[hopeluna]

cw: just a little domestic fluff, PREGNANCY, reader being dramatic and my first time writing anything asoiaf related so I BEG, pls be nice :')

"I do not like you."

Baelor only hums, amused, but nevertheless not looking up from his ledgers.

"I said, I do not like you."

"I heard, my love."

Glancing up for a moment, he smiles fondly at you huffing at him indignantly. He assumes you are trying to be threatening but it hardly works when you look so adorable with your belly round with child. He puts the quill down, turning his attention fully to you, "and what have I done to deserve this dislike, if I may ask?"

"I feel akin to a whale and it is all your doing", you do not meant to but tears prick your eyes suddenly. You cannot recall a time in your life where you have felt so uncomfortable as you do now. You cannot even comfort yourself by your favoured sweets or meals - everything seems to taste just wrong.

A soft sound escapes Baelor without meaning to, already rising up and making his way to you. He kneels infront of you, firm but gentle hands over your hips. "You look nothing like a whale, but the most beautiful woman in all the seven kingdoms."

You go silent for a moment then frown, toying absentmindedly with his doublet. "Only the seven kingdoms? What of the East?" You gasp lightly as you make a sudden realisation, "So, you think there are more beautiful women in Lys, Volantis, and Myr - "

You stop at the slow blink Baelor gives you, surely a sign of his agreement on this. " - you do!"

Baelor, is trying, truly trying to not laugh for he knows it will only make you more upset. But your imagination is something sometimes.

"ñuha jorrāeliarzy, forgive me. I simply misspoke, I only meant to say that you are the most beautiful woman in this world and beyond. Awaking and seeing you by my side is the greatest pleasure The Gods have given me. I am unsure if I am deserving of it."

He smiles at your sudden shy lookaway, finding the carpet to be much more interesting than looking at him. And it is not as if he lied, it baffles him sometimes to think that he is yours and you are his.

"I suppose...well I- I do not dislike you that much."

"Truly a generous act. Thank you, my love."

[the-darklings]

THE DIARY — BRENDAN BENNETT FRANKLIN.

pairing: brendan bennett franklin x f!reader, background bobby franklin x f!reader wc: 9.9k+ summary: brendan bennett franklin falls in love with his twin brother's girlfriend at sixteen and never quite stops. contents/warnings: twins au, unrequited love (?), pining, jealousy between siblings, parental infidelity/divorce (referenced), sexual fantasies, masturbation, guilt && self-loathing, social isolation/alienation, touch aversion/sensory issues (undiagnosed neurodivergence), feelings of brokenness around sexuality && attraction, heterosexuality-adjacent distress, emotional anguish, one instance of homophobic slur (from a bully), heavy angst. notes: i've created many characters in my time. brendan/bb might genuinely be amongst my absolute favourites i've ever written. i've very purposefully kept this highly unedited to try and capture the raw nature of his feelings. i've also been writing this nonstop all day, so any mistakes are my own. might have also cried but that's neither here nor there. enjoy.

✶ better bobby series.

private property of brendan bennett franklin.

do not read. i mean it, bobby.

1985–1990.

september 3, 1985

new girl transferred today. junior, like us. you walked into homeroom twelve minutes late with your bag strap sliding off your shoulder and sat down in the empty desk by the window and i forgot what mr. hendricks was saying. i still don't remember. it might have been about the civil war. it might have been about literally anything. you glanced out of the window, sunlight golden on you, and opened your notebook. i missed twenty minutes of american history.

this is probably not important enough to write down.

i'm not sure why i did.

september 8, 1985

i have three friends. bobby, terrence, and the library.

i'm not popular. i'm the thing that happens to popular when you drain all the charisma out of it and replace it with advanced calculus and the inability to make eye contact. bobby got the face AND the personality. i got the face and a brain that won't stop noticing details nobody asked for and a body that flinches when people touch it without warning.

identical twins. completely different experiences of being alive.

bobby walks into a room and the room lights up around him. i walk into a room and can't figure out where to stand. people talk and i miss the cues. the pauses where i'm supposed to laugh, the shifts in tone that signal a joke, the invisible dance of human interaction that everyone else learned naturally, and i'm still studying from the outside like a foreign language i can read but can't speak.

most people forget i'm in the room. teachers mix us up. girls look through me to find him. i've been called "bobby's brother" so many times it might as well be printed on my birth certificate.

i envy him sometimes. the effortlessness of it. the way connection comes to him like breathing. for me every conversation is a translation exercise: hear the words, decode the meaning, calculate the appropriate response, deliver it, check the face for signs i got it wrong. and it's so exhausting.

the library doesn't require any of it. the library doesn't care if i'm awkward.

september 11, 1985

her name is—

actually, i don't think i should write your name in this. just in case bobby finds it despite the very clear warning on the cover. i know you. that's enough.

bobby talked to you first because bobby talks to everyone first. you were sitting alone at lunch and he just walked over and sat down and said something that made you laugh (this startled, bright, involuntary sound) and by the time i got to the table you were already part of the group.

terrence likes you. bobby likes you. everybody likes you. you're warm in a way i don't have a word for. not loud-warm. just warm.

you said hi to me and i said hi back and that was the entire interaction.

i've been replaying it for three hours.

september 17, 1985

you sat next to me in calculus today. not because you had to. the desk was open and you chose it from three others, and sat down and smiled at me. you said, "hey, benny" like we've known each other for years.

benny.

nobody calls me benny.

september 29, 1985

you asked me to help you with calc after school. we sat at the kitchen table for an hour and a half and you leaned into my shoulder while i walked you through derivatives. your hair smelled like vanilla and you looked at me like i'd performed a miracle when you finally got it right.

nobody looks at me like that. bobby gets those looks. terrence gets those looks. i get the polite nod. the strained, patient smile. the "oh, you're bobby's brother" face that i've learned to expect.

you looked at me like i was a person who knew things you wanted to know. like the knowing mattered. like i was someone and not just adjacent to my twin.

i am in so much trouble.

october 14, 1985

you call me brendan. full name. sometimes benny when you're teasing. never BB, which is what everyone else calls me. never "the other twin." never "bobby's brother."

brendan.

i could live off the way you say it for a very long time.

october 22, 1985

kyle weber called me a freak in the hallway today. not the first time. i was carrying a stack of AP textbooks and he shoulder-checked me and they went everywhere and he laughed and said, "watch it, freak." i was on my knees picking up books and trying to disappear into the linoleum.

and then you appeared out of nowhere. i don't know where you came from. one second i was alone on the floor and the next you were crouching beside me, stacking my books, and then you stood up and turned to kyle. you said something so quiet i couldn't hear it and his face went white. paper white. he looked at you and then at me and then he stalked away and he hasn't spoken to me since.

i asked you what you said to him. you handed me my books and shrugged. "i told him if he touches you again i'll make sure the whole school knows he cried during the sex ed video in freshman year."

"...did he?"

"oh, absolutely. terrence told me. the power of information, benny."

and you linked your arm through mine and walked me to class.

people touch me and i flinch. always have. bobby's arm around my shoulder makes my skin crawl. terrence's back-slaps make me clench my jaw. casual contact (a stranger's elbow on the bus, a classmate brushing past in the hallway) registers in my body as a low-grade alarm.

i don't know why. i've never known why. my skin has always been too loud for other people's hands.

you linked your arm through mine and i didn't flinch. i didn't tense. i didn't have to override the instinct because the instinct wasn't there. your touch landed on my skin and my whole nervous system went quiet. warm. calm. like coming inside after hours in the cold and standing next to a fire and feeling the tightness in your muscles release one strand at a time.

you're protective of me. you took one look at the quiet twin who can't make eye contact and decided he was yours to defend and nobody asked you to and you did it anyway.

i have never felt warm the way i feel warm when you do this. like the warmth isn't just temperature but a person. like i've been standing outside in the cold my whole life and you opened the door to a warm house.

november 2, 1985

you found me in the library during a free period. everyone else was at the pep rally. i was reading and you sat down across from me and said "i don't really do pep rallies" and opened your own book and we sat there in silence for an hour.

i've never been quiet with another person and had it feel like a gift before.

silence with other people feels like a failure. like i'm supposed to be filling the space and i can't find the right thing to fill it with. every pause is a question i'm getting wrong. with you the silence felt like a room we were sharing on purpose.

the noise in my head (the constant humming calculation of how to be a person in front of other people) it stops when you're near. just stops. like a machine powering down. and underneath the silence there's this calm i don't have a name for. this sense that i can stop performing and just exist and you won't find the existing strange or off-putting.

when you left you squeezed my shoulder and said, "this was nice, benny."

i put my forehead on the table and stayed there for a while.

november 9, 1985

a thing i've never told anyone:

i hate being touched, and i am desperate to be touched. both at the same time. all the time.

other people's hands on me feel like static. wrong pressure, wrong temperature. i pull away from hugs. i stiffen under friendly arms. mom stopped trying to hold my hand when i was eleven because i kept pulling free without meaning to and the hurt on her face was worse than the contact.

but when you touch me (your hand on my arm, your head on my shoulder, your fingers fixing my collar) my body does the opposite thing. it leans. toward you. into you. like i've been cold for sixteen years and you're the first source of heat and the relief of it is so overwhelming i could cry.

i want more. always more. every touch you give me i hoard and replay and it's never enough. i want your hand in my hair. your arms around my waist. your forehead against mine. i want to be held by you until the static stops and it only stops with you and i don't understand why.

i don't think i need to understand why. i just need more.

november 15, 1985

i can see it happening. you and bobby. the way you orbit each other is starting to change shape.

the group hangs out and i watch your eyes find him across the room. i watch his find you. there's a gravity forming between you two that everyone can feel and nobody's named yet but they will. terrence already calls you bobby's girl behind your back and you're not, not yet, but the "yet" is so, so heavy.

you light up when he walks in. i know that brightness because i feel it when you walk in and i have to look away before anyone sees.

you're going to end up with bobby. everyone in this school can see the shape of it forming. bobby and the new girl. the twin everybody notices and the girl everybody likes.

i'm being dramatic. it's only been two months. i barely know you.

except i do. i know you hate the crusts on sandwiches but eat them anyway because wasting food makes you feel guilty. i know you hum when you're concentrating and you don't realise you're doing it and the song is never one i recognise. i know you bite your bottom lip when you're nervous and the left side harder than the right.

i know you. i've been paying attention since september.

i need to stop.

december 19, 1985

christmas party at terrence's. you wore a red sweater too big for you and had a stupid reindeer pin on your collar. bobby was doing his thing. arm around you, charming and bright, making the room laugh. i watched you lean into him. two bodies learning how to fit together.

you found me hiding in the kitchen and bumped your hip against mine with a crooked smile. "you're hiding."

"i'm making a drink."

"you're hiding. come back out. i miss you."

you said i miss you and i'd been in the other room for ten minutes.

you dragged me back by my sleeve and sat me down next to you and kept your hand on my knee for the rest of the night. i don't think you noticed you were doing it.

i noticed nothing else.

january 9, 1986

i've started dreading the question. the one bobby and terrence throw around like a football. "so when are you gonna get a girlfriend, bennett?" bobby grins when he says it. means it lovingly. doesn't know the answer is a slow knife.

terrence is worse. "bro there are girls literally lining up for the bobby franklin face and you're just... sitting there. reading. with that face. it's criminal!"

i laugh it off. they laugh. everyone laughs. good old brendan. hopeless with girls. still a virgin. probably going to be a virgin forever because he can't string two sentences together in front of a pretty girl.

except that's not it. that's not it at all.

something is wrong with me.

i can't find anyone attractive. i've tried. jenny park is objectively beautiful and when she talked to me at lunch i felt nothing. matt from chem lab is objectively beautiful and when he sat next to me i felt nothing. the magazine under bobby's bed that he thinks i don't know about—nothing.

my body doesn't respond to people. it doesn't want anyone. i look at classmates the way i look at furniture. vague acknowledgment that they exist. no heat. no pull. no interest.

except you.

you walk into a room and every nerve ending in my body lights up. you touch my arm and my skin hums for an hour. you lean into my shoulder and i stop breathing. you, exclusively. only you. like my body was made with a single setting and the setting is you and there's no alternative use.

i don't know what this means. i don't know if this is normal.

i'm really scared it isn't.

march 8, 1986

bobby asked you out today.

he told me first. came into my room and sat on my bed and said "i'm gonna ask her" and his voice was trying to hide the fact he was scared. going casual, going loose, like if he holds the words lightly enough they won't be able to hurt him. and i knew what he was really asking. because dad is still fresh. the cheating. the years of lies, mom finding out, the divorce that split the house in half.

bobby was fourteen when he decided love was the thing that wrecks you. swore he'd never open that door. never let anyone close enough to do what dad did to mom.

and now he wants to try. for you.

he deserves this. after everything dad did, after watching his ability to trust get gutted by a man who was supposed to teach him how to love, bobby deserves someone who makes him brave enough to try.

i told him to go for it. meant it.

he came back an hour later. grinning so wide his face couldn't hold it. you said yes.

of course you said yes. you've been saying yes to bobby since the day you sat down at our lunch table.

i hugged him. told him congratulations. meant it.

went to my room. closed the door. sat on the floor with my back against the bed and stared at the wall until my eyes ached.

march 22, 1986

movies. bobby and you, me and terrence. your first group outing as a couple.

bobby had his arm around you. you had your head on his shoulder. you shared popcorn. your leg was pressed against mine the whole film. probably because the seats were small. i didn't move.

i should have moved.

april 5, 1986

you had a fight with your mom. showed up at our house at 10 pm, crying. bobby wasn't home.

you stood on the porch and i opened the door and your face crumpled and you blurted out, "is it ok if i just sit with you for a while?"

i made you tea. you talked and i listened. after an hour you ran out of words and leaned sideways and put your head on my shoulder and fell asleep.

you slept for two hours. your hand curled in the fabric of my shirt. your breathing slow and deep. i sat perfectly still. did not adjust my position even when my arm went completely numb. i would have let my arm fall off before disturbing you.

bobby came home at midnight. "thanks for taking care of my girl, man."

my girl.

the dent where your head rested stayed warm for a long time after you left.

april 12, 1986

short entry.

you fixed the collar of my shirt in the hallway today. just reached up and folded it down. your knuckles brushing my neck. "there. can't have you walking around looking rumpled, benny."

i can still feel your knuckles. four hours later. a stripe of contact burned into the side of my throat.

june 18, 1986

pool party at terrence's. you were in a bikini.

i'm not going to describe it. i'm going to acknowledge that you were in a bikini and that i spent four hours in a california swimming pool and was never warm. because all my blood had relocated to the problem of not looking at you and the secondary problem growing in my swim trunks from the failure of the first problem.

you asked me to put sunscreen on your back. i did it. my hands were steady. nobody watching could have told that the inside of my head was a five-alarm fire.

"thanks, benny." and you went back to the pool and bobby threw you in. you screamed and laughed and i excused myself to the bathroom and put my head between my knees.

august 30, 1986

senior year. last year of being in the same building as you every day.

bobby and you are solid. you're good together. he opens up around you in ways he doesn't with anyone else. you soften him. you make his edges less defensive. when he's with you, bobby is almost the person he'd be if dad hadn't shattered his faith that the people who love you will stay.

i want to be selfless about this. the good brother. the one who steps aside and means it.

i'm not that person.

i love you. i love you and it's getting worse. it was supposed to fade. crushes fade. this isn't fading. this is setting foundations, pouring concrete into the ground floor of my chest and building upward.

september 14, 1986

bobby made a joke today at dinner. mom was asking about girls at school and bobby grinned and elbowed me and said, "bennett here is saving himself. for what, we're not sure. science, probably."

everyone laughed. mom. bobby. even terrence, who was over for dinner.

i laughed too. good old brendan. the virgin. the nerd. probably going to lose it to a textbook.

i went upstairs and sat on my bed and thought: there is something seriously wrong with me. because i'm seventeen and i've never kissed anyone and i don't WANT to kiss anyone. i look at every other person in my school and my body is silent. flat. dead. no heat, no curiosity, no pull. and then you walk into a room and i can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips and my mouth goes dry and i want to put my hands on you so badly my joints ache with it.

it's only you. it has only ever been you. and the exclusivity of it terrifies me because what if this is broken? what if i'm wired wrong? what if the reason i can't want anyone else is because something in me got stuck, got fixed in place the day you sat down in homeroom, and it will never unstick?

what if i'm going to want you, only you, for the rest of my life?

what if i already know the answer?

october 31, 1986

halloween. you dressed as an alien. green face paint, antennae that kept falling sideways. you asked me what i was and i said "a serial killer, they look like everyone else" and you laughed so hard you doubled over and grabbed my arm.

"brendan that's the funniest thing you've ever said. you have to say that to everyone who asks."

so i did, and people laughed. because you told me to deliver the line and so i did and the fact that people laughed at my joke felt good but the fact that you gave me the joke felt like being handed a lit candle in a dark room.

you fixed my hair at one point. reached up and pushed a strand off my forehead. casual. meaningless to you. your fingertips grazed my temple and i can still feel it hours later. a warm line where your hand was.

november 8, 1986

some senior from the baseball team cornered me after school. not kyle, a new one. shoved me into the lockers and called me a faggot because apparently reading in public is a sexual orientation now.

i didn't tell anyone. didn't need to.

you found out anyway. i don't know how. terrence, probably.

you didn't say anything to me about it, but two days later the senior apologised. to my face. in the hallway. with stiff, terrified demeanour. an angel of wrath had informed him of the consequences of future behaviour.

i asked you what you did.

"nothing." you were doing your homework, not looking at me. "he just had a change of heart."

"a change of heart."

"people grow, benny."

you're terrifying when you want to be, and i'm so in love with you i could die.

november 21, 1986

a guy at terrence's party wouldn't leave you alone. i don't know his name. some friend of a friend from out of town. he kept touching your arm after you pulled away. kept leaning into your space. you smiled politely and shifted sideways, and he followed.

bobby was across the room with a group of guys smoking something he shouldn't be and didn't see it. and you did that thing you do. that swallowing thing. that "it's fine, i can handle it" thing, and i watched your shoulders tighten, your smile going strained, and my vision narrowed.

i don't remember crossing the room. i don't remember what i said.

i remember his face. the way his expression shifted when he looked at me. i'm used to people looking through me, looking past me. this was different. this was a person looking at me and seeing a locked door they did not want to open.

i don't know what i said. that should scare me. it doesn't.

you found me in the kitchen after. leaned against the counter next to me. didn't ask what happened. just knocked your shoulder against mine and said "my hero" in that teasing, soft voice and i felt the anger drain out of me so fast it left me lightheaded.

but it's still in there. i felt it. a cold, patient, completely calm willingness to do damage if anyone puts their hands on you again. it doesn't feel like rage. rage is hot and loud. that's bobby's territory.

this is different. this is a door i didn't know i had, and behind it is a version of me that would do very quiet, very permanent things to protect you.

i don't know what to do with that information. so i'm putting it here.

december 1, 1986

i hate this

why can't i just be normal

everyone around me is dating. kissing. losing their virginity in backseats and bedrooms and talking about it at lunch like it's a rite of passage i keep failing to reach.

and i sit there and i listen and i feel nothing. no envy for the act itself. only this hollow awareness that i'm watching a movie everyone else is in and i'm still in the audience.

bobby asked me last week if i'd kissed anyone yet. gentle about it, for once. no joke. just "hey man, you doing okay? you know it's fine if you haven't, right?" and the kindness of it made it worse because he was being a good brother and i couldn't tell him the truth.

the truth is that there is one person i want to kiss until my lips go raw, and she's dating you and every other mouth on earth repulses me and i don't know why i'm built this way. i can't talk to anyone about it because the answer ("i'm not attracted to anyone except my twin brother's girlfriend") sounds like a confession that would get me committed.

what is wrong with me? genuinely. is this a disorder? is there a name for wanting one person so completely that everyone else might as well be furniture?

is this what love is or is this what obsession is and how do you tell the difference when you're eighteen and you've never been touched before

december 24, 1986

christmas eve dinner. you gave me a book. wrapped in paper you decorated yourself. little silver stars drawn by hand all over the blue.

"i saw it and thought of you."

six words. i saw it and thought of you. six words now living inside my chest cavity.

it was a first edition of a book i mentioned wanting three months ago. in passing. once. you remembered.

i held on to the wrapping paper after. folded the stars inside a textbook. i'll keep them.

february 1, 1987

i woke up at 3 am from a dream about you and i can't go back to sleep.

i'm not going to write down what happened. i'm not going to describe the way you looked or the sounds you made or what i was doing to you when you

no.

cold shower. stood under the water until my teeth chattered. didn't help. i can still feel the ghost of your body against mine. my brain invented the weight of you, the heat, the way you would arch into me if i

STOP.

this is just biology. i'm eighteen. this is normal.

it's not normal. nothing about how i want you is normal. the depth of it, the weight. i didn't dream about a body. i dreamed about YOUR body. your curves. the pitch of your laugh gone breathless. the way you'd say my name, not bobby's, mine, brendan, with your hands in my hair.

i want you so badly i can't breathe and i have no right to and the wanting is going to eat me alive.

february 14, 1987

valentine's day. bobby gave you a necklace. you nearly cried and kissed him and terrence heckled you both.

i watched from the kitchen doorway.

i didn't get you anything. getting you a valentine would be insane.

march 15, 1987

you told me today that you think i'm going to change the world.

we were sitting on the back porch. just us. you were eating an apple and reading over my harvard application essay and you put it down and looked at me and said seriously, "brendan, this is incredible. you're going to get in and then you're going to change the world and i'm going to tell everyone i knew you when you do."

and i thought: you know me now. you're the only person who knows me now.

may 14, 1987

bonfire at the beach. bobby and terrence went to get more wood. you were sitting next to me. close. your knee touching mine. the fire was low and orange and the light was painting your skin gold, catching the shadows in the dip of your collarbone, the curve of your neck.

and all i could think was: your throat. the soft patch below your ear where your jaw meets your neck. if i leaned over, if i put my mouth there. just my lips. how you would taste. salt and warmth and the lingering smoke from the fire. how your pulse would feel against my tongue. how your breath would catch.

i sat next to you with the dying fire and the crashing waves and bobby's laugh carrying from down the beach and i thought about putting my mouth on your throat for forty-five straight minutes.

you leaned your head on my shoulder. "i love nights like this."

"yeah," i said.

the fire burned to embers. i could still feel your pulse in my imagination. beating against a mouth i will never put there.

may 28, 1987

you held my hand today. just for a second. we were crossing a parking lot and a car came too fast around the corner and you grabbed my hand and pulled me back and then you didn't let go for the whole walk to the truck. just your fingers laced through mine. swinging between us. you were talking about finals and i was listening and your hand was in mine and it was a tuesday and i would sell my soul to feel this on a wednesday.

june 1, 1987

i want to touch you so badly my hands hurt

not ONLY sexually. i want to brush the hair off your face. i want to hold your hand in the car. i want to fall asleep with your head on my chest. i want the casual touches. the ones bobby gets without asking for them, the hand on the arm, the head on the shoulder, the absent fingers tracing patterns on skin while watching tv.

i want to be allowed to touch you the way he's allowed. not stolen moments dressed up as friendship. real ones. with intent. with honesty.

god i'm so fucking pathetic

june 9, 1987

graduation. we did it. senior year, done.

you found me in the crowd after. pushed through bobby and terrence and your parents and my mom and everyone else and grabbed me in a hug so tight my cap fell off. "WE DID IT BENNY" screamed directly into my ear with enough force to cause permanent hearing damage.

i hugged you tight and you laughed and your gown was billowing in the wind, and your hair was in my face. i could feel your ribs expanding with laughter against my arms and for ten seconds the world was only this. you in my arms. laughing.

bobby got the kiss. terrence got the secret handshake. i got the scream and the spin and i would trade everything i own for a lifetime supply of being the person you run to first.

july 4, 1987

sparklers at the beach. you were sitting next to me in the sand. our shoulders touching. the sky exploding in gold and red above us.

you turned to me, sparkler in hand, gold light on your face. "are you happy, benny?"

"yeah. i'm happy."

and right then i was. the wanting was still there, bedrock-deep, permanent. but for ten minutes it was quiet enough to hear the waves over it.

you put your head on my shoulder. i put my cheek on your hair.

i am never going to love anyone else. i know this the way i know chemical formulas. fact. fixed. tested and proven across every variable.

you are the only constant in my universe.

august 7, 1987

acceptance letter came. harvard. full ride.

you were the second person i showed. bobby first, because brotherhood, but you were right behind him. you took the letter and read it, your hands were shaking and you looked up at me and your eyes were full. you threw your arms around my neck and squeezed so hard i couldn't breathe.

"i knew it," you whispered wetly into my collar. "i knew it. i told you. i told you, benny."

and underneath the pride and the joy, so clear i could taste it... sadness. that's really far away. that's the other side of the country. and you didn't say it but your arms tightened and you held on longer than you needed to and i could feel the grief of it in your grip.

bobby grinned and hugged me. terrence lifted me off the ground cheering loudly. mom cried.

you held my hand under the table at dinner that night. three straight hours. nobody saw. your thumb tracing circles on my palm while everyone talked about the bright, impossible future.

i'm going to remember your thumb on my palm long after i've forgotten the letter.

august 28, 1987

last night before harvard.

you came over. just you. bobby was working late and terrence had a gig down at santa cruz. you knocked on my door and held up a wrapped package and decalred, "before you go."

it was a mixtape, but not just a mixtape. the case was hand-decorated with tiny drawings. inside jokes, all of them. a stick figure at a desk labeled "nerd at work." a tiny calculus equation with a heart instead of an equals sign. a drawing of me with ridiculous oversized glasses. on the spine, in your handwriting: "for benny. so you don't forget us."

i turned it over. on the back you'd written every track title and next to each one a note.

track 3 — this is the one i was humming during the calc final that made you glare at me. track 7 — for driving at night with the windows down. track 12 — listen to this one when you miss home. and by home i mean me.

and by home i mean me.

i stared at it for so long you got nervous. "is it stupid? it's stupid. you probably have a walkman with actual good music and this is—"

"it's perfect."

you looked at me. i looked at you. the room was very quiet and very small. you were very close and i could have kissed you. the distance between your mouth and mine was six inches and i could have closed it and everything would have changed.

i didn't. because i couldn't do that to bobby. i couldn't.

"i'm really going to miss you, benny."

"i'll call every week."

"you better."

i listened to the tape in bed that night with headphones on. track 12. over and over and over. your voice in the liner notes. and by home i mean me.

i held the case against my chest and closed my eyes, pretending your hand was there instead.

september 2, 1987

you hugged me at the truck. held on for a long time. your face in my neck and your hands gripping the back of my shirt.

"every week, brendan. if you forget about me—"

"i won't forget about you."

too fast, too serious, too much truth packed into a sentence that was supposed to be light. you pulled back and looked at me and your eyes were searching my face for something.

i don't know if you found it.

you kissed my cheek. close enough that if i'd turned my head half an inch your lips would have been on mine.

i didn't turn my head.

i got in the truck. bobby drove. i watched you in the side mirror, standing in the driveway with your arms wrapped around yourself, getting smaller and smaller.

september 18, 1987

i thought distance would help.

three thousand miles between your body and mine. no more shoulder-touches. no more vanilla smell. no more knee-against-knee in dark movie theaters. the theory was sound: remove the stimulus, reduce the response. basic conditioning.

the theory is wrong.

i miss you like an organ. like something was cut out of me at the airport and i'm walking around with the wound still open. i reach for the phone every hour. i play the mixtape until the ribbon starts to wear. i sit in lectures surrounded by brilliant, interesting people and i feel nothing. flat. grey.

here's what's strange though. i'm getting better at the other thing. the people thing.

harvard is full of people like me. the ones who read too much and talk too little and know the periodic table better than their classmates' names. for the first time in my life "quiet and intense" isn't the wrong setting. it's the default. i can hold a conversation in a study group without running the translation the whole time. i can sit in a dining hall and not feel like i'm performing personhood for an audience that isn't buying it.

i'm finding myself here, in small ways. figuring out which parts of my strangeness are flaws and which are just features nobody had a use for in santa clara.

but you remain the eye of the storm. the one quiet place where everything inside me unwinds.

harvard is teaching me how to exist around other people. you taught me that existing around another person could feel like rest instead of labour. and no amount of social growth, no amount of learning to make small talk in a dining hall, will ever replicate what you give me just by being near.

the silence that isn't empty. the touch that doesn't sting. the calm.

i am homesick for a person, not a place.

october 3, 1987

a girl in my organic chemistry study group asked me out. claire. smart. funny. objectively attractive.

i said yes because i'm supposed to say yes. because normal people say yes. because bobby would say yes and terrence would say yes, and this is what nineteen-year-olds do.

we got coffee. she was kind. she laughed at my poor jokes. she touched my hand across the table.

i felt nothing. absolutely nothing. like pressing my palm against a wall and waiting for warmth that never comes.

she leaned in to kiss me at the end and i let her and her mouth was on mine and all i could think was: wrong. wrong lips. wrong pressure. wrong taste. wrong person. WRONG.

i pulled away and said i was sorry and walked home. stood in the shower and scrubbed my mouth raw, and felt sick with how much i wanted it to have been you.

october 19, 1987

you called tonight. bobby was at work and you were bored and you called. we talked for two hours. my roommate left after twenty minutes because apparently i was "smiling weird."

you told me about your week. clark's being terrible. terrence's band. the stray cat on your porch. you told me everything and i held the phone with my eyes closed and you were there. in my ear. telling me about a cat like it was the most important news in the world.

"i miss you, benny." soft. sleepy.

