summary: you never imagined your marriage to baelor targaryen would become the talk of court. but when it comes out that you cannot bear him children, the small council has plenty of suggestions about what ought to be done about that. (7k)
pairing: baelor targaryen x fem!reader
content: canon divergent, grief, infertility, fear of abandonment, political pressure, jealousy, arguing, angst, emotional hurt/comfort
Nobody had warned you that you might actually like him.
That had not been part of the arrangement, as far as you understood it. The arrangement was simple enough in the way that arrangements always were when they were made by other people about your life: your father’s gold, the crown’s debt, your hand in exchange for the wiping of it. You had been dressed, presented, smiled at and spoken of in the third person by men who did not once ask what you thought and somewhere in all of that the decision had been made, and Baelor Targaryen had become your husband.
You had prepared yourself for a great many things. A man twice your age who smelled of old rushes and paid you no mind. A man who would take what the arrangement entitled him to and offer nothing in return. A man who would make it very clear, in the small daily ways that required no words, that you were a debt repaid and nothing more. Though you were wrong about everything.
What you had not prepared yourself for was this.
The way he noticed things. The nail beds you worried at when you were anxious, the way he would simply cover your hands with one of his without comment. The way he remembered, weeks after you had mentioned it in passing, that you preferred your wine watered. The way he looked at you across a room full of people with that particular steadiness of his, as if he had found the thing he was looking for and was in no rush about it.
You had not prepared yourself for that at all.
Mornings had become your new favourite thing.
He rose early, always, the habit of a man who had spent years on campaign, and you had taken to rising with him even though nothing required it of you. You would sit at the edge of the bed and watch him dress and he would talk to you about whatever was on his mind, campaign stories, council matters, whatever mess his nephew Daeron had gotten up to the previous evening that had made the Kingsguard want to pull their hair out. He made you laugh before you were properly awake. You had not known, before Baelor, that that was something you wanted.
At night he was careful with you in a way that had surprised you at first and then stopped surprising you because it was simply him. He was always unhurried and patient, like you were something worth taking the time over.
You had not told anyone how thoroughly you had fallen. Not Mira who was your lady in waiting, not your mother in her letters, not a living soul. It felt too large a thing to say out loud, like naming it would make it visible to people who might do something with the information. You kept it close instead, tucked somewhere behind your sternum, and let it be private.
Though nothing could have prepared you for what the maester had to say that evening.
You had always wanted to be a mother. It was not something you spoke about openly, but it was there, had always been there, a quiet certainty that sat beneath everything else. And now you had Baelor, and nights that left you warm and hopeful, and you had told yourself with each passing moon that it would happen. That it was only a matter of time.
Three moons back, when nothing had come of it, you had said something. Baelor had been gentle about it, told you not to worry, that he was in no rush. He had meant it kindly. He always meant things kindly. But you were in a rush, even if you could not say so plainly, and his patience did nothing to quiet the wanting.
So you had gone to the maester behind his back. You had not wanted to make it into something until you knew what it was.
The maester's study smelled of parchment and dried herbs and something faintly medicinal. You had sat on the edge of the chair across from him after he had checked you. Your hands were folded neatly in your lap and told him plainly what you had come about, and he had listened and nodded and asked you several questions in that careful measured way of his.
"How many moons, would you say, princess?"
"Eight," you said. "Perhaps nine."
He had made a small sound and written something down and asked a few things more, and you had answered all of it, and then he had gone quiet for a moment in a way that made something cold move through you.
"Maester," you said.
"A moment, princess." He set his quill down. He folded his hands on the table in front of him and looked at you with those kind eyes, which was somehow the worst part of it, the kindness. "I am sorry to have to tell you this."
"Tell me," you said. Your voice came out steadier than you felt.
"My apologies, princess, but there is nothing to be done." He held your gaze, just barely. "The matter does not lie with Prince Baelor. He has already sired two sons in his previous marriage. The issue, I am afraid, lies with you." A pause. "Mayhaps pray to the gods to be merciful, and hope they see fit to grant you the joy of motherhood."
You were looking at the ceiling. You had moved your gaze there somewhere in the middle of his sentence and you kept it there now, fixed on the stone above his head, because it was easier than his face and easier than thinking about what his words were doing to the future you had built so carefully in your head. All those quiet imaginings. A babe in your arms. Baelor watching you from the doorway with that expression of his. Gone in the space of a sentence.
"Is there no other way," you said. Your voice came out very small.
He thinned his lips. Shook his head. "I am sorry, my lady," he murmured, and looked down at his hands, unable to hold your gaze anymore.
You sat there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling, and then you could not stand staying in the room any longer. You sat up, smoothing your skirts in the process. You swallowed the thickness in your throat and blinked hard, once, twice, holding everything back by sheer will because you were not going to cry in front of him, you had decided that before you came in and you held onto it even now.
Mayhaps you should have just listened to Baelor and his words when he told you not to ask the maester, though now you regret it.
"Thank you," you said quietly.
You walked out.
You made it back to your chambers before your legs stopped working properly in the halls.
You sat on the edge of the bed and did not move for a long time. You did not cry. You were not sure why, only that the grief was too large for tears yet, too new, sitting in your chest like something that had not decided what shape it was going to take. You turned the maester's words over and over in your mind the way you might press a bruise, testing how much it hurt, already knowing it hurt enormously.
Yes, Baelor had his sons. Valarr and Matarys. The succession was secure, the throne would not suffer for any of this, you knew that. You had assembled that argument in the maester's study already and it had done nothing, because the throne was not the thing you were grieving. The throne had never been anything you had cared for, even before marrying Baelor.
It was the babe you might never hold. The particular weight of a child in your arms that you had imagined so many times, so privately, for so long. Made of you and made of him and entirely your own. That was the thing that was gone. That was the thing the maester's words had taken out of the future and left a hollow hole where it had been.
You sat with it alone until the light changed and the evening came in through the window, and you were still sitting there when you heard the door.
You knew the moment Baelor walked into the chamber. It was in his eyes before he said a word, that particular quality his face took on when he was being careful with you, treading gently, feeling for the edges of something. His mismatched gaze found yours and you looked away immediately, down at your hands, because you could not bear what was in his expression. The sympathy of it. The worry.
"Why did you seek the maester," he said. His voice was very soft. "I told you not to worry."
"Because I could," you said, a little roughly, and felt the sting of it yourself even as you said it. You were picking at your nail beds without thinking, that old habit, and you got up on unsteady legs and went to the window because you needed somewhere to put yourself that was not under his gaze.
The city below went about its evening indifferently.
"My love." His voice came from behind you, closer than you expected. "I do not care that you cannot give me a babe. Your health matters to me. Your wellbeing. I already have my—"
"But I don't." You turned. The tears came without warning, freely, and you let them because you were past the point of stopping them. "I don't have a babe of my own, Baelor. I have wanted to be a mother since I was old enough to know what wanting was, and now that is simply— gone. Taken. And you standing there telling me it does not matter does not make it matter less." Your voice cracked on the last word. "You are not a woman. You cannot know what this feels like."
He looked at you. That gaze of his, heavy and open and utterly without reproach, taking in all of it, your red eyes and your shaking hands and the tears tracking down your face, and his expression did something complicated, grief moving through it plainly, no attempt to hide it from you.
"No," he said quietly. "I could not know." He crossed the room without asking permission and his hands came up to your face, thumbs moving across your cheeks, slow and careful. "But I know that my wife is hurting. I know that." His voice was very low. "And I am sorry. I am so sorry, my love."
You pressed your lips together and said nothing and let him hold your face in his hands and felt the tears keep coming, which you could not stop, which you had stopped trying to stop.
"I should not have told you not to worry," he said. "That was wrong of me."
"You were trying to be kind," you said, thickly.
"I was trying to be kind," he agreed. "It was still wrong." His forehead came down to rest against yours, the warmth of him filling the small space between you. "You are allowed to grieve this. You are allowed to be angry. Even at me."
"I am not angry at you," you said.
"You are a little angry at me," he said.
Something almost like a sound escaped you, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. "A little," you admitted.
His thumbs moved across your cheeks again, clearing what was there, though more followed immediately. He did not seem to mind. He simply kept going, patient as he always was, and you stood at the window with the city going about its business below and cried properly at last, and he held you and let you.
Mira sets down her sewing without a word.
You look up from the letter you had not been reading, but rather trying to distract yourself with. She has been your lady in waiting since you were twelve years old and her silence is a language you know as well as your own. There is the silence of contentment, the silence of discretion. And then there is this one, the one she is wearing now, that means she has something to say and is deciding how.
"Mira," you say.
"My lady." She folds her hands in her lap and looks at you steadily. "I was passing the council chamber this morning. The door was not fully shut."
You set the letter down, your eyebrows scrunching in confusion at her words. “What is it?”
She takes a breath. "The matter of you not being able to bear children came up." She holds your gaze even though you can tell she does not want to. "Lord Peake raised it. He said that if something were to happen to Prince Baelor's two sons, the succession would be in difficulty. That the realm could not afford to be left without a clear heir." She pauses. "Forgive me, princess, I am struggling with how to say the rest of it—"
"Don't struggle." You keep your voice steady. "Just tell me. Whatever it is."
Mira looks at you for a moment the way she does when she is deciding whether kindness or honesty serves you better, and settles, as she always does, on honesty.
"Lord Peake said that the crown has always found ways to secure the line when it needed to," she says. "He brought up Aegon the Conqueror. How he took two wives and no one thought the worse of him for it." She stops. "He said the same could be done again. That it would not be without precedent. That it would not be frowned upon." Another pause, shorter. "The other lords agreed with him."
Your jaw tightens. "All of them?"
"Most of them, my lady." She shifts slightly. "Lord Celtigar said little. But Lord Dondarrion spoke in agreement with Lord Peake, and two others besides." She folds and unfolds her hands in her lap. "They said it plainly. That His Grace ought to take another wife."
You look at her, and your jaw is tight, and the room is very quiet.
"And Baelor," you say, your voice dropping to something soft at the name of your husband.
Mira's expression does something careful. "They pressed him, quite firmly." A pause that stretches a beat too long. "He stayed silent, my lady."
You look away then. Down at the letter in your hands, at the words on it that mean nothing, because you need somewhere to put your eyes that is not Mira's face and the pity you know is sitting there waiting for you. You do not want her pity. You do not want anyone's pity. You want to not be sitting here being told this.
He had stayed silent.
You turn that over in your mind and feel it land badly. Baelor, who always had words for everything, who was measured and deliberate and never silent without reason. Silent meant considering. Silent meant the argument had not been entirely without merit to him. Silent meant that somewhere underneath all of it he was a Targaryen, and Targaryens had always put the succession of the iron throne above everything else, and you had known that, had always known that, and had told yourself it would not matter when it came to it.
You were not sure, now, that you had been right.
"Was there anything else," you say.
"No, my lady."
"Thank you, Mira."
She does not move straight away. She sits there a moment with her hands in her lap and her eyes on your face and you feel her wanting to say something, some word of comfort, some reassurance that it will be fine, and you are grateful when she decides against it. There is nothing she could say right now that would not make it worse. But she doesn’t.
“My lady, I am sorry–”
"I don't need your pity, Mira." You smile at her, tight and deliberate, the smile you used in rooms full of people when you needed them to believe you were fine. It does not reach anywhere near your eyes and you both know it. "I do not need anyone's pity."
She looks at you with that expression of hers, the one that means she sees exactly what you are doing and loves you too well to pretend otherwise.
"If he wants to take a second wife while still married to me," you say, your voice coming out steadier than you feel, each word placed carefully, "then I will make certain I am not here to witness it."
The words land in the room and sit there. You had not entirely planned to say them but you find, now that they are out, that you mean them. The thought of it, of remaining here and watching it happen, of being set aside so quietly and so diplomatically, smiled at across dinner tables while another woman grew round with his child, was the one thing you were certain you could not do. You had agreed to this marriage knowing what it was. You had not agreed to that.
Mira is very still across from you.
"My lady," she says, carefully.
"I am all right," you say, which is not true, but is the thing that ends the conversation, and right now ending the conversation is all you want.
She holds your gaze for a moment longer. Then she picks her sewing back up, slowly, and you turn back to the letter in your hands, and the room settles into quiet, and neither of you says anything else.
Outside the window the keep goes about its afternoon.
You sit with the letter and the quiet and the thought you cannot stop turning over, the one that has no good answer no matter which way you look at it. You loved him. That was the simple terrible fact at the centre of all of it. You had not expected to, had not prepared for it, and now here you were, sitting in a room wondering whether the man you loved would choose duty over you, and finding that you already knew Targaryens well enough to be afraid of the answer.
You are already in bed when Baelor comes to the chamber that night, later than usual, his footsteps quiet in the dark the way they always were when he thought you were sleeping.
You hear the door. You hear him moving through the room, the familiar sounds of it, the ones you had learned without meaning to over the months of sharing this space with him. You are lying on your side with your back to the room and you slow your breathing deliberately, evening it out, making it convincing that you were asleep.
The mattress dips. He settles. The warmth of him reaches you across the small distance.
He does not reach for you.
Usually you would not have been in bed at all. Usually you would have been up waiting, sitting by the fire with a book you were not really reading, and when he came in you would have gone to him and helped him out of his doublet and asked about his evening and he would have complained mildly about whatever Lord Peake had said at the council that day, and you would have laughed, and it would have been the best part of both your days. He had told you countless times not to wait up. You never listened.
Tonight you had listened.
You lay in the dark with your eyes open and stared at the wall and said nothing and did not move. The bitterness had settled in you over the course of the day, low and persistent, and now it sat there quietly while you thought about what Mira had told you. About the second wife they wanted for him. About the woman she might be, older perhaps, more politically useful, a Lannister or a Hightower or someone whose family brought something yours could not. About what the court would do with you once you were no longer the thing that mattered, how quickly people stopped seeing things that had stopped being useful.
And Baelor.
He had stayed silent. That was the part you kept returning to. He had never been silent about things that mattered to him, had always had the words, always been the most deliberate speaker in any room, and yet on this, on this of all things, he had sat there and let them press him and said nothing. What did silence mean for a man like that. What did it mean when Baelor Targaryen had nothing to say.
You were not sure you wanted to know the answer.
You closed your eyes and lay there in the dark and felt the warmth of him at your back and hated, a little, how much you still wanted to turn over.
Eventually sleep took you. In the morning you were up and dressed before he stirred.
You take your supper with Mira for four nights running. She never remarked upon it, never asked why you were not having supper with your husband, never said a word about any of it. She could see it on you plainly, the way you wore it in your face and your posture, and she was wise enough to know that asking would not help.
In the halls you moved quickly, keeping Mira close, manufacturing conversation with her the moment you spotted him at the other end of a corridor so you would have somewhere to put your eyes. Once he said your name from across the passageway, that familiar low voice of his, and you turned and smiled and said you were just on your way somewhere and kept walking. You felt his gaze on your back all the way to the end of the hall.
On the fifth evening you learned there was to be a small celebration in the great hall. A gathering in honour of Lord Peake, marking the years of loyal service he had given to the crown. You had felt something bitter curl in you at the thought of it. Before all of this you had had no particular feeling about Lord Peake one way or the other. Now the sound of his name alone was enough to make your jaw tighten.
You had no good reason not to attend. So you went, and you sat beside Baelor at the high table, and you kept your smile in place, and you watched the hall fill up with people who had no idea what was sitting behind your eyes.
It was partway through the supper when Lord Peake approached the table.
He was smiling the particular smile of a man who believed he was doing something clever. Beside him was a woman you did not recognise, older than you, composed, wearing Lannister colours.
"Your Grace." Lord Peake inclined his head to Baelor with that practiced deference of his. "Forgive the interruption. May I introduce the Lady Sanire Lannister. She has come a long way—"
"Nice to meet you, Lady Sanire." You smiled before Lord Peake could finish his sentence, which you intended, cutting across him cleanly. You looked at the woman and not at Baelor and kept your expression warm and open and gave away nothing.
Lady Sanire looked at you with eyes that were kind on the surface and something else underneath, something too measured, too steady, the look of a woman who had been told things about you and was now quietly confirming them for herself.
"Princess," she said. "I have heard so many things about you. Many great things, of course."
Of course. That small addition, light as it was, landed exactly where she intended it to.
"Is that right," you said, reaching for your wine and taking a slow sip. "Do tell me."
She smiled. "Only that you are as lovely as they say. And that the prince is most fortunate."
"He is," you agreed pleasantly, and finally glanced at Baelor beside you with the practised ease of a woman who was not feeling anything in particular, which took every bit of composure you had. His expression was unreadable in the way it got when he was being careful, and he was looking at Lord Peake with a flatness in his mismatched eyes that you might have found reassuring on another night.
Tonight you did not know what to do with it.
"Lady Sanire has been kind enough to make the journey from Casterly Rock for the occasion," Lord Peake said, with the air of a man placing a piece on a board and waiting to see what happened next. "I thought it only right to make introductions while the opportunity presented itself."
"And what opportunity would that perhaps be?" you mused, tilting your head with a smile that showed every tooth. "Am I missing something, my lord?"
The smile Lord Peake gave back was a tense one. His eyes moved to Baelor, then to you, then to the wine in your hand, then back to your face, the rapid calculation of a man who had walked into something he had not entirely prepared for. Beside him Lady Sanire remained composed, though her eyes had sharpened slightly, watching you the way you might watch a fire you had underestimated.
"Only that Lady Sanire is a great admirer of the crown," Lord Peake said, recovering himself. "And wished to pay her respects in person."
"How devoted," you said warmly. You glanced at Lady Sanire. "You must come to me tomorrow, my lady, and tell me more about Casterly Rock. I have always wanted to hear about it from someone who knows it well."
It was not a genuine invitation and Lady Sanire was clever enough to know it. She held your gaze for just a moment, something unreadable passing through her expression, and then she smiled with all the grace of a woman who had been well trained.
The table went very quiet.
Lord Peake opened his mouth and closed it again. Lady Sanire had the good sense to look at the middle distance. You smiled pleasantly at all of it and took another sip of your wine.
"Forgive my wife," Baelor said, beside you, his voice calm and easy, the tone he used in rooms that required managing. "It seems she has had quite enough wine for the evening."
You turned to look at him for the first time all night.
"Clearly not enough," you said softly, and smiled, and looked back at Lord Peake.
There was a beat of silence. Lord Peake laughed, a short uncomfortable sound, and muttered something about enjoying the rest of the evening, and he and Lady Sanire withdrew into the crowd with the haste of people who had somewhere else to be.
You reached for your wine again.
"That was unnecessary," Baelor said quietly, for your ears only.
"Was it," you said.
"You know it was."
"I'm afraid the wine has rather clouded my judgement this evening," you said lightly. "You said so yourself."
He looked at you. You could feel it, that steady weighted gaze of his, and you kept your eyes on the hall in front of you and your expression pleasant and your hands perfectly still around the stem of your cup.
"That is not what I said," he said.
"It is more or less what you said, my lord."
"Look at me."
"I am watching the hall," you said. "It is a lovely celebration. Lord Peake must be very pleased."
He said nothing to that. The silence between you had an edge to it that the rest of the table could not hear but you felt clearly enough, and you sat in it and kept smiling and felt the backs of your eyes sting and refused, absolutely refused, to let it show.
You did not look at him, nor speak to him for the rest of the evening, nor did you go to meet Lady Sanira the next morning.
You had expected Mira to walk through that door. Not Baelor.
You had been pacing since she left, wearing a path between the window and the writing table, waiting for her to come back and tell you what had been said in the council chamber this morning. Whether your name had come up again. Whether Lord Peake had pushed further. You needed to know and you could not ask Baelor and so Mira had gone to the east corridor and you had been pacing ever since.
You had not spoken to him properly since the great hall. Eleven days of corridors and careful smiles and going to bed before he came in, slowing your breathing when you heard the door so he would think you were sleeping. You had heard, somewhere in those eleven days, that Lady Sanire had left the keep the same night of the dinner. Nobody told you directly. You had pieced it together from things Mira said in passing and things she chose not to say, and you had turned it over in your mind ever since without arriving anywhere useful. Mayhaps Baelor had not liked her. She was pretty enough, and composed in a way that spoke of careful breeding, older than you, the sort of woman a council would consider a sensible choice. The thought of him quietly deciding against her did not comfort you the way it should have. If anything it sat beside everything else and made it worse, because you still did not know why, and not knowing was its own particular torment.
The door opened and it was him.
He closed it behind him and stood there for a moment looking at you across the room, still in his council clothes, which meant he had come directly here, which meant Mira had not been as quiet as she thought or he had been paying more attention than she had accounted for. His mismatched eyes moved over your face the way they always did, reading things you had not said, and you crossed your arms and said nothing and waited.
"I found it rather odd," he said, "to see your most trusted lady in waiting outside the council chamber this morning." He came further into the room, unhurried, and his voice was even. "Listening at the door." His finger moved absently over the ring on his hand. "I would not have expected such behaviour from her."
"I told her to go there," you said. Immediately. Without hesitation.
He stilled. "Did you."
Not a question. Soft. Like he had already suspected and was simply confirming it.
"Yes," you said. "Whatever comes of it ought to fall on me. Not on her."
He looked at you for a moment with that expression of his, the one you could never fully read, and then he crossed the room toward you and you held your ground and looked back at him and said nothing. He stopped close enough that you had to make an effort not to step back. His eyes moved over your face the way they had at the door, unhurried, taking inventory.
"Talk to me," he said, quietly.
Something in the gentleness of it made your chest pull tight. You had not been prepared for gentle. You had been prepared for the version of this conversation that went the way difficult conversations usually went, one person wanting something and pressing for it and the other holding their ground. Not this. Not him looking at you like that.
"Am I not speaking to you as of now," you said.
The corner of his mouth moved, almost imperceptibly. He did not look away. "You have not talked to me in eleven days," he said. "You have said the right things in the right rooms and looked at everything in them except my face. That is not the same thing."
"I am fine."
"You are not fine."
"I am perfectly—"
"You sent your lady in waiting to spy on the small council," he said. Still quiet. Still looking at you in that way, like whatever you were about to say next he already had patience for. "You are not fine."
You pressed your lips together.
He waited.
"Mira heard what they put to you," you said finally. "In the council. She told me." You kept your eyes on him. "And then Lord Peake brought that woman to our table. In front of me. In front of the entire hall."
Something shifted in his face. He did not speak.
"And you told them I was drunk," you said. Your voice came out harder than you intended and you let it be hard because you were not going to soften it for him. "In front of Lord Peake and Lady Sanire and half the court you made an excuse for me. As though I were the problem in that room."
"That was wrong of me," he said.
"Yes," you said. "It was."
"I was trying to end the conversation before—"
"It does not matter why," you said. "It was wrong and it was humiliating and I have been sitting in this room for eleven days and that is the thing you lead with?" You looked at him properly for the first time since he walked in, really looked at him, and his face was still and open and there was something in his eyes that you did not have a name for, something warm and steady and entirely undeterred by the sharpness of your voice, and you hated a little that you noticed it. "You humiliated me in front of the man who wants to replace me and then came to bed that night and said nothing."
"I know," he said. "I am sorry."
He meant it. That was the infuriating thing. He always meant it when he said it and there was never any artifice to find in his expression to be angry at, just that steadiness, looking at you like he had all the time in the world and you were worth every moment of it.
"And the silence," you said. "In the council. Mira said you stayed silent when they pressed you." You shook your head. "You. Who always has the words for everything. So what was I supposed to think?"
"That I was thinking," he said. "Not agreeing."
"That is merely the same thing," you said, jaw tight. "Thinking and agreeing look identical from where I was sitting."
"They are not the same thing."
"Then explain to me the difference," you said. "Because I sat in this room for eleven days trying to find it and I could not."
He was quiet for a moment. Not flustered. Not defensive. Just patient in that way of his that you sometimes found unbearable, absorbing all of it without flinching, watching you the way he always watched you, like he was waiting for you to finish and had no intention of going anywhere until you did.
"A swift refusal gives Lord Peake something to argue with," he said. "A silence that ends the meeting gives him nothing." He held your gaze. "The answer was no. It was always no. I was deciding how to close the conversation permanently, not whether to agree with it."
You looked at him. Your throat was tight.
"You could have told me that," you said.
"Yes," he said. "I should have."
"Instead I had to send Mira to a corridor like some—" You stopped. Pressed your lips together. "You sat silent in that chamber and then Lord Peake stood at our table and put that woman in front of your face and you looked at her—"
"I looked at her the way one looks at anyone being introduced."
"You looked at her," you said again, flatly. "She was pretty, Baelor. Composed. Wiser than me infact. Exactly the sort of woman a council would choose." You looked away, toward the window, because his face was doing something you did not want to examine right now. "She knew it too. The way she looked at me across that table, she already knew exactly what she was there for."
Baelor said nothing. You could feel him watching you. The particular quality of his attention, even now, even after eleven days of you refusing to meet it.
"Did you think she was pretty," you said. You had not planned to say it. It came out quieter than everything else, smaller, and you hated the moment it left your mouth how much it gave away.
There was a pause.
And then his hand came to your jaw, two fingers, gently, tilting your face back from the window toward his. You let him. You did not know why you let him. You looked at him and his expression had that softness to it, the kind he reserved for when it was just the two of you and he was not being careful about letting it show.
"No," he said.
"You do not have to—"
"I did not think she was pretty," he said, plainly, his fingers still at your jaw. "I thought she was a woman Lord Peake had placed in front of me for a purpose I found deeply disrespectful to my wife. And I spent the rest of that supper deciding what to do about it."
You looked at him. His eyes did not move from yours.
"She left that night," you said. "I heard she left and I did not know why."
"Because I told Lord Peake privately," he said, "that if he brought a woman to my table again with that intention I would consider it a personal insult and act accordingly." A pause. "She was gone before the hall emptied."
You were quiet. His fingers were still at your jaw, not pressing, just there, warm against your skin, and you did not move away from them.
"You could have told me," you said. Smaller now. The hard edge of it going somewhere you could not locate.
"I know." His thumb moved once along your jaw. "I did not think you were carrying all of it alone. That was careless of me."
You looked at your hands. Then back at him.
"I cannot give you what they want me to give you," you said. Your voice came out very quiet. "I have known that since the maester told me and I have tried, Baelor. I have tried very hard not to let it sit in the room with us every day. And then Mira tells me what was said in that chamber and Lord Peake puts a Lannister woman at our table and I—" You stopped. Shook your head. "I do not know how to carry all of it and still be in the same room as you and pretend I am fine."
"I am not asking you to pretend," he said.
"You have never had to ask," you said. "I have just always done it."
He looked at you for a moment, something moving through his expression that you could not entirely read. Then his hand dropped from your jaw and he took both of your hands instead, drawing them out from where you had been holding them tight against yourself, and held them in his.
"You are my wife," he said. "This is your home. And the answer was no and will remain no and is not something I require your gratitude for." His thumbs moved across your knuckles, slow and deliberate. "But I am sorry you have been sitting in this room alone with all of it. That should not have happened."
You looked at him for a long time. The grey in his beard. The lines at the corners of his eyes. The way he was looking at you right now, steady and unhurried, like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at and had been for as long as he could remember.
"She really was not pretty to you," you said.
The corner of his mouth moved. Just slightly. "She really was not."
Something loosened in you at that, reluctant and unwilling and entirely out of your control. You looked away so he would not see it, which was pointless, which you knew was pointless even as you did it, and when his hand came up to your face again and turned it gently back toward his you let him.
"I have been very far away," you said. Your voice was unsteady.
"You are here now," he said.
You leaned into him and his arms came around you and he held you there, standing in the middle of the room with the fire burning low and the yard going about its afternoon outside the window, and you pressed your face into his shoulder and let the eleven days of it finally, quietly, come undone.
"I am sorry," you murmured. "For Mira. For all of it."
"You have nothing to apologise for," he said, against the top of your head. His hand was warm at your back. "Not a single thing."
You believed him. That was the thing about Baelor. You always, eventually, believed him.
That night there was no careful space kept in the bed. He held you the way he held you in the beginning, when everything was still new and a little frightening, and you lay in the dark and listened to him breathe and thought about the council chamber and the men in it with their careful language and their longer lists of names.
They did not have a word for this.
For his thumb moving across your jaw in the middle of an argument. For Lady Sanire gone by nightfall. For the corner of his mouth at she really was not, like it was almost funny, like the two of you were still the two of you despite everything.
They did not have a word for it and tonight, at last, you were glad they didn't.
Summary: You finally realize your future, and it’s always going to be with Steve.
WC: 5.2k
Warnings & What to Expect: established relationship w/ build up, very brief mentions of abuse and death, talks about kids (Steve wants them obviously but reader is conflicted - being a Hargrove has to take a toll on that topic imo), Steve’s a patient sweetheart, little bit of angst and lots of fluff!
Masterlist If Interested!
Peach’s Note: hi lovies! this is product of a combo of things. i had this one in a draft and then got a couple of requests to incorporate harry styles music which I’ll always say yes to. so this is loosely based on ‘keep driving’ and then got a request for hargrove reader realizing steve’s her future (hell yes!). but anyways, tysm to everyone who has shown love on my works - it means the world. Requests are open! no promises on a quick turn around though as I narrate quite a bit, and my job keeps me busy - but feel free to send anything and I can certainly try my best 🩷🫡
Divider template credits to @saradika-graphics
You knew for a fact that you were in love with Steve Harrington when he accidentally knocked you flat on your ass at the local roller rink.
And you knew, without a doubt - years later - that you could see a future with him when he tipped his head back in a fit of laughter; lush pink lips curled up in joy, eyes squeezed shut - creating tiny creases by the edge of the delicate skin there.
It didn’t hit you like a freight train, more like a quiet realization that Steve would have a permanent spot in your life - like a puzzle piece slotting seamlessly into place.
With your lives on the brink of extinction nearly every day, you never gave much thought to your future with Steve. But the dust had finally settled, allowing you room to breathe for once - life returning to a normalcy that felt well deserved after everything you’ve gone through.
It’s why you’re currently pressed against your step-sister, celebrating her graduation from Hawkins High at your favorite place in town, Mel’s Diner - Lucas and Steve in a conversation about Steve’s job as the middle school’s baseball coach.
Lucas quipped something snarky, which caused Steve to laugh unexpectedly hard, throwing his head back against the cushioned booth - and damn, watching his face light up with an unadulterated radiance across from you, you realize that Steve’s always going to be it for you.
You’re examining every feature on him, gazing at him lovingly with this new information blooming in your mind when Max elbows you.
“Rethinking those six nuggets?” she asks you tauntingly, raising her eyebrows.
“Max,” you seethed sharply, glancing at Steve who thankfully didn’t seem to hear that comment.
When Steve told you his plan for the future all those years ago, you timidly shared with him that you weren’t sure if kids were in your plan for life because admittedly, you never thought much of having children.
Growing up with an abusive father skewed your outlook on having them. Then your mother left you, and Billy turned into a raging asshole - allowing you to see the effects of marrying the wrong person.
You promised yourself you’d never put yourself in a situation where you’d be trapped - stuck in an unhappy marriage and tied down with children who were left to face the consequences that shouldn’t be theirs to bear.
The look of disappointment that washed over him haunted you, worried that he’d leave you, but Steve cleared his throat and assured you that he understood your fear - and that if all he ever got in this life was you, then that would be enough.
But watching him now, you could see the whole thing; marriage, a home, kids. You could see it so clearly that it had you reflecting on the moments between the two of you that had been building to get to this place of understanding.
Steve’s presence in your life wasn’t really solidified until the night you watched your brother die at the Starcourt Mall - hole in his chest, bleeding profusely out. He stuttered a broken apology to you and Max, before his gaze stilled, and you knew he was gone.
Your hand carded through his curly hair, begging him to stay, and the texture between your hands reminded you of your mothers hair, similar to his own when she didn’t straighten it. Long gone were the days of you and Billy laughing on the beach together with her, and he had made it abundantly clear that it wouldn't ever be the same, and now with him gone - it really wouldn’t be.
Steve was there to pick up the pieces for you; because your father had left you with Susan, who could barely take care of herself without him, let alone Max - which resulted in the weight of taking care of the girl on your shoulders.
You didn’t mind it - you loved her like she was your own flesh and blood, but watching her become a hollow version of who she once was caused an ache so intense in you that it felt like your heart was being carved out sometimes.
Steve was the only one who noticed it - that the burden you were carrying of losing your brother, father, step-mother, and step-sister, each in a different way - had taken a toll on you. He saw it hidden behind your eyes each time you tried to convey to the party that everything was alright.
He couldn’t help the pull in his gut to check in on you, which is how he found himself walking into your place of work one day - the Hideaway.
You were a waitress at the shitty dive bar and restaurant; it sucked being hit on by creeps twice your age, but the tips were good and you needed the money if you ever wanted to help Susan get out of the pit of bills she was in with Neil gone.
Steve had to admit to himself that part of the reason why he wanted to check in on you had to do with the intense crush that he was harboring for you.
He’d been careful not to interact with you when Billy was alive because every time he saw you, he remembered the absolute ass beating he’d taken from your brother. Now, there was nothing holding him back from you anymore - even though it meant that it came at the cost of losing someone you loved.
Your pulse picked up tenfold as you watched Steve walk into the Hideaway. Your own hopeless feelings that you have for him had never been buried, just simply pushed to the side with everything that had happened.
Steve waltzed up to the bar where you were cashing out someone’s order, leaned against it and said, “Any good food recommendations, beautiful?”
You were a bit taken aback, not expecting Steve to show up on your shift, or call you the sweet term of endearment that caused your chest to flutter about.
“Not if you want a severe stomach ache,” you responded, laughing lightly.
“How about Mel’s Diner then?” Steve tilted his head to the side, trying to signal that he was inviting you to go with him.
“Mel’s is great. Since it just opened, it’s definitely up to par,” you shrugged your shoulders, not catching onto what Steve was trying to insinuate.
“Would be nice to go there with someone,” Steve tried again, fingers tapping briefly against the bar.
“Yeah, I’m sure Robin would love it and - oh,” you pause when Steve smiles playfully at you, finally realizing what he’s trying to get across, “I mean, I could go with you, if you want.”
“I want that,” Steve shares warmly, biting his lip just slightly. The sight of it makes your brain all fuzzy, and you somehow stammer out that your shift ends in ten.
After spending that night with Steve, sipping on coffee, eating pancakes drenched in maple syrup with a side of hash browns and eggs - talking late into the evening, you grew attached to him. The both of you were lonely, and you fell into a routine of spending time together to fill the void.
It was unspoken, that there was something more between the two of you - you both knew it, but never said it out loud, too afraid to break the fragile start of something real.
But then that all changed the night Steve convinced you to join him at the roller skating rink.
The music was pulsing loudly throughout the rink with something upbeat, vibrating the room with an energy that bled into every corner - thumping in time with the sounds of the machines of the small arcade, the snack bar, and playscape that was crawling with children.
The lights were colorful, flecks of it scattering across the floor and the skaters zooming around. It was dancing across Steve’s face too, bathing him in a soft hue that highlighted his sharp jaw and nose, doe eyes looking a little more hazel than brown.
Steve was definitely the prettiest guy you’ve ever seen. You remember thinking so when you met him for the first time. He had these sunglasses perched on his nose - which was ridiculous since he was inside - but even then you could tell he clearly took pride in taking care of himself well. And when he slid the sunglasses off to introduce himself to you, his full beauty had you transfixed, staring at him shamelessly as you took in his appearance.
God, was he gorgeous.
It was hard to appreciate how good Steve looked though when you were busy gripping tightly to the edge of the wall by the entrance to the floor, watching people fly by with delight on their faces.
“I don’t think I can go out there,” you squeak, casting a glance towards Steve - who's already moving, gliding backwards like some sort of expert before circling back to you, amusement clear on his face as he watches you cling to the wall.
“Why? Are you scared of having fun?” He jokes, slowing down in front of you.
“I have two left feet, remember?” You look at him flatly, reminding him that you’re not exactly the most coordinated person in the world.
“And I’ve got two hands, perfect to catch you with if you fall,” Steve grins before throwing a wink at you.
Your heart kicks up at his flirty words - he’s been extra charming with you this evening, and the tension between the two of you is growing thicker with each moment that passes.
“You’ll catch me?” You raise an eyebrow at him, disbelief etched into your tone.
“You wound me,” he laughs, clutching dramatically at his heart, before continuing, “but yes, probably.”
“Probably?” You repeat, smiling at him teasingly.
Steve beams mischievously before extending his hands towards you, “Come on, I got you.”
You decide to trust him, huffing out a breath before taking a step towards him. You’re instantly wobbling, like Bambi on legs for the first time. You panic, hands shooting out to grab at Steve, clutching onto the sleeves of his jacket.
“This was a bad idea,” you yelp as your skates start to slide in opposite directions, and a chuckle escapes Steve’s lips before he can stop himself.
“Stop laughing at me,” you whine, grasping onto his arms now for dear life as you try to right yourself.
“I’m not laughing,” he replies cheekily, and at your glare he continues, “Maybe I’m laughing a little.”
You’re struggling to ground yourself, and Steve’s arms slither around you, firmly holding onto your waist, hiking you up to stand straight. It causes you to nearly brush against his chest, your face drawing nearer to his. The shift gives you a clear view of the pretty birth marks that linger across the exposed skin of his neck.
“Look at you, not falling,” he murmurs quietly.
You let out a noise of agreement, too distracted at his sudden closeness to properly respond. You could smell the delicious scent of his cologne combined with the sugary sweetness of the strawberry ice cream that he’d treated the two of you to before coming to the rink. It was intoxicating, and you were struck with the sudden realization that you wanted to drag him to you and kiss the hell out of him.
Steve moves slightly, just enough to give you space to actually try to move forward. He guides you, as you hesitantly start to skate on shaky legs. For a minute, you think you might actually have it, when someone zips past the two of you, accidentally brushing against your shoulder.
The movement causes one of your feet to roll out from under your crafted stance and just as you’re about to go down, Steve’s arms are quick to stop you. He’s grasping on tight to your elbows, pulling you back up. You feel yourself teeter backwards at the jostled movement, which makes you wrap your arms around his neck, not thinking twice about it.
“Told you I’d catch you, clumsy little thing,” he grins confidently at you, hands brushing against your back.
You breathe out an embarrassed laugh, not at the new nickname, because that actually makes you swallow hard, molten lava spreading low in your stomach. It was the fact that you could barely stand on your own when literal five year olds are going faster than you.
You try to put on a brave face, “I think I’ve got it now.”
