you've done anything; after Lyonel, you had deleted the app for a bit. Nerves twisted in your stomach, but grad school wasn't cheap, and you no longer had Lyonel funding you. You turned when you heard your name called out by a deep, gravelly voice and spun around to face the man you were meeting. Baelor Targaryen. His profile picture didn't even begin to do him justice. He was handsome, with dark hair lightly peppered with gray. Oh, but his eyes were what drew you in and made you swipe on the app to make the match. One was a warm chestnut brown, the top corner hued dark blue, and the other a crystal clear sapphire shade.

“Hi,” you smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. A little bit of research informed you that he was the heir apparent of Valyrian Inc and the current CEO of Targaryen Holdings. You had to admit you never much had a taste for business and finance, but they were at the top of their game. You were very aware of who the Targaryens were: rich, old blood dating back centuries. There had been plenty of scandals, but they always came out on top. Lyonel hated them.

“You look lovely.” He leaned in to kiss your cheek. You caught a whiff of the woodsy scent of cedarwood with the crispness of juniper. It made you want to sink your teeth into the crux of his shoulder. He wore mostly black, his waistcoat a vivid red like freshly spilt blood, every item tailored expertly to his frame, and golden and ruby rings sparkled on his long fingers. You suddenly weren't regretting agreeing to this after all, even if you felt rather simple in your appearance.

“Mr. Targaryen, your table is ready,” the hostess said, sleek black menus tucked into the crook of her arm.

“Shall we?” Baelor smiled at you, offering you his arm.

You slipped your arm through his, leaving your wine forgotten on the bar top. You didn’t care for it anyway. The hostess showed you to a private table toward the back, and Baelor pulled out the chair for you. You thanked him as you slipped into it. The elegant, slender menus were placed in front of you and him. The server came over, and Baelor ordered a bottle of vintage dry Arbor red.

"You mentioned in our last conversation that it was your favorite," he smiled.

"I'm impressed you remembered," you complimented.

"I pay attention to detail, almost obsessively so," he admitted.

"Some would say that is a very good trait to have."

"Others might think it's dull."

"I promise I don't."

"You never seem bored with me in our messages."

"Did you think I would be?"

He gave pause, tilting his head. "I worried over the age difference, we might not have a lot in common, and I'm pleasantly surprised to be wrong about that."

Your cheeks turned hot. "I'm happy to have proven you wrong." The server returned with the wine, uncorked it, and poured you each a glass. You waited until they left before speaking again.

"You mentioned this was your first time?" you asked.

"It is. My younger brother, Rhaegel, suggested I give this a try. It's how he met his wife, Alys."

"That is oddly sweet. Those stories are rare, but they do happen."

He mentioned in private messages that he had numerous events to attend and grew tired of always being alone. His wife had passed away five years ago, and you knew that void would never be filled, but perhaps you could provide companionship. You seemed to have a gift for that. Some of the men wanted a sexual aspect included, like Lyonel, while others didn't care. Baelor had skillfully avoided answering you when you broached the topic. It was interesting because he was clearly well spoken and sure of himself, but there was also something shy about him. You knew you needed to be cautious, especially after Lyonel. You had fallen fast for him and had to end things before you got in too deep.

Some of the nitty-gritty details had already been worked out. The monetary compensation, the expected length of time, and, for now, he only wanted you to be at his side for events. He would make sure you knew all the details so you could be prepared and would cover the cost of any clothing you needed for them.

The server returned, and you placed your orders: a medium rare steak with mushrooms and creamed spinach for him, and a tagliolini pasta dish with white truffles for you. You sipped on your wine, feeling a faded heat creep up your neck with Baelor's eyes on you.

"So, have you thought of a cover story?" you asked him.

"Excuse me?"

"Generally, I'm not introduced as a sugar baby when I'm on someone's arm," you teased, "I've been an intern, a family friend, a companion. I doubt anyone believes it, but it makes it more palpable for others to swallow."

"I see."

"I take it you're not used to lying?"

He chuckled, shifting in his seat, the dim amber glow of the restaurant catching in his eyes, making the brown one glow like a tiger's eyes. "I suppose I have always been a very truthful man, but I do understand the need to conceal certain things. I simply don't wish for you to think I would be ashamed to have you on my arm."

It was so honest, so genuine that it made your heart skip a beat. "I doubt you would ever make me feel such a way."

"I assumed people would question, and so having a cover story makes sense."

"An intern might not be the best, considering your CEO position. That would be quite scandalous."

"As scandalous as a sugar baby?" he teased, a playful smile tugging on the corners of his lips.

"Hmm, I feel a sugar baby in your circle would not be so scandalous as I believe it to be. You're probably surrounded by them and didn't even know it."

"Come to think of it…" His laughter was warm and velvety.

"A daughter of a distant cousin? Your family is rather large; I doubt anyone would be digging too deeply into that. I'm interested in the business, and you are allowing me to shadow you."

"That is plausible and clever. Remind me what you are studying again?" You highly doubted he forgot that detail if he could remember your favorite wine. You appreciated his asking, demonstrating how truly interested he was in you.

You lifted your glass, taking a slow sip and allowing the liquid to coat your mouth.

"I'm pursuing a Ph.D in psychology," you replied.

"Impressive," Baelor smiled.

The food arrived, and you twirled your pasta around your fork while Baelor cut this steak methodically. Your eyes lingered on his fingers, your mind wandering to much more lurid thoughts. The conversation continued, fluid and easy.

"I think I'm going to enjoy our arrangement very much," Baelor smiled, paying the bill after the two of you shared a rather decadent chocolate soufflé.

"I already am," you grinned.

"Do you need a ride back to your place?"

"I'm only about two blocks from here. I enjoy walking on these warm nights," you replied.

"Might I walk you back at the very least?"

He really was such a gentleman

. Normally, there was no way you could afford a flat in this area, but Lyonel insisted on continuing to pay for it despite the relationship ending.

There were times you could still feel his lips lingering on yours or feel the scratch of his beard on your cheek. You wondered what Baelor's would feel like.

"I would like that," you agreed, warmth heating your face when he offered you his arm. Your heels clicked against the ground, measuring your pace so you could extend your time with him. You simply did not want this night to end. "This is me." You nodded toward the Brightwater complex.

"Would it be too bold to ask if I can come inside?"

"Boldness will get you rewarded," you grinned, buzzing in and pulling him with you. You felt at ease in his company, waving to Raymun, the attendant on duty that evening. He gave you a smile and a nod, his eyes widening when his gaze fell on Baelor, but you knew he would use discretion. You took Baelor up to your place on the fifth floor. Your black cat with glowing green eyes greeted you immediately, twisting and rubbing herself between your legs.

"And who is this?" Baelor asked, bending down to greet her. She cocked her head, judging him curiously before bumping her head against his palm.

"Lola," you smiled.

"She's beautiful. Hello, Lola," he cooed, rubbing the sweet spot between her ears. You bit your lip as you imagined him stroking you in such a manner.

She purred before scampering off. "Do you want anything to drink?" you offered.

"Would it be too boring if I said water?"

"Not at all," you smiled, slipping out of your heels. "Please make yourself comfortable." You went into the kitchen, filling two glasses from the pitcher inside the refrigerator. You discovered him moving around your sitting room.

"Thanks." He took the glass into his hands, taking a long sip of water.

"There is one aspect of this arrangement that we've been dancing around," you whispered, taking a small sip to wet your throat and mouth.

"Hmmm, I am aware," he murmured. He glanced down at the floor, placing the glass on the coaster on your coffee table. One hand slipped into his pocket as he turned to face you.

"It's not a requirement, I'm merely curious."

"I suppose I am open to it, should it present organically."

"Fair enough. Negotiable on the sex, how about kissing?" You inched closer to him, the condensation from the glass slippery against your fingertips. He removed it from your grip, one hand wrapping around your back to pull you closer.

"Now that, I am very open to." His mouth met yours as your body melted against his. He stood almost as tall as Lyonel, so you had to roll up slightly on your feet. His mouth was warm, commanding yet wonderfully gentle all at once. A perfect reflection of him. The kiss broke, leaving your mouth flushed and swollen.

"Good, I like kissing," you whispered against his mouth.

"I should say good night," he mused.

"I enjoyed our evening together."

"As did I, very much."

He gave you another kiss before departing. You felt giddy, sinking into your couch with your fingertips tracing over your lips. You no longer felt the phantom of Lyonel's lingering. It was all Baelor.

You felt butterflies every time you received a message from Baelor. You both had moved past the app, using personal numbers now. There was an annual charity gala coming up, and he wished for you to join him. It was blacktie and you went to your favorite boutique to pick out a dress. It was red and silky, demure enough to be deemed acceptable with a lower back for a bit of sex appeal. His car arrived around seven to pick you up, and you enjoyed the way he paused when he saw you.

"Hi," you smiled, kissing his cheek, careful not to leave a smudge of your lipstick behind.

"Hello, you look stunning,' he grinned, his eyes raking over your body.

"It's appropriate, yes? I won't be scandalizing the upperclass?" you teased.

"It might do them so good if you did, but no, you are perfect."

He helped you slide into the backseat, his hand resting on your knee the entire way. You wanted his hands all over your entire body, but you weren't going to push. There were some photos taken at the entrance, and you slyly slipped off his arm and headed inside to avoid the flashing bulbs. You helped yourself to a flute of champagne and a mushroom puff pastry while your eyes scanned the room. You nearly choked when you spotted Lyonel chatting with Daemon Lannister. His dark eyes locked with yours, a shit-eating grin crossing his face as he made a beeline straight for you.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" he teased.

"Hi, Lyonel," you chuckled.

"Gods, you look good. Always did, though, especially in my shirts," he whispered, one finger sliding under the thin strap of your dress. "Who are you here with?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," you teased, fluttering your lashes before taking another sip of your champagne.

"I thought you were all done with this, kitten."

That fucking nickname sent a shiver down your spine. "Yeah, so did I, but I got accepted into a doctorate program."

"Good for fucking you. The whole world will be calling you doctor one day." His hand slipped down your arm, grazing over the skin of your exposed back. "You know I don't mind sharing if you need the extra money."

"As tempting as that is," you said, a hesitation in your eyes.

"Don't worry, kitten, I'm only teasing," he smirked, gently swatting the curve of your ass. Your mouth formed an O as your cheeks turned hot.

"Lyonel, good to see you," Baelor announced, suddenly at your side, his hand slipping to your lower back as Lyonel stepped away from you. Lyonel gave you a cheeky wink as he put it all together before shaking Baelor's other hand.

"You as well. I'm here to let the Targaryens bleed me dry. Gods know you all don't have enough money to end world hunger on your own," he quipped before departing.

Baelor kept you by his side all evening, whisking you around the room and introducing you. There was something different that shifted. He seemed almost possessive, which means he had definitely witnessed Lyonel's hands on you. You wouldn't have pegged him as such, but you liked it. You were presented as a distant relative from Dorne, which Baelor's brother, Maekar, found incredibly amusing, but he went along with the ruse. You supposed the family always looked out for their own.

On the ride back, Baelor pulled you closer to him, his hand on your thigh this time.

"Did you and Lyonel…" His voice trailed off, but you knew what he was asking.

"Yes, before you," you said honestly.

"And if I said it made me jealous…"

"I wouldn't judge you for it. It's a very normal human reaction. However, there is nothing between us anymore; he is just handsy and full of himself."

"You seemed to like that."