"i miss you too."

the safest true thing i've ever said. because i miss you is allowed. i miss you lives in the acceptable zone. i miss you is what a friend says.

i miss you the way a lung misses air. i miss you so much i have rearranged my entire week around the possibility that you might call again.

but "i miss you too" is what i said.

november 12, 1987

there's a guy in my anatomy class. david. he's been friendly. eating lunch together, studying. today he put his hand on my knee under the table and looked at me with a question in his eyes.

nothing. nothing nothing nothing. i am broken or i am built wrong or i am simply, irrevocably, yours in a way that excludes every other human being on this planet regardless of what they look like or what's between their legs.

i told him i was flattered. i meant it. i am flattered that anyone wants someone like me.

i just can't want them back. the machinery only runs for you. i've tested it now. both genders. kind people, attractive people, people who deserved better than the hollow version of me sitting across from them. and every single time the same flat nothing. the same grey wall.

then you call and the wall dissolves and every colour rushes back in, and i think: oh. there i am. i was here the whole time. i just only exist when you're nearby.

distance was supposed to fix this. i was supposed to get better.

i'm not getting better. i'm getting worse. three thousand miles and i am worse.

november 26, 1987

thanksgiving. came home. you saw me in the doorway and your face lit up. you ran at me and jumped and i caught you. your arms locked around my neck, your face buried in my shoulder. you were laughing and squeezing me so tight i couldn't breathe.

i could have held you like that until the sun burned itself out.

bobby was right behind me. you let go of me and hugged him and kissed him and you stood in the hallway with your foreheads together and i carried my bag upstairs.

you run at me. you kiss him. the running is enthusiastic and warm and genuine. the kissing is intimate and private and his.

i want the kiss. i'd burn for the kiss.

and i hate myself for wanting it because bobby is my brother and he's happy and he deserves this after dad.

he deserves this more than me.

december 3, 1987

i think loving you is going to kill me.

i wish i could take my heart out and set it aside. put it in a jar on a shelf. come back for it when it's safe. but it's never going to be safe, is it? there's no version of my life where loving you is safe. there's only the version where i carry it and i'm going to carry it till my heart stops.

february 14, 1988

valentine's day. i mailed you a book. astronomy. because you said once, in october, that you wished you knew more about constellations. the note said: "saw this, thought you'd like it — B." casual. friendly.

you called to thank me. "brendan bennett franklin, you're the sweetest person alive."

i sat on my dorm room floor with the phone cord wrapped around my finger and thought: i am not sweet. i am a liar. i bought you a valentine and called it casual and you believed me because you don't see me. you look right at me with those warm eyes and you see a friend. a brother. a good person.

you don't see the thing underneath that wants to kiss you until neither of us can stand.

april 16, 1988

a girl at a party. i don't remember her name. i was a little drunk and she was pretty and i thought: just try. just try to be normal. to want someone attainable. someone who isn't your brother's girlfriend.

we went to her room. she kissed me and took her shirt off and i looked at her and felt... revulsion. not at her. at the wrongness of it. at my own body's flat refusal to participate in anything that wasn't you. i made an excuse. left. walked home in the cold.

the distance was supposed to make this better. the new people, the new context. a fresh start without you in every room.

but you're in every room. you're in the phone on my desk and the mixtape in my walkman and the book on my shelf with the silver stars on the wrapping paper that i kept like a goddamn shrine. you're in the way i scan every crowd for your face. you're in the hollow feeling when i don't find it.

what is wrong with me? what is fundamentally, structurally wrong with me that i can't want anyone who isn't you?

i sat on my bathroom floor and put my head in my hands and asked myself if this is what the rest of my life looks like. a series of empty rooms with the wrong people in them. a body that only responds to one person. a lock with one key and the key belongs to my brother's girlfriend.

yes. that's what it looks like. i know the answer already. i've always known.

april 30, 1988

i made a list today. of reasons to stop.

she's bobby's girlfriend.

bobby is my twin.

bobby loves her.

she loves bobby.

i am betraying him with every thought i have about her.

i am betraying HER with every thought i have about her because she trusts me and i'm lying to her.

i am twenty years old and i have never had a normal sexual or romantic interaction with another human being because my body won't cooperate with anyone who isn't her.

this is not love. this is fixation. i'm sick. i'm sick in the head.

if she knew what i think about when i hear her voice on the phone she would never speak to me again.

i am a bad person.

i stared at the list for a long time. each point is factually accurate. logically sound. irrefutable.

you called an hour later and called out happily, "benny, tell me about your day" and the list caught fire and burned to ash before you finished the sentence.

i am a bad person who loves a good person and the loving makes me worse.

may 19, 1988

my roommate has a girlfriend. they have sex in our room while i'm at the library and they think i don't know. i know because the sheets are different when i come back and the room smells like sweat and perfume and he's got that dazed, satisfied grin.

i looked at him last night (happy, spent, normal) and thought: why can't i be like that? why can't i want someone who wants me back? someone available. someone whose last name isn't franklin.

tried again in my head. conjured up every attractive person i've met at harvard. ran through them one by one, tried to imagine kissing them, touching them. like flipping through a catalogue of locked doors.

and then i thought about your hands in my hair and my whole body responded so violently i had to excuse myself to the bathroom.

why am i like this

why am i like this why am i like this why am i like this

three thousand miles. eighteen months of distance. dozens of kind, attractive, available people and my body is a locked room with your name on the door and no other key fits and i have tried every key and they all feel like violations.

i'm so tired of trying and failing and trying and failing and coming back to the same truth every single time:

it's you. it was always you. it will only ever be you.

and i can never, ever have you.

june 7, 1988

summer. home again.

bobby and you have been together two years and the cracks are starting to show. you don't talk about it. that's your flaw, the swallowing. the folding up of hurt into small squares and tucking them away.

i see it though. the way you wait for bobby to call and he doesn't. the way you make plans and he forgets. the way you press your lips together for one second when you're disappointed before the smile goes back on. nobody else catches it.

i catch it every time.

i hate him for it. my twin. who i love more than anyone except you. i hate him for having the thing i would dismantle myself to have and treating it like it'll always be there.

you won't always be there. patience has a floor and one day you'll hit it.

i can't say this to him. he'll hear what it really is. jealousy dressed up as concern.

july 22, 1988

you came over while bobby was at work. back porch. popsicles. you were telling me about a movie and your lips were stained red and a drop ran down your wrist and you licked it off and i—

i need to stop writing these down

"you're staring, benny."

"you have popsicle on your chin."

you wiped it off, laughing.

you don't know. you genuinely don't know what your mouth does to me, what your hands do to me, what the sound of my name in your voice does to me.

if you knew, you'd stop coming over. you'd stop touching my arm and leaning into me and putting your head on my shoulder. and losing those things would end me faster than never having had them.

good old brendan. safe brendan. bobby's quiet brother who helps with calculus and always has a book.

the mask stays on.

august 3, 1988

you fell asleep on my bed today while i was studying. lying on your stomach with one arm hanging off the edge and your face turned toward me and your mouth open and you were drooling on my pillow.

drooling. on my pillow.

the love i feel for you hit me so hard i couldn't move for half an hour.

august 15, 1988

please let me stop loving her

please. whoever is listening. let me stop.

let me wake up one morning and feel nothing when she says my name. let the hugs feel like hugs instead of slow immolation. let me sit next to her without mapping every centimetre between our bodies. let me be the friend she thinks i am instead of the liar i know i am.

i don't want this anymore. it hurts too much. please, it hurts. three years and it's only getting deeper and i can't

i can't switch it off. i don't know how. i don't think there is a how.

i think this is just what i am now. a boy who loves a girl who loves his brother.

september 6, 1988

back at harvard. unpacking. found one of your hair ties tangled in my clean laundry. you must have left it when you were over last.

i put it on my wrist. wore it all day. took it off before bed and put it on the nightstand and looked at it and thought: this is the closest thing i have to wearing a ring from you.

a hair tie. on a nightstand. in a dorm room in harvard.

september 22, 1988

i want to be normal i want to be normal i want to be normal i want to be normal i want to be happy please i just want to be happy

bad day.

october 10, 1988

you called at 1 am. crying. fighting with bobby. your voice thick and wet.

"i don't know what to do, benny. i love him so much and he won't let me in."

and i sat on my dorm room bed with the phone pressed to my ear until it ached and told you:

"you're the strongest person i know."

and you said: "why can't he just say it, brendan? why can't he just say he loves me?"

i love you. i love you. i love you. three words bobby can't get past his teeth and i can't get past my conscience.

"he loves you. he's just scared."

"i know."

"give him time."

"i always give him time."

and i wanted to say: stop giving him time. stop waiting. he's wasting you. he's burning daylight with a girl made of sunlight and he doesn't even see it.

i said: "you deserve someone who says it."

long pause. your breathing slowing.

"thanks, benny. you always know what to say."

i don't know what to say. i know what not to say. there's a vast, dark, freezing difference.

march 30, 1989

spring break. you picked me up from the airport. standing at arrivals in a sundress holding a sign that said NERD in huge letters.

you dropped the sign and ran and i caught you and your laugh was in my ear and the sundress was thin and your body was warm against mine.

you drove us home. windows down. radio on. singing badly. your hand squeezing my arm at a red light.

i would burn harvard to the ground for this. for your hand on my arm, shaking me because you were so happy to see me. for the wind in your hair. for your voice saying my name like it's your favourite word.

i would give up everything. the degree. the future. the carefully constructed life three thousand miles away.

i would give up all of it for one day where you're mine.

one day. and then i'd give you back. i'd carry the memory for the rest of my life and it would be enough.

it would have to be.

HE FUCKING FORGOT, 1989

bobby forgot your birthday.

you didn't tell me. you wouldn't. i found out because terrence called me, and said "dude, bobby got too high and forgot" and his voice was tight with the anger he rarely shows.

i called you from the payphone in the hallway and said happy birthday and you said "thanks, benny" in that voice. that bright, fine, everything's-fine voice that i can see through like glass. and i heard the crack underneath it and the love hit me and the rage hit me in the same breath.

i called bobby after, and i don't raise my voice. i have raised my voice maybe five times in my life. but i said his name in a way that made him go quiet immediately on the other end and i said "you forgot her birthday" and the silence that followed was long and guilty.

"shit," he said. "shit, benny, i—"

"call her. right now. and if you ever do this again—"

i didn't finish the sentence. didn't need to. bobby heard what was underneath it. heard the edge i keep so carefully hidden, the cold thing that lives behind the shyness, and for a second i think he heard the OTHER thing, too.

the reason the anger was so hot, the reason it came so fast, the reason his twin brother was calling from three thousand miles away trembling with fury over a forgotten birthday that wasn't his to remember.

he called you. sent flowers the next day, took you out for dinner. you forgave him because you always forgive him.

i sat in the phone booth for ten minutes after with my head against the glass. my hands were shaking. not from anger. from how close i'd come to saying too much. from the size of the feeling pressing against my ribs. from the knowledge that i would burn my relationship with my brother to the ground to protect you from pain and the fact that this doesn't make me a good person.

it makes me a dangerous one.

may 2, 1989

your voice on the phone tonight, laughing about a terrible customer at clark's, imitating his voice, making me laugh until my stomach hurt.

i pressed the phone so hard against my ear it left a red mark and i thought: i don't want to die without having kissed you. i don't care about anything else. the degree. the career. the future. i just don't want to die without knowing what your mouth tastes like.

that's all.

june 14, 1989

you were lying on a blanket in the back yard. reading. the sun was on your legs and your feet were bare and you was chewing on a pen cap. your hair was pulled up and the back of your neck was exposed.

i sat on the porch steps and watched the back of your neck for twenty minutes.

twenty minutes. the back of your neck.

i am beyond help.

july 4, 1989

short one.

sparklers again. your shoulder against mine. same beach. same sand. same sky.

different year. same ache. same shape. same boy sitting in the dark loving the same girl who doesn't know.

happy fourth of july.

september 20, 1989

second year of pre-med. my hands shake from caffeine. i forgot to eat yesterday.

you called. i picked up on the first ring. i will always pick up on the first ring.

"brendan bennett franklin. eat something, drink water, and go to bed."

"i have a paper—"

"go. to. bed. if you sound this wrecked tomorrow i'm driving down myself."

i ate a sandwich. drank water. went to bed. fell asleep holding the phone.

you mailed me a care package last month. my favourite snacks. a note that said: "don't die. i need you."

i folded the note and put it in my wallet. i'll probably be buried with it.

november 23, 1989

thanksgiving. you saw me in the kitchen and your face did the light-up. the full-body brightening.

my hair is longer, brushing my ears and curling at the nape. you reached up and pushed it back from my forehead. your fingers dragged across my scalp and my whole body went rigid.

"look at you. all grown up and scholarly." you tugged a strand behind my ear. "very handsome, benny."

i said "thanks" to the refrigerator. my ears were burning.

bobby came in. you kissed him. i excused myself.

i sat on my bed and pressed my hand to my scalp where your fingers had been and breathed in through my nose for a count of four, and out through my mouth for a count of four for ten minutes because my heart rate would not come down.

handsome. you said handsome. you touched my hair and called me handsome.

next three lifetimes. i'm carrying this.

january 6, 1990

i had a dream about you. i'm going to write it down because i have to put it somewhere that doesn't judge me.

you were in my dorm room. sitting on my bed. and you said "benny, come here" and i went. you put your hands on my face and kissed me and i could feel it. the pressure of your mouth. the warmth of your breath. your lips parting and your tongue finding mine and the small sound you made when i pulled you closer.

and then you were under me. your legs wrapped around my waist. i was inside you. and you were saying my name. not bobby's, mine, brendan. over and over while your nails dragged down my back and your head fell back and i could feel you around me, tight and warm and perfect. every time you said brendan i went deeper and you arched into me.

i woke up so hard it hurt. sheets ruined.

i lay in the dark and put my hand around myself and thought about you beneath me and came in under a minute with a pained groan, and felt like the worst person alive.

you trust me completely. and i'm lying in the dark getting off to dreams about being inside you.

i'm sick

i'm not sick. i'm in love. but from here they feel the same.

march 2, 1990

your voice on the phone last night, sleepy and warm: "night, benny. love you."

casual. friendly. the way you say it to terrence. the way you say it to your friends.

i hung up and pressed the phone against my chest and stared at the ceiling.

love you. you say it so easily. like the words are light. like they cost nothing.

for me they cost everything.

march 15, 1990

you visited for my birthday. flew out alone. bobby couldn't make it.

you were standing outside my dorm with a bakery box and a toothy grin. "happy birthday, benny! it's lopsided because TSA manhandled it."

three days. you slept in my roommate's bed. wore my harvard sweater because you forgot to pack layers, too used to cali heat. it was too big on you. sleeves past your fingertips. collar slipping off one shoulder. bare legs. padding around my room.

i very nearly put my fist through a wall.

we stayed up until 4 am. lying in the dark on separate beds. your voice floating across the room. you told me things you haven't told bobby. things about your childhood. your fears. you talk to me differently than you talk to him. with bobby you're warm but with me you're open. like i'm the one place you can put things down.

"you're my favourite person." half asleep. murmured. "don't tell bobby."

i won't tell bobby. i won't tell anyone. i will take that sentence and compress it into a diamond and keep it in my chest forever.

on the last morning you hugged me at the airport. held on. your face in my neck and your hands gripping the back of my shirt and i breathed you in. vanilla and that warm unnamed you scent. stored it. another moment that belongs to me in all the wrong ways.

"come home soon."

i'm always coming home. you're there. there is no other reason needed.

april 27, 1990

you called me crying last night. bobby again. another fight. another door closed in your face.

and i sat on my bed and held the phone and listened and said the right things and the kind things and the things a good friend says. but underneath every word was this screaming, roaring, monstrous want to say: LEAVE HIM. LEAVE HIM AND LOVE ME. I WOULD NEVER DO THIS TO YOU. I WOULD NEVER FORGET YOUR BIRTHDAY. I WOULD NEVER MAKE YOU CRY. I WOULD SAY I LOVE YOU EVERY SINGLE MORNING BEFORE YOU FINISHED OPENING YOUR EYES.

i said: "he's an idiot but he'll come around. give him time."

i'm such a coward

i am such a fucking coward

may 15, 1990

two entries in quick succession because i need to put this somewhere before it eats through my chest.

i came home for the weekend. you were at the house. bobby was at work. you were in the kitchen making lunch and you turned and saw me and made that sound (that little happy gasp) and threw yourself at me.

and i held you. my face in your hair. your body against mine. and you pulled back and looked at me with those eyes, and put your hand on my cheek, and said worriedly, "you look tired, benny. are they working you too hard?"

and your hand was on my face. your palm on my cheek. your thumb brushing the skin under my eye. and you were close enough to kiss. and i could feel my pulse in my throat and my fingertips and the backs of my knees and i was drowning in the scent of you, vanilla and warmth and clean laundry. my hands were on your waist and yours was on my face and the kitchen was empty and quiet, and i could have leaned forward two inches and—

bobby's truck pulled into the driveway.

you dropped your hand. smiled. went to greet him.

two inches. i was two inches from ruining everything and saving everything, and i don't know which it would have been and i'll never know. i stood in the empty kitchen and pressed my hand to the cheek you touched and breathed through my teeth until my heart rate dropped.

june 3, 1990

i love my brother. i love bobby since we were born seven minutes apart and he came out screaming and i came out quiet. i love him for his warmth. his courage. the way he tried to shield me from dad even when we were too small to name what was happening. how he always stood up for me, always tried to understand me even when he never could.

but when it comes to you.

when it comes to you i hate him too.

i hate that he has what i want. i hate that he doesn't always value it. i hate that he gets to hold your hand and kiss you and fall asleep with your head on his chest but doesn't understand what a miracle that is because he's never stood on the other side of it watching.

i hate myself for hating him. he didn't steal you. he asked and you said yes and i never opened my mouth. the silence was my choice. every single day i choose it and every day it gets heavier.

i love him. i hate him. i love you. i can't have you.

four facts. a box with no door.

july 14, 1990

i've gotten better at being a person.

three years of harvard and i can navigate a party without wanting to leave within five minutes. i can make friends. i can read a room without running the translation in real time. the machinery is smoother now. the performance takes less effort.

but it's still a performance. everywhere except with you.

you're the only place where i don't have to translate. the only person whose presence makes the noise in my head go quiet instead of louder. everyone else, even the people i've grown to love at harvard, requires a version of me. you just require me. the real one. the strange one. the one who needs silence and can't handle being touched by anyone except you ,and notices too many details, and feels everything at the wrong volume.

you've never once asked me to be different. you've never once made me feel like the way i'm wired is a problem to be solved. you just sit with me in the quiet and let me be strange and call me benny. hold my hand and everything inside me goes still.

the eye of the storm. every time. the one calm place in a world that's always too loud.

july 28, 1990

if i could have one day.

one day where you wake up next to me. where you reach for me in the dark. where you say brendan in the voice i've only heard in dreams. where i can put my hands on your face and say it out loud, in daylight, without shame, without the weight of brotherhood crushing the words before they leave my mouth.

one day where the "i miss you benny" becomes "i love you brendan." where the hugs don't end because you're pulling away to go back to him. where i can press my mouth to the skin on your throat i've imagined ten thousand times. where your hands are in my hair because you want them there.

just one day.

and then i'd give you back, and carry it forever.

i am twenty years old. pre-med at harvard. full ride. a life that looks like everything a person could want.

and every night i fall asleep missing a girl who sleeps in my brother's bed. and every morning the missing is the same size. the same depth. the same fixed point that everything else orbits.

i don't know how to stop.

i don't think i'm supposed to.

[undated, late 1990]

i love you

i love you

i'm in love with you

i've been in love with you since september 3rd, 1985, homeroom, twelve minutes late, window seat

i love you and i can't say it and the not saying is killing me, it is actually, physically, killing me

i love you more than he does. i love you better. i would never make you cry, i would never forget, i would never close a door in your face

no. that's not fair. he loves you. he does. he just doesn't know how. and i do know how and i can't and that's

i love you

i love you and i'm so tired of not saying it

i love you and i've never kissed anyone who wasn't wrong

i love you and you call me benny and it's the closest i'll ever get to hearing my name in your mouth the way i need to hear it

i love you and i tried to stop and i can't stop

i love you and i don't want anyone else and i've tried and i will never want anyone else

i love you and you held my hand under the table and i almost told you then

i love you and you slept on my shoulder and i memorised your breathing

i love you and you made me a mixtape and wrote "and by home i mean me" and i have listened to track 12 four hundred times

i love you and i am so afraid you'll find this notebook

i love you and i am so afraid you won't

i love you and bobby is my brother and i love him and i hate him and i love you and i can't

i love you i love you i love you i love you

i should write it down. the real way. once. clearly. not crossed out.

for every time i didn't say it but should have. for every hug where i held on too long and you didn't notice. for every time you fell asleep on my shoulder and i sat perfectly still and memorised the pattern of your breathing. for the mixtape and the silver stars and the way you said and by home i mean me.

for every phone call at 1 am when your voice was the only warm thing in my whole life. for every time you ran at me in an airport. for every time you touched my hair and called me handsome, and i said thanks to the refrigerator because looking at you while you said it would have ended me. for the parking lot where you held my hand. for the two inches in the kitchen. for the dream where you said my name. for the popsicle on your wrist. for your head on my shoulder at every bonfire. for your palm on my cheek and your thumb under my eye and the truck pulling into the driveway.

for the hair tie on my nightstand. for the book with the silver stars i still keep pressed flat inside a textbook. for the three thousand miles that were supposed to fix me and only proved that i am unfixable.

i love you.

i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you.

i love you and i should have said it in the kitchen when your hand was on my face. i love you and i should have said it in my dorm room when you were wearing my sweater and the collar was slipping off your shoulder. i love you and i should have said it at graduation when you screamed in my ear. i love you and i should have said it at the bonfire when you asked if i was happy.

i love you and i have never once been brave enough to say it and writing it down is the closest i will ever come and even now, even in a notebook nobody will read, the words feel too large for the page.

they feel too large for my hands. they feel too large for my chest which has been holding them for five years and is so full the seams are splitting and i am so tired. i am so tired of carrying this. i am so tired of being good and quiet and safe while the love sits behind my teeth and rots there because i will not let it out.

i love you. there. for every time i didn't.

i lo

[the entry ends here. the last two letters trail off the line, the pen stroke dragging sideways across the page before stopping. the ink on this page and the one before it is warped and buckled. the paper has dried stiff and rippled in places, the way paper does when it gets wet and dries again. the distortion is heaviest around the final lines, where the ink has bled and feathered outward, blurring the words at their edges. it is not water damage.]

[the rest of the notebook is blank.]

[lopata-four]

Members of House Harlaw 🖤

[ildico-the-golden]

a hymn for the sinners

PAIRING: priest!Baelor Targaryen x f!reader

SUMMARY: Father Baelor Targaryen has spent fifteen years believing his faith could withstand anything. Then you walked into his parish, carrying your own grief, and suddenly the hardest thing he's ever had to confess isn't to God, but to himself.

WARNING(S): priestAU/modernAU, dual POV, no use of y/n, AFAB reader, religious themes, hierophilia (priest kink), forbidden romance, slow burn, mutual pining, religious guilt, crisis of faith, loss of faith, catholic imagery, blasphemous thoughts, grief, mourning, emotional repression, yearning, unresolved sexual tension, internalized guilt, loneliness, age gap, unhealthy devotion, obsessive thoughts, explicit sexual thoughts, masturbation, praise and worship parallels, hurt/comfort, angst with romantic undertones, "they're both so painfully in love it's embarrassing" trope

WC: 21.1k (probably the longest of the parts this story will have)

A.N.: thorny dividers are mine. i think this work could be catalogued as a slow burn with sexual contents present almost since the beginning. as i warned some days ago, it might well be the slowest of burns i have ever written. i wanted to get a bit out of my comfort zone with this one, so it relies heavily on inner thoughts of both reader and Baelor. i would appreciate it a lot if you could throw some feedback my way, because i somehow feel kinda meh with this so far.

You could not have named the date of the last Mass you'd attended — it had slipped out of you somewhere between one grief and the next, uncatalogued — but you remembered the feeling of it with an accuracy that unsettled you a little: the ache of kneeling too long against unpadded wood, incense sitting as a faint film at the back of your throat, your father's hand closing warm and certain over yours during the Sign of Peace. You had been accepted there, once, entirely and without the usual preconditions. You had wanted that feeling back for longer than you would have admitted to anyone who might have thought to ask.

Father Arlan had presided over all of it for as long as you could remember him: an old, soft-spoken man with liver-spotted hands, who knew every child in the parish by name and forgot no one's saint's day. You learned of his death secondhanded, years after you'd stopped attending, from a text message that tried to cushion the news with a single mournful emoji. You cried once, briefly and uselessly, in a bathroom stall at work, and then, within the week, you noticed you had largely stopped. Grief, you had since learned, kept no fixed schedule. It arrived when it wished and left when it wished, and sometimes it left too soon, and came back, much later, for entirely the wrong person.

Your father had never stopped going. Even in his last years, when his knees complained and the walk to the church had become a small daily negotiation with his own body, he still went every Sunday and some weekdays besides, because — he told you, more than once, in the tone he reserved for things he considered simple fact — a person owed God the courtesy of showing up.

Whatever capacity you had once had for faith, you had inherited from him, before you let it go the way you let most things go that required upkeep you didn't feel you had hours to spare for. He'd mentioned the new priest to you once, years back, over dinner: a Father Baelor, transferred in from another diocese, young yet by his account, and by all reports a fine homilist. You made a noise of polite interest and never once, in all the years your father had left, went to see for yourself.

Then your father died — quickly, in the way that manages to feel both sudden and, in hindsight, inevitable for months beforehand — and it was only you and your mother left in a house that had never before had to hold just two people's worth of grief and now had far too much room for it.

Your mother wept in the kitchen at strange hours over recipes she had made a thousand times before and now, apparently, understood she was making for one person fewer. You held her. You made the calls. You signed what needed signing and discovered you could go entire days without anyone asking how you, specifically, were managing — because it had not occurred to anyone, least of all to you, that you might need managing too. You had not known, until that year, that loneliness could exist inside a house that still held another person in it.

On a Wednesday in the flat middle of an otherwise unremarkable week, for reasons you could not have fully explained under interrogation, you put on real clothes instead of the ones you had been sleeping and grieving in, and walked to the parish you had not entered in the better part of a decade.

The building had not changed, which felt like its own small insult. The same water stain crossing the ceiling beam over the side aisle. The same brass rack of votive candles, most of them lit by hands you would never know, guttering low in their red glass cups. You dipped two fingers into the stone font at the door out of a muscle memory old enough to embarrass you — you hadn't decided to do it, your hand had simply done it — and the water was cold enough to register up to your wrist. You took a pew near the back, out of an instinct you didn't examine too closely, and sat with your hands loose in your lap, turning your father's old verdict over in your mind. A fine homilist. You supposed you would judge that for yourself, if you managed to stay through the whole of it.

You laced and unlaced your fingers, conscious of how conspicuous your own restlessness must have looked beside the handful of elderly women scattered through the front pews, each of them still in the settled way of people who had done this ten thousand times before and expected to do it ten thousand times again. A small bell sounded once from somewhere near the sacristy — a clean, single note, felt more in the sternum than heard — and the women rose as one, the movement automatic, requiring no more thought from them than breathing did. You stood a half-beat behind them and turned toward the side door as he came through it.

He was not what you had pictured, though you couldn't have said what you had pictured instead. He was tall enough to duck fractionally beneath the door frame, an old habit worn smooth by however many years of practice, and built with a breadth through the shoulders and chest that the green vestments of Ordinary Time did nothing to disguise, and seemed, if anything, cut to accommodate. He crossed to the centre of the sanctuary, made his reverence to the altar, and for a moment before the Mass properly began you simply looked at him the way you might look at any large, unfamiliar object set without warning into a room you thought you knew by heart.

This, you supposed, had to be the Father Baelor your father had mentioned all those years ago, at a dinner you otherwise barely remembered. He looked, on the strength of nothing more than how he carried himself at the altar, like precisely the sort of man your father would have approved of.

The opening rites passed you in fragments — the cross traced automatically over your own chest, the responses arriving on your tongue half a second before you'd consciously recalled them, evidence that some part of you had never actually released any of this, whatever you had spent the last decade telling yourself. It was the Gospel that undid whatever fragile composure you had managed to assemble since walking in.

Father Baelor stepped to the ambo, made the small triple sign of the cross — forehead, lips, heart — that you copied without deciding to, and read from the Gospel of John: Christ's promise to his disciples, the night before he died, that he would not abandon them. I will not leave you orphaned; I will come to you.

It was a passage your father had read aloud to you more than once, in years you would rather not audit too closely, on nights neither of you could sleep for reasons you never named to each other directly. You had not thought of those nights in years. You thought of nothing else for the length of the Gospel, sitting with your spine very straight and your face arranged into the specific blankness you had perfected these last months for use at funerals, hospital corridors, and now, it seemed, church pews.

The homily was not what the voice had led you to expect. You weren't sure what you had exactly expected, to be honest, but it certainly fell somewhere more instructive, maybe, closer to a lecture. Instead, he spoke low and unforced, pitched to carry to the back pews without ever seeming to labour at it, and what he spoke of was loneliness: not as a sin requiring confession or a weakness requiring correction, but as a country nearly everyone in the room had crossed at some point, a good number of them more than once.

He told the story of the prophet Elijah, fled into the wilderness and certain he was the last faithful man left alive, so worn through by his own isolation that he begged God to let him die under a solitary broom tree — and how God had answered him finally not in the earthquake, nor the fire, nor the great wind tearing the mountain apart, but in what the old translations called a still, small voice, so quiet the prophet had to go silent himself and strain to catch it.

Presence, Father Baelor said, was rarely loud. It came, more often than not, in the smallest and least dramatic of forms — a hand set on a shoulder, a voice through a doorway, someone choosing, again and again, simply to remain. You are not abandoned, he said, near the close, his voice dropping lower still, and for one unreasonable, indefensible moment it felt aimed directly at the back pew where you sat with your hands gone white-knuckled in your lap. You are not orphaned. Even when it feels that way. Even now.