“You do, do you?” Steve jests, barely loosening his grip on you.
“Mhmm,” you mumble, forcing yourself to drop your hands from him.
“Whatever you say, beautiful,” he replies smoothly, letting you go.
God, when he calls you that it makes you feel like you're in a trance; the roar of your blood singing at the praise is rushing in your ears. He’s sufficiently thrown you off, and you wonder if that was his goal all along, just to have you unsteady on your feet - a puddle of goo at his tender words - having no choice but to hold onto to him.
You’ve made it all about a couple more feet on your own before you come to a complete stand still in the middle of the rink, overwhelmed at trying to focus on not falling.
“Thought you had it?” Steve asks, smiling widely at your frozen position.
“Steve,” you whimper desperately, deciding you don’t care anymore about how pathetic you look.
Steve slips his hand into your own, “Just let me help you.”
You shake your head, “You should’ve just taken Robin, at least you would’ve been having a good time then.”
At that, Steve pauses, facing you again, “I’m having a good time with you.”
“Steve, you can’t even skate properly, I’m horrible at this,” you roll your eyes in frustration.
“You’re just learning,” he tries to reassure you.
“I’m ruining your night,” you press, and in your irritation at yourself, you fail to realize that Steve’s expertly brought you back to the edge of the rink until he brings your hand to rest at the railing.
“You’re not ruining anything,” Steve promises, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair back behind your ear.
“Steve-,” you start to argue with him.
“No, listen to me. I don’t want to be anywhere else right now. I want to be here with you,” his tone is serious, no more hints of the lightheartedness he’d demonstrated earlier.
Your lips part at his admission, and you feel your cheeks set ablaze when you catch his eyes flash down to your mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his own.
“Can I try something?” Steve asks, thumb reaching up to brush affectionately at the skin of your jaw. You know immediately that he wants to kiss you because you can feel your own desire for him pooling inside of you.
You nod rapidly, eager to feel his lips against your own.
“You really are beautiful,” Steve whispers, gently angling your chin up - the distance between you two dwindling effortlessly.
Steve’s mouth hovers over yours, and you just feel the brush of his lips when out of nowhere, a kid smacks hard into his back. Steve’s eyes blow wide, and the momentum causes his body to shove into yours. This time he can’t catch you, because his own legs are betraying him, taking you out with him.
You fall hard on your butt, wind knocked out of you briefly. Steve’s not far behind, landing on his knees by your side. His upper body keeps moving, pushing you backwards - forcing you to lean on your elbows - and he finally stops himself with both of his hands on either side of your head, hovering over you.
The two of you stare at each other for a moment, shell shocked at the reality of what just happened.
“Get a room!” The kid who bulldozed into Steve yells as he skates by.
Steve drops his head into the crook of your neck and groans, “Oh my god, this is embarrassing.”
You smirk at his reaction, “And here I thought I’d be the one knocking you over.”
“Guess that was karma for being a little too cocky about my skating skills,” Steve mumbles out, lips grazing against your collarbone.
The sensation of his lips there tickles, causing you to laugh, and soon enough the two of you are in a fit of giggles at the absurdity of the situation.
When your fit of laughter dies down, Steve slowly lifts himself up before extending his hands to you.
“Let’s go get dinner at the diner, yeah?” Steve asks you, and you're thankful that he’s giving you an out.
He steers you to a deserted corner by the skate check out counter, and you plop down on one of the benches - ready to take the damn things off your aching feet.
“Here, let me,” Steve stops you, kneeling down in front of you.
His hands are gentle as he grabs one leg at a time, caressing the skin of your calf, then ankle, taking his time to untie the laces, before slipping the skates off.
You watch him unabashedly - having an oh shit moment - because the endearing act of service he’s just done for you makes you think you might be in love with him.
Your mouth is moving before you can contemplate the confession slipping from your lips, “I love you.”
“Yeah, love you too,” he answers casually, flippantly, like the way he’d say the words to Robin or Dustin.
“No, Steve,” you stop him from moving, placing your hands on his shoulders, forcing him to look at you.
He quirks an eyebrow at your sudden intensity, breath picking up when he realizes how close you are to him.
“I’m in love with you,” you disclose, sliding your arms to loop around the curve of his neck again.
The skate in Steve’s hand clatters to the ground, and he blinks at you owlishly. You watch his throat working, and in his speechless state, you slowly become worried that you’ve just messed everything up.
“Sorry,” you mutter self consciously.
“No, don’t ever be sorry about that. I’m,” he breaks off, staring at you in wonder before continuing, “I’m just processing that mind blowing fact.”
You smile bashfully at him, gently tugging him closer to you.
“You love me?” he asks in disbelief.
“In love, but yeah,” you clarify.
“How the hell did I get that lucky?” he goes to stand, but forgets that he’s still got his own skates on.
The rug underneath restricts his movements, and he loses his center of balance, gravity pulling him backwards and he’s taking you down with him again. You land in a jumbled heap with him against the carpet.
“Maybe I’m not the clumsy one,” you snicker, hands coming up to cradle his face.
“My ego’s really taking a hit from you here, beautiful,” he laughs lowly, fondly looking up at you.
“I don’t think so,” you tell him.
“What do you mean? I’ve now fallen more times than I care to admit and-,” you cut him off, kissing him softly.
Steve immediately lets out a noise of pleasure, a pretty sigh escaping his lips, and you know that you’re going to be trying to get that sound out of him again for a long time.
“Damn, Sinclair, that was funny,” Steve’s shoulders are still shaking, and you’re still staring at him like a lovesick fool.
Lucas grins, then mentions something about a D&D session they need to get to at the Wheeler’s place. There’s movement, everyone shifting to leave, but you’re too wrapped up in admiring Steve to notice.
Max nudges you again, “You still with us?”
At that, Steve’s attention turns to you, and when your eyes connect, he gives you the cutest lopsided smile you’ve ever seen.
It strikes you again, the possibilities of your future with him - laughing with your own kids at a restaurant, watching them grow until they’re the ones graduating, Lucas and Max coming over for family dinners if they stay together - which you have no qualms that they will.
After bidding them goodnight, Steve’s blue Chevy truck cruises along the roads bathed in a soft glow from the sun setting. The engine’s rattling a bit, but Steve’s become used to the sound, not a care in the world about it.
He’s got these soft yellow sunglasses pushed back through his hair and one hand splayed out on your bare thigh, hiking your sundress up a bit. A cigarette hangs neatly between his lips, the puffs of smoke littering the air occasionally. You knew he only had them when he was anxious about something - which explains why he’s been uncharacteristically quiet since dropping Lucas and Max off.
The closer he gets to your place, the more the gnawing feeling that he’s upset with you about something creeps over you - though you’re not sure what the problem is because he left the diner in a good mood.
When he takes a turn on your street and starts to slow down, you blurt out, “Should we just keep driving?”
You’ve asked him this before, a cue that you want to spend more time with him. Steve would never turn down the chance of being with you, so he’d always reply, “Should we?”
But this time, he hums low in this throat - not quite a yes or a no - and the silence becomes deafening.
“Steve?” You’re nervously seeking his approval now.
“Sure, baby,” he throws a small smile your way, and you’re about to crack at his nonchalance, knowing there’s something off.
He drives past your place, and a hush falls over the two of you once more. You’re strung tight at this point, ready to beg him to let you know what’s wrong. The only thing giving you any respite is the fact that his hand hasn’t moved from your leg, stroking lazily over your skin. But you notice the little divot forming between his brows, the purse of his lips, the tension behind his eyes.
“Steve?” you ask, inching closer to him as best you can with the arm rest separating you from him.
“Hmm?” he muses, barely giving you a second glance.
You lean towards him, moving your hand to trace at the slight stubble on his jaw that he’s been letting grow in lately. He inclines his head, giving in to your touch.
“Are you mad at me?” you inquire, wrapping your free hand around his bicep.
“Of course not, baby,” he replies abruptly, but he won’t look you in the eye.
“You’re awfully stoic over there for someone who’s not mad at me,” you murmur, pressing a kiss against his arm, trying to get him to loosen up.
“Just thinking,” he admits, and you let your lips trail the muscle of his arm up to his shoulder, nuzzling your nose into the hollow just below his ear.
“About?” you breathe against his skin, longing for him to cave.
He lets out a stuttered laugh, “We have to pull over for that conversation.”
You swallow hard, worry twisting in your heart but aching to know, “Pull over then.”
Steve drives a bit more, just reaching Sattler’s Quarry. He flips the blinker on, the tires crunching over the gravel that leads into the dirt side of the road by the overhang of the cliffs. The truck rolls to a stop and he sighs heavily before hopping out the front seat.
Concern pricks at you, irrationally thinking he might leave you stranded here when he comes around to the passenger door, opening it up for you. He extends his hand out to you, and you place yours in his warm palm.
He grabs the extra blanket he keeps in the backseat before bringing you to the bed of the truck, flipping the tailgate down.
“Oh, this must be serious,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood a bit, knowing some of the best conversations have stemmed from stargazing in the back of the truck with him.
“Very,” Steve finally gives you a look that helps ease the panicky feeling bubbling up inside of you. He presses a swift kiss to your lips, spreading the blanket out and hoists you up.
He settles himself against the rear panel, pulling you to him so you can kick your legs to rest over his lap. The open air smells of dust and stone, distant echoes of the wind ricochet off the rocks around you.
Steve’s quiet again, but this time his arm is draped across your back, keeping you tucked into his side as he stares out at the drop that leads to the still water.
“Are you going to tell me what’s stirring in that pretty head of yours?” you whisper, letting your fingers thread through his hair, pushing the strands back that are threatening to fall in his eyes.
He swallows harshly, “Just something Max said earlier.”
It clicks then, the comment she made about rethinking kids. While you thought Steve didn’t hear it, and you knew it was meant as a joke - he clearly consumed the words seriously, not finding them funny.
It’s your turn to remain silent, giving him the space to gather his thoughts.
“It’s just,” he sighs, struggling to get the words out.
“You can tell me anything,” you encourage, hand moving to the back of his neck, twirling through the wisps there.
“It’s just, it’s been awhile, you know. Since we talked about them. Kids, I mean. And I was wondering-,” he trails off once more, and you can tell he’s nervous from the way he picks at the skin around his fingernails.
You place a hand over his own to stop him from hurting himself, finishing his sentence, “You were wondering if I’ve reconsidered?”
He nods before stumbling out, “It’s totally okay if you haven’t. All I need is you, beautiful. Even if you did change your mind, I know they aren’t exactly guaranteed.”
You take a deep breath, carefully considering your next words.
“Do you really mean that?” you prompt, restlessly waiting for his reaction to your doubtfulness.
“Why wouldn’t I mean that?” he responds, eyebrows bunching together as he frowns.
“Because I’m not sure it’s realistic. That you would be okay if I couldn’t give you something that you want,” your voice is hoarse, unsure of the direction this is heading.
“I want you,” he replies with a flare of agitation at the fact that you don’t believe him.
“But, you’ve wanted kids longer than you’ve had me,” your words catch him off guard, hanging densely in the air.
He shakes his head, closing his eyes, before finally admitting defeat, “Fine. It scares me, okay? It scares me that you may never want that life with me.”
Your stomach drops, eyes flicking away from him, stunned at the raw honesty dripping from his tone.
He sees the look of apprehension on your face, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Why are you apologizing?" You don’t like that he’s decided that he’s in the wrong for wanting something.
“I can’t lose you over this. I’d rather never have them if it meant losing you,” he chokes out, tears brimming at his waterline.
The shine in his eyes reminds you of the first time you saw him crying back in high school - you'd nearly face planted when you tripped over him as you walked out of Tina’s house.
You’d been invited to her Halloween party by someone in your senior lit class, but after watching half of Hawkins High fall for Billy, you decided it wasn’t worth your time trying to make friends with those who were easily fooled by your deceitful brother.
When you were leaving, Steve was sitting on the bottom stairs of the porch. In the dark and in your haste, your legs had knocked into him.
Your hands had flown wildly, one clamping down hard on his shoulder. His own hand had shot out instinctively, firmly grasping onto the curve of your knee. Once you were steady, Steve respectfully removed his hand from you and glanced up.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized quietly, and you saw that his eyes were glossy.
He looked angelic, even with tears on his face and your heart squeezed in concern for him - instantly wanting to make him feel better.
“Honestly, it’s my fault. I was born with two left feet I think,” you tried to joke, and it worked for a second, Steve’s lips pulling into a brief smile.
Seeing the same look in his eyes now, you realize you’d do anything for him - and you refuse to let him shrink his own desires down as if they don’t mean anything to him.
“Steve, you’re not going to lose me,” you reach up to wipe at a tear that’s spilled over, “I never said that I didn’t want them.”
“But, you said," he drifts off, confusion flooding his expression.
“That I’m terrified?” you sigh raggedly, “I am. That doesn’t mean I don’t want them. And I think, I think you’re the right person to show me it doesn’t have to be scary.”
His hands come up to cup your jaw, leaning his forehead against yours, “I refuse to force you into anything. I don’t want you changing your mind just because of me.”
You nudge your nose against his, silently requesting that he kisses you. His lips press vulnerably against yours, tentatively testing the waters that you’re still here with him despite the difficulty of the topic. He pulls back, affectionately swiping his thumb against your lips.
Flashbacks from the diner wash over you, coaxing you to settle in his lap with your knees on either side of his thighs - deciding you need to be closer to him to convince him that you’re not giving in to his stance, but instead shifting your mindset because Steve makes you feel safe enough to do so.
You press your hands against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart trilling in his ribcage. His own hands move to your waist, wrapping around the base of your back.
And there, pressed against the man you love, you admit to him what you’ve always known, “You’re going to be the best dad, Steve Harrington.”
He bites his lip hard, getting emotional, “You think so?”
“Steve, you put your life on the line for a bunch of teenagers who aren’t even related to you. I can only imagine how much more love you would show to your own kids,” you tell him resolutely.
He tugs you closer, bringing you in to rest against him, hand tangling adoringly through your hair.
“When Neil was still around, I never let myself consider kids without thinking about everything that could go wrong,” you mumble into the dip of his shoulder.
“And now with him gone?” Steve questions meekly.
“It’s given me time to realize what I want. I do want them, but it’s only because I want them with you,” you utter a bit shyly.
His breath hitches, “God, I’m the luckiest man alive.”
Your hold on him tightens, because you know he says that when he’s absolutely dazed at the fact that he gets to call you his.
As the sun inches down the horizon, wrapped up in his arms, you come to the beautiful conclusion that Steve Harrington was always meant to be your future.
Summary: After failing to protect somebody during a fight, Steve quietly develops a habit of keeping you within arm's reach at all times. At first it feels sweet. Then it starts to feel like he can't breathe unless he knows you're safe.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, guilt, overprotectiveness, canon-typical violence (referenced), anxiety, codependence, hypervigilance, fluff (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 7.7k
A/N: this one's been sat in my drafts for MONTHS and tonight i finally sat down and edited it. im super proud of this one - i hope you guys enjoy!! (alexa, play matilda by harry styles) xo
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
The worst part isn't the blood.
Steve thinks it probably should be. Later, when the night has split itself into fragments sharp enough to catch on every thought he tries to have, he will remember the blood with a horrible clarity: the dark smear of it across Robin's sleeve, the crusted red beneath Dustin's nose, the split skin over his own knuckles where he can't tell anymore whether the damage came from teeth or brick or the desperate, blind collision of his hand with somebody else's face. He will remember the copper smell of it too, thick in the back of his throat, and the way it turned tacky on his fingers before he even noticed it was there.
But that isn't the part that keeps repeating.
The part that keeps repeating is half a second.
Not even a whole moment, really. Just a gap. A nothing-space. The kind of narrow, impossible sliver of time nobody else would think to hold against him because nobody else had been living inside his body when it happened.
He had heard you call his name. He had turned. He had seen movement over your shoulder, too quick and too close, and for one stupid, useless heartbeat, he had not understood what he was looking at.
That's the part.
Not the hit itself. Not the sound Robin made when she went down. Not the chaos that followed.
The half-second before it, when Steve had seen danger and failed to become faster than it.
By the time the bathroom light flickers on above him, buzzing faintly in the silence, everyone else is already gone or close enough to it. Hopper has driven Dustin home with a hoodie shoved under the kid's nose to stop the bleeding. Nancy has taken Robin to get her wrist looked at properly, despite Robin insisting with increasingly thin patience that it was fine, no, seriously, Wheeler, she was pretty sure bones were supposed to look like that. Max had stood in the hallway for twenty minutes refusing to leave until she knew everybody else had, arms crossed hard over her chest, mouth set in that stubborn line she wore whenever she was scared and furious about it.
And Steve had let all of it happen around him.
He had nodded when people spoke. Had answered questions when someone needed him to. Had said, yeah, yeah, I'm good, with enough convincing exhaustion that nobody argued with him for long. He had watched the house slowly empty, listened to car doors slam out on the street, heard voices fade into the thick summer night until the only thing left was the hum of the bathroom light and the sound of you turning on the tap.
Now he sits on the closed toilet lid in your bathroom with his jacket still on, one elbow braced against his knee, one hand hanging uselessly between his legs. His shoulders are hunched like he's waiting to be hit again. His hair is a mess, sweat-damp at the roots and pushed back from his forehead in a way that would normally make you tease him, except nothing about him looks funny right now. He looks too still. That is the thing that unsettles you most. Steve is never still like this, not really. Even when he's quiet, there is usually some restless little sign of life in him, fingers tapping against a counter, knee bouncing under the table, mouth pulling into a half-smile before he has even decided whether he means it.
Tonight, he looks as though the smallest movement might make something in him come loose.
You stand in front of him with a clean flannel dampened under warm water, trying to decide where to start.
His knuckles, probably. They are the easiest thing to fix.
"Give me your hand," you say softly.
For a second, you think he hasn't heard you. Then his eyes lift, unfocused, and he looks at you like he's returned from somewhere much further away than the bathroom floor.
"What?"
"Your hand." You repeat gently, holding yours out between you. "Let me clean it."
Steve looks down at his own fingers as if he's only just noticed them. There is dried blood caught in the creases, rust-coloured under his nails, smeared across the back of his hand where he'd wiped it thoughtlessly against his jeans and made everything worse. His mouth tightens.
"It's not mine."
"I know."
Something fast and ugly flickers across his face before he lets you take his hand.
You kneel in front of him because there is nowhere else to sit, settling carefully on the tiled floor between his feet. He doesn't make the joke he might have made on any other night. Doesn't say something stupid about you being on your knees for him, doesn't raise an eyebrow, doesn't reach out to tug fondly at your sleeve. He just watches as you cradle his hand in both of yours and begin wiping the blood away.
The first pass of the flannel turns pink. Steve stares at it.
You work slowly, partly because his skin is split and swollen in places, but mostly because you don't know what else to do with all the silence. It sits heavily around you, filling the bathroom until the room feels too small for the two of you and whatever Steve has brought back with him. You clean between his fingers, then across the bruised rise of his knuckles, then underneath each nail as carefully as you can manage. Every so often his hand twitches, not quite a flinch, but near enough that you pause and glance up at him.
"Sorry," he says automatically.
"You don't have to be sorry."
His eyes drop back to your hands. "Yeah."
The word means nothing. It is just sound. A shape his mouth knows how to make.
You rinse the flannel in the sink and return to him, taking his other hand. This one is cleaner, though his palm is scraped badly near the heel, skin roughened and angry where he'd caught himself against the pavement. You remember seeing him stumble. Remember the horrible jerk in your chest when he went down and the immediate relief, almost painful in its sharpness, when he got back up.
You had thought, then, that the fear would leave once everyone was safe.
It hasn't. It has only changed form.
Steve inhales, slow and uneven. "I should've seen him."
Your fingers still around his wrist. "What?"
His gaze remains fixed somewhere past your shoulder, on the towel rail or the wall behind you or maybe nothing at all. "The guy. The one who grabbed Robin."
"Steve."
"I should've seen him." His voice is quiet. Worse than if he were angry. Worse than if he were shouting. "He came from my left. I knew there was someone there."
"You were trying to get Dustin behind you."
"I know."
"You were trying to keep three different people from getting hit."
"I know."
"Then you couldn't have-"
"I should've."
The interruption is not loud, but it lands hard enough to close your mouth. Steve still doesn't look at you. His jaw works once, a muscle jumping near the hinge, and for the first time all night you realise he is not calm. He is holding himself so tightly that calm is simply the shape it has taken from the outside.
You set the flannel aside. "Robin's going to be okay."
"I know."
"Dustin's okay."
"I know."
"I'm okay."
His eyes move to yours then, and there's something in them that makes your throat tighten before he even speaks.
"You almost weren't."
The bathroom feels suddenly colder despite the heat still trapped in the walls from the day. Outside, a car passes slowly down the street, headlights sliding briefly through the frosted window before disappearing again.
You shift closer on your knees, ignoring the ache beginning to bloom in them against the tile. "But I am."
Steve looks at you for a long moment, and you can see him trying to accept the sentence. You can actually see the effort of it. His eyes move across your face with the same frantic attention he had carried all evening, checking you in pieces: forehead, cheekbone, mouth, throat, shoulders. Looking for damage. Looking for proof. Looking, maybe, for some version of events he can survive remembering.
"Steve," you say softly.
His lashes lower. "I just stood there."
"No, you didn't."
"I froze."
"You turned around."
"Too late."
"You got to us."
"After."
The word comes out scraped raw.
You reach for his face before thinking better of it, your fingers brushing the line of his jaw. He is warm under your touch, too warm, flushed from adrenaline and exhaustion and whatever else is still burning through him. For one brief second he leans into it. Then he seems to realise he has done it and pulls back half an inch, not away from you exactly, but away from comfort, as though he doesn't think he has earned it.
That hurts more than you expect.
"Hey," you whisper.
He shakes his head.
"I keep seeing it." His voice breaks slightly on the last word, and he clears his throat like he can force it back into place. "I keep seeing him reach for you. And I keep thinking, if Robin hadn't-"
"Don't."
"She got hurt because I didn't move fast enough."
"Robin got hurt because some asshole hurt her."
Steve lets out a humourless little laugh. "Yeah, well."
"No." Your hand tightens gently against his cheek, not enough to force him, just enough to ask him to stay with you. "No, listen to me. That is not yours to carry."
He finally looks at you properly, and the expression on his face is so young for a moment that it steals the breath straight from your chest.
Steve Harrington, who has spent years placing himself between other people and whatever wants to hurt them. Steve Harrington, who has turned his body into a shield so often that everyone has almost stopped recognising it as a choice. Steve Harrington, who can take a punch, swing a bat, crack a joke with blood in his mouth, and then sit in your bathroom afterwards looking shattered because somebody else got hurt in the same room as him.
"Feels like it is," he says.
You don't know what to say to that. Not because he's right, but because the feeling in his voice is too old to be argued out of him in one conversation. You understand, suddenly and terribly, that this is not just about tonight. It is about the Demogorgon in the Byers' living room. The tunnels. The junkyard. Starcourt. Every locked door, every scream, every time a child had looked at him like he was supposed to know what to do next. It is about all the years Steve has been terrified and useful at the same time, and how nobody ever told him those were not the same thing as being responsible.
So instead of arguing, you rise onto your knees and wrap your arms around his neck.
For a second, he doesn't move.
Then he folds.
Not in some great collapse. He simply leans forward until his face is pressed against your shoulder and both of his arms have gone around your waist, tight enough that you feel the desperation in it. His breath leaves him in a long, unsteady exhale. One hand fists in the back of your shirt.
You hold him.
The bathroom tile digs into your shins, the tap drips once into the sink, and Steve clings to you like something still might reach through the wall and take you if he loosens his grip.
"I'm right here," you murmur into his hair.
"I know."
"You got me home."
"I know."
"You always do."
His arms tighten.
For a while, neither of you says anything else.
By the time Steve finally lets you pull him up from the bathroom and into bed, the house has settled into the strange quiet that only comes after something frightening has passed and left everything else untouched. The lamp on your bedside table paints the room in low yellow light. His jacket ends up on the floor, his jeans folded badly over the chair because he insists he's fine, he can do it himself, then stands there for nearly thirty seconds holding them without moving until you take them gently from his hands.
He doesn't argue when you give him one of the clean T-shirts he keeps in your drawer. He doesn't make the soft, pleased noise he usually makes about the fact that you have a drawer for him now. He just changes, mechanically, and sits on the edge of the bed with his head bowed while you turn off the overhead light.
When you crawl under the covers, he comes with you, though even then he seems uncertain what to do with himself. Usually, Steve reaches for you first. Usually, he tugs you back against his chest or lets his head fall heavily into your lap until you laugh and tell him he is crushing you. Tonight, he lies on his back with one arm bent over his stomach, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
You turn onto your side to face him. "Steve."
"Hm?"
"Come here."
He exhales softly through his nose. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't."
"You sure?"
It is such a ridiculous question, asked with such quiet sincerity, that your heart almost breaks cleanly in two.
"I'm sure."
Only then does he move. Slowly, carefully, as though your body might be bruised somewhere he has missed, he turns onto his side and lets you fit yourself against him. His arm comes around you, tentative at first, then firmer when you tuck your face beneath his chin and press your hand against his chest.
His heart is still beating too fast. You listen to it for a while.
"Can you sleep?" you ask.
"Yeah."
It's an obvious lie. You let it pass.
His fingers move once against your back, a small restless flex. Then again. Then his hand smooths over your shoulder, down your arm, across your ribs, not sensual, not even especially deliberate. Checking. Making sure. Reassuring himself with the shape and warmth of you.
You close your eyes.
For a little while, you let him.
When his hand travels up again and pauses lightly at the base of your skull, you open them.
"Steve."
He goes still. "Sorry."
"Don't apologise."
"Okay." There's a pause. Then, barely audible, he asks, "Is this annoying?"
You could just say no. It would be easier. Kinder, maybe. But there's something fragile in his voice that makes you careful.
"It's not annoying," you say. "But you don't have to keep checking."
His throat moves against your forehead as he swallows. "I know."
There it is again. The empty answer. The one he gives when knowing something has not made him believe it.
You lift your head just enough to look at him.
In the low light, he looks exhausted. Not just tired, not just shaken, but worn down in some deeper place he has probably been ignoring for too long. There is a bruise beginning near his cheekbone, shadowed purple beneath the skin. A small cut sits at the corner of his mouth. His hair, for once, has given up entirely.
"You're allowed to be scared," you tell him.
His eyes flick over your face. "I'm not scared."
"Steve."
His mouth opens, then closes. You watch the lie die before he can make himself say it.
After a moment, he looks away.
"I hate it," he says quietly.
"What?"
"How fast it happens." His eyes stay on the window, on the thin gap in the curtains where the streetlamp outside bleeds gold into the room. "One second everything's fine, and then it's not. And there's no warning, there's no time to think, you just have to-" He stops, jaw tightening. "You just have to be fast enough."
You slide your hand across his chest until your palm rests over his heart. "And nobody is fast enough every time."
Steve closes his eyes. He doesn't answer. The silence that follows feels less like agreement than defeat.
You wish, with a sudden fierceness that almost frightens you, that you could reach inside him and take the thought out by the root. That you could remove every awful equation he keeps making between love and responsibility, between fear and failure, between being there and being enough.
Instead, you kiss the edge of his jaw.
Steve's eyes open.
"You're here," you whisper. "That's what matters."
His gaze searches yours, desperate and disbelieving.
Then he nods once, because he wants it to be true.
And for that night, wanting will have to be enough.
The first time it happens, you almost don't notice.
A few days later, you leave the house together to pick up milk and coffee and the kind of sugary cereal Steve pretends he's buying for Dustin even though Dustin is not there and has never once asked for it. The afternoon is bright and hot, cicadas buzzing somewhere in the trees, the pavement shimmering faintly where sunlight has spent all day collecting in the concrete.
Steve locks your front door behind you. Then checks it. Then checks it again.
You glance back from the bottom step, amused despite yourself. "You expecting it to unlock itself?"
He looks over his shoulder, keys still in hand. "What?"
"The door."
"Oh." He jiggles the handle once more, then steps away. "No. Just making sure."
You smile faintly. "Okay."
It's nothing. People check locks.
Steve has always been a little fussy after bad nights anyway, prone to checking the back seat of his car before letting you get in, prone to insisting you wait inside until he has pulled into the driveway properly, prone to acting like chivalry is a normal personality trait rather than an ongoing attempt to disguise anxiety as manners.
So you don't think much of it when he walks on the roadside of the pavement either.
He's done that before.
You do notice, maybe, that he switches sides when you turn the corner, his hand settling briefly at the small of your back as he guides you inward, away from the traffic. But the gesture is so smooth, so familiar, so easy to mistake for affection, that you let it become that.
In the shop, he stays close.
Close enough that his shoulder brushes yours near the fridges. Close enough that when somebody reaches across you for a carton of juice, Steve's hand appears at your waist before you have time to register the movement.
The man murmurs an apology. Steve smiles politely. Everything is normal - almost.
You look up at him - he is still watching the man walk away.
"Steve."
His attention snaps back to you immediately. "Yeah?"
"You okay?"
"Yeah." Too quick. Then softer, with an attempt at a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine."
You believe him because you want to. Or maybe because it's easier, in that moment, to believe that fear leaves people simply because danger has.
At the till, Steve pays before you can argue, making some throwaway comment about how you paid last time, which is not true but is also not worth disputing while the bored cashier scans cereal and milk and a packet of plasters he slipped into the basket without asking.
On the walk home, his hand finds yours before you reach the first crossing. Again, nothing. Steve holds your hand all the time.
Only this time, his grip tightens when the light changes. Only this time, he looks left and right twice even after the cars have stopped. Only this time, when you reach the opposite pavement safely, he doesn't let go.
You glance down at your joined hands, then up at his face. Steve is looking ahead, expression carefully neutral, thumb moving over the back of your hand in a slow, repetitive stroke.
You say nothing, and his hand stays around yours all the way home.
The thing about habits is that they never arrive announcing themselves.
If Steve had started insisting you never left the house alone again, you would have argued. If he'd refused to let you out of his sight, if he'd demanded you text him every ten minutes or tried to convince you the world had suddenly become too dangerous for ordinary errands, you would have recognised it for what it was.
Instead, it happens quietly. So quietly, in fact, that for the better part of two weeks you mistake it for affection.
It begins with the car.
Steve has always opened your door before walking round to his own side. It isn't performative - not really. Half the time he does it while complaining about how old-fashioned it makes him look, rolling his eyes whenever you tease him about being born in the wrong decade.
Now, though, he doesn't just open the door. He waits until you've climbed in before closing it. Checks your seatbelt is actually clipped. Waits until you've clicked the lock. Only then does he walk around to the driver's side.
The first time, you smile. The fifth, you start noticing.
Then there are the phone calls.
Not clingy or excessive, per se.
Just, "So you got there okay?"
"...Steve, I texted you ten minutes ago."
"I know."
"So why are you calling?"
"...Just wanted to hear your voice."
It's sweet. It really is.
Until one afternoon, you tell him you're popping to the corner shop while he's at work, and by the time you've picked up milk and bread, there's already a missed call waiting for you.
Then another. Then a voicemail.
"Hey... just checking you're alright. Call me when you get this."
Nothing urgent. But when you ring him back, he answers before the first ring has even finished.
"Hey."
"You okay?"
"...Yeah."
"You sounded worried."
"No." A pause. "Just... hadn't heard from you."
"I've been gone twenty minutes."
"I know."
Three weeks after the fight, you're standing in Family Video trying to decide whether the horror section deserves another chance when Robin finally says it.
Steve disappears into the stockroom to hunt down a copy of The Princess Bride for an elderly customer who insists somebody returned it without the case.
Robin waits until the stockroom door swings shut.
Then she looks at you. "...You've noticed it too."
You glance up. "Noticed what?"
"The hovering."
"What hovering?"
She blinks. "The Steve-shaped cloud permanently hanging about three feet behind you?"
You laugh. "He doesn't hover."
Robin simply stares. You look back. Steve is still in the stockroom.
"...Does he?"
"Oh my God." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "I thought you were pretending not to notice."
"Robin."
"He watches every entrance."
You say nothing.
"He always stands closest to the doors now."
You frown. "He didn't used to."
You think back.
Friday. The diner. Steve had insisted on sitting facing the entrance.
Saturday. The cinema. He'd quietly swapped seats with you halfway through the trailers because he'd wanted the aisle.
Yesterday. Bradley's Big Buy. He'd waited outside the changing rooms instead of browsing.
Not strolling or wandering. Waiting, like he'd been expecting something. Something you'd never questioned.
Robin folds another videotape into its sleeve. "I don't think he even realises he's doing it."
"What?"
"He keeps checking where you are."
You laugh again, only this one doesn't come as easily. "I think you're exaggerating."
Robin's expression softens. "I wish I was."
You try not to think about it.
For approximately six hours.
Then Steve offers to walk you to the post office.
It's raining. The post office is literally visible from your front window.
"...Steve."
"What?"
"It's literally there."
"I know."
"I can see it."
"I know."
"It's a two-minute walk."
"I know."
"So..."
"I'll come."
You stare at him. "...Why?"
He shrugs. "I need stamps."
"You hate buying stamps."
"I've... grown."
You burst out laughing. He smiles too, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
It gets harder not to notice after that.
Because once Robin has pointed it out, the pattern is everywhere.
Steve always lets you walk in front of him when you're climbing stairs. Not because he's admiring you, but because he wants to see where you're putting your feet.
Whenever somebody walks past too quickly, his hand appears automatically against the small of your back.
When you stop to tie your shoelace in the supermarket, he turns around completely, placing himself between you and everyone else pushing trolleys down the aisle.
You don't even think he knows he's doing it.
The moment that finally unsettles you happens on a Thursday.
It's busy. School's just finished. Half of Hawkins seems to have decided they desperately need cereal and toilet paper at exactly the same time.
You and Steve are arguing over pasta.
"You absolutely cannot tell me every shape tastes the same."
"It literally does."
"It doesn't."
"It does."
"Steve."
"It's wheat."
"It's architecture."
He laughs. "Architecture?"
"You heard me."
You reach up towards the top shelf.
At that moment, someone brushes past you. Nothing unusual, just another shopper.
Before you've even registered the movement, Steve moves.
Not aggressively. Just instantly.
One second he's beside you.
The next he's standing between you and the stranger, one hand finding your elbow as though he'd done it without asking permission from the rest of his body.
The man mutters an absent-minded "Sorry." Keeps walking.
Steve doesn't answer. His eyes follow him. Not suspiciously. Automatically.
Then, slowly, he looks back at you. Realises where he's standing. Realises his hand is still around your arm.
The colour drains from his face. "...Sorry."
You blink. "What?"
"I..." His hand falls away. "I don't know why I..." The sentence dies halfway through.
For the first time since the fight, Steve looks genuinely frightened. Not of the man. Of himself.
The drive home is unusually quiet. Steve keeps both hands fixed at ten and two on the steering wheel. The radio plays quietly between you, but neither of you is listening.
Eventually, you reach over and rest your hand lightly on his arm.
He startles, only slightly, but just enough for you to notice.
"You alright?"
"Yeah."
"You've said 'yeah' or to every question I've asked for the last month."
"I have?"
"Mhm."
"...Sorry."
"Don't apologise, baby."
That earns the smallest smile. Tiny. Gone almost immediately.
That night, after Steve's fallen asleep beside you for the first time in what feels like weeks without jolting awake every hour to check you're still there, you lie awake staring at the ceiling.
Robin's words won't leave you alone.
He keeps checking where you are.
You think about the supermarket. The post office. The seatbelt. The phone calls. The way he always reaches for your hand before crossing roads now. The way he waits outside every public toilet. The way his eyes flick instinctively towards every doorway whenever you enter somewhere new.
None of it had felt controlling. Not once.
It had all felt careful. Painfully, desperately careful.
As though Steve believed the world only needed one tiny opening, and if he looked away at exactly the wrong second, it might happen again.
You turn your head. Steve is asleep on his side, one hand still loosely curled around your wrist above the duvet. Even unconscious, he's holding on.
Your chest aches. Because suddenly you realise something Robin had understood before you did.
Steve isn't trying to stop anything from happening to you.
He's trying to convince himself that if he pays enough attention, nothing ever will.
It happens on a Tuesday.
Not because anything goes wrong.
Because, for the first time in nearly a month, nothing does.
The afternoon settles over Hawkins in that slow, lazy way late August afternoons always seem to, the worst of the heat finally beginning to bleed from the pavements as the sun drifts lower behind the trees. Steve has the day off. You're both halfway through reorganising the shelves in your spare room, though "reorganising" has quickly become an excuse to sit cross-legged on the floor surrounded by old photo albums and cassette tapes you haven't touched in years.
Steve is reading the back of an ancient Ghostbusters VHS with an expression of complete seriousness.
"This says 'high-octane family fun.'"
"It is."
"They're hunting ghosts."
"Very fun ghosts."
"They kill people."
"They don't, actually."
"They try."
"They're bad at it."
He looks up from the back of the VHS, finally abandoning whatever argument he'd been having with the blurb. "You'll defend any film if I give you long enough."
"I absolutely will."
"I know."
The corner of his mouth lifts, small and unguarded, and you find yourself clinging to it more than you'd like to admit. It's the first smile you've seen from him in days that doesn't look like he had to remember how.
"You know," you say, nudging his knee lightly with yours, "I was thinking..."
Steve hums, still turning the tape over in his hands.
"My mum asked if I'd pop over this evening."
"Okay."
"I thought I'd walk."
The smile disappears so quickly you almost wonder if you'd imagined it.
"So I'll probably head off around six?"
His eyes lift to yours. "I'll drive you."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"It's literally twenty minutes."
"I know."
"It's still light."
"I know."
You watch him for a moment. He simply watches you back.
"...Steve."
"I'll drive you."
You let out a quiet sigh, setting the VHS carefully beside you. "I wasn't asking."
"I know."
"You've got work tomorrow."
"So?"
"You've got to get back afterwards."
"So?"
"It's completely out of your way."
"So?"
Something twists uncomfortably beneath your ribs.
It's the exact same conversation you've had three times already. Different destinations. Different excuses. Exactly the same ending.
"No."
His eyebrows lift. "No?"
"I'm walking."
"I'll come with you."
"I want to walk on my own."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "...Why?"
The question catches you off guard, because he doesn't sound offended. He sounds frightened.
"I just do."
"I don't understand."
"You don't have to."
"I do."
The words leave him too quickly this time, sharper than either of you expected. The room falls quiet almost immediately afterwards, and Steve seems to hear it a fraction of a second after you do. He exhales slowly, rubbing a hand across his face.