"I do," you admitted. A heavy silence hung in the air, and a wooshing filled your ears as Baelor pulled you into his lap, making you straddle him. So that had hit a nerve. You made a mental note. His knuckles skimmed across your shoulder before the broad length of his palm spanned down the exposed skin of your back. You gasped when he squeezed your ass.

"You liked it when he touched you here," Baelor stated.

"I did." You bite your lip, loving the feeling of his fingers digging into your flesh. He lifted his palm, smacking your ass with surprising strength and making you jump in his lap.

"I don't want him to touch you ever again."

"He won't," you promised.

"You're mine." There was a heavy growl in his voice.

"Yours, daddy." You word rolled easily off your tongue, familiar and sweet. You studied his face to see whether he enjoyed it. It was everyone's cup of tea. Lyonel loved it. You should probably stop thinking about him.

His hands moved to the straps of your dress, tugging it down to expose your top half. He pressed his mouth to one nipple, suckling on the delicate skin as it puckered beneath the circling of his tongue. His pupils were blown wide, almost eclipsing his eyes in an inky abyss. He released your nipple with a wet pop.

"Yes, you are daddy's girl, hmm?" he rasped, making you shudder in your lap. "If you're willing, I would very much like to come up to your flat again and explore the other offerings."

"Yes, absolutely." You didn't want to sound too eager, but who the hell cared at this point? You wanted him, and he wanted you. Two consenting adults ready to discover one another. He fixed your dress, covering you back up, but kept you in his lap for the rest of the ride. He informed his driver to retire for the evening, telling him to return in the morning.

You were thankful that Raymun was on duty again that evening, giving you a nod and a knowing smirk as you entered again with Baelor in tow. Baelor's hands were on you the moment you were through the door. Lola's paws pattered against the floor, letting out a curious mewl before scampering away. Clearly, she knew how to read the room. He slipped you free of the dress, the silky fabric pooling around your ankles, leaving you in just a thin pair of underwear. A hungry kiss claimed your mouth while his hand snaked over your hip before dipping between your thighs, stroking you. You whimpered against his mouth.

When he broke the kiss, he knelt before you and tugged the skimpy underwear down your legs, leaving you bare before him.

"You're overdressed," you whispered, your fingers wrapping around the black bowtie and tugging it free. Your fingers popped his buttons expertly after sliding the black suit jacket down his shoulders. Your hands explored his chest, well defined with a delicious coating of dark hair that trailed down to his belly button. You pressed your mouth against the hollow of his throat while undoing his belt, then his fly. Your hands plunged into the silken boxer briefs, squeezing his cock.

A husky groan fell from his mouth as his cock came to life against your palm. You pulled your hand away, ridding him of the rest of his clothing before pressing your naked body against his. The swell of his rigid cock pressed against your thigh.

"I want you to fuck me," you whimpered.

His hand gripped your bare ass so hard that you were certain his fingerprints would be left bruised in your flesh by morning.

"I plan to, many times," he purred.

"I have condoms, but I"m on the pill and clean if you want to…"

"I do. I need to feel all of you," he whispered, spinning you around and bending you over the back of the couch. He nudged your ankles further apart with his foot. The tip of his cock teased your wet opening before sinking slowly inside you. You moaned, digging your fingers into the cushions as he snapped his hips against you. The soft thud of the couch rocking beneath you and the sharp slap of flesh filled your apartment. His balls lightly slapped against your clit, and you pushed a cushion against your mouth to keep from crying out.

He slapped your backside. "None of that, don't hide from me," he said, gently tugging on your hair to lift your head up.

You licked your lips before letting your stream of pleasure roll free. It didn't take much longer for you both to reach orgasm. Your cunt squeezed around his cock, and his cum dripped down your thighs in the aftermath. Baelor pulled you to his feet, tucking your hair behind your ears and kissing you again.

"I need ten minutes," he whispered against your mouth.

"We have all night, taking all the time you need," you smiled.

The second time was on your bed with you riding him. His fingers buried in your mouth, your saliva dripping over them as each bounce drove his cock deeper inside you. The third time was braced against the wall, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist. You were feeling sore by the end of that one, and it ended with you curled against his chest in your bed. His fingers played absentmindedly with your hair as you twisted one of the rings around his finger. You assumed it was his wedding band; some never stopped wearing it. It was clear he loved his deceased wife dearly.

"I like your possessive side," you smiled.

"So noted. I'm usually more in control of it."

"You can be unbridled with me."

"I admit it's refreshing." His hand rubbed soothing circles on your lower back.

You rubbed his chest, gently moving your fingers through the thick tufts of dark hair.

"Probably because you've been swept into this secret world. One that's alluring, a little bit naughty. Tends to free the inhibitions."

"Are you psychoanalyzing me?" Baelor laughed.

"No! Simply making an observation," you chuckled.

"One tends to think of a secret as a dirty thing that must be concealed. I simply enjoy the privacy you provide to me, but yes, I suppose it is a bit naughty,' he admitted. "I rather like it."

"I'm glad you toppled into the deep end with me."

"So am I."

His breathing grew more relaxed, and when you looked up to him, he was fast asleep. You smiled; your dreams were filled with Baelor that evening as you reminded yourself that you could not fall in love with him. He showered the next morning as you lounged around in his dress shirt after ordering breakfast.

"He still here?" Raymun asked when he brought up the food, peering inside your flat. Lola darted out, rubbing between his legs. He always looked after her when you were out of town. He bent down to stroke her

"Yes," you smiled, grabbing an extra breakfast sandwich out of the bag and handing it to him.

"Ah, thanks," he said in appreciation. "Join me for a smoke when my shift ends?"

"Sure, but I'm not giving you details."

"Yeah, yeah, that's what you always say," he smirked before heading off.

You fed Luna the good tuna, which put her in a good mood. and gave her some fresh water. Next, you plated up the food to make it appear a little fancier and scooped some of the melon in your fridge into little balls.

"You needn't go to the trouble for me, and I'm afraid I'll need my shirt back," Baelor grinned, coming into your kitchen with a plum towel wrapped around his waist.

"Oh, but I look so good in it," you teased, unbuttoning his shirt and removing it.

"You certainly do," he agreed, playfully smacking your behind as you moved to get something to wear from your room. You fixed two cups of coffee, placing a mug in front of his plate while you ate with him.

"Not that I'm complaining, but I'm going to be sporting your handprints all over my ass," you teased him.

"Well, I can dial it back, if that's what you want."

"Maybe when I start classes, otherwise I won't be able to sit comfortably in them."

"I will keep that in mind. What would you say to a weekend away with me?"

"Just name the time and place, and I'll be there," you grinned. The next semester started in two months, so luckily, you had a lot of free time at your disposal for the rest of the summer.

"Dragonstone, next weekend." The exclusive, private isle long held by the Targaryen family. Not many outside it got to experience it.

"No shit."

He laughed, popping a melon ball into his mouth.

"I'm not sure your family is going to buy the distant cousin story," you warned.

"Yet I can't seem to care," he teased, leaning over to kiss you. "We'll figure out something. Rhaegel and Maekar already know."

"It doesn't matter, I'm excited."

"I hoped you would be."

After breakfast, he got ready to leave. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Looking forward to it." Once he was gone, Raymun texted you to meet him on the roof. The two of you shared a cigarette, basking in the warmth of the sun.

"Baelor fucking Targaryen," Raymun said in disbelief.

"Yeah, I know," you laughed. "He invited me to Dragonstone."

"No fucking way! You have to give me details about that, please."

"I will," you promised.

"Maybe I need to get on this app," he said, shaking his head and finishing the cigarette.

"There are plenty of beautiful, wealthy ladies waiting for a boy to spoil. Men, too, depending on your preference. You actually might get on well with Lyonel," you grinned.

"Oh no, not Lyonel," he groaned. "Still can't shake the sight of his naked arse out of my head after dragging him and that Beesbury fella off the roof."

"Don't do drugs, kids," you teased. "You'll take care of Lola for me while I'm gone, please?"

"Always," he grinned.

"And don't count Lyonel out. He is a giver," you smirked at him, watching Raymun's face turn red.

You spent the rest of the afternoon researching what you could about Dragonstone while Lola snoozed in your lap. You added some outfits to your shopping list while pondering whether to upgrade your luggage, and smiled when your phone buzzed with a message from Baelor. Turns out you didn't need a plane ticket because you would be on a private jet.

You really know how to spoil a girl x

I enjoy spoiling you. See you soon

You knew this was the arrangement, but those words from him made your stomach flutter. Do not catch fucking feelings. Easier said than done.

Taglist: @dixie-elocin @ghostlybfgf

[mrskarma]

put me in there and call it 'The Whore of The Seven Kingdoms' the way I'd be dick hopping

[cintoasted]

family pet | drabble series | two how father!baelor likes you

cw : noncon, dubcon, incest, father x daughter incest, dark, smut, dacraphylia, reader is kept like a personal fuck toy for all the targ men in the red keep. 18+ MDNI

a/n: not my finest work but it juts came out, hope you all enjoy just the same. also not proofread - sorry

you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics

You’ve known some twisted men in your lifetime living in the worst parts of flea bottom but nothing has ever matched up to the sick nature of your father. 

Some part of you likes to think he fought against his own nature. That he didn’t take you all the way from flea bottom under the false pretense of a better life, just so he could lay with his own daughter. Maybe he’d wanted to be a father to you in some way, before he had you sprawled out on his bed one night. 

All others spoke of him as a kind and nobleman, but what kind of noble prince fucks his own illegitimate daughter. Keeps her dressed in the finest silks, calls her to his room at night just so he can spread her legs wide and bury his cock deep inside her cunt. 

Baelor Targaryen. 

He doesn’t like when you call him that, he gives you a nasty smack to your soaked folds if even the first syllable passes your lips. He doesn’t mind Prince as much, or even your grace. But what he really likes is when you call him father. When you’re desperately trying to push him away and you’re pretty pleas fall from your lips, please father.  

It only drives him more wild, shoving your frame against the bed frame, or even better when he calls you to the library, bending you over the nearest piece of furniture and pressing his firm cock against your ass cheeks. He likes you feeling him before he fucks you silly. He wants you to know just how badly your fear for him really turns him on. 

He also likes the idea of being caught, enjoying how flustered and embarrassed you are after. Watching the way your tears stain your cheeks and his cum drips down your legs as you’re forced to walk back to your chamber just like that. 

It’s sick, he knows it. But he thinks he denied the blood of the dragon for so long that it manifested into this twisted thing, claiming you.

dividers by @ chrisssiren

[rhaenyras-crown]

✸ WELCOME TO THE FAMILY II — modern!targaryen au

summary. after your first day of working as a babysitter for the targaryen family you reluctantly return and in a series of unexpected events you end up forging a bond with the members of the dragon house.

word count. 8.7k

warnings. eggs dysfunctional family dynamic but beside that not much, friendly reminder english is NOT my first language so sorry if there are any grammar or spelling mistakes

note. first of all the sheer amount of love that the first part of this fic received is diabolical and I’m virtually hugging all of you who took a moment to appreciate it, it means the absolute world to me !! beside that I feel like this entire au is just incredibly fun to write and as always hope you enjoy reading🤍

previous part.

To say you were exasperated after your first day at the Targaryen household was an understatement.

After texting for almost twenty minutes you had messaged Kiera a voice memo that consisted mostly of incoherent groaning, followed by: “If I disappear, tell my mother I’m reconnecting with nature after dealing with the Targaryens.”