You heard little of what followed. You were aware, distantly, of standing and sitting in their correct places, of the practiced choreography of the Eucharist proceeding at the front of the church, but your attention had narrowed to the low cadence of his voice and stayed there, snagged, useless for much else, for the remainder of the hour. You did not go up for Communion. It did not feel earned yet — whatever grace required of a person who had spent ten years deciding this building had nothing left to offer her, you weren't ready to test in front of witnesses whether you'd been wrong.

When Mass ended and the small congregation filtered out into the ordinary Wednesday afternoon waiting for them, you stayed behind. You told yourself it was to pray, though when you tried to assemble the actual shape of a prayer in your head, you found you had lost the grammar of it somewhere in the years between. You could recall the posture without the words, kneeling with your forehead nearly against your folded hands, the old formulas half-remembered and abandoned partway through.

You were still sitting there, in the hush a church holds once everyone else has gone, when you became aware of a presence behind you, waiting with the patience of someone who had nowhere else in particular to be.

You turned. He had shed the outer vestments somewhere between the sanctuary and here, down now to the plain black cassock, and without the ceremonial weight of the chasuble he looked, if anything, larger rather than smaller — less an office now and more simply a man, broad through the shoulders and faintly stooped in the way tall men sometimes learn to stand, in rooms built at a scale for other people. He was smiling at you, and it was not the composed, public smile he had worn at the altar. This one sat a little crooked, tucked at one corner, like something he had not entirely decided to let you see. In the low light through the side windows his eyes read as two different shades entirely, and you couldn't have said with any confidence which one was closer to true.

You got to your feet too fast, some old reflex about remaining seated in front of a priest reasserting itself before you thought to question it.

"I'm afraid I haven't seen you before today." He offered his hand, and you registered, absurdly, how much larger it looked before you'd even taken it. "Are you new to the parish?"

"Not new." His palm was warm and dry, the handshake brief but not perfunctory. "Estranged is probably closer to it. I used to come here with my father, when Father Arlan had the parish."

Something shifted across his face — recognition, maybe, or just the private realization of years passing. "That was quite a while ago, then. I've had this parish almost ten years now."

"I stopped coming altogether, somewhere in there." You gave him a lopsided smile you didn't entirely feel behind.

He tilted his head slightly, looking at you from his considerable height in a way that felt like being properly seen rather than assessed, and when he spoke again there was no trace of the judgment you had braced yourself for out of old habit.

"It's a wonderful thing, coming back to Him."

"I'm not sure I'd say I've come back. Not yet." The admission left you before you'd quite decided to make it. You hadn't planned on honesty with a stranger, least of all one in a collar.

If the words troubled him at all, he didn't show it. "That's no trouble whatsoever." The corner of his mouth deepened. "Would you like me to hear your confession? I promise I won't make you feel judged. Friendly priest's oath."

You laughed, a small, surprised sound you hadn't produced in longer than you could easily place. "Maybe another time. I don't think I'm up for it today."

He nodded, unbothered, and the quiet that followed felt like permission rather than dismissal, so you turned and started toward the door, your footsteps loud against the stone in the emptied church.

You were nearly at the threshold when you heard him behind you again, his stride longer than yours, closing the distance without seeming to hurry at all.

"I'm Father Baelor, by the way." He held out his hand a second time, as though the first exchange hadn't quite counted, or this one meant something slightly different. "Though most everyone here just calls me Baelor."

You took his hand again and gave him your name. His closed fully around yours — warm, a little rough at the knuckles, engulfing rather than simply holding.

"It's been a pleasure, having you back."

You managed something close to a smile before you turned and let yourself out into the ordinary daylight, the door falling shut behind you with a weight that, for the first time in longer than you could say, did not feel entirely like an ending.

You had told yourself you wouldn't come back so soon — one visit had been forgivable, permitted on the strength of grief alone, and you had meant to leave it there. And yet here you were again, five days later, on your knees at the same back pew, arguing with a God you'd spent the better part of a decade insisting you didn't especially believe in.

"I really don't know why I'm back here," you said, low, to the wooden cross above the altar, the words barely clearing a whisper.

You'd meant it as prayer when you'd knelt. What came out instead was closer to an indictment: anger at your father for dying, resentment at your mother for being so thoroughly undone by it that there'd been no room left over for you to be undone too, something smaller and uglier aimed at yourself, for how little of what you were meant to feel you actually managed to feel most days. And underneath all of it, aimed at the cross itself like it might actually answer back — fury at God, plain and entirely unmanaged, for allowing any of it to happen in the first place. You knew exactly how this looked from the outside: a grown woman muttering to an empty chancel. You wouldn't have blamed anyone for thinking you mad. Fuck, you thought yourself mad half the time.

"I don't even know why I'm trying to talk to you," you went on anyway, some perverse momentum carrying you now that you'd started. "You've only proved yourself real by fucking up my entire family." You let out something between a laugh and a scoff, some small vicious part of you almost proud of the defiance. Your father would have killed you for saying it aloud. Father Arlan would have lectured you into an early grave, out of sheer patient disappointment.

You were still smiling faintly at your own blasphemy when a low chuckle sounded from somewhere behind you, and it startled a small, undignified sound out of you — something between a gasp and a curse.

"You really shouldn’t say things like that." Father Baelor's voice reached you before he did, warm and unbothered, that same lulling register from the pulpit put to entirely domestic use. "I hear there's a priest about."

You twisted around on the kneeler to find him a few pews back, tall even sitting, dressed only in the black of the cassock rather than anything more ceremonial. You recovered enough to manage a lopsided smile of your own. "I think the old ladies who come every single day are the ones I should actually be afraid of."

"There's one in particular who's appointed herself unofficial sacristan." He came forward and lowered himself into the pew beside you, his knees drawn up higher than the pew in front of him had been built to accommodate. "I'd be careful there, if I were you."

"Are you mocking your own flock, Father Baelor?" You'd turned fully around by now, still on your knees, to look at him properly.

He laced his hands over the back of the pew ahead and looked toward the altar rather than at you. "Merely observing." A trace of mirth touched the words. "Purely so I know what to brace for, come Sunday confessions."

You studied his profile while his attention stayed elsewhere, something you allowed yourself only because he wasn't looking. He was, you decided with a clinical honesty you rarely extended to strangers, a good-looking man. The beard did something generous for his jaw, and the collar, stark white against the black, framed the whole arrangement in a way that felt almost unfair — engineered for maximum effect on a face that presumably hadn't needed the help to begin with. You found yourself wondering, in a thought you filed away immediately as unhelpful, whether he'd have been just as striking without either — beard gone, collar gone, nothing left to signal what he was and wasn't allowed to be to you.

"I believe I heard you telling Him off, a few minutes ago." He turned his head and caught you looking, though he didn't seem to register it as anything worth remarking on. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"What is it with priests and confession?" You shook your head, grateful for the change of subject. "You're all just gossips with better outfits."

He laughed low in his chest. "This needn't be a confession. Mondays run quiet, around here. We could simply talk, if you'd rather."

"Free information, and you won't even absolve me for it?" You aimed a teasing frown his way. "Now I really know you're a gossip."

His smile deepened enough to finally reach his eyes, and you were certain, seeing it properly this close, that they weren't quite the same colour, though you couldn't have said in what way exactly they differed. Maybe one bluer than the other. "It would do you good. I promise."

You considered that for a few seconds, weighing something you couldn't entirely name. "If I'm doing this," you said finally, "I think I'd rather do it properly. In the confessional, I mean."

He only nodded and rose, offering a hand down that you took before you'd quite decided to, and led you toward the confessional set into the side wall — dark wood, a heavy curtain standing in for a door.

The interior smelled of old varnish and years of incense worked into the grain, close and dim enough that the mesh screen resolved him into little more than a suggestion: a dark shape, the pale smudge of his collar, one hand loose at rest against his knee. You settled onto the narrow kneeler, your knees complaining faintly at the thinness of the cushion.

"I don't actually remember how this starts," you admitted into the dark, feeling foolish for it. "It's been a while."

"Then we'll do it simply." His voice came low through the screen, closer somehow than it had been out in the pew, stripped of whatever distance the space was meant to enforce. "You needn't recite anything. Just tell me what's sitting on you. That's the whole of it."

You gathered what you could of your thoughts, which had scattered the moment you knelt, and started with the easiest one, because you didn't trust yourself yet to start with anything harder.

You told him about the anger — at God first, for allowing any of it, and then at your father, for the particular unfairness of an ordinary Tuesday becoming the day everything else stopped making sense. You told him about your mother, and the resentment you were ashamed even to name, at how completely her grief had swallowed the whole house, leaving you to manage the funeral home and the paperwork and her, on top of whatever you were supposedly still allowed to feel yourself. You told him, last and quietest, about the funeral itself — how you had stood dry-eyed at the graveside while cousins who'd seen your father twice a year wept without restraint, how at the reception after you'd caught yourself counting the sandwiches left on a tray instead of thinking about him at all, and had hated yourself for it in almost the same breath you'd been grateful for the distraction.

He was quiet for a moment once you'd finished, long enough that you nearly asked if he was still there. When he spoke, something in his voice had changed — pulled tighter, quieter, though no less warm.

"None of that needs absolving." A pause, brief, before he went on. "Grief isn't a sin. Neither is anger, however much it frightens you to feel it. God can bear a great deal more fury than you're capable of giving Him, I promise you that." Another pause, and when he continued, the words seemed to be reaching somewhere past the space between you, as though he were, in some way you had no means yet of naming, telling himself the same thing. "Loneliness convinces you that you're the only one who's ever stood where you're standing. You're not. You won't be, either, if you let anyone stand there with you."

You closed your eyes without deciding to, letting the voice move through you unbroken by the sight of him, and found you could feel each word land somewhere just beneath your sternum, distinct as a hand pressed flat there.

When you had said what there was to say, he walked you through a short Act of Contrition, feeding you the words a line at a time since you had lost the shape of them years ago, and then his voice dropped into the older cadence of formula — mercy and reconciliation folded into a rhythm that didn't belong to him alone, ending the way it always ended, your sins spoken loose from you and a cross traced in the air with steady hands somewhere on the other side of the screen. You said Amen because you remembered, at least, that much.

You heard him rise and draw back the curtain on his side before you trusted your own legs enough to do the same. It took you a few extra seconds — you told yourself it was your knees, stiff from the kneeler, and mostly believed it — to gather up whatever had come loose in you, listening to that voice low and unbroken by any obstruction, aimed entirely and only at you in the dark. You were fairly sure that wasn't the reaction the sacrament was designed to produce. You filed it away regardless, somewhere you didn't intend to examine too closely, and finally pushed back your own curtain.

He was waiting near the confessional, hands loose at his sides, and the smile he gave you this time didn't climb all the way to his eyes the way it had out in the pew. You couldn't have said what the difference was, exactly — something in the set of it, something you didn't yet have the information to name.

"Do you feel better?" he asked.

"I feel different." You wrapped your arms around yourself, an old habit you hadn't consciously chosen.

"Different bad, or different good?" Something in the way he held himself shifted, almost imperceptibly, closer — as though some string you couldn't see had drawn taut between you.

"Just different." You breathed the word more than said it. "Which is better than nothing. It's a start."

You started toward the main doors, and he fell into step half a pace behind you, quiet in a way that didn't feel like absence so much as consideration. Near the threshold, you turned back to him.

"Thank you. For listening."

He shook his head, easy, deflecting the weight of it. "It's nothing. It's the job."

He hesitated, though — long enough that you noticed, long enough that whatever came next had clearly needed the extra half-second to arrive at. "You know these doors are open to you. Whenever you need them. Not only on Sundays or odd Mondays."

You looked up at him, at the mismatched eyes, and something in how he'd phrased it — whenever you need them, not whenever you need Him — struck you as slightly too warm for something owed to any parishioner off the street. Or maybe that was only your own starved and unreliable judgment, filling gaps that weren't there with whatever it currently wanted to find.

"I know," you said simply.

"Good." He nodded, more to himself than to you, it seemed, some private thought being settled. "Good. Sunday, then? I'll see you at Mass?"

You let a smile pull at one corner of your mouth as you turned on your heel toward the door, already walking backward into the beginning of an answer he wasn't going to get easily. "Don't push it, Father."

Hypocrite.

The word arrived most mornings before his feet had properly found the floor, uninvited and precise, phrased the same way it had been phrased for longer than he cared to count. 

Bloody hypocrite. How dare you counsel anyone toward righteousness when you cannot walk two steps down that road yourself? How dare you comfort a soul in despair when despair is the country you've been living in for years?

It was not so much a thought as a visitor who had long since stopped waiting to be let in. It simply arrived, sat on his chest, and stayed there until he had wrestled himself upright and into the black. He had come to think of it, with the only kind of humour he still had reliable access to, as his cross. Not poverty. Not chastity, not obedience, though God knew those extracted their own toll daily. Hypocrisy. A priest who no longer entirely believed the thing he had given his whole life to proclaiming.

He told himself, most days, that this was temporary, a crisis of faith, the kind nearly every priest he'd trained alongside admitted to somewhere in the confidence of a rectory kitchen, late, after the wine had loosened something. Faith was a theological virtue, after all. A gift, not an achievement. He'd had it once, freely given, and a gift once given could presumably be asked for again.

The problem, as Baelor saw it, was that he had been asking for four years.

His faith had gone dry as a wadi in August, and no amount of kneeling had managed to run water through it since. He kept the form of the thing scrupulously — the Office, the daily Mass, the rosary some nights when sleep wouldn't come and there was nothing else worth doing with his hands — because he had learned, early in seminary, that discipline outlasted feeling, that a man didn't stop rowing simply because he could no longer see the shore.

He had read enough John of the Cross in seminary to recognize the shape of what he was in — a dark night, technically, textbook enough that he could have lectured on it — which didn't make the nights any shorter, or any less dark. Recognizing the disease in a book had never once, in his experience, cured a man of it. He knew, with the specific and humiliating clarity of a man who had studied theology long enough to diagnose his own condition and still be unable to treat it, that there was a difference between fidelity and faith, and that he had been running almost entirely on the former.

Loneliness was the part he told no one, not even in his own confession, which he supposed was its own failure of the sacrament if nothing else.

It wasn't for lack of company. There were the parishioners — the same handful of devoted, elderly women who left casseroles at the rectory door like offerings and asked after his health with more attention than his own mother sometimes managed. There were the other priests, the ones he saw at diocesan meetings and ordination anniversaries, men who clapped his shoulder and asked how the parish was doing and never once, in fifteen years, asked how he was doing, because none of them had been trained to ask that question of each other and neither had he. There was his family — brothers, more nephews than he could always keep straight at a glance, a standing invitation to Sunday dinner he took up perhaps twice a month, sitting at the end of a table crowded with other men's children, uncle to all of them and father to none, which had once felt like a clean and holy kind of sacrifice and now, some nights, simply felt like a room he was allowed to visit but never quite live in.

None of it touched the actual thing. He was lonely. So fucking lonely, if he let himself reach for the one word he'd never once used from the pulpit, in the one register no parishioner would ever hear, in the privacy of his own skull, where apparently no vow of composure held any jurisdiction at all.

He knew, in the part of his mind that still functioned as a theologian even when the rest of him had stopped functioning as a believer, exactly what was supposed to go in that hollow he felt in his chest. It had gone there before. He could remember — not abstractly, but with the kind of sense-memory that ambushed him at inconvenient moments — what it had felt like in his first years ordained, kneeling before the tabernacle at two in the morning because he simply wanted to, not because the breviary demanded it, and feeling something answer him that was not merely his own voice bouncing back. He hadn't imagined that. He was nearly certain he hadn't imagined that. But it had been a long time since anything had answered, and he had run out of new ways to ask.

Which was, he suspected, why he had not been able to stop thinking about her.

She had come to him unannounced, not quite a fortnight ago now, and confessed in the dark, through the screen, in a voice trying very hard to sound steadier than it was, to a loneliness so exact in its shape that he had sat on his side of that screen and felt, for one disorienting moment, as though he were somehow listening to himself. Grief for a father. Resentment she was ashamed of. The exact exhaustion of being the person everyone assumed was managing, because she had gotten so good at performing it that no one thought to check. He knew that exhaustion. He had built a fifteen-year vocation on top of it.

He'd told her, because it was true and because it was his job to say true things in that room: loneliness convinces you that you're the only one who's ever stood where you're standing. You're not. You won't be, either, if you let anyone stand there with you.

He had believed it, saying it. He still believed it, as doctrine. And walking back to the rectory afterward, hands cold in his pockets, he had been visited by the obvious, unavoidable question, arriving with all the cruelty of a thought that shows up exactly when a man is feeling pleased with himself: had he ever once let anyone stand there with him?

He hadn't. He knew that the moment the question landed. Not his brothers, who would have tried, who had tried — one of them, Maekar, had cornered him once after a dinner, quiet, asking if he was alright, really alright, and Baelor had said yes, of course, only tired, and watched the offer close itself back up like a door he had chosen, deliberately, not to walk through. Not the other priests. Not even, if he was honest, God — not really, not with the thing that was actually wrong, because admitting the actual thing out loud, even to Him, even in the dark, even where it was supposedly safe to admit anything, felt like the one betrayal he wasn't sure he'd survive committing.

He recognized something else in her, too, underneath the grief. That same instinct to manage her own drowning quietly rather than let anyone watch her go under, the same reflex against being a burden. He knew that instinct from the inside. He'd built a career on it.

It frightened him a little, watching it in someone twenty years his junior, because he knew exactly where that road went if nothing interrupted it early enough. He wanted, with an urgency that surprised him in its intensity, to reach her before she arrived wherever he currently was. Before the loneliness calcified in her the way his had done.

He simply didn't know how to do it without frightening her off entirely, without becoming one more authority figure informing her what she needed, which was, he suspected, exactly the kind of attention she'd spent her whole adult life quietly avoiding.

He was still turning the problem over, unsolved, on the Sunday morning he stood in the sacristy working his arms into the alb, the young deacon's voice carrying faintly from the sanctuary as the boy tested the bell.

The vestments went on in their fixed order, the way they had for fifteen years — the alb first, white and formless, the cincture cinched at the waist, the stole crossed over his chest the way it was worn by priests rather than draped straight the way a deacon wore it, and finally the chasuble, green for the long ordinary stretch of the year.

He murmured the old vesting prayers as he went, mostly from habit rather than intention, half in the Latin an elderly priest had taught him as a seminarian, before he'd properly learned to shave. He caught his own reflection, briefly, in the sacristy's dark window as he settled the chasuble across his shoulders — a tall man, greying now at the temples, dressed for a role he had once wanted with his whole undivided self and now simply performed, competently, the way a man performs any task he has done long enough to stop feeling much of anything while doing it.

Get it together, he told himself, in the tone he might have used on a nephew who'd skinned a knee and was making more of it than the injury strictly warranted. It's an hour. You've done this ten thousand times before.

The bell sounded, thin and clear, and Baelor walked out into the nave doing the practical arithmetic he always did on the way to the altar; a rough count of heads translated automatically into a rough count of hosts, a habit worn so smooth by repetition it required almost no conscious thought at all.

Except that his eyes, running the width of the church, caught on the back pew and simply stopped there, sum completely abandoned.

She was there. Sitting exactly where she'd sat the last two times, in the pew closest to the door, as though she wanted a clean line of retreat available at all moments, as though some part of her still hadn't decided whether she was staying. She looked, from across the church, like she'd apologize for existing in the space if anyone asked her to.

Baelor thought, with a conviction that arrived whole and immediate and slightly too fierce for a passing observation, that she could not have been more wrong about that if she'd tried.

The midday light was coming through the east windows at the low, slanting angle it only managed for a few hours that time of the year, falling directly across the back pews in long panels of colour, and it happened to be resting on her the moment he looked — gold and red and a deep, churchy blue laid over her like something intentional, though he knew perfectly well it was only the accident of architecture and the hour.

He thought, with the part of his brain that had apparently decided today was the day to stop cooperating with the rest of him, that he had never, in all his years at this altar, seen anything as purely, uselessly beautiful as her sitting alone in stained-glass light when she had no idea anyone was looking at her, and no idea, either, how much sorrow she carried visibly enough that a stranger could read it from forty feet away.

He lost, he would later admit to no one, a genuine portion of his own homily to the fact of her. He knew the passage well enough to preach it on autopilot — he'd written the thing himself three days earlier, in a version of himself that had apparently not accounted for this — but somewhere in the second point he caught himself having skipped an entire line of his own argument, recovered only by long practice and the mercy of a congregation too polite to notice a priest losing his thread. He watched her instead, in the gaps his voice could apparently manage without him. Watched her bite the inside of her cheek when something he said caught on some private snag of hers. Watched her brow pull together, briefly, at a line about mercy, as though mercy were a concept she was still deciding whether to trust.

Time did the thing it did during Mass, folding oddly, and he surfaced properly only at the Communion, distributing the host down the line with the automatic grace of long practice, until he registered, with a small, precise jolt, that she had risen from the back pew and joined the queue.

She had not, he remembered clearly, gone up the first time she'd come. He had noticed that too, at the time, and filed it away as simply information: she wasn't ready, and a priest who pushed a person toward the altar before they were ready did more harm than the waiting ever could. That she was standing now, moving forward a few careful people at a time, felt disproportionately significant for something so small — a woman joining a line — and he was aware, distantly, of being moved by it in a way that had very little to do with sacramental theology and a great deal to do with simply being glad, in some entirely personal register, that whatever had been keeping her back had loosened its grip a little.

She reached him a few communicants later, and knelt.

He hadn't expected the kneeling. Most of the parish took the host standing these days, the old rail rarely used except by the handful who'd never adjusted to the newer practice, but she went down onto the worn kneeler like it was a thing she'd done a thousand times before she'd ever stopped, muscle memory outrunning whatever else she might have decided about the morning, and he found himself praying, hard and specific and entirely impious in its motivation, that his hands would hold steady.

They did not, quite. Not enough that he thought anyone else would have caught it — fifteen years gave a man excellent control over the visible parts of himself — but he felt the small tremor in his own fingers as he lifted the host, and knew precisely why it was there, and hated himself for it with an efficiency that would have been almost funny had it not been happening to him specifically, in front of her, at the altar, during the single most sacred moment the day contained.

"The body of Christ," he said, and his voice, at least, held.

She opened for it the way most of the older parishioners still did, tongue offered rather than hands, and he registered the fact of it with a clarity he immediately, furiously, wished he hadn't. The pink, slight wetness of it, the plain vulnerability of the gesture, a woman kneeling in front of him with her mouth open and her eyes lifted to his through her lashes, trusting him with something that had nothing at all to do with what his body had apparently decided to make of the moment.

"Amen," she said, quiet, and he set the host down against her tongue, and for perhaps a quarter of a second, no more, the pad of his thumb grazed the wet warmth of it.

He felt the reaction low and immediate and entirely outside his own permission — his cock twitching hard against the front of the alb, an animal response to a moment he had spent his entire adult life training himself out of having at all, arriving anyway, uninvited, in the one setting on earth where it had absolutely no right to.

She rose. Crossed herself. Returned to her pew without a backward glance, entirely unaware, he was fairly sure, of anything beyond having received Communion for the first time in over a decade, which should have been the thing occupying the whole of his attention, and which he found he could not currently locate among the noise of his own reaction.

He had, God help him, an entire line of communicants still waiting.

He served the next in line, an elderly man who had been kneeling at that rail longer than Baelor had been standing behind it, with the effortful concentration of someone performing a familiar task while a separate part of his mind stood off to one side, arms crossed, informing him in no uncertain terms exactly what he was.

Hypocrite, the voice supplied, obligingly, and for once he couldn't argue with it.

He had spent the walk back to the rectory that first week convinced the problem in front of him was pastoral: a lonely, grieving young woman who needed someone steady to reach for, and a priest well-placed, by training if nothing else, to be that steady thing. He understood now, standing at his own altar with his body still humming with something it had no business feeling anywhere, let alone here, that he had gotten the shape of the danger badly, embarrassingly wrong.

The problem was never going to be knowing how to help her.

The problem was going to be whether he could stand this close to her at all without eventually wanting something from her that had nothing to do with helping, and everything to do with the plain, damning sin he had promised, fifteen years ago, in front of a bishop and his own weeping mother, that he would never again allow himself to want.

Something close to a week had passed since the confessional, and you had, despite every intention to the contrary, kept coming back. You told yourself it was for different reasons each time — the quiet, mostly, a kind of nothing that a weekday Mass demanded of you, ten minutes where nobody needed managing and your mother's grief could exist without an audience for once. In all four of those weeks, you had not planned to receive Communion. The plan, such as it existed, was to sit in the pew and let the ritual move around you, spectator rather than participant, the way you'd done as a child through the parts of Mass you were still too young to properly understand.

This Sunday was different, though you couldn't have said exactly when the decision got made. Somewhere between the Gospel and the final blessing, some quiet negotiation appeared to have concluded itself without consulting you, and by the time Father Baelor descended from the presbytery, distributing the host himself, your body had already decided the matter on your behalf.

You didn't remember deciding to stand. One moment you were sitting with your hands folded loosely in your lap, and the next your feet had committed you to the aisle, already three steps into the queue before the rest of you had caught up to ask what, precisely, it thought it was doing.

You told yourself the nerves climbing your spine were simply the ordinary nerves of the thing itself — ten years since you'd last done this, and your body apparently hadn't forgotten how much weight the act was meant to carry, even if the rest of you had spent a decade pretending otherwise. That explanation held for approximately four pews. By the fifth you were close enough to watch him working down the line, steady, unbothered, that same soft cadence repeating itself to each person in turn, and the nerves sharpened into something with a considerably more specific target.

You watched the woman two ahead of you receive the host into her open palm, easy, practiced, already turning away before she'd finished her Amen. That was how you'd meant to do it too — you'd decided as much, sitting in the pew, some sensible, unbothered part of you resolving to take the host in hand like a normal person having a normal religious experience.

The line moved with the same unbroken rhythm every queue like it seemed to share, and ahead of you his words repeated themselves at even intervals — the body of Christ, the body of Christ — until they nearly lost their shape entirely and became simply sound, a current pulling you forward rather than a sentence you were choosing to walk toward. And then it was your turn, and you were on your knees on the worn kneeler before you'd consciously authorized the movement, spine bent, chin lifted, and your tongue, God, your tongue was already out, waiting, and you were looking up at him through your lashes in a way that had nothing to do with piety and everything to do with something you didn't have a clean word for yet.

You had spent a great deal of your adolescence being taught, carefully and thoroughly, the difference between reverence and its imitations. You could probably still recite, if pressed, the specific ways a person's posture and intention were meant to align during the sacraments, the whole careful presence of a well-formed conscience. Nobody had prepared you for how completely that presence could collapse the moment desire decided to borrow its vocabulary. Kneeling had always meant one thing. It appeared to now mean several things simultaneously, and you had no reliable way of establishing which one currently governed your body.

You wondered, distantly, mortified, whether any of it read on your face the way it felt from the inside. Whether a man could look down at a woman kneeling in front of him with her mouth open and simply know.

"The body of Christ." His voice reached you barely above its usual register, quieter than you'd heard him use even in the confessional, and you had exactly long enough to wonder whether that meant anything before you ran out of time to wonder it.

You could have sworn — though you dismissed it in the same half-second you thought it, because surely you were simply looking for things now, seeing significance in whatever your own hunger handed you — that something moved behind his eyes as he looked down at you. Some fraction of dilation, dark spreading further than the low church light could account for. You told yourself you'd imagined it. A composed man, too many years a priest, did not come undone over a woman kneeling at an altar rail. You were, you reminded yourself, spectacularly good at inventing evidence for whatever you already wanted to be true.

"Amen," you managed, in a register you didn't entirely recognize as your own, and took the host onto your tongue. It tasted the way it always had — of nothing, faintly of paper, a blankness you'd forgotten could hold so much weight — and you drew the wet weight of it back into your mouth, uncomfortably aware, for the first time in your entire pious childhood, of every part of a gesture you had never once thought to be self-conscious about.

You crossed yourself, rose, and turned back toward your pew on legs you were no longer entirely confident belonged to you. By the time you reached it you had abandoned any pretence of composure and simply knelt again, forehead dropping toward your folded hands in a posture any observer would have read as devotion, and which was, if you were honest with yourself, mostly a structural decision. You did not trust your knees with your weight. Kneeling, at least, put the failure somewhere expected.

For however long remained of the Mass — ten minutes, perhaps, though it passed with the strange, syrupy slowness of time that refuses to behave when you most need it to — you were aware of a pair of mismatched eyes finding you, again and again, across the width of the nave.

You did not look back. You told yourself it was decorum. The truer answer was that you did not trust yourself either to survive whatever expression you found waiting for you there, and some cowardly, self-protective part of you had already decided, without evidence, what that expression would be. Disappointment, probably. A priest, watching a woman make a spectacle of an ancient, most-sacred rite because some starved, undisciplined part of her had wanted an excuse to kneel in front of him. You could not have named a single thing Baelor had actually done to earn that verdict. You handed it to him anyway, because it was easier to believe yourself pathetic than to consider the alternative: that he had looked, and kept looking, for reasons that had nothing to do with judgment at all.

It was, you supposed, a very on-brand mistake for you specifically to make: assuming the worst interpretation of yourself before anyone else had the chance to offer one, a habit you'd perfected over exactly the kind of year you'd just had.

When Mass finally released you, you gathered your things and made for the doors, only to find your escape blocked by the usual congregation of elderly women, several of whom had apparently decided the threshold was an ideal location for a leisurely post-Mass conference. Blasted old mules, you thought, uncharitably, easing your way through the knot of cardigans and hairspray with what you hoped read as patience rather than the quiet panic actually driving you.

The churchyard held its usual after-Mass scattering, knots of parishioners trading the same three pleasantries they traded every week, a couple of children weaving between legs, the sharp, cold smell of stone and cut grass that November insisted on despite the season otherwise doing its best to die.