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"No," he says quietly. "No, it's not."
The silence stretches between you. Somewhere down the street, somebody starts mowing their lawn, the steady drone drifting lazily through the open window as Steve stares at the floor without really seeing it. You don't rush to fill the quiet. Eventually, he does it himself.
"I know what you're going to say."
"Do you?"
"You think I'm hovering."
You don't answer immediately. "I think you're tired."
A tiny, humourless laugh escapes him.
"I've been hovering."
"...A little."
"A little?" He finally looks at you. "I'm suffocating you."
"No."
"I am."
"No, you're not."
"I can see it." His hands are clasped so tightly together his knuckles have turned white. "I keep following you around."
"You've been worried."
"I keep checking where you are."
"I know."
"I don't even realise I'm doing it anymore." He lets out another hollow laugh. "I followed you to the bathroom at Family Video."
"I know."
"I waited outside."
"I know."
"I stood outside the fitting rooms at the mall."
"I know."
"I called you twice because you went to buy milk."
"I know."
Every confession seems to take something out of him. By the end of it he looks smaller somehow, shoulders rounded beneath the weight of words he's clearly been carrying around for weeks.
"I'm sorry."
You shift a little closer across the floor until your knees touch.
"I know."
"No." His voice cracks. "I don't think you do."
He gets to his feet before you can answer, not angrily but restlessly, pacing once across the room before stopping at the window. His hands settle on his hips, leave them again, fold across his chest, then drop uselessly by his sides. He can't seem to find a position that feels comfortable.
"I keep thinking..."
He stops.
Starts again.
"I keep thinking..."
Nothing.
He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.
"When we were kids..." His voice is quieter now. "My dad used to leave me places."
You blink. "What?"
"He'd forget." One shoulder lifts in a shrug that doesn't quite disguise how much it still hurts. "Country clubs. Golf courses. Hardware stores."
A hollow laugh escapes him.
"I got really good at waiting."
You don't interrupt.
"I used to think..." He stares out through the window. "I used to think if I was... quieter..."
His throat bobs.
"...better..."
Another pause.
"...less annoying..."
Your heart aches.
"...he'd remember."
The room feels impossibly still. Steve has never told you this before. Not like this.
"I know that's stupid."
"It isn't."
"It is." He shakes his head. "Because now every time something bad happens..." His eyes drop to his own hands. "...my brain immediately goes..." He clicks his fingers once. "'You missed something.'" Another click. "'You should've noticed.'" Another. "'You weren't paying attention.'"
His hand falls back to his side.
"So now..." His voice is barely above a whisper. "...I'm trying to notice everything."
You rise quietly to your feet and cross the room until you're standing beside him. Neither of you says anything for a while. Outside, the lawnmower finally falls silent, and somehow the sudden absence of noise feels even louder.
"I know it isn't rational."
"I know."
"I know you can cross roads by yourself."
"I know."
"I know you don't need me to walk you everywhere."
"I know."
"I know."
Each repetition grows quieter, less convincing than the last.
"I know."
He closes his eyes.
"I just..." His shoulders finally cave beneath the weight of it. "...I can't survive watching someone I love get hurt because I wasn't paying attention."
The words leave him in one long breath, as though he's been holding them inside for weeks.
"I can't do it again."
Again.
Not for the first time.
Again.
That's when you finally understand.
This was never just about Robin. Or you. Or the fight.
It's Barb. Bob. Billy. Eddie. Every person Steve has ever watched disappear while wondering if there had been one tiny moment - one tiny thing - he could have done differently.
You step in front of him. He still won't meet your eyes, so you lift your hands and gently cup his face, asking for nothing except somewhere for his gaze to settle. When he finally looks at you, his eyes are already wet.
"I've been trying so hard," he whispers.
"I know."
"I thought if I just..." A broken laugh catches in his throat. "...paid enough attention..." His voice finally gives way. "...maybe nothing bad would happen."
You feel your own eyes sting. "Oh, Steve."
"I know it doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense."
"It does?"
"To me."
He searches your face desperately. "Really?"
You nod. "Because you love people. And loving people means you've convinced yourself it's your job to stop every bad thing that could ever happen to them."
A tear slips free before he can stop it. Steve closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours, and you feel the faint tremor running through him.
"So when something slips through..." Your thumb brushes gently across his cheek. "...you don't blame the person who hurt them."
Another tear follows.
"You blame yourself."
His breathing catches.
"I was supposed to-"
"No."
"I was supposed to get there."
"You did."
"Too late."
"No."
His eyes open again.
"I don't think the story starts where you think it does."
He frowns. "What?"
"You keep replaying the moment Robin got hurt."
He says nothing.
"But that's not the moment I remember."
His breathing begins to steady.
"I remember looking up..." You smile sadly. "...and seeing you."
He doesn't move.
"I remember you getting to us. Not the shouting. Not the blood. Not the fear. I remember thinking..." Your fingers slip gently into the hair at the nape of his neck. "...Steve's here."
His eyes fill completely.
"And then I knew we'd be okay."
For a long moment neither of you speaks. Steve simply looks at you as though he's trying to reconcile your memory of that night with his own.
Eventually, almost too quietly to hear, he asks, "...You weren't angry?"
You almost laugh. "No."
"You didn't think..." He swallows hard. "...I failed?"
Your heart breaks.
"No, baby." You lean forward and kiss his forehead. "I've never once looked at you and thought you failed me."
Steve finally cries, one quiet, exhausted tear after another, as weeks of vigilance finally begin to loosen their grip.
And for the first time since the fight, when you wrap your arms around him, he doesn't hold you because he's afraid you'll disappear.
He holds you because he needs somewhere safe to fall.
Things don't change overnight.
You know that before Steve does, because healing has never looked particularly spectacular. It rarely arrives in great sweeping gestures or tearful promises that everything will be different from now on. More often, it's embarrassingly ordinary. It lives in the tiny decisions people make over and over again, until eventually those decisions become easier than the fear that first inspired them. Steve still reaches for your hand when you leave the house. He still checks the lock twice before bed. He still glances towards every doorway when you walk into a restaurant. The habits don't disappear. They simply stop deciding everything else.
Three days later, the two of you are wandering through Hawkins' Saturday market. It isn't anything special: a handful of stalls selling vegetables, second-hand books, homemade candles and knitted jumpers despite the fact it's still far too warm for anyone sensible to be thinking about wool. Families drift lazily between them, children chase each other around folding tables, and somewhere nearby somebody plays an acoustic guitar badly enough that nobody quite knows whether to clap when he finishes each song.
Steve buys you strawberries because you stop for half a second too long looking at them.
"They're expensive."
"I know."
"We literally have strawberries at home."
"I know."
"So why are you buying more?"
"They looked at you."
You laugh. "They looked at me?"
"Mhm."
"Steve Harrington."
"They wanted to come home with us."
"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."
He grins. "I know."
It is the easiest you've seen him smile in weeks.
A few minutes later you stop outside a little stall selling old records. The owner, an elderly man with silver hair tied back into a ponytail, is enthusiastically explaining to a teenage boy why Fleetwood Mac always sounds better on vinyl while Steve wanders a few feet away to look at a display of old film posters hanging from a washing line. Not far - just far enough that, for the first time in weeks, he isn't instinctively keeping pace with you.
You lose yourself amongst the records for a minute. Then two. Then three. They smell faintly of old paper and dust, your fingers trailing across worn cardboard sleeves until you find Rumours tucked neatly between Bowie and Joni Mitchell.
"You found it."
The voice makes you turn.
Steve isn't standing beside you.
He's still over by the posters, crouched slightly to speak to a little girl who's trying very seriously to convince him that The Goonies is actually a horror film because, as she explains with complete certainty, "there's a dead body."
He catches your eye across the market.
Smiles.
Then turns back to the conversation.
Something inside your chest loosens.
Because three weeks ago he would've noticed you'd drifted away before you'd even realised you'd done it yourself. He would've crossed the distance without thinking, apologised afterwards without understanding why, and spent the rest of the afternoon quietly angry with himself for letting you wander three feet out of reach. Instead, he's letting himself stay where he is. He's letting you exist somewhere he isn't. You know it can't be easy for him, and somehow that makes it all the sweeter.
On the walk back to the car, you deliberately slow your pace. Steve is halfway through explaining why Dustin is objectively wrong about Back to the Future Part II when you stop altogether. He takes another three steps before realising, turning almost immediately.
There it is. That tiny flash of panic. Quick. Instinctive. Gone almost as soon as it arrives.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You stopped."
"I know."
"...Why?"
You smile. "Come here."
His eyebrows knit together, but he walks back without questioning it. "What?"
Instead of answering, you simply slip your hand into his. His fingers close around yours automatically, warm and familiar, and the two of you start walking again.
"I like this," you say quietly.
He glances sideways at you. "What?"
"Holding your hand."
His shoulders relax by almost nothing. "You do?"
"Mhm."
"I thought maybe..."
"I know." You squeeze his hand gently.
"I just don't want you holding it because you're scared."
He doesn't answer straight away.
"I want you holding it because you want to."
Steve looks down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing slowly across your knuckles.
"I think..." A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "...I'm still figuring out which one it is."
You laugh softly. "I know."
A week later, you tell him you're walking over to Robin's.
He looks up from the sofa. "What time?"
"Now."
"I'll-" The word catches before it ever leaves his mouth.
You watch it happen. You actually watch the thought arrive.
I'll come.
His mouth opens. Then closes again.
He breathes in. Breathes out.
"...Okay."
You blink. "Okay?"
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
He nods once. "I'll... see you later."
There's something painfully vulnerable about it, as though he's handing you something fragile and trusting you not to break it. You cross the room, cup his face, kiss him once, and smile.
"I'll see you later."
His own smile wobbles. "Call me when you get there?"
You grin. "That one I can do."
Robin opens the front door to find you trying not to smile. "...What?"
"He let me leave."
"...Jesus."
"I know."
Robin looks genuinely impressed. "Did he cry afterwards?"
"Not in front of me."
"Hm."
She nods thoughtfully. "Growth."
It's only later that evening, curled together on Steve's sofa with the television humming quietly in the background, that you realise how difficult it had actually been for him. Neither of you is paying attention to whatever's on screen. Steve's head rests comfortably in your lap while your fingers wander absent-mindedly through his hair, and after several long minutes of comfortable silence he says, almost to himself,
"I almost followed you."
Your hand stills. "What?"
"When you left." His eyes remain fixed on the ceiling. "I got as far as putting my shoes on."
Your chest tightens.
"I stood in the hallway for..." He laughs quietly. "Honestly? Maybe five minutes."
"...Steve."
"I kept thinking..." His voice softens. "...if I just happened to be walking the same way..."
You smile sadly. "I know."
"I almost did it."
"But you didn't."
"No." He closes his eyes. "I sat back down."
You run your fingers gently through his hair again. "What changed your mind?"
He's quiet for so long you almost think he's fallen asleep.
Then, finally, "I realised..." He swallows. "...if something happened..." Even now, the words hurt him. You can hear it. "...I'd blame myself anyway."
Your hand stills again. "So..."
He lets out a slow breath before finally looking up at you.
"...Following you wasn't actually protecting you. It was trying to make myself feel less scared."
You smile. "There he is."
"What?"
"The guy I fell in love with."
His forehead creases.
"You've always wanted to protect people," you say, brushing his fringe away from his eyes. "But that's different."
"How?"
"Because protecting someone means being there when they need you." Your thumb traces lightly along his temple. "Not carrying responsibility for every bad thing that could ever happen to them."
Steve simply stares at you, as though he's trying to commit every word to memory. "I don't know if I'll ever stop worrying."
"You won't."
He lets out a small laugh. "You sound very certain."
"I am." You smile. "Because I know you."
His expression softens.
"I don't need you to stop worrying."
"No?"
"I just need you to remember..." You lean down until your forehead rests gently against his. "...that loving me doesn't make you responsible for fate."
The room falls quiet again. Outside, the cicadas have begun singing somewhere beyond the open window, a warm evening breeze carrying with it the smell of cut grass and somebody's barbecue several gardens away. Steve reaches up slowly until his hand finds yours - not urgently, not desperately, but simply because it's there.
"I think..." he says quietly, intertwining your fingers, "...I'm gonna need reminding of that sometimes."
"I know."
"You'll tell me?"
"As many times as it takes."
He smiles then. A real smile this time, the kind that reaches his eyes before it reaches his mouth. After a moment he turns your hand over in his, presses a kiss against your knuckles, and asks, almost sheepishly,
"...Can I still walk on the roadside?"
You laugh so hard you nearly knock him off the sofa. "Steve."
"What?"
"It's not statistically safer."
"It is."
"You have absolutely no evidence for that."
"I don't need evidence."
"You literally do."
"I have vibes."
"Vibes aren't peer-reviewed."
"They should be."
Shaking your head, you can't help smiling. "Fine."
"Really?"
"You can walk on the roadside."
His grin immediately widens.
"But."
He waits.
"If I want to walk on that side sometimes..." You squeeze his hand. "...you have to let me."
He holds your gaze for a long moment before finally nodding.
"...Deal."
It isn't a promise that he'll never worry again. It isn't a promise that he'll never wake in the middle of the night just to check you're still breathing, or instinctively reach for your hand crossing a road, or feel his heart lurch when you disappear into another room for longer than expected.
It's something much smaller, and much harder: a promise to recognise the difference between loving you and believing he has to outrun the entire world to deserve it.
I ran here quick when I saw an ask about taking Valarr request….,
Valarr x Yapper!Reader…, because the prince seems like a quiet guy, but he’d be so happy with a yapping gorgeous wife, he just be heart eyes for his bride, who tells him all the gossip she has heard from the Red Keep, or dry humour and sarcastic wits about anything.
Don’t need to write right away, just something to think about hahah
I COULD LISTEN TO YOU ALL DAY—Valarr Targaryen
Valarr Targaryen x wife!reader
content: Valarr’s favorite activity of the day is to simply lie back and listen to his wife talk for hours.
words: 1k
cw: none that I can think of. simply just love sick Valarr listening to his wife talk.
a/n: oh my sweet prince who I often neglect to write about because I am always thirsting over his father and uncle 😔 also here is a small drabble as I work on my other stuff
The sun had long set, the doors to the balcony open allowing a slight breeze to flow through the chambers. It had been a long day of listening to men argue in council, performing duties, and staring at parchment until his eyes crossed. Even now when his body ached for sleep he would not give him.
Not because he had more duties to uphold to, but simply he could not spend his time doing as he wished. He was right where he wanted to be lounging back against the piles of pillows, a hand tucked behind his head the other resting against your thigh.
You sat up straight, your hair unbound moving slightly as you tilted your head back and forth. Your hands moved widely as you made gestures to follow through with your stories of the day. Both that included you and simply ones you had heard through the line of gossip.
He did not care for gossip. He did not often indulge in it himself, but by the Gods he loved to hear the tales that came from your pretty lips. Of who was partaking in what scandalous activity and better yet your own thoughts about the situations.
This was the best part of the day without a shadow of any doubt. Where the pair of you could simply be two young adults in love, without the constant eyes on you. Where he could stare at you as long as he wished without someone else begging for his attention some important matter.
Nothing was ever more important than you, but alas as a prince and future Heir to the Throne duty always called, and must be upheld.
He had always been regarded as quiet, respectful, and watching. You were on the opposite side. You had always talked, a lot according to your family. To which they regarded as a flaw, but he disagreed.
He loved the sound of your voice. He loved listening to the workings of your mind or simple observations you had picked up on. He would never speak again if that was what it took to hear your voice forever.
You were so bright. So beautiful and filled his world with so much light it brought him peace. That despite all the chaos, all the weights on his shoulders he still had this. He stull had his small moments of solace of being your husband.
It was his favorite title. One he wore with pride and made him peacock around more than the one of prince ever had.
You were his and only his.
He watched you carefully, listening to every word you deemed him fit to be graced with and he took everything in with utmost attention. He even often tried to piece together the ending. Seeing as if he could get it right.
Sometimes he did, and that was his favorite part. Watching your face light up even more realizing how he had listened to everything you had said, and even formed his own opinions on it.
He would always store the expression of your face into a small part of his brain so he could remember just how warm he felt during that moment when things got tough. That despite the duty, despite everything he still had you, and your wonderful stories.
You stopped, and he waited for you to continue patiently, wondering if you had lost your footing or something else had came to mind. He never minded straying course form the original topic. Sometimes you ended back at it, and sometimes not.
Your eyebrows came together as your eyes scanned across his face,"Valarr?" you questioned, causing him to hum in reply automatically You looked half surprised as if you had been expecting him not to listen. You clearly did not know you held his entire attention, his devotion, his heart even. "You look bored, my love."
His mouth opened immediately in shock or perhaps sorrow that you could ever think that. He pushed himself up from his lying position, his hand moving to cradle your cheek, "You could never bore me, ābrazȳrys."
"If you are tired you can rest. I know you have had a long day."
He shock his head in denial, "No. I wish for you to continuing
"Truly?" you asked, the doubt was evident seeping through all your features and it caused his gut to churn. Oh, how could you belie there was anything he rather be doing then sitting here, listening to you.
The Prince leaned forward instead pushing his mouth to yours gently, and he could feel you melting into him. His other hand moved to the side of your neck as he held you to him. Kissing away all the doubt that there was anything more important than you.
You were everything. And he would not trade this nightly routine for anything. No crown, no duty could ever stop him from enjoying the small unguarded moments of life with you.
He only pulled away when his lungs begged for air, and he more so did it for you then himself. His forehead rested against your own as he continued to cradle you as if you were glass, "Truly. I could listen to you talk all day," he assured you.
You hummed in reply and he smiled finally pulling back. He smirked pressing a kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger to seal his words once more, before settling back against the pillows.
Valarr smiled at you, "Now continue on with your story of Lady Lannister I am waging to see if I can predict the ending."
You laughed, and the sound hit him directly in his chest, a warmth spreading through him, as you continued on with your story. Your hands moving widely once more, your face lit up in the happiness that mirrored his own.
As he laid there watching you, taking in every word you said as if it was the most important thing in the world, because to him it was. Simply because it came from you.
i am delighted by the idea of shane in interviews after they've been outed just. being more himself.
not because he owes the world ANYTHING but because he already did ALL the right things and obeyed the media training and acted just how he was supposed to, and then his world got blown to smithereens anyway, so FUCK IT. he still mostly stays on the rails, but he is more relaxed in interviews with ilya because a little bit "fuck it" and a little bit "i'm sitting next to my favorite person while doing this"
they DO end up sidetracking each other, though, a la the way ilya kept cracking up and wrecking the ccm shoot
they get asked couple interview questions that are just softball content things like "who cooks the most?"
and IMMEDIATELY the answer is delayed by bickering
"-kay, yeah, maybe during the season you do more cooking, but let's also talk about who sets the fire alarm off more"
"oh, we want to do this? who is the one who tried to set our toaster on fire this morning, hollander? remind me of this"
"oh, you mean our THIRD toaster this year because you just shove stuff in there and see what happen-"
"you also were curious about if cookies could go in there. you know you were."
"no, i wasn't! i said don't do it!"
"no, you are rewriting history." *hand flick and look to camera* i asked if cookies could go in the toaster, and he said 'i don't know.'" *look back to shane* "you wanted to know."
"no! that is not what that means at ALL. that doesn't-"
"i asked question, you-"
"no, you're ridiculous." *look back to camera* "he cooks more, but you can also ask the fire department who sets off the alarm more. it's the same answer."
"the fire department came ONE time."
"yeah, and it's one more than i've ever had them called on me."
"yes, because your great love is the microwave and that-"
and the interviewer behind the camera just. really does not know where to jump in here because they are fully more focused on each other than actually. doing the interview.
HAPPY WIFE, HAPPY LIFE : CLARK KENT x WIFE MASTERLIST.
a masterlist of all clark kent / wife!reader one-shots, requests etc compiled into one place. these haven’t been organised into chronological order or anything. (it’s pretty much all of my work.)
Sinopsis: When the world discovers that Superman wears a wedding ring hidden around his neck, Metropolis becomes obsessed with uncovering the identity of the mysterious woman who captured the Man of Steel’s heart. Meanwhile, you only want to survive another normal workday while hiding the truth: Superman’s wife has been sitting behind a bank desk this entire time.
Warnings: Mentions of media invasion/privacy concerns, Anxiety over secret identity
WC: 2,600 words approx.
The news broke the internet. Not slowly, not like those stories that start small and then grow over time. This was like someone had pressed a button, and suddenly the entire world was talking about the same thing. The Daily Planet had the first image, and that was no small matter, because thanks to Jimmy capturing Superman in the photograph, it wasn’t just some blurry pixels that said nothing. No, it was the photograph everyone needed to explode with speculation. In the picture was Superman, the Man of Steel, the most powerful hero on the planet, smiling while carrying a little girl in his arms. But what made the image special was a tiny detail that Jimmy, with his camera always ready, had managed to catch: a thin necklace hanging around the hero’s neck, and from that necklace hung a ring. An engagement ring. At first glance, anyone could think it was just a normal piece of jewelry, but the people who truly knew Superman knew he never wore accessories. Never. So why was he carrying that ring so close to his chest, right above his heart? The question spread faster than Superman himself.
“That can’t be real,” you heard one of your coworkers shout. You looked over curiously toward where he was standing, because his voice sounded genuinely shocked, as if he had seen a ghost or something equally unbelievable. He had his phone in hand and couldn’t stop darting his eyes back and forth, reading something that had him completely captivated.
“This is impossible,” said another woman who was being helped by one of your coworkers. She also had her phone out, and even though she was in the middle of paperwork, she couldn’t take her eyes off the screen. Her voice trembled slightly, as if whatever she was seeing had stolen the air from her lungs for a second.
“Oh my God, I knew that man had a woman,” your coworker said, and you almost blushed without really understanding why. It wasn’t that serious, you thought, but something about the way she said it—with that certainty and poorly hidden envy—made a strange warmth curl in your stomach.
At the bank where you worked, your job was to assist people who came in looking to sign up for the bank’s benefits, like credit cards or medical insurance. Most of the time it was a calm job, although sometimes the place got crowded and everyone had to rush around. Luckily, that day there still weren’t many customers to attend to. In fact, you had been filling out information for an insurance case that required endless paperwork and documents, and that had kept you busy all morning. You were about to stretch out your arm to grab your hot chocolate—the one you always made yourself halfway through the day to recharge your energy—when suddenly you froze. Something in the atmosphere had changed. It wasn’t noise, it wasn’t movement, it was more like a wave of excitement coming from all your coworkers at once. Everyone was glued to their phones, and some had even stood up from their chairs to gather around others and show them something.
“I’m so jealous, Superman has a wife,” said Thaeli, your coworker on your left. She was always dramatic, you knew that, but this time she took it further than ever: she stretched her hands toward the ceiling as if begging for a miracle and made an exaggerated expression that usually would have made you laugh. But this time it didn’t. You stared at her, feeling something tighten inside your chest.
“What?” you asked, almost nervously, though you tried to keep your voice sounding normal. You didn’t want Thaeli noticing anything strange about you, because she could be very observant when she wanted to.
“It’s everywhere, look,” Thaeli said, handing you her phone. The screen was already on, showing the exact picture everyone was talking about.
You looked at the image. There was Superman, smiling the way he always did in photographs, with that confidence that made people trust him so easily. He was carrying a little girl in his arms, a dark-haired child laughing while he lifted her as if she weighed nothing. But what truly mattered was what hung against his chest. A red circle on the photo pointed directly at it: a thin necklace with a ring dangling from it. You recognized it instantly. You knew Clark carried it with him when he worked at the Daily Planet. He had told you he needed to keep it with him while he worked because he couldn’t stand the idea of leaving it at home.
“It’s a necklace made from a strange material, it won’t let the ring fall off even if there’s a bomb,” he had explained the first time he showed it to you. “I don’t think anyone will notice it, I move too fast.”
Well, apparently not, Clark. Jimmy moves faster than you thought. And now the entire world was seeing what was only supposed to belong to you.
You handed Thaeli’s phone back carefully, trying not to let your hand shake. Barely managing it. Thaeli took it without taking her eyes off the picture, and you took the opportunity to breathe deeply once.
“Lucky woman, huh?” Thaeli said, shaking her head from side to side as if she still couldn’t believe it. You nodded, though inside you felt something very different from luck.
“Definitely,” you agreed, and without meaning to, you glanced at your ring. Yours. The one Clark had slipped onto your finger the day he knelt in front of you in the tiny kitchen of his apartment, his hands trembling and his smile bigger than the entire city.
No… no one would figure it out, you thought quickly. There were thousands of women in the world wearing wedding rings. Millions, probably. Your ring wasn’t special, it wasn’t unique. Even so, you lowered your hand and hid it beneath the desk, as if that small piece of jewelry could somehow betray you.
You picked up your own phone. There were even more images now, different angles, all taken by people who had happened to be in the right place at the right time. Every photograph showed Superman from a different perspective, but in all of them the ring hanging from the strange necklace was visible. The headlines were getting crazier by the minute.
“Superman: who is his superwoman?” one article read.
And underneath it, another one asked, “Is the woman even from this planet?”
You smiled despite yourself. Of course she was from this planet, you thought. She was from Metropolis, actually. But they didn’t know that.
Even so, nerves floated inside you like untied balloons. You knew Clark was extremely careful with you and with your marriage. Both of you were. His friends knew about his marriage to you, just as your friends knew about your marriage to the Daily Planet reporter. But the world didn’t know. The world saw Superman as a hero without attachments, someone who belonged to everyone and no one at the same time. And now, suddenly, that ring said otherwise. It said Superman belonged to someone. It said someone had won his heart. And that someone was you.
The day at the bank felt endless. Every minute dragged on like an hour, and every time someone mentioned the word “Superman,” you felt a small twist in your chest. Your coworkers couldn’t stop talking about the ring, about the lucky woman, about how she could have possibly captured the Man of Steel’s heart. Thaeli had even started making bets on whether the mysterious wife was a superhero or just a normal person.
You only nodded, smiled whenever you were supposed to, and kept your left hand hidden beneath the desk most of the time. You hadn’t taken the ring off—not once. Never. Clark loved seeing it on your hand, and you loved feeling it there, warm against your skin, like a beautiful secret shared only between the two of you. He never took his off either, you knew that well. When he was at the Daily Planet, he wore it on his finger like any normal reporter. And when he put on the cape to become Superman, he slipped it onto that necklace he insisted was invisible.
“No one’s going to notice it,” he had told you more than once, with that confidence of his that sometimes made you laugh and sometimes worried you.
Well, now it was everywhere. On the televisions inside the bank, on everyone’s phones, on the giant screens out on the street when you stepped outside for lunch. There wasn’t a single place where people weren’t talking about it.
When it was finally time to leave, you let out a deep breath. The evening air hit your face, and you felt your shoulders relax slightly. You walked home with slow but steady steps when you suddenly felt the soft buzz of your phone.
It was a message from Clark.
“See you at home,” the first one read.
Then another message appeared:
“I’ll keep pace with you until I know you’ve made it safely.”
You smiled. You knew he followed your heartbeat, that no matter where he was, he could hear the rhythm of your heart among the millions of people in Metropolis. It made you feel protected, as if he were holding your hand even from far away. So you kept walking calmly, without rushing, letting the cool evening air clear your mind a little. The streets were full of people staring at screens and discussing the news, but you simply kept going until you reached your building.
You climbed the stairs the way you always did, step by step, and when you reached the apartment, you pulled out your keys. You opened the door and stepped inside. The first thing you saw was Clark. He was standing by the window, looking outside, though not at the city skyline. He was staring at the glass, or maybe at his own reflection, or maybe at none of those things at all. His shoulders were slightly slumped, something rarely seen on him. The moment he heard your first step inside the apartment, just the sound of your shoe against the floor, he turned around quickly. His eyes met yours for a second before dropping to the floor, as if he felt embarrassed or didn’t know how to look at you after what had happened.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said. His voice sounded tired, more tired than when he came back from stopping a fire or holding back an earthquake.
You closed the door carefully, without making much noise. You left your bag on the living room chair, hung your coat on the rack the way you always did, and walked toward him with soft steps. You nodded once and said, in the calmest voice you could manage,
“Come here.”
Clark didn’t need to be told twice. He took one long step and wrapped you in a tight embrace, though not in the way he sometimes did when he wanted to lift you into the air. No. This was a tired hug, one where he leaned on you more than you leaned on him. He buried his face in your neck, right where your shoulder met your throat, the place he always said smelled like home. And before going still, he pressed a quick kiss to your cheek.
“Hi,” he greeted softly, before hiding in your neck again like an oversized child.
You smiled at his behavior. Despite everything, despite the chaos outside, he was still that huge man who curled up against your shoulder whenever something worried him. You ran a hand along his back, feeling the fabric of his shirt beneath your fingertips, then whispered close to his ear,
“What happened, big guy?”
He sighed against your skin, his voice coming out muffled.
“You told me. They were going to see it.”
You nodded even though he couldn’t see you from where he was.
“I told you,” you said, not as a reproach, only as a gentle reminder.
Clark lifted his head slightly to look at you, just enough for you to see his blue eyes behind the glasses he wore as a disguise.
“You’re developing that mother ability to say ‘I told you so,’” he said, and a small smile appeared on his lips, the kind that only came out when he was nervous or emotional.
And then, suddenly, as if the thought had been floating around in his head and he had only just gathered the courage to say it out loud, he added,
“Maybe it’s a sign for us to have a baby.”
You stared at him. Your heart jumped in a way you couldn’t control, and Clark tilted his head slightly, like a large dog waiting for your reaction. He didn’t say anything else. He only looked at you with those eyes that sometimes seemed to ask permission for everything.
A few seconds passed. You still had one hand resting on his back, and he still had his long arms wrapped around you. Then you spoke carefully, the way someone touches something fragile.
“Have you thought about the fact that maybe the best option would be not wearing the ring?”
Clark’s eyes widened slightly. He shook his head immediately, not slowly but firmly, like he had thought about that possibility many times already and had his answer prepared.
“What?” he said, and his voice sounded almost offended, as though you had suggested something impossible.
He loosened his hold on you just enough to raise his right hand. There it was. The ring. On his finger. Just like always. You looked at it for a moment, the metal gleaming softly under the afternoon light spilling through the window. Clark kept talking, and his voice filled with something softer than tenderness but somehow stronger.
“It’s my treasure. The greatest one of all.”
You smiled. You couldn’t help it. He always found a way to make you smile even when the world outside was losing its mind.
“I’ll wear it here, on my finger, or on my necklace,” he said, curling his hand slightly where the ring rested. “I’m not taking it off.”
You nodded. You knew. You had known from the very beginning, even before asking. Clark wasn’t the kind of person who hid the things he loved, even if it caused him trouble. That was why you loved him. That was why you had married him.
“So what are you going to do about people?” you asked while lifting your hand to gently caress his cheek.
He leaned slightly into your touch, closing his eyes for a second as though something as simple as that gave him strength. When he opened them again, that mischievous smile you loved so much had already appeared.
“People love Superman,” he said slowly, “not Superman’s life.”
You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish.
“If I don’t talk, they’ll never know anything. I’ll never tell them.”
You laughed softly at his words. Because it was so him, so incredibly Clark, to say something like that with the calm confidence he always had when it came to impossible things. As if it were easy. As if the entire world wasn’t desperately searching for answers right now.
“Okay,” you said, leaning in to kiss his cheek, right where a small dimple sometimes appeared when he smiled for real.
And there, in the living room of his apartment, with the news screaming outside and the ring shining on Superman’s hand, everything felt just a little more peaceful.
Sinopsis: A harmless lie told to escape an unwanted coworker forces a Daily Planet photographer and Clark Kent into a fake relationship. What begins as a simple favor soon becomes far more complicated when real feelings start getting involved.
Your heart pounded as you walked toward your floor. You felt nervous, very nervous, because you knew what you had to do. You had made the decision the night before, when you couldn't sleep from thinking about everything that had happened. You were going to do it, even though you couldn't guarantee that everything would turn out well. It wasn't that you liked lying—not at all. You were an honest person, the kind who says exactly what's on her mind, but lately you had been feeling very uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable every time you had to go down to the editors' floor. Every time you had to run into Benjamin Corvin. And that bothered you, because your job was something you genuinely enjoyed.
You had started working at the Daily Planet exactly six months ago. You were hired as a photographer, and from the very first day, you knew you had arrived somewhere special. The walls were tall, covered with framed old newspapers, awards, and photographs that told stories from decades past. The building smelled like paper and freshly brewed coffee, and the sound of typewriters and keyboards was like a background song that never stopped playing. You liked that noise. It made you feel like you were part of something important.
Your job was divided into two parts. Sometimes you were assigned to work with Cat Grant, the newspaper's most famous interviewer, the woman who could always get even the quietest artists and the most arrogant actors to talk. You accompanied her to interviews and took photographs of those stars who appeared in magazines and on television. You met singers who filled stadiums, actors who won awards, and film directors admired by everyone. And although being around them made you a little nervous at first, Cat taught you how to stay calm, how to find the perfect angle, how to wait for the right moment to press the shutter. She was demanding, but she was always fair with you, and you appreciated that.
Other times, you were assigned to Clark Kent.
And that was completely different.
But also much better.
Because Clark didn't interview artists or singers. Clark interviewed presidents, diplomatic agents, important people who made decisions that changed the country. And you went with him, taking pictures of those men and women in suits and ties, of those people who spoke in complicated terms and always seemed to be in a hurry.
But the best part of working with Clark wasn't the type of interviews.
It was him.
Clark was kind. Far too kind.
He always smiled at you. Always asked how you were doing. Always worried about whether you were too cold or too warm, or whether you were getting too tired.
And whenever you were assigned to work with him, you knew free pastries were waiting for you.
Clark loved buying sweet things. He said sugar helped people think better. And he always carried a little bag filled with cookies, donuts, or those cake pops covered in colorful sprinkles that you loved so much. He would place them on your desk without saying anything, simply leaving them there like a silent gift.
And at the end of the day, you always ended up at an Italian restaurant Clark knew, one located just a few blocks from the newspaper building. He claimed it was the best restaurant in the city, that the pasta was handmade and the tomato sauce was based on the owner's grandmother's secret recipe.
At first, you thought he was simply being polite. That he invited you out of obligation.
But one day, you told him it wasn't necessary, that you could eat alone at home.
And he looked at you with those big, clear eyes and said,
"It was a team effort. I'd feel bad eating alone."
So you smiled and accepted, because with Clark, everything was easy.
Everything felt simple.
Natural.
As if you had known him your entire life.
But not everything was like that.
As much as you wished everything could be like working with Cat or Clark, it wasn't.
Because the problem was downstairs.
That's where the editors worked. The people who corrected the writers' work, who reviewed every word, who changed commas and periods and sometimes entire headlines. It was also where the people who evaluated photographs worked, the ones who decided whether an image was blurry, whether the framing was wrong, or whether the lighting didn't flatter the interviewee.
That floor was quieter than the one above. People spoke in low voices. The phones rang with deep tones. Everyone moved quickly without making noise.
Honestly, it was a little intimidating.
At first, you didn't think much of it.
You would go downstairs, hand over the memory cards they gave you, and come back up.
Simple as that.
The memory cards were always requested so the files could be transferred into the newspaper's archive and historical records, ensuring nobody could plagiarize them. The newspaper took that very seriously. They didn't want another outlet stealing their photographs or articles.
So every time an interview or an important story was completed, someone had to bring the memory cards down to the editors' floor.
And at first, you did it because you had told Clark,
"No problem, I'll take them down. It'll give me a chance to stretch my legs."
And he smiled that calm, warm smile of his and said,
"Alright. Thank you very much."
Because that day he had to finish an extremely long article. He looked so stressed, surrounded by the clock, stacks of papers, and his computer, that helping him felt like the least you could do.
So it became routine.
Something you did without thinking.
You walked down the stairs, crossed the long hallway, greeted the people at their desks, dropped the memory cards into the editing intake tray, and headed back upstairs.
You did it many times.
Again and again.
Sometimes Clark was in meetings and couldn't go himself.
Other times he was transcribing interviews that had lasted for hours, his fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard while his eyes remained fixed on the screen.
You never complained, especially because your photographs were always ready.
You kept them organized in folders, clearly labeled and properly arranged, waiting to be used.
You knew your images brought Clark's articles to life.
That they helped people stop and read.
That they caught attention.
And you liked that.
You liked knowing your work mattered.
But that was the mistake.
You never knew exactly when everything started.
Or whether it was because of a professional smile you accidentally gave one day.
Or a particularly cheerful "good morning."
Or maybe a "thank you" that sounded kinder than it should have.
But Benjamin Corvin, the editor who always sent your emails, began to change things.
At first, it was small.
He stopped tagging Clark in the emails.
He would send a message saying the memory cards were needed, but Clark's name wouldn't appear.
Only yours.
You assumed it was a mistake.
Anyone could make an error while writing an email.
But it happened again.
And again.
And after a few more messages, he stopped calling you down only for the memory cards.
He called because he claimed the photos hadn't been saved correctly.
That there was an error.
That the memory card was empty or corrupted.
But you knew it wasn't.
You always checked before going downstairs.
You connected the card to your computer, opened the folder, and looked through the photographs one by one.
Everything was there.
Everything was fine.
But he insisted otherwise.
Insisted that you come downstairs again.
Insisted that you stay for a moment while he "reviewed" the files.
And then it got worse.
One day, you went downstairs with the memory cards as usual. You greeted everyone, smiled politely, and watched him walk toward you with a cup of coffee in his hand. He moved slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if you had nothing more important to do. The other editors remained at their desks, typing or reading papers, and even though they were all nearby, it seemed like nobody was looking.
Or maybe they were.
Maybe they were simply used to it.
Maybe Benjamin did this all the time, and they had learned to keep their heads down and stay out of it.
"What are you doing after work?" he asked.
His voice was calm, but there was something in his tone that made you feel small. As if he was above you and you were beneath him, and that was how things were supposed to be.
You tightened your grip on the memory cards and searched for a quick answer. You didn't want to tell him the truth. You didn't want to say that maybe you were going home to watch television, or that you simply wanted to be alone.
So you made up an excuse.
The first thing that came to mind.
"I have a doctor's appointment," you said.
The lie tasted bitter in your mouth, but you felt relieved to have said something.
Benjamin nodded, but he didn't leave.
He stayed right there, standing in front of you with that crooked smile you disliked so much. It was the kind of smile that never reached his eyes, remaining only on his lips as though it had been carefully practiced.