Then you’d turned your phone on silent, taken the hottest shower your apartment could manage, and let the city noise of King’s Landing blur into white static behind your windows.

Your building overlooked the river, it was all glass and steel and (way too) overpriced rent and even at midnight the city was buzzing. You’d fallen asleep to that steady rhythm, the memory of angry fathers and shaved heads dissolving under the soft weight of exhaustion.

Morning came too quickly.

You were halfway through doing your eyeliner when your phone buzzed on the bathroom counter.

You glanced down at the screen, pausing the movement of your hand.

Unknown Number

hey, just wanted to let you know father asked you to come an hour earlier today.

You stared at the message, eyeliner pen frozen in your hand.

Father? An hour earlier.

You frowned.

Could it be Aegon? You doubted he owned a phone.

Though, with that family’s money, it wouldn’t shock you if the ten year old had a better data plan than you did.

Another buzz.

Unknown Number

it’s daeron btw. asked dad’s assistant for your number :)

“Oh,” you muttered to yourself. “Of course.”

Daeron. That made much more sense.

You recalled yesterday’s conversation with him. He had been polite if a little bit tense. You remembered he sort of covered for you and saved you from losing your job. You were sure Aerion would never do something like that.

Daeron was the least chaotic of the siblings, from what you could tell. But then again you only knew this family for a day.

As you slipped on your shoes and grabbed your bag, you debated texting back something dramatic and final like — “Unfortunately I have been drafted into the Night’s Watch.” or “I fear I cannot return to the scene of my execution.”

You stood in your apartment doorway for a moment, hand hovering over the lock.

You could just… not go.

But then Aegon’s face flashed in your mind. The way his silver blonde eyelashes had trembled when he asked if you were coming back. The way he’d tried, badly, to pretend he didn’t care.

You sighed.

“Fine,” you whispered to no one. “For the emotionally unstable child.”

You quickly typed away at the keyboard on your phone.

You

Okay, will be there.

And then you added a new contact to your phone. Daeron Targaryen.

King’s Landing University was already full of students when you arrived.

The campus was woven into the city itself, historic stone buildings wedged between modern skyscrapers, cafés spilling onto sidewalks, students smoking on the steps of libraries like tragic philosophers.

You had a morning lecture in Political Theory — which you shared with Valarr Targaryen.

It suddenly felt like anywhere you went these people were following you.

You filed into the lecture hall, the overhead lights too bright, the air faintly smelling of coffee and old wood. You slid into your usual seat midway up the aisle and opened your laptop, pulling up last week’s notes.

You were annotating something about social contracts when someone cleared their throat beside you.

You looked up. Valarr stood there, awkward but composed.

His hair was dark brown — a sharp deviation from the silver-blonde that dominated the Targaryen gene pool — though a single white streak cut through it near his temple like a lightning strike. A reminder of the house he belonged to.

His eyes were mismatched, one deep brown, the other a pale violet that caught the light strangely.

Everyone said he looked like his father. He did. The resemblance was undeniable.

“Hi,” he said, almost shyly.

“Oh, hello.”

“Can I sit here?”

His gaze flicked to the empty seat beside you.

“Yeah, of course.” You gathered your bag off the chair. “It’s a free kingdom.”

He huffed a small laugh and dropped into the seat. “Thanks.”

You and Valarr were… mutual friends. Mostly because he was dating Kiera. You doubted you’d have crossed paths much otherwise.

He ran in circles that involved old money galas and charity boards.

You on the other hand ran in circles that involved cheap wine and heated debates about whether capitalism was inherently evil.

Still, he was probably the most down-to-earth Targaryen you knew.

You could hardly believe he and Aerion shared DNA.

“So,” you began, abandoning your notes. “I heard about what happened at the concert. Kiera told me everything.”

Valarr groaned softly, eyebrows pinching at the memory. “Yeah. Complete shitshow.”

“I gathered.”

“I knew agreeing to go with Aerion was a horrible idea,” he continued, running a hand through his hair. “But my father said we needed to spend more time with our cousins.”

You snorted. “Does your father even know what Aerion is like?”

“That’s the problem,” Valarr replied dryly. “He knows exactly what Aerion is like. He just… insists on believing there’s still something good in him, somewhere in there...”

“That’s fairly optimistic.”

“More like delusional .”

You smiled despite yourself.

There was something refreshingly honest about him.

A few students filtered in around you, voices echoing softly in the hall.

Valarr leaned back in his chair slightly, studying you with a look that made you suspicious.

“Anyway,” he said casually, “I heard you took up the babysitting job for Aegon.”

There it was. You had a gut feeling he would bring this up. Why else would he have suddenly decided to sit beside you?

“Yup.”

“You’re brave.”

“I’m poor.”

He laughed at that.

“I’m glad you did,” he added more seriously.

That caught you off guard. “You are?” You didn’t understand why he would even care.

“Yeah.” His mismatched eyes softened. “You’re a good person. I mean… Kiera loves you and I was… pleasantly surprised when she told me.”

You arched a brow. “Pleasantly surprised?”

“I just didn’t think you’d willingly walk into that house.”

“Neither did I, believe me.”

He smiled faintly.

“Yeah, looks like everyone’s thrilled about it except me,” you said. “And your uncle.”

At the mention of Maekar, Valarr’s mouth twitched.

“Oh, don’t take anything Maekar says to heart. He’s always like that. My father swears he was born with a frown on his face.”

You pictured him — tall, severe, permanently carved from marble. A man who wore coldness like second skin.

“Hopefully next time I won’t be the target of his fury,” you muttered.

Valarr’s expression shifted.

“No, all jokes aside…” He hesitated. “It’s not easy for him.”

You went still.

“After Dyanna—”

“Dyanna?” you echoed, the name unfamiliar on your lips.

“His wife. Their mom.”

Oh. The noise of the lecture hall suddenly dimmed in your ears. Your brain focused on Valarr as if he were the High Septon.

“After she died,” Valarr continued quietly, “everything just… fell apart. Things were always shaky you know, but she was the glue. She bind them all together. She balanced him. Softened things.”

You swallowed.

You hadn’t known her name before. Only that there had been a mother once and that she was gone now.

“She was Dornish,” he added. “Fiery and warm. The house felt different when she was there.”

“And now?” you asked softly.

He exhaled. “Now that she’s gone… it’s like all the warmth left with her. It’s just empty, hollow. It feels like everyone’s bracing for something.”

You thought of Daeron’s careful politeness. Of Aegon’s defiance. Of the tension that coiled in the hallways like invisible wire.

“I guess I’m telling you this because…” Valarr’s voice lowered. “I really think Aegon needs this. If not for the others… for him.”

Your chest tightened.

“He’s a good kid,” Valarr said firmly. “Under all of it.”

You remembered the way Aegon had looked at you — suspicious but hopeful.

“I promise,” you said quietly, “I’ll try my best.”

Valarr studied you for a moment, as if measuring something intangible.

“Thank you,” he said. “I know they can be difficult.”

“That’s one word for it.”

He smiled faintly. “But they’re not bad. Not really. At least… Aegon still has the chance not to be.”

Before you could respond, the professor swept into the room in a flurry of papers and authority.

“Settle down, everyone.”

Laptops snapped open. Conversations died down.

Valarr turned his attention forward, but you caught him glancing at you once more — something grateful lingering in his expression.

You tried to focus on the lecture, but your mind kept drifting.

To Dyanna and to Maekar’s fury. To the way grief reshapes a household. The way it reshapes lives.

By the time class ended, the sky outside had shifted into a pale blue. Students spilled onto the sidewalks, the city swallowing them whole.

Valarr walked with you toward the gates.

“You going straight there?” he asked.

“Yep.”

He hesitated. “If Maekar says anything… just remember he’s not angry at you.”

“I gathered that much.”

“And if Aegon gives you trouble—”

“He will.”

Valarr smiled. “Yeah. He will.”

You paused at the corner where your paths split.

“Thanks,” you said.

“For what?”

“For telling me all of this...”

He nodded once. “She would’ve liked you.” You gathered he was referring to Dyanna and for some reason your chest squeezed at the thought.

The words lingered long after he walked away.

You stood there a moment longer, the city wind tugging at your coat.

Then your phone buzzed again.

Daeron

are you on your way?

You stared at the message.

You could still turn around. You could still choose peace.

Instead, you typed back.

You

Yes. I’ll be there.

—

The car ride uptown felt shorter this time. The Targaryen townhouse loomed exactly as you remembered it from yesterday — sleek, imposing, all glass and dark red stone.

When you arrived this time, the guard recognized you immediately.

No assessment this time. No suspicious squint. No ID, please.

He simply gave you a curt nod and opened the iron gates. You checked that as progress in the back of your brain.

The driveway curved long and elegant through manicured hedges and sculpted trees that probably had their own gardener’s pension plan.

The building still felt daunting, but less… hostile.

Familiarity softened even the most intimidating things.

You climbed the front steps, rehearsing absolutely nothing in your head, and reached for the handle.

The door swung open before you could touch it.

“Hi.”

There stood Daeron Targaryen.

His dirty blonde hair was loose today, falling softly over his forehead instead of being pushed back like yesterday.

It made him look younger. Gentler. There was a friendly smile on his face, but your eyes immediately caught on the dark half-moons beneath his own.

He looked utterly exhausted, like he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in a week.

Did his eyes look like that yesterday too? Had you simply failed to notice?

“Hello,” you replied, straightening instinctively.

You both just stood there. Staring at each other, slightly awkward.

He was planted directly in the center of the doorway — not that he was enormous or the door was small, but he occupied it so completely it felt symbolic. Like a human threshold.

“Sorry… can I?” You gestured awkwardly toward the inside of the house, sheepish.

“Oh!” His eyes widened in realization. “Of course — sorry.” He scratched the back of his neck and stepped aside quickly.

You slipped past him into the foyer, the marble floors gleaming beneath your sneakers.

“Thanks,” you said automatically, closing the door behind you.

“You ought to stop thanking me so much,” he said with a soft chuckle.

“Force of habit,” you shot back, toeing off your sneakers and lining them up neatly on the shoe rack.

When you straightened again, you were suddenly hyperaware of the silence.

“So… where’s Aegon?” you asked to break the silence.

Daeron slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, posture casual in a way that looked practiced.

“He’s in his room, I think. He knows you’re coming at twelve. He’ll pretend he doesn’t care for about five minutes and then dramatically appear.”

You hummed. “Sounds about right.” Your lips quirked up.

There was another small pause.

“Would you like a glass of water?” he asked. “Or — something?”

The hesitation in his voice made it clear he was navigating unfamiliar territory. Small talk wasn’t a Targaryen specialty, apparently.

“I’m fine, thanks.” You smiled lightly. “Besides, after yesterday’s chicken nugget fiasco, I think I can handle myself in the kitchen.”

He laughed — properly this time, not the forced rehearsed kind. “Yeah. The kitchen’s all yours. No one goes in there anyway…”

He trailed off, swallowing something. There was something unsaid there. Something about no one goes in there anymore, no one cooks or no one eats together anymore. You didn’t press.

Instead, in a moment of truly questionable social instinct, you nodded toward his face.

“Rough night?”

He blinked, not catching up with your meaning. “What?”

“You, uh—” You gestured vaguely near your own eyes. “The eyebags.”

Fantastic. You couldn’t have been more subtle.

For a second he looked confused, then understanding dawned.

“Oh. Yeah.” He shifted his weight. “I struggle with these… things.”