You had almost recovered something like your normal footing when you spotted him, already outside, a few yards off, saying his farewells to a cluster of departing parishioners. You watched him for a moment before he saw you. Safe, for once, in the anonymity of simply being one more parishioner in a scattering crowd. He had a hand braced warm on some old man's shoulder, head inclined to catch whatever the man was telling him, nodding along at exactly the right intervals with the practiced attentiveness of someone who had spent years convincing an entire parish that each of them, individually, had his whole and undivided attention.

It was, you thought, uncomfortably close to the same trick you performed for your mother most days: competent kindness worn like a coat, covering whatever was actually happening underneath it. You wondered, watching him, whether he ever got tired of wearing his.

He must have slipped out through the sacristy door while you were fighting your way past the old guard. You prayed, with a fervency that would have embarrassed you an hour ago, that he hadn't clocked you yet, that you might simply slide past unseen and process the entire morning in the privacy of your own head, where it belonged.

God, apparently, was not in a forgiving mood.

"Wait—" His voice found you before you'd made it three steps past him.

This must be penance, you thought, aiming the complaint at God directly, for telling You off the other week. You turned anyway, because ignoring a priest calling your name across a churchyard felt like a significantly worse option than facing him.

He was still in the green chasuble, and you decided, with the kind of petty, deflecting focus you reached for whenever you needed somewhere safer to put your attention, that green wasn't his colour. Black suited him better — sharper, somehow, unfairly so, as though the absence of colour did something the vestments simply couldn't.

The two of you had drifted, without either of you seeming to choose it, a little apart from the general flow of departing parishioners, into a pocket of relative quiet near the low stone wall bordering the churchyard.

"You received Communion." He was smiling as he said it, easy, a little pleased, as though the fact of it were a small gift someone had handed him unexpectedly.

You nodded once, feeling suddenly, absurdly, like a student called on for an answer she wasn't sure was correct. "I thought it seemed appropriate. Sorry if I — I don't know, did something wrong."

His smile only deepened at that, wide enough to show teeth that weren't quite perfect. One canine set very slightly forward of the other, both slightly longer than the average, a small imperfection that somehow sharpened the effect rather than softening it. You found yourself thinking, with a specificity that alarmed you, exactly what those particular teeth would feel like against skin, and then you thought about the fact that you'd thought that, and wanted, briefly and sincerely, to walk directly into oncoming traffic.

This was, you reflected grimly, an extraordinarily inconvenient time to discover a specific interest in a man's teeth. You filed the discovery away next to the growing pile of other discoveries you'd made about yourself these last four weeks; a pile you were doing an increasingly poor job of pretending not to notice.

"You did nothing wrong." His voice gentled further, if that was even possible. "In fact, I'm rather proud of you."

Proud of you.

You blinked at him and felt the words land somewhere considerably lower than your chest, spreading out into a warmth that had nothing whatsoever to do with the Holy Spirit. You were, in that moment, sincerely and profoundly grateful for whatever biological quirk kept the more obvious evidence of arousal confined to men, because you would otherwise have been standing in a churchyard in a state no amount of decorum could have disguised.

You noted, somewhere beneath the more immediate crisis, that it wasn't only your body responding to the words. Nobody had told you they were proud of you in longer than you wanted to calculate. Your father had said it constantly, casually, about report cards and parallel parking and nothing in particular, and you hadn't realized, until a priest said it in a mostly unrelated context outside a church, exactly how much you'd been missing hearing it from anyone at all.

You must have taken too long to respond, because something crossed his face, a flicker of doubt, quickly papered over. "Sorry. That came out a bit strange, didn't it." He laughed, short, and for a moment looked almost boyish about it, which did nothing at all to help your current situation.

You laughed too, mostly to have somewhere to put the air currently trapped in your chest, and mostly to keep from examining the warm, insistent ache that had settled low in you and did not seem inclined to leave anytime soon. "Don't worry about it," you said, and then, because the silence that followed felt like it needed something in it, "it was nice seeing you."

"Nice indeed." He said it slowly, turning the phrase over like he was testing its weight, and you had the distinct, mortifying sense that you'd just stumbled into the kind of conversation you'd have mocked mercilessly in anyone else: two people standing a foot apart in a churchyard, trading pleasantries like teenagers who'd forgotten how words worked.

You were already half-turned to go when he spoke again. "We'll be getting the church ready for Christmas soon — decorations, the nativity, that sort of thing. We could always use another set of hands, if you were interested."

You hadn't expected that. Some vague, formless plan on your part had involved politely declining further entanglement with this parish beyond whatever your body had apparently already committed you to this morning, and here he was, casually assuming a future in which you'd be back, repeatedly, with a staple gun and a box of ornaments.

"Sure." You turned fully back to him, caught slightly off guard. "I mean — yes. I'll see what I can do."

He looked, for just a moment, more hopeful about that than the offer strictly warranted, though he recovered fast enough that you might have imagined it too, the way you'd apparently decided to imagine everything else about him today.

He looked as though he meant to say something further, but an elderly woman intercepted him first — the sacristan-adjacent one, you suspected, from the sheer righteousness of her posture — and launched into what appeared to be less a conversation than a fully prepared monologue on the subject of the Advent wreath.

Baelor towered over her, patient, nodding along to whatever she was saying while his eyes found yours over the top of her head, faintly, helplessly amused.

You mouthed good luck at him and turned to leave, and caught, in the last half-second before you did, the flash of one more toothy, uneven, entirely unpriestly grin aimed directly at you.

You walked home with absolutely no memory of the walk itself.

It was only much later, sitting at your own kitchen table with a cup of tea gone cold in front of you, that you let yourself think properly about any of it. The kneeling, the eyes, every feeling that came onto you without your permission.

You thought about the fact that you'd gone looking, four weeks ago, for the specific comfort of being comprehended without judgment, the thing you remembered feeling as a child and had wanted back badly enough to sit through your own grief to get it.

You had not, at any point in that search, accounted for the possibility that the comprehension might arrive wearing a Roman collar, or that wanting it might eventually stop feeling like faith and start feeling like something considerably harder to confess.

You thought, too, about the Christmas decorations, about staple guns and small nativity figures and days of proximity you had apparently just volunteered yourself into, without any of the caution the last hour should reasonably have taught you. You told yourself you'd think more carefully about that later. But you did not, in fact, do it.

You simply marked the date in the calendar on your phone, and found, when you looked at it sitting there among your mother's doctor's appointments and your own overdue dentist visit, that some small, traitorous part of you was already looking forward to it.

Christmas had a way of crawling under your skin, the way old songs do. You could go months without thinking of it at all, and then a single carol drifting out of a shop doorway would drop you straight back into a kitchen you hadn't properly stood in for over a decade. You remembered good Christmases, the kind that still arrived intact in memory without needing much reconstruction: the house loud with cousins, someone's dog underfoot, your grandmother's insistence on a specific brand of nougat nobody but her actually liked, the whole extended chaos of a family that hadn't yet learned how to lose people. Those years had been good in the uncomplicated way only childhood afforded. You hadn't yet understood that a table could shrink, that the chairs pulled out each year could simply, one by one, stop being needed.

You thought, unbidden, of the last Christmas Eve you'd spent with your father whole and healthy and utterly unaware of what the coming year held for him — the two of you assembling a jigsaw puzzle at the kitchen table past midnight because neither of you could sleep and neither of you wanted to admit it, some ridiculous thousand-piece rendering of a lighthouse he'd bought on a whim and insisted on finishing before morning, as though the deadline mattered to anyone but him. You'd found the last piece around two, and he'd made you both cocoa to celebrate, badly, too much sugar and not nearly enough milk, and you had not known, sitting there in your pyjamas laughing at his terrible cocoa, that you were spending the last ordinary, uncomplicated Christmas you'd ever get with him.

You would have paid considerably more attention, you liked to tell yourself, if you'd known. You weren't entirely sure that was true. You suspected you'd have taken it for granted regardless, the way you seemed to have been built to take most good things for granted right up until they were gone.

They had started thinning sometime in your teens, the guest list first, then the feeling itself, until Christmas became something you observed rather than inhabited — a season that happened around you while some quieter, more adult part of you took inventory of who was missing. You supposed that was simply what growing up did to a holiday built entirely on presence. This year the table would seat two, and one chair would stay pushed in on principle rather than practicality, because neither you nor your mother had yet found the courage to actually put it away.

Which was perhaps part of why you found yourself, on a Tuesday evening in the beginning of December, standing on a folding chair in the nave of a church that wasn't strictly yours, marvelling at the old women who'd spent the better part of the afternoon transforming the place into something out of a Christmas card. They'd draped garland along every available surface with a fervent, uncomplicated joy you found yourself envying more than you were entirely comfortable admitting.

You glanced toward the altar, toward the plain wooden cross presiding over all of it. You could spare me a little of whatever they've got, you thought, directing the request at Him with the blend of irony and genuine hope you'd become fluent in these past almost-two months. He didn't answer, which by now you'd come to expect. Silence, you'd decided, was simply His preferred register of correspondence with you.

You supposed you owed whatever had brought you back to this parish in October a debt you hadn't properly paid yet. Somewhere in the weeks since, without your quite noticing the transition, the building had become something closer to a bunker than a place of worship; somewhere you could exist without the performance the rest of your life currently demanded of you. You didn't have to be the strong one here. Not because you necessarily were the strong one everywhere else, but because here, specifically, nobody was paying close enough attention to require it of you.

The old women, you were fairly certain, didn't particularly care for you. You'd become something of a fixture over the autumn — reliably present, reliably unwilling to stay for the rosary, reliably uninterested in the small, warm currency of parish gossip they traded so easily among themselves — and you supposed that reticence read, correctly, as a kind of standoffishness.

You couldn't entirely blame them for the verdict. In the interest of honesty, which spoke poorly of whatever devout young woman a stranger might have glimpsed in you at first glance, you found you didn't much care for them either. It wasn't unkindness, exactly. You simply had nothing left over, most days, for the effort community required, and the women had sensed that absence the way people always seemed to sense exactly the thing you were trying hardest not to show.

You'd lost track of the hour somewhere in the effort of getting the wreath symmetrical — a task that had absorbed you far more completely than its actual importance warranted, the satisfying tyranny of a problem with a correct answer, unlike most of what currently occupied your days.

By the time you next surfaced enough to notice your surroundings, full dark had settled outside the tall windows, and the women who'd spent the afternoon polishing candlesticks and dusting the reredos had long since collected their coats and gone home to their own, presumably fuller houses. There was one stubborn corner of the wreath that refused to sit flush against the beam, and you stapled it into submission with more force than the task strictly required.

"You know, every single one of those will need to come out again come January." The familiar, lulling voice found you from somewhere near the floor.

You looked down from your perch — you'd had to stand on the chair to reach the beam over the door — and found him below you, his face arriving at roughly the level of your waist even accounting for the height the chair gave you. Why was he so fucking tall, you thought, not for the first time since October.

"I'm sure you'll find some other charitable soul to deal with it," you said, aiming for breezy and mostly landing there.

He laughed, low, and the sound did something to the base of your spine you'd rather not have examined closely.

You fixed the last staple and pivoted on the chair to face him properly. "Besides," you added, smirking, "I think some of these staples are older than I am."

His own smirk answered yours, quick and easy. Over the weeks you'd known him, you had arrived at the settled, private conclusion that Baelor was, against every expectation you'd walked in with that first Wednesday, a genuinely good priest to know.

Nothing like Father Arlan's gentle, uncomplicated warmth. Baelor's register was drier, more grounded, quick, despite it, to turn a homily's more solemn point into something almost funny, or at least as funny as a man in his position could reasonably manage without causing a diocesan incident. He'd once, memorably, described a visiting bishop's homily as spiritually correct but tragically overlong, pitched just quietly enough for only you to catch during the coffee hour afterward, and you'd had to disguise your laugh as a coughing fit for the better part of a minute.

But there was something else, too, something you'd started cataloguing without quite meaning to.

You'd caught it first during a November homily on the Prodigal Son, of all things. A pause where his voice simply stopped, a beat too long even for effect, his gaze gone somewhere past the back pews entirely before he recovered himself and finished the line. You remembered, too, a Tuesday afternoon that same month when you'd found him alone in the sacristy long after any practical reason for him to still be there, hands loosely folded, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, so thoroughly somewhere else that he hadn't heard you knock. It had taken him a full three seconds to resurface enough to greet you; three seconds in which his face had held an expression so nakedly exhausted you'd nearly turned around and left rather than intrude on it. By the time he'd properly noticed you, the mask was back in place, warm and unbothered, and you'd both pretended, with the same silent, mutual courtesy, that you hadn't seen anything at all.

There was a darkness sitting behind those mismatched eyes that had nothing to do with the warm, careful light he'd clearly spent years learning to project for public consumption. Something you recognized, with an unsettling flash of kinship, because you'd been living behind a similar performance yourself for the better part of a year. Even now, watching him smile at your staple joke, you could see it there underneath, patient and entirely unmoved by whatever surface amusement was currently crossing his face.

You had, on more than one uncharitable evening alone in your room, caught yourself wanting to reach up and kiss that darkness straight off him; an urge that arrived, inconveniently, with startling specificity, and that you suppressed each time by picturing, with deliberate cruelty toward yourself, the exact white of his collar glowing that much brighter in your mind's eye. A small and effective penance you'd invented all on your own.

"Here." You held the staple gun out to him, resigned. "Take this and help me down."

He reached for it with a half-smile still playing at his mouth, but instead of taking your hand, he simply set the staple gun down on the nearest pew and stayed exactly where he was, making no move whatsoever toward a helping distance.

"You got yourself up there," he said. "I'm reasonably confident you can manage the trip back down unassisted."

"And you can manage the very interesting phone call to the coroner," you shot back, "when I crack my skull open on these charming marble floors."

He shook his head, something between exasperation and fond disbelief crossing his face, but he came to help you regardless.

You'd expected a hand; his palm extended for you to brace against as you stepped down, the same practical courtesy any decent person would offer someone perched too high on unstable furniture. What he did instead rewired something in your chest before you'd fully registered it was happening. His hands came to your waist, both of them, spanning nearly the whole width of you with room to spare, and closed there with an easy, certain strength that lifted rather than merely assisted.

You came down off the chair already caught. His hands didn't release you once your feet found the floor, they stayed exactly where they'd landed, warm even through the fabric of your sweater, and the momentum of the drop left you standing closer to him than either of you had ever managed before, the backs of your knees still grazing the chair's edge, your front nearly flush against the solid wall of him. You had to tip your head back to find his face at all, the angle sudden and unfamiliar even after two months of knowing exactly how tall he was in the abstract.

And when you found it, his expression wasn't one you had a name filed away for. Not the easy mirth from a minute ago. Not the quiet darkness you'd just spent an entire private paragraph of your own thoughts cataloguing. Not even the careful, generic kindness he handed out to every stranger who walked through the doors. This was something else, something focused entirely on you with an intensity that made you feel, absurdly, like the only thing left standing in the building.

The church itself had gone very quiet around you both — no children running, no old women's chatter, nothing but the two of you and the faint, resinous smell of fresh pine garland strung along every surface that afternoon, incongruously festive against whatever was actually unfolding here.

"We wouldn't want to have to explain to our self-appointed sacristan why she'd need to clean blood off her floors, would we?"

His voice, when it finally arrived, had dropped somewhere you hadn't heard it go before. Low, rough at the edges, scraped clean of the careful, cultivated softness he used from the pulpit and in the confessional alike. Fuck, you thought, with the kind of clarity reserved for genuine emergencies, and had to physically bite the inside of your cheek to keep something considerably less dignified than a word from escaping you.

Your brain, which had apparently decided this was the correct moment to abandon you entirely, produced a single unhelpful thought at top volume: that whatever you were currently feeling qualified, by any reasonable Catholic accounting, as a sin already fully committed, whether or not your body ever got around to acting on it. His hands were still at your waist. He had not moved them, and you found you had absolutely no intention of pointing that out to him.

"I can only imagine the headlines," you managed, aiming for something like your usual register and landing somewhere considerably shakier. "Beloved cool local priest murders parishioner over minor stapling dispute."

He laughed at that — a low, private sound you felt as much as heard, given how little distance currently separated the two of you — and in the same motion your own hands found his wrists, not to push him away, you noted with some private alarm, but simply to have somewhere to put your hands that wasn't the fabric of the cassock that covered his chest.

"Finally," he said, something almost boyish slipping into his voice despite its lower register, "you admit I'm a cool priest."

"Never said the opposite," you managed, and were fairly certain your heartbeat had become audible at this point, some frantic percussion filling your own ears loudly enough that you half expected him to hear it too, if he simply stopped talking long enough to listen for it.

He didn't stop talking. He also didn't step back.

What you noticed, in the strange, suspended quiet that followed, wasn't the words at all: it was the small, controlled way the distance between your faces kept shrinking, inch by inch, so gradual you might have missed it entirely if every nerve in your body hadn't been standing at full and humiliating attention.

His eyes had dropped, briefly, to somewhere south of your own eyes, and you felt the weight of that gaze land on your mouth like a physical touch you hadn't known a look alone could carry. You didn't move away. You were fairly sure, standing there with his hands still warm at your waist and the whole of him leaning steadily closer, that moving away had stopped being something your body currently had access to as an option.

Then thunder cracked somewhere close enough to rattle the stained glass in its leading, and the spell broke apart all at once.

Baelor recoiled like he'd been struck, stumbling half a step backward and nearly catching his heel against the kneeler of the pew at his back. His hands left your waist so abruptly the absence of them registered as its own small shock, cold rushing in where his palms had been. He put several feet of distance between you with the swift, overcorrected urgency of a man putting out a fire he'd only just noticed was burning him, and you stood exactly where he'd left you, rooted to the same patch of marble floor, arms hanging uselessly at your sides because you couldn't immediately think what else to do with them.

He turned toward the nearest window, ostensibly checking the weather, though you suspected the actual view held considerably less of his attention than whatever was currently happening behind his own eyes. You watched his shoulders rise and fall once, twice, some private negotiation being conducted entirely without your input.

"I should be going," you said, into the silence neither of you seemed inclined to fill, wrapping your arms around yourself in a gesture you recognized, distantly, as purely defensive, though you couldn't have said exactly what you thought you were defending against at this point.

He looked back at you then, and you caught the specific effort it took him to swallow whatever he'd been about to say instead of the thing he actually said, which was, "Right." A short, laboured breath followed the word, like it had cost him something to produce. "Have you got an umbrella?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice with anything more elaborate, and busied yourself gathering your coat and bag from the pew where you'd left them, grateful for the excuse to look at literally anything besides him.

"I'll come back tomorrow," you said, to the buttons of your coat rather than to his face, "to finish whatever's left."

He said nothing to that. When you finally made yourself look up, he was watching you with an expression you didn't have the emotional bandwidth left to interpret, and you decided, with the last reserves of self-preservation currently available to you, that you didn't especially want to try.

"Good night, Baelor."

You hadn't called him that before — not to his face, not without the Father in front of it — and you felt the shape of his name leave your mouth like something you'd been keeping in a drawer you'd forgotten you owned. You didn't wait to see what it did to his expression. You turned and walked to the doors, footsteps too loud against the marble in the church's electric hush, and did not look back once — not through the doors, not into the wet dark of the churchyard, not all the way to your bicycle.

You weren't sure, if you had, that you would have found the will left in you to actually leave.

What exactly are you doing?

Baelor asked himself the question kneeling at the side of his bed, in the small, plain bedroom of the parish quarters that had been the whole of his home for ten years now. Narrow bed, a crucifix above the headboard he'd hung there himself his first week, a desk crowded with breviaries he increasingly opened out of habit rather than hunger.

Are you out of your mind entirely?

For the first time in longer than he wanted to calculate, he knelt not performing the posture but actually reaching for what it was meant to produce — comfort, or something adjacent to it, anything at all that might quiet the chaos currently occupying his skull.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven—"

His voice wavered on the fourth word and gave out entirely somewhere in the fifth.

"Our Father—"

Her laugh arrived instead. Not summoned, simply there, whole and uninvited. The exact pitch of it from an hour ago when she'd made the joke about the coroner, and behind the laugh, inevitably, her face: chin tipped back to find his, mouth still curved with the last of the humour, eyes doing something he hadn't yet found a word brave enough to use.

He lowered his head further, forehead nearly meeting his own clasped hands. He had heard that laugh perhaps a hundred times over these past two months. He could not account for why it should return to him now, tonight, with such insistence, refusing to be filed away with the evening's other ordinary noise.

He knew the shape of temptation well enough by now to recognize its usual visitors. Fifteen years he'd been fighting it in one form or another, and for most of that decade and a half it had arrived the way temptation was supposed to — faceless, fleeting, a passing current easily broken by discipline and the plain stubbornness of prayer. This was different. This had roots. And prayer, tonight, was not coming to him with anything like its old ease.

When, he wondered, had those roots first taken hold? He turned the question over the way a man probes a bruise to test how deep it goes, expecting each interaction between them to yield the same comfortable diagnosis he'd been offering himself for weeks: compassion, simply. A priest's ordinary, sanctioned care for a grieving soul.

How readily the heart baptized its own sins, dressing them in vestments respectable enough to walk past its own conscience unchallenged.

He knew, kneeling there with the evidence assembling itself against him one memory at a time, that this had never been only compassion. Compassion had not made him remember, with the specific clarity of a man cataloguing evidence, the warmth of her palm the very first time they'd shaken hands beneath the vestibule light, both of them strangers still. Compassion had not made him look at her, weeks later, sitting alone in stained-glass light, and think she resembled something closer to a miracle than to a parishioner. Compassion, God knew, had nothing whatsoever to do with the way his own cock had throbbed, mortifyingly, at the memory of her kneeling before him at the altar rail, tongue offered, so entirely disposed toward receiving him — not the capital-H Him she'd knelt for, but him.

No. This was not compassion. This was desire.

Baelor wanted her.

The realization did not arrive first as language. It existed, before he dared give it words, as a certainty his soul appeared to have recognized considerably ahead of his conscious mind's permission. When he finally did put language to it — silently, without moving his lips, though it felt no less spoken for the silence — the shape of the thought landed like blasphemy against his own teeth.

I want her.

Not merely the light she brought into a parish that had grown grey and administrative around him. Not merely the sharp, unpredictable wit she threw at him like a dare. Every part of her. Even, and especially that, the darkness she carried behind her own carefully practiced eyes, the same darkness he had recognized, the very first time he'd glimpsed it, as an exact echo of his own.

He wanted her wholly. Wanted, with a specificity that frightened him, to imagine some entirely different future, one in which she crossed a room not toward the confessional but toward him. Wanted to wonder, with a tenderness that felt more dangerous than any simple hunger could have, what it might be to hear her say his name in some context that had nothing whatsoever to do with prayer. And, God help him, wanted to hear her moan it.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"No." The word left him barely above a whisper.

But no to what, exactly? To himself? To God, wherever He currently was? To the relentless, unwelcome honesty currently dismantling him from the inside out? To the hardening evidence, even now, of exactly how little his own body cared for the word he'd just spoken?

His vows had once felt like architecture: stone, load-bearing, built up patiently over years until they no longer required conscious thought to remain standing, because conviction itself had become the mortar holding every course of them in place. Tonight they felt like glass instead. Transparent enough that he could see straight through to an entire unlived life on the other side of them. Fragile enough that he feared one careless touch of longing might be all it took to shatter the whole structure at once.

He searched, kneeling there, for disgust. Certain, if only he could locate it, that it would be enough to save him. He tried to name what he was feeling as corruption. As weakness. As the plain, ordinary failure of a man who had simply stopped being strong enough to want what he'd promised to want instead.

What he found, reaching for disgust, was grief.

Because beneath the desire there was love. He could see it now that he'd stopped looking away from it: the faint, unbearable outline of an entirely different life. One with someone actually beside him rather than merely near him. Unwavering loyalty, offered and received both. Being loved, and — this was the part that undid him most completely — being able to see it happening, to actually feel it landing, rather than simply trusting it existed somewhere beyond his ability to perceive it, the way he'd spent fifteen years trusting God's love existed without ever quite managing to feel its weight.

It had accumulated so quietly he'd missed the accumulation entirely. In conversations that ran twenty minutes longer than either of them had any real reason to justify. In the uncomplicated comfort of simply being near her, which asked nothing of him and somehow still gave him more than most of his days currently offered. In the way his own schedule had begun rearranging itself, without his conscious permission, around the mere possibility of crossing paths with her — a Tuesday errand that could easily have waited until Thursday, suddenly urgent, suddenly today. In the strange emptiness that settled over the whole parish on the days she didn't come.

He understood, kneeling there, that he was thoroughly and completely finished.

Because lust, at least, could be confessed. Named, absolved, resisted with enough discipline and enough distance. But what was a man supposed to do with affection that had stopped being distinguishable, at some point he couldn't pinpoint, from prayer itself?

His lips trembled around the next attempt.

"Lord—"

The word broke apart before it finished forming.

He had spent years — his whole vocation, really — teaching other people that grace was never withheld from anyone who sought it honestly, that God did not turn away an honest accounting of a struggling heart. And yet honesty, tonight, felt like the single most impossible thing currently available to him. Because if God were to search his heart in this exact moment, He would find no noble struggle waiting there to reward. Baelor already knew that much. He was already lost, and some new, terrible clarity in him suspected God knew it too, and had simply chosen, as He had for four long years now, to say nothing about it either way.

Perhaps that was what finally pushed him across whatever threshold remained between kneeling there in honest, wretched prayer and what he did next. Perhaps it was simply exhaustion, years of dryness and denial collapsing all at once under the sheer weight of wanting one particular, unrepeatable woman rather than some abstract, manageable temptation. Whatever the mechanism, his hands moved before the rest of him had finished deciding to let them. He undid the drawstring of his pyjama trousers with clumsy, hurried fingers, wrapped his hand around his own cock — already full, already aching — and began, without further ceremony, to work himself with long, rough strokes.

He turned his face into the mattress at the last second, some final scrap of habit or shame driving him to muffle the sound rather than let it fill the small room the way everything else about tonight already had.

In the dark behind his own closed eyes, only one image held. Her face. Not exactly as she'd looked tonight, though the memory of tonight fed everything that followed. Her eyes, specifically, the way they'd caught his after she'd teased him, some light living in them that he had spent two months telling himself he was imagining, a light that might, if he let himself believe it even for the length of this single traitorous hour, have meant she wanted this too. He held to that possibility the way a drowning man holds to whatever debris happens to be floating nearest.

He held, too, to the image his own imagination built for him next, unbidden and merciless in its detail: her, entirely undone beneath him, her spine arched at some impossible, desperate angle, her mouth open around sounds that had nothing left of teasing in them. He imagined the give of her, imagined thrusting into her again and again, deep and unhurried and then not unhurried at all, imagined that every stroke of it might somehow reach past her grief and turn it, briefly, into something closer to pleasure — as if he alone might be capable of giving her that, as if wanting it badly enough might make it true. He imagined her nails finding his back, dragging half-moons into skin that had not been touched with anything like hunger in longer than he could accurately remember. He imagined her voice breaking around his name, over and over, in a register that had nothing whatsoever to do with confession.

What finally undid him — what tore the last of his composure loose entirely — was not any of it. It was the imagined shape of her mouth releasing three specific words in his direction, words he had no right whatsoever to imagine anyone giving him, let alone her, and yet there they were anyway, vivid and unbearable and entirely his own invention: I love you.

He came hard around his own fist, a broken, guttural sound tearing loose from somewhere low in his chest before he could catch it against the mattress, his whole body drawing tight and then breaking apart at once, the mess of it spilling hot over his knuckles.

He stayed exactly where he'd fallen, face pressed into the bedding, and breathed. Once. Twice. A third time before anything like steadiness returned to him.

He raised his face eventually, feeling the cool, unmistakable patch where his own breath had dampened the sheet beneath him, and stared up at the ceiling instead, at the water stain shaped vaguely like a rowboat he'd been meaning to have looked at for the better part of a year.

A thought arrived, quiet enough that he nearly missed the size of the blasphemy folded inside it: if loving her brings me closer to creation than years of praying ever brought me to the Creator, what exactly am I meant to do with that.

He covered his face with his free, cleaner hand.

Perhaps that, he thought, was the actual sin waiting underneath all the others he'd been so carefully cataloguing tonight. Not the desire, or not only the desire. The realization — arriving now, with nowhere left to hide from it — that somewhere along the long road toward this particular altar, he had gone looking for God, over and over, for years, and found only silence waiting at the end of every attempt.

And that tonight, for the first time in longer than he dared admit even to himself, some other voice — hers, or the idea of her, or whatever she had quietly become to him in the space where God's silence used to sit — had finally, unmistakably, answered.

You hadn't slept well. You'd known it the moment you opened your eyes, before your body had even finished the transition out of whatever half-formed dreams had kept you turning most of the night. You had the unmistakable heaviness behind the eyes that came from too little rest rather than too much of it. You'd drifted in and out of something that wasn't quite sleep for hours, catching yourself somewhere between waking and dreaming with your own pulse doing something inconvenient, replaying, on an unwelcome loop, the weight of his hands at your waist and the taut, terrifying stillness of the half-second before the thunder broke whatever had been about to happen between you.

What had kept you awake, if you were being honest with the version of yourself still too groggy to construct a better lie, was a pair of eyes. Blue, though not quite matching, one shade lighter than the other even in memory. And a proximity you still hadn't fully accounted for.

Or that's what you told yourself, dressing for the day, that it was simply eyes and proximity keeping you up, nothing more specific than that, nothing requiring further examination before coffee.

Your mother had been lighter that morning than you'd seen her in longer than you wanted to count — humming something tuneless over the stove, actually eating the toast she made rather than simply making it and leaving it to go cold on the counter. She'd even mentioned, unprompted, something about clearing out your father's side of the closet before spring — not today, not this week, but someday, spoken aloud for the first time since the funeral, which felt like its own small, cautious miracle. You knew better than to expect it to last.