Then he stepped a little closer.
Close enough for you to smell his cologne, a strong scent that seemed to fill the air around him.
"Mmm... sure," he said, sounding as though he didn't entirely believe you. "If you're ever free one day, let me know, alright?"
You didn't know what to say.
The words got stuck in your throat.
You wanted to tell him no.
You wanted to tell him that you weren't going to let him know anything.
That you'd rather stay busy forever.
But your mouth wouldn't move.
You remained frozen, your palms beginning to sweat, your heart beating faster than usual.
And at that exact moment—at the precise moment when you had no idea what to do—your phone rang.
The sound felt like a lifeline thrown into deep water.
You glanced at the screen and saw Clark's name.
You answered immediately, barely looking.
His voice came through clear and hurried.
"Hey, are you still downstairs?" Clark asked. "Come back up when you can. We just got assigned a new task. It's urgent."
You ended the call and looked at Benjamin.
He was still standing there, holding his coffee and wearing that smile.
You took a breath.
Let it out slowly.
And without saying another word, you turned around.
You walked toward the stairs with firm steps, feeling his eyes on your back.
You didn't look behind you.
You didn't want to see him.
You just wanted to go upstairs, see Clark, and feel safe again.
But he kept insisting.
He took advantage of every opportunity he could find to smile at you, approach you, run into you in the hallway, in the cafeteria, or even on your own floor.
Sometimes he came upstairs with some excuse—a document that needed your signature or a last-minute review.
You would see him approaching and immediately feel a knot tighten in your stomach.
The kind of knot that squeezes so hard it makes it difficult to breathe.
Sometimes you hid behind Clark so Benjamin wouldn't look at you.
And with how tall Clark was, you completely disappeared behind him.
You stayed there as though he were a wall.
A wall made of suits and ties that shielded you from Benjamin's gaze.
Clark never asked why you did it.
He simply continued talking as though nothing unusual was happening.
And you appreciated his silence.
You also stopped leaving the building alone.
Before, you hadn't minded walking out peacefully, listening to music through your headphones or scrolling through your phone.
Now you did.
Now you were afraid of running into him outside.
At the entrance.
In the parking lot.
Anywhere.
You were afraid there would be nobody around.
That it would be just you and him.
And that he would say something.
Or do something.
And you wouldn't know how to react.
One afternoon, everything you feared happened.
Clark had an unexpected obligation and left work early.
He apologized, saying he had to rush out and that he'd see you the next day.
You smiled and told him it was fine, that you were about to leave too.
But when you reached the elevator and the doors opened, you saw him.
Benjamin was inside.
Alone.
Leaning against the wall with that smile you had come to hate.
Your heart jumped.
Not from excitement.
Not from anticipation.
Not from the kind of nervousness that could sometimes feel pleasant.
Your heart jumped because of fear.
You were trapped inside a small metal box with a coworker who refused to leave you alone.
A place you couldn't escape until the doors opened again.
You stood frozen for a moment, wondering whether you could simply wait for the next elevator.
But Benjamin had already seen you.
He had already placed his foot between the doors to keep them from closing.
He was already smiling at you as though everything were perfectly normal.
So you stepped inside.
You positioned yourself in the opposite corner, as far away from him as possible, and stared straight ahead without speaking.
"Got plans tonight?" he asked in that calm voice that always sounded fake to you. "We could grab a drink. I know a good place nearby."
You shook your head without looking at him.
But he moved closer.
One step.
Then another.
Now he was closer than before.
Far too close.
He slowly raised one hand.
And you watched his fingers move toward your arm.
He was going to touch you.
He was going to put his hand on you.
And you didn't know whether you would be able to move or if you would freeze like a statue.
And then—
Just as Benjamin's hand was about to brush against your skin—
The elevator doors opened.
Lois was standing there.
Her purse hung from one shoulder, her keys in her hand.
She had been heading upstairs to grab her things before going home.
But the moment she looked at you and then at Benjamin, her expression changed completely.
She frowned.
Her jaw tightened.
And her eyes became small and hard as stone.
"Acting like a creepy fucking stalker again, Corvin?" Lois asked.
Her voice wasn't a shout.
Yet somehow it sounded louder than any shout could have.
You were incredibly pale.
You could feel it in your face.
In your hands.
Throughout your entire body.
And you knew Lois had noticed because she looked you up and down, and her frown deepened even more.
Benjamin let out a short laugh, as if Lois had told a bad joke.
He slipped one hand into his pocket and looked at her with those eyes that had always seemed cold to you.
"I was just inviting her out for a drink, Lane," he said, shaking his head as though she were the unreasonable one. "Not everyone is as bitter as you."
You felt your legs tremble slightly.
You didn't want to stay there.
You didn't want to hear another word.
You searched for something to say.
Anything that would get you out of that elevator and away from that situation.
"I have to see my brother," you blurted out.
Even though you were an only child, and everyone knew it except him.
But he didn't care.
Because he didn't know anything about you.
He only saw you as something pretty to look at.
"I'm sorry," you added.
Then you looked at Lois.
Lois met your gaze and nodded once.
A small, quick gesture that clearly meant:
"Get out of here. I'll handle this."
So you left.
You walked quickly toward the building's exit, your heart lodged in your throat.
And before stepping outside, you turned your head for just a second.
"Good night," you said.
Then you left.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Benjamin make a move to follow you.
To go after you.
But Lois stopped him.
She grabbed his arm firmly, with the kind of strength nobody expected from someone as slender as her.
"We need to talk about my article, Corvin," Lois said, her voice filled with fury. "And your edits. Right now."
She was saving you.
She was genuinely saving you.
You walked toward the street.
Toward the cool evening air.
Toward the people passing by who had no idea what had just happened.
And you made it home alone.
But safe.
That night, you couldn't sleep well.
You tossed and turned in bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the fact that tomorrow, you'd have to go back.
But he continued.
He didn't stop.
As if nothing had happened.
As if Lois had never confronted him.
As if you hadn't left that elevator trembling.
The next day, there was the smile again.
Another day with a coffee cup in his hand and those slow steps heading toward you.
And then another day.
And another.
He was like a shadow that refused to leave.
Like a fly buzzing near your ear that you couldn't swat away.
Maybe that was why you hurried after Clark whenever he left.
Because if Clark was with you, Benjamin only watched from a distance and smiled, while you deliberately looked away.
You didn't want to see him.
Clark walked with you to the elevator or the building's exit, and Benjamin never dared approach when Clark was around.
Maybe because Clark was big.
Tall.
And even though he was kind, he was also intimidating without meaning to be.
Maybe that was why you were hurrying toward the floor's printer that day.
Because you knew Clark was there, standing near the machine making copies, and you needed to be close to him.
You needed to feel like you weren't alone.
Because your interactions with the editor were suffocating you.
You felt cornered.
Like a small animal being slowly trapped, leaving you with less and less room to move or breathe.
And yesterday, the stupidest lie in the world had slipped out of your mouth.
A lie you hadn't planned.
One that had come out on its own because you were so afraid.
You didn't like lying.
You never had.
But you were scared.
Scared that you'd be fired if Benjamin became angry because you rejected him.
Scared that if he made something up—something false about you, something awful you had never done—everyone would believe him because he had worked there for four years.
Four years.
Four years of knowing everyone.
Of making friends.
Of earning the trust of the bosses.
And you only had six months.
Almost seven.
But six months were nothing compared to four years.
That's why the lie came out.
A stupid little thing.
You said something that wasn't true just to make him go away.
Just to gain one minute of peace.
But it didn't work.
Nothing worked with him.
So that morning, as you walked toward the printer and saw Clark standing with his back to you, waiting for a stack of pages to finish printing, you felt your legs trembling again.
You hesitated when you were only a few steps away.
Lois had told you Clark would be there. That it would be a good time to talk to him.
But everyone said asking Clark for favors was easy.
That he never said no.
Except that over the past few weeks, you had heard the exact opposite.
You had overheard it in the break room when Steve was complaining.
Clark hadn't been there at the time.
"He actually told me no," Steve said, his voice high-pitched with outrage. "When he always helps me. Always. And now he suddenly tells me he can't."
You raised an eyebrow and looked at him.
Steve was the type of person who asked for favors constantly, as if everyone else existed solely to help him.
"How strange," you said, a hint of sarcasm in your voice. "Maybe because you've asked him about three hundred times."
Lois, who was drinking coffee nearby, burst out laughing.
The kind of laugh that came naturally.
Not out of politeness.
"Well," Zoe said, crossing her arms, "Clark used to be nicer. He told me no too. I asked if he could stay a few extra hours to help me with some edits. I know it was already quitting time, but we're coworkers, right? Coworkers help each other."
A spark of irritation flared in your chest.
You didn't like the way they talked about Clark.
As if he was obligated to help them.
As if his time mattered less than theirs.
"I'm happy about it," you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the table. "Maybe when someone is kind, people mistake that for being a fool. And Clark isn't a fool. You should appreciate his help when he gives it instead of complaining when he doesn't."
Everyone fell silent for a moment.
Lois looked at you with a small smile, as if she agreed.
"Well, maybe you won't be getting it anymore," Lois said, lifting her coffee cup. "Or any more favors. He's taking it seriously, it seems."
You remembered all of that as you walked toward the printer.
And you felt like a hypocrite.
A complete hypocrite.
Because there you were, on your way to ask Clark for an enormous favor.
A gigantic favor.
The kind of favor you didn't ask a coworker for.
And he would probably reject you, just like he had rejected Steve and Zoe.
Because Clark didn't do favors anymore.
Clark was setting boundaries.
And you were about to cross every single one of them.
You reached the printer.
There were people nearby, two employees you didn't know very well, sorting through folders.
Clark stood beside the machine, waiting for his copies.
You moved to stand beside him.
Very close.
And glanced at him from the corner of your eye without saying anything.
Your heart was beating so loudly you thought he might actually hear it.
Clark turned his head and looked at you.
He had those big, clear eyes that always made you feel calm.
But now there was a question in them too.
"Everything alright?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.
You knew you were being obvious.
You couldn't hide anything from Clark.
He always noticed when something was wrong.
"Yes," you said quickly.
Then you shook your head.
"No."
You looked at the other people still standing nearby.
You couldn't talk while they were listening.
You couldn't say what needed to be said with strangers around.
"I need... I..." you stammered, feeling the words tangle together. "Can we wait until everyone leaves?"
You whispered it so quietly that it was almost inaudible.
But Clark heard you.
Clark always heard you.
He nodded without asking any questions.
And you released some of the breath trapped inside your lungs.
You gave him a tired smile.
One of those smiles people make when they're too exhausted to keep pretending.
And Clark noticed it.
Of course he noticed it.
His expression became a little more serious.
A little more attentive.
The two people nearby finished gathering their things and left.
First one.
Then the other.
And when they were finally alone in that part of the hallway, you stopped pretending.
You stopped rearranging copies that didn't need rearranging.
Stopped looking away.
You took a breath.
And looked at him.
"Did something happen?" Clark asked.
His voice was gentle.
So gentle it almost hurt.
You fidgeted with your hands.
Squeezing them together.
Letting go.
Then squeezing them again.
You couldn't look him in the eyes.
If you looked at him, maybe you wouldn't be able to say what you needed to say.
"I know we have a professional relationship," you began, your voice sounding smaller than you wanted it to. "And I don't want to ruin it."
Clark said nothing.
He simply waited.
"I need a huge favor."
This time you lifted your head.
You saw him listening carefully.
Saw that he wasn't judging you.
But you didn't let him speak because you were afraid that if he said anything before you finished, you would lose your nerve.
"I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend."
You blurted it out all at once.
Like throwing a stone into water and waiting for the ripples.
Then you fell silent.
Waiting for his reaction.
But Clark didn't say anything.
He remained perfectly still, looking at you, his copies tucked under one arm.
"In the newsroom," you added, just in case it hadn't been clear. "Only in the newsroom. I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend in the newsroom."
He still didn't speak.
You bit your lip and felt your eyes sting.
But you weren't going to cry.
Not there.
Not in front of him.
"I know you said you don't do favors anymore," you continued, speaking faster now, as if all the words were trying to escape at once. "You told everyone. You turned everyone down. And I know this isn't professional. I know what I'm asking is wrong. That I shouldn't ask. That it's a lot, but Clark—"
"Okay," Clark said.
You stopped.
Your eyes widened.
You stared at him in confusion.
"Okay?" you repeated, your voice coming out so high-pitched that you barely recognized it.
"Yes," Clark said again with that calmness he always seemed to have, as though nothing could surprise him.
"You probably didn't hear me correctly," you said, gesturing with your hands as your fingers trembled. "The favor I want breaks professionalism a little. Actually, a lot. I want you to pretend that—"
"That I'm your boyfriend," Clark interrupted.
You nodded.
And just stared at him.
You hadn't thought he would say yes.
In your head, you had rehearsed this conversation dozens of times.
But every version ended the same way.
With Clark saying no.
Every single one.
Which was why you had never planned what happened afterward.
Because in every rehearsal, he said no.
But he had said yes.
And now you were standing there with your mouth slightly open, completely unsure what to do with that answer.
"Well..." you said, trying to continue with what you had prepared.
You were going to explain everything.
Tell him exactly what you had made up.
Give him every detail so he would know how to act.
But then you heard a voice outside.
A voice you already knew.
A voice that irritated you so much it made you clench your teeth.
Benjamin.
He was close.
Very close.
And at any moment he was going to open the door and see you standing there talking to Clark.
So you spoke quickly.
As quickly as possible.
Whispering so only he could hear.
"I told Editor Benjamin that we've been dating for two months," you whispered, glancing toward the door while your heart practically jumped out of your chest. "I told him we have a good relationship and that's why I can't go out with him. That's what I made up. I'm sorry. I know I should've asked first, but I was scared and it just came out and—"
You never finished the sentence.
The door opened.
And in that moment, without thinking, without planning it, your hands moved on their own.
They landed on Clark's jacket.
Right on the lapels.
And you started smoothing them down as though it were something you did every day.
As though you were really his girlfriend.
As though you genuinely cared whether his suit had wrinkles.
You moved a little closer to him.
Just a little.
Enough to make it look natural.
"So we're having dinner at my apartment tonight..." you said.
Your voice came out slightly louder than usual so Benjamin would hear.
You lifted your head and looked at Clark.
And even though you felt embarrassed, even though you could feel heat rising to your cheeks, you stayed in character.
"Sweetheart?"
Clark blushed.
You saw it clearly.
His cheeks turning a shade of pink you had never seen before.
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
As though he had suddenly forgotten how words worked.
"Yes," he finally said. "Yes, that's fine."
Then he fell silent for a second.
A second that felt incredibly long to you.
Until he spoke again.
"Sweetheart," he said.
The word sounded a little stiff.
A little forced.
But you smiled.
Well.
It was a good effort.
Clark wasn't the type to throw around pet names.
And that was one of the things you liked about him.
But right now, you needed him to.
"So Kent managed to get himself a girlfriend?" Benjamin said from the doorway.
You looked at him.
He was leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and that smile that always made your skin crawl.
But this time, you didn't feel quite so alone.
This time, Clark was beside you.
Large.
Steady.
Like a mountain.
You smiled, even though you were still trembling a little inside.
You hid slightly against Clark's arm and wrapped both hands around it.
So Benjamin would see.
So he would understand.
"We prefer to keep things private," Clark said.
And his voice sounded different.
Firmer than you expected.
He smiled, but it wasn't his usual friendly smile.
It was calmer.
More confident.
He looked at you for a second.
Then looked back at Benjamin.
"She asked for it that way. And a man does whatever he can for his girlfriend."
You nodded eagerly.
Making it look like you agreed.
Like it was true.
Like Clark was a wonderful boyfriend, even if he was only pretending.
And for a moment—
Just a moment—
You wondered whether he was feeling something strange in his chest too.
But no.
You couldn't think about that now.
"Oh, sure," Benjamin said with a short laugh. "Then I apologize. I asked her out without knowing you were together."
His eyes traveled up and down your body.
And a chill ran through you.
"You won the lottery, Kent."
You trembled.
It was only a small tremor.
The kind most people wouldn't notice.
But Clark felt it.
Because his arm pressed slightly closer against his side.
Not much.
Just enough to remind you he was there.
"I won the lottery, actually," you said.
And your voice sounded braver than you felt.
You lifted your chin slightly and looked directly at Benjamin.
"He made me fall in love without any pressure."
It was a good jab.
Although you knew Benjamin probably wouldn't understand it.
Or maybe he would.
Maybe he understood perfectly and simply didn't care.
Either way, you said it.
Because it made you feel better.
"I need to get back to work," you continued, carefully letting go of Clark's arm as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "I'll leave you two. So... I'll see you later?"
You looked at Clark.
He looked back at you.
His eyes seemed slightly brighter than usual.
Or maybe it was just the office lighting.
"Yes," Clark said.
You smiled.
The kind of smile that appears all on its own.
You were about to leave.
You already had one foot halfway toward the door.
When you realized Clark wasn't moving.
He was still standing there.
Looking at Benjamin.
And Benjamin was still standing there.
Looking at both of you.
You didn't understand why Clark wasn't turning to leave.
Why he wasn't taking the first step.
Until he turned.
But not toward the door.
Toward you.
He moved closer.
One step.
Then another.
Until he was standing right in front of you.
So close that you could see the tiny flecks of color in his eyes.
So close that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
Your pulse completely spiraled out of control.
Your heartbeat rushed into your throat.
Your temples.
The tips of your fingers.
Your entire body went on high alert.
As though something important was about to happen.
Clark looked at your lips.
You watched his gaze drop.
Then rise.
Drop again.
Then rise.
As though he were asking permission without saying a word.
"May I?" he asked.
You looked at him.
Swallowed hard.
You knew Benjamin was still there watching.
You knew you had to keep up the act.
That if you said no, the entire performance would fall apart.
But deep down—
In the deepest part of your heart—
You also knew you didn't want to say no.
And it would make Benjamin believe it completely.
"Yes," you whispered.
And then Clark kissed you.
It was a small kiss.
A brief one.
Barely more than a brush of lips.
But it echoed through the room.
That soft, intimate sound reached your ears.
And your cheeks immediately turned red as tomatoes.
When he pulled away—
When you opened your eyes, which you didn't even remember closing—
You saw Benjamin laughing.
Laughing as he shook his head.
As though he couldn't believe what he had just witnessed.
As though it were some elaborate joke.
You sighed.
A long sigh.
The kind that escapes after holding your breath for far too long.
"Goodbye," you said without looking at him.
You didn't want to look at Benjamin.
You didn't want to look at anyone.
You walked away quickly.
Your legs felt unsteady.
And your lips still tingled from the kiss.
Maybe it had been a good idea.
Of course it had.
You felt uncomfortable.
Clark helped you.
And that was all.
It didn't have to mean anything more.
It was a favor between coworkers.
A lie meant to scare off an annoying man.
Nothing more.
But there was something you had forgotten.
Something you hadn't thought about in that moment.
Something that completely slipped your mind because you were genuinely frightened.
Frightened that Benjamin would claim you had invented the boyfriend story.
Frightened that you would tell Clark and he would deny it.
Frightened that everything would go wrong and you'd be left alone with the problem all over again.
In the middle of all that fear, you forgot something.
Something very small.
Very small.
And yet very, very big.
You liked Clark.
You had liked him since the day you started working there.
It wasn't something new. It wasn't something that had been born from the fake kiss.
No.
It was older than that.
It was one of those feelings that grows slowly, without you noticing, like a plant taking root long before you ever see the leaves.
You had been watching Clark since the first day, from the moment he smiled at you and offered you coffee.
Not like a stalker.
Don't misunderstand.
You weren't the kind of person who stared or followed people around.
It was simply something you did.
Something that came naturally.
You worked with him.
He bought you coffee.
He bought you pastries.
He took you to dinner at the Italian restaurant and told you that you were an excellent photographer, even though you knew he only said that so you wouldn't feel less than anyone else.
But you liked it.
You liked his voice when he spoke softly.
You liked the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.
You liked that he was tall enough to cover you when you hid behind him.
You liked that he was kind without expecting anything in return.
He was a gentleman.
The kind of man you only found once in a century.
And for that very reason, because he was so good, because he was so special, it had become difficult for you.
Because you couldn't tell him anything.
You couldn't ruin what you had.
You couldn't risk him pulling away.
Risk him feeling uncomfortable.
Risk him stopping the coffee invitations and the little pastries.
You preferred having him as a friend over not having him at all.
But now you had kissed him.
Well, he had kissed you.
But it was the same thing, wasn't it?
The kiss had been for Benjamin.
To make him leave.
To make him stop bothering you.
But your lips didn't understand excuses.
Your lips only knew that Clark had touched them.
And that it had felt good.
Too good.
The lie escalated on its own, without you being able to do anything to stop it.
The second week arrived, and there was no turning back.
Because, of course, how were you supposed to say from one day to the next that you were going to break up?
That would look strange.
It would raise suspicions.
And Benjamin wasn't stupid.
If Clark suddenly stopped acting like your boyfriend, the man would realize instantly that the whole thing had been staged.
So you had to keep playing the part.
There were necessary kisses.
Kisses you had to give so people would believe it, so Benjamin would see you and be convinced.
Kisses on the cheek when you ran into each other in the morning.
Quick kisses on the forehead when you said goodbye.
Kisses that lingered on your skin as though they were real.
But they weren't.
They were part of the lie.
Only that.
Clark had apologized for the first one.
You remembered that moment perfectly.
He had looked at you with wide, remorseful eyes, like a puppy that had done something wrong without meaning to, and said,
"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that without asking first."
But you told him it had been the right thing to do.
That it had to happen that way if you wanted it to look real.
That he shouldn't worry.
Clark nodded.
But he still looked uncomfortable.
Then he added that if the kisses ever made you feel bad, if they ever made you uncomfortable, he wouldn't do it again.
He said it very seriously.
Very firmly.
As if making sure you were okay was the most important thing in the world to him.
But you didn't want him to stop.
And that was the problem.
Because you said you wanted everyone to think you were dating.
You told him that the more natural you looked, the easier it would be for Benjamin to leave you alone.
But the truth—
The truth you never told him—
Was that you didn't want to admit how much you loved them.
Those little kisses.
Those brushes of lips against your cheek.
Those hand squeezes you now exchanged in public.
You liked them far more than you should have.
And if you told him, if he knew you felt something, everything would become complicated.
It would become awkward.
It would ruin the friendship you had.
So you stayed quiet and kept pretending, even though every tiny kiss made your stomach flutter like it was full of butterflies.
That day, you invited him to dinner.
It wasn't a real date.
Don't get excited, you told yourself.
It was a necessity.
Because Benjamin had followed you both all the way to the bus stop.
You saw him out of the corner of your eye, standing there as though nothing was wrong, hands in his pockets and that smile you hated on his face.
He had stayed there watching you say goodbye, watching Clark kiss your cheek before you got on the bus.
And when the bus pulled away, Benjamin was still there, watching you leave.
So you couldn't go home alone.
You couldn't risk him waiting for you on some corner.
You suggested Clark go to dinner with you, only to buy time, only so Benjamin would lose track of you.
Clark accepted without hesitation.
As always.
At the restaurant, after ordering your food, you fell silent for a while.
You stared at your plate without really seeing it, turning the silverware between your fingers.
Clark didn't rush you.
Clark waited.
Patient as always.
His large hands resting on the table, his clear eyes fixed on you.
Until you gathered your courage and started talking.
You told him everything.
Everything you had felt.
Everything you had thought.
All the fear you had kept inside for weeks.
When you finished, you lowered your gaze and felt your eyes fill with tears.
"I'm sorry," you said, your voice tiny, as if all the blame belonged to you.
Clark was silent for a moment.
You saw him shake his head slowly, as though he was processing what you had told him.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asked.
His voice didn't sound angry.
Only a little sad.
A little worried.
You looked at him, and he looked back at you with those eyes that seemed to see everything.
"I could have gone downstairs with you. I could have come looking for you. I could have walked with you every time you had to go to the editors' floor. You didn't have to do it alone."
"I thought I'd cause problems for you," you said, looking back down at your untouched plate.
The food was getting cold, but you weren't hungry.
"Even though I'm basically going to cause you worse problems than I would have if I'd just told you. Because now you're caught up in a lie, and if Benjamin finds out, he'll hate you too."
Clark didn't say anything, so you kept talking.
You told him what Benjamin had said many times, almost like a broken record.
That he had worked at the newspaper for four years.
That he knew everyone.
That the bosses trusted him.
One year longer than Clark.
Three years longer than you.
And you had thought that if he got angry, if you rejected him directly, he would file a false complaint.
That he would make something up about you.
And everyone would believe him because he had been there longer.
Because people knew him.
Because he had spent more time drinking coffee from the same machine and greeting the same coworkers.
"But if you didn't feel comfortable, you should have told me," Clark said again, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
You looked at him.
And then your eyes blurred.
You didn't cry, because you didn't want to cry in a restaurant, but the tears were there, rising without permission.
"And what was that supposed to do?" you asked, your voice sounding a little higher than usual.
Clark looked at you without understanding, so you continued.
"I... I always thought about what I would do if something like this ever happened to me. Always. Since I was a little girl, since I started working, I had thought about it thousands of times. I told myself I would defend myself. That I wouldn't stay silent. That I wouldn't let anyone make me feel small. That if a man ever crossed a line with me, I would stand firm and tell him no."
You took a breath and felt your hands trembling.
You placed them on the table, hiding them behind the plate so Clark wouldn't see.
But he had already seen them.
He saw everything.
"But when it started, when he came close to me, when he took advantage of the chance to get into the elevator when there was no one else around, I just froze," you said, your voice cracking slightly at the end. "I didn't know what to do. I was afraid. Afraid he would do something to me. Afraid I'd get fired. Afraid nobody would believe me. And it was a miracle that every time something happened, someone appeared at just the right moment. Lois, Cat, Jimmy, even you... even you. Someone always appeared, and he would back off. But if nobody had appeared... I don't know what would have happened."
"I'm sorry," you repeated again.
As if it were all your fault.
As if being frightened had been a mistake.
Clark shook his head.
Firmly.
From side to side.
Then his hands reached across the table to touch yours.
He took them carefully, with that gentleness he seemed to carry into everything, and squeezed them lightly.
"It's not your fault," Clark said.
His voice was firm.
Certain.
As if there was no room for doubt.
You looked at him, and he held your gaze without blinking.
"What he's doing has no justification. It's disrespectful, and he knows very well that he's making you uncomfortable. It's easy to tell when someone doesn't feel safe around you. He knows. He chooses to ignore it."
"Yes," you whispered, your throat tight.
"If you asked me for help, it's because you feel safe with me," Clark said, a small smile appearing on his face. "And I won't hesitate to protect you. For as long as you need me to pretend, I'll pretend. For as long as you need me by your side, I'll be there. I'm not leaving you alone with him again."
Your cheeks turned red.
You couldn't help it.
Clark's words entered through your ears and went straight to your heart, and your heart began beating faster, as if it had swallowed an entire cup of strong coffee.
You smiled.
A small but genuine smile.
And you thanked him with your eyes because, in that moment, the words wouldn't come.
And Clark followed through.
Clark had absolutely no problem pretending.
The very next morning, when you reached the corner before entering the Planet, he was already there waiting for you.
He saw you approaching and immediately straightened up, as if he had been rehearsing something in his head.
"Should we go in holding hands?" he asked.
His voice sounded slightly uncertain.
Slightly nervous.
You looked at him, and he fell silent for a moment, as though he were searching for the right words.
"It's just that I've never..." He paused awkwardly. "Well, I have. Years ago. But it's been a very long time."
That was how you learned Clark hadn't been in a serious relationship for quite a while.
You couldn't really picture Clark dating anyone.
He was so private.
So quiet about his personal life.
It almost felt as though he had always been alone.
And that made you feel a little sad for him.
But it also gave you a little hope.
Though you buried that hope deep inside yourself, where it wouldn't cause trouble.
"That's fine," you said, offering him your hand.
Clark took it.
His hand was warm.
Large.
His fingers wrapped carefully around yours as though you were something fragile that could break.
They entered the Daily Planet that way, hand in hand, walking together through the lobby.
They rode the elevator together, and every pair of eyes immediately landed on the two of you.
Some people smiled.
Others raised their eyebrows in surprise.
One of the receptionists even congratulated you as if you'd gotten engaged.
You blushed.
But you didn't let go of his hand.
You acted as usual.
You reached your floor.
Each of you went to your desk.
You focused on sending the photographs you had edited the previous day.
But it didn't take long before an email arrived.
The moment you saw it appear on your screen, that familiar knot tightened in your stomach.
"Is it him?" Clark asked from his desk, as though he had somehow felt your fear from across the room.
You looked at him and nodded silently.
Clark stood up.
He walked over and offered you his hand again.
You took the memory card containing the photographs.
He took the memory card with his article.
And together, you went downstairs to the editors' floor.
The moment they arrived, Benjamin almost turned in his chair.
He made a motion as though he were about to stand and approach them.
But he stopped himself.
Instead, he remained seated, fingers resting on his keyboard, watching them through narrowed eyes.
You could practically feel him judging.
Feel his gaze moving to Clark's hand wrapped around yours.
Feel the way he rolled his eyes as though the whole thing were ridiculous.
Clark paid him no attention.
He walked over to the submission desk, placed his memory card beside yours, and with a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, said,
"I'd appreciate receiving the emails as well. I think they've only been going to my girlfriend."
Benjamin's jaw tightened.
He didn't say anything.
He simply nodded once.
Quickly.
As though he wanted you both gone as soon as possible.
You squeezed Clark's hand.
Then the two of you walked away at an unhurried pace.
Not rushing.
Not giving Benjamin the satisfaction of seeing you flee.
When you reached the hallway, when nobody was watching anymore, you finally released a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding.
You looked at Clark.
He looked back at you.
And for a second—
Just one second—
His eyes lingered on yours as though there was something else he wanted to say.
But he didn't.
He simply smiled.
Gave your hand one more gentle squeeze.
And together, you walked back upstairs.
After that, everything seemed calmer.
The weeks passed.
And the lie slowly became routine.
Like a new piece of clothing that feels strange at first but eventually becomes so familiar that you forget you're wearing it.
The two of you started going to lunch together.
You sat at the table in the back where fewer people gathered.
You shared your lunches without anyone bothering you.
You left the building hand in hand.
And Clark would stay with you at the bus stop, glancing around carefully, making sure Benjamin didn't suddenly appear.
Sometimes he even walked part of the way home with you.
Only for a few blocks.
Never all the way.
Because he didn't want Benjamin to know exactly where you lived.
He said Benjamin might follow you.
That it wasn't worth the risk.
You thanked him every time.
And Clark would simply smile and tell you it wasn't a problem.
But when his hand slipped from yours—
When it was time to separate at the corner—
When he walked toward his apartment and you headed toward yours—
You felt the cold.
The cold in your fingers.
The cold in your palm.
The cold of being alone again after spending the entire day with him.
It was a strange kind of cold.
The sort that didn't come from the air.
The sort that came from somewhere deep inside.
And it made you press your hand against your chest as though you could somehow keep Clark's warmth trapped between your fingers.
Because you had learned how to be with him.
Because the thought that the lie would eventually come to an end left you frozen.
And that happened because, perhaps, you longed for it to be real.
Image Management (President!Baelor x PR!reader) - Series 💕💔❤️🔥
Synopsis: After receiving the job offer of a lifetime, you find yourself working in the media/PR team for the President of Westeros: Baelor Targaryen. Doing the job is the easy part, being in the President's proximity is the real challenge...
Oneshots
The Joust (Baelor x Wife!reader) 💕💔
You attend your nephew's fatal joust with your husband.
The Marriage Mart (Baelor x Reader) 💕💔
Maidens have gathered in King's Landing to offer their hands to Prince Valarr, but you form a bond with a different Targaryen...
Thoughts on The Marriage Mart Universe 💕
The Marriage Mart Masterlist
On My Knees, Begging Please (Baelor x Niece!reader)💕💔
Your father has told you that your betrothal to your brother Aerion is imminent, but you cannot let this happen, and go to the one man you believe can help you.
On My Knees, Moaning Please (Baelor x Niece!reader P2) 💔❤️🔥
After you manage to marry your Uncle Baelor instead, you are ecstatic to enjoy married life. He seems determined to deny you that...
Sorely Mistaken (Baelor x Niece!reader) 💕
Ser Duncan knows you are Egg's sister. But how are you also Baelor's wife??
The Unrelenting Shadow (Baelor x Niece!reader) 💕
Prequel to Sorely Mistaken but can be read as a standalone. The story of how niece!reader convinced her (reluctant) Uncle Baelor to wed her.
It Is Called Growth (Baelor x Niece!reader) ❤️🔥
When you were a child, you were obsessed with your cousin Valarr, wishing to be married to him. Now though... now you set your eyes on your uncle Baelor.
Continuation Drabble
Patience Testing (Baelor x Reader) ❤️🔥
You have made it your mission to try and get a rise out of your father-in-law, but Baelor has the patience of ten saints. You have decided to try another strategy...
DIL!reader masterlist
A Change In Him (Baelor x maid!reader) 💔❤️🔥
A maid in the Red Keep catches the eye of the Prince when he wakes after the events of Ashford...
ask: going horse riding
ask: does maekar accept her?
ask: the aftermath
ask: life together
ask: lots of things
ask: having children
Afraid to Feel (Sex Therapist!Baelor x reader) 💕❤️🔥
You seek help from Baelor for your intimacy issues and the lines begin to blur...
Request: A (Horse)Ride (Baelor x Wife!reader) ❤️🔥
Baelor and his wife go on an eventful horse ride...
Professional Boundaries (ModernAU!Baelor Targaryen x Reader)
Masterlist | Part 2
Summary: You work remotely for a high-performing consultancy firm, and you absolutely do not have a crush on your infuriatingly charming manager. Baelor Targaryen does not flirt with employees. But he does welcome challenges. And unfortunately, you keep giving him one.
Corporate, Teams messages, even late at night, and the kind of eye contact that should come with its own HR disclaimer.
Word count: 12K (damn, i really went overboard with this haha)
Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, Modern AU, power dynamics, age gap(reader is in her late 20s, or early 30, Baelor in his mid-40s) explicit smut, masturbation (f), unprotected sex (p in v), oral sex (m and f receiving), vaginal fingering, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, corporate lingo, flirting through Teams chat, best friend Lyonel, English is my second language
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.
Author’s note: Did anyone ask for this? Nope, but I just had to write it hahaha Did I go overboard? Absolutely! This started out as a drabble while I was outlining and drafting the next chapters of my other two stories, after I saw this pic of Bertie Carvel. And then whenever I tried to write the second chapters for ‘The Lady of Summerhall’ and ‘In the Shadows of the Red Keep’, my mind kept going to this, because in this house we cope with modern AUs and smut! And apologies for the corporate lingo in some places!
So, yeah, here you have it! I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did writing it :)
From a young age, you had always been exceptionally good at managing your crushes.
Not avoiding them, that was never realistic, but containing them. Filing them neatly into the corners of your mind where they could not and would not interfere with productivity, judgement or even dignity. You believed that such feelings could be controlled. And you were always successful in that endeavour.
Until the manager at your new job turned out to be the infuriatingly charming Baelor Targaryen.
Now, let's be clear, you did not develop a crush on him. What you felt for him was professional admiration, entirely reasonable and appropriate. Baelor was composed, precise and unnervingly competent at his job, and anyone would respect that. So what if your stomach performed an inconvenient somersault every time he said your name during a meeting? That was a perfectly normal reaction, a biological response to authority and competence. It had absolutely nothing to do with the measured cadence of his speech, or the confidence in his voice, or the way his mouth sometimes curved when you challenged him, or the fact that he was a very, very handsome man, objectively speaking.
Truly, none of this would have been an issue if Lyonel Baratheon had not insisted you apply for the job in the first place.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
It had been a Sunday, both of you enjoying the remnants of your brunch, and you were complaining to Lyonel for what felt like the hundredth time about your current job.
“I think you are just bored.” Lyonel said, stirring his coffee with an exaggerated calm.
“I am not bored.” You retorted, sipping your own coffee.
“Oh please!” He said. “You reorganised your team’s work process for fun.”
“Not for fun! It was inefficient.” But he didn’t hear you, continuing on.
“You built a performance tracker no one asked for.”
“Well, they use it now.”
“You are just proving my point.” He laughed. “You have been complaining about this position for months now. I think you just need a change of pace.”
At that, he opened his phone and after finding what he was looking for, he slid it across the table to you.
“You know I am not looking for a new job.” You said.
“Just read it!” He said, exasperated. “I think that it’s just what you need! And you get to work with yours truly.”
You took the phone, ignoring how he wiggled his brows, and skimmed through the job listing: Senior Strategy Associate in a competitive consultancy, high pressure, high visibility, remote work.
“Who would I report to?”
Lyonel hesitated, just slightly. “Baelor.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately, leaning on the table. “As in Targaryen?”
“As in Targaryen.”
Baelor Targaryen was a legend in his field. Not in the loud, self-promotional way some senior executives tried to be. He did not post LinkedIn essays about leadership philosophies or speak in rehearsed soundbites. He just… won. Campaign pivots, that other firms had declared unrecoverable? He turned them around in a quarter. Clients that were impossible? He retained them. He had built a reputation on precision, strategic recalibrations so clean they felt surgical. People did not describe him as creative, they described him as dangerous.
“I think you’d like him.” Lyonel said casually.
“If I apply, I will apply for the job Lyonel. Not to date him.”
He rolls his eyes. “That is not what I meant.”
“That is exactly what you meant.”
Lyonel grins, ignoring her remark. “Do you want to know more about him?”
“Fine.” You folded your arms, leaning on the chair. “What is he like?”
“Composed.” Lyonel mused, scratching his beard in thought. “Irritatingly controlled. Intense. He listens more than he talks, but he likes to challenge people. Push them to their maximum potential.”
He took a large sip of his coffee. “He is very much a ‘I have a five-year strategic vision with a colour coded spreadsheet’.”
“That just sounds like he is very competent.” You remarked. “He is, after all, one of the best in his field.”
“Understatement of the year.” He smiled wide. “He also hates mediocrity. And he detests yes-men.”
Your brow lifted. “So that made you think of me?”
“Immediately.”
You kicked him under the table, ignoring his yelp.
“Look…” He added, rubbing his hurt leg. “You need someone who pushes back. And he needs someone who won’t fold. It’s like the perfect alignment.”