“Things?”

“Well. Most people would call them nightmares,” he said carefully. “But they’re dreams, really.”

He watched your face as he spoke, like he was bracing himself for mockery or something akin to it.

You didn’t fully understand — you’d never dealt with anything like that — but you knew enough to know sleep disturbances weren’t trivial. Insomnia, anxiety, trauma — it all tangled together in complicated ways.

You nodded gently. “That sounds exhausting.”

His shoulders eased just slightly.

“It is,” he admitted. “Sometimes it feels like I’m more awake when I’m asleep.”

“That’s kind of poetic. But in a tragic way.” You quickly added.

He huffed a faint laugh. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

Before the silence could deepen into something heavy, a door slammed open.

Rapid footsteps thundered down the hall.

“You came.”

Aegon stood at the edge of the hallway, his head as bare as the day he was born, eyes blazing with barely contained excitement.

“I did,” you replied evenly, suppressing the smile threatening to betray you.

He walked towards you with forced composure, though his hands jittered at his sides.

You noticed. He noticed that you noticed.

Neither of you commented.

“Well,” Daeron clapped his hands together abruptly, and only then did you realize he was fully dressed — shoes on, jacket zipped. He’d clearly been waiting for you so he could leave.

At least he was partially responsible, not leaving a ten year old alone in this enormous labyrinth.

“I should get going.”

Aegon didn’t even glance at him.

“Yeah, sure,” you said, stepping closer to the younger boy.

Aegon turned and started toward his room without acknowledging his brother’s existence. He disappeared behind the corridor.

There was tension there. Old and ingrained. Like he was silently judging him.

“I’d say see you later,” Daeron said lightly as he reached for the door, “but I’m not sure I want to make promises I can’t keep.”

You frowned slightly at that. Before you could ask what he meant, he slipped outside and shut the door behind him.

You stood there for a moment. He was strange.

Gentle, but he was definitely nervous. Haunted. By something, or someone.

And something in your gut told you he wasn’t heading to a coffee shop.

Flea Bottom existed only a few subway stops away — bars that opened before noon, streets that swallowed boys with too much money and not enough supervision.

You didn’t voice that thought.

Instead, you followed Aegon down the hallway. His room door was half open already.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a toy war zone — figurines scattered, a half-built Lego structure and a sketchbook lying open beside him.

“You redecorated,” you said mildly, noting the scene.

“It’s tactical placement,” he corrected without looking up.

“Of course. My mistake.”

You stepped inside fully and closed the door behind you.

His room felt different from the rest of the house.

Messier. Warmer. Like a child actually lived here. And not an ikea pop up.

You crouched down near him. “So. What’s the plan today?”

He hesitated, then looked at you through his lashes.

Your knees sunk into the plush carpet, surveying the battlefield of tiny plastic bricks and unopened crinkling bags.

There were at least six large packs and three smaller ones still sealed.

“This is… ambitious,” you murmured.

He hesitated before answering, fingers hovering over the instruction booklet like he was about to confess something deeply personal.

“I got this set for Christmas,” he said finally. “And I thought it would be a good idea to put it together.”

The box — still propped against the wall — depicted an enormous dragon fortress, complete with towers, battlements, and what looked like an unnecessarily complex pulley system.

You nodded solemnly. “A noble pursuit.”

You settled beside him properly, legs folding under you. The carpet smelled faintly of expensive detergent and something citrusy.

“Okay,” you began gently. “I looked at your schedule. You have a lesson with Maellon later—”

“I know.”

He didn’t even look at you, just snapped the words out while aggressively flipping to page three of the manual.

You blinked. “You don’t like Maellon?”

There had to be something redeemable about the man. He’d served the family for twenty years. That kind of longevity required either saint-like patience or blackmail material.

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” Aegon muttered, pushing two stubborn bricks together. “It’s just he treats me like I’m stupid. Like everyone else does.”

Your chest tightened slightly at that.

“But father insists I must respect and listen to him,” he added with an eye roll so dramatic it deserved an award.

You hummed thoughtfully.

The house was eerily quiet again. No music. No television. No distant conversations.

It felt less like a home and more like a movie set.

“Are Daella and Rhae here?” you asked casually.

He paused mid-click.

“Does your application say babysitting for three kids?”

You stared at him.

“Smart mouth,” you muttered.

He smirked faintly.

“No,” you admitted. “It does not.”

“They’re in school,” he said after a moment, tone softening as if he regretted snapping. “They go to a private girls-only institution. They’re taught by septas there.”

Of course they were.

“And you?” you asked carefully.

You saw it — the flicker in his eyes — before he answered.

“I went to the sibling school. The one for boys.” He shrugged. “They kicked me out.” He said it so casually but his lips quirked upward with mischief.

You sighed, equal parts entertained and concerned. “Do I even want to know?”

“No!” he burst into laughter immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Story for another time then.” You let it go for once.

You shifted into a more comfortable position and pulled out your phone.

The silence felt heavy, so you tapped into your playlist and let soft pop music drift into the room.

Aegon froze. He turned toward you slowly, as if you had committed a grave personal betrayal.

“What is this, miss?” he asked, genuinely bewildered.

“You don’t like pop music?”

He made a face of deep offense. “Rhae and Daella listen to this rubbish.”

“Oh?”

“I am a man of more refined taste,” he declared, lifting his chin with aristocratic precision.

You burst out laughing. This child never ceases to surprise you.

“Alright, Your Grace,” you teased. “What does your refined taste crave?”

“Something timeless,” he said immediately. “Like Queen. Or The Beatles.”

You blinked at him. There was absolutely no way.

“You don’t believe me,” he accused, observing your bewilderment.

“I’m… processing.”

“My uncle Baelor introduced me to them,” he continued defensively. “He says they are some of the most soul-touching artists of the twentieth century.”

Of course it was Baelor. There was no universe in which Aerion Targaryen was introducing children to The Beatles. Aerion probably thought Central Cee was high art.

“Alright,” you said, suppressing your grin. “Let It Be.”

You switched playlists. Soft guitar chords filled the room.

Aegon’s face lit up instantly. He began humming along under his breath while snapping bricks together with intense concentration.

You didn’t interrupt him. Instead, you grabbed the small notepad that was strewn across the floor and began sketching absentmindedly — the outline of a dragon wing at first, then the sharp angles of the fortress taking shape.

The rhythm of the music blended with the soft clicking of plastic.

Occasionally he muttered under his breath when a piece didn’t fit.

“…stupid bloody—”

You glanced at him. He didn’t even notice.

You were fairly certain those words were inherited directly from Maekar.

“You curse like a middle-aged politician,” you observed.

He shrugged. “Father says strong language builds character.”

“Somehow I doubt that’s how he phrases it.”

The hours folded gently around you.

Between songs and bricks, you talked.

You learned he loved climbing — trees, walls, anything vertical — but his father deemed most things “too dangerous.”

You learned his favorite color was green, though he was always dressed in black and red.

“I look like I’m in permanent mourning,” he grumbled.

“And when we go somewhere my father makes me wear this ridiculous hat. It looks like I have a bicycle seat on my head or something.” You genuinely burst out into laughter at that.

You learned he didn’t actually hate his family.

“I just… wish they were nicer,” he said quietly, not looking at you.

And he learned about you.

“You do yoga?” he repeated incredulously, after you had listed of all your hobbies.

“Yes.”

“And pottery?”

“Yes.”

He nearly fell over laughing. “You spin clay for fun?”

“It’s meditative!”

He shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t believe that.”

When you mentioned you weren’t originally from Westeros, his entire demeanor shifted.

“Where are you from?” he asked, eyes wide and gleaming with curiosity.

You told him.

You spoke of your homeland with fondness, how the people there were different, the culture, the music, the language. How the way of life moved in a different rhythm.

He listened like it was a fairy tale.

“I wish I could do that,” he said after a moment.

“What?”

“Just pack up and leave,” he replied. “Go abroad like Aemon. Maybe I’d go to Dorne. Or the North.”

You studied him.

At first, it felt absurd. This child lived in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in King’s Landing. He had every material comfort imaginable.

But then you understood. He had everything.

And yet — he had nothing.

No love. No softness. No one consistently choosing him.

“That’s a very big adventure,” you said carefully.

He placed the final brick of the bag into position with a decisive click.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “But it would be fun.”

You checked your watch and your eyes widened.

“Oh shit. Maellon should be here any minute.”

Aegon groaned dramatically and flopped backward onto the carpet like a tragic Victorian heroine.

“Must I?”

“Yes, you must,” you replied, standing and offering him a hand. “Survive the lesson and try not to give the old man a heart attack.”

He snorted.

“And afterward,” you added, narrowing your eyes playfully, “we will do something fun. Something that does not include shaving your head.”

He grumbled, then flashed you a sheepish smile.

“Deal.” You stepped into the hallway just as the front door opened.

Maellon entered with quiet authority.

Today he wore a crisp white shirt and black slacks, his posture ramrod straight. His silver-streaked hair was combed neatly back.

His eyes widened slightly when he saw you. He clearly hadn’t expected you to return.

“Hello, young lady,” he greeted, voice warm but measured.

“Hello,” you replied politely.

He didn’t linger for conversation, which you appreciated.

Instead, he moved directly toward Aegon’s room, briefcase in hand.

As he passed, you caught the faint scent of old cologne and leather-bound books.

You leaned lightly against the wall, listening as he knocked.

“Yes?” Aegon’s voice called out, suddenly perfectly composed.

You smiled to yourself. The lesson would begin.

And somehow, you suspected this house was going to teach you just as much as you were meant to teach him.

—

After you left Aegon with Maellon, the house swallowed you whole. You stood in the hallway for a moment, listening to the faint murmur of Maellon’s measured voice through the closed bedroom door. He was droning on about great houses and ancient conflicts.

The cadence was steady. Monotone. Academic. Unemotional.

You had already finished your own coursework earlier that morning — essays submitted, readings annotated — because you’d told yourself you wanted to focus on the job.

Now you were left with… nothing to do. Which was somehow worse than having to cram five hundred pages of content in one evening.

And the nothing particularly echoed in a house this size.

You considered the kitchen. Maybe you could prepare lunch? But you didn’t know what Aegon liked. You didn’t know if he was allergic to nuts or dairy or something obscure and life-threatening.

Accidentally hospitalizing your employer’s child felt like a poor career move.

So instead, you decided to wander.

At first, your gut twisted with anxiety. What if there were hidden cameras? What if Maekar reviewed footage at night like a paranoid CEO and saw you snooping through rooms that were not yours to see? You would be fire on the spot, hell he might even press charges against you.

But another part of you scoffed at the thought. This wasn’t a spy thriller. It was just a house.

An enormous and silent house, but a house.

On the ground floor, you passed the kitchen the gleaming countertops, untouched appliances — and the adjacent dining room with a table long enough to seat twelve comfortably.

It looked somehow staged. Like a showroom. You doubted it saw many family dinners.

The living room stretched wide and airy, lined with bookshelves and framed photographs. Generations of silver-haired ancestors stared back at you in oil paint and black-and-white portraits.

In the center hung a large painting of a woman with pale silver hair, full-figured and radiant, standing beside a stern yet undeniably magnetic man.

Beneath it, a small gold engraving read:

Daemon Targaryen and Rhaenyra Targaryen

You recognized the names. Husband and wife. Uncle and niece.

The Targaryens had once been infamous for their… incestious traditions.