Grief, in your admittedly limited experience of managing hers alongside your own, didn't improve in a straight line; it simply had good days scattered unpredictably among the difficult ones, and you'd learned not to read too much promise into any single morning. Still, you let yourself enjoy it while it lasted.

December seemed to have settled properly over the town by now — breath visible in the cold, the last of the leaves finally surrendered from the trees lining the route you'd walked perhaps thirty times since October, familiar enough now that your feet found the way without requiring much input from the rest of you.

You held the memory of your mother's laugh at something on the radio the whole walk to the parish, turning it over like a stone in your pocket, and told yourself, with the kind of deliberate optimism you rarely trusted yourself with anymore, that today was going to be a good day.

You repeated the thought enough times that it started to feel less like a hope and more like a small, private incantation — as if enough repetition alone might be sufficient to summon the thing into being.

That confidence lasted exactly as long as it took you to push through the church's side door and see two teenage boys — the Dustin brothers, you'd learn shortly, though you didn't yet have names to put to their faces — already up on a stepladder, stapling ornaments to the exact beam you'd left unfinished the night before, their staples crooked and their banter loud and entirely unbothered by the fact that this had been, as far as you understood things, your job.

Something twisted low in your stomach, sharp and disproportionate to the actual size of the slight. You told yourself it didn't matter who finished the ornaments. You did not, in fact, manage to believe yourself.

You shrugged out of your coat in silence, watching the boys' cheerful, careless work a moment longer than necessary, and made your way toward the sacristy, brow already furrowed before you'd even reached the door. The room smelled, as it always did, of candle wax and old wood polish, vestments hanging in their orderly rows along one wall like a wardrobe built for a much stranger kind of theatre.

Baelor was there, alone, occupied with something at the shoulder seam of a violet alb, the colour of Advent, penance and waiting both folded into a single shade of cloth.

"Good morning." You kept your voice light. "What needs doing?"

He turned to look at you, and what met you in his eyes was so entirely unlike what had been there mere hours ago that you nearly took a physical step back from it.

Where warmth had stood the night before — warmth you'd felt with your whole body, warmth that still had your pulse doing something complicated whenever you let yourself think about it — there was now only a careful, deliberate distance, the kind a man constructs on purpose rather than simply falls into.

"Garrick and Harlan are already tending to it. Don't trouble yourself." The smile that came with it didn't make it anywhere near his eyes.

You tried to swallow around whatever his voice had just done to your chest and forced something like a smile of your own. "I brought climbing equipment today. In case it was needed."

"They're handy boys. I'm sure they'll manage." He turned his attention back to the alb, the conversation apparently concluded from his end.

You stood there a moment, fidgeting with your own fingers, looking down at them rather than at him. "Right," you said, mostly to fill the silence. "Well — there must be something else I could do."

"There always is." He offered nothing further, and you waited, foolishly, for an elaboration that simply never arrived.

You tried once more for something like the warmth that had, or so you'd let yourself believe, been growing steadily between the two of you these last weeks. "You look tired," you said, arms coming up to wrap around yourself, the gesture more defensive than you'd intended it to read.

His hands paused over the fabric for the barest fraction of a second. "Do I?"

"A little," you admitted, the faintest smile tugging at your mouth despite everything.

"Occupational hazard." He laughed, politely, and it landed less like genuine amusement and more like something he believed himself obligated to produce. A pause followed, longer than the joke warranted. "Would you mind helping Mrs. Reed in the parish hall? They're sorting donations for the Christmas drive."

You agreed, because there was nothing else on offer, and turned to leave.

The afternoon passed in an accumulation of small, catalogable evidence. The way he found reasons to be in whichever room you currently weren't. The exact, careful politeness he extended to you precisely as he extended it to every other volunteer that afternoon, nothing more, nothing that marked you as separate from Mrs. Reed or the Dustin brothers or anyone else currently sorting canned goods into cardboard boxes. At one point you both reached for the same box of ornaments at the same moment, and he withdrew his hand so quickly, so completely, that you nearly dropped the box entirely, fumbling to catch weight he would ordinarily have simply helped you carry.

You thought, sorting through a crate of secondhand ornaments while Mrs. Reed chattered pleasantly beside you about the parish's fundraising goals, of the specific way his voice had dropped the night before — rough-edged, stripped of its careful public register — and wondered whether you'd imagined the whole of it after all. Wondered whether desire had simply invented a version of events flattering enough to suit itself, the way desire apparently could, given half a chance and a dimly lit church.

By mid-afternoon you had started, despite your own best efforts not to, hunting for a cause. You ran through the obvious candidates and discarded most of them quickly enough — nothing you could point to, no specific offense, no moment you could identify as the hinge everything had swung on. And then, unbidden, unwelcome, one possibility surfaced and refused to submerge again: maybe I made him uncomfortable yesterday.

The thought should have landed like something manageable. Instead, it landed like a stone dropped into still water, and once it had broken the surface, every ripple that followed reshaped how you read the entire day. His hands at your waist, longer than strictly necessary. The way he'd looked at you before the thunder cracked. The whole suspended, tortuous length of that almost-moment you'd spent half the night convincing yourself you hadn't misread. Perhaps you had misread it after all. Perhaps you'd made a decent, well-intentioned man deeply, understandably uncomfortable, and this — the distance, the exact politeness, the careful redirection to donation boxes — was simply the kind, considerate way he'd chosen to handle your mistake without ever having to name it aloud.

By the time the afternoon's volunteers had gathered their coats and gone, dusk pressing early and blue against the windows the way it did this time of the year, you found him sitting alone in one of the front pews of the small side chapel, facing the tabernacle. Not praying, as far as you could tell. Simply sitting, spine slightly bowed, hands loose in his lap.

It occurred to you, watching him from several pews back, that you had never once actually seen him pray. Not properly, not in all the days you'd come here, though you'd certainly seen him perform every other visible function of his office with total competence. The votive candles nearest the tabernacle had mostly burned down to stubs by now, small orange points holding on against the gathering dark, and you found yourself wondering whether any of them had been lit by him.

You stood there a few moments longer than was probably polite, looking at the width of his back, the black cassock making him seem larger somehow in stillness than he ever did in motion. From this angle the collar was entirely invisible, hidden beneath the fall of black fabric at his throat, and for one strange, guilty moment you were glad of it; glad, however briefly, of the illusion that the man sitting in front of you belonged to no one and nothing beyond himself.

"Everything's finished," you said, quiet, from where you stood. "I think everyone's gone."

He didn't turn. You noticed, though, the small, almost imperceptible way his head dropped a fraction further. "So it seems," was all he offered.

You took a few steps closer and sat yourself in the pew directly behind his, close enough now that you could have reached out and touched his shoulder if you'd had any idea what you would have done with that kind of contact.

You fought, for several long seconds, the pressure building behind your teeth and the humiliating need to simply ask, to stop guessing and hunting through the day's evidence and just ask. You eventually lost.

"Did I do something wrong?"

Your own voice arrived in the same register a child might use bracing for a parent's disappointment, and you hated yourself for it even as the words left your mouth, already too late to call them back.

He turned then — properly turned, for the first time all day giving you the whole of his attention rather than some careful, rationed fraction of it — and his expression shifted through several things in quick succession: confusion first, and then something that looked, unmistakably, like guilt. Real guilt. Immediate and undisguised.

"What?" The word came out on an unsteady breath.

"Yesterday—" You laughed, quiet and humourless, more embarrassment than amusement, and didn't finish the sentence. You tried again, choosing your words more carefully this time, leaving him room to answer honestly rather than simply defensively. "I don't know. You've hardly looked at me all day."

It worked better than a direct accusation would have. You watched him understand that too; watched him recognize the door you'd left open for him to walk through without having to admit to anything more than he was ready to admit.

"I'm sorry." Not defensive. Not brushing past it. Simply, plainly sorry, and something about the sincerity of it hurt considerably worse than deflection would have.

You searched his face for something you didn't have a name for yet. "You don't have to apologize, Baelor."

Something moved across his face at the sound of his own name in your mouth, something you couldn't have fully described if pressed, though you filed the reaction away regardless, another entry in a ledger that was growing longer than you knew what to do with.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again without producing anything. His eyes dropped to his own clasped hands, and you watched, with a strange, suspended clarity, his thumb begin moving absently over the opposite knuckle, back and forth, some private and wordless working-through of a thing he couldn't say aloud. A breath came and caught somewhere in the middle of itself before he managed to release the rest of it. His shoulders sagged, incrementally, as though something he'd been carrying alone for years had finally, briefly, allowed itself to be felt as weight rather than simply as habit.

For one long, suspended moment, it genuinely felt as though he was about to tell you something enormous.

"I'm just tired," he said instead, very quietly.

You studied him for a long moment before you answered. "That isn't the whole truth, is it?"

Another silence, longer than the first. When he finally exhaled, it sounded less like an ordinary breath than something closer to surrender.

"No."

Your heart skipped, actually skipped, one single missed beat, because for the length of that one heartbeat you were entirely certain he was about to tell you. That whatever enormous thing had been sitting behind his eyes all day was finally going to be given words, right here, in the blue dark of a side chapel neither of you had bothered to light.

Instead, he smiled. Weary. Apologetic, in a way that felt like its own small, insufficient penance.

"But it's the only answer I can allow myself right now."

You let the silence sit between you after that, unwilling to push further into a door he'd just as good as told you he wasn't ready to open. You weren’t satisfied with that answer, not at all, but you understood, watching the tension still sitting in his shoulders, that pressing further tonight would cost more than either of you currently had to spend.

You said good night instead, quieter than you'd meant to, and left him there in the blue dark with whatever he wasn't yet willing to hand you, telling yourself, without much confidence, that there would be another evening for it.

There always is, he'd said, hours ago, about something else entirely.

You hoped, walking home through the cold, that it was still true and applicable to the space that seemed to separate you all of a sudden.

The Vigil Mass had let out a little after eight, though the building did not empty of people so much as slowly leak them, handshake by handshake, through the side door into a churchyard gone silver with frost.

Baelor had stood at the threshold the better part of an hour receiving the currency of Christmas Eve and had absorbed all of it with the same trained warmth he produced every December, until the last car pulled out of the gravel lot and left him alone with a stack of foil-covered dishes he had no real intention of eating and several hours yet before Midnight Mass would require anything further of him.

He did not go to the rectory. He told himself, locking the front door rather than the side, that the walk back through the nave would do him good — some vague and unexamined instinct toward penance, though he was long past pretending he still knew the difference between penance and simple avoidance.

He crossed the dark church lit only by the sanctuary lamp and the ranks of votives still guttering red beside the Nativity scene the altar guild had finished dressing that afternoon: the manger no longer empty, the way it had sat through the whole of Advent, waiting. Mrs. Reed had processed the Infant in sometime during the Vigil — she claimed the honour every year, and no one had yet found the courage to contest her for it — and laid Him at last in the straw, small and plaster-pink, catching what little light remained in the building.

Baelor did not know why the sight of it undid something in his chest tonight of all nights, when it had failed to manage the same in ten Christmases prior at this altar. He suspected he knew precisely why, and declined, as he had declined nearly everything else worth confessing this month, to look at it directly.

He took the back pew. Her pew, though he would not have said so aloud to anyone, and had in fact spent three weeks pretending the association had never lodged itself in him at all. Baelor has tried to convince himself of the fact that any pew, chosen at random, might have served just as well for a man wanting a few hours alone with a God who had gone conspicuously silent on him for longer than he currently had the patience to calculate. He, almost always, failed spectacularly.

It had been three weeks, now, since he had watched her walk out that same side door and told himself, with the conviction of a man constructing an alibi, that he had done the decent thing. A priest who could offer a woman nothing but scandal owed her, at minimum, the mercy of not letting her get any closer to a life that would cost her considerably more than it ever gave back.

He had told himself, that last afternoon in the sacristy, that the coldness had been a kindness; a controlled withdrawal engineered for her benefit rather than his own. The responsible action of a man who understood, better than she currently could, exactly how much damage he was capable of doing to a young woman who had already lost enough. He had held onto that story for the better part of a week, turning it over each night like a stone worn smooth from handling, comforted by how reasonable it sounded, how selfless.

He had built that justification brick upon carefully mortared brick, reinforced with enough real theology that it had held, more or less, clean through the third week of Advent. It took him nearly ten days to notice the story had a hole in it large enough to walk through and that the architecture he had thought as precise was clearly not holding tonight.

He braced his forearms against his knees, the cassock pulling taut across his shoulders, and made himself do what he had been circling for three weeks without ever quite landing on: the full accounting. Not the version he preached — love that costs nothing was never love, only convenience wearing love's vestments — but the version underneath it, the one he had apparently reserved for no one at all, not even himself, until an empty church at this particular hour finally cornered him into it.

He had not gone cold to protect her.

He had gone cold because for one suspended half-second three weeks ago, with her spine curved back against his own hands and thunder cracking the stained glass loose in its leading, he had wanted. Wholly, specifically, with an intensity that bore no resemblance to the manageable, textbook temptation he'd spent fifteen years training himself to weather. And the wanting had frightened him more than any sin he had ever been taught to guard against from that pulpit.

Lust, Baelor had been telling himself at the moments he felt more vulnerable, he could have managed easy enough. Lust had its own liturgy: name it, confess it, do the penance, watch it pass the way weather passes. He knew the path.

What had actually moved through him in that sacristy would not pass, though, because it was not lust. He had known that even as he fled it, his own hands leaving her waist so fast the absence carried its own small violence, and the knowing had done considerably more to terrify him than any fear of scandal ever had.

He had told himself he was protecting her. What he had actually done was protect himself and dressed the cowardice in a cassock respectable enough that even he had been fooled by it for most of a month.

A man protecting her would have found some way to remain honest with her. Distant, yes, but certainly careful and honest. He had rather manufactured a performance of indifference precise enough to convince a perceptive young woman that she had imagined two months of something. He had watched her work it out in real time, that terrible afternoon in the parish hall — watched her hunt for the offense she must have given him, watched her land, wrongly and with visible pain, on herself as the cause — and he had let her sit inside that wrong conclusion for three weeks rather than correct it, because correcting it would have required naming what was actually true, and naming it was the one thing he had not yet found the courage to survive.

How readily the heart baptizes its own sins, he thought now, recognizing the shape of it — recognizing, too, that he had thought nearly the identical sentence three weeks prior, kneeling at the side of his own bed, and had apparently learned nothing from the thought except how to think it a second time with a fresh coat of shame applied.

None of this recognition had made the following days any easier to survive. If anything, the clarity made it worse: he no longer had the comfort of believing himself noble about it, only lonely, and specifically, deliberately lonely this time, having manufactured the loneliness himself with his own two hands and then had nowhere honest left to put the blame for it.

He had not known misery like the misery of the past twenty days. Not in fifteen years of vocation, not in four years of dry, wordless prayer. He had simply not accounted for the weight of an absence that was entirely his own doing, a door he had closed with his own hand and then had to walk past, every day, in his own church, knowing exactly whose fault it was that it stayed shut.

Now it was the twenty-fourth of December, and he had not seen her since the day he'd given her nothing but a cold shoulder dressed up as tiredness.

The church clock ticked over its quarter-hour somewhere above the belfry. Soon, he thought. Midnight, the bells, the whole parish arriving half-frozen and candlelit for the one Mass of the year that still filled every pew he owned. He had perhaps two hours left of whatever this currently was — solitude, penance, cowardice examining itself in the dark — before duty required him upright and vested, singing the old proclamations over a congregation with no notion that their priest had spent three weeks failing every single thing he had ever told them love was supposed to look like.

He sat in the back pew — her pew, he admitted again to himself — facing the tabernacle, alone in every sense of the word he currently had access to. He was not praying, not exactly. He had stopped pretending, these past weeks, that sitting in front of the tabernacle and praying were reliably the same activity.

He heard the side door before he heard anything else. It had a particular three-note complaint at the old hinge before it settled that Baelor registered and did not turn. Parishioners came and went from the church at every hour on Christmas Eve; some private, unshakeable devotion drew the lonelier half of his flock back through those doors long after the Vigil crowd had gone home to their families, chasing whatever the empty nave offered that the full one hadn't. He assumed, hearing the door, that this was simply one more of them, and kept his eyes on the tabernacle, and did not turn.

Footsteps crossed the stone toward his end of the church, measured and quiet against the marble, and stopped at the pew he currently occupied. He felt, before he processed it as thought, the small shift of weight as someone settled onto the bench beside him.

He smelled her before he saw her.

Jasmine. Not perfume exactly, or not only. Something warmer than that, something that seemed to rise off her skin rather than sit on top of it the way scent from a bottle usually did, faint and green and just short of sweet, the note he had spent three weeks failing to name in memory whenever he tried and failed to recall precisely what it was about being near her that had always, since the very first handshake in the vestibule, made something in his chest go quiet in a way incense never once managed.

Baelor had never told her he loved that smell. He had never told her anything close to the truth of what moved through him when it reached him, and it reached him now, sudden and total, a full second before she rounded the end of the pew, and by the time she sat down beside him — close, in the way of someone who had chosen him rather than simply taken the nearest available seat — whatever composure an hour of brutal honesty had cost him to assemble had already abandoned him entirely.

He turned.

She was watching him already, had been, he suspected, for the length of those footsteps, and the smile she offered did not come anywhere near her eyes. It sat crooked at one corner instead, apologetic and uncertain in a way that made his chest contract sharply enough that he nearly reached for her before he'd decided to do anything of the kind.

He knew that smile. It was an expression he recognized immediately because he'd been wearing some close cousin of it himself for nearly three weeks.

He said nothing. He had spent twenty days rehearsing, in odd, unguarded moments, some version of what he might say if he ever got to see her again, and found now, faced with the actual reality of her sitting an arm's length away, that every rehearsed line had evaporated completely, leaving him with nothing but the plain, humiliating fact of having hurt her and no adequate words assembled anywhere in him to address it.

They simply existed there together for a while, in a silence that should have been unbearable and somehow wasn't. He could feel the warmth of her radiating against the side of his cassock where her shoulder nearly, not quite, met his. A sweet, ordinary heat that stood in stark and almost startling contrast to the last time they'd been this close, weeks ago, with thunder cracking overhead and his own hands still burning at her waist. There was nothing carnal in it now, or nothing only carnal. It read instead as something closer to relief given a temperature, comfort with a pulse behind it.

Three weeks ago, in this same building, a comparable warmth and a comparable proximity had ended with his own hand around his own cock and a confession he could not bring himself to make even in the dark, even to God directly. What moved through him now bore almost no resemblance to that night's hunger. It was not smaller. If anything it occupied more room in him, sat heavier. It simply was not, tonight, primarily a thing his body wanted. It was something considerably more dangerous.

He looked at the plain wooden cross above the altar and let himself think, for the first time without immediately flinching from the thought, that he still wanted her. He thought, with a clarity that would have frightened him a month ago and now simply arrived, quiet and total, that he could have gone to his knees right there on the cold marble and prayed at the altar of her. He could ask, again and again, for an absolution only she was positioned to grant him; plead, in whatever language a man used for a thing this far past reasonable, that she never left again the way these twenty days had made him believe she might.

He did none of it. He sat, frozen by the sheer size of what he'd just allowed himself to think and let the silence continue instead.

"I hope there weren't too many entitled women today," she said finally, her voice landing somewhere between uncertain and hopeful, testing the ground before committing her full weight to it.

He huffed something close to a laugh and turned to look at her properly. "Let's just say I won't need to cook for myself for at least a week." The joke came easier than he'd expected, some old, grateful muscle memory taking over where his more careful faculties had failed him entirely. "I could see myself through to Epiphany on goodwill alone."

She smiled at that — a real smile, however small, climbing further up her face than the one she'd walked in with — and he could have sworn, absurdly, that his own heart actually moved in his chest at the sight of it, some physical lurch he had no theological vocabulary adequate to explain.

They held each other's eyes a moment longer than the joke strictly required, and the silence that followed felt entirely unlike the one that had come before it — warmer, though not yet safe.

"I actually wasn't sure about coming." Her eyes stayed on her own hands, folded in her lap. "After the other day, I thought — I don't know. I didn't want to be the sort of person who doesn't take a hint. I thought that maybe I needed to give you some space. In case I was becoming a bit too much."

"Don't be silly." The answer left him faster than he'd intended, almost tripping over itself in its hurry to correct her. "It's me who owes you an apology. My behaviour that day was—" he searched for a word that wouldn't require explaining the whole of what actually lay beneath it and settled for an inadequate one. "Poor. It was poor, and it was unfair to you, and I am sorry for it."

She nodded, faint, more to herself than to him, and something in the set of her shoulders told him she wasn't finished. "You had me believing I was unwanted here." Her voice cracked on the last word, just slightly, and he felt the crack land somewhere in his own chest like a physical blow. "Which is stupid, I know — you don't owe me anything, you never did — but I'd started thinking of this place as somewhere that was actually mine. Somewhere I got to just exist, without anyone needing managing from me, for once. And then you—"

She didn't finish it. She didn't have to. He watched the first tear break loose and travel the length of her cheek before either of them had acknowledged what was happening, and something in his own chest gave way at the sight of it more completely than three weeks of solitary, brutal honesty had managed on its own.

He turned fully toward her then, his whole body pivoting on the pew, and his hands found hers where they sat clenched in her lap, covering them before he'd consciously decided to. Her warmth beneath his palms did something complicated and inconvenient to the rest of him, some low, insistent pull he chose, deliberately, to ignore in favour of the considerably more urgent thing happening in front of him.

"You will always have a place here." He got the words out before she could continue, though it turned out not to matter, because she spoke straight over him anyway, the sentence already building too much momentum to be stopped by anything as small as his interruption. "That was never in question. It will never be in question."

"I thought that I understood you." Her breath was coming faster now, catching unevenly between words. "Your loneliness — that sadness you keep locked up behind everything else, that feeling like you have to carry the whole weight of everyone alone — I thought I understood that, in you, because I recognized it. And I thought you understood me too, and I — I—"

Her breathing had gone properly ragged now, words fracturing apart faster than she could assemble them, and he stopped her the only way he could think to in the moment: lifting both hands from hers to her face instead, thumbs coming to rest against the wet tracks already cutting down her cheeks.

Her name left his lips — the only solid thing he had left to offer her, thrown out as deliberately as a lifeline to a drowning woman — and it worked exactly as he'd hoped. Her eyes found his again, properly, holding there instead of skittering away.

"I understand you," he said, quiet and entirely certain, the first fully honest sentence he'd managed to give anyone in longer than he wanted to calculate. "And you understand me. And I am so ashamed — so genuinely ashamed — of having caused you even a fraction of this pain. I—"

He didn't finish. She closed the remaining distance between them in a single motion, the whole of her colliding into his chest, her face burying itself in the black fabric over his heart, and whatever he'd been about to say dissolved, unimportant now, into the more urgent business of simply holding her.

He wondered, distantly, whether she could feel how hard his heart was currently working against her ear, pressed as she was directly over it. He was fairly certain she could, because Baelor didn’t bother trying to still it.

His arms came around her without any further input required from the rest of him, holding her shaking frame together while her sobs worked themselves out against the fabric already growing damp beneath her face, and he stayed exactly like that — steady, present, entirely hers for as long as she needed him to be — for considerably longer than he bothered counting.

Her sobs thinned eventually, then stopped, and she drew back from him at her own pace, wiping at her face with the back of one hand in a gesture that struck him as almost childlike in its simplicity. "Sorry," she managed, on a breath still not quite steady.

"Don't be. Please." He shook his head, meaning it entirely.

She nodded, more to herself than to him, some private decision apparently being finalized. "How about we just — forget this happened. All of it." Her eyes found his again, searching. "Stop apologizing to each other and go back to where we left off. I promise I'll still believe you're a cool priest."

The laugh that pulled out of him was real, surprised out of him despite everything the evening had already asked of him. "I'm holding you to that." His hand found the back of her neck, gentle, tilting her face back up to his when it had started to drop. "I’ll remove you from wreath-duty until next year."

"What?"

"The wreath. You're off the hook until next Advent."

She laughed at that too — a real laugh this time, breaking through whatever was left of the tears — and the sound of it did something to the whole of him that fifteen years of careful discipline had absolutely no defence prepared against.

He turned back toward the altar eventually, leaning into the worn wood of the pew behind him, and she shifted beside him a moment later, settling her weight against his side with an ease that suggested she'd stopped questioning whether she was allowed to. His arm found its way around her shoulders without any real deliberation on his part, and her head came to rest in the crook of it, cheek against the side of his chest, close enough that every breath she took registered against him.

He breathed her in. Jasmine, warm and close and entirely real this time, no phantom trace left to chase down a stranger's collar or a shop aisle.

He fucking loved jasmine.

A.N.: sooooo, what do we think? i warned it would be a slow burn, but they're getting there... i will work on the next parts along the weeks, they will be shorter (or at least i'll try) because proofreading this behemoth was a workout in itself lol. as always, comments and feedback is very much appreciated. i love you all <3

TAGLIST: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @princessphilly @shyravenns @loveslide @dulcebloodhnd @caitlynluna @sacha1slytherin @alternarabuda @jjubilee-fluff @a-sunflower-in-bloom @heieufh @karakatitsa-sonya @eleventhboi @celestialsonglines @xglittergoddess @warpedlilium @themoonseroticoracle @hrh007 @fraaiefreule91 @hannisreading @samthegreenapologist @dont-try-pesticide @thorins-queen-of-erebor @outpostsworld @sotragedynut @nicoall12 @escapic-mezzanine @m0th-g0th @noble-17 @bbjkfnmc @sol-in-wonderland @sem-ra @mitth-eli-vanto @justmasblack @coff33mug

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[sedonasummer]

ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ | ᴏʀᴍᴜɴᴅ ʜɪɢʜᴛᴏᴡᴇʀ

─ pairing: Ormund Hightower x wife!reader ─ summary: you and your husband engage in some intense roleplay. ─ content: 18+ MDNI | shameless, filthy, nasty smut | no plot | p in v | degradation | rough sex | illusions of sex work | fluff at the end i guess | no character description ─ a/n: i cannot believe this is nearly 6k words… just horny on main fr. as always, thank you for reading. 🖤

The petitions had continued endlessly. Each one convinced their particular trouble outweighed the last. Ormund had sat through them all: a dispute over a millstream, a merchant guild demanding lower tariffs, a minor lordling whose son had impregnated a farmer's daughter and wanted the matter handled quietly. Governance. The word itself was leaden on his tongue.

He sank lower in the copper tub, letting the scalding water close over his chest, his shoulders, until it lapped at the hard line of his jaw. Steam curled from the surface in slow ribbons, fogging the stone walls, beading on the cool stones of the floor beyond the tub's rim. The heat found the knots between his shoulder blades and pressed into them, not quite enough, never quite enough. He let his head tip back against the rim and closed his eyes.

Behind the heavy linen curtain that divided the bathing space from the rest of the chamber, voices murmured. Yours, warm, threaded with amusement, and the lighter, quicker tones of two of your maids. A burst of laughter, hastily smothered. The rustle of fabric. More whispering. He caught the edge of a word that might have been shameless and another that sounded like he won't. He did not trouble himself with it. Whatever plot they hatched behind that curtain, it was not his concern. His concern, at this moment, was the slow unclenching of his jaw and the heat working through the ache in his back.

Then the chamber door clicked shut. The maids' footsteps retreated across the outer stone corridor, their giggling fading to nothing. Quiet settled over the room like a lid pressing down, save for the soft pad of your feet moving about, and the whisper of something being drawn from a hook.

"Come here," he called. His voice carried the rough, low grain of exhaustion. He shifted in the tub, water sloshing gently against the sides. "Let me gaze upon you before you sleep."

A pause. Then the curtain parted.

Ormund's mouth opened. No sound came.

You stood in the gap of parted linen, backlit by the candles on the far side of the room, and every detail of you hit him in sequence, each one landing harder than the last. The slip you wore, if it could be called that, was the scantest, most indecent scrap of silk he had ever laid eyes on. Sheer where it ought to have been solid, the fabric clung to your body like water, tracing the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your breasts, the small peaks of your nipples pressing against the gossamer as though the material simply was not there. It ended high on your thighs, high enough that the bare skin below the hem gleamed in the candlelight. Two threads of ribbon held the whole construction up over your shoulders, knotted at the front, thin as twine. A single breath would undo them. Your waist-length hair fell in heavy curls around your shoulders, and your eyes, warm, bright with mischief, held his.

He recovered enough to find his voice. "Come closer."

You crossed to him without hurry, settling on the edge of the tub, your hip pressing against the rim, and laid your hand against the side of his face. Your palm was warm and soft. He leaned into it. The stubble along his jaw rasped against your skin.

"I have missed you," he said.

You bent and kissed him, lingering there, your mouth moving against his with a gentleness that had no urgency in it.

"I have missed you more."

He reached out, his wet hand dripping, and caught the delicate hem of your slip between thumb and forefinger. He held it, examining it as though he did not understand what he was looking at. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth; the slow, crooked expression that surfaced only when something genuinely amused him.

"Why, I wonder, is your clothing budget so high, when it does not appear you wear any clothes?"

"Ormund." You rolled your eyes. "This is for you."

"Oh?"

"It's meant to excite a husband's loins." You said it plainly. "All the ladies have garments such as this."

He laughed. The sound came from somewhere deep in his chest, unused all day, and it loosened something in him. "When, precisely, did you acquire this?"

"Does it please you?"

He drew back to look at you again. The shift in angle let the candlelight catch the silk differently. The dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the shadow between your thighs, all lay bare to him. His eyes moved over you slowly, cataloguing.

"You look as if you'd be at home at a pleasure house."

You gasped. Your hand snatched from his face, and you drew upright, mouth parting in affront.

He caught your hand before it could leave him entirely. His fingers closed around your wrist, firm, not rough, and he drew your knuckles to his mouth. His lips pressed against them, warm and damp from the bathwater, and he held them there a moment before speaking.

"I do not mean it unkindly," he said against your skin. "Only that you look as though you were made to confuse good men and lead them to ruin."

You held his gaze. The affront in your face cracked, crumbled, gave way to something else.