You sighed, changing the topic before he could push you more. But later that night, you applied. Mostly because you refused to let Lyonel be right about you being bored. And partly because you wanted something new.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The first couple of weeks at your new job were spent completing the onboarding and training courses. Your first one-on-one meeting with Baelor was scheduled for a Thursday morning, for thirty minutes, the calendar invite simply reading ’Introductory alignment’. It was perfectly timed with when you completed the onboarding process, and just before the team meeting in the afternoon.
You joined the meeting a minute earlier, wanting to make a good first impression. And also to make sure that the background was blurred, and that you looked good on camera.
Baelor joined exactly at 9am sharp. You told yourself you only noticed out of habit, assessing punctuality, presentation, authority, which was normal, professional.
The crisp grey shirt fit him too well to ignore, structured and intentional, the kind of detail that suggested control rather than vanity. His hair was styled with the kind of precision that looked effortless, and his beard, neatly trimmed, threaded faintly with grey, only made him more handsome in a way that felt unfairly deliberate.
You mind catalogued all of it automatically. You reasoned with yourself that it was all because it was your first impression of him, an assessment of his leadership presence. That was all.
But then, he looked directly into the camera. The heterochromia was subtle at first, very easy to miss unless the light caught it the right way. But when it did, the difference became unmistakable, one shade deeper than the other. Not dramatic enough to feel mystic or theatrical, just enough to feel arresting. You felt your attention linger a second too long on them.
It was just nerves, you told yourself. Anyone would be a little hyperaware of a new manager, or new expectations, or new dynamics.
It had nothing to do with the way he held himself, or the steadiness of his gaze, or the small smile he gave you, or the quiet confidence in the simple act of saying: “Good morning.”
Yeah, nothing at all.
“Hello.” You smiled back at him, ignoring how clammy your hands felt.
“Welcome to the team.” He said, as if you had always been expected. “I am happy that you decided to join us. We are very much looking forward to your perspective.”
You ignored the way your stomach involuntarily flipped the more you listened to his voice. It was just nerves, you told yourself again.
“Happy to be here.” You said to him instead.
He spent the first few minutes talking about the company, the team he led and that you would be a part of, before turning the conversation back to you.
“I would like to understand your long-term objectives.” He said, looking at his notes before returning to look at you through the camera lens. “Where do you see your skill set expanding and where do you expect friction?”
You blinked. “Friction?”
“I believe that if you are not encountering resistance…” He explained calmly. “You are not operating at your edge.”
You felt yourself lean forward slightly. “I do not mind going against the resistance if I believe, and I know, that my position is correct.”
“I assumed you wouldn’t.” There was a small pause, and the faintest shift in his expression. Approval perhaps? Or at least, you hoped it was that.
He continued by asking you about your previous projects, challenging a few of your conclusions here and there. He was neither aggressive or dismissive in his line of questioning, everything felt deliberate. When you explained why you had pushed back against a former team lead at your old job on a campaign positioning, Baelor listened without interrupting.
“And did you win?” He asked, his voice melodic, with an almost teasing lilt.
“I wasn’t trying to win.” You replied.
“That wasn’t my question.”
You held his gaze through the camera, feeling goosebumps trailing from your neck to your spine.
“Yes.” You answered.
The silence that came over you was measured, not awkward at all.
“Good.” He finally said, making a note of something. “You will not find much tolerance for mediocrity here.”
“I do not do mediocre work.” You replied evenly, not feeling the need to diplomatically dress it as something else.
There was another pause, and his eyes found yours again.
“Good.” He repeated, quieter this time.
The call ended after precisely thirty minutes, and you sat there a moment longer than necessary. There had been nothing inappropriate, flirtatious or personal. It was just a manager meeting and assessing a new hire. And yet, the way he had said ’Good’ the second time, something lingered.
Before you could give it some more thought, your Teams chat pinged with a new message.
Lyonel:
So?
You stared at the message before replying back.
You:
He seems competent at his job
Lyonel:
That’s not what I meant
You ignored him.
Your first proper team meeting began at exactly 1:00 pm later that day. Baelor appeared on the screen without much fanfare, sharply on time again with the same crisp grey shirt, dark hair perfectly in place.
“Good afternoon all.” He said, voice even, measured. “Before we begin, I’d like to introduce our new team member.”
Your name sounded different in his voice, a faint blush covering your cheeks.
“She joins with a competitive strategy background. I expect she will challenge us in useful ways.”
There was that word, challenge. And he didn’t look at his notes when he said it. He looked directly into the camera, at you. There was something… assessing in his gaze. You straightened instinctively, smiling.
“Welcome!” A few voices chimed in and you recognised Lyonel’s voice easily, your eyes naturally searching for him in the grid.
The meeting moved on after, the team going through updates efficiently. When there was silence, it was always intentional, when someone rambled or went off course, Baelor redirected them with surgical politeness.
During the entire meeting, you remained aware of him. You could not deny it, you thought, he was a handsome man. Not in the effortless or careless way of someone who relied on it. His attractiveness and charm were precise, composed posture and controlled expressions combined. He was the kind of man who was aware of the space he occupied and how he chose to fill it carefully.
You pushed these thoughts to the back of your mind, focusing on the meeting. They were irrelevant, you told yourself, entirely irrelevant.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
By the fifth week, you understood the rhythm of the team. What Baelor expected from the team was structure, clear outcomes, arguments backed by numbers and not just instinct. He also preferred to give his opinion last, which usually meant that everyone adjusted to his opinions.
The meeting that morning was about repositioning a major client campaign. You listened to everyone’s thoughts, took notes. The keywords being thrown out were risk mitigation, conservative rollout, with at least two team members echoed variations of the same caution.
You felt everything was played safe. Too safe actually.
Baelor hummed, before summarising. “So, we’re talking about phased release and controlled messaging. No deviation from the tested framework at all?”
A chorus of yeses followed. Pursing your lips, you decided you had to speak up. And just before you did, there was a small tightening in your chest. The friction he had asked about in your first one-on-one came to mind.
“If we do that…” You said evenly. “We will lose momentum by Q4.”
The silence that followed your statement was heavy. Baelor’s eyes shifted to yours immediately, no hint of annoyance, just curiosity.
“Explain.”
Inhaling deeply, you noted how he did not move on the defensive, or dismissive stance. He took your opinion as a challenge, not defiance, just as Lyonel had told you.
And speak of the devil, a Teams message flitted at the top right corner from him.
Lyonel:
Go get them :)
Pulling your presentation slides, because of course you had prepared one just in case, you shared your screen.
“As you can see from the data gathered from the last two quarters, it shows response spikes during higher-variance content cycles.” You explained. “Instead of adapting, we are proposing to react to this volatility by ignoring it.”
A few people shifted in their chairs. One of the analysts frowned slightly. Baelor didn’t interrupt you and leaned back on his chair.
“If we slow the release…” You continued. “We signal uncertainty. And our competitors will exploit that.”
After that, you canceled your share screen, letting the argument stand. Baelor tilted his head, looking at her directly. You noticed Lyonel’s eye brows had shot up, and you knew it was not because of your words. But you decided not to focus on that, waiting for Baelor to say something.
“So, you are suggesting an accelerated rollout?” He asked, his eyes intensely on you.
“Yes.” Your pulse echoed in your ears. You convinced yourself it was the nerves that you went against Baelor and the team. And not because he was looking at you like… that. Well maybe it was both. Thank God your voice was steady at least.
“What you propose comes with higher exposure risk.”
“But with higher engagement probability.” You were quick to reply.
“Are you comfortable carrying that risk?” He asked after a moment.
Your eyes narrowed. The phrasing was deliberate. You knew what was coming.
“Yes.” You finally answered.
The room suddenly felt warmer. Heat spread through your neck.
“It’s a substantial gamble.” Baelor said calmly.
“It’s a strategic decision.” You replied, just as calm.
His captivating eyes did not leave your gaze. He studied you in that same assessing way from your first one-on-one, except this time there was something sharper behind it.
Your phone started vibrating with messages, but your focus was solely on him.
“You are proposing deviation from established protocol in your fifth week.” He said.
“I am proposing growth.”
A ripple moved through the team, subtle, but there.
After a fraction of a second, his mouth curved. Not in a smile, not quite that. Approval maybe?
Baelor looked around the virtual room. “Any thoughts?”
There were a few cautious ones, a few predictable ones. He listened, nodded and took notes, deliberating. Then he looked back at the camera, at you.
“We will pilot y/n’s model,” he said, his word final. “Limited segment, full metrics tracking. If performance dips below baseline, we revert immediately.”
He did not break eye contact as he added: “You’ll lead it.”
Your pulse jumped again, and you felt light headed. “Understood.”
The meeting moved on from that, but something had shifted. It was not just that he had sided with you, but it was the way he had done so. Public and deliberate, trusting you with something high-visibility instead of barring you from it.
After the call ended, you stood up to go to the kitchen, to grab some water. You finally checked your phone, not surprised that it was Lyonel who spammed you with messages.
Lyonel:
Didnt take you too long to challenge him in a full team meeting
Oh my god! He did the thing!!
The posture!!!
You:
What are you talking about?!
His replies came in very quick succession.
Lyonel:
The posture
The lean
The head tilt
That is his I am intrigued pose
I’ve not seen him do that in more than a year
You telling me you did not notice that??
Of course you had noticed, but you did not think it was a big deal at first. But now…
You:
You are making this bigger than it is. He was just being a competent leader
Lyonel:
Yeah just… a competent leader
You were about to reply to him when you heard Outlook ping with a meeting invite from your manager.
Follow-up: Campaign Acceleration Pilot in 15 minutes. When you joined, he was already there.
“You anticipated resistance.” He said without preamble. “You came prepared.”
“Yes.”
“You enjoyed causing friction.” It wasn’t an accusation, instead Baelor said it more as a conclusion.
You held his gaze. “I enjoy showing my competence.”
He had that almost-smile again. “Be careful.” He said.
“Of what?” You asked, slightly confused. Wasn’t he the one who always pushed for this?
“Of winning too quickly.”
Your stomach dropped. “And why is that?”
“Because,” He said, before taking a deep breath. “It changes the way people look at you.”
The silence that followed was different from the others. It was thicker, no longer just professional, no longer safe, no longer hidden behind corporate talk.
“And how do you look at me?” You asked before you could stop yourself.
He did not answer immediately, but he didn’t deflect, didn’t change the topic.
“With interest.” He said at last.
That could be a professional answer. After all, he could just be interested in your career progression, as a manager would and should be. But it was ambiguous enough, for the voice inside your head to go that dark and dangerous route, to that dark corner of your mind.
Truly, you thought, it was undeniably intentional.
“Execute the pilot. Send projections by Thursday.” He said abruptly and the call ended.
Leaning back in your chair, you just sat there, your heart steady, but your mind not. Because that had not been flirting. But it also was.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The second time you contradicted him, it wasn’t planned.
The discussion was about reallocating the budget after early pilot results, your pilot results, and Baelor proposes tightening the expansion until the next quarterly review. You impulsively challenged his cautious and controlled plan to delay the expansion, interrupting him and arguing that hesitation would kill momentum. He methodically dissected your argument, asking you to outline worst case scenarios and reputational risks. In the end, he did not concede to your answers, did not endorse them. He set a condition, send him with a full risk breakdown by the end of the week, making approval contingent on proof.
You were searching for some reports for his ask, when a private Teams message came in nine minutes later after the call. Your eyes widened, as you opened the chat window. He had never reached out by direct message before, he preferred emails and meeting invites to chats.
Baelor:
Well argued.
But you should not have interrupted me.
Your ears thrummed, still staring at the screen, longer than necessary. You started typing a reply, deleted it, then typed it again.
You:
Thank you. And I am sorry for doing that
But was I wrong?
You would not let it go so easily. Three dots appeared immediately, disappeared and then reappeared.
Baelor:
No.
But you challenged me in front of the room.
And there it was, the line that wasn’t quite a reprimand, but it was something sharper than just feedback. You pursed your lips as you wrote your reply, hitting enter before you could regret it.
You:
The numbers needed to be clarified.
Baelor:
You could have waited.
Your jaw tightened as you typed your reply.
You:
And just let the assumption stand?
A longer pause from him this time. The three dots appeared almost instantly, stopped, reappeared…
Baelor:
You assume I would not have corrected it.
You:
Respectfully, I wasn’t trying to undermine you
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly, stopped and returned.
Baelor:
I know.
If you were, I would have handled it differently.
Your stomach flipped at that. It was not a threat, but a simple fact. You typed before you lost your nerve.
You:
I just don’t wait when I’m certain
Baelor:
I’ve noticed.
Your pulse stuttered, but you did not get a chance to compose yourself when the next messages hit the chat.
Baelor:
It is one of the reasons I keep you in the room.
Next time, let me finish the sentence.
And then challenge me.
No don’t, just later.
And that was it. You closed the chat window, pushing yourself to forget what he wrote and focus on the reports. He did not reach out to you for the rest of the day, no emails or meeting invites. But the boundary felt less like a wall now, and more like a line drawn in chalk.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
It was close to midnight, and you were still up finishing that risk breakdown he asked for. You still had a day before the deadline was up, but you had gotten so honed in on it that you just had to finish it. You emailed it to Baelor and went to take a shower.
When you came back to your home office to grab something, you saw a notification on Teams.
Baelor:
I expected you to send that tomorrow.
You stared at the timestamp, 11:47 p.m., and he was still online.
You:
You asked for it at the end of the week
A pause, then:
Baelor:
Most people interpret that differently.
You:
Well, I am not most people
The reply came faster than it should at that hour.
Baelor:
No. You are not.
The three dots appeared again, lingering longer this time. Your breath was caught in your throat. What was he writing?
Baelor:
Your downside modeling is thorough. In section 3, you assumed a 12% volatility ceiling. Why not 15?
You exhaled slowly. Of course he read the report already, and of course the message was going to be about that. And not something else, something that would make your stomach flutter.
You:
At 15% the narrative collapses regardless of pacing
It took him three seconds to reply.
Baelor:
Good.
You think ahead.
It was not praise exactly, but it was recognition. You closed your laptop five minutes later, your mind still very much awake.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The observation came up casually. You were halfway through your brunch, at your usual table, Lyonel watching you with an expression that meant that he had already decided on something and was waiting for you to catch up to it.
“Do you know what’s worse than the posture?” He asked.
You groaned, embarrassed. Every time Baelor did the posture during a call, which lately it had been every time you spoke, Lyonel would ping your phone.
“Do you have to mention it every time we hang out?” You complained. “And there is nothing worse than the posture.”
“Oh there is.” He leans over the table. “He lowers his voice when he talks to you.”
You look at him for a second, before laughing loudly. “No, he doesn’t!"
“Yes, he does!” Lyonel leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Everytime he addresses the team, it’s one tone, controlled. The standard issue.” He tilts his head a bit. “When he talks to you though? It drops.”
“You are just teasing me now.” You tried to deflect.
“I am not.” He retorted, offended at the insinuation.
“You are projecting.”
“I am observing.”
You shook your head, taking a sip of your coffee.
“You really didn’t notice?”
“No.” You hated how you sounded, so uncertain.
Lyonel did not push you further. He just smiled, his eyes teasing. “Oh you’ll hear it now.”
Rolling your eyes, you replied. “I will not.”
But when you had to review a recorded meeting, a routine procedure for you, you remembered his words when Baelor’s voice filled your headset. Even through them, his voice carried that steady, measured tone: composed, deliberate, never rushed. Then, you reached the segment where you had challenged his position about reallocating the expansion metrics. He had been mid-sentence when you interjected. You noted how he turned towards his camera, his mismatched eyes serious.
“Explain.”
Your stomach tightened, rewinding the recording a bit, playing it again. When he was addressing the team, his voice was firm and with clear authority. When you interjected and he spoke to you… It was definitely lower.
You straightened in your chair, skipping ahead and finding another moment, later in the meeting, when you clarified a data point.
“I understand your position.”
There it was again, lower, quieter. Intimate was not the right word, but it was closer than anything else.
Your pulse drummed in your ears. You skipped ahead again, this time to a moment where he addressed another analyst.
“Duncan, walk us through the variance.”
Baelor’s voice was a higher register, firmer. But when he addressed you?
“Y/n, what would you adjust?”
There it was again, the subtle drop, as if the air changed when he spoke to you. You paused the video, staring at the frozen frame of his face.
You are imagining this, you told yourself. You just want to hear it, because you are walking that tight rope between professional admiration and unrelenting crush. It’s nothing! You’d never notice it if it wasn’t for Lyonel.
Blushing furiously, you shot the culprit a text.
You:
I hate you
Lyonel:
??
Oh you heard it, didn’t you?
When you left him on read, he texts again.
Oh my god. You did hear it!!!
You typed back slowly, biting your lip.
It’s probably unintentional.
Immediate reply.
You know that’s worse, right?
You sighed sharply. That was the problem, because if it was intentional, it would be a choice. But if it’s unconscious…
You played one last segment, not knowing what you were hoping to achieve.
“Good…” Baelor said in response to your analysis. Again lower, measured.
Stopping the recording, you pressed your hands to your eyes, trying to ignore the warmth that spread below your stomach. There was no denying it, when Baelor spoke to you, the room disappeared from his voice.
This moved beyond theoretical now, as voice was harder to control, harder to fake, harder to justify. And when the next meeting came, you knew exactly what you were going to listen for.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
You were in bed, phone dimmed, doom scrolling mindlessly before sleep when the notification appeared.
Baelor:
Are you awake?
There was absolutely no reason why he should be asking that. And you really should not reply, it was after work afterall. But your fingers did not listen, as they opened the chat and replied.
You:
Yes
The typing indicator appeared immediately.
Baelor:
Revising the expansion deck. Quick question.
If we reframe the pilot as controlled disruption, does that weaken your original argument?
You propped yourself up against your pillows.
You:
Only if you position disruption as instability.
Call it evolution instead?
Three dots appeared, disappeared and reappeared.
Baelor:
You are good at this.
Honestly, his compliments were starting to feel addictive. But this one settled differently. Maybe it was the hour, the quiet, suspended feeling of being awake when the rest of the world was not. Or maybe it was the way the conversation had narrowed, stripped of meetings and agendas and witnesses. The chat window felt smaller somehow, more intimate, like the world outside it did not exist, leaving only the two of you and the glow of the screen.
You:
That’s why you hired me
This time the pause stretched, long enough that you wondered if you overstepped.
Then:
Baelor:
I hired you because you are capable.
Followed by:
I keep you because you are exceptional.
Your pulse quickened in a way that has nothing to do with career validation. There was pride there, sharp and bright, but threaded through it is something more dangerous. Because the “I hired you” was business, the “I keep you” was not.
Baelor:
And because I like watching you work.
Heat climbed up your neck before you could stop it. Because liking your work was one thing, liking watching you do it was something else entirely.
The chat went still after that, and you sighed softly. You set your phone down on your stomach, the quiet pressing in around you.
His last three messages replayed in your mind, not as text, but in his voice. Especially the way it dipped when he spoke to you, subtle, controlled, as it always happened.
You closed your eyes and saw him, his expressions, immediately. The steady eye contact through the camera, the slight tilt of his head when you made a point he had not anticipated, the almost-smile he gave you whenever you challenged him and refused to back down.
You turned onto your side in a huff. This… crush was getting ridiculous. He was your manager, your boss. You had prided yourself on the way you managed your crushes, on your ability to control your emotions, on never blurring the lines.
But…
I keep you because you are exceptional.
You shifted under the sheets, restless, annoyed at yourself, annoyed at him. At the way his last messages burrowed in your mind, under your skin, making your blood sing. Your thought about his gaze, the way lately lingered a second too long in meetings. The way his voice lowered whenever he spoke to you, the way he said your name.
You really should not think about that, you should not imagine how your name would sound like on his lips if you were alone in a room. But your body did not care, heat pooling down between your legs, heavy and impossible to ignore.
You breathed slowly, deeply, trying to think about anything else. And failed spectacularly at it, because your mind betrayed you immediately, conjuring an image of Baelor leaning closer than necessary, one hand braced on the desk beside you, close enough that you would feel his warm breath upon your neck, close enough that his voice would not need to carry, close enough that his quiet, measure control would slip, just slightly.
This moved beyond professional admiration, or seeking to impress him, or earning his approval, or enjoying the intellectual sparring. This was about want. And you wanted him, plain and simple. Not just hypothetically, not just intellectually, but physically as well. That thought alone sent another wave of heat through you, and you pressed your thighs together instinctively.
“Fucking unbelievable…” You whispered into the dark. But you did not stop thinking about him.
You imagined the way he would look if that composure fractured, if he stopped choosing restraint, giving way to raw need. Your breath quickened, your hand sliding down the covers, past the waistband of your panties, fingers ghosting over your swollen clit.
You moved slowly at first, testing the edges of your fantasy, dipping into the wetness between your thighs before pressing two fingers firmly against your clit. You imagined his strong hand gripping your waist, thumb tracing your lower lip. You envisioned the way he would say your name when no one else was there to hear it, the way his lips would feel on yours, crashing against yours in a hungry kiss. The way his fingers would feel in you, stretching you, filling you.
Your back arched slightly before you could stop it, a curse falling from your lips. You slid one finger inside your tight heat, pretending that it was his claiming you.
You bit your lip to stifle any sound threatening to escape, as if Baelor could somehow hear you through the silence of the night, sense your secret through the darkness. As if he would know exactly what he had done by ending the conversation the way he did.
You imagined him being there in the room with you, eyes locked on you, guiding you through your pleasure, voice low with approval, praising you.
“That’s it…” His voice echoed in your mind. “Just like that…”
The thought of his controlled gaze snapping, hunger flaring, as he saw the power he had over you, how completely you yielded to him, sent a sharp pulse through your body.
You did not take long to reach your peak after that, your hips bucking into your palm, your fingers moving faster, your soft whines and gasps filling the room, as waves of your orgasm crashed over you, your body shuddering in release.
Spent, you laid there, chest heaving and breath uneven, staring at the ceiling, reality slowly seeping in.
This obsession was going to be a problem, you thought. Because tomorrow, during the calls, you knew exactly what your body would remember, how it would react, when Baelor says your name.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
You could not pinpoint exactly when it started. Or perhaps you could, but you did not want to admit it. After that night, after lying in the dark with his voice in your head and your body still warm from it, something switched.
Sweatshirts and simple blouses disappeared from the rotation, substituted with tailored blouses and shirts that fit just a little too well. Your hair was styled every morning now, nice and neat. A subtle, but deliberate lip colour was on you before any meeting, not bold enough to invite comment, just deliberate enough to matter.
This is normal, you told yourself, you had always been polished. Baelor set a standard for the team, in work and presentation so you had to reflect that. That was professionalism.
It had nothing to do with how aware you were of the exact moment he joined a call. Nothing to do with the way his eyes lingered on you a second longer than necessary whenever you spoke. Nothing to do with the quiet drop in his voice whenever he said your name. And it certainly had nothing to do with the memory of how easily your body responded to the thought of him.
It was just about standards, you told yourself, about presence. You were allowed to look good.
Adjusting the collar of your shirt, you clicked on the one-on-one meeting link. Today, you had decided to wear a dark red shirt, the fabric having a subtle sheen, and the open collar framing your neck and collarbones. A delicate gold necklace rested lightly against your skin.
You felt good, you knew you looked good. And you tried, very hard, to ignore the somersaults your stomach did while you waited for Baelor to join the call.
By the time he did, you had composed yourself somewhat, greeting him with a smile. He returned it, greeting you in a polite and professional manner. Then his gaze shifted, first to the shirt, then the curve of your neck, lingering just enough to make you conscious of every detail, that smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Your breath hitched, and you barely heard him for the first moments of the call. But still, you told yourself that it was not anything more than him noticing your shirt.
You wore it again the following week. It was an ordinary Tuesday, and it was the usual team during the call. Yet, there was no reason for your pulse to spike but it did. You told yourself it was because the quarter was intensifying, and leadership visibility was increasing. Of course it was not about Baelor, not him.
When the meeting began, it was the usual routine, team updates, forecast adjustments. You tried your best to focus. Lyonel pinged you on Teams instead of your phone, because he knew you would ignore his texts.
Lyonel:
Why are you dressed like ur about to negotiate a merger?
You still ignored him, keeping your attention on the meeting. Midway through the meeting, someone asked you to walk through the revised projections. As you spoke, you noticed Baelor’s eyes dip, from your face, to your collar, and then back again. Subtle, barely noticeable if you had not been watching him. Your mind screamed: You imagined it, it was nothing, you are projecting…
When you shifted slightly, he looked away. He had stopped, it had been a conscious decision.
When the meeting ended, your Teams pinged. You assumed it was Lyonel again, but your breath caught when you saw the sender.
Baelor:
Your revised projections were well structured.
You were about to reply, fingers hovering over the keyboard, when another message followed.
Baelor:
The dark red suits you.
Your heart lept. For a second you stared at the screen, re-read the message. The words seemed harmless, casual even. But your body reacted before your brain could compose something rational.
You had told yourself it was not about him, you had told yourself you just liked looking put together. But he had noticed. Not the updates, not the projection, not the work. You. And he wanted you to know that he had noticed.
You swallowed and forced your fingers to move.
You:
Thank you
A perfectly simple and neutral response, but your heart was anything but. Now, it’s no longer just the posture, or just the tone of his voice when he addressed you directly. It was a pattern.
The late night messages, lingering eye contact, compliments that stepped half an inch beyond necessary.
Patterns were harder to deny, harder to dismiss as coincidence, harder to explain away as nerves, harder to pretend you were not participating. You leaned back in your chair slowly, heat spreading low and steady.
You could not lie to yourself anymore. He was watching… And you did not mind, because you wanted him to.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
It was 12:03am when your phone lit up. You knew who it was, who had texted, before you even looked.
Baelor:
You were right about scaling.
Your stomach flipped, that quiet, familiar drop that had nothing to do with work or analytics. You stared at the phone screen for a moment, before quickly replying.
You:
Metrics came in?
Baelor:
Yes.
A moment passed.
Baelor:
You were confident before the numbers justified it.
Your throat tightened slightly. You could almost hear the way he would say it, calm, measured, faintly impressed.
You:
That is part of the job sometimes
A longer pause this time, you watched the typing indicator appear, disappear, return.
Baelor:
No. That is instinct.
And you trust yours.
The words settled low and warm in your chest. He was not just validating the outcome, he was validating you. Silence stretched between you, charged and deliberate.
You:
And you? Do you trust yours, always?
After a long pause, the three dots flickered, then vanished.
Baelor:
I trust my instinct most of the time. But sometimes it is influenced… by certain details.
Your pulse jumped and your fingers twitched.
You:
Details?
Baelor:
The kind that are not on a slide deck. The kind that cannot be measured.
You bit the inside of your cheek, as you replied. The screen suddenly felt closer, more intimate.
You:
I am not sure what you mean
Baelor:
You do.
Your chest tightened, your mind flailing. He’s joking, you thought. He is being professional, just joking. Keep it clean. Be calm. Focus on slides.
You:
Care to clarify?
Baelor:
I could. But… I think you like discovering some things on your own.
You did not know whether to type or just stare at the words, letting them sink in. Instead you replied:
You:
And here I thought we were talking about work
Baelor:
We are. Mostly. But… work is not just what happens on a slide deck. You have noticed, have you not?
This whole conversation had nothing to do with the pilot, nothing to do with projections or ceilings or controlled disruption anymore. It was unmistakable now, and you both knew it.
You:
I am not sure what to say…
Baelor:
Say nothing. Just think.
You blinked at the screen, his words lingering, teasing, deliberate.
Baelor:
Confidence is rare.
But restraint is rarer.
The digital glow of the screen felt like the only light in the world. Your pulse was racing now, the heat in your chest warm and insistent. This was about him, and you, and the way a single line of text could make your heart trip over itself.
You:
It is late, you should sleep
Baelor:
I could say the same to you. But I suspect neither of us will.
You forced your fingers to move.
You:
Goodnight, Baelor.
The reply came less than a minute later.
Baelor:
Goodnight, Y/n.
The next morning, Lyonel did not even bother to greet you when he sent over two images by text. It was a screenshot of your Teams’ status from last night. And another one of Baelor’s.
You:
You tracking my status?
His too?!
Lyonel:
I’m observing patterns
You:
It was about work
Lyonel:
At midnight?
You:
YES
Lyonel:
Mhmm, midnight chats with your manager
You did not respond. Because that was the problem, it was about work, and slides, and projections and risk ceilings. But it was also:
I hired you because you are capable.
I keep you because you are exceptional.
And because I like watching you work.
And those were not comments about slides, they never were.
You:
It was not like that
You did not immediately send it, because you are not sure what part you were defending. The content of the conversation from the night before, or the way you felt breathless every time when his typing bubble appeared. Or the way your body reacted before the rational part of your mind could. Or the way midnight had started to feel like something to anticipate.
But you knew one thing with uncomfortable clarity, that if tonight your screen lights up again, you would look, and you would respond.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
This meeting was not part of the routine Baelor and you had. It was sudden, adhoc, framed as performance alignment but not you knew it was not just that. He had been acting very strict in the previous two meetings, brows furrowed. He had been short with other team members, and definitely had acted differently towards you.
You joined first this time, and he entered a minute later.
“I’ve reviewed your revised projections.” Baelor jumped straight into the main topic of the call, no pleasantries. “You expanded the risk ceiling again.”
“I refined it.” You retorted.
“You escalated it.”
“Because the data supported it.”
His jaw shifted slightly. “You are comfortable increasing exposure without full predictive modeling.”
“I am comfortable recognizing momentum.” Your voice had risen an octave, and you were breathing hard.
Baelor leaned forward, forearms resting on his desk. “You interrupt me in meetings.”
“I thought you liked a challenge.”
“You assume I would allow it every single time.”
“And here I assumed you respected competence.”
His mismatched eyes sharpened, the air tight. “You enjoy testing me.” He concluded.
“And you enjoy it when I do.” You were not going to let him forget it.
That stopped him in his tracks. Not because your assessment was wrong, but because you said it outloud. He studied you, not anymore as a manager evaluating an employee, but as something else, something more deliberate.
“You are very confident in everything you do.” He tilted his head when he said that.
“Of course.” You all but huffed. “I have to be.”
“And you think that gives you liberty to do as you please?”
“I think my results so far do.”
He looked long and hard at you, before saying quietly. “You think this is about results?”
“What is it about then?” You ask, ignoring the way your hands got clammy and your voice trembled at the end.
Baelor’s nose flared, as he leaned towards the camera more.
“You push me in public.” His voice was dangerously low, sending goosebumps down your spine. “You challenge every controlled decision I make.”
“And you respond every time.” You said.
His gaze to your lips, lingering. The silence that enveloped you was no longer part of the corporate world, it was charged, dense, warm.
“If the circumstances were different-” He began, his mismatched eyes back to yours.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. But he stopped, he did not continue. Yet you did not let him get away with that.
“Different how?”
Baelor exhaled slowly, like a man choosing restraint by force.
“You are ambitious.” He said instead. “And ambition can blur lines.”
“That is not what you were going to say.” You almost whined.
His jaw tightened. “You are pushing it. You are testing boundaries now.”
“I was not aware you set them!”
Your room felt smaller, as if he was in there with you.
“Careful…” He murmured.
“Or what?”
He held your gaze steady now, another deep and slow exhale coming from him.
“Or I stop being patient.”
“You think I want you to be patient?” The words left you before you could stop them.
He inhaled sharply at that, something raw flickering in his expression. “No, I think you do not.”
And that was the closest either of you had come to naming it. His eyes softened for a fraction of a second, and you could see it clearly, the confession forming. The line neither of you would be unable to uncross.
But then the steel returned, and he stepped back, the distance rebuilt.
“Send me the finalised projections by six.” He said, voice restored to the executive calm. The shift was surgical.
When the call ended moments later, your hands were not steady at all. Because you finally had the confirmation that both of you were in the same boat. And that he wanted to say it. But he was choosing not to, for now.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The following Monday, an HR email went out, inviting everyone for the yearly party, to celebrate the company achieving excellence in the past year. It was mandatory attendance for leadership and selected teams to attend in person, one of them being yours.
You had no chance to digest the fact that you had to be there in person, when Lyonel called you immediately.
“No.” He said.
“Hello to you too.” You sighed. “It’s just a company event.“
“It is not just a company event.” He corrected you. “It’s weeks of unresolved tension, in a physical location.”
You tried to sound unaffected. “Everything will be professional.”
“Oh really?” He asked dryly.
Before you could reply, you heard the Teams notification sound. “I have to go.” You told him, opening the chat.
Baelor:
You will be attending.
Not a question, but not an order either. Just confirmation.
You:
Of course
Baelor:
Good.
It landed differently now, because the both of you knew that remote made it manageable, remote made it abstract. The party was going to be anything but that.
Lyonel texted you, because he knew why you had ended the call.
Lyonel:
If he lowers his voice in person, I am going to file a report to HR
His message almost made you laugh, almost. But something electric hummed under your skin.
For the first time since this what you had considered to be a harmless crush, there will be no screen, no digital barrier.
You would share the air. And the unfinished sentence would hang between you.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The party was louder than you expected. It had been organised in the restaurant on the highest floor of a glitzy hotel a town over, with rooms paid for you and anyone who travelled to attend.
It felt weird seeing people in close proximity, no screens to buffer anything, no one frame in small rectangles.
You were wearing a silk dress in your favourite colour, a cocktail in your hand as you spoke to Duncan. You told yourself you would not look for him. But you still noticed when he appeared.
You saw him before he saw you. He was across the room, wearing a black suit, tailored to perfection, a black turtleneck beneath it. His hair was styled masterfully, and his beard trimmed.
He was real, so very real, real height, real presence. Not framed in a rectangle, not compressed by speakers.
Your stomach flipped in ways it had never done before, your throat seizing.
You looked away, telling yourself that you will not seek him out, even if it meant fighting against every fiber of your being. You continued to talk to Duncan, or at least tried to.
But you did not have to wait long, because within fifteen minutes you felt it. The subtle gravitational pull of someone entering your orbit. And when you turned, he was there, close. Not touching, not close to cause any scandal, but close enough.
He greeted everyone, saying your name last, his voice lower, sending shivers across your spine.
“Baelor.” You said in return, trying to keep yourself under control.
“You made it.”
“So did you.”
Something akin to amusement crossed his features. Before any of you could speak, colleagues passed around you, someone clapping Baelor on the shoulder, someone complimenting you on your pilot results.
When your eyes returned to him, a blush crept in when you saw that he had been looking at you. You stood like that for a long moment, the space between you felt separate from the rest of the room.
“So this is you outside of Teams?” He said, sipping his whiskey.
You laughed, a little breathless. “Disappointed?”
“Not even a little.”
The words settled between you, heavier than they should’ve been. He held your gaze, unflinching, like he was curious how long you would let him.
“I did not realize you were this tall.” You said before you could stop yourself.
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You did not realize a lot of things.” His voice had a teasing lilt.
You took a sip of your drink, trying to be calm.
“Hmm.” He made a sound after noticing your drink.
“What?”
“That’s unexpected.” He replied.
“What is?”
“That.” He pointed at your drink with his. You took a long sip, not moving your eyes from his.
“You disapprove?” You smiled a little.
His gaze drifted slowly from your eyes, to the glass and back. The corner of his mouth lifted into that almost smile.
“Not at all.”
It didn't feel like you were talking about the drink anymore.
Across the room, Lyonel was openly staring at you like he was watching a live disaster unfold. You ignored him, or at least tried to.
You were pulled into different conversations, separated. But the pattern from remote work and calls continued here too.
Every time you moved across the room, you became aware of him again. Every time he laughed at something someone else said, his eyes found yours afterward.
After a while, you slipped out to the terrace for air. Your body felt warm, your pulse unsteady, your mind hazy from being in his presence, from having to be in control. Exhaling, you press yourself against the railing, staring at the city skyline.
You heard soft footsteps trailing behind you, stopping just a little away.
“You have been avoiding me.” Baelor said softly.
You did not turn to face him, cheeks ablaze. “I was networking."
He stepped beside you, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat emanating from him.
“Is that what you are calling it?” He asked, amused. “Well, you have been networking in the opposite direction of wherever I was.”
You fully turned towards him, a small smile on your lips. “You are imagining patterns.”
“Am I now?” He asked, voice husky.
The city lights flickered in the silence that came over you. There was no audience here, no grid of face, no corporate pretense to hide behind. Baelor stepped closer, his mismatched eyes gleaming under the light, his expression unreadable.
“I think I’ve been patient long enough, don’t you think?” He asked quietly, his gaze dropping to your mouth.
Your breath faltered, realising what he was saying. You realized that he was close, close enough that if you leaned forward just slightly more…
Baelor said your name, his voice sounding like a plea and a warning.
You did not give yourself time to think. You stepped forward, closed the distance and pressed your lips firmly upon his.
The kiss was not chaste, nor careful, nor tentative, weeks of restraint collapsed into it. Baelor’s hand slid behind your neck, pulling you closer, groaning in your mouth. Your hands grabbed onto the lapel of his suit, whimpering when his mouth pressed harder against yours.
His other hand gripped your waist, anchoring you there as if he had already decided you were not going anywhere. The kiss deepened, his tongue prodding your mouth, and your thoughts scattered, your knees threatening to follow.
You felt the shift in him, how his control thinned at the edges, his composure gone, replaced by hunger. He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand resting at the base of your neck, as if letting you go required a decision he did not want to make.
“This…” He said, his breath ghosting against your lips, voice rougher than you had ever heard it. “This is exactly what I was trying to prevent.”
“Do you regret it?” You hated how your voice trembled, scared at his answer.
“No…” He groaned. “And I am done pretending I do not want it.”
He captured your lips in another kiss, which was slower, deeper than before. When he pulled away again, his eyes were almost black with hunger. His thumb brushed along your jaw, your lips tingling and swollen.
“Come with me.” He said, the words hovering between a plea and a command. Your heart was pounding so hard, so loud, that you were sure he could feel it, hear it. You looked at him, feeling the restraint that was barely holding, the choice sitting between you.
“Yes…”
He studied you for one final moment, making sure he heard you right. Then nodded.
You left separately. He went out first, smoothing his hair and suit as he walked away. You followed five minutes later, ignoring the way Lyonel’s eyes widened from across the room, ignoring your phone vibrating as you neared the elevators.
You were certain your heart was about to leap from its cage as the elevator doors closed, his hand wrapping around yours. The air was tense, and thick, but he did not kiss you, he did not touch you otherwise.