Though clearly with the death of the old age their traditions had died with themS Modernity had tempered some of the madness. However when you thought of Aerion Targaryen you weren’t sure how true that was.

The woman looked powerful. Warm, even in the paint. Her face forever stitched into this canvas.

You wondered what she would think of this house now, this family.

You continued your quiet exploration.

A secondary entrance opened into the backyard — manicured lawn, stone patio, an outdoor fireplace no one likely used.

A small private library made your mouth fall open. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Rolling ladder. Leather-bound volumes. It smelled like old paper and quiet ambition. You would gladly spend the rest of your life in there.

There was a washroom tucked discreetly near the back staircase, likely for the staff, which you hadn’t witnessed yet.

The hallway branched into several bedrooms beside Aegon’s. Five doors total. You paused.

Those belonged to the others.

Daella. Rhae. Daeron. Aerion. Aemon.

You didn’t cross that line.

Instead, curiosity — reckless and unwise — pulled you further up.

The top floor felt colder somehow. Much quieter.

You opened doors gently, peeking into rooms that were neat and impersonal, until you stepped into what was unmistakably the master bedroom.

It was large, minimalist.

And empty in a way that had nothing to do with furniture. One side of the bed was rumpled. The other perfectly smooth. Untouched.

You instantly knew this was Maekar’s room.You should have left.

Every instinct told you to step back. Instead, you crossed the threshold.

There were no family photos on the walls. No clutter. No softness.

Until your gaze snagged on something small atop the chest of drawers.

A sliver of paper. You stepped closer. It was a pencil sketch of a woman.

She had a warm smile. Cascading dark curls framing her face like a halo. Strong cheekbones. A piercing, alive gaze.

She was breathtaking.

This must be Dyanna. It had to be.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

Before you could think further, a loud thud echoed from downstairs. The front door closing.

Your heart leapt into your throat. Shit.

You carefully placed the sketch back exactly where it had been and hurried out of the room, closing the door with deliberate quiet.

You quickly descended the stairs into the foyer.

Your eyes were met with emptiness.

There were no new shoes and no coats. Strange.

Had someone come in? Or left?

You checked your watch.

Aegon’s lesson should have ended five minutes ago.

Maybe Maellon had finished and left without telling you. Rude.

He could have at least notified you that the kid was back under your supervision.

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath as you headed toward Aegon’s room.

This time, you didn’t knock. And the sight stopped you cold.

Aegon was curled up on the floor.

Small. Folded in on himself. Arms wrapped around his legs like he was trying to physically hold himself together.

His eyes were glossy with tears. He looked like a wounded animal.

“Egg?” Your voice came out softer than you expected. It was laced with both concern and confusion.

He flinched slightly but didn’t look at you.

“Go away.”

The words were hoarse.

You shut the door behind you gently.

What the hell had happened?

And where was Maellon? Why had he rushed out without saying anything and left a crying child behind?

“Aegon,” you said carefully, stepping closer like you were approaching a frightened deer. “What happened?”

“I said go away!” he snapped, sharper this time.

You crouched down across from him — not too close, not too far.

“If you don’t tell me what the issue is,” you said calmly, “we can’t resolve it.”

“You don’t understand,” he muttered bitterly. “You don’t even know me.”

You inhaled slowly, straightening your spine. “Then tell me,” you said gently. “So I can.”

Silence. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen.

He sniffed quietly, occasionally glancing at you as if testing whether you’d leave. You didn’t. You remained stoic as a statue.

You didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t push. You just waited.

Eventually, his breathing slowed. His knees lowered slightly from his chest and he seemed to have calmed down.

He scooted a little closer to you, eyes filled with something that looked dangerously like shame.

“Hey,” you said softly, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. He stiffened — but didn’t pull away. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Father says real boys and men never cry,” he whispered.

Of course he does.

You exhaled through your nose.

“Well,” you deadpanned lightly, “there are many things I would like to say about your father. But since he is my employer and you are his son, I will refrain.”

Aegon’s mouth twitched despite himself. That’s a good step forward.

“Now,” you continued gently, “what happened?”

He swallowed.

“We were studying,” he began slowly. “Reciting the houses from Dorne.”

You nodded.

“And we got to House Dayne and… I didn’t know anything.”

Ah. House Dayne. His mother’s house.

“And then I got angry,” he continued, words tumbling faster. “Because how could I not know? And I kept getting things wrong and Maester Maellon said I clearly hadn’t studied enough and then I just—”

You didn’t say broke. You didn’t need to. You understood.

“Hey,” you murmured, rubbing his back in slow circles. “How well you can recite noble houses does not define your worth. You know that, right?”

He nodded reluctantly.

“You are a smart kid,” you said firmly. “Everyone messes up. The important thing is now you know what you didn’t know. And that means you can improve.”

He blinked at you. Your own voice felt foreign in your ears, you sounded suspiciously a lot like a therapist.

His shoulders finallyneased.

“Okay,” you said after a moment. “What do you say we do something fun?” He eyed you cautiously.

“Like what?”

“Like baking cookies.” You suggested, eyeing his reaction carefully.

He stared at you as if you’d suggested summoning a dragon.

“Bake?”

“Yes. Measure flour. Crack eggs. Make a mess. Risk cardiac arrest if your father walks in and sees.”

He frowned, genuinely confused. “If we want cookies we just order them.”

You gasped theatrically. “Absolutely not. When you are with me, we do things from scratch.”

He hesitated.

“Unless,” you added slyly, “you’re afraid of getting your hands dirty.”

He shot to his feet immediately. “I am not afraid.”

“Prove it.”

He was already sprinting toward the kitchen.

You followed, laughing under your breath.

Seven help you, this child was absolutely going to be the death of you.

And somehow, you suspected, you wouldn’t mind at all.

—

The kitchen felt different today. Less like a showroom and humiliation spot like yesterday. Less like a museum of polished marble and untouched copper pans.

More like something almost… alive.

Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows, hitting the white stone countertops and making the dust in the air glow gold.

The Targaryen estate kitchen was vast—too vast for a family that mostly ordered in or had staff do everything, but today it belonged to you and Aegon.

Aegon was practically vibrating beside the kitchen island, restless energy radiating from him like static electricity. He had that look in his eye—half mischief, half desperate need for something to feel like it was his.

Tears and noble Dornish houses were long forgotten.

He flung open a random cabinet with unnecessary force.

You blinked. “I’m… not sure that’s relevant to baking.”

“It sets the mood.”

You snorted and leaned over the marble counter, unlocking your phone. The cool stone pressed against your elbows as you opened TikTok and searched for the most indulgent sugar cookie recipe you could find.

Aegon immediately crowded your space, chin nearly on your shoulder.

“That one,” he said, pointing to a picture absolutely drowning in pastel frosting.

“That looks like a sugar-induced coma.”

“Exactly.”

You scrolled. “This one looks easier.”

“Too plain.”

“This one says ‘soft bakery-style.’”

He squinted. “Does it have sprinkles?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’re doing that.”

You watched the video together, nodding solemnly as if preparing for battle.

“Okay, I think we can do this…” you said, pushing off the counter and grabbing a scrap piece of paper. “First step: find everything.”

The kitchen loomed around you like an unfamiliar kingdom. You had barely located the chicken nuggets yesterday without starting a small crisis.

“Mission,” you said dramatically, scribbling down ingredients, “find everything without breaking the kitchen.”

Aegon’s posture straightened immediately.

He took it very seriously. You split the work up.

Cabinets opened and shut in rapid succession. Drawers slid out with soft mechanical whispers. The sound echoed in the high ceilings.

“Why are there seven types of sugar?” you muttered, staring at labeled glass jars: cane sugar, caster sugar, brown sugar, powdered sugar, coconut sugar…

“Because we’re Targaryens,” Aegon replied matter-of-factly from inside a pantry he had nearly crawled into.

You found the flour in an oversized ceramic container labeled in elegant cursive. It felt theatrical, scooping it into a bowl, the fine powder puffing into the air like snow.

Aegon reemerged holding butter like he had conquered something. “Found it.”

“Good. We also need eggs.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

“Oh my God,” he groaned.

You grinned. “Eggs, Egg.”

“I hate you.”

“Untrue. You adore me.”

He scowled, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Eventually, the island was covered in ingredients—lined up in neat little rows because you insisted on order.

Butter, sugar, flour, vanilla, baking powder, milk, eggs.

The scale sat proudly in the center.

Aegon eyed it suspiciously. “We can just use cups.”

“The scale is more precise.”

“Cups are faster.”

“You want perfect cookies or chaotic cookies?”

“Chaotic.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He sighed dramatically. “Fine. Scale.”

You weighed the flour carefully, tapping the bowl to even it out. Aegon tried to pour sugar too fast and you grabbed his wrist mid-motion.

“Patience.”

“It’s more efficient like this.”

The first cloud of flour exploded when he dumped it into the mixing bowl too enthusiastically.

It coated the air. The sunlight caught it. For a second, the kitchen looked like it had been dropped into a snow globe.

You both coughed,blinking at him, now dusted in white from shoulder to eyebrow.

“You look like you’ve aged forty years.”

He swiped at his bald head, making it worse. “You started it.”

“I did not.”

“You chose flour.”

“Flour is essential Aegon!.”

He rolled his eyes but laughed, and the sound bounced warmly off the stone walls.

You mixed the dry ingredients together while he leaned his hip against the counter, watching you with quiet intensity. When you handed him the spatula, he took it like it was ceremonial.

“This is ceremonial,” he said.

“It’s flour.”

“It’s the deciding moment of the destiny of our cookies.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You know I’m right.”

You tried not to smile at that.

When it came time for the wet ingredients, chaos officially began.

The butter melted too quickly and almost imploded when he turned the heat too high.

“Aegon—”

“I’m fixing it!”

“You’re not fixing it!”

Milk sloshed over the measuring cup and ran in a pale river across the counter.

You grabbed paper towels. He tried to wipe it with his sleeve.

“Stop— that’s Ralph Lauren.”

He shrugged. “It’s not like I don’t have ten more.”

You shot him a look. “I would prefer not to give your father additional reasons to fire me.”

That sobered him slightly.

He disappeared briefly and returned without the hoodie, now in a plain white t-shirt that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

The fabric clung to his shoulders lightly, and you forced yourself not to think about that.

“Focus,” you muttered to yourself, cracking an egg into the bowl.

He watched you carefully.

“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.

“I’m not,” you replied. “I just pretend confidently. Improvisation is key.”

“That works?”

“Shockingly.”

He considered that like it was valuable information.

When the dough finally began to form—thick and pale and promising—Aegon’s expression shifted from chaotic to genuinely pleased.

He stuck his finger into the bowl.

“Don’t—” Too late he was already licking the paste of his pointer finger.

His eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Is it good?”

He nodded, mouth full. “We’re geniuses.”

“Raw egg, genius. You’re going to be the one explaining to your father why you caught salmonella.”

He waved you off dismissively.

The front door suddenly slammed somewhere in the distance. Your heart leapt into your throat. Then came high pitched and bright giggling.

Your shoulders relaxed and you exhaled slowly.

Daella’s voice floated down the hall first, followed by Rhae’s. Their laughter echoed lightly against the walls like something out of a disney movie.

They appeared in the doorway in coordinated outfits, backpacks hanging off their shoulders. A third girl followed behind them.

She had dirty blonde hair and a face you recognized instantly. Gwyn Ashford.

Your professor’s daughter. Of course.