"Would you spend your coin on me?"

"I would give all the gold in my treasury," he said, his voice dropping, "for a night with you."

Something shifted in your smile. It turned sly, knowing, the warm playfulness draining from it only to be replaced by something more calculated. The two of you were no strangers to bedroom games, and though this had not initially been your intention, you saw no reason to change course.

You knelt beside the tub. The stone was cold against your bare knees, and the contrast with the heat rising from the water prickled along your skin. You folded your hands in your lap, straightened your back, and let your voice drop into something soft, submissive, and wicked.

"I have never seen you here before, my lord."

He caught on at once. The exhaustion in his face rearranged itself, and when he looked at you, the softness of a husband's gaze was gone, replaced by something cooler, more assessing; the gaze of a man who had paid for a service and intended to inspect the goods.

"You remember every man who passes through these doors?"

"No, but I would remember a man as handsome as you."

"I'm not here for flattery." He leaned back against the copper rim, and the water sluiced off his shoulders, running down the hard planes of his chest, catching the candlelight. He let you look. The muscles of his abdomen ridged beneath the water's surface, and the hair on his chest, darkened by the wet, lay flat against his skin. His arms rested along the edges of the tub.

"Why are you here, my lord?" You let your gaze trace the line of his arm where it rested on the tub's rim. "Does your wife not satisfy you as a husband deserves?"

His mouth curved. The stubble along his jaw caught the light. "My lady wife pleases me greatly."

"Then why," one finger extending to trace the thick vein that ran along his forearm, "would a contented man spend his coin on a woman such as me?"

Your fingertip moved slowly. The vein stood out against his skin and you followed it from the crease of his elbow to the ridge of bone at his wrist. His hand twitched. He did not pull away.

"Do you make your living sending men back to their wives?" he asked.

"I'm only curious, my lord." You could feel his pulse beating steady and strong beneath the thin skin.

He leaned toward you. The water shifted around him, lapping at the copper sides, the space between you closed until you could feel the heat coming off his skin, see the fine details of his face, the specks of pale green caught in the blue of his irises, visible only at this distance, like chips of sea-glass in deep water.

"Because my lady wife is a delicate creature. Gently born, gently bred." His eyes moved over you, taking in the way your kneeling position pressed your thighs together and made the hem ride up. "I would never do to her the things I'm going to do to you."

Something flickered across your face. Heat, delight, the sharp thrill of a challenge accepted. Your lips parted, your hand still resting on his wrist.

"Very well, my lord," Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried in the humid air, clear and steady. "Use me as you see fit."

Ormund gave you a crooked grin. The kind that crinkled the corner of one eye and bared the edge of his teeth. He planted one hand on the copper rim of the tub and carefully stood, water sluicing off him in sheets, running down the hard ridges of his stomach and the thick muscles of his thighs. His body was a map of old violence: a pale ridge across his ribs where a blade had caught him years ago, a raised mark along one shoulder, the silvery seam of an old stitch-job curling around his left forearm. Light brown hair dusted his chest, trailing down the center of his abdomen in a thin line that thickened below his navel. His cock hung heavy between his legs, already half-swollen, and as he stepped over the rim of the tub without reaching for a towel, water cascaded onto the stone floor in a wide splash that went utterly ignored.

He straightened to his full height and looked down at you, still dripping, still grinning. "Stop gaping and come here."

You took a step back. His grin widened.

"Don't be shy now," he purred, closing the distance. His hand closed around your wrist. Not rough, not gentle, just certain, and he drew you forward until your body met his. The wet heat of his skin soaked instantly through the sheer silk of your slip, plastering the fabric to your stomach, your breasts. "Touch me."

You raised your hands. Your fingers found the swell of his chest first, palms flat against the dense muscle as you trailed your hands down. You felt his abdomen tighten beneath your touch in a reflexive clench, tracing the ridges of his stomach, fingernails grazing through the trail of hair below his navel. One hand traced the hard cut of muscle at his hip, that sharp V-line that angled downward like an arrowhead pointing the way, and his cock twitched; thick and heavy and hard now, lifting away from his thigh. You looked up at him and found his gaze already on you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown so wide the blue had thinned to a narrow ring; the heat in them sent a warmth racing across your skin, prickling down your neck, between your breasts, pooling low in your belly. You looked back down.

He took your hand. Guided it. Wrapped your fingers around the shaft of him; hot, impossibly thick, the skin velvet-soft over iron hardness, and held you there. "There you go." He rolled his hips, a slow, controlled thrust into your grip, and the head of his cock pushed through the circle of your fist, slick with bathwater. You felt him pulse in your hand, a heartbeat made flesh.

"My lord, you cannot possibly mean to—"

Ormund's grin sharpened. A callback to your wedding night when you had teased him with that very phrase. "I assure you, I mean to give you all of it."

You stroked him again, slow, deliberate, your thumb dragging across the sensitive head. He hissed through his teeth, eyelids fluttering shut for one unguarded second. When his eyes opened again, the playfulness had burned away. What remained was something harder, hungrier, the look of a man done waiting.

"Get on the bed. Spread your legs."

You turned and walked. The stone floor was cold beneath your bare feet, water from his body marking a trail behind him as you crossed from the bathing area into the space where your bed stood. You could hear him behind you. Not rushing. He stalked after you the way a predator tracked something wounded, not running, because running implied the prey might escape, and you were going nowhere.

You reached the bed, grabbed the carved footboard, and scrambled up onto the mattress on your hands and knees, linens bunching under your knees. Then a large hand locked around your ankle. Iron grip. He yanked, and you slid backward across the sheets with a gasp, the silk of your slip riding up your thighs, your legs dangling off the edge of the bed. You rolled over. He stood between your knees, looking down at you.

"Take that off. I want to see what I'm paying for."

Your fingers trembled. You reached up to the thin straps of the slip, hooked them with your index fingers, and slid them down your shoulders. The fabric peeled away from your skin with the dampness of his bathwater still clinging to it, and the material pooled at your waist, baring your breasts to the cool air. Your nipples tightened instantly; partly the chill, mostly him. You shifted your hips, lifting yourself, and pulled the garment down your legs, past your knees, off entirely, letting it drop to the floor in a wet heap of silk. You lay back against the linens, hair fanning out around you in a wild dark halo, and looked up at him through the candlelit haze.

"Am I to your liking, my lord?"

"Yes," he said. "Very much."

He climbed onto the bed and moved over you, not straddling yet, just close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his still-damp skin, close enough that the head of his cock brushed your thigh and left a wet smear. He braced himself on one arm above you and looked down, the corner of his mouth curled up.

"Do you touch yourself?"

The question hit you like a slap. Heat flooded your face, your neck, your chest, blooming down to your sternum. "I beg your pardon?!"

He chuckled. Low, dark, the sound rolling from deep in his chest. "Do not take that tone with me; you are not my wife."His voice dropped a register, quiet and hard, the voice he used when issuing commands. "Answer the question."

You swallowed. "Y-yes, my lord."

He raised an eyebrow. The interest in his eyes sharpened to a point, the blue nearly swallowed by black. "Show me."

You lay back against the linens. Your legs fell open slowly, first one knee tilting, then the other, your thighs parting in increments, your breath coming shallow and uneven. You had never done this before him. Your hands moved down your body, fingertips tracing the plane of your stomach, the curve of your hip, dipping lower. You found your core with two fingers and ran them down the length of your slit, feeling the shape of yourself, the softness of the outer folds and the slick heat between them. You drew your fingers back upward, circling your clit with the pad of your middle finger, and a breath escaped you at the contact, your stomach tensing.

You brought your fingers back down. Found your entrance. Found yourself wet, dripping, honestly, the arousal thick and slippery on your fingers. You pushed one finger inside, and a moan spilled out, soft and unguarded, as you began to move it slowly in and out, feeling the walls clench around the intrusion. You looked up.

Ormund was flushed; his hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking himself in long, slow pulls, his eyes locked on what you were doing between your legs. His head was flushed, dark, weeping a steady thread of clear fluid that his thumb smeared across the crown with each pass. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle in his cheek jumped.

"That's it," he said. His voice was shaky. Cracked at the edges. "Add another."

You obeyed. Pushed a second finger in alongside the first, and the stretch made you gasp, your head tipping back against the linens. You picked up speed. Your fingers curled inside yourself, stroking the spongy front wall of your cunt, and the sounds you were making- soft, hitching moans, breathless little gasps- filled the chamber, mixing with the wet noise of your fingers working in and out of you. Your hips rolled against your own hand.

Ormund's breathing was ragged. "It's not enough, is it."

You shook your head. It wasn't. Your fingers were slim and delicate and could not reach the places inside you that ached to be filled. Could not stretch you the way you needed, could not pound into you with the weight and force that turned your bones to water. You needed his thick fingers, his thick cock, the mass of him bearing down on you to truly stretch you the way you liked.

"Use your words."

"No, my lord, I—" You pulled your fingers free, slick and glistening, and before you could say another word, he caught your wrist. Lifted your hand. Brought it to his face, inhaling deeply, his nose nearly touching your wet fingers. The sound he made was animal, a low groan in his chest. Then he took your fingers into his mouth. His tongue swept between them, lapping at the taste of you, curling around each digit, sucking the slick from your skin with a wet, obscene sound that made your thighs clench together. You gasped. Your free hand gripped the sheets.

He released your fingers with a slick pop and crawled over you. His large body caged you in. Arms on either side of your head, knees spreading your thighs wider, his cock hanging heavy and hot between you, the shaft dragging across your stomach as he settled his weight above you. The sheer size of him blotted out the candlelight. His shadow swallowed you.

He leaned down, his mouth beside your ear, his breath hot and damp against your temple. "I hope you are prepared, because I will not be gentle with you."

A jolt of electricity ran through you, starting at the base of your skull and crackling down your spine, through your belly, straight to your cunt. Wetness pooled between your legs, a fresh surge of slick that you felt drip onto the sheets. The thought of him using your body, taking what he wanted, made your thighs tremble. Your breath came in short, shallow pants.

"My body is yours, my lord."

He braced himself on one hand, and with the other he reached between you. You felt his fingers wrap around the shaft of his cock, felt the broad head of him drag through your silky folds, through the wetness, the heat, and the friction of it; even that light contact made your hips buck. You placed one hand on his shoulder, gripping the hard cap of muscle, and the other on his bicep, feeling the cords of muscle flex beneath your palm.

He pushed into you. The full length of him drove into you in a single, brutal thrust, and you cried out, a raw, ragged sound torn from somewhere deep in your chest. You had not prepared enough, your fingers too slender, too few, for the girth of him forcing you open around his cock. You felt every inch. The sting was sharp and bright, and you loved it; loved the ache of it.

He pressed his weight onto you. His strong arms gripped you tight, pulling you against him as he sank even deeper, and you clawed at his back, fingernails raking down the sweat-damp skin, leaving red lines across his shoulder blades. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, and you felt him throbbing. A pulse that matched the hammering of your own heart. His jaw was clenched, his breath coming in short, harsh bursts through his nose. He was adjusting to the feel of you.

"You're so tight for a whore," he said through gritted teeth, and the words vibrated against your throat.

You managed to find your voice. It came out breathless. "My mistress reserves me for only the most special clients."

He leaned back onto his knees, his cock still buried inside you to the root. The new angle shifted him against your front wall, and you bit your lip. "Is that so?" he asked, one eyebrow arched.

You rolled your hips. The friction dragged a sound from both of you simultaneously. "Yes," your voice had gone half-wrecked already, trembling at the edges. "Rich men usually have small cocks."

He tilted his head. His eyes narrowed. The blue had vanished entirely; only black remained, bottomless and bright with something dangerous. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face, the kind that preceded ruin.

"I am going to enjoy this very much."

He pulled out. The drag of him was slow; you felt every ridge, every vein of his cock as it withdrew. The suction of your cunt gripping him, trying to hold him in, until only the head remained inside, the thick crown stretching your entrance. Then he slammed back in. One brutal, full-length thrust that drove the air from your lungs and punched a cry out of your throat that echoed off the stone walls.

He did it again. Pulled out to the tip. Drove back in. You felt him carving his way into you, reshaping you around him, the drag of every vein against your swollen walls as he withdrew only to plunge back in, each thrust so deep it felt as though he were reaching your throat. The wet, obscene sound of skin meeting skin filled the chamber; squelch, slap, squelch, the bed frame groaning beneath you, linens bunching and twisting under your back.

You bit your lip. Pressed your mouth shut, trying to muffle the sounds climbing out of your throat. He noticed.

"No. I pay for those sounds." His voice was rough. "Let me hear them."

He delivered another harsh thrust; deeper, harder, his hips cracking against yours, and the moan that ripped out of you was loud, uncontrolled, bouncing off the walls. Your back arched off the bed.

He picked up his pace. Thrust after thrust of him using your body for his pleasure, his hips driving forward in a relentless, battering rhythm that shoved you up the bed until your headboard rattled with each impact. You could hear yourself; wet, desperate, the sounds you were making beyond your control, moans and gasps and broken syllables that might have been his name.

"Harder," you begged, the word coming out a sob of want.

His hand found your throat. His fingers wrapped around the front of your neck; not squeezing the airway, but pressing, claiming. The weight of his palm against your pulse. Both your hands flew to his wrist, wrapping around the bone, just holding on. He slammed into you harder. Each thrust driving the breath from you, the sound from you, the thoughts from you.

He had never handled you like this. Never spoken to you this way. Each filthy word that dropped from his mouth, each degradation, each dark praise, traveled straight to your cunt like a physical touch, making you clench and drip around him.

"You dirty whore," he growled, his thumb pressed against the side of your neck, feeling your pulse hammer. "Getting off like this. Wanting to be fucked like this."

You could only moan. Heat overwhelmed heat. Your skin was burning where his body met yours. The coil of pleasure wound tight in your belly, a spring being compressed to its limit. You felt the hair at the base of his cock grinding against your clit with every thrust, the friction sending sparks up your spine, and it was so much, too much, the sensation layering and building until you could barely breathe—

Your orgasm hit you. Hard. Your whole body seized, clenching in violent, rhythmic spasms around his cock, your back arching off the bed, your nails digging into the thick muscle of his back hard enough to leave crescents. You came with a sound that was half-scream, half-sob, your thighs clamping around his hips, body shaking. He groaned above you, a deep, guttural sound, and you felt his rhythm falter for one stroke as your spasming cunt milked him.

He continued fucking into you through your orgasm. Each thrust prolonged the waves crashing through you, drawing them out, stretching the pleasure into something almost unbearable. You whimpered, oversensitive, your hands falling away from his back to grip the sheets, twisting the linen in fists. He rode you through the aftershocks, his pace still brutal, still relentless, until the pleasure edged toward pain.

Then he released your throat and stilled his hips. You blinked up at him, dazed, as he pulled out of you. The sudden emptiness was shocking. You were gaped open, fucked loose and swollen, slick with your own arousal, clenching around nothing. You opened your mouth to speak. He flipped you over. One hand on your hip, rolling you bodily across the rumpled sheets, and you found yourself on weak hands and weaker knees. Ormund's hands gripped your hips. The broad head of his cock pressed against your entrance, still slick with your orgasm, and you felt him lean over you, his chest against your back, his mouth near your ear.

"My turn," he said.

He pushed in, slower than before but still splitting you open, filling you so completely that there was no room for anything else. No air, no thought, just the overwhelming reality of being fucked.

He began to pound into you like an animal, snapping his hips forward with enough force to rock the heavy bed frame against the stone wall.

"Take it," he snarled, his voice unrecognizable.

He released one side only to snatch both of your wrists, yanking them behind your back, pinning them there, using the leverage to force your upper body down into the mattress. Your face was pressed against the linens, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. The bed creaked and groaned under the assault, the wooden frame sounding as if it might splinter at any moment.

Your arms were useless, trapped in his grip, legs trembling violently, your muscles burning from the strain of maintaining the position on your hands and knees. Slowly, your knees gave out. Ormund let your wrists go as you collapsed, allowing you to fall flat against the mattress. He followed you down, covering your body with his while he continued to thrust into your prone form.

The angle change hit you deeper, rubbing against spots inside you that made your vision white out. He slowed his pace just fractionally, grinding into you instead of thrusting, torturing you with the depth.

"Are you going to peak again?" he rasped against your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

You let out a groan and nodded your face against the sheets. "Already?" he mocked, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "What kind of greedy whore finds her pleasure twice before a customer achieves his once?"

You could only babble, incoherent pleas falling from your lips, your mind shattered by the relentless stimulation. "Please... Ormund... I can't..."

He reached around your hip, his fingers finding your swollen, sensitive clit. He rubbed it roughly, in tight, fast circles, matching the tempo of his hips. You screamed his name as the second orgasm tore through you.

"Fuck!" Ormund roared.

He slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and held himself there as his body seized, spilling inside you, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his seed. He groaned low in his throat, his eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in his body locked in a rictus of pleasure.

Then he pulled out slowly. The movement dragged a whimper from your lips. He shifted back, kneeling between your legs, and watched with fascination as his cum began to leak out of you. It was a thick, white trickle, running slowly down your thighs, mingling with the slick evidence of your own arousal. You looked thoroughly fucked, used, ruined in the best possible way.

Ormund threw his head back, his skin glistening with sweat in the dim light. "Fuck," he breathed, the word a prayer.

The energy in the room began to settle, giving way to a heavy, sated exhaustion. He collapsed onto the bed beside you, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling as his heart rate slowly returned to normal.

After a moment, he turned onto his side. He reached out with a gentle hand, wiping the sweat-soaked baby hairs from your forehead and brow. His touch was tender now, a stark contrast to the moments before. You opened your eyes to look at him. They were glassy, unfocused, but filled with a deep, lingering warmth.

"Are you alright?" he asked. The game was over. The role shed, leaving only your doting husband.

You nodded, unable to find your voice just yet.

"I have never..." He started, then stopped, shaking his head as if unable to articulate the magnitude of what had just passed between you. He groaned as he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His body ached in the most satisfying way.

You continued to just lay there on your stomach, thinking of what had passed. Your mind was a haze of pleasure, the boundaries between the fantasy and reality blurring.

Ormund stood and walked across the room, his movements slow and heavy. He returned a moment later with a warm, damp cloth. The first touch of it between your legs made you gasp. You were sensitive, swollen from the rough handling, and even the gentle pressure was intense.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Relax."

He wiped you so gently, cleaning away the mess of your coupling with a care that belied his earlier ferocity, taking his time, ensuring he was thorough. When he was done, he discarded the cloth onto the floor and pulled back the heavy duvet, gathering you into his arms as if you weighed nothing. You curled into his chest, burying your face in his neck.

"You were so perfect," he whispered into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You shifted, propping yourself up slightly on his chest to look at him. A shadow of doubt crossed your features, a vulnerability that hadn't been there during the game.

"Is that what you need to be happy?" you asked softly. "Have you been unsatisfied before in our marriage bed?"

Ormund looked at you, blue eyes serious. He reached up to stroke your cheek, his thumb brushing over your soft skin.

"I am very happy. More than I deserve."

He leaned in to kiss you, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of salt and lingering desire. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

"If I made you feel as though— I am sorry."

You kissed him again, laying your head back on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. The fear dissolved, replaced by a warm glow of security. You traced idle patterns on his chest, your mind drifting back to the thrill of the act.

"Next time," you murmured sleepily. "I am in control."

Ormund ran his hand down your back, soothing you. "Oh, really?" You could hear the smile in his voice. "What would you like to try?"

You smiled against his skin, a mischievous glint returning to your eyes. "Perhaps I can be a princess, and you can be a dark knight holding me for ransom."

Ormund laughed out loud, a deep sound that startled the quiet room. "You're going to fuck your way to freedom?" You smacked his chest, feigning outrage. "I will not tell you my desires if you are going to laugh!"

He caught your hand, interlacing your fingers, rolling you both over, shifting his weight so he was looking down at you. The playfulness in his expression softened into something warmer and infinitely devoted.

"I will be anything you want me to be," he said, his gaze holding yours captive. "Servant, king, beggar. Whatever you wish."

[valarrmorghvlis]

Your Ire, His Distress (drabble)

Valarr Targaryen x betrothed!Reader (no physical description, no specific house mentioned, pick one for yourselves:))

Summary: set in The Marriage Contract AU. The wedding date approaches with terrifying speed, and Valarr takes it upon himself to compensate for his lack of experience by... studying. As a drawback, he spends an increasing amount of his free time holed up in his chambers instead of with you, which starts drawing your suspicions, and in tow, your pettiness.

Tags/tropes: inexperienced couple, petty!reader, Valarr grovels, misunderstanding, slightest angst, make-up kiss, lead-up to the wedding night😏

Rating: Teen and up audiences

My Masterlist

WC: 4,3k words

-

After the betrothal was settled and the wedding preparations had begun, Valarr had initially thought that everything that followed would be smooth sailing. Except it wasn’t.

One issue that plagued him was the onslaught of council meetings and writing correspondances, which his father, the dear Lord Hand, had set upon him to prepare for his impending duties as his heir. The king was old, and had been old for quite some time, with his father having taken over the duties of ruling the realm in the past few years. Baelor had decided that his son should be better mentally prepared for his future position as Hand than he had been all these years ago, and would therefore sit in meetings and overtake tasks of handling minor correspondances. 

This left him scarcely any time to spend with you privately, which irked him endlessly. He had waited nigh on a decade to see you again, and that he had. But to have you back again, his sun and stars, the Maiden herself walking the earth, and not be able to spend every waking moment with you, was bothersome to say the least. The source of most of the additional burdens to the crown lied in the Riverlands and Dornish Marches, where minor revolts were rising periodically, as a persistent remnant of the Blackfyre rebellion. 

His only hope was that once you were wed, he’d be granted a few months’ leave to relish the newlywed period away from the capital, perhaps even journey to Essos for a much needed sabbatical. Either that, or the stubborn rebels would finally be exterminated once and for all, relieving the council of at least half its workload. 

The other, more pressing issue was another matter altogether. Listening to Daeron and Aerion boast their misadventures in brothels and taverns, Valarr had become dismally, hopelessly aware of his lack of experience. His inexperience stemmed from the duties imposed upon him from a young age, the sense of righteousness and virtue hammered into his head since he was but a child, and the fact that he'd been pining over his childhood companion, and his now betrothed. 

His rigid sense of duty and devotion meant that he had no intentions of becoming an inadequate husband, much less one who failed to satisfy his wife in any way. He was only a man, and the desire to please and serve his future wife had been blooming in his stomach ever since the betrothal had been set in stone. Then the first kiss you shared under the heart tree had truly awakened something in him; a carnal, red-hot desire for more. The problem was, he hadn't a sliver of an idea how he would provide you with all you deserved in that department.

So, with the wedding date closing in with terrifying speed, he had devised a plan with which he would overcome this plight.

And this was how he ended up in the restricted section of the castle’s library at the hour of ghosts, having abused his power as a crown prince to obtain the keys to the gate guarding the section, firmly locked with a sizable pad. As he fought to keep his eyes open, he drifted through the aisles, spotting bound books and scrolls on quite questionable topics, and dismissing them. Briefly, he wondered why in the seven hells the Keep's library kept track of every possible topic known to man, including A Study on Therapeutic Properties of Firewyrm Sputum: a Review of Existing Literature and an Analysis on the Possible Modern Uses of the Material by Grand Maester Morgyle. He came to a halt when he arrived at the subsection which he’d been looking for: aisles after aisles of literature deemed too obscene and indecent for the castle’s oh-so-puritan inhabitants. 

He walked through the aisles and searched through the tomes with the determination of a man on a mission, with only his lantern to light the way. There, he tracked down the volumes he’d been searching for: manuscripts on the way of seven sighs and the sixteen seats of pleasure - how the Lysene pillow houses would train their bedslaves - collections on Lysene poetry written by the priestesses who worship the goddess of love, and a thick, leather bound book named “Arts of the female pleasure” with the love goddess of Lys depicted upon its cover. If Valarr was to learn, he was going to learn from the very masters of the art. 

Satisfied with his bounty, he proceeded to exit the library, not forgetting to lock the gate to the restricted area behind him, and cooped up in his quarters with his newly acquired resources. Judging by the thickness of the manuscript and the leather-bound book, he would need most of his free time before the wedding to get through the material with enough time to spare, just in case he'd need to revisit some topics. He lit the candles in his chamber, then sat himself down at his writing desk with the Lyseni manuscript. It was going to be a long night.

-

You were disgruntled of late. Your dear betrothed, the crown prince of the realm, had been quite distant in the past few weeks. He seemed to be “occupied” with only gods knew what, even though you knew for a fact that there were no council meetings taking part in that specific time, and when you did grasp a chance to see him, his eyes were sunken in from lack of sleep. Every time you’d ask him which matters were consuming him so, he’d only mumble about council and correspondence duties. Lies. Egregious lies these were. You narrowed your eyes at the memory, and aggressively stabbed a honeyed fig with your dessert fork.

On the other side of the table in your family’s solar sat your mother, watching you with a concerned look in her eyes at your seemingly unprovoked assault upon the innocent sweet treats.

“Darling, which crime have these figs committed for you to punish them so?” Your mother scrunched her eyebrows in worry.

“They might as well be vile traitors, mother. Abhorrent liars. Foul villains.” You hissed.

“I doubt the figs are capable of being as such; might you be speaking of a certain… prince? I have noticed you two are not spending as much time with another as of late.” She carefully breached the topic.

“Well, I would spend some time with him, if he was not currently avoiding me in false pretenses. He seems to be perpetually occupied with one matter or another.” You pouted.

“And why do you suppose he is acting so?” Your mother’s eyebrows rose in concern.

“Seven hells if I know. But if he has gained a mistress or changed his mind on the wedding, I will strangle him with my bare hands, even if it costs me my head.” You scoffed, still assaulting the blameless honeyed figs.

“I doubt he has, my dear. It is clear as day to anyone that he is quite besotted with you, there must be some other explanation. Perhaps I could ask Jena?” She smiled in an attempt to soothe your ire. 

“Whatever the reason may be, it better be a good one. I'm quite cross with him."

-

Currently, Jena was watching an exceptionally entertaining, but equally pathetic situation unfold before her eyes. The initial thing that raised her suspicions was when her son had begun retreating into his chambers in his free time and instructing the guards not to let anybody in, only to emerge hours later with ink-smudged hands; and the other indication that something was amiss was the ever growing dark shadow under his eyes when he'd show to break fast with the family. Baelor had denied assigning him any additional correspondence duties at her interrogation, so only gods knew what he'd been doing. 

As a result, he'd been spending significantly less time with his betrothed or his family when he was free of his council duties, and Jena could see your irritation rise every so slightly every passing day. 

As any overexcited and overly curious mother would, she'd then asked the chambermaids and the page boys who were tasked with cleaning her son's chambers. The chambermaids refused to speak of what they'd witnessed at the order of the prince, but a page boy finally cracked when she'd bribed him with new leather boots to replace his tattered old ones. 

"M'lady, the prince has been... extensively studying quite sensitive literature," the boy, who couldn't have been older than three-and-ten of age, mumbled. "And he's thoroughly instructed everyone to never mention the books he's taken from the library."

Her eyebrows rose at that. "Sensitive literature?"

"Marta, the chambermaid, has said that they're from... Lys." The poor boy blushed. 

At the reveal, Jena's eyebrows climbed impossibly higher on her forehead. She thanked the boy and sent him on his merry way. Then, she sat herself down by the tea table to process what she'd heard. After pondering the circumstances, what with the wedding ceremony taking place in mere weeks' time and Valarr's known disapproval of his cousins' rather indulgent habits, she finally derived the source of her son's behavior. He was nervous before the wedding night. 

And he'd been coping with his unease with the way he knew best: studying the topic the best he could before facing the source of his nervousness. At that, she had to suppress an amused snort even though she was alone in the room. Her sweet, gentle boy, who'd been besotted with one girl his whole life, was completely and utterly terrified of being an inadequate husband. It was endearing, really, but if only it hadn't been causing the said girl's tempers to sour. 

So, when her dear friend came to her, inquiring about her son, as her own daughter had been growing ever more irritated, she'd simply told her the truth. Perhaps not the full truth, but a slight omission of truth, may the gods forgive her. She said that her son had been quite anxious before the wedding, feared he would not be an adequate husband to his love, and had been... coping. Nothing about Lys, nothing about the first wedding night, just... anxiety about being less than adequate his beloved. She'd nodded, still with a slight puzzled look, but accepted her answer as it was. 

-

Your irritation had newly reached its new peak when for a fortnight in a row, your only private, quiet time windows with Valarr had been one hour long walks or afternoon tea in the gardens at the very most. Afterwards, he'd excuse himself and be off in his chambers, doing only gods knew what, or be off with his father on his princely duties. Deep in your heart, you knew it was selfish to wish that he wouldn't have to attend so many meetings or write correspondences. But it felt quite rational to be cross at him for leaving your presence with a false pretext to retreat to his chambers. 

After convening with Lady Jena, your mother had come back to your quarters, and had offered a vague explanation that perhaps, Valarr was simply quite anxious before the wedding. You nodded politely at the suggestion, but the argument failed to convince you. Why would he have need to be nervous? Why now? And why would he distance himself so for that reason? 

Before, you knew that Valarr loved you. Before, you knew that he'd do anything to keep you happy. Before, you knew that you stood on the very top of his priorities. Now, that confidence was dwelling, and left you with a sense of hurt and bitterness where it used to be. And your mind, as would be the case with any sensible person in this situation, started to weave scenarios. And no good ones, at that. There was this creeping sense of dread that perhaps, he'd finally snapped out of his childish whims and seen you for what you were: just a dear childhood friend, nothing more. He was a handsome, valiant, kind, gentle prince, and you were just... you. 

So, the next time his page had arrived to extend Valarr's invitation to take lunch with him in the gardens, the ugly, petty monster in your heart raised its head. You looked up from your book and set it down on your lap, and huffed out an angry little exhale. 