When you reached his floor, he all but dragged you across the corridors. And the moment the hotel room door was shut, he was on you.
This kiss was nothing like the ones before. It was deeper, hungrier, stripped of any restraints. Weeks of charged glances, sharp exchanges unravelled in seconds. He backed you against the door with a soft thud, his hands on your waist. You pushed the jacket off of his shoulders, moaning as his tongue touched yours,before he dove it deeper into your mouth.
He bit your lower lip, spurring you to grab his shoulders, pushing him towards the bed. And he let you.
“Off…” You mewled into the kiss, breaking it so you could remove his turtleneck before diving for his lips again, like a drowned man would dive for air.
His hand cupped your breast, squeezing it firmly, sending a jolt straight to your core. You moaned low, trailing hot, open-mouth kisses along his jaw and neck, tasting the salt of his skin. With a gentle shove, you pushed him to sit on the bed. He watched you with a dark, measured focus as you stepped between his knees. You continued kissing him, lips brushing against his collarbone, continuing your descent until you reached his belt, nipping at the skin above it.
“You do not have to do this.” He said, his voice in a gravely rumble. One hand rose, cupping your face as your fingers worked his belt. His thumb dragged across your lip in a slow and deliberate stroke that made your pulse race. You parted your lips and captured the thumb between them, giving it a soft, teasing, lick before sucking it. He hissed sharply at that.
“I want to…” You said, releasing his thumb with a soft pop. “I really do…”
With his help, you pulled his pants and boxers down, shoving them aside. His cock sprang up, standing proud against his stomach, precum leaking at the tip. The sight of it, the size of it, made your mouth water.
Wrapping your fingers around the base, you dragged your tongue along him before guiding him past your lips, his taste blooming on your tongue. The effect you had on him was immediate. His composure frayed just enough to show you the edge of it. His hand moved to your hair, not forcing, not controlling, just holding, steady and warm against the back of your head. His thumb stroked in silent encouragement.
You continued, taking your time with him, savouring every inch, your head bobbing in a steady rhythm. Heat spread through you like wildfire at his sounds, thighs clenching instinctively instinctively.
“That’s it…” He moaned, his head tipping back in a groan. “Take me deeper…”
You obeyed without hesitation, took him deeper until the head bumped the back of your throat, your jaw stretched. A muffled moan escaped, the sound humming along his length. He made a sound that was something between a moan and a sigh, fingers curling in your hair as he pushed you down, jaw tightening, hips shifting instinctively before he reins himself in. You felt the shift in him, the way control becomes effort.
“You look very good on your knees…” He murmurs, voice rougher now. “Have you been thinking about this?”
You did not answer directly, letting the swirl of your tongue and the hollow of your cheeks do the talking instead. The sound he made this time is lower, less controlled, his fingers flexing in your hair, not pushing, just grounding himself. Just before he lost the last of his restraint, he stopped you, tugging you off with a firm pull, his cock slipping free from your lips with a slick pop.
A glistening strand of saliva stretched between your swollen mouth and his cock. You looked up at him, eyes hazy, utterly drunk on him, his voice, his taste, his presence consuming every sense.
Using the grip on your hair as leverage, Baelor pulled you up into a kiss that was almost punishing in its intensity, his mouth claiming, his breath uneven, all teeth and tongue as he devoured you. He broke away to pull your dress off, a satisfied sigh escaping him at the sight of your dark red lingerie.
His hands cupped your breasts possessively, thumbs brushing over the lace. He dipped his head, pressing hot kisses at the top of your breasts, before he shoved the fabric down, freeing on to the cool air. You back arched as he captured your nipple between his fingers, pinching with just enough pressure to draw a gasp from your throat, rolling the hardened peak until it ached deliciously.
One of your hands slid against his hair, tugging him closer, a silent demand for more. Baelor chuckled against your skin, kissing up your neck before slotting his lips against yours.
His other hand slid down your body, deliberate and unhurried, tracing the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, until it found the heat between your thighs. His palm pressed flat against you, moaning as he felt the damp fabric. With a swift motion, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and dragged them down, you kicked them off eagerly. His middle finger delved between your thighs, parting you slowly. You moaned into his mouth as his finger coated itself in your arousal. He exhaled slowly against you, his finger circling your entrance teasingly, clearly pleased by what he felt.
Looking at you through heavy-lidded eyes, he said. “Sit on my face.”
That was not a request. It was an invitation laced with command.
Your breath got caught in your throat, not from shock, but from the certainty in his tone. He was not asking out of impulse, he was testing whether you would yield the way you had been daring him all this time. You whined softly as he removed his finger and hand from you, and he leaned back on the bed, mismatched eyes never leaving yours. Desire burned in them, tempered by a deliberate patience.
“Come here.” He adds, softer now, but still having that authoritative edge. You hesitated just long enough to let him see the effect he had on you.
Then you moved.
His hands found your hips, guiding you with a firm grip. His thumbs dug into your skin, as if etching the texture of it into his memory. The shift in power is immediate, you were above him, but he was the one in control.
“Trust me.” He murmured against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss on your inner thigh.
You did.
When he pulled you down toward him, his focus was absolute. His hands splayed across your thighs, holding you in place, while his tongue delved between your folds, parting them with a slow, deliberate stroke. A loud moan escaped your throat, your hand moving to his head, your fingers threading into his hair for support. You had thought about his tongue on you so many times over sleepless nights, but you were never prepared for it to be this divine. His lips sealed around your clit, sucking gently before his tongue flicked against it, making you see stars.
“Oh fuck, Baelor…” Your cries filled the room, your hips grinding instinctively against his mouth.
“That’s it.” His voice was muffled, the words vibrating against your slick skin. “You don't have to hold back with me.”
With one hand he grabbed your hip ferociously, pinning you in place, exactly where he wanted, while his other hand explored and teased your folds. As his tongue circled your clit with relentless precision, his fingers prodded your entrance, one finger slipping in easily at your wetness, the second following soon after. He crooked them upward, syncing the motion with the pressure of his tongue, hitting that sensitive spot deep within. You could not help but moan brazenly. Every reaction you gave him, each gasp, each shudder, drew a quiet, satisfied sound from his chest, low, approving.
And when your fingers tightened in his hair, when your breathing turned uneven and broken, he tightened his grip more, ensuring you stayed locked against his mouth.
“That is it…” He said again, moaning. “Let me feel you…”
The control in his voice is what undid you. Your hips jerked wildly, chasing your release, his name chanted like a fervent prayer, your walls clamping hard around his thrusting fingers. He did not relent, lapping and sucking through your release, his own groans mingling with yours.
Finally, you clutched his hair, tugging him away from your throbbing core, your hips lifting away from his glistening mouth. He allowed you to move, but not before dragging his tongue along your folds one final time, pressing one last deliberate kiss to your inner thigh, slow and possessive.
Baelor sat up immediately after, pulling you into his lap. Your bodies pressed together seamlessly, skin to skin, heat to heat, his hard cock pressing insistently between your thighs. His hands trailed up your spine, then back down again, deliberate and claiming. Your eyes met his, heavy, with lingering heat, before capturing his mouth in a hungry kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.
“You did so well.” He whispered.
“I need more Baelor… please…” You begged, rolling your hips, seeking his length.
“Tell me what you need.” He ordered gently, his lips grazing your neck, tongue tracing the junction where it met your shoulder, sucking it gently.
“I… fuck me… Baelor, please…” You moaned, pressing your lips on his forehead in desperation.
He shifted, rolling you onto your back beneath him, reclaiming the upper hand without breaking eye contact. He settled between your thighs, his hard cock nudging against your entrance, coating itself in your wetness.
“Still confident?” He asked, trailing his mouth along your jawline.
You nodded, breathless.
“Say it.”
“Yes.”
His control finally fractured, and he claimed your mouth in a fierce kiss, like he was done waiting. Like every restrained meeting, every late-night message, every almost-confession had been building to this exact moment. And when he entered you, it was deliberate and unhurried at first, inch by inch until he buried himself fully inside you. He watched the way your face contorted in pleasure, a low groan escaping him as your walls stretched around his length.
His forehead rested against yours as he began to thrust, one arm braced beside your head. He set the rhythm, deliberate, unyielding strokes that built gradually, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. You could not help but arch up to meet his thrusts, cries spilling out as you clutched his shoulders, the pace intensifying with each collision.
The sound of his hips meeting yours filled the room, his grunts accompanying your moans and whimpers like a raw harmony. His fingers dug into your hip hard and tight, and you were sure it would bruise.
“You are doing so well…” Baelor praised you, his breath fanning your lips. “You are taking me so well… like you were made for me…”
Words failed you, your mind blanking as the thick drag of him filled and withdrew from your core. Baelor chuckled lightly, very pleased with your reaction, your surrender, moaning deeply when your walls clenched tight and warm around him in response. He angled his hips sharper, driving deeper to strike that hidden spot. His free hand slipped down to rub your clit in firm, circling motions that matched his deep thrusts.
Heat built steadily through you, coiling tighter with every deliberate movement, every whisper, every brush of his touch. Your breath hitched and your heart raced, a rhythm that seemed to echo his own.
“Baelor…” You gasped his name, teetering on the edge of desperation and release.
Climax ripped through you, intense and all-consuming, your body quaking as you clenched around him, leaving you trembling and breathless.
“You are so perfect…” Baelor said, riding the wave of your release with you. “So flawless…”
His composure frayed as he pursued his own peak, his control slipping. He moaned at the tightness around him, his breath turning uneven, his rhythm faltering into erratic thrusts.
A few more powerful strokes and he came, spilling deep inside of you, your name a ragged chant on his lips. You stayed like that for a while, his body heavy and comforting atop yours, trying to catch your breath. He kissed you tenderly then, his thumb brushing your cheek, murmuring and praising you.He pulled back just enough to brush his fingers lightly over your skin, tracing the heat still lingering along your arms and shoulders.
His voice was low, grounding you when he asked. “Are you okay?”
When you nodded, he let a small, almost imperceptible smile touch his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. The two of you drew in sharp breaths, and you moaned lowly when he eased his cock out from you, the sudden emptiness making your inner walls flutter desperately around nothing.
His fingers combed through your hair soothingly, before going to the bathroom to fetch a towel and run it under warm water. Returning, Baelor knelt beside you, dabbing the towel gently against your sensitive folds, every movement filled with deliberate care, a contrast to the fire and intensity you had just shared. He finally joined you under the covers, his heat enveloping you, your bodies shifting together, limbs entwining, tangled in sheets that would not stay in place.
He kept you close, hand resting possessively at your hip, thumb tracing absent patterns against your skin.
“You are,” He said quietly into your hair. “Exceptionally dangerous.”
You smiled against his chest, pressing a kiss just above his heart. “You started it.”
A low hum of disagreement passed through him.
“No.” He replied. “You did.”
The sheets are half twisted around your legs, the air thick and warm and still humming with what you had just done. Baelor stayed exactly where he was, not rolling away, or reaching for his phone. You lifted your head slightly to look at him. His hair was a mess, his beard still slick with your release, his breathing finally steadying. But his eyes, when they met yours, are clear, focused.
“You are being very quiet.” You whispered.
“I’m thinking.”
“Hmm… dangerous.” You snuggled close to him.
A faint chuckle escaped him. “Yes.”
There was no awkwardness, no embarrassment between you. Just a charged stillness that felt almost more intimate than what came before.
He moved slightly, rolling you more fully against him. His palm slid up your back, slow and deliberate, like he’s mapping you by touch alone.
“You surprised me…” He said quietly.
“Well, that was the intention.”
His gaze sharpened, his fingers grasping your chin, making you look at him. “No. Not that.” His thumb traced your lower lip. “You trusted me.”
The weight of that landed heavier than anything else tonight.
You did not joke this time. “I would not have come upstairs if I did not.”
Something changed in his expression then, almost imperceptible. His dominance softened, not disappearing, just settling into something steadier. He brushed his nose lightly against your temple.
“You should know…” He said, voice low, “If we continue this… I will not be casual about it.”
Your pulse jumped, eyes widening a little. “That sounds suspiciously like a warning.”
“It is.”
He leaned back just enough to look at you fully.
“I do not divide my attention easily. And I don’t compete.”
“Are you staking a claim?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
The honesty in which he said it stole your breath. He kissed you then, slower, less urgent, like a seal pressed onto something neither of you intended to undo.
You slid your hand slowly up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm.
“So you are not going to pretend this did not happen on Monday, are you?” You asked quietly.
A soft, amused exhale escaped him, his eyes warm. “Absolutely not.”
Your blood sang at that, at that confirmation, not knowing how much you needed it.
“You do realize…” You said lightly, though your voice was not entirely steady. “This makes work infinitely more complicated.”
“I am aware.”
“And?”
“And I have decided it is worth it.”
The certainty in that answer was almost more dangerous than his touch had been. Then his hand tightened slightly at your waist.
“Come here.” He murmured.
You were already pressed against him, but he pulled you closer anyway, tucking you beneath his chin. His fingers threaded lazily through your hair now.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
Outside, somewhere below, the city moves on like nothing monumental just shifted. But it had, because this was not just physical. This was weeks of tension turned real.
“You should sleep.” He said softly.
“Is that an order?”
“It is care.”
You huffed indignant, but did not stop the wide smile that spread on your lips.
And when the lights finally dimmed and the room fell quiet, he kept one hand anchored at your waist like he expected you to stay.
You had already decided that you would.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
Come Monday morning, you were back in neat squares, screens aligned, everything professional and composed.
Baelor’s voice cut through the grid, low as he called your name. “Your thoughts?”
You held his gaze through the camera, long enough to feel the pull. You smiled at the subtle shift that came in as he leaned in and tilted his head.
“I think we should be bold.”
A faint smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth. “I agree.”
As the meeting moved on to other topics, a notification blinked in the corner of your screen. Your stomach fluttered, every nerve alert, you could not ignore the way he seemed to unravel you with just a message.
Baelor:
We need to discuss boundaries at work.
You:
We do
Three dots lingered, before the message came.
Baelor:
Dinner tonight?
You:
Yes, I’d love that
You stared at the chat, smiling widely. Across the grid, you did not notice Lyonel’s camera had fully turned on, and he was watching you like he could read everything before you even typed it, a big grin on his face.
You did not need to pretend it was professional anymore.
Hii, love your “The jewel of summerhall” fanfic! *absolute perfection* not sure if you’re taking requests, in case you are, could I request one from the same universe as The jewel of summerhall, where niece/reader get attacked/ injured during a feast/ celebration and Baelor goes ballistic?! Many thanks in advance 🫶
The jewell of Summerhall III - Baelor Targaryen
baelor targaryen x maekar’s daughter!reader
part one - part two - part three - part four
oh how i love this series!!!
word count: 4k
warnings: age gap, mentions of blood, angst and fluff
requests are open!
The heat inside the royal box was oppressive, a suffocating blanket of stagnant air and the smell of dry earth. Below, the lists were a chaotic, blinding haze of golden dust and the deafening roar of the smallfolk. You sat in the seat of honor, draped in silver-gold silk that felt far too heavy for the afternoon sun. Beside you sat Baelor Breakspear. To the thousands of people watching, he was the absolute picture of Valyrian perfection. He wore a high-collared doublet of immaculate black velvet, though he did not seem to sweat. His posture was rigid, his expression a mask of polite, unyielding diplomacy as he watched the joust. He was the Crown Prince. He was the Hand of the King. He was the steady, immovable earth that grounded the entire realm.
But you had spent years studying the quiet, complicated men of your family. You knew the man beneath the mantle.
Your eyes drifted down to his large, calloused hands resting on his thighs. To anyone else, he was perfectly still. But you saw the heavy signet ring on his index finger. His thumb was rhythmically, relentlessly twisting the metal, the faint click of the ring turning against his knuckle the only betrayal of the tension humming beneath his skin. He wasn't impatient with the tourney. He was a man with the patience of a mountain. But he hated seeing you sitting rigidly in the suffocating heat, and his legendary restraint was fraying simply because he wanted to take you away from it.
"You are going to wear a groove into your finger, my Prince," you murmured. Your voice was a soft, melodic whisper, pitched just low enough to slip beneath the blare of the herald’s trumpets.
Baelor didn't turn his head immediately, maintaining his flawless, regal profile for the watching court, but the twisting of the ring stopped instantly. Slowly, subtly, he shifted his massive frame just a fraction of an inch closer to you. Under the heavy, embroidered linen draped over the railing, his hand slid across the gap between your chairs. His warm, rough fingers found yours. He didn't grip you with urgency; he simply laced his fingers through yours with a gentle, profound tenderness, his thumb coming to rest over the erratic pulse at your wrist.
"I am only calculating how many more tilts I must endure before I can reasonably spirit you away to the gardens," Baelor’s deep, velvety voice rumbled softly. He turned his head then, and the mismatched eyes that met yours were completely stripped of their political guard. They were soft, heavy with a quiet, unconditional adoration. "You look tired, little dragon. The sun is too much today."
You offered a fond, private smile, your thumb gently stroking the back of his hand. "I am perfectly fine, Baelor. So long as you are sitting beside me."
"I am always beside you," he murmured gently, lifting your joined hands under the cover of the linens to press a warm, lingering kiss to your knuckles. "But I would much rather be beside you in the shade of the Red Keep, reading to you while you rest. The realm demands too much of your time."
"Two more tilts," you promised softly, squeezing his fingers. "And then I am yours for the rest of the day."
Baelor let out a quiet, contented exhale, his eyes lingering on your face for a moment longer before he forced his attention back to the yard. The twisting of his ring ceased. With his hand firmly anchored to yours, the Crown Prince finally found his peace.
Down in the dirt, the trumpets blared. Two knights - one wearing the green of House Tyrell, the other the silver trout of House Tully - spurred their massive warhorses forward. The impact was spectacular and catastrophic. Both lances shattered, but the angle was clumsy. The horses collided shoulder-to-shoulder, and both knights were violently unhorsed, crashing into the thick dust with the sickening sound of crunching metal. Both men scrambled to their feet, drawing their swords and wading into a brutal, heavy-handed melee right at the base of the royal box. It was clumsy, fueled by adrenaline, exhaustion, and the bitter heat of the day.
In the desperate, close-quarters scramble, the Tyrell knight let go of his tourney sword and reached for the live-steel hunting dirk at his belt to force a yield. The Tully knight saw the draw. Panicking, he brought the heavy iron pommel of his broadsword down in a frantic, wild parry, striking the Tyrell knight's wrist with all of his panicked strength. The force of the blow ripped the dagger from the knight’s grip. Deflected by the violent strike, the dagger spun wildly through the air. It tumbled end-over-end, flying straight up over the low wooden railing of the royal box.
Straight toward Baelor’s face.
You didn't think. There was no time to scream, no time to issue a warning. The instincts forged in the dark, volatile halls of Summerhall took over entirely. You threw your entire weight sideways, tearing your hand from Baelor’s grip and lunging across the gap between your chairs. Your arm shot up, your body twisting to completely cover your husband’s chest and throat. The dagger didn't hit him. But as it tumbled past, the razor-sharp edge of the heavy steel blade caught your raised forearm. It sliced cleanly through the silver-gold silk of your sleeve, tearing a long, vicious gash down your flesh before clattering harmlessly against the wooden floorboards.
You gasped, the air completely leaving your lungs as you fell heavily against Baelor’s chest. A hot, blinding, stinging agony flared across your arm. A thick line of bright, crimson blood instantly welled up along the laceration, dripping onto the immaculate black velvet of his doublet.
For a fraction of a second, the roar of the tourney faded into a dull, ringing hum. The world simply stopped spinning. Baelor stared at the bloody dagger on the floorboards. Then, his dark eyes snapped down to your arm. He saw the ruined silk. He saw the blood. He didn't scream. He didn't roar. The terror that seized the Crown Prince was so absolute, so profound, that it entirely bypassed rage and settled into an icy, horrifying stillness. His massive hands came up, gripping your waist. You could feel the rigid, unnatural tension in his muscles. He looked at your pale face, then back to the blood dripping from your arm.
"You moved," Baelor whispered. The sound was perfectly level, but it was hollow - a breathless, devastating rasp that carried the weight of a man watching his world end.
"I saw it," you breathed, your heart hammering frantically against your ribs from the shock.
"You stepped in front of it." Baelor’s dark eyes slowly rose to meet yours. There was no fire in them, only a black, suffocating panic that he was holding back by the thinnest thread of his sanity. "You put yourself between me and a blade."
"Baelor, it is just a scrape," you tried to say, attempting to pull your arm back to show him, but his grip on you was immovable.
He didn't argue with you. He didn't look at the King, or the crowd, or the brawling knights below. He stood up, lifting you with him effortlessly, shielding you entirely from the yard with his broad back. He looked at the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
"Halt the tilt," Baelor commanded. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The freezing, lethal emptiness in his tone was infinitely more terrifying than any shout. The Lord Commander stopped dead in his tracks.
"Take those two men," Baelor continued softly, his jaw locked. "If they are not chained in the black cells by the time I reach the Maester’s tower, you will take their place."
He unclasped his heavy velvet mantle, wrapping it securely around your shoulders to hide your bleeding arm from the staring court. He scooped you into his arms, holding you so tightly to his chest that you could feel the violent, frantic hammering of his heart, and carried you out of the royal box in total silence.
The heavy oak doors of the Grand Maester’s chambers closed behind you, shutting out the rest of the Red Keep. Baelor laid you down on the examination table with an agonizing, trembling care. He refused to step back even when the elderly Grand Maester rushed over with a wooden kit of supplies. The gash on your arm was long and bleeding sluggishly, and while not life-threatening, it required careful cleaning and several tight silk stitches. But Baelor was a man completely unspooled. He stood directly beside you, his broad shoulders rigid. He watched the Maester with a hyper-vigilant, absolute scrutiny. He didn't speak, but his sheer presence in the room was a heavy, suffocating threat.
The Maester uncorked a vial of boiled wine and took a piece of rough linen. "This will sting, Princess," he murmured, his hands shaking under the terrifying, silent glare of the Crown Prince. As the Maester pressed the alcohol-soaked linen into the open wound, the sharp, fiery burn made you flinch. You drew in a sharp breath through your teeth, your eyes squeezing shut.
Baelor’s hand snapped out like a striking viper. He didn't throw the old man. He simply clamped his large hand around the Maester’s wrist with the unyielding force of an iron vise. The Maester gasped, freezing instantly.
"You are hurting her," Baelor stated. His voice was a low, vibrating whisper, deadly and entirely calm.
"Baelor, please," you exhaled, opening your eyes and reaching out with your good hand to touch his tense arm. "It is alcohol. It is meant to burn. Let him finish."
Baelor didn't look at you. His dark, fathomless eyes remained locked on the terrified Maester. "Leave the linen and the bandages on the table," he ordered softly. "And get out."
The Maester carefully set the supplies down. Baelor released his wrist, and the old man practically ran from the room, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. The moment the latch clicked, the terrifying, untouchable Hand of the King vanished. Baelor let out a long, ragged exhale. He picked up the clean piece of linen and the vial of wine. His large hands, which had just held the Maester in an iron grip, were now trembling. He couldn't hide it. The immaculate Crown Prince was shaking.
He knelt on the cold stone floor, bringing his face level with your arm.
"Let me do it," you whispered, your heart shattering at the sight of the raw, naked fear etched into the deep lines of his face.
"No." Baelor swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he forced his hands to steady. "I have to do this."
With a gentleness that was incredibly profound, Baelor carefully dabbed the blood away from your skin, preparing the skin before meticulously sewing the wound closed himself. Every time you tensed, every time your breath hitched, his own eyes fluttered shut for a fraction of a second, absorbing the pain as if it were his own. He finished tying off the fine silk threads and carefully wrapped a clean, white bandage around your arm to protect it. When it was done, the last of his strength seemed to leave him. He didn't weep. He simply dropped his head, resting his brow gently against your knee. His massive arms came up, wrapping carefully around your waist, holding you with a desperate, quiet reverence. You could feel the rapid, uneven hitch of his breathing against your skirts.
"You took a blade for me," Baelor whispered into the silk of your gown. The words were thick, suffocated by the crushing weight of what had almost happened. "I am supposed to be your shield. I promised I would be your shield."
You reached down, your uninjured hand sliding into his dark, silver-streaked hair, anchoring him to the quiet reality of the room. "It was flying at your face, Baelor," you said softly. "I couldn't just sit there. I wouldn't."
He slowly lifted his head, his eyes entirely laid bare. "I know," he rasped. "But you cannot do it for me, little dragon. I am a soldier. I know how to bleed. But if I ever had to watch you die because of me... I would not survive it. I would not want to." He buried his face in the warm curve of your neck, holding you in absolute silence for a very long time, listening to the steady, unyielding rhythm of your heartbeat to calm his own.
The transition from the Maester's tower to the absolute quiet of your bedchamber felt like stepping into another world. The Milk of the Poppy pulled you into a deep, heavy sleep for hours. When the moon finally crested high over the Red Keep, the dull, throbbing ache in your arm pierced through the haze, pulling you awake. You blinked into the dimness. The fire had burned down to glowing embers. You shifted, instinctively reaching out to find the familiar, solid warmth of your husband. The silk sheets beside you were cold.
"Baelor?" your voice was a raspy, sleep-heavy whisper.
There was no immediate answer, only the faint, frantic scratch of a quill against parchment. You slowly pushed yourself up, wincing as the movement pulled tightly at your stitches. Across the expansive bedchamber, a single candle flickered on a small, heavy oak writing desk. Baelor was sitting there, his broad back to you. He had stripped down to a simple white linen shirt and dark breeches. The desk around him was littered with crumpled, discarded drafts. He had his head bowed, one hand buried deep in his silver-streaked hair, looking utterly defeated.
You slipped from the high bed, wrapping a silk robe over your shoulders. Your bare feet made no sound on the carpets, but as you stepped into the pool of candlelight, the subtle shift in the air made him freeze. Baelor dropped the quill. He was out of the chair before you could even take another step, his large hands hovering over your shoulders, terrified to touch you.
"What are you doing out of bed?" he whispered, his voice incredibly rough, raw with exhaustion. "You are supposed to be resting. Does it hurt? Should I send for the Maester?"
"I am fine, Baelor," you murmured, leaning your weight gently against his solid chest. You looked past him to the desk. The parchment was half-written. "You haven't slept."
"I cannot sleep," Baelor confessed, the absolute, naked vulnerability in his voice shattering the quiet of the room. He carefully wrapped his arms around your waist, taking your weight, and buried his face in the curve of your neck. "Every time I close my eyes, I see the steel spinning toward you."
You reached up with your good hand, your fingers tangling soothingly into his dark hair at the nape of his neck. "I am right here."
"I went down to the nursery," Baelor choked out, his chest shuddering against yours. "Our daughter was fast asleep, clutching that wooden dragon Aemon carved for her. Completely unaware of how close she came to waking up in a world without her mother."
Baelor lifted his head, gently guiding you to sit in his chair, kneeling on the floor beside you so he was looking up into your face. "I came back here to write to your father," he rasped, gesturing to the ruined parchments. "I must tell Maekar that the jewel of his house - the mother of his granddaughter - bled because I was too blind to stop a blade. He threatened to kill me if I ever let the burdens of the Iron Throne hurt you. And he was right."
A tear finally tracked silently down his face. "I sat here asking the Gods why you would do something so reckless. And then I remembered. You were forged in a house that demanded you be the shield. It is so deeply ingrained in your bones to take the hit for the people you love that you did not even think about our daughter today. You only saw the blade flying at me, and your body moved."
You felt a sudden, hot sting of tears behind your own eyes. He saw you so clearly, but he believed the trauma of Summerhall was a ghost still directing your limbs. "No." You moved your uninjured arm, wrapping it securely around his broad shoulders. "Baelor, look at me. Shielding my brothers was a duty because there was no one else to do it. But shielding you... that was a choice. I did not forget our daughter today. I moved in front of that blade because I love you more than I value my own breath."
Baelor’s breath hitched, a shudder tearing through his massive frame. You picked up the quill from the desk with your good hand, dipped it in the inkwell, and held it out to him.
"We will write to my father," you whispered, pulling his face close until his forehead rested flush against yours. "But you will write the truth. The truth is that you locked two knights in the black cells to demand justice for me. The truth is that you have not left my side, and that our daughter still has both her parents."
Baelor stared at you, the heavy, suffocating dread in his chest slowly giving way to a profound, earth-shattering awe. He took the quill from your hand, set it down, and buried his face in the curve of your neck. "What did I ever do in my past lives to earn a Queen like you?" he murmured against your skin, his arms wrapping around your waist with a desperate reverence.
"You admitted that a nineteen-year-old girl had a sharper political mind than your entire Small Council," you reminded him with a soft, wry smile, your fingers tangling in his hair. "And then you let me reorganize your ledgers."
Baelor let out a low, breathless laugh, the sound vibrating against you. For the first time since the blade flew, the terrifying shadow of the tourney finally began to lift.
The days turned to weeks, and the autumn winds began to strip the leaves from the godswood. In the quiet sanctuary of your bedchamber, the Grand Maester carefully snipped the final silk threads of your stitches and unspooled the length of the linen bandage. The wound had closed entirely. Where the angry laceration had been, there was now a raised, silvery line of scar tissue running along the pale skin of your forearm.
"It healed beautifully, Princess," the Maester murmured.
"Thank you, Maester," you said dismissively, rolling your shoulder. You felt no vanity over the scar; you had survived the Dornish Marches, and you knew that far worse things existed in the world than a blemish on your skin.
But Baelor, standing rigidly by the hearth, did not share your pragmatism. His jaw locked so tightly a muscle feathered wildly beneath his skin. He looked physically ill. "I need to review the ledgers," he said. His voice was incredibly tight, clipped and formal. He didn't look at you. He turned on his heel and walked out.
For the rest of the day, Baelor avoided looking at your left arm. He was treating the scar not as a healed wound, but as a ghost haunting the room. That evening, you were sitting on the velvet settee in your chambers. Your little daughter was curled in your lap, playing with a wooden horse. Baelor had just stepped into the doorway, pausing in the shadows to watch his family. Your daughter’s little hands suddenly stopped playing. Her wide, violet eyes landed on the exposed skin of your forearm. She reached out with a tiny, chubby finger and gently traced the raised, silvery line of the scar.
"Muña, hurt?" she asked, her voice a soft, innocent chime.
In the doorway, Baelor completely froze. His heart stopped. He waited for the confirmation of his guilt, right from the mouth of his child. But you didn't pull your arm away. You smiled, a warm, radiant expression, and gently caught your daughter's hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
"No, sweet girl. It does not hurt anymore," you told her softly. "It is a brave mark. It means a dragon was protecting her treasure, and she won."
Your daughter repeated the words and beamed, entirely satisfied with the logic, and went back to her horse. In the doorway, a choked, quiet breath escaped Baelor. He pressed his hand over his mouth, his eyes shutting tight as the agonizing guilt that had been crushing his chest for weeks finally shattered against the pure, simple truth of your words.
Later that night, the bedchamber was cloaked in the heavy, quiet dark. Your daughter was fast asleep in the nursery. You felt the mattress shift as Baelor slipped into bed. Usually, he would immediately pull you backward into the curve of his body. Tonight, he lay perfectly still on his back. You let out a soft sigh, turning over to face him. You reached out with your scarred arm and placed your palm flat against the center of his broad chest.
Baelor inhaled sharply, his body flinching. He reached up, his large hand wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist, as if to physically move your arm away from him.
"Do not look away from it," you whispered into the dark, your voice laced with a gentle, unyielding steel. "I am not broken, Baelor. And I will not hide my own skin from my husband."
Baelor didn't let go of your wrist, but he didn't push it away either. He slowly turned his head to look at you, the moonlight catching the raw, devastating agony in his dark eyes. "I cannot look at it," Baelor confessed, his voice a broken whisper. His thumb brushed against the raised edge of the scar tissue. "It is a permanent mark of my failure, etched directly into your skin. It makes me sick with shame."
"Then change how you look at it," you challenged him quietly, refusing to let him look away. "You are the one who told me that a dragon does not apologize for protecting its treasure. I protected you so I could come home to our daughter. Do not apologize for this."
Baelor stared at you, the heavy guilt in his chest warring with the absolute, blinding brilliance of the woman he had married. He remembered the sweet, innocent voice of his daughter calling it a brave mark. He didn't speak. He slowly lifted your arm. He brought your wrist to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours. He pressed his lips to the very bottom of the scar. His touch was incredibly gentle, a breath of warm air against the newly healed skin. You gasped softly as he slowly moved higher.
Baelor kissed the center of the silvery line, his dark eyes heavy with a profound, earth-shattering reverence. He wasn't just accepting the scar; he was worshipping it. He kissed the very top of the mark, right below the curve of your elbow, lingering there as a quiet, shuddering breath escaped him.
"It is the most beautiful mark in the Seven Kingdoms," Baelor murmured against your skin, his voice finally dropping to its familiar, rich rumble. He lowered your arm, shifting his massive frame to pull you entirely flush against his chest, wrapping you securely in his absolute devotion. "Because it means you stayed with us."
You smiled against his collarbone, the last lingering shadow of the tourney finally evaporating into the dark. "I am always going to stay with you, my Prince."
"I know," Baelor whispered, burying his face in your silver-gold hair, his large hand coming to rest protectively over the scar. "And I will spend the rest of my days making sure you never have to prove it again."
⚕ summary: in a world where targaryens are no longer the feared dragon riders and leaders they once were, having dark hair is seen as an ugly curse
⚕ word count: 18,4k
⚕ pairing: baelor targaryen x niece!reader
⚕ cw: targcest, niece/uncle, significant age gap, angst, talks of feeling and looking different and being rejected for it, intimacy, smut (minors dni please), inexperienced reader, protective baelor, jealous baelor, possessive baelor, reader thinks/talks about not being worth it, brief mentions of non-con but nothing graphic (not from baelor), brief mentions of baelor and reader interacting when she is young but all is platonic then, contains some spoilers for house of the dragon
Shame was a constant in your life.
It was embedded in you. Cold and dark and deep inside your bones, ever since the day you drew your first breath. Some blamed the darkened head of hair you wore, long and dim and ugly, pooling over your shoulders down to your waist. Others whispered of your bastardy, a false princess born not from the wicked prince who gained to run about the Reed Keep bare, but from a common fisherman your mother had grown fond of in her despair.
But you knew the truth. Or you thought you knew. That your father, your real father the prince, was ashamed you had inherited his gods forsaken plain features. He refused to blame himself, a son of King Daeron the Good, how could he? The blood of Old Valyria coursed through his veins, thick and deep.
But he could not attest to it, not physically at least. The people at court spoke ill of him enough. Whispering that he, like his older brother Baelor, was cursed by the gods, old and new and pagan gods alike, for mingling pure dragon blood with that of the filthy Dornish.
His perfect brother was blessed with good looks and chivalry. He, not so much. His crooked nose and teeth were a testament to it, or perhaps it was his inclination to madness.
So, when the time came for the prince to bear children of his own, he was determined. Set on proving to the world that he, too, was worthy of House Targaryen. That from his blood would come children of Valyria, white silver-haired and purple eyes alike.
Your father had smiled when your older brother and sister entered the world on a sunny and bright summer afternoon, a perfect image of the children in his dreams. Your mother had tried again the next few years, she had. Pain and blood were all she knew during that time, screaming and ready to meet the gods.
But on a cold and dark winter night, you emerged. The world had held its breath—yet another Targaryen. You opened your dark eyes, your left mingling with a light but deep purple. Your mother had held you tight against her chest, kissing the top of your head where darkness engulfed it, before taking her last breath. Your father had stormed off the moment he laid eyes on you.
The maids took over immediately. Your grandsire, the king, was there but a few hours later, torn between the sheer joy of holding you in his arms and mourning the life you would have without your mother by your side.
Your uncles were quick to follow. You did not speak much, but when you did, it was to ask about the days your mind could not recall. When it was but you and your lady in waiting in the sanctuary of your chambers, she would speak of that night.
Your uncle Baelor had sounded distraught. “She is your daughter. Your good wife has just left this world, left her alone to fend for herself. How can you—“
“She is not my daughter. That filthy fisherman fool, I know she is of his blood.” Your father had cut him off, cold and stern and almost hysterical.
“You know that is a lie, brother. Do you take me for a fool?” Baelor had asked. His brother turned fully toward him then, a hint of madness in his eyes now clear as day.
“If I can fool the rest of the realm, that is enough for me.”
You don’t remember much of your first years. You remember being hidden from your brother and sister, shunned like the failure that you were. Your brother spent his days in the courtyard, wielding his wooden sword, silver hair battered by the wind. He swore he would be a better swordsman than the Blackfyre bastard. Your sister, beautiful but simple, learnt of the ways of being a lady in her pretty dresses and perfectly braided Valyrian hair.
You were not allowed outside of your chambers if not for distinct hours, mainly when the moon had claimed the sky. Your secludedness only reinforced the realm's false image of you, that of a bastard princess with no claim to the Targaryen name. If of his own blood, why would the prince hide his daughter away?
Your days were spent with your lady in waiting inside the tall walls. She played games with you, brought you supper when you were forbidden from eating with the rest of your family. She braided your hair, your beautiful long hair, she liked to call it. She was kind to you.
Your uncle Baelor was also kind to you. You did not speak much, but you grew to like having him around. You did not understand why he was kind to you—your father had made it clear, in the few times he dared speak to you, that you were not to address anyone of importance. Baelor was your uncle, but he was also the future king.
Yet when he approached you, it was not to lecture you about your shameful appearance, one you somewhat shared with him, you once noticed. Baelor, the chivalrous prince, gave you a glimpse of what the world looked like outside of your chambers.
You would follow him, curiosity and a bit of fear clouding your unequal eyes. You had heard whispers of it, of what lay beneath the Red Keep. The skulls of your family's dragons, so beautifully terrifying. Such gorgeous creatures, now reduced to dust and bones, you thought. When Baelor saw the sadness in your eyes, he would take you back, and you would dream of the dragons, flying high in the sky, alive and breathing warm, bright fire.
Other times, your uncle walked with you in the gardens that surrounded your prison. Beautiful in the spring, the gardens were, possibly the most beautiful thing you had seen in your short life. He easily plucked the cherries and apples that hung a world too high for you to reach, a rare smile tugging at your lips when you tasted their sweetness.
But perhaps what brought you the most joy was when you accompanied him to visit his horse. A tall stallion, black as night, and as gorgeous as he looked powerful. He called him Midnight.
"Would you like to mount him? He is more gentle than he looks." Your uncle smiled fondly.