“Hey,” Daella said, stopping short when she saw the flour-dusted scene. “What… happened here?” She looked at the scene skeptically.

“War,” Aegon said solemnly.

“Baking,” you corrected.

Gwyn smiled politely at you. “It smells good.”

“Do you want to help?” you offered.

All three of them blinked as if you had suggested manual labor in a coal mine.

“We, um—” Daella glanced at Rhae.

“There’s a sale at Aritzia,” Rhae blurted. “We need to put everything in the cart before it ends.”

You nodded easily. “Okay.”

“Wait!” Daella suddenly perked up, pulling out her phone. “Don’t move.”

She positioned herself at the perfect angle, adjusting lighting, shifting the bowl slightly.

“Can you sprinkle flour again?” she asked Aegon.

He stared at her like she was stupid.

“For the aesthetic,” she clarified. “Instagram will love it.”

He rolled his eyes so hard you were worried they might get stuck.

She snapped pictures anyway, satisfied.

“You can invite us when it’s time to decorate.” Rhae suggested. “Yeah we’d love to do that.” Gwyn chimed in. You assured them you would.

When they finally retreated upstairs to do — well whatever teenage girls did, the kitchen felt softer somehow.

You and Aegon stood there in the quiet hum of the house.

“Heart shapes?” he suggested.

“Heart shapes,” you agreed.

Rolling out the dough proved harder than anticipated. It stuck to the marble despite your best efforts.

You dusted more flour.

He leaned too hard and nearly sent the rolling pin flying.

“Gentle,” you laughed.

“I’m being gentle!.”

“No you’re not.”

Eventually, you managed uneven but charming heart shapes. They weren’t perfect—some were lopsided, some too thick—but they felt real.

You placed them carefully on the tray with the baking paper.

When you slid them into the oven, the warm air brushed your face.

The timer on your phone began its quiet countdown.

Aegon leaned back against the counter, suddenly looking tired as if he had been doing hard manual labor all day.

“You still have homework,” you reminded gently. He groaned like you’d personally betrayed him. He was definitely hoping you wouldn’t remember.

But he fetched his notebooks anyway, spreading them out on the only clean section of the counter. You cleaned up in companionable silence while he worked. Occasionally he asked you for the correct spelling of a word or a fact he needed to get straight.

Soon enough the smell of warm butter, caramelized sugar and vanilla filled your senses.

It felt like a warm hug.

When you opened the oven, golden edges peeked back at you.

“They look… professional,” Aegon whispered reverently. “They look edible,” you corrected, though your heart swelled a little.

The girls reappeared almost immediately, drawn downstairs the scent.

”It smells heavenly,” Gwyn breathed.

You mixed the frosting—powdered sugar, butter, a splash of milk—tinting it pink until it felt almost like liquid bubblegum.

Music played softly from your phone.

A Taylor Swift song floated through the air and the girls sang along dramatically while Aegon groaned.

Decorating turned the island into an explosion of color. Sprinkles were everywhere. Pink frosting smudged across cheeks.

Daella carefully piping perfect swirls while Rhae abandoned precision entirely in favor of glitter chaos.

Aegon tried to write his initials on one and ended up with something unrecognizable.

“They’re messy,” you observed.

“They’re perfect,” Gwyn corrected quietly. And she was right.

They looked homemade. Loved. Real.

“Okay,” Aegon announced, grabbing one before Rhae could start recording. She opened her mouth to protest.

“Taste test.”

He bit in. His expression changed instantly. His eyes widening and his shoulders relaxed. He let out a theatrical hum.

“This is so good,” he mumbled, mouth full.

The girls followed each grabing a piece. Crumbs scattered across the counter as they bit into the dough. Sugar stuck to fingers.

You took your own bite. It was soft and sweet.

Comforting in a way that felt disproportionate to something so simple. It was shocking what a little bit of flour and sugar mixed with a pinch of love could do.

The kitchen buzzed with laughter, music faintly playing in the background. It was warm.

For once, it didn’t feel like a cold estate built for appearances. It felt like a real home.

Four children high on sugar started jumping around the kitchen island.

Rhae spun dramatically. “Let’s do something!”

“We just did something,” you laughed.

“Something else!”

“Ooo!” she gasped, eyes alight with an idea. “Just Dance!”

Aegon groaned but he was already smiling.

They dragged you like victorious war generals down the hallway, high on sugar and glitter and something dangerously close to unrestrained joy.

The living room was absurd.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the late afternoon sky in sheets of pale gold, the light bleeding into the marble floors and reflecting off the glass coffee table like liquid honey.

A fireplace stretched across one wall, modern and minimalistic, and directly opposite it—built seamlessly into dark paneling—was a television so large it felt less like a screen and more like a portal.

“Of course it’s built into the wall,” you muttered under your breath.

“Obviously,” Daella replied as if you’d just commented on gravity.

Aegon grabbed the remote and tossed it between his hands like a grenade. “Stand back.”

“You act like you’ve never turned on a TV before,” Rhae scoffed, snatching it from him and expertly navigating through the menu.

Within seconds, the bright neon intro of Just Dance filled the room. Color exploded across the screen—cartoon silhouettes in glittering outfits striking dramatic poses. The music pulsed, cheerful and obnoxiously upbeat.

Five player mode.

“Absolutely not,” you said, already backing away slightly. “I do not know how to dance.”

“It’s okay!” Rhae laughed. “Neither does Aegon, you should see him try.”

“Rhae,” he warned pushing her playfully. She grinned wider.

The game selection wheel spun wildly, then landed on Last Friday Night by Katy Perry.

“Oh no,” Aegon muttered.

“Oh yes,” Daella corrected.

The screen flashed bright pink and electric blue. The dancer on the TV wore something that could only be described as sparkly chaos.

The countdown began

Three. Two. One.

And disaster unfolded.

You attempted the first move—a dramatic arm swing and hip twist—and nearly elbowed Gwyn in the face.

“Shit I’m so sorry!” You slapped a hand across your mouth. Maybe swearing in front of so many kids wasn’t your brightest idea.

“Watch it!” she squealed, laughing.

“I said I can’t dance!”

“You’re doing great!” she reassured half heartedly.

Aegon pointed aggressively at the screen, trying to keep up with the choreography, only to spin directly into Rhae. The two of them stumbled dramatically onto the carpet in a tangle of limbs.

Daella was shockingly coordinated, though she kept glancing at the score in the corner of the screen, deeply invested in digital validation.

The music blasted.

The marble floors echoed with feet sliding, squeaking and breathless laughter bouncing off high ceilings.

You hadn’t realized how much space this room held until it was filled with noise.

You felt ridiculous. Your hair had escaped whatever attempt at neatness you’d started the day with. Your shirt was still faintly dusted with flour. Your lungs burned slightly from laughing too hard and moving your muscles.

But for once, you didn’t care. Aegon attempted an exaggerated hip roll.

You burst out laughing mid-move.

“This is terrible!” you gasped.

“You’re terrible!” he shot back, grinning.

“I told you I can’t dance!”

“Improvise!” Aegon yelled.

The song reached its dramatic chorus. Everyone began jumping in complete disregard for choreography. Time blurred.

You didn’t know how long you’d been flailing around in bright, sugar-fueled hysteria when—

A loud, deliberate clearing of a throat cut through the music.

Everything suddenly froze.

You were mid-pose, one arm extended upward in what could only be described as interpretive distress.

Slowly, you lowered your arm.

Standing near the entrance of the living room, hands loosely clasped behind his back, was Maekar Targaryen.

He was dressed in the same black slacks as yesterday, though he looked much less like he wanted to murder someone.

One eyebrow was raised with surgical precision.

His expression hovered somewhere between disapproval and unmistakable amusement.

“Dad!” Rhae shrieked, immediately abandoning her position on the carpet and running toward him.

He visibly stiffened at the sudden impact of her hug. His hands hovered awkwardly for half a second before he patted her head—careful, restrained.

“We were playing Just Dance together!” she declared breathlessly.

“Yes,” he said dryly. “I can see that.”

His voice, shockingly—lacked the usual undercurrent of irritation.

Aegon straightened beside you almost instantly. The carefree boy vanished; in his place stood something far more guarded.

Gwyn, clearly familiar with the man, tilted her head. “Do you want to join us, Mr. Targaryen?”

Aegon made a choking sound, that sounded a lot like stifling a laugh.

Maekar’s lips twitched despite himself. “No, thank you, Gwyn.”

He looked… different. Without the sharp edge of anger lining his features, you noticed things you hadn’t before. The sharp architecture of his face. The faint pox scars across his skin, subtle but real. The exhaustion tucked carefully behind controlled posture.

You realized you were staring.

His gaze snapped to yours. For a split second, something unreadable flickered there—assessment, perhaps. Or suspicion.

He cleared his throat.

“You can leave,” he said evenly, speaking to the children, yet his eyes were still on you. “I would like to have a word.”

The kids groaned in synchronized protest.

“But why?” Daella complained. “We were having fun!”

Aegon glanced at you, wary.

You forced a reassuring smile. “It’s fine. We’ll see each other tomorrow, yes?”

They quieted almost immediately.

Maekar’s eyes flicked between you and them, something like confusion crossing his face at how quickly they obeyed.

They filed out reluctantly.

Aegon was the last to exit.

His gaze asked a silent question. Would you be alright?

You nodded once.

He left.

The living room suddenly felt cavernous again. Too large. Too quiet. And in the middle of it all you stood across Maekar Targaryen.

He remained standing, posture rigid.

“I just wanted to…” He inhaled sharply, as if the words physically resisted leaving him. “…apologize for yesterday’s inconvenience.”

It sounded rehearsed. Mechanical.

“My irritation was… misplaced.”

He exhaled abruptly. “Oh, fuck me. You know what I’m trying to say.”

You blinked.

That was not the refined, controlled patriarch you’d come to expect.

“It’s quite alright, Mr. Targaryen,” you said gently.

Only then did you become hyperaware of yourself—flour on your sleeves, hair slightly frizzy, cheeks flushed from dancing.

He cleared his throat again, regaining composure.

“Well. That would be all. I am fairly certain I can handle my children from here.”

There it was. Dismissal. You swallowed the small sting of it.

“Of course,” you replied evenly. “I just need to grab my things from Aegon’s room.”

He nodded and stepped aside. As you passed him, you felt it. His gaze following you.

Not inappropriate. Not crude. Just… lingering.

You ignored it.

In Aegon’s room, he was pacing slightly.

“Is everything alright?” he asked immediately, stopping in one place.

You softened. “Yes.”

“My father didn’t yell at you, did he?”

“No,” you said honestly. “I know. Shocking.”

He huffed a small laugh but still looked unconvinced.

You slung your backpack over your shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Egg.”

“See you,” he muttered.

The hallway felt longer on your way out.

As you passed the kitchen, something made you pause.

Maekar stood alone at the island.

The tray of heart-shaped cookies sat before him.

He was regarding them cautiously, as if they might be laced with poison.

You stayed hidden just out of sight, heartbeat inexplicably louder. He picked one up.

He inspected it with his gaze, turned it slightly in his fingers.

The pink frosting was imperfect. The sprinkles uneven.

He hesitated. But then took a bite.

You were certainly expecting indifference, or criticism or another scowl.

Instead— his expression morphed into something unfamiliar.

Not the restrained smirk. Not polite amusement. A real smile. Small and unpracticed.

It softened every sharp line of his face.

You weren’t certain you’d ever seen him look human before.