"Tell the prince I won't be able to join. In fact, I will be indisposed for the next sennight, and he should not bother to ask why that is." With that, you dismissed him with a wave of your hand. The page boy hesitated with an uncertain look, but at your persistent ignorance of his presence, he turned on his heels and left. 

A small pang of satisfaction filled your heart, but it turned sour soon after. But you hardened your resolve; if he thinks he can neglect your presence so, then two could play this game. 

-

Valarr's world was fraying at the seams. Since the page boy had arrived with the news of your rejection, he'd been drifting through his day in a numb, melancholic state. As the Lord of the Tides was prattling on about the Stepstones and possible pirate sightings, his brain simply tuned him out and locked him in his own little bubble of confusion and despondency. A sennight, you had said. A whole sennight. One might think that seven days were nothing compared to the decade he'd spent waiting for you, but in his melodramatic state, it might as well have been eons. 

It was one thing waiting for your return while harboring his childish affection, but it was another thing to be finally, finally be reunited with his love, be betrothed to you, then lose your company for seven whole days again. 

Perhaps she was not feeling well, a hopeful inner voice suggested. Perhaps you'd just been exhausted from the wedding preparations and needed rest. 

That was what a rational, reasonable man might think. But while Valarr was by all means a most rational, logical man when it came to other matters, that rule crumbled to dust when it came to you. 

After the council meeting, he'd skipped his daily studies of the stolen — borrowed, he reminded himself — Lysene literature for the first time in a while. Instead, he instructed the castle's sugar baker to whip up your favorite treat, lemon and honey cakes, and to send a maidservant to carry it up to your quarters. Following his visit to the kitchens, he summoned the maester, and requested he brew a soothing tea for the maidservant to bring it to you along with the cakes. He did promise to do anything for your happiness after all, and it was the least he could do at this moment.

He prayed that it would ease your current predicament soon enough. 

It did not. 

The following days, his inquiries about your wellbeing went unanswered, and when he'd knocked on your doors himself, the maid came to the door to relay that you were still indisposed. So, he took the only possible course of action. 

The kitchens were instructed to keep extra staff, as to insure they'd prepare your favorite meals apart from the rest of the castle's dishes. The maesters were tasked with brewing the best soothing, nourishing teas, to ensure you were being supplied with the utmost quality of care. The sugar baker was in overdrive, and he had fetched a second baker to assist him with the additional workload. Then, he sent the softest silk feathered pillows and blankets, so you'd be comfortable while cooped up in your chambers. As that was not enough in his mind, the goldsmith had been commissioned to craft a new bracelet for you, in hopes that it would lift your spirits. 

This chain of events had not gone unnoticed by Baelor, as he asked Valarr to stay behind after a Small Council meeting, and inquired about him sending the castle's staff into a frenzy, to which Valarr offered his honest answer. 

"So the lady is refusing to see you." Baelor raised an eyebrow at the simpleness of the cause of it all. 

Valarr nodded, distraught evident in his eyes. "And I simply do not know how to solve this, father. What if... what if she has-" his voice broke off, not wanting to voice out his biggest fear that maybe, you'd come to the realization that you'd made a mistake agreeing to marry him after all. 

Baelor sighed. He was Baelor Breakspear, the Hammer that had broken the ranks of the Blackfyre army at the Battle of Redgrass Field. But he was simply not equipped to deal with matters of the young, melodramatic hearts. Mentally, he cursed himself for addressing this matter in the council chambers instead of in his family's solar, where Jena would have been there to handle this. 

"I doubt that, my son." With the utmost of his abilities, he offered a curt consolation. Unsurprisingly, Valarr did not seem calmed by that. "What if you simply asked her? Speak with her. Directly. I am sure a heartfelt plea would allow you at least a few words with her, even for a few moments." He added. 

Valarr nodded, though the weight on his chest remained firmly planted where it'd been. 

-

The hot midday sun was dwindling from the sky, and gave way to a warm, comfortable late afternoon breeze. You were lounging on the chaise longue on the balcony, enjoying the cool rafts threading through your hair, leisurely eating lemon cakes, and pouring over a book on the history of the Rhoynar when your peace was broken by your maidservant notifying you of Valarr's presence at the door. A small glimmer of satisfaction flickered in your heart at landing a blow to his heart just as he'd bruised yours. But this time, unlike any other time, he did not leave the door when you'd waved at the maid and told her to relay that you were currently indisposed. 

"The prince insists that he must speak to you, m'lady," she looked back at you with an apologetic look. 

At that, you let out a sigh before closing your book and padding to the door. The maid excused herself, and took her leave. 

When you arrived at the door and swung it open to face Valarr, his eyes widened in relief at seeing you after five days' silence. 

"My prince," you greeted him, deliberately using his title knowing his dislike for it coming from you. 

"Love, I've missed you. I was worried that-" he hesitated, not daring to say the words out loud. The bags under his eyes had gotten visibly darker, and his eyes were red-rimmed. 

You raised an eyebrow. 

"That you were unwell, that- that it had all gotten too much, I-" he paused, looking for words. 

"I'm quite well, my prince. As you can see." You kept your tone neutral, but your heart was ever so slightly yielding, seeing his distress. Valarr's lips closed at that, and you almost regretted your words as they came out. 

"Please, darling. If something is amiss, just tell me. I did promise that I'd do anything to ensure your happiness, and I meant it." He pleaded, his eyes desperately searching your face for a hint. "Whatever it is, I shall fix it. If it is not in the scope of my abilities, I shall search the realm for someone who can. But please, tell me, love."

A corner of your heart cracked open at his earnest look. Looking at him, there was no imagining that he'd have changed his mind on the wedding or taken a paramour. At the same time, a hint of guilt at your own pettiness filled the newly formed crack in your heart. 

"In truth, Val," honesty flew out of your lips as though a dam had broken. "I'd not thought that you wished for my presence anyways."

"What could possibly make you think that, love? You must know just how completely my heart, my life belongs to you. Has someone said something? What is it?" His eyebrows scrunched in distress, as though he could not comprehend the words coming out of your mouth. 

"Well, you've been quite distant of late. In the last weeks, it feels I have barely seen you." You chewed on your lower lip. 

Valarr blinked as the realization hit him. He'd been so consumed with his worries about his own inexperience out of fear of disappointing you, that he'd been cooped up during most of his unoccupied time in his chambers, buried in the Lysene manuscript, whilst his beloved had been growing distraught over his secrecy. He was an idiot, as he came to realize in this moment. 

"And you thought- that I've been avoiding your presence?" Valarr gaped, reeling in his own ignorance. You simply nodded at that, your lower lip still caught between your teeth. 

"Oh seven hells, my love," he breathed out, gingerly stepping forwards, a hand reaching out to cup your face. "I would never. I could never, ever not wish for your presence. I apologize that I have not made that clear, my love." He planted a kiss upon your forehead, as though he was affirming his point. 

You stepped back slightly and craned your neck to gaze up at his face, still unsatisfied with the resolution. "What have you been so occupied with, then? You've been spending most of your times in your chambers, not allowing anyone to disturb you while at it." You pouted slightly, but in Valarr's eyes, it was simply an adorable sight to behold. Not that he'd ever tell you. Moreover, you were starting to threaten one of his more guarded secrets with that endearing pout, and he could feel the tips of his ears start to burn as the topic loomed over his shoulders. 

"I've been... studying," he searched for adequate words to describe his lectures, "things for the wedding." His cheeks flushed a bright red. 

Your eyebrows rose in confusion, and you blinked. "Things? For the wedding?" 

"Yes, for the," Valarr cleared his throat, blushing even more, "wedding night."

"Oh? And what might have you been studying?" Now you were truly intrigued as to where this was heading. The only knowledge on the topic stemmed from the septas, or hushed gossip between other ladies or maidservants. 

Valarr's gaze pointed to anywhere but you, his lips silently opened and closed a few times while he searched for words, but decided not to voice out the majority of them. 

"Some Lysene literature," his voice was almost a whisper now. "To- to ensure our wedding night would be... pleasant."

Oh. Gods. Valarr, you impossible, ridiculous, adorable man. You couldn't suppress the giggle that escaped your lips, and felt your cheeks heat up. At your giggle, the poor prince looked mortified. 

"Valarr, you're a fool. A wonderful, lovable fool," you said breathlessly. 

At that, the prince hesitantly turned his gaze back to you, his cheeks still burning. "Are you teasing me, love?"

"If you'd call it that, yes, Val. But frankly, I am quite touched that you've been cooped up in your chambers studying Lyseni scripture; I had thought you had gained a mistress, or something of the like." You smiled up at him, relief coursing through you. 

"A mistress?" Valarr repeated with an incredulous look in his eyes. "Love, if it has not been obvious enough, I've only ever had eyes for you since we'd met in the godswood all these years back. How could I ever take a mistress, when you're finally my betrothed, my future wife?" 

"Well, you have been spending an awful lot of time alone in your chambers, mind you. A girl's thoughts are bound to wander sooner than late." You said defensively, but still with a teasing air. 

"You're the only thing my mind wanders to," Valarr approached you again, tipping your chin back ever so slightly to face him. "In council meetings, while writing impossibly dull correspondences, while reading, when I eat, sleep, breathe, you are and always will be the destination my thoughts wander to." 

With that, his lips came down to meet yours. His lips were so soft, warm, and gentle in their movement. As they moved against your own lips, you felt the slightest bit of stubble scratch against your chin; he must've been quite distraught if the otherwise perfect prince had forgone his daily shave. You welcomed the sensation, and brought your hands up to rest upon his shoulders. 

At your touch, he let out the slightest groan, and pulled you in by the waist to hold you impossibly closer. Your arms were now wrapped around his neck, a hand carefully stroking the brown and white locks at the nape of his neck. His upper back muscles tensed at that, and his hand at your waist tightened its grip. 

When you broke off the kiss for air, Valarr's mismatched irises had been near completely swallowed up by his pupils, and his lips were slightly parted while he caught his breath. 

"So Val, if your mind wanders to me while reading, have you also had thoughts of me during your studies?" You grinned up at him. Teasing the poor, blushing prince was always such great fun, after all. His pretty cheeks always turned the loveliest shade of pink. 

Valarr stammered, his wits leaving him to fend for himself once again. 

"Well I did not- I mean, I haven't had any unchaste thoughts of you, I could never- I mean, yes, but-" he closed his mouth before embarrassing himself any further. His hand came up to his forehead, as though his own misspeaking had delivered him a migraine. 

You giggled again, which did not help the bright red flush on his face. You gently pried his hands into your own, and placed them on your waist. 

"Val, I'm only jesting," you struggled to suppress your laugh, "but perhaps you can show me on our wedding night which improper thoughts you definitely haven't had about me."

With your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, you rose on your tiptoes to meet his lips with your own before he could answer. Your lips were moving more fluidly against one another now, and you thought to yourself that you might just get addicted to this, to his soft, plush lips, his stubble grazing your skin, and the taste of his lips; something uniquely Valarr. His mouth opened a little in a sigh, and when you tried to pull him down farther to deepen the kiss, he pulled away. 

"Gods, pretty girl. You'll be the death of me," he huffed out breathlessly, and you let out a quiet laugh. 

"I do not know what you could possibly mean by that," you grinned, and tugged on his doublet's collar. "Come back down here, Val." 

His hands gently grasped your wrists, and pried your grips loose from his doublet. 

"Love, I fear I might get carried away if I do. I will not dishonor you so, especially when our wedding date is so near." He raised one of your hands to his lips, placing a chaste kiss on the knuckles. 

This time, it was your time to blush. A warm ball of desire was starting to gather in your belly, as your gaze traced his beautiful mismatched eyes, framed by unfairly long eyelashes, and the sharp slope of his nose, followed by the angular line of his cheekbones and jaw. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and your eyes followed the movement as if in a trance. He noticed your look, and his pupils dilated impossibly widely at that. 

"I must take my leave, darling. I'll see you in the gardens for lunch tomorrow?" Entranced by his lips, you only nodded at his request. He left you with one last peck to your forehead, then turned around before disappearing into the corridors. 

The wedding night was looking to be a lot more... eventful than you'd thought. 

-

Notes: sorry this one is so short! But I wanted to have a brief lead-up to the wedding night fic, and didn't want to drag it out too much. I'm absolutely floored at all the love this AU got, I did not expect people to like this little fictional couple I randomly thought of one day🥹

[fairyysoup]

the vagaries of linen

pairing(s): baelor “breakspear” targaryen x wife!reader

summary: You wear Baelor's shirt to bed. He is very normal about it.

words: 2.4k

cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering, somnophilia, (mild), prone bone, headlock, biting, possessive behavior, reader called 'girl’, yearning, this is quite simply just baelor jumping our bones, i love arm, mildly edited, not beta read

a/n: this is not officially a sequel to my other baelor fic but it can be read like that since i characterized him the same. i rly just want that old man to fuck me in his shirt idk

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI. I BLOCK AGELESS BLOGS.

Baelor has been standing at the foot of your bed for… much longer than he intended to. There's a tilt to his head, seventy-six degrees and counting, and a rise and fall to his chest that seems to be getting slightly faster with each passing exhale.

You do not see it. You are, as it is, asleep.

You're wearing his shirt. This is what has him still as stone, drawing his eyes over you in slow drags that he just can't seem to put an end to.

It's not an elaborate shirt. It's not even one of his best ones— the royal seamstresses have laden him with shirts of silk and fine woven cotton, embellished with hours of needlework or, in some horrifying cases, even beading. He has shirts of every color and shade, shirts of damask and velvet, shirts for summer and shirts for winter. Tunics from Dorne. Doublets from the Reach. Myrish robes. Qartheen samite vests.

You have chosen none of those. The one you have chosen is as simple a garment as he would choose on any given day, to wear against his skin beneath his doublet. White linen gauze, unembellished, unadorned. Its sleeves almost as billowing as its body, coming to plain rectangular cuffs. A simple collar, a sturdy yoke across the shoulders, double-stitched to keep it from unraveling. It is, in a word, efficient. Standard.

He knows, without having to ask you, that you chose to wear this shirt specifically because it is standard. Because it is one that he wears often. The cuffs have gone slightly soft with the wear, the neckline just a bit stretched along the bias. The felled seams are coming undone just a touch at the hem, a fact that he always sees but hasn't brought to the attention of his attendant, because it would mean a week of waiting to have it repaired. It is unfussy. But it is his.

And you are curled up in it like a kitten, asleep in his bed, your leg thrown over a pillow that you had moved toward his side of the bed in his absence. He has spent too long at his work, he knows. You spent too long waiting for him— long enough that you removed your nightgown and donned one of his shirts, and you fell asleep like that. Alone. In the bed you are meant to share with him.

Baelor feels a tightness in his chest that is ringed with fondness, an aching longing for you that hadn't stopped after your wedding, and doesn't seem like it will any time soon. He is too taken with you, too in love and consumed by it for that intrinsic sense of need for you to fade. It is a tender thing, tied around his heart in an intricate knot, with a tail that you hold the end of. You twirl it around your little finger and he buckles like a man who has never seen combat, who doesn't know what it is to stand his ground.

Baelor sighs as he undresses, but he keeps one eye on you all the while, as though you may disappear if he moves too far away. But you don't move. You don't even stir, when his belt hits the stone floor, or when his breeches follow. You are caught up in a world of dreams, unaware of what the sight of your sleeping form is doing to your husband, bringing him to the brink of something he has never quite been able to put a name to.

You do not stir when his hand presses into the mattress.

You do not stir when his weight dips the bedding and he moves slowly, purposefully, over you.

You do, however, stir just the smallest bit when his fingers dance over the curve of your hip through the fabric, feeling its drape over the soft plush of your skin. The meat of your ass, the swell of your thigh. Baelor feels, smoothing and caressing with a languid stroke that is not intended to rouse you, although he knows very well that it might and he does it anyway. Your fingers flex on the pillow that you clutch instead of him.

He finds himself, at that moment, inordinately envious of a pillow. A lump of fabric and feathers in your hands, between your thighs.

His hand grows bolder, a broad stroke over the small of your back, into the dip of your waist. You make a small noise in your throat, twitching the slightest bit as he passes over a particularly sensitive area.

"Shh, my sweet girl," Baelor whispers quietly, a lulling murmur in the darkness. Everything about you is soft— your skin, the fabric of his shirt as it lays over you, your hair, the expression on your face, the candle light on your sleeping body. It overwhelms him. It turns him into something that he's not normally, unless he is with you: a man. Not a Prince, and not the Hand of the King or heir to the throne. Not a warrior and not a subject of songs and poetry, myths and stories. With you, in this bed, he is simply a man in love with his wife, devoted beyond measure.

By the time his hand reaches your nape, your eyes are fluttering open the barest amount. Your face is still pressed slightly into the pillow, but you shift, a perking of your head as awareness returns to you. "Baelor?"

"It's me," he tells you, his voice low enough to not even constitute words.

"Mm. Waited for you," you mumble, confirming what he already knew.

His eyes crease at the corners, his smile overly tender. "I know. I'm here now."

Even as he says it, his hand is finding the hem of his shirt draped over your thigh, its frayed edge tickling against the smoothness of your skin. You hum quietly, dropping your eyelids against the feeling of his warm hand, burrowing between pillow and fabric and skin to find you, bare and wet and waiting for him.

"Oh," you sigh when his fingertip draws a slow circle around your clit.

"I know," he reassures you again, pressing a chaste, sweet kiss to the back of your neck. "I know, my love."

You turn your head further into the pillow beneath you, letting out a small whine at the feeling, your hips arching into his touch. He responds in kind, laying his weight flush to your back, his hand pinned between you and the pillow below.

"You're wearing my shirt," he remarks, his fingers finding your entrance and sliding in, stretching you open quick enough to make you keen softly. He gives you a few shallow strokes, feeling you grind back into the press of his cock against your tailbone. "My beautiful wife, wearing my clothes."

"W-Wanted to— to feel you— mm." Your voice is still slightly slurred with sleep, the heat of his body and the slowness of his movements doing nothing to rouse you more. You are still somewhere between awake and dreaming, pleasantly lulled, drowsy in your responses to him. Still, you moan at the curving of his fingers. "Wanted you… close to me…"

"Then let me be close," Baelor whispers, dragging the wilting fabric of his shirt up over your hips. He puffs a sigh through his nose, the ghost of it breezing against your neck. "What am I to do with you, hm?"

You make a pathetic noise when he moves your thighs apart to fit himself between them, his chest pressed to the curve of your spine, the thin fabric of his shirt separating you. He kisses you beneath the ear.

"You can sleep, darling," he tells you quietly, a whisper into your ear as his cock settles heavy between your thighs, the head sliding hotly against your cunt. Even though his voice is low, it booms through you like a thunderclap. "You need rest."

"I need you," you retort, but your own voice is far off, dipping towards the fogginess of sleep already.

Your eyes flutter shut, a gentle sigh of relief leaving you when he enters you slowly, stretching you open around him. Pressure on your back, pressure between your legs, pressure where his hand is pinned and lifting your hips from the front, angling them back towards him. Baelor's arm comes up to brace beside your head, and the scent of him surrounds you— the same scent that always drives you crazy, juniper and peppercorn, and something slightly like the salt of a raging sea.

You breathe in deep, exhale on a contented, fulfilled hum. Your entire world is Baelor, your mind and body consumed by him completely. His body spanning the length of you, bone to bone, naked skin to thin, ineffectual fabric.

You clench around him, and Baelor makes a noise as though you've punched him. So close to your ear, the headiness of it is echoed tenfold. Then he shifts his weight, dropping his hips ever-so-slightly, and then just grinds into you. His cock nestles into the deepest part of you and you groan, your mouth dropping open and face turning towards the breadth of his arm beside you.

"Baelor," you whimper, soft and broken, slurred from the recesses of sleep. Your hand finds his bicep, drawn taut from the muscle holding him up, keeping him from crushing you completely. Your fingers dig in, pull. A silent plea, a command that he follows like a dog on a leash.

Baelor fits his forearm under your head and lifts, letting you rest your chin there against the crook of his elbow, getting you into a loose headlock. Your hand wraps loosely around his upper arm, your body lax, letting him rut his hips shallowly into yours.

"My beautiful girl," he breathes into your ear, and you feel his teeth, bared with intent. His nose pressed to the shell, his beard scraping rough against your cheek. "My heart. My soul."

His arm tightens. Just a tad, but just enough. You mewl like a wounded animal, stretching your limbs so that he can move closer in, can fit his mouth to the curve of your throat, while he throbs somewhere deep in you that makes your head spin and your breath stick in your chest. His weight on you turns full, crushing, an all-over press that pins you flat to the bed, the pillow tucked beneath your stomach.

You are no longer asleep.

"Say it," he tells you, a primal rasp to his voice that wasn't there before. Low, smoky. A dragon. It's dragged from the pit of him, from some hell that lurks deep inside his body. His groan slinks down your spine and pools as raw energy right above where his cock hollows out and reaches the end of you. "Say that you're mine."

"M'yours," you murmur into his arm, breathing in the hot air that radiates from him. "Baelor. M-My heart. My soul—"

A guttural sound leaves you, your open mouth muffled by the bite you take of his bicep when he pulls his hips back and ruts into you hard, hard enough to shake the bed. Baelor's breath in your ear is shaky, stilted with the desperation of his movements, the purpose for which he collects himself.

"Gods above," he groans, his face turned into your neck just as yours is turned into his arm. With great effort, he loosens his hold on you. He presses an apologetic kiss to the curve of your shoulder. "I'm sorry. So sorry, my love."

You make a short noise, shake your head once. "Do it again."

Baelor does as you tell him. He pulls back slowly, letting his cock drag through your walls just before rushing back in with a jolt up the bed. Soft hair grinds against the plush of your ass, his mouth open and heaving with gasps against your shoulder, covered in the fabric of his shirt.

You can taste his need in the salt on his skin, beads of sweat forming in the crook of his elbow, fiery heat pressed flush to your back. "I need to— to wear your clothes more often."

"Yes." The word is hungry. It leaves no room for defiance. "You will."

The hand pinned between you and the pillow moves, snakes down to find your clit again. You are blinded with white light behind your eyelids, your breath gone still in your chest. Then, you pant like your air has no place to go, your hand tightening on his bicep, his arm tightening around your throat.

"Mm. There." The sound of his voice in your ear, while he fingers at your clit and his cock makes you so full that you can barely think, undoes you. Tremors take over your body, and you feel him smile as he continues to work at you. "That's what you get. I want you shaking."

"Baelor." You cum around him, with his full weight holding you down with nowhere to go. You are held hostage to it, to the slow, seductive movements of his hips, the lazy strokes of his finger against your clit.

"That's it. My good girl," Baelor purrs into your ear, and you sob as you clench around him. "My good, sweet, beautiful—"

He runs his tongue lightly across the nape of your neck and groans, ducking his head as he cums. His moans are muffled by his shirt on your back, his body curled over yours like fog. He presses his hips hard against yours, as though he can become a part of you if he gets close enough, deep enough.

"Oh, my love." His whisper falls upon your ears like a dream, like you may wake up and not remember it. But he's real, and he's there on top of you with his heart pounding against your back, and his fist in the fabric of his shirt, the one that started all of this.

He stays there for a breath, and then two. His hips are still flush to yours, but he's stopped moving, stopped the slow grind and the desperate, cloying attempt to get as far inside of you as he possibly could. He simply holds there, with his arm still around your throat, but not pressing in anymore. Just holding. Just cradling.

"I don't know if you noticed," Baelor says after a moment, his voice tremulous and padded by a wad of fabric between his teeth, at the nape of your neck. He releases it. "But I quite like it when you wear my clothes."

You huff a laugh, and press a kiss to the inside of his elbow. "If you do that every time, I may never get any sleep."

Baelor hums. "The chances are very slim, indeed."

Even so, you wear the same shirt the next night. And the one after that.

You don't get much sleep.

[dearwalker]

New Eddie content? In this economy?? 😭

[valarrmorghvlis]

Three times you tried to kiss Valarr, and the one time you did

Valarr Targaryen x betrothed!reader (no physical descriptions, no specific house mentioned, other than that she's from a great house)

Summary: from the AU of The Marriage Contract. Now officially betrothed, you and Valarr reconnect after a decade spent apart. The problem is, your families and the duties leave the two of you with hardly any alone time with each other, much to your dismay. You're just trying to finally kiss your pretty betrothed properly in peace, but the circumstances keep getting in your way. Can be also read as a standalone oneshot, but it's probably better if you've read the main fic linked above:).

Tags&tropes: first kiss, inexperienced couple, nervous!Valarr, established relationship, chaos energy ruling the Red Keep.

My Masterlist

WC: 6,3k words

Rating: Teen and up

-

I. Interrupted by overjoyed mothers

It was a brisk spring morning, and the sun was rising on the last day of Valarr’s nameday tournament. You broke your fast leisurely with your mother in your guest quarters, while your father had already left for the Hand’s office after hastily gulping down a cup of tea and stuffing a scone down his mouth. After all, setting a wedding date, discussing dowries and clearing the rules of succession was a long affair, and both of their presences would be expected at the tourney grounds at midday. You and your mother bid him a merry, productive meeting, while you both sat at the table, nibbling on toasted buns and sipping warm, spiced tea.

“My dearest, I must say, Jena and I are still over the moon over your betrothal,” your mother set aside her cup, and clasped her hands together with a dreamy look in her eyes. “We have already thought of some ideas for the wedding, your maiden’s cloak, for instance-“

“Mother,” you suppressed a sigh. “We do not even have a wedding date yet.”

“Yes! Yes, setting a good wedding date is the most important thing. Your father said the wedding date is to be set within the next three to four moons, so peonies will be in season, dear. They are only in season for such a short time, we should definitely..” Your mother happily pivoted, and you resorted to polite nods and hums, while you chewed on a breakfast scone which was feeling drier and drier by the minute.

In the last day and a half - ever since your mother and Lady Jena had learned of the betrothal, to be exact - the two of them had shown a level of joy and excitement you hadn’t thought possible. It started with Lady Jena slamming the door to your family’s quarters open in the yesterday morning while you were breaking fast with your parents, and rushing to tightly wrap your mother in her arms.

“My dearest, dearest darling! We are going to be bound by marriage! Is that not the most magnificent news?” She squeaked.

Your mother had answered with the same level of enthusiasm, with both of them spinning in a circle while hugging, while crying out high-pitched exclamations about the joys of being each other’s in-laws. At one point, Lady Jena had pulled you into the frenzy, and you were squished against both very happy mothers in a group hug.

Ever since then, they’d been inseparable, and if they spotted you and/or Valarr, they’d pounce like lionnesses upon a prey, and wrap you in an avid discussion about wedding planning, family activities, and the likes. 

You were happy your mother was so.. elated about the match, but it left you with scarecely any moments of peace and quiet, not to mention any alone time with Valarr. The initial excitement would surely die down with time, you hoped. And once the tourney was over, you would have ample time to properly reconnect with Valarr; go on horseback rides, walk through the gardens, simply sit somewhere quiet and talk. What even was the point of being betrothed to such a pretty man if you hardly had any tranquil moments alone with him?

So, these circumstances had left you here, in this moment, pouting at breakfast table and trying unsuccessfully to steer the conversation to anything, anything else. However, your mother’s enthusiasm proved unyielding, and her joyful chatters continued on.

Once at the tourney grounds near midday, you were quite satisfied to be left to your own devices for a few moments. Your parents were already in your cousins’ pavillion, undoubtedly to wish good fortune to your youngest cousin, who was entering the squires’ melée to try his chance at knighthood. Your only company was thus your household guard, who trailed after you a few respectful paces behind. 

There was still ample time to walk around the tourney ground, browsing through the merchants’ wares, admiring the fine rolls of silk and velvet, smelling all the exotic herbs and perfumes, and maybe to buy a small spiced pastry from an Essosi baker. The meadow, which was situated right outside of the city gates, was transformed into what resembled a small, lively village. The hammering of the steelworkers rang throughout the field, flattening out the dents in armor from the last two days’ events.

As you were leaning over a merchant’s stand, carefully inspecting a beautifully carved scented candle, a tap on your shoulder jolted you. As you spun around, you came face to face with Valarr, dressed in a simple black and crimson doublet and trousers, as he wasn’t going to parttake in the melées today. 

“Good day, love.” Your betrothed was clearly amused by your surprise.

“Good day, Valarr,” you breathed out, still coming down from your startlement.

“Do you want that candle?” He asked, nodding in the direction of the merchant’s stand.

“What?” Your brain drew a blank. The sun was nearing its highest point, threading its rays through his brown locks and lighting up his eyes. He painted a picture of radiance, the sun lighting up the crown of his head in a golden halo, and his features carved out by sharp shadows.

“You were looking at that candle, love.” The term of affection spilling from his lips was driving you slightly mad. Your eyes flickered between his own mismatched orbs and his lips.

“..Yes?” You faltered out, still a little disoriented by the sight of your betrothed before you.

Without another word, Valarr produced a silver stag from his pocket, and handed it to the merchant. Doubtless, it was far too much for the candle, but Valarr did not pay any mind to it, and simply picked up the candle, passing it over to your guard to be carried and safe-kept.

“Might I accompany you on a walk through the tourney grounds?” He asked, offering his arm.

You nodded, and threaded your arm through his. You set out on a leisurely stroll, your guard and his following a few paces behind. 

“Am I safe to assume that your mother is approaching the matter of our wedding planning with the same overflowing enthusiasm as mine own?” Valarr asked, a hint of amusement persisting in his eyes.

“Yes! Ugh yes, most certainly. So far today, she has made approximately twenty suggestions for the wedding day feast’s courses in the last hours. But do not take me wrong, I am quite happy that my family received the news so well. I just wish.. we’d had some quiet time for ourselves.” You let out a dramatic sigh.

“As do I,” he nodded, “but it is quite wonderful to see that our families are just as content as we are with our match.”

“Has Matarys had anything to say on the matter?” You raised an eyebrow, recalling the time when Matarys pointed to you and asked Valarr loudly whether you were ‘the lady friend he had menttioned’.