Sat on such a beast, who huffed and puffed playfully, you felt like maybe the world wasn't as dark as it seemed. Maybe, you could live out your days holding onto your lady in waiting's kindness and your uncle's company.
You began looking forward to his visits, quietly hoping today would be the day you could see him again, naively unaware of the princely duties that haunted him and occupied most of his days.
On one particular evening, you found yourself feeling somewhat thrilled. An odd feeling, you thought. Pulling at your chest and belly, cold but not entirely unpleasant. Tucked inside the hidden pocket of your dress were two apples from your walk in the gardens earlier this week. Your lady in waiting had helped you sew it. You had kept them for Midnight.
When the knock at your door came, you rose to your feet, another rare smile tugging at your lips. But when the door opened, your father appeared. Surprise and another ugly feeling invaded your chest. Disappointment, but also fear. Your father rarely ever made the effort to walk to your chambers.
"You leave at dawn for the Vale." Your father had declared. Nothing more, nothing less.
You were sat in the rocking cramped carriage but a few hours later, with only your lady in waiting as company. You knew no one was very fond of you, but you wished you could have said your farewells to your family. Your grandsire, your brother and sister. Your uncle Baelor.
Instead, you were here, a prisoner of lost free will, dragged to your mother's family. Perhaps they would treat you better, you thought.
It would not matter either way. You were cursed, and you knew it. It mattered little where you lived out your days; everyone would see the rotten inside you, dark and ugly and foul.
Buried inside your cloak, you let hot tears run down your cheeks silently. You closed your eyes, your left hand clutching onto one of the apples still hidden in your dress.
Soon, it would become as rotten as you.
༒︎
Three and ten years had passed. You think it was three and ten years, at least that is what the Maester had told you. Time seemed trivial when you did not have much to live for.
Your days were mostly the same, dark and cold and insignificant. You were mostly alone. Cared for but unloved, spoken to but forgotten. Every year around summer came the few letters from King’s Landing, words of decorated care you told yourself, a reminder that you still had blood living and breathing somewhere. You wondered if that thought was comforting or rather a tool meant to twist the many knives already lodged in your blackened heart.
You only found a semblance of happiness in the mare your relative had gifted you out of pity. She was beautiful, a pale grey with a dark mane and tail. You named her Moonlight. You rode her every day, cared for her like your own child. The only child you would probably ever have.
Who wished to bring more rot into this life?
You had told yourself your last day in this ugly world would be the one where her heart stopped beating.
You were lost in that thought as you dismounted her, gently petting her face and grabbing her reins to make your way back, when a knight of the Vale interrupted you.
“My lady,” he startled you. You were not used to people speaking to you.
“I do apologise, my lady, but your presence is required at the Eyrie. A raven from King’s Landing.” He bowed his head.
You felt your heart drop. You are uncertain why; ravens from King’s Landing were rare but not uncommon. Taking Moonlight with you, you followed the knight in silence back to the high castle.
Thoughts clouded your mind. Were you going to go back? Perhaps your father was to visit you at last. Or maybe it was your grandsire. He was getting old after all.
When you stood in front of your old aunt, you could see the twisted expression on her face. One she poorly hid.
“I suggest you get some rest tonight. His Grace Baelor Targaryen will be here on the morrow. A new robe will be sent to your chambers, do make sure you wear it and have your hair done when he arrives. I do not wish for the heir to the Iron Throne to think we have been mistreating you. You are looking frailer by the day, child.” She rambled.
You wondered what she was speaking of, something about a dress, you believe. The clouds inside your head began rumbling, and you felt something pull at your heart at the sound of your uncle’s name.
He was coming here, to the Vale.
You had made your peace a long time ago with the cold reality that you would never see him again. You were a fool for thinking he cared for you enough to grant you a visit during the years you were cast away like some sort of offender.
Your kind, sweet uncle. A man you looked up to, who offered you nothing but gentleness and compassion. One of the only faces you remembered unmistakably from your time at the Red Keep, a face you thought of more than you cared to admit.
He had given you apples and eaten with you when no one else would. But he was also the busiest man breathing. Of course, he would not come.
You nodded at your aunt and retreated to your chambers. You did not eat that night. Your stomach felt tight and upset, and churned at the thought of seeing Baelor again.
When the sun slowly claimed the sky, you were still awake. Your lady in waiting had drawn you a bath, helped you into the beautiful blue dress that had been placed on your desk the night prior. She braided half of your hair only, leaving the rest of your dark mane pool over your shoulders. You thought of cutting it all off right then and there, not wishing to remind your uncle of your ugly curse.
You didn’t. Instead, you made your way to the great hall, where your presence was expected. Heart threatening to jump out of your chest, you stopped in the dark hallway, hand clutching the stone cold wall.
There, you heard him in the distance. A voice that haunted your dreams and nightmares alike. A voice you thought you would never hear again.
“—something is wrong with my niece, I expect to be made aware of it at once.” You heard him say, voice as calm as ever but sharp nonetheless.
“Of course, Your Grace. The princess is well, though a bit slender. She is not always fond of the food we serve here.” Your old aunt tried to jest.
You did not hear a response from your uncle.
You were about to make your way back to your chambers like the coward that you were when two knights approached you.
“We will make the announcement, my lady.” One of them said.
You did not have time to respond. Both knights entered the hall, and you blindly followed. You were fairly certain you had stopped breathing then. They announced your presence, and suddenly, he was real again.
When Baelor Targaryen looked at you, you felt your soul being touched. His mouth was slightly agape and he stood tall, looking his part perfectly. He looked older, silver grey kissing his beard and hair, but he looked strong. His dark cloak hung over his broad shoulders, his sword and dagger decorating his waist.
He was just as beautiful as you had remembered.
And he was looking at you.
“Your Grace,” you managed to say, bowing slightly to him.
You were fairly certain no one spoke. Fairly certain. Your ears were ringing, high-pitched and painful, blood rushing to your head. You wanted to disappear.
After what felt like hours, your uncle approached you. Suddenly, his scent, a familiar scent that made your heart leap, invaded your senses. You finally looked up.
Your uncle quietly spoke your name. He sounded like a man in agony, a man who had been punched in the gut. Guilt eating away at him, at the thick scales that covered his entire being.
He lightly touched your shoulders, a warm and genuine but sad smile tugging at his lips. “I am glad to see you again.”
And you wanted to cry at how much you reciprocated that feeling. You had prayed to the gods—just once. Even if it was just in your dreams.
As if he could not help it, Baelor took you in his arms, hugging you gently. He cradled your head softly against his chest, and you felt tears burning your eyes. Were they tears of joy that the gods had listened to you for the first time in your life?
Or perhaps they were tears of frustration, for abandoning you here, leaving you to rot and be forgotten. You knew the world sensed how broken you were. You still refused to allow Baelor to see that for himself. You quickly blinked the tears away, lightly wrapping your small arms around his middle, the feeling of his dagger cold against your skin.
In the dining hall, the long table was decorated moutains of food, the music playing from the other side loud and cheerful.
“You haven’t touched your food,” Your uncle quietly spoke. “Is there any truth in that you do not like the food here?”
You were startled by the question. Why would that matter?
“I do, Your Grace.” You looked at him, then quickly looked back down to your plate.
You could feel your uncle’s stare. The left side of your face burned from it.
When you picked up your fork, you saw his own placing a piece of roasted lamb on your plate.
“If you won’t touch the rest, at least eat the meat.” Baelor said.
You forced yourself to eat it, red and bloody, just as you hated. When you glanced at his plate, it was empty.
Supper was loud and cheerful. The people around you celebrated the Hand of the King’s presence in their halls. Your uncle was kind to those who addressed him—polite and respectful, as was his nature.
Though most of his words were reserved for you, quiet and intimate. His questions were innocent, slightly interrogative, daringly prying into the last ten and thirteen years you had been by yourself.
You still ignored why he was here.
Not addressing the real questions you wished for him to ask you began to feel like suffocation, a dark and cold cloud invading your throat and nose. You had to be alone. You were always alone.
But, just when you were about to excuse yourself, Baelor gently placed a hand on your forearm. He knew.
“Would you join me for a walk outside, princess?” He asked.
Of course you would. Of course. Stupid, cannot even stay faithful to your own self.
You nodded slightly, excused yourself, and followed your uncle outside the castle.
The cool summer air hit your face, and you felt like you could breathe again. You liked the summer air. You thought it smelt nice.
Baelor walked slowly, ensured you were comfortable, but you could see him struggling. He wanted to speak, you witnessed his fight, his voice failing him.
At the stables, he finally spoke.
“Your aunt tells me you are quite fond of your mare.” He smiled.
His voice sent shivers down your spine. You could not quite believe you were allowed to hear it again, alive and ringing in your ears.
“I do. Her name is Moonlight.” You gently smiled back, a smile only reserved for your beloved horse. The first of the night.
At the sound of your voice, Moonlight approached you.
Baelor’s eyes lit up.
“She is quite the beauty.” He said as he gently touched her soft snout. Moonlight seemed to enjoy his touch, nodding her head up and down.
“She is,” you said. “She has my whole heart.”
Baelor looked at you then, another painful flash in his eyes. Who could have caused him so much pain?
When you looked away, you reached inside a small pocket of your dress, the same in every one of them. You removed a small red apple and gave it to Moonlight, who happily chewed on it.
You made your way down to the hill after your horse had retreated to her stable, Baelor following you quietly. You overlooked the entire Vale from where you stood. One of the few beauties you had seen in your life, lit by the cold moonlight.
“I come here when I struggle to find sleep,” You suddenly spoke. Baelor looked at the side of your face. “Which is often, but that’s all right. It’s peaceful and quiet, and I know Moonlight is behind me, watching over me.”
Baelor looked at the spot your mare had stood a few minutes ago. When he looked back at you, he noticed your trembling figure.
Baelor undid his black cloak and placed it gently over your shoulders. His hands lingered where he clasped the robe underneath your chin. Just a few seconds.
It was heavy, and way too big for you, but it smelt like him. It was warm.
He did not know you were not trembling from the cold.
Silence followed. You could practically see the words trying to form inside his mouth. So, with the little strength you possessed, you spoke first. “Why are you here, Your Grace?”
Baelor grimaced.
“Please,” He started quietly, pain lacing his words once again. “Do not be so formal with me.”
“Why have you come here, uncle?” You asked again after a few moments, this time looking him in the eyes.
This startled Baelor. Like he suddenly could not believe it was you, standing in front of him, all flesh and blood and rot.
“It’s your father,” he finally said, sighing. “An unfortunate accident. He is no longer with us, princess."
You stared at his eyes. His mismatched eye resembled your own, a flicker of Old Valyria fighting to make itself seen to the world.
You were supposed to feel saddened by the news. Your cousin had received similar news a few moons ago, and she wept for days. You could hear her every night from your chambers.
You felt nothing. You blamed the rot inside you for it.
“I hope he is no longer troubled, then.” You finally said.
You noticed your uncle had not expected you to weep over your father’s impending doom. He did not even bother with an explanation. An accident, he said. You quietly thanked him for it.
His face was crippled with concern nonetheless.
“Why did you come all the way here? I am sure a raven could have delivered the news.” You sounded genuinely curious.
If only you knew how it pained Baelor—to know you did not think yourself worthy of a visit to have such news delivered to you.
“You have just lost the only parent you had left. I did not want you to be alone when—“
“I have been alone my entire life, uncle. My father hated me, we all know it. He may not even have been my real father.” You cut him off. You were surprised by it yourself. You do not believe you ever spoke this freely. You do not believe you ever spoke this much at once at all.
You still sounded as gentle as ever.
“Do not say that. You are blood of the dragon, you know this deep in your heart. You are my niece.” He straightened his posture, towering over you.
“Then where were you?” You suddenly asked. You spoke slowly, your speech almost slurred from the pain it caused you. “Where were you all these years, uncle? I know the gods hate me, I know I should not be here but—“
“Don’t,” Baelor said abruptly, as if you had insulted him personally. You saw his hands hesistantly reach for both your cheeks, warm and trembling slightly. “Gods, please, don’t say that.” He pleaded again, his thumbs lightly wiping away the tears that had slowly filled your eyes. You had fought so hard to keep them away all night.
His touch burned you. You wanted him off you; you wanted him closer. You wanted to scream and cry and let out the ugliness that had flourished inside you over the years. You placed your own trembling hands on his chest, pushing him away, begging him to keep holding you.
“I should have come sooner, I know.” His eyebrows were pulled tightly together. “I wanted to, the gods know how much I did. I should have fought harder when I was told I couldn’t.” He thumbs continued their gentle assault on your face.
“I sent you letters. Did you read them? I wanted to know that you were safe, that you were happy. I prayed for it.” He confessed.
You, however, did not confess that you had kept all of them in a small box underneath your bed. You read them again and again on nights when you believed your worth was no more than that of a sheet of paper.
“I am sorry, princess.” Baelor whispered. “Nothing I ever do will make up for the past years, but I am here now. I won’t leave until I know you are truly happy in your heart.” He slowly withdrew his hands.
You thought he might as well die in the Vale, then.
Baelor walked you back to your chambers that night, a look of concern still deeply settled on his face.
"Lord Arryn kindly offered me the chambers down the hall," He spoke once you reached your doors. "I am right here if you need me."
You frowned tiredly. The biggest chambers were on the other side of the castle.
"Will you be all right?" He searched your eyes.
Of course you would be. You weren't even sure if this was real. Maybe another cruel jest from the gods.
You smiled tiredly. "Goodnight, uncle."
You gave his cloak back, retreated inside the room, and collapsed onto your bed. Sleep overtook you like a wave crashing onto the shore, quick and powerful.
You dreamt of a dark dragon that night. He was terrifyingly beautiful.
When you woke the next morning, you had convinced yourself that last night's events had been a dream, indeed a cruel jest from the gods.
You forced yourself up. Bathed and changed into another dress, a green one this time. Two small braids decorating the crown of your head. Breathing felt more painful today.
So, when you joined the dining hall, you thought your eyes had been an accomplice to the cruel jest the gods had played on you the night prior.
Because your uncle Baelor was sitting at the table. He was there, breathing and alive. He held fruits in his hands and politely smiled at one of the lords speaking to him.
He must really be here if others could see him too, you thought.
His eyes found yours as soon as you entered the room, a real smile reaching his eyes.
"Princess," he called. He pulled the chair to his right.
You sat next to him. The fruits tasted sweeter today. You heard your uncle speak of war and battle stories, the lords around him offering him all their attention.
He was really here.
"Allow us to offer you our condolences, Your Grace." One of the lords suddenly spoke after a moment of silence had claimed the room. "The loss of your brother, the prince, hurts us all. We shall mourn his—"
Of course. Your father was dead, this was the reason for your uncle's visit. He would leave soon, you told yourself. Leaving you again, leaving you to rot like you were always meant to.
"I hear the Vale is quite the beauty during this time of the year," Baelor's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. "I ought to go for a ride and explore the compounds to see for myself. Would you and Moonlight care to join us?"
A warm feeling buzzed inside your chest. You had not felt this in years, and it frightened you. It would not last.
You accepted anyway.
When you reached the stables, you noticed the horse your uncle mounted was different from the one you remembered. Mightnight, you think. The big, dark stallion.
Baelor caught your expression. He always did.
"Midnight passed a few years ago."
You felt your heart squeeze painfully, the look on your face raw and unfiltered.
You never got to give the horse the apples.
"Do not be saddened, princess," he smiled. "I promise you, Midnight lived a long and happy life. He was cared for."
You nodded, petting your own horse a bit more lovingly this time.
"This is his son, actually." Baelor spoke again, the warm feeling returning to your chest at his words. He looked happy, proud of the stallion that stood by his side. It was endearing. This horse was a bit brighter than Midnight, with a striking white streak running down his mane.
The ride lasted for hours. The Vale was indeed beautiful, a fact you found yourself forgetting at times. This was your sentence, after all, your punishment for entering the world the way you did, a glamorous prison hidden high in the skies between the mountains. If you closed your eyes, pretended you were here of your own free will, you would almost feel like a princess in a fairy tale, one that songs were written about.
And so, this unprompted ride had turned into a routine in the days that followed. Your mornings were the same, but they became increasingly easier to confront with each passing day. You awoke, dressed in your riding clothes instead of your usual dresses that hugged you too tightly. You forced breakfast down your throat to please your uncle, then mounted your horses for hours on end.
On the second day, you rode down to the rolling green fields and pasturelands that expanded farther than your eyes could ever reach. You stopped in the middle of one of the fields, your mounts happily grazing on the thick and fresh grass beneath their hooves. The look of awe in Baelor's eyes made your heart swell, and you could not help but stare at the side of his face as he looked ahead of him, his mouth slightly agape.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" You asked quietly.
"The words fail me, princess." Baelor said as he looked back at you.
The sudden sound of bells forced you to tear your gaze away. To your right, wide pastures fenced off by stones and wooden posts held a flock of sheep, lazily walking towards the bright green grass, an old farmer on their tail. You both smiled at the sight.
Then, when Moonlight had decided she wished to graze no longer, you carried on with the ride, the two of you slowly disappearing into the gentle hills that basked in the warm orange sunlight.
On the third day, you guided your uncle past the pastures this time, promising him that what lay beyond them would not disappoint. You trotted side by side, answering his questions, and you were glad about it. His curious nature shone bright during these escapades, and you grew fonder of him for it, selfishly pleased he came to you with his queries rather than some lord or lady at the Eyrie.
You approached your secret favorite scene in the Vale, Moonlight's too it seemed, as she happily took off and galloped away. You heard Baelor call out for you, his laugh ringing in your ears as he chased behind you, no longer the prince burdened with carrying the weight of the realm on his shoulders. You laughed softly as well, a rare sound escaping your throat, a secret hidden between you and your mare. Your heart galloped just as fast.
Finally, rows in the hundreds of apple orchards came into view, each tree hanging heavy with bright red fruits. You stopped at one particular tree in the middle and dismounted from your horse, waiting for Baelor to reach you.
"You could have warned me you were taking us to a paradise for horses." He chuckled as he tied their reins around the tree's trunk. You smiled back at him, beaming at his voice, so gentle and caring when addressed to you.
"Is this your doing?" He suddenly asked, and your heart skipped a beat when you noticed he was pointing at it. Carved deeply into the side of the tree bark; a small dragon.
"Oh," you picked at your nails. "Yes, I—" you studdered, suddenly feeling shy. "I did this years ago when I first discovered this place. I fix it every time I come here."
Baelor looked at you, his gaze filled with so much pride and joy, and it turned your insides warm again. He ungloved his right hand and touched the rough patch, feeling it, then gently brushed his fingers against your chin. "My little dragon."
Baelor walked past you and picked one of the red apples that hung low on the tree, but you found it difficult to breathe with your heart beating so violently against your chest.
He offered it to you, and your ungloved hand brushed his when you grabbed the fruit. His gaze locked onto yours for a few seconds then, his eyes mismatched but so strikingly beautiful, shining brighter than ever with the sun's reflection swimming inside them.
You moved then, forcing yourself to, and walked towards his horse.
"May I?" You asked softly, pointing at the stallion.
"Of course," he laughed quietly. "I suspect Moonlight is quite the spoiled mare."
You nodded blissfully, tenderly offering the apple to the black horse who happily munched on it. You thought of Midnight.
You remained underneath the rich trees longer than expected, basking in the happy chirps of the singing birds surrounding you. The comforting scent of grain flying with the wind from the nearby golden fields of wheat invaded your senses, and just for a second, just for this moment, you allowed yourself to feel simply and freely happy.
On the fourth day, you felt adventurous. Instead of fields and orchards, you took Baelor to the small villages spread across the hills surrounding the Vale. You disguised yourselves in commoner attire, your dark hair for once coming to your aid, shielding away your dragon blood from anyone to witness.
"Is the ale not to your liking, my prince?" You feigned curiosity, an innocent but mocking undertone to your question.
"I am not sure I would call this ale." Baelor coughed, his face faintly scrunched in distaste. "I did not think a young lady such as yourself would find pleasure in drinking—this." He reluctantly smelled his cup.
"I don't," you quietly laughed. "But I do love the cherry pie."
Baelor looked different in these clothes; he looked normal, and common, and free. Everything he was not. You found it especially difficult to tear your eyes away from him that day.
You walked towards the village square, your shoulder bumping into his every so often. It sent shocks throughout your body each time. You frowned at them.
The smell of smoke rising high from the stone cottage chimneys was strong in the air, and you breathed it in, dulling your stirring nerves. Baelor's curious eyes scanned the busy markets, and when he deemed his distinctiveness hidden well enough in the confines of the cape he wore, he approached the merchants. He spoke to them, touched the grains harvested the day before in his hands, bought eggs from the hard-working farmers.
Hidden behind him, a twin to his own dark shadow, you smiled. He will be a good king one day.
On the fifth day, you abandoned your bed before dawn. Your tingling nerves were far too busy stealing your sleep away from you anyway, so you surrendered, both of you lazily riding towards the rivers that wound through the rich forests.
You sat side by side at the edge of the riverbank, and the sun hung low in the sky still, almost too shy to show its face. The moon's last efforts of the night turned the flowing water beneath you into molten silver, shimmering so brightly through the mist it held you mesmerised.
"Why did the gods make us warriors when such beauty exists?"
Baelor's leg touched yours as he sat on the wet grass, his dark cloak pooling around him.
"To entertain themselves, perhaps?" You asked after a moment of silence.
Baelor hummed, his gentle gaze still fixed on the flowing silver strips.
You selfishly stared at his profile, breathing in the cold crisp air steadily. You would pick up a shield and sword and fight the gods all by yourself if it meant his burden would die away, if he could find this peace and beauty you knew he craved so.
Baelor sighed when he slowly turned to look at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips. And while you found it increasingly difficult to breathe as his eyes locked onto yours, you did not waver. You held his gaze, questioning, longing for something that held such secrecy.
His hand rose to your face, and you noticed the sun unhurriedly waking up on his back. Baelor felt a strand of your dark hair in between his fingers then, delicately tucking it behind your ear.
The reflection of the moon's dimming light behind you kissed the iris of his eyes, and they equally shone bright when they centered on you.
"Do you think the gods also intended to make your eyes a perfect reflection of my own?" Baelor's palm now cupped your cheek, his touch painfully gentle and warm as he stroked the soft skin there.
You felt the sun's rising beams behind him shine into your soul, and you blinked a few times. "I am your kin, Your Grace".
Baelor's touch moved to your jaw, carefully craddling it in his hand, scarred and bruised by the battles of his past. "You are my little dragon," he said. "His Grace belongs to the rest of these supposed kingdoms."
The river whispered through the wind as the day slowly awoke. With Baelor so near and your horses resting by the trees a few yards away from you, you listened.
But on that fifth night, sleep could not find you.
You tried, you begged for it to come. Your mind was racing with vile thoughts, and you blamed your curse for it. They were as vile as they were consuming, and you desperately needed them to quiet before insanity engulfed you whole. You did not know just how much of you was left to be devoured.
You got up abruptly, thin night gown clinging to your sweat-covered body. You needed air, you needed water, your lungs were burning.
You walked, you ran towards your door. But when you opened it, Baelor stood behind it, right arm slightly raised and ready to knock.
He looked just as surprised as you did.
"Your Grace?" You sounded almost breathless.
He stared at you, the look of surprise on his face replaced by a blanker, darker one. He cracked his neck.
"I told you not to be so formal with me." A quiet warning.
You felt something strange grow inside you, tight and almost uncomfortable.
"The hour is late," you swallowed. "Is there something you—"
Baelor cut you off, suddenly invading your space all tall and imposing, forcing your steps back. He shut the door behind him.
He towered over you. Fully and intentionally. It hit you then just how weak you were in comparison. He could snap you in half if he wanted to, and you wouldn't be able to defend yourself. You would not wish to.
"My entire life, I have been noble." His voice was dangerously low. His steps were slow but determined, yours feeble and clumsy. "I have played my part. Done everything that was asked of me."
Your back hit your bedpost, and it startled you. You gripped it with your arms slightly behind your back, grounding yourself. Trying to.
"I secretly hated my brother for what he did to you, did you know?" He continued. "Dying such a cowardly death. I know that was his punishment for treating his own child the way he did."
You saw it then. The thin layer of sweat above his forehead. The smell of red wine on this breath.
He was drunk. And he was in your chambers. So close, you could feel the heat of him, warm against your cold figure.
"So, I felt responsible for you. As an uncle, as the future king. Protector of the Realm, Protector of my own niece." His tormented eyes were unfocused, searching for something to rest on. Somewhere safe.
"I only ever wanted to see you safe and happy. I came here, stupidly believing I would find the little girl who always looked so sad. I wanted to bring you back to your family, I wanted to bring you home."
The prince was pleading, and the raw sound of it ripped your heart apart.
"But I was wrong," a bitter scoff. His eyes left your own and found your lips for a slight moment. "You are not that little girl anymore."
You thought you had stopped breathing. Your lungs were going to fail you, and you were going to die a cowardly death just like your father did.
Baelor's hand slowly came up to your cheek again, just like it had at the river. This time, it felt more intimate, more dirty. It felt like his touch ignited a fire that spread throughout your whole body, one you knew you would fight hard to kill.
You felt his touch.
His thumb lightly stroked the apple of your cheek. "You are grown." He whispered, a secret only you were meant to hear. “Beautiful and dangerous.”
His eyes found your lips again, and you let out a short breath.
"You startled me, you know?" He slowly slid his hand from your cheek down to your neck. Slow, always so slow. "I never expected to be faced with such a beauty," he rested his hand possessively on the right side of your throat. "I almost did not recognize you, if not for your hair."
You swallowed, and you know he felt it under his touch. It brought his eyes to it. His thumb pressed into your throat, the delicate and hollow skin dipping under the pressure, and you gasped.
"Maybe this is my own punishment for wishing ill on my brother," he sounded breathless, his hand now fully circling your throat. "But I cannot sleep. I barely eat. You invade my thoughts, day and night, you do. Dark and ugly thoughts, I feel as if I can barely restrain myself."
"Is this your way of punishing me? For letting my brother send you away?" His hooded eyes found yours again. The hold on your throat tightened. You brought your own hands to his wrist, gripping it, grounding yourself once more. You shook your head.
"You will hate me for this," he brought his other hand to your cheek, angling your face the way he liked. "I suppose no more than I already hate myself."
Your heart galloped faster than it had ever before. He was so close, you felt his nose bump into yours. Your lips parted, and you hated how breathless you sounded.
His grip on you was tight. Maybe if he let go, even just a bit, you would disappear into thin air, just like you did all those years ago.
You felt his lips, warm and there, slightly touch your own. You realised he was breathless, too. Breathing into each other, suspended in a stolen moment meant just for the two of you. Savouring it before it crystallised. Frowning deeply, you looked tortured, and so did he. Your small hands weakly squeezed his wrist, strong and imposing.
But when you felt his lips were about to claim yours, he froze.
Baelor slowly moved away from you. When his conflicted eyes found your confused ones, he spoke without words. What did I just do?
He removed his hands, as if disgusted by the rotten flesh covering your inner self. The same flesh he held onto so desperately just moments ago. You suddenly felt so cold, it knocked the breath out of you.
"What," barely a whisper out of you. The overwhelming feeling growing inside you brought tears to your eyes, and you moved your hand to your throat, clinging onto whatever was left of his touch.
"I didn't," Baelor stumbled back, a look of horror on his face. "I shouldn't—"
You had never seen your uncle so uncertain before, so not in control. The commanding prince, the powerful warrior, reduced to a shaking and muddled mess in front of you.
You had caused this. You made repulsiveness bloom inside anyone who dared touch or look towards you, and your uncle was at last no longer an exception to your curse.
You knew this would happen eventually. You knew Baelor would not be blinded to your vile core forever. That he would join the rest of them in due course, looking at you with a blend of pity and foulness.
You did not know it would burn so violently when he finally did.
Baelor mumbled something under his breath before stumbling out of your chambers. When the sound of the door shutting hit your ears, you fell to the ground. The air around you was heavy, struggling to reach your lungs. You felt it, gripping onto your chest, your body forcing you to take deep breaths.
Why must nature make it so when all you wanted in that moment was for the Stranger to finally come knock at your door?
When you awoke the next morning, you felt the hard floor dig into your back. You stared at the ceiling, the cold feeling inside you slowly numbing you completely. Your head was pounding.
Your lady in waiting stumbled inside your chambers after what seemed like an hour, horror lacing her words at the sight of you on the floor. You let her pick yourself up, bathe you and dress you. You let her take control of your body when you no longer could.
When she finished, you were urged to join the dining hall. The thought of food almost made you vomit, so you climbed into your bed, wishing for darkness and quiet to claim your mind once more.
You spent the next few days in bed, only leaving its false comfort to bathe.
"Please, princess," your lady in waiting begged you. "You must eat something."
You refused to leave your chambers. You allowed her to bring you some porridge, forcibly swallowing the meal in your bed. It tasted like mud.
On the seventh day, you finally spoke.
"Is he still here?"
You felt your lady in waiting's hands stumble for a second at the sound of your voice. She knew who you spoke of.
"His Grace is still here." The water was cold, it was always so cold. "The Hand has been attending matters with Lord Arryn. He and his son have returned from their hunt."
You stared at the water.
"He worries about you, princess." She said after a moment of quiet.
A lie.
"He questions me every day. He worries you are not eating enough, that you are not getting sufficient sunlight." She continued. "His Grace is personally tending to Moonlight as well," you heard the smile in her voice. "Says you will want her ready and healthy when you decide to ride her again."
The mention of your horse drew a reaction out of you. You instantly felt guilty for abandoning your beloved mare, who deserved so much better than you, for allowing yourself to feel a sliver of hope at the mention of your uncle's actions.
On the ninth day, you heard a strong knock at your door. Startled, you sat up straight in your bed.
"What could possibly be the matter with you that you would allow yourself to rot away like some kind of sickly peasant?" Your old aunt's voice was stern, as stern as her features.
You stared at her blankly.
"You will ready yourself and join the dining hall at once for supper. His lordship's son is beginning to ask questions."
You felt an unpleasant shiver run through your spine. But you obeyed, like you always did. Your opinion mattered not; most of the time, you knew that.
So, you wore the tight dress that was meant for you, the one that forced your chest and made it difficult to breathe. You let your hair be combed and braided, even allowed a bit of powder to be dabbed onto the delicate features of your face. At the sight of you, his lordship's son rose from his chair, toothy smile on display. He moved towards you, and he smelt of leather. It instantly irritated your nostrils.
"I am glad to see you, my lady," the man said as he took your hand in his. You fought the urge to pull it back. "Sickness be damned, a lady such as yourself should not waste away in bed."
When he lowered his head to place a kiss on your hand, wet and sticky, you stared ahead of you.
You saw him then, sitting at the table, dark clothes hugging his broad frame that screamed of power, a cup of wine pinched in between his right hand.
Baelor looked ahead of him, his stare locked onto your hand, the one being kissed by another man. It was dark and menacing, and you hated the dress you wore even more for making the simple act of breathing so burdensome.
The man pulled you next to him at the table, and you sat right across from your uncle. He spoke a lot, you thought. The man sitting next to you. He had killed three boars with his bare hands, he said, and even dedicated one of the kills to you.
You did not feel particularly inclined to reciprocate his interest, quietly hoping you were not expected to entertain him later tonight. He also touched you a lot, his hand often on your own, on the table, underneath it. His arm heavy on your shoulders once the wine got to his head, a bit too wide for his own shoulders, his touch moving to your nape, down to your back.
You felt uncomfortable. Not just because his touch was undesired, but because your uncle was unnaturally quiet. You noticed his right leg fidget uncontrollably underneath the table, his cold gaze fixated on the man jesting beside you.
Your heart was beating painfully inside your chest, the situation you found yourself in slowly but surely suffocating you. You felt shame claim its place right beside your uncomfortableness, and your cheeks burned at the thought of your uncle witnessing the way you were handled, like some kind of servant whore.
You picked at the food on your plate, desperately trying to distract yourself, when you suddenly felt the man's breath, hot against your ear.
"If it pleases you, my lady, I would love nothing more than to tell you all about the hunt in the comfort of my chambers later tonight."
You shrank slightly at his words, your gaze naturally seeking your uncle's for the first time tonight. But when you glanced up, he was already looking at you, his stare darker than ever before.
Baelor was noticeably fuming, looking every bit the dragon he was always meant to be. You shivered as you stared back, slightly out of breath, right hand gripping your dress until your knuckles turned white. Feeling the man's lips so near your neck, you fought your inner self at the thought that crossed your mind. It was fleeting, lasting a second only. But, it was there. Your eyes never left Baelor's.
I wish it were you.
Your throat began feeling tight, shame and desire alike choking you. You knew what your uncle thought of you, you knew what you were to him. You knew you disgusted him.
You still wished it were him.
When the man lightly smacked your thigh as he went over the gruesome details of the third boar he had slaughtered, the sharp sound of it louder than he surely intended it to be, you flinched.
Baelor snapped then, the fire inside him consuming him from the inside out, taking over his senses, his usually diplomatic and controlled senses. His closed fist hit the table, loud and striking, and suddenly the room went quiet.
"Pardon me, my lord, but I was not aware of your proximity to my niece."
His voice was menacing and echoed throughout the space surrounding you. Gone was the chivalrous prince, composed and polite. Tonight, the people of the Eyrie were facing a dragon.
"Your Grace?" The red wine he had poured down his throat all night slurred the man's speech. His hair fell in front of his eyes, untidy and greasy.
The prince stood up, his chair sharply screeching as it scraped the floor. He firmly gripped the edge of the table in front of him with both hands and said, "I would like to know whether the recent hunt that has you boasting for the past hour has filled your feeble mind with such deluded confidence that you now feel entitled to touch royal blood so freely?"
Baelor's voice was low and scarily sharp, slicing its way through the deafening silence of the room like a skilled swordsman. You were afraid to move, you were afraid to breathe.
You could feel the man beside you stiffen as he removed himself from your personal space.
"I meant no disrespect—"
"And yet you laid your sullied hands on my niece right in front of me." He spat.
Your eyes never moved away from your uncle, not even once. He was all you could see, all you could feel beside the painful and rapid pulse in your throat.
Baelor left his place at the table and approached you. He looked at you then, a silent order to stand up with a subtle tilt of his head.
When you felt his hand grip your arm, strong and possessive, he spoke again, looking down at the man who had cowered into his chair.
"The princess is but a young woman not yet betrothed to any man. Do the people of the Vale fail to teach their sons to refrain from touching ladies when they are not meant to?"
"My prince, I meant to speak to you about this—" the man stuttered.
"There is nothing to speak of." Baelor's tone was final. "The princess is tired, I will see her to her chambers."
You blinked, and you suddenly felt yourself being dragged back to the hallways, your uncle's hold on you as present as ever. It almost felt desperate.
The walk to your chambers was quiet, safe for Baelor's harsh breathing. His pace was quick and unforgiving, and you struggled to keep up with him.
"Uncle, please," you managed to say. "I cannot walk that fast."
The pleading in your voice made him stop, and he slowly turned towards you, a look of guilt flashing through his eyes. When you looked back at him, he sighed, his eyes closing for a few seconds.
When he opened them again, he tightened his grip on your arm, almost as if trying to calm himself, to remind himself that you are here, standing beside him, safe and protected. Then, he pushed you back slightly against the cold wall behind you.
"Why did you not tell me?" He whispered.
"Tell you what?"
"I know this was not the first time that foolish lord put his hands on you. Why did you not tell me someone here was bothering you?" He searched your eyes.
"I did not think that mattered." You spoke after a while.
You saw the look appear in his eyes again. The dark look that had clouded his eyes earlier at the dinner table.
"Stop doing that," he whispered through gritted teeth, shoving you further into the wall. "Stop living your life as if you did not matter."
You looked into his eyes, your own widening slightly at your uncle's loss of composure.
"I have never mattered. You know that, you have witnessed it yourself."
Baelor looked at you with so much despair, it hurt. But you knew you did not matter; you had forever lived your life by that reality, day after day.
"I will no longer have you speak so ill of yourself in my presence, you do understand?" His face drew closer to yours.
And you wanted to say yes, you wanted to be good for him, to do as he says. But then you wondered, why must he be so cruel?
Because he was cruel in that moment, you thought. For looking at you with such intensity, you were willing to give up breathing for him. For being so close to you, you could almost see his soul through his mirrored eyes, bare and exposed and longing. For being so fiercely protective of your wellbeing, it tricked your mind into believing fantasies you knew only lived in the sanctuary of your most secretive thoughts.
For looking as though he were fighting his own inner demons with every ounce of power and courage he had built throughout his years as a warrior when his eyes eventually fell to your lips.
You became aware of the burning tears in your eyes too late. How much more of this would you be able to endure?
"You matter to me," he spoke more softly this time, his free hand gently caressing your cheek. You closed your eyes at his touch; it made you mad. The same hand that was clenched so tightly earlier, that would have choked the life out of that man if he wanted to, touching you so gently. "More than you can imagine."
When you opened your eyes again, you saw his slightly shining as well, now a perfect reflection of yours.
"So, you must tell me," he spoke again. "Has he ever hurt you?"
It took you a few moments to understand who your uncle spoke of.
You shook your head.
"Do not lie to me," he begged.
"I am not lying, uncle." You brought your hand to the one cupping your cheek, gently removing it from your face. You could not bear such gentle touch when you knew you repulsed him. He should not be touching you, he should not be near you.
"He never truly hurt me," you spoke, looking at his hand that now lay limp by his side. "He sometimes requests that I come to his chambers, but he does not touch me, not much at least."
You felt the grip on your arm tighten once again. "What does he ask of you, then?"
"He likes to speak a lot. He wants me to sit on the bench by his bed and listen to his tales." You explained.
Baelor looked at you with a demented look.
"He does not ask much of me," you spoke the truth, yet you could not meet his eyes, too ashamed, too weak. "Only that I wear a light night gown when I join him."
Your uncle's eyes slowly squeezed shut, pained and enraged, before bowing his head down, his forehead slightly touching yours. You heard him curse quietly, and his breathing came out harsh against you. You stayed there for a while, the man's queer requests suddenly dawning on you, cold and ugly.
"He does not touch me, uncle." You felt the need to reassure him. "I suspect my aunt wishes for me to marry him eventually. She says it is an opportunity to further strengthen the ties between House Arryn and House Targaryen." You placed a tentative hand on his shoulder.
When Baelor looked up again, he looked scarily composed.
"I will kill him," he then said. He released your arm and stormed off.