You stepped away quickly before you could be caught observing something that felt strangely private.

You slipped on your sneakers by the front door, exhaustion finally settling into your limbs.

It had been long. Awfully chaotic yet surprisingly wonderful.

You reached for the handle.

The door swung open sharply at the same moment.

You collided with a solid chest as you stumbled back a step.

The smell of expensive cologne and something metallic hit your senses like a wave.

Your eyes shot up. And immediately you wished they hadn’t.

Aerion Targaryen stood before you, gaze sharp and venomous as recognition dawned on him.

His lip curled in open disgust.

“What the fuck,” he said coldly, gaze dragging over your flour-stained clothes, your messy hair, the backpack slung over your shoulder. “are you doing in my house?”

©padmespetal 2025 : I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

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[sem-ra]

In the Shadows of the Red Keep (Baelor Targaryen x Reader)

Chapter 1

Masterlist

Summary: When you come to serve Kiera of Tyrosh as a lady-in-waiting at the Red Keep, you know what awaits you: strict etiquette, political pressure and endless expectations. Instead you find a kind, watchful prince who sees you in a way no one else does.

Word count: 2.4K

Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, (reader is in her early 20s, Baelor is in his mid 30s), eldest daughter pressure, court politics, emotional intimacy before physical intimacy, gentle prince x anxious girl, anxiety induced rambling, quiet intimacy, courtly tension, English is my second language, proof read maybe twice.

Will add more tags as the story progresses. Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.

A/N: Thank you all for the likes, reblogs, comments and follows! I am really happy that you’ve been enjoying “The Lady of Sumerhall”, and that’s just given me more motivation to write :)  I really wanted to post it before the next episode, and I am happy that I managed to do so. Leave a like, reblog or comment if you enjoy :) 

You had learned the corridors that led to the library in your first week.

Not for the love of books, though you loved them well enough, but because it was the only place in the Red Keep where something was not expected of you. The court expected brightness. Wit quick as a blade and twice as polished. It expected laughter at the proper moments, and silence at others. It expected you to shine.

The library asked for nothing.

Scarcely two weeks had past since you had been placed within the retinue of Kiera of Tyrosh, the beloved wife of Prince Valarr Targaryen, presented with moderate ceremony in one of the many halls of the castle, before half a dozen watching and scrutinising ladies. Your grandmother had overseen every single stitch of the gown you wore that day, hawk-eyed and unsparing.  

“Not too ostentatious,” She had hissed, bony fingers tugging at the sleeve. “But not forgettable.”

The sigil of your House had been embroidered subtly along the cuffs of the sleeve, visible to any who looked closely. It was meant to whisper lineage without begging for notice. 

Lady Kiera had received you with grace that day. The Tyroshi princess possessed a soft voice and careful manners. She had spoken kindly to you, warmly even. But you could not say the same for the rest of the household.

The other women of her retinue had measured you with polite smiles and narrowed eyes, from the dainty pieces of jewelry you wore in your hair, down to what you had worn on your feet. They knew why girls like you were sent to court. You were not there to merely pour wine, or carry messages. You were there to be seen, to be chosen, to be advantageous. 

You were meant to glide through this world as though perfectly born to it. Instead, you felt as though you were forever a step behind the music.

You now stood between two towering shelves, heavy with the histories of Old Valyria, your fingers curled into the skirts of your dressto keep them from shaking. The silk had been imported from Qarth, her father and grandmother had insisted on it, and dyed a rich colour that marked your House. It caught the candlelight beautifully. 

You had been proud to wear it at first, but now it felt like armor too heavy for your shoulders.

You pressed your mouth close against the sound that was threatening to escape your throat. You would not sob. You would not!

Eldest daughters do not sob.

Eldest daughters secure futures.

Eldest daughters win over alliances.

If your grandmother could see you now, she would be livid. A woman from your House did not weep in shadowed corridors. A woman of your House did not skulk between shelves like a frightened little girl.

The words rang sharp and restless in your mind.

At the same time, the hidden pocket sewn into your skirt was heavy with your father’s letter. It had been opened and folded so many times that the creases had begun to gray.

“You will shine, daughter.” He had written. “Remember why you’re there.”

As if you could forget.

A fortnight at the Royal Court had taught you more than home ever had. You had learned how laughter could slice without drawing blood. How admiration and how words could be measured like coin, offered only when it profited the giver. How even the kindness from the great ladies often carried calculation beneath its courtesy.

Lady Kiera was gracious, you had to admit. You could not accuse her of mistreatment or cruelty. But she was surrounded by women born into influence, women who had navigated courts since girlhood. And they watched. And they weighed. And they judged.

Every night, you replayed every conversation you had had, counting any missteps. Had you spoken too quickly or too softly? Had you smiled enough or too much? You could not help but feel that you were failing at every step.

A tear escaped despite your best efforts, despite your resolve, sliding hot and humiliating down your cheek. Your throat burned, as if you had swallowed smoke. You drew in a trembling breath, then another, and then another, fighting for control. 

Turning further into the shadows between the shelves, you pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, biting your lower lip, willing the sound that threatened to come back to retreat.

You would not sob like a child. You would not, you could not… The tremor in your breath refused to obey. It slipped free from you anyway, soft, humiliating.

“I would not recommend The Doom of Valyria for comfort reading.”

A voice came from the end of the aisle. It was not sharp or mocking.  It carried a low, measured warmth that did not belong to the draft-prone corridors of the Red Keep. You froze, your breath catching violently enough that you feared you might choke. Slowly, you turned, blinking through your wet lashes.

Prince Baelor Targaryen stood at the end of the narrow passage between shelves, one hand resting lightly against a spine of a book, as though he had paused mid-selection. 

You had seen him before. Not closely though, never closely.

You had seen him across courtyards, from the far end of long tables, in council chambers you were not meant to linger. He was not loud in the way princes were in the stories her Septa had told to her and her sisters. He did not laugh loudly, nor allow his temper to show. He listened as though words were coins, and he meant to spend none carelessly. You had seen how he spoke to courtiers, to council-members and servants. There was never rebuke or scorn found in his words. Admiration had taken root in you before you realised it had been planted at all. But you had not been sent to court to admire princes who were beyond your reach.

He was the Crown Prince, the Hand of the King, a man seasoned by war and council both. You were a fortnight at court and already nearly in tears in a library. You had no right to such fantasies.

Yet you had found yourself marking his presence in rooms without truly meaning to. The steadiness of him, the quiet charm and grace. The gravity that seemed to gather around him like a cloak.

And now he was here, in front of you. 

The candlelight traced the lines of his face. The strong, thoughtful set of his brow, the beard threaded faintly with grey, kept neat and close. His dark doublet was newly changed, charcoal and black, the silver Hand of the King with the dragon scales pinned at his breast catching the light with a restrained gleam.

He had changed his clothes before supper. That was the first absurd thought that crossed your mind. The second was that he was far more handsome at arm’s length than he had ever been from across the hall, in the quiet, commanding way of a man accustomed to being obeyed and yet not too eager to command.

His mismatched eyes, one dark brown and the other light blue, same as his sons’, were fixed on you. 

You dropped into a curtsy too quickly, vision blurring, nearly tangling yourself in the silk of your dress. “Your grace! Forgive me, I did not mean to-”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” His voice was low and gentle, the sort that did not need to be raised to be heard.

“I fear I startled you.” He added, not stepping closer. “That was not my intent.”

Your cheeks burned hotter than the candles lining the table beyond. You were painfully aware of your reddened eyes, of the tears you had not managed to hide. Could the floor swallow you whole?

“I shall leave at once.” You said quickly. “I would not intrude upon-”

“You are not intruding.” The words were firm. His gaze flickered to your face, to the tears you had failed to wipe away, and then, deliberately, he looked aside to spare you the humiliation of being examined when in distress.

He moved then, coming a step closer, but remaining a respectful distance. A small linen square appeared in his hand. He extended it, not pressing it upon you, merely offering it.

“In case the dust proves troublesome.” He said, a faint smile on his mouth. 

A lifeline offered, as though it were nothing at all.

You stared at the handkerchief for a long moment. Then you crossed the distance between you and took it, your fingers gently brushing against his.

The contact was fleeting, but it felt like striking flint.

“Thank you, your Grace.” You said timidly, dabbing at your eyes. The linen was clean, scented with mint and fresh flowers. “You are very kind.”

“The Red Keep is not always so.” He replied. He tilted his head slightly to the side, considering you. “One must balance it, when one can.”

You managed a small smile of your own.

Silence settled between you, but it did not last long, as words tumbled out of you in your need to disrupt it.

“I did not think princes had time to visit libraries.”

“I do not, I’m afraid.” He admitted, glancing at the shelves. “Though I wish I did. It is the only place in the Red Keep where no one demands something of me.”

The confession was quiet, almost wry. It felt like you were let in on a little secret. 

“I feel the same way.” You said before caution could catch up.

Something passed over his eyes. Something akin to recognition.

He moved towards the long table nearby and drew out a chair. He did not sit, he waited. 

You frowned faintly, confused at his actions.

“For you to decide,” he explained gently, “whether you prefer solitude… or company.”

Baelor said that so simply, but they struck you harder than any barbed remark from the ladies in Kiera’s retinue. No one had asked your preference in anything since you arrived. Not even in your father’s hall had such questions been posed without some sort of expectation behind them.

You still hesitated. You could almost hear the shrill voice of your grandmother, admonishing you. You do not deny a prince of the realm.

But this did not feel like a command, it felt like a choice that was yours alone to make. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat, before softly saying: “Company.”

Something in his expression softened at that. He inclined his head and only took his seat once you had taken yours opposite him, after having reached for a nearby volume. 

Minutes passed. Your breathing steadied, and the tightness of your throat loosened. You clutched his handkerchief loosely in your lap.

You stole glances at him when you thought he would not notice. He did not truly read, his fingers tracing absently along the edge of the pages. His shoulders, broad beneath dark wool, seemed heavier now in stillness than they ever had across a hall. Up close, you saw the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, earned by laughter and strain. Responsibility clung to him as tangibly as the silver Hand at his breast.In the candlelight, he seemed less of a prince at that moment, and more a man worn thin by the stress and expectations of his station. Yet unbowed by it.

You had heard whispers of his fairness in council, how he listened even to those beneath him. How he did not mock weakness, nor tolerate cruelty. It had been that steadiness that had first drawn your foolish admiration. Now, sitting across from him in the hush of the library, the feeling deepened into something warmer.

“I am afraid I will fail…” You said suddenly, the confession slipping free before your pride could catch it.

He lifted his gaze to you at once. “Fail at what?” 

“At… at what I was sent to do.” Heat rushed to your face, your eyes dropping to the handkerchief. “My father… he…” It felt disloyal to speak of pressure, especially in front of him. “He believes I may be of use.”

“Use?” Baelor repeated unkindly.

You nodded. “To my house.”

When he answered, his voice lowered. “Serving your house, wanting to do so, that is no failing.”

“But…” Your voice cracked. “I do not think I am suited to this place.”

A faint sigh left him. 

“No one is.” He said softly. “We endure it. Some may learn to shape it, if they are fortunate.”

You looked up then. He was watching you fully now, not as a prince assessing a courtier or petitioner, not as a man weighing advantage, but as one person listening to another. There was no calculation in his expression, like you found in so many others. Only attention.

“How long have you been here? A fortnight?” He asked, pulling you ways from your tangled thoughts.

“Yes…”

“The Red Keep requires longer than that to defeat a person.”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You clapped your hand over your mouth, mortified.

But his mismatched eyes warmed, faint amusement lighting them.

“There.” He said “You see? It has not defeated you yet.”

“Your grace… my prince,” You asked before sense could intervene. “Why are you so kind to me?”

For a heartbeat you feared you had overstepped, as the question hung in the air. But he did not bristle.

“Because you were crying.” He answered simply. “And because this castle… this court is seldom gentle.”

Something shifted in you then, a warmth spreading low through your chest and stomach, unfamiliar in its tenderness. Fresh tears threatened to fall, so you stood quickly instead, smoothing your skirts.

“I have taken too much of your time.”

”You have taken none.”

You curtsied properly this time.

“Thank you, my prince.”

You extended your hand, offering his handkerchief back.

“Keep it.” He said, that smile from before returning.

As you stepped between the shelves, his voice reached you once more.

“You need not shine all at once. Stars that burn too brightly attract hunters.”

You paused, turning slightly towards him. “And what of those who burn quietly?”

He held her gaze. “They endure.”

You left a steadier step than the one that brought you to the library. You would replay every word Baelor said to you before sleep claimed you. You knew you would scold yourself for the warmth spreading in your chest, when you remembered his eyes and the brief brush of fingers against yours.

But for the first time since arriving at court, you did not feel alone within its walls.

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[valarrswhitestreak]

A starved man is no laughing matter

Overview: The woman who lingers by Dunk's side catches the eye of not one, not two, but three Targaryen princes. Chaos ensues. Eyes linger. Propositions are made.

Next part here!

Dunk with a young and pretty healer who joins him on the roads, the woman having been brought into his life by Ser Arlan after he sought her help to treat a nasty wound from a bar fight. Then he'd suggested that she join them, and so, with a longing to see the world, the three of them travelled together in the year before Ser Arlan's death. Now she and Dunk continued ahead on the road to the tourney at Ashford, with her taking on the responsibility of helping cook their meals and mend his clothes. She takes care of the little squire they'd picked up along the way too, his small body cuddling up into hers as they sleep under the stars. Dunk is prone to a spate of small injuries and ailments that she gladly treats, applying salves gently and dressing his wounds as he blushes sheepishly. Dunk finds himself feeling warm and fuzzy inside every time she speaks to him, touches him, and holds his biceps as he lifts her down from her horse. With the kind, warm smiles she gives him, he thinks she might feel the same, and he longs for her in a way he knows is not proper.

All is well and peaceful until they arrive at the tourney - that is when everything goes majorly wrong. She and Egg went to the puppet show, only for it to end with the revelation of Egg's parentage and a beaten and bruised prince, and one shocked and imprisoned hedge knight. Unfortunately for Dunk, he misses the way Aerion's eyes linger hungrily on the woman who tends to his little brother, her arms wrapping him up tightly as he shakes.

Dunk is taken to speak with Baelor, Egg acting as squire and his companion is brought to the chambers as well at the request of the little prince. Egg hopes that she could tell his uncle that it was all Aerion's fault and the whole situation would blow over. Again, in his panic and confusion, Dunk misses the slow and appreciative gaze that Baelor gives the woman, even as she stands in a plain woollen dress. Egg doesn't. His uncle looks at her the same way his brother Daeron looks at wine - eager and hungry. It was unlike him, and yet so characteristic of a hot-blooded Targaryen.

Once they're brought to the council, another fresh set of eyes lies upon her. Maekar rolls his eyes at the sight of the towering hedge knight, but can't help but lean forward to look upon the woman standing close by the door. A low grunt escapes him - she's pretty. Far prettier than any woman he's seen recently. He wouldn't mind seeing her up close.

Then it's proposed - a trial of seven. Dunk needs six other champions to fight beside him to prove his innocence.

"Unless..." Aerion mutters lowly. Dunk's head perks up as he lets himself feel a small sliver of hope.

"Unless, my prince?"

"Unless you give me your pretty wife," Aerion suggests tauntingly, barely able to hide his lust. The heads of all in the room snap to the young prince incredulously. Baelor eyes his nephew silently for a moment before turning his attention to the woman who came in with the hedge knight.

Dunk is the first to speak after a long pause. "...My wife, my prince? I don't have a wife."

It's Maekar who speaks this time, pointing at the women, "Then who is she?"

"She is my... she's a skilled healer. She joined Ser Arlan and I on our journey but a year ago."

Aerion hums, pleased. "That is even better, for you will have no problem handing her over. Either way, if you do not, I will have her in the end."

Dunk pauses, his body filling with fear and trepidation, but he knows he cannot just give her away to such a man. He was a knight now and he was to protect the innocent. And she? She was the most innocent of all in his eyes - a healer for the wounded for god's sake! She had no part in this, and would not suffer for his impulsiveness. So he refuses.

"No. I will fight. You say I need six other men?"

Baelor stiffens imperceptibly, his teeth grinding in silent anger. And yet he nods, reciting the rules of the trial and wishing luck to the hedge knight begrudgingly.

"Good night, pretty dove," calls Aerion as Dunk's companion turns to leave the room with Dunk. The three men watch as she and Dunk turn, her wide eyes staring back at him in fright before hurrying away. It's silent for a moment before Aerion sighs and crushes another nut under his blade.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, you insolent boy?" Maekar suddenly questions, eyes burning into the side of his son's head.

"I just thought she might prefer the comforts of a royal tent to sleeping under the stars, Father," the prince mumbled lowly, tone seeping with ire. Maekar went to respond; however, the sight of his brother calling his guards into the room made him pause. Neither of the blonde princes could hear what was being said, until Baelor turned around with a solemn expression on his features.

"I have commanded the guards to ensure the hedge knight does not manage to gather the required number of men for his cause."

Aerion and Maekar freeze, wide-eyed expressions meeting that of the good and honourable Prince of Dragonstone. The room falls silent once more as each prince ponders the weight of his words. If he could not gather enough knights to fight for his cause, he would be found guilty and executed. It would leave his pretty healer alone. Alone and without protection. A woman alone could scarcely refuse an offer from a prince of the realm, could she? She would stand no chance against three of them.

I'm not really sure what this is but I needed to get this idea out of my head. The idea of Dark!Baelor feeds my soul!!

Not proof read!

[nikolais-baby-daddy]

https://x.com/MrT_Renard/status/1966814637887815722?s=20

icky dad nik messily fingerfucking and spitting all over his sweet girls cunt as a reward for literally anything ever🙂‍↕️ him tasting her and sucking on her clit as an extra treat bc he can't resist her juices😩😩😩

100% Nikolai is an eater/muncher. No matter if his partner is male or female. Man is pleasure dom coded fr fr.

"You like that, malyshka?" Nikolai's voice was a low, gravelly purr, thick with a possessive hunger that made your stomach clench. His fingers, thick and calloused, plunged back into the slick heat of your cunt, curling just right against that spongy spot that made your vision blur. He held them there, a deep, invasive pressure, before slowly dragging them out. They came out gleaming, strings of your arousal clinging to his skin and connecting him to you. He grunted in satisfaction, bringing them close to his face to inhale your scent before spitting a thick, warm glob right onto your quivering inner thigh. You watched, breathless, as the milky saliva traced a slow, sticky path down, merging with the mess already leaking from you. "Such a messy little pussy. All for Papa."

"Yes..Ah-yes Papa.." The words were a desperate, broken mewl, torn from your throat as his fingers shoved back in, the obscene wet sound echoing in the quiet room. The coolness of his spit mixing with your own heat was a shocking, delicious jolt that made you arch your back. Your fingers twisted desperately in the sheets, trying to find purchase against the tidal wave of pleasure. He just smirked, a predatory flash of white teeth, and leaned down to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of your hip. It wasn't a gentle bite; it was a claiming, a sharp sting that melted into a throbbing ache, perfectly timed with the way he started pistoning his fingers faster, harder.

"Look at that," he grunted, his gaze fixed on where his hand disappeared into you. "So fucking greedy. Sucking my fingers right in." His thumb found your clit, not rubbing, but pressing down hard and grinding in tight, filthy circles. The pressure was immense, a direct line to your core. "You've been such a good girl for Papa this week. So obedient. You deserve a reward, don't you? A nasty, sticky reward just for my sweet girl."

"Pa..Pa..papa..." It was all you could manage, a chant, a prayer as the coil in your belly snapped. Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming. Your walls clamped down on his fingers, fluttering and milking him as waves of bliss crashed over you. Nikolai didn't stop; he just eased the pressure, his fingers still massaging that sensitive spot, drawing out every single spasm until you were a boneless, whimpering mess beneath him. Only then did he pull his fingers out, soaked and dripping.

He brought them to your lips, not asking, but demanding. "Open up. Taste what a good girl you are." As your lips parted to accept his slick-coated fingers, he ducked his head down, latching onto one of your nipples with a hot, wet mouth. He sucked hard, his tongue swirling around the pebbled flesh before his teeth grazed it, sending sharp sparks of pain-pleasure straight to your still-throbbing clit. He pulled away with a wet pop, leaving the nipple glistening and reddened.

Before you could fully recover, his fingers were back at your entrance, sliding into your swollen, oversensitive pussy with zero resistance. He'd given you just enough of a reprieve for the sensitivity to sharpen, to make every drag of his knuckles against your walls feel both like heaven and a sweet torment. This time he wasn't slow. He was fucking you with his hand, a brutal, steady rhythm that had the bedframe creaking in protest. His mouth descended, not with a kiss, but with a purpose. He sealed his lips over your clit and sucked.

A choked gasp escaped you as your hands flew to his hair, tangling in the thick strands and holding on for dear life. The encouragement was all he needed. His fingers worked faster, curling and scissoring inside you, hitting that spot over and over while his tongue waged war on your clit. He licked it with broad, flat strokes, then pointed his tongue to stab at it, before wrapping his lips around it again to suck it into his mouth, flicking the tip relentlessly. Every so often, he'd nip at the sensitive bundle of nerves with his teeth, just enough to make you cry out and buck your hips up, grinding your cunt against his face.

He was feasting. You could hear the wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth and fingers working in concert, the lewd music of your pleasure. He was moaning against you, deep vibrations that traveled through your entire body. "That's it, malyshka," he growled, his voice muffled by your flesh. "Fuck my face. Give Papa another one. I can feel you getting tighter. So close. Come on. Flood my mouth."

Your body obeyed without question. The second orgasm was a tidal wave, a blinding, all-consuming rush that stole the air from your lungs. Your thighs clamped around his head, a vice grip of pure ecstasy as you came, and came hard. Nikolai groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated victory, as his mouth was flooded with your release. He didn't miss a drop, his tongue lapping and sucking greedily, determined to swallow every last bit of your reward. He kept licking even after the tremors subsided, his tongue cleaning you with possessive, almost reverent strokes, until you were twitching from the overstimulation.

Only when your thighs fell limply away from his head did he release you. He pushed himself up, his face a glistening, debauched mess of your juices and his own spit. A proud, feral grin was on his lips as he loomed over you. He crashed his mouth down on yours, a wet, filthy kiss. His tongue, still tasting of you, shoved past your lips, claiming your mouth in a deep, possessive kiss that was all about sharing your flavor. He was making you taste yourself on him, marking you from the inside out.

When he finally pulled back, a string of spit connecting your mouths, he rested his forehead against yours. "My perfect, sweet girl," he whispered, his voice rough and hoarse. "Always so good for Papa. Always so fucking delicious."