Panic engulfed you, and you ran after him, latching onto his sleeve. Why did you have to speak?
"Please, uncle," you pleaded. "I cannot see you hurt, I would not bear it." Your hands slipped down to grab his, holding onto it with every shred of strength you had left.
"What makes you think he could ever hurt me?"
"He could hurt you in many more ways than just bruising your flesh." You hoped the desperate look you bore would be enough to convince him. "Please."
Baelor looked at you, frowning, scanning your face for any truths you may still be hiding from him.
When he finally sighed, a sign of defeat, you released a breath you did not know you were holding.
"You shall never be alone with that man ever again," he said. "As of this moment, you will have two members of Kingsguard guard your door and accompany you wherever you go until I have handled this situation."
You nodded, compliant, willing yourself to breathe normally again.
Baelor escorted you to your chambers after a while, not leaving until the Kingsguard arrived. With so much left unsaid, you retreated inside, alone.
You did not see Baelor for days after that. You told yourself that he was busy with his duties, busy fixing the mess you had created for yourself.
Perhaps it would be better if you were not seen, not by your old aunt who would likely strike you down with a disappointed look, nor by the man who shamelessly lusted over you, now perhaps driven by vengeance over his soiled honour.
You busied yourself as much as you could. You rode Moonlight from dusk till dawn until your thighs screamed in protest, groomed and fed her more than you should have, the Kingsguard twins always at your tail. When even she could not dim the painfully hollow feeling that tore your insides apart, you began scheming.
If Baelor would not see you, you would ambush him.
You tried, your poor soul begging for a rest. In the dining hall, in the gardens, at the stables. You followed him, you waited for him. But the moment he saw you, that serious and dutiful look permanently fixed onto his tortured features, he left, taking a piece of your damaged and rotten soul away forever with him.
You burned in shame in front of the knights sworn to protect your blood as they followed your every move and witnessed your every blow. If you strike yourself down right this instant, would they help you, you wondered? Would they press the blade further into your flesh, or would they break their vow and remove it?
You felt your sanity begin to slip away as the days stretched on. Because as your thoughts fought against each other in the cold confines of your mind, you struggled.
Baelor was an honourable man, and you knew the feelings he held for your family’s queer traditions. He despised it, it repulsed him, you once heard him say when your father had betrothed your older brother and sister. He was disgusted by it, he was disgusted by you, that much was clear.
But how could you ignore the way he looked when his eyes found you? The night he had burst into your own personal and protected corner, uncharacteristically drunk and seemingly on the brink of collapse if he did not let himself be tempted by the forbidden fruit trembling right in front of him.
He was going to kiss you, you knew it, you were sure of it. You had felt his lips brush yours, tasted his desperation on your tongue with every breath he took. The hold he had on your throat was possessive, it was claiming and desperate, you could still feel it in your veins, on your skin.
He had wanted you that night.
How could he reconcile craving something he was repulsed by?
When your thoughts began bleeding through your ears, you hid your face in the cape of your cloak and let your steps override your mind. The hour was improper, you knew it, but your efforts to confront your uncle had been in vain, and you were drowning inside.
When you reached Baelor’s chamber door, you knocked, soft and fragile and trembling. You could hear your own breathing, harsh and suffocating, but you knocked again. Again, and again, and again.
The door opened, and as your uncle’s tortured and confused eyes met yours, you pushed past him. The room was dark, but you focused on the few lit candles scattered across the boards, willing, begging for your heart to take a rest.
“What—“, barely a whisper. “What are you doing here?”
Breathe, you told yourself. Focus, and breathe.
“I have always believed you to be the wisest and most honourable man in the realm,” your voice quivered as you turned to face him, sounding nothing like the confidence you tried so hard to achieve. Baelor had closed the door, wary, or most likely ashamed of exposing your presence at such an intimate hour in his chambers.
His look was stern, almost cold.
You would not let it get to you.
“You took care of me when no one else did, and I grew fond of you for it." Pain laced each word you spoke. “But when I saw you here again, I realised it was more than just fondness, uncle, it was—“
“Stop,” Baelor raised his hand and walked firmly past you towards his desk, his voice failing his action. “Return to your chambers, princess.”
“No,” you said firmly. Baelor looked up from his books, a look of surprise taking over his painfully beautiful features. “Where was your honor when you visited my chambers that night?"
Baelor's face visibly blanked, and you saw him swallow.
"I do not speak much, but I am not blind, uncle." You removed the cape from your head, the candlelight reflecting the darkness of your hair.
"Stop it." Baelor's palm hit the book in front of him.
"I saw it in your eyes," you slowly approached him. "How can a wise man like yourself be so repulsed by it yet betray your beliefs at the mere sight of me?”
“What are you speaking of?” Baelor tapped the book with his knuckles now, anxious and fearful, his voice ragged.
“Which one is it, uncle?" You asked as you stopped in front of him. "Do I repulse you that much that you feel the need to run away from me?"
He was slightly trembling, too, his brows deeply frowning.
"Or do you wish to press me against this wall and touch me as if I were yours?" Your voice shook, and you slowly brought a trembling hand to his face.
Baelor harshly grabbed your wrist before you could touch him, his grip bruising. You gasped.
"Stop." He breathed again, looking down at you.
"Because I do," you brought your other hand to where he gripped your wrist and slowly touched your lips to his withening knuckles. His hold on you eased, and you heard his breath catch at the feeling of your lips on his skin.
Releasing yourself from him, you placed your hands on his broad, hard chest, his own falling limp by his side. Ever the faultless prince, still dressed in his perfectly fitted robes, drenched in the colors of your house.
"I want to feel you on my skin," you said quietly, pushing yourself on the tip of your toes before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
"Gods, please, princess." Baelor's hands instantly found your waist, and he gripped it, hard. His face lowered, instinctively granting you easier access despite his evident reluctance.
"I want you to touch me," you pressed another hesitant kiss on his jaw, feeling his beard under the soft skin of your lips. "I want you to take from me what you came to claim the other night." Another kiss underneath his jaw.
Baelor's breathing became uneven, and you saw his chest move from it.
"I want you to kiss me," you finally said, pressing a kiss on his neck, lingering and breathing there, waiting.
Baelor felt his sanity snap at your sinful words. He softly groaned as he pressed you harshly against the wall behind you using the bruising hold he kept on your waist.
You slowly gasped as you felt your head strike the stone. When you opened your eyes, you saw it again—the conflicting and aching look in his.
"Why are you doing this to me?" He spoke harshly, his hands travelling to your face. They were big and strong, and they held your head with precise purpose, his thumbs slowly feeling your cheeks.
"Tell me that I repulse you," you sounded breathless, your hold on the fabric covering his broad chest tightening. "Speak the words, and I promise to vanish from your life forever."
Baelor's mismatched eyes desperately searched your own, jumping from one to the other, dropping to your mouth at times, too.
His sweet and innocent niece, so beautiful he caught himself asking the Mother why she had to make you so. He was meant to be your protector, a knight in heavy armor bound by an inner oath to shield you from this brutal and ugly world. Guard you from harm caused by others or by your poor self, from hungry, greedy, and prying eyes looming over your purity when you were too blinded to see.
"Baelor…" you whined, impatient and desperate, clinging onto whatever restraint you had left.
But at the sound of his name on your lips, so raw and needy, Baelor's sanity snapped for the second time that night, so did his honor, and he crashed his lips onto yours.
The kiss was bruising, and you could not help the hopeless sound that escaped you as you finally, finally, felt his lips move against yours. You sighed heavily against him, and he held your face firmly in between his hands, this precious thing he knew was not his to touch, yet he devoured you with such fervor you felt your consciousness slowly slip away.
When you made another sound, Baelor suddenly stopped, the side of his face touching yours as he breathed heavily against it.
"I can't," he whispered. "I cannot do this to you, please do not make me do this to you."
Your heart dropped at his words, at the sound of his voice, filled with so much pain and grief you could taste it yourself.
You brought your hands to his neck, cupping it, caressing the soft skin there. Could he not feel it, you wondered, the unfiltered desire that spilled out of you so shamelessly?
"Look at me," you said quietly, your voice so soft it made his head shake in despair.
Your right hand touched his jaw, gently turning his face towards you. Both your mismatched violet eyes locked onto each other, and you knew, then and there, you had him.
"I want this," you whispered with so much conviction, so much desire, before pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I want this," you said again, placing another kiss on the other side. "I want you, I want you." You kissed his face, over and over again, your touch so light and gentle it almost turned sinful.
Baelor's breathing was ragged, and he fought hard with himself, he did. His eyes screwed shut, he could see it, your father's sneer, ugly and disgusted.
But he was only just a man, as honorable as he was, and he was your uncle, and the hunger he felt for you could not be balanced with his chivalry, could not be put into words.
So, when he deemed to have served the realm well enough, his honor be damned, he grabbed your face again and kissed you with so much vigor and passion you could physically feel it, traveling throughout the rest of your body.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. Baelor pushed you further into the wall, and you let him consume you the way he was always meant to, your lips trying to reach his fervor.
When he angled your face higher, you suddenly felt it, his tongue, hot and heavy, invading your mouth and soul. You moaned at the feeling, his tongue caressing yours with such gentleness it almost pardoned the filthy sounds that came out of it. You licked him back, your hand scraping the back of his scalp, and you heard him groan.
Baelor kissed you and kissed you, shifting slightly as he slowly slotted his right leg in between yours. The feeling caught you by surprise, and you gasped, breaking the kiss, your hooded eyes searching his.
"Fuck," he breathed harshly, his forehead resting against yours. "Does that make you feel good?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice. Baelor did it again, this time applying more pressure, more purpose, and he caught your lips again. The heat in between your legs spread, and when you moved slightly against his leg, you felt raw pleasure spike through your spine.
"That's it, my love," he spoke against your lips. "Use me—I'm right here, use me." He kissed you again, and you did as he said, slowly shifting your hips against him. You moaned into his mouth, the pleasure you felt dizzying.
Baelor's lips moved to your jaw, leaving a trail of kisses over every inch of your skin there. You tipped your head back against the wall, his hands leaving your face to unclasp your cloak, letting it fall on the ground at your feet, before grabbing you once more. Left in only your thin silk nightgown, your movements were shy, but you kept moving, the pressure in your lower belly growing stronger and stronger.
You moaned again when you felt his lips on your neck now, leaving open-mouthed kisses there that made your eyes slowly roll back into your head. Baelor lowered himself, kissing your colorbone, biting it slightly, smoothing it with his tongue. Both your hands held his head, subconsciously pushing him lower and lower, holding him against your beating heart.
When he placed a kiss over the swell of your breast, you felt his thumb gently, ever so gently, stroke your nipple above the soft silk. You moaned softly, your hips bucking against his thigh, and you felt it harden as he slowly circled it.
"Can I?" He asked so innocently. You nodded again, not sure what he meant, trusting him fully. "Fuck, I need—"
Baelor touched the strap of your dress, letting it fall over your shoulder, his fingers warm on your skin. The silk dropped on one side and exposed one of your breasts. Baelor cursed and bit his lip as he took you in, your skin impossibly soft and addicting, his gaze devouring you.
His thumb gently went over the curve of your breast, and he kissed the swell of it once more. He moved down then, taking your nipple into his mouth, and you whined at the wet and hot feeling, still holding his head in between your hands, pulling him closer and closer. The rough feeling of his beard against your sensitive skin there made you delirious, even more so when he rolled his tongue over your nipple, groaning at the feeling of it stiffening inside his mouth. He kissed above it, next to it, moving to your sternum, to your chest, your neck.
When Baelor reached your lips again, you melted against him, slowly becoming addicted to the feeling of him. With one hand cupping your face and the other holding onto the dip of your waist, he gently guided you towards the bed in the corner of the room.
You broke the kiss with a quiet gasp when you felt the bed hit the back of your legs, suddenly feeling anxious. Baelor stood tall above you, caging you completely with his height and his hold on you. You thought of it, of him taking control with such ease, such practice, such experience—he knew exactly what he was doing to you, how to guide you, how to make your knees go weak.
You were at his complete mercy.
It made your vision blur, and you craved it, this feeling of nervousness and unfiltered need.
Baelor noticed the look in your eyes. He gently grabbed your chin in his hand, tipping your head backwards to look at him.
"Do you trust me?" He asked, voice low.
"Yes."
Baelor smiled, then placed the softest kiss on your forehead, almost protective.
"I have you." He whispered as he gently let go of your face to grab your wrist instead.
He placed himself against the headboard then, gently pulling you onto him, your back touching his chest. You thought your skin was on fire, and you found it difficult to breathe when you felt Baelor's firm and broad chest engulf you, caging you in his own selfish desire.
His strong arms snaked their way around your sides, holding you firmly against him. His hands were curious; they were tentative and hungry when they slowly touched your skin. One hand crossed your belly and held onto your hip, the other cupped your shoulder and slid it down your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind.
"Fuck, how are you allowing me to—" His face was in the crook of your neck, his voice low and starving. His hand travelled to the sharp bone of your clavicle, his palm rough but so warm against your skin, slowly dragging towards your chest. "I dreamt of you this way, so pliant and bare in my bed." He cupped your exposed breast in his hand, the nipple of it still damp from his tongue's earlier assault, and squeezed gently. "It made me go mad for days, made me ill with guilt and need."
You let out a soft whine when his fingers gently squeezed your nipple, the words whispered so filthy in your ear, spreading the fire inside your veins. "But look at you now, you fucking want this." He breathed harshly, his voice still disbelieving, still convinced you are but a mirage from his darkest dreams.
"I do." You whined, trembling.
"Mm, and you dare think you repulse me," Bealor hummed. His free hand removed the remaining strap of your silk gown, and then you were fully exposed from the waist up, bare and vulnerable for his now unfiltered hunger. He cupped your other breast, the warm and soft skin of it sharply contrasting with his rough palm, and you heard him quietly curse at the sight of you this way. "I crave you as I have never craved anything in this dark world, can't you see?"
Baelor breathed into your neck, bit at your skin there, and you wondered why the gods had deprived you of this for so long.
His hold on your waist loosened, and you felt him touch your inner thigh, gently pushing your bent legs open. Baelor's other hand reluctantly released the sensitive skin at your breast and traveled down your chest, your belly, your thighs. He touched you like you were sacred, like he needed this, his palm passionately tender, your skin alight with bright fire.
Then, Baelor cupped your core over the soft material still covering you there, testing, and you whimpered softly, your hips instantly bucking into him, chasing him—showing him just how much you craved him, too. He pressed there, once, twice, and your ragged breathing began matching his.
Baelor's fingers then moved to your knees, and he delicately moved the end of your gown away, letting the material scrunch at your belly. Suddenly, you felt the cold air hit your most intimate parts, clashing with the wet heat nestled deep inside you. His touch returned to your inner thighs, inching closer and closer to where you craved him most. Your poor heart violently pounded against your chest, almost painful, and you knew he could feel the beat of it when his other arm crossed your chest once more, holding you firmly in place.
Baelor placed kisses on your shoulder, hiding himself in the crook of your neck, almost as if trying to soothe himself.
Your breath caught in your throat when you finally felt his middle finger touch you, thick and warm against you. It was tentative, running through your damp folds, up and down, exploring you.
"Has anyone ever touched you here?" He asked, his voice impossibly dark and possessive, and your vision slightly blurred at the implication of his words.
You shook your head, gentle whines falling from your lips.
"I need to hear you say it," he whispered in your ear, kissing it softly. "Please, I need it."
"No, uncle." You breathed. "No one but you."
Baelor groaned softly, his fingers now moving more intently against the velvet-like skin. He touched your entrance, teasing it, spreading your heat to your swollen pearl. When he circled it with his wet finger, you moaned, your hands gripping the arm holding you against him. The feeling was foreign; it was painful, it was addictive, pulling harshly at the sensitive knot in your lower belly.
He circled your entrance again, his middle finger now gently pressing inside you. A broken cry ripped from your throat. It hurt, but you craved it, your eyes shutting closed as you let your head fall against his shoulder. Baelor kissed your exposed neck, trying to soothe you, making you open up for him.
"You are doing so well, my little dragon, just like that." His voice may as well have driven you to inanity, his breath hot against your skin. Your muscles relaxed because of it, and his finger reached deeper inside you, the pain from moments ago melting into hot white pleasure.
His thick finger moved slowly inside you, and it dragged against your inner walls, touching the most intimate parts of you. You thought of it, of the man you secretly craved so much you wondered if such desire was considered humane, real and alive against you, feeling you, touching you. It was suddenly too much for you, and when he slightly crooked his finger deep inside you, you cried out loud, your right arm grabbing onto his neck behind you.
You felt uncovered against him, completely stripped of the walls you had built over the years. And you wanted him there, your desire to have him strip you bare, making you come undone, using you as he pleased, almost too consuming to survive. The feeling of your almost naked and fragile body against his fully clothed one should make you blush in shame—instead, the rough material of his royal robes, the thick of his belt, the cold of his Hand pin and scales, digging harshly into your skin, under you, made you feel alive.
"Can you take one more, sweetheart?" His ragged voice stole you from your own mind and blind pleasure. You quickly nodded, desperate and wanting.
"Are you certain? You are so fucking tight down there, I cannot believe—"
"Please," you begged. "Baelor, please."
You turned your head to the side, your hand touching his cheek, and you kissed him messily, desperately. Your hand moved to his head, pulling on the short dark hairs there, and he groaned into your mouth when he pressed another finger inside you, slowly sliding against the other.
Your whines slowly turned into soft cries. You felt full, full of him, of his fingers, of his desire. You turned back then, the sudden need to see him overtaking your senses. His lust-filled eyes found yours, and they were so dark you could barely see the violet in them anymore. You knew yours were most likely a reflection of his right now, just like they had always been.
"We look the same," you looked deep into his soul, your hand holding onto his face, falling to his throat at times, too afraid to let go. "We look the same, you and I—why—why do they love you but hate me?" You half cried, never leaving his eyes.
Baelor's eyebrows were pinched, and he was breathless, his hand still moving inside you with intended purpose. He kissed your forehead, his gaze then returning to yours. "Perhaps the gods knew of my hidden selfish nature," he curled both fingers, more roughly this time, and your eyes rolled slightly. "They knew better than to offer you to others."
And it made sense, did it not?
You wanted to be weak and vulnerable for him; you needed him to see you as you were at your core and completely take you apart for it. You were his, you were always his, you would always be his now. No other man would touch you, no other man could make you their own; you breathed for Baelor, lived for him only.
"Take me with you, uncle." You said, reality gradually falling on you like a heavy cloak. You gripped his face more firmly in your palm, feeling the rough hairs of his beard, begging him through your touch. "Just make me yours, please. I will be good for you, I promise." You were crying now, the heat at your core slowly beginning to feel suffocating.
"Shh," Baelor tried to soothe you, kissed your tears away, his fingers still firmly pumping in and out of you.
"I will, I promise, please, I promise." You felt delirious at the pleasure and the pain inside you, blinding your senses, and so you begged, shamelessly and without restraint. "I do not want another man touching me there."
Baelor's movements stopped at your pleas, the look on his face steadily turning dark as night, and you slightly hiccupped through your cries.
"No other man will ever touch you," his voice grumbled from deep inside his chest. "Not here," he shoved his fingers fully inside you again, his movements drenched in raw possessiveness. "Not anywhere, do you understand?"
"Just you, only you, I only need you." You nodded, and he kissed you. His lips were rough and dominating against yours, his tongue invading your mouth, claiming yours, claiming all of you.
You placed your head against his shoulder again when you found it hard to breathe, and he brought his hand from your hip to your throat, his touch light. His fingers moved with more speed now, and every time he curled them against the softer, more sensitive patch deep inside you, you bucked your hips against the heel of his palm. You moaned at the pressure on your clit, and you felt it more than ever; the knot in your belly, in your heart, almost snapping.
Baelor's hold on your throat suddenly tightened, and when his hand fully pressed against your skin there, squeezing and slightly restricting air from flowing to your burning lungs, you broke.
Your tight walls trapped his fingers inside you, and you whined, loud and desperate, his strong hold still slightly choking you. Baelor whispered praises in your ear, so good, so fucking good for me, over and over again. You felt pleasure crash onto you in waves, and he fucked his fingers inside your core until you fully came down from your high. Only when you slowly stilled, jolting occasionally from soft spasms running through you, did he slowly release your throat.
You were panting, you felt completely spent. Baelor kept his fingers inside, the warmth of you addicting, as he slowly caught his breath as well. Then, he gently pulled his fingers out, the sound of it filthy. You cried softly at the feeling before letting out a high-pitched whine when he circled your overly sensitive clit, once, twice, selfishly groaning at your reaction.
When you caught his wrist, the overstimulation too much to bear, Baelor steadily brought his slick fingers to your mouth. He tapped your lips with a wet digit, and you opened your mouth for him, shamelessly compliant. You sucked on them, blushing at the taste of your own release on your tongue. You moaned, mouth full, your hand now gripping his palm, your tongue swirling around his fingers, in between them.
You heard Baelor curse, you thought you did. When he reluctantly removed his fingers from the heat of your mouth, he gently grabbed your chin, wet and gently turning your face to look at him.
Your eyes were tired, you suddenly felt so tired. He could not help himself, so he kissed you so softly it almost lulled you into a deep slumber. You felt him remove himself from underneath you, cradling your head with so much care and love you wondered if you had been made out of glass all this time.
Baelor removed your gown fully from your body before covering it with the thick covers lying on his bed. You wanted to speak, you wanted to get up and tell him, tell him everything, but your body refused.
"I am right here, sweet girl." Baelor spoke when you tried standing up before placing a kiss on your temple, his fingers gently tucking your hair behind your ear.
And so you did just that, you did not fret. You closed your eyes, your hands gripping onto the furry covers, and you let sleep take over you.
༒︎
When morning came the next day, sunlight beams seeping through the windows of the bedchamber, the first thing your mind registered was a quiet sense of panic looming inside you.
The cold feeling that had slowly but surely claimed your body over the years, as present and as constant as the blood running through your veins, had dulled. For the first time in your life, warmth had replaced the cold, and you could feel it right through the tips of your fingers.
Disoriented, you slowly turned in the bed you had just spent the night in. You felt it then, you felt him, his warm and bare chest touching your shoulder.
Baelor was asleep next to you, and the sight of him fed the warm feeling that had taken residence inside you. You turned fully toward him then, and for a few seconds, you found it difficult to breathe, your breath caught in your throat.
He seemed peaceful, the permanent frown painted on his eyebrows almost gone now, no longer looking as tortured as he had seemed since the day he set foot in the Vale. His dark hair, so painfully beautiful, looked soft and smooth. His sun-kissed skin pulled you in, and you fought hard not to trace the lines and battle scars that made him so captivating. His nose, so perfectly shaped despite looking as if the bone had been broken once or twice.
But it was his lips, pink and warm and soft, that suddenly ignited a fluttering feeling in your heart and belly. You quietly gasped at the feeling as you let it spread throughout your body. Memories from the night prior came flooding into your mind, those same lips claiming yours with such passion and intensity it made you weak to your knees.
He was so beautiful it almost hurt.
"Staring at your prince at this hour is not very lady-like," Baelor's morning voice startled you, pulling you out of the confines of your mind.
You could not help but smile shyly, your cheeks slightly warming at his words and at your thoughts. Baelor's eyes were still closed.
"I am not staring," you spoke softly.
At the sound of your soft voice, your uncle opened his eyes. The sun agreed with his beauty, you thought, when its light kissed his face the same way you wished you could. The purple in his eye stood out, and you realised just how deep the color truly was.
Baelor smiled. "Are you all right?"
You looked at him a bit longer, the purple in your own eye pulling at his. You nodded. "Are you?"
When he nodded back, a tired smile at his lips, you felt yourself loosen as some of your doubts and fears slowly melted away.
Baelor's hand neared your face, his fingers lightly tracing your forehead, your cheek. You closed your eyes at the feeling of his gentle touch, only opening them again when he moved to your hair.
"You know, I have never come across another person blessed with the same hair color as you." He threaded his fingers through your hair, softly combing it. "It's dark," he said as he gently took a fistful of it by your ear, lightly scratching your scalp. "But when touched by the sun, it turns into the loveliest and most mesmerising shade of gold, just like now."
You felt your heart bleed with unfiltered love for him, pouring out of you like a broken vase. You reached for his hand in your hair and brought it to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to his palm.
"Gods, you truly are beautiful," he whispered, his hand now resting at your throat, claiming.
Baelor raised himself on his elbow, towering slightly over you. You felt protected, you felt as if you needed his weight on you as much as you needed the air in your lungs. Then, he lowered himself, kissing your forehead in a way that made you believe you were the most precious little thing he had ever laid his hands on.
He moved to your right cheek, your left, your nose, kissing your skin, speaking to it. When he heard your breathing hitch, Baelor moved your head slightly with the hold he kept on your throat and scattered light kisses all over the line of your jaw.
He continued with his lovestruck assault down to your throat, and you let out a tiny moan. The sound coming out of you poked at the sleeping dragon inside him, and you felt his hand tighten around your throat. He kissed you there, his lips strong and passionate and wet. When you felt his teeth faintly nip at the juncture between your neck and your shoulder, you moaned again.
"If you keep making those sounds, sweet girl, I will have to have my way with you," he spoke low before returning to your jaw once more, to the back of your ear.
"Baelor," you whispered heavily, bringing your hands to his face to cup his cheeks. His hooded eyes found yours, overwhelmed with need and desire, and his lips claimed your own once more. It knocked the breath out of you, and as you sighed against him, you became acutely aware of every single nerve inside your body, tingling and singing and craving.
Baelor kissed you, his warm lips molding yours, his free hand fisting your golden hair. When you felt his tongue invade your mouth, you whined, the feeling of it colliding with your own almost too much to handle at this hour.
"Is this all right?" He asked out of breath, his forehead resting on yours. You nodded as you soothed the sides of his face, the feeling of his beard underneath your fingers making you dizzy with want. You kissed him again, and when he pushed you deeper into his bed, you bucked your hips upward.
Baelor stopped to look at you, and your eyes held onto his when you hesitantly grabbed one of his hands. You were shaking; you knew he could feel it, but you were keenly aware of what you wanted, of what you needed. Slowly but surely, you guided his hand under the covers that hid your bare body.
His eyes went dark when he realised what you were asking of him. His hand flattened on your ribs, warm and strong, and slid down towards your stomach. Pretending as if you were still the one in control of his movements, you angled his hand to feel him where you craved his touch.
Nestled between your legs, Baelor took his time when he ran his fingers through your folds, testing, taking. Your eyes shut closed and you bit your lower lip as you welcomed the feeling of pleasure once more, flowing through your body like water.
"Do I make you feel that good, princess? You are soaked down there already." He whispered by your ear, his voice laced with want.
"Please, uncle," you begged, and you witnessed the last remnants of restraint vanish from his eyes, leaving pure and unfiltered desire.
When Baelor kissed you again, you felt him claim you, the same way riders would claim their dragons back in the days of Old Valryia. Two fingers touched your entrance, slowly tracing it, then spread your wetness towards your pearl already swollen with pleasure. You moaned into his mouth, your left hand gripping onto the back of his neck, as a wet finger slowly circled your clit over and over again.
"Fuck, I cannot get enough of you." Baelor spoke lowly before latching his mouth onto your jaw.
The pleasure you felt was almost sickening, consuming you in ways you did not think possible. Baelor was everywhere, in your heart, in your soul, in between your legs. You clamped them shut, wanting to keep him there for eternity, begging to give yourself to him for eternity.
Your hand was still on his wrist, now long forgotten, yet you gripped it with all the strength you had left. You removed it then, touching the length of his arm, wanting to feel every bit of skin you could possibly get your hands on.
When Baelor kissed your lips again, his hand still pleasuring you, you bravely moved your own to his breeches. The moment your fingers grazed his hardness firmly resting underneath the light cotton, he groaned into your mouth.
"What are you doing?" He looked at you, seemingly surprised but lustful alike.
"I want to make you feel good, too." You said in between harsh breaths, sweet and innocent despite the dirty words you spoke.
"Don't—" He warned, but you only pecked his lips in return.
"Please, uncle," you whispered. "Just let me make you feel good."
"You do not need to do that, pleasuring you makes me feel good enough." You brought your free hand to his face, pressing your thumb to his lips, your other fingers fanning over his cheek and jaw. You pulled on his lower lip, slightly dragging it down. When you felt the warmth of his mouth claim the tip of your thumb, you pushed it further inside.
Taking this as your sign, your other hand grabbed onto him over his breeches. You sensed his teeth graze your thumb, sucking on it, and you suddenly felt hot at the size you held in your hand.
Feeling brave, you dipped it underneath his clothing and took his thickness into your small hand. Baelor nearly choked around your finger as he released it. His cock was hard already, and he felt big and hot inside your palm.
You had no experience, you knew not how to please a man nor his manhood. You only remembered what your lady in waiting had told you once or twice when you had been a furiously blushing mess. Long and firm strokes, my lady, that will turn a man into your black bird, she had said.
You did just that, stroking his length downward and up to its head, squeezing it tighter there. He was leaking, just like you were, and when you felt the wetness at his tip, you flattened your palm over it, circling it lightly.
Baelor’s face fell in the crook of your neck, quiet curses falling from his lips at the feeling of your hand wrapped around him. When you spread the wetness over his length, finding it easier to stroke him this way, you heard him moan, heavy and hot in your ear.
The sounds he made were intoxicating. It made you delirious, that you were the cause of it, the one coaxing them out of him. It made the slick in between your legs gush harder than before, and you whined when you felt his fingers tease your folds once more, alternating between teasing your entrance and pressing on your clit in pulsing movements.
Time suspended as you satisfied each other, feeding off of each other’s pleasure like you hadn’t had a meal in weeks. You craved him like you had never craved anything before in your life, and even if every bit of your skin was touching his, you still felt as though he could not possibly be close enough, your moans and whines slowly turning into soft cries.
“What’s the matter, my love?” Baelor lifted his head, his eyes hooded and shiny, the pleasure he felt in this stolen moment seemingly bringing him to tears, too.
“I need you,” you said heavily, your fingers touching his mouth. “Please, please.”
“I need you too,” he said as he kissed your nose softly. “I won’t take you now, not here, princess.”
You wanted to protest, but before you could utter a word, Baelor kissed you again, and you felt your tears finally escape the warmth of your eyes.
“Let me take care of you.” He whispered. Baelor removed his hand from between your legs, and you whined at the loss of contact. He placed himself fully above you now, leaning on his elbow as he carefully avoided crushing you with his weight.
Baelor then grabbed his length with your hand, the one who held him so sweetly it made him see shooting stars. Using your hand, he guided his cock towards your swollen folds, and when he made your fingers angle his tip in a way for it to touch your wetness, you both moaned at the feeling.
He started slow, dragging his tip from your entrance to your puffy pearl. He circled it, slow and torturous, the overwhelming feeling of it making you cry and he curse. Baelor then nestled himself in between your folds, thick and hot and heavy, the pressure of his cock against you making you breathe heavily.
He removed your hand from his cock, pressed a kiss to your palm, then placed it on his neck, wanting you to touch him, to feel him. With one arm caging you in, he used his free hand to grab the side of your face.
“I have you.” He said, and you noticed his trembling figure.
Then, he began moving, and you felt his length kiss your folds. He fucked himself in between them, the tip sometimes catching your entrance, your vision going white at the thought of him inside you. It made you jolt in pleasure, and you moaned softly against his mouth, his cheek.
His face found refuge in the crook of your neck again, his now safe space it seemed, his lips and teeth marking the soft skin there. Baelor’s movements did not falter, fucking his way through your whines and his steadily.
The pleasure was consuming, it was shattering, and when you began bucking your hips slightly to match his thrusts, you felt his breathing heavy in your ear. Your delicate hands basked in sin hugged his head to your neck, scratching his scalp, his neck, his back. You felt wetness in your neck then, Baelor’s tears of pleasure drenching it.
His movements were turning uneven, and you were near, barely holding onto the edge.
“Baelor I—“ You cried, pleasure blinding you.
“Let go,” Baelor brought his face back to yours, wanting to see you when you came apart, wanting to brand the image in his mind and keep it there forever. “I’m right here, let go.”
When you felt the tip of his cock catch your clit once more, you fell apart. The tight knot in your lower belly snapped, and you moaned as you grabbed onto his face tightly. Baelor peppered light kisses all over yours as you rode out your high, quietly encouraging you, praising you for doing so well.
The feeling of your folds fluttering violently around his cock and the look on your face coming undone was all it took to draw him over the edge as well, and he kissed your lips as he released himself, painting your lower belly white.
You held onto each other as you both came back to reality, breathing harshly, too afraid to let go, too reluctant to let this moment end. With his forehead settled against yours, he cupped your cheek and gently wiped away the tears of pleasure that had spilled out of you. You touched his cheeks as well, keeping him close, loving him through your palms.
When you both caught your breath, his eyes found yours, gentle and caring. A bit worried, too. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine, uncle.” You smiled tiredly, your hand warmly caressing his face and neck as you tried to dissipate the obvious concern in his voice.
Baelor nodded, and he kissed your forehead once before gently removing himself from where you hugged him below. You whined softly at the feeling, and you noticed his length twitch at the sound.
Before you could speak, he stood up, and you saw him grab a small cloth from his desk right after adjusting himself in his breeches. Dipping the cloth in a bucket of water, he came back to you and sat at the edge of the bed.
Baelor gently swiped at your lower belly, and you felt your cheeks warm slightly. You looked away, the sight of him cleaning his release on your bare skin too much for you. He noticed.
“Do not go shy on me now.” He teased, his voice playful yet somewhat timid as well.
You hid your smile in your shoulder and covered yourself once he stood up again. You felt your heart leap when you saw him return to bed, claiming his rightful place by your side once again.
You turned your back to him, and he pulled you securely against his chest, his strong arm protectively circling your waist. You placed your own arm above his, gently tracing his knuckles.
Baelor tucked his chin above your shoulder, sighing contentedly as he placed a soft kiss there. You smiled, feeling the fire alive in you more than ever before.
“I hope I was decent enough,” you spoke quietly. “You must be used to women far more experienced than I am, I—“
“I do not recall ever sounding as desperate as I did just now,” Baelor spoke by your ear as he cut you off. “You practically made me cry, woman,” he chuckled, and you fought hard to hide the smile that was creeping up on your face. “I must make you promise not to ever speak of it.”
“That depends.” You teased back.
“Mm, on what exactly?”
“Will you teach me? How to be better at it?” You asked shyly, suddenly sounding more self-conscious. Your heart began pounding, but you wanted to be good at it, to be good for him, in ways that others could not be.
“Whatever pleases you, princess.” Baelor said after a while. You sighed a sigh of relief, his words comforting you in the idea that this time would not be the last time.
“You must have more faith in yourself,” he spoke lowly, his breath tickling your neck. It brought goosebumps to your skin. “If only you knew how they speak of you, of your beauty.”
“Who does?”
“Most of the men here,” he answered, kissing your shoulder. “You are a walking beauty, and you are a dragon. Many would kill just to lay their eyes on you.” You felt his hold on your waist tighten, his voice laced with something akin to possessiveness and perhaps even a bit of jealousy.
You traced his knuckles once more, trying to convey the words jumping at the tip of your tongue. I belong to you. I am yours, yours only, now and forever.
“It kills me that you do not see it, all because of this false idea of a curse the gods supposedly placed on our heads.” He said. You stared at the wall ahead of you, gently tracing his forearm with your fingers. “It is all a lie, you know?”
“How do you mean?” You asked softly.
“My great grandsire, the king Viserys,” he began, his voice bringing you comfort as you had never felt before.
“Queen Rhaenyra and Daemon’s son?” You interrupted him.
“Yes,” he spoke again, placing another soft kiss on your shoulder. “My father told me that when Viserys held me for the first time on the day I was born, he wept.”
“Why?” You asked curiously.
“He said that my dark hair had reminded him of his elder brother who died many years prior.” Baelor explained.
“How did he die?”
“Who, sweetling?” Baelor spoke softly, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Your fingers intertwined with his above your hip.
“Viserys’ brother.”
“Jacaerys was lost to the dance, alongside his other brothers,” he answered. “My father said one of Viserys’ greatest battles in life was losing his memories of his elder brothers. He could not recall what they looked like towards the end of his life.”
You felt a wave of sadness overcome you. You could barely remember your own siblings’ faces, too.
“The only thing he could distinctly remember was Jacaerys’ dark hair,” he continued. “None of his children or other descendants bore hair of such color. My father said I was the first Targaryen born with it ever since Viserys’ brothers.”
You blinked, your hand still clutching his.
“So, he wept when he first held me. He kissed my head, and the maids say the king cried out his brother’s name for days in his sleep after that.”
You felt a weight lift off your shoulders at his words, one that had become heavier with each year that passed. Viserys' pain made you sad, but it also comforted you in your own deluded way.
“This idea that our appearance is a curse came from people who wished to see our family destroyed,” Baelor spoke again, this time a more serious tone etched in his voice. “The fools fell for it, and the jealous spread the lie like wildfire to feed their own greed.”
His hand tightened at your hip, and you fought to swallow around the painful pit that had slowly grown inside your throat.
“The next time you feel bothered by it, I want you to think of Viserys and the love he held for his brother,” Baelor spoke closer to your ear. “I want you to think of him, and think of how much he would have loved to hold you in his arms.”
You swallowed once more.
“Can you do that for me?” He asked softly.
“Yes.” You said after a while.
“Good.” Baelor sighed. He placed a kiss in your hair, right behind your ear, and pulled you closer to his chest, his heart.
Caged in between Baelor’s arms, you felt at peace, you felt loved and wanted. You felt less ashamed, more seen, worshipped even.
Baelor's breathing evened out behind you, a gentle caress against the sensitive skin at your nape.
"Queen Rhaenrya," you spoke quietly. "She fell in love with her uncle as well, did she not?"
Baelor did not respond right away, did not move, stole this moment for himself. Locked it away in the pockets of his mind with only him as guardian. Took your words in, your silent confession, savored them.
"It would seem so." He said after a while, a whispering laugh to hide his uncommon timidity. "They say Daemon loved her fiercely, too."
You closed your eyes then, squeezing his hand once more, before letting sleep slowly take over you a second time.
You dreamt of two dragons that morning, two dark and strong and gorgeous dragons. They flew high in the sky, side by side, almost dancing, and the fire they breathed turned nearly as bright and as hot as the sun.
And just like that, the darkness that had shaped you no longer felt so consuming.