At that, Valarr blushed slightly. “He did, in fact. He was rather smug of the fact that he was right.”

“Right about what?” You teased. He did blush so prettily, how were you to resist?

He cleared his throat, his gaze searching the ground. “That- that it was indeed you I had spoken with him about.”

“What did you say about me?” You were full-on grinning now. Valarr’s ears were burning, and silently cursed the gods for testing him so.

“I merely said,” Valarr cleared his throat again, his eyes flittering between you and the ground. “I was looking forward to your arrival.”

“Is that all?” You leaned towards him, fully enjoying the crown prince’s flustered state.

“You are a cruel, cruel woman.” Valarr shook his head, but a smile creeped up his face nevertheless.

As you looked around, you realized you had reached the edge of the tourney ground. The rows of tents and pavillions were behind you, only a meadow with tall grass and wildflower stretching before you. As you checked the coast, it was clear that your two guards were the only ones remotely paying attention to the both of you. Even then, they were keeping a respectful distance, pretending not to see nor hear anything that was going on.

You let go of his arm, and spun around to face him, initially planning on delivering one last teasing blow. His cheeks were still stained the slightest bit of pink, but his eyes displayed clear joy and affection for you. You had to crane your neck back to face him properly, and Valarr was leaning down towards you. Suddenly, you were acutely aware of how close your faces were. Your jest never left your lips, and was instantaneously forgotten as you marveled at his face.

Valarr was facing the sun, the light painting his blue eye the color of morning sky, and his brown eye a golden amber hue. Your gaze traveled from one eye to the next, then, unable to resist the temptation, down to his lips. When you looked back up, Valarr’s eyes were trained on your lips as well.

The noise of the tourney grounds faded into the background. At once, the world narrowed down to only you, Valarr’s face mere inches away from you, and the wind softly blowing onto your face. Meanwhile, the guards were stubbornly trying to act as if they couldn’t see a thing.

The tension could’ve been cut with a knife. With your heart wildly beating in your ribcage, you held the gaze of your handsome betrothed standing in front of you. 

As you finally gained the courage to inch closer, your mother’s voice cut through the air, and you jerked away from each other instantaneously.

“Darlings! The melée is starting soon! Our wonderful servants have prepared cold honeyed wine for you!” She approached you, arm-in-arm with Lady Jena. When she realized how closely you had been standing before, she huffed out an “oh”, looking at Lady Jena with a knowing smirk.

The two mothers giggled, whilst you and Valarr’s faces went up in flames.

“Sorry dears,” Lady Jena said, while turning back around towards the tourney grounds, “please, carry on! We were never here!”

They then walked away, leaving behind girlish giggles and excited whispers.

You and Valarr still stood there, face to face, a good foot between you now. The guards were still staring firmly at the ground. 

“Uh, shall we?” Valarr gestured to the tourney grounds, and you fervently nodded.

“Yes, please. Let us go.” 

-

II. Interrupted by a cousin

The inner courtyard of the Red Keep had a beautiful garden, with white marble pergolas rising among flower vines and bushes, all sorts of flowers, and the best kept hedges one could think of. The tourney and festivities ended a few days ago, the vast halls of the Keep seeming strangely empty with all the guests gone. Your family had lingered, for although all the legal formalities of the marriage had been settled, your parents decided to stay until the wedding ceremony. 

The wedding date had been set for three months from now, as Valarr had wished upon a short betrothal period, but the time span still left ample room for planning. Countless skilled seamstresses, bakers, and cooks were summoned to the Keep for dress fittings and course tastings, and the first ones to arrive would start to stream through the castle gates in a matter of days. That only left you just as many days of peace before everybody would be fussing over you until the wedding ceremony had come to pass, or least until the planning was immaculately, perfectly, flawlessly completed. After all, the wedding was to be a grand affair, affirming Valarr’s position as second in line to the Iron Throne and reassuring house Targaryen’s standing in the realm.

In these few, precious days of peace and quiet, you had taken to taking walks through the kingswood with Valarr, taking afternoon tea with him and both your mothers, and sometimes, just leisurely sprawling upon the library cushions next to each other and flipping through the ancient, rare tomes together. On this specific day, you had intercepted Valarr just as he exited from the Small Council meeting, and demanded he take you on a walk through the inner courtyard’s gardens. Valarr, ever the sweet and dutiful prince, indulged your whims without a second thought.

So now you walked arm-in-arm with your betrothed between rows of beautiful flowering shrubs, with your guards trailing behind. The garden was quite lively, with numerous courtiers and nobles lounging under the pergolas or taking a leisurely walk themselves. 

Valarr’s company was quite enjoyable, since although he was your betrothed, he was one of the only conversation partners in the recent days who wouldn’t endlessly pester you about the wedding planning. Instead, he spoke to you about the flora and fauna on Dragonstone, and how they differed from those of the Crownlands, or about childhood misadventures of Matarys, or sometimes about the places he would have liked to travel to if he hadn’t been tied up at the Red Keep by his duties. He’d also ask you how your life had been in your ancestral home in the time where you hadn’t seen each other, and whether you missed anything from home.

The conversation flowed easily, as if the ten years spent apart had never happened. Although, the numerous chattering groups of courtiers around the garden were starting to irritate you, since you had hoped you would be able to spend some quiet, private moments with your betrothed. You were more than eager to continue where you had left off at the tourney grounds a few days past, when you’d been cruelly interrupted by your mothers. In the sunlight, Valarr’s handsome face was lit in a golden sheen, the arch of his lips drawing your gaze every time he spoke.

So you gently steered him towards the little hedge maze in the middle of the garden, your guards still dutifully following a few steps behind. I just want a little peck on his lips, away from the eyes of the courtiers, you prayed to the gods. It wouldn’t even be improper, since you were betrothed anyways, and even the late Septa Marya could not object to that. Your guards were there, and if any suspicions were to arise, they would testify that no scandalous incidents had occured.

“Let us sit by the fountain in the middle,” you suggested, “I would greatly appreciate some peace and quiet.”

To your delight, Valarr did not question you, and lead the way through the albeit little but still confusing paths. The center of the maze contained a small clearing with a stone fountain, with benches situated in a circle around it. It would be the ideal setting to set your plan into motion. While you were unfolding your schemes to extract him to a quiet corner, Valarr, your handsome, oblivious Val, was telling you the tale of how he and Matarys used to go fishing on the shores of Dragonstone a few years back. 

The little clearing was empty save for you and your guards, thank the gods. You picked out a bench in the sunlight to sit upon, as the guards stood a few yards away from you. You scooted closer to Valarr, admiring his eyes while he was still innocently chattering on.

“So you see, that is how Mat obtained that scar on his-“

“Val,” you gently interrupted him.

“Huh?” Valarr turned his head towards you, his eyes widening as he finally registered how close your faces were.

You gave him a small smile, and his cheeks flushed bright red, finally understanding why you had brought him there. His eyes flittered between your eyes and lips, his own lips parting slightly in anticipation. He looked so beautiful like this, with his hair gleaming in the sun and his pupils swallowing his mismatched irises. And when your heads were finally, finally inching closer -

something in the hedges moved, bustling the leaves, and let out an unmistakably human groan.

You shrieked, and jolted in your seat. The guards and Valarr stood at alarm, their eyes fixed at the bush where the noise had come from. The guards’ swords were unsheathed as they carefully approached the source. The hedge let out another groan, a little quieter this time.

Then, Valarr’s incredulous voice cut the tension. “Daeron? Is that you in there?”

Your confusion deepened.

An answer came from the shadows of branches and leaves. “Valarr? What-“

Valarr crossed the little clearing in swift, long strides, and crouched down to where the voice had come from. Then, he dragged out a humanoid figure out from the hedge by the scuff of its hood.

Your jaw was hanging open in disbelief as the cloaked man rolled to his back, revealing a head of dirty blond hair, and a pale, sickly looking face.

“How long have you been here, cousin?” Valarr asked, still crouching by his head. Oh. So that would be the famed perpetuously drunken cousin of his.

“‘Dunno, what day is it,” Daeron mumbled, obviously quite hungover. The stench of ale mixed with sweat reached your nose. Valarr only let out a sigh in response.

“Daeron, what have we said before? Three flagons of ale, at the most. And you were to summon guards to accompany you to your chambers if you are unable to reach it yourself.” There was no anger in his eyes, only a fond look of exasperation. 

“’Twas only three and a half, cousin. An’ I was just takin’ a quick nap- this place is too big.” Daeron groaned while an arm came up to shield his eyes from the unforgiving sun. 

Valarr patted his head, and instructed his guard to fetch some help carrying his cousin to his chambers. The guard hurried off, while Daeron’s head rolled in the grass.

“Think I’m dyin’, cus. ’S too bright here, I think-“ Daeron suppressed a gag.

“You’ll be fine, Daeron. ’Tis but a hangover. Maester Archibald will brew you some salted honey lemon tea, that fixes you right up most of the time.” Valarr wiped some sweat off of his cousin’s forehead, then looked up at you with what seemed like an apologetic look. 

Soon, the sounds of boots marching upon the grass rang through the hedge maze. The guards were here for Daeron, who was still sprawled on the ground. They picked him up by his hands and feet with practiced ease, as Valarr rose from where he was crouched, and returned to your side.

“I apologize in his behalf, love. I-“ Valarr scratched the back of his neck.

“’S no matter, Val.” You gave him a reassuring smile, Valarr’s cheeks blooming the most adorable shade of pink at that.

Your betrothed sighed, and looked down to the ground before he finally faced you again, offering you his arm.

“Shall we get back? I am sure my uncle would want to hear where his son has been. He has sent out a search party yesternight to all the taverns in and around the city, and it would certainly ease his.. irritation to know that he has been found.”

Pushing down the disappointment rising in your chest, you gingerly took his arm, and let him lead you out of the garden.

-

III. Interrupted by Ser Whiskers

Your third attempt was more spontaneous, and the idea bloomed whilst you were lounging upon an upholstered settee next to Valarr in the Targaryen’s private library in the Keep. The large, candlelit hall was almost empty aside from you and the two maesters silently reorganising the shelves at the other end of the room. The double doors to the library was wide open; a compromise so you two could spend some quiet moments with only the occupied maesters present to supervise the young couple.

By your insistance, Valarr was reading the early accounts of the rise of the Free Cities in Essos aloud, written hundreds of years ago in High Valyrian. Your back was propped up against an armrest, your legs comfortably folded under you while admiring the excellent view which Valarr provided.

You recalled how you always enjoyed his reading voice, even when you were mere children and he’d read to you from the old tomes of fairytales. Now a man grown, his soft, deep voice rolled through the high-ceilinged room, the rolled r’s and central high vowels of High Valyrian forming a soothing melody. High Valyrian had been included in your education as a child, as it was the case for most children of Lord Paramounts of the realm, but Valarr truly spoke it with a smooth fluency, which was a rare talent in Westeros.

“Zaldrīzāeksia valyrio grozilluni mīsagon, zōbria dōrosì gaomagis,” he read out.

The dragonlords built.. something black to protect the Valyrian borders. You frowned, not recalling the meaning of dōrosì. Like countless other vocabularies, it was flickering at the edge of your memories, just out of your mind’s reach. 

“What does dōrosì mean again, Val?” You asked, hoping Valarr wouldn’t mind you interrupting his reading with the umpteenth inquiry on the meaning of an obscure Valyrian word. 

“Walls,” he answered patiently. “The dragonlords built the Black Walls to guard the borders of Valyria.” Oh, that made sense.

You huffed in frustration. “I’ve forgotten so much of the language, perhaps I should have paid more attention during my lessons.” You crossed your arms, and pouted. 

He was the image of the perfect crown prince, skilled in arms and highly learned on the matters of governance, history, and languages. In contrast, you were just.. you. The eyes of the court had always been unforgiving, and the fear of any displays of imperfection or inadequacy loomed over you like a thundercloud. The eyes of highborn lords and ladies had turned cold and observing once the betrothal had been announced and the wedding preparations had begun, save for a few kind ones who remained. 

“You are already more than proficient, love,” Valarr mused, closing the book shut and scooting closer to you on the armchair. 

"Lies. Blatant lies," you huffed out, furrowing your brows. To your infuriation, it only made Valarr let out a quiet laugh. 

"Do you accuse me of lies, dearest? A crown prince of the realm?" He scooted even closer, prying your hand into his own, amusement clear in his eyes. 

"Yes, and what of it? It is not as if you'd try me for treason," your pout persisted. 

"I'd never," Valarr breathed out, and planted a chaste kiss on your knuckles. "I could absolutely never, love. And you do not have to hold yourself to such high standards. You're already everything I could dream of, and more. You've always been."

"But the court will say-" you protested. 

"The court can go fuck themselves if they have any objections." Valarr said matter-of-factly. 

Your eyebrows rose at the crass language. Your sweet, gentle Valarr was otherwise so soft-spoken. In the background, the maesters flinched at the seldom swear word falling from the young prince's lips. 

"I do not care what they say. I have listened to them dutifully and patiently over many years, however wise or foolish their advices were," Valarr continued, his tone cool and steady. "But this, us, is something I will not tolerate any asinine comments about. If they spread vile words on your adequacy as my future bride, as their future queen, I will have them tried for treason."

Oh, Valarr. Your Valarr. Your beautiful, kind, perfect, valiant Valarr. 

"Perhaps love is making you foolish," you breathed out. 

"Perhaps, but I find that I do not care about that either." Valarr leaned towards you, his eyes flittering between your eyes and lips. As though pulled by some invisible force, you tilted your face towards him as well. 

You felt his breath and the heat radiating off his body on your lips. Your heartbeat was thundering in your ears, and you briefly wondered if he could hear it too. Finally, the sweet, sweet kiss you had been waiting f-

your train of thought was rudely interrupted by a very small, fluffy, orange figure sprinting through the double doors of the library, jumping onto the very settee you and Valarr were sitting on, and fleeting across your laps to climb onto the bookcase situated next to you. 

You and Valarr looked at each other in stunned silence, the tension in the room replaced by the perplexity on what had just happened. The maesters were looking up from the dusty tomes as well, as the peace and tranquility of their workplace was under threat by some unidentified creature. 

Then, as if to explain the situation, a small shock of silver-gold hair burst into the room, proceeded by the pitter-patter of his boots on the stone floor. 

"No, Ser Whiskers! Bad Cat! That's not a room for pets! C'mere, ser!" Egg called out, rushing to the bottom of the bookcase upon which his cat was perched. He pleaded, but the cat seemed indifferent to the distress of the other inhabitants of the library. 

"Hello, Egg," Valarr greeted calmly, having regained his composure and re-established a respectful distance between your body and his. 

"Hello cousin, my lady," Egg replied, eyes still firmly trained on Ser Whiskers, his hands reaching out for the cat who still showed no sign of obedience. "Ser Whiskers will not come down, could you give me a hand?" Indeed, his small stature wouldn't allow his hands to reach the cat's perch. 

Valarr got up from the settee, a fond smile on his lips despite the disappointment blooming in his chest. He approached the cat calmly, and extended his hand to carefully test the waters. His arms were just long enough to reach Ser Whiskers comfortably. 

The orange cat inspected the man in front of him with a skeptical look, unmoving as Valarr cooed soothing words to it and patiently waited. Finally, Ser Whiskers yawned, and relaxed his posture. Taking it as a reluctant acceptance, Valarr gently scooped it up in his hands, and whispered a polite thank you to the cat before handing it to Egg. 

Egg was delighted to hold the cat back in his arms, and enthusiastically shouted his thanks to Valarr. 

"Ser Whiskers, you must not enter this room again, it is not for cats." The little prince scolded the cat, though the effect was minimized by his fond smile. 

"Ser Whiskers? Is your cat a knight, Prince Egg?" You mused, raising an eyebrow at the cat's title. 

At the inquiry to his cat's name, Egg's eyes lit up in joy. "Yes! I had Daeron knight him, he is the best cat at catching rats, and he can be quite fearsome." He explained, making you giggle at the mental imagery of his perpetually drunken brother knighting a very fluffy orange cat. 

"Anyway, I better be going now. My father would be quite cross if he'd heard that Ser Whiskers made it into the family's library." Egg said, turning to the doors with his cat still held in his arms. "Goodbye cousin, my lady," and he was off. 

Valarr sat back down at your side, picking the book back up and placing it on his lap. When your eyes met, he let out an exasperated smile. The tension in the room had left, leaving the atmosphere feeling like a deflated balloon. 

"This is getting ridiculous, love." Valarr shook his head lightly. 

Indeed it was. Who would've thought that sneaking a private little kiss would be faced with such obstacles? 

-

IV. The one time it worked out

The night air was cool on your cheeks as you strolled through the open corridors of the Red Keep, overlooking the main courtyard. All the wedding preparations were getting to you, the incessant viewings of fabric for your dress, your veil, your maiden's cloak, then came the choice of tablecloth, draperies, and cloth napkins. Your mother and Lady Jena were kind enough to be present at every step, offering their experienced expertise when it came to organizing feasts. Though you were not ungrateful for their assistance and support, the lack of any kind of quiet time for yourself was becoming suffocating. 

By the morrows, seamstresses measured every inch of your body, holding up various fabrics against your body and comparing the way they complemented your skin. In the afternoons, there were lessons on history of house Targaryen and their customs, as though you had not learned them several times over in your childhood. And as if these lessons were not tortuous enough, new septas were assigned to you to instruct you on the matters of marriage and your duty to your husband. By evenfall, you felt as though you'd been thoroughly nitpicked, observed under a magnifying glass, and talked about as if your body was merely a piece of meat. 

As a form of protest, you insisted on taking a stroll around the Keep, with only one of your household guards to chaperone you. As always, he kept his distance, but his constant, surveilling gaze pinpricked the back of your neck. You stubbornly ignored his presence, and convinced yourself to enjoy the little bit of peace you had garnered yourself. 

As you turned a sharp corner, you slammed face-first into a much broader, firmer chest than your own. As you yelped and stumbled backwards, a pair of rough, but warm hands steadied you by your arms. Your gaze trailed upwards, irritation threatening to boil over after the last straw that had just been pulled. But when you identified who it was that was standing before you, your temper melted away like snow under the spring sun. Your guard, who had sprung into attention, relaxed as well upon recognising his face. 

"Good evening, love." Valarr's face was lit with the warm fires of braziers, the sharp lines of his face lit in a yellow gold sheen, while the cloudy, moonless night sky painted dark blue shadows. His eyes were slightly sunken from his own exhaustion, no doubt only now having left the council chambers after a grueling day.

"Good evening, Val." Your face split into a grin; he truly was a sight for sore eyes after an exhausting day. 

"Should you be out of your chambers at this hour?" He cocked an eyebrow, but there was no apprehension in his tone, only a slight tease. 

"Should you, your grace?" Your grin widened, as you were aware of how uncomfortable Valarr got when you called him by his title. Valarr shook his head, but he failed to suppress a small smile creeping up at your teasing tone. 

"Come, if you are to be out and about at this hour, at least let me escort you." The excuse was so blatant that you had to resist from snorting out a laugh. You were in the Red Keep after all, and the countless guards stationed at near all corridors were more than enough protection. Nevertheless, you eagerly took his arm, and kept walking the way you were initially headed in. 

Your guards exchanged looks, but held their tongue, and began to follow you some paces behind.  Valarr's body heat was quite pleasant in the cool evening air, his arm a solid anchor for your exhausted mind. 

“How are the preparations treating you, love?” He asked, the term of affection falling freely from his lips, as though it was the most natural thing. 

“Poorly, if I am to be frank,” you sighed. “Although, I must admit that there are crueler fates in this world. I am only whinging about insignificant problems, the coddled highborn lady I am.”

“You’re not simply whinging,” Valarr protested. “The few months before a wedding are always grueling for anybody.” 

“Could be so,” you huffed. “Sometimes, I just wish for a few moments of solitude, you know. Some peace and quiet. It seems ages ago that we’ve had any quiet moments to ourselves, Val.”

Valarr hummed, and looked as though he was weighing something in his mind. After a few moments, he stopped in his tracks, and looked back to the guards.

“The lady and I do not have further need of you, sers. You are dismissed for the evening.” His voice was soft, yet carried an air of authority.

“My prince, I fear that would be unadvisable. To leave you to walk alone at this hour-“ His guard stuttered out.

“I am more than capable of protecting her and myself. If it is improperness that worries you so, I fear your concerns would be for naught as well. Do you truly believe I would dishonor my betrothed in these open corridors, where there are guards posted every few yards?” Valarr interrupted, his voice remaining calm and steady.

“No, my prince.” The guard lowered his gaze.

“Then do us a kindness, and relieve yourselves of your duties for the night. I will see her escorted to her chambers unharmed, and with her honor intact.” His tone was final.

You raised your eyebrows at your soft-spoken, dutiful prince using his authority for his own gain. This was highly irregular, and amused you to no end. You suppressed a giggle as the guards walked away, your shoulders shaking slightly.

“Have I said something amusing?” Valarr asked as you started walking again, his eyes twinkling under the torchlight and the corner of his lips tugging into a smile. 

“Nothing, my gracious prince,” you teased, “I just appreciate having you all to myself now.”

Your steps carried you to the entrance to the godswood at the heart of the Keep. The guards at the gate bowed at the sight of Valarr, and let you through without question.

"Ser Meron, Ser Willam, if I hear of any whispers on this, I shall know it came from you. You are not to speak of our presence here to a single soul." Valarr calmly ordered the guards. The guards tensed at being addressed to by their names by the prince, but sternly nodded in agreement.

The godswood took up a whole acre of space, and its existence, placed dead center of the castle always fascinated you.

“These woods seemed to stretch out endlessly when I was little,” you breathed out. “Always felt as if it was a whole, separate world inside of the Keep.”

“It sort of is,” Valarr replied. “I still remember the games we used to play, and the stories we used to read together. Here, I did not have to think of future duties, nor of my position as a crown prince. It was just the two of us.” His eyes seemed to look into the distance, as if recalling the little boy back then, who had been carrying the weight of his inheritance ever since he could speak in full sentences. 

“To be frank, it was mostly you reading to me, while I pestered you to reread my favourites for the fiftieth time”, you laughed, leaning against his shoulder as you walked. 

“I didn’t mind, love. I never did. Would have read them to you hundred times over, even back then.” Valarr stated, as though it was a mere fact. Then, he came to a stop in front of the heart tree, a nostalgic look in his face.

You heart stuttered at that. Your eyes found his, and he turned his head to meet your gaze. The godswood was only lit faintly by the moon, which had finally peaked its face out from behind the clouds. Valarr let go of your arm to stand before you, brushing out a rogue strand of hair out of your face, and tucking it behind your ear. You reached for his hand, his right hand, before he could drop it back to his side. You gingerly held his hand in your own, and placed a soft kiss on his palm. At that, his body went rigid.

Turning his hand over to inspect the children’s sized signet ring on his little finger, you smiled fondly at the memory of the day you’d gifted it to him all these years ago. Your thumb traced your family’s sigil upon it mindlessly as you looked up at his face.

“I ought to get you another one of these, this is just far too small now.” You murmured.

“I’m keeping this one, dearest. It’s from you.” 

“Well, at least let the goldsmith resize it for you. Then, you may be able to wear it on your middle or pointer finger again.” You compromised, his hand still firmly in your hold.

“As you wish, my love.” Valarr breathed out, closing the distance between your bodies, and slipping his hand out of your grasp to gently cup your face.

You were transfixed by Valarr’s mismatched eyes staring straight through your soul, his lips slightly parted in anticipation. As he leaned down to finally, finally close the distance, your eyes fluttered shut and you brought your hands up to rest on his broad chest. 

When his plush lips finally met yours, the initial contact sent an electric buzz down your entire body. Your lips moved clumsily against each other, and you felt Valarr’s hand on your jaw tremble slightly, as though he was afraid to somehow break the divinity of the moment with a too rash touch of his hand. As you pushed your body even closer against his, his free hand came to rest on the small of your back, gently pulling you impossibly closer against himself. Your breaths mixed with one another, your head spinning from either the lack of air or the intoxicating touch of his lips.

As your lips reluctantly parted from each other, you let out a quiet, giddy laugh. Valarr rested his forehead against yours, his breath lightly brushing against your skin. 

“Gods, finally,” you giggled, cheeks flushed and your chest heaving.

Valarr let out a small laugh at that, and pressed a kiss onto your forehead. “I love you,” he whispered, as though he was saying a prayer.

“I love you too, Val. In case that was not clear.” You leaned back to look up at him, flashing him a bright smile. He pulled you into another kiss at your confession, with only the heart tree and the moon peeking from between the clouds as witness.

-

Notes: here's a snippet about my favourite couple to write about! Thank you all for the love for the main fic, every single reblog and comment warmed my heart so so dearly🥰

Also, on Daeron's salt and sugar lemon tea: the symptoms of a hangover largely come from dehydration, as alcohol centrally inhibits the production of a hormone which regulates the fluid retention in your body. So some water mixed with the right amount of salt, sugar, and citric acid will usually fix it right up:) or even better, drink it before going to sleep after a bender. tried and tested by yours truly <3

[captainfern]

FEED US MORE BAELOR. FEED US MORE BAELOR. FEED US—

dinner is served then

18+ (smut, reader gets bent over the desk, hella praise, breeding? idk it’s a creampie from a certified dilf so…..)

there is a gentleness in your husband’s nature, a softness in his mismatched eyes and a tenderness in his guiding hands, that often make you forget he is of dragon blood. he is a targaryen, born from the ashes of great conquests and forged from the steel of a warrior’s blade.

but where shadows stretch thicker, more dense where they cling to stone walls, and where doors bolt shut and candles illuminate in thin veils of amber, you find yourself remembering. you find yourself remembering just how potent the targaryen bloodline is.

baelor’s hands on your hips are bruising in their hold, fingers gripping flesh as you bend yourself over the sturdy wooden desk in his solar. your trembling fingers curl over the edge as you arch your back, your skirts bunched up tightly around your waist as your husband drives into you over and over.

there’s a dull ache seated in your womb from the force of his thrusts, and a tension in your thighs as you part your legs for him. skin slaps against skin, the sound echoing throughout the room, a nearby candle flickering with your joint movements. you rock against the desk, sweat building beneath your bodice, clinging to the curve of your spine and beneath the swell of your breasts where they’re pinned to the wood.

baelor grunts loudly above you with each rut of his cock. your pussy opens for him, silken walls split wet and hot around the thick of his cock. he grunts like a fighting man—like a man battling with his own pleasure, heavy balls landing firmly against your clit, a honey-thick tension pooling at the base of his spine.

he holds you tightly, heart leaping against his sternum as he listens to the whines and whimpers that drop from your lips. the clutch of your cunt sucks him in, warm and deep and his, and he can’t stop the groan of your name that follows a particularly deep, rolling thrust towards the plug of your womb.

“such a sweet girl,” baelor manages, vowels hoarse around another grunt. he feels your pussy flutter around him, and he coos, “my perfect girl, bending and taking me so well, aren’t you?”

you nod with your cheek pressed to the desk, but it doesn’t work too well. instead, you dip further into an arch, sucking him in even deeper as he ruts up towards the base of your cervix, the angle pulling him in close. you moan loudly when the head of his cock nudges up against that perfect spot inside you, and you can’t help the way your legs begin to tremble when he drives into that spot over and over again.

“my best girl,” baelor continues his praise, rolling his hips in a way that has you writhing beneath him. but he holds you firmly, unyielding in his strength as he fucks you. “you always do so well for me.”

“baelor,” you gasp out, suddenly feeling breathless. your orgasm looms like a phantom, hovering just out of reach but drawing nearer the more you chant—sporadic moans of baelor’s name and title as your body grows hot. you whimper, a stiff knot of pleasure in the very base of your tummy. “oh gods, baelor.”

baelor groans in response, hips stuttering for a moment before he collects himself with a whisper of your name. “my girl. all mine—you’re all mine, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

you can’t respond. his cock pushes so deep inside you that it knocks the air from your lungs, and you’re too busy trying not to drown in your own pleasure to string together a proper sentence. but your husband won’t settle for that: he rucks his hips hard into you, shunting you against the desk and forcing a yowl from the back of your throat.

“aren’t you?” baelor repeats, panting as he moves. sweat beads high on his forehead, a sticky heat trapped beneath the thick material of his tunic and doublet. he continues, “you’re all mine?”

“yes,” you blurt out around a moan as you shake against his desk, the glass bottle of a nearby inkwell trembling with you. your pussy clenches tight around the thick of his cock, stretched out and drooling where you bend for him. the heat of your orgasm rapidly begins to cook you alive, and you’re panting before you can stop yourself. “yes, baelor, oh my gods.”

“ah, such a good listener,” baelor says, lilting and almost mocking as you hurtle towards release. he brings you back against him, admiring the ripple of your flesh as he moves you against his pelvis. he takes a hand and palms the fat of your arse cheek. “i love it when you do what you’re told.”

the way he says that undoes the knot of pleasure inside you, and you come with one final moan of his name. he fucks you through it, thrusting deep and hard towards the plug of your womb, grunting as you come apart beneath him. you shake, limbs trembling as you huff and moan and mewl, sounds bouncing off the stone walls. your pussy clenches around his cock, fluttering with the hammering of your heart, and the tension in your body releases.

“oh there she is, that’s it,” baelor murmurs, patting your arse before taking hold of your hips again. he pulls you to him, desk groaning in protest as he ruts into you again and again. the pressure inside him builds, and builds still, until he feels the muscles in his jaw working as he grits out, “and now she’s going to take my—ha, uh—my cum, yeah? s’that what you want?”

because you’re such a good listener, you nod. you nod deliriously, mewling for him to spill inside you, stuff you full. his response is a deep, resonating groan that echoes more dragon then man, followed by a hushed whimper of your name. then, he’s shoving himself to the hilt inside you, a sheathing of valyrian steel, hands bunched tightly on your hips, and spilling.

his head falls back, the lump in his throat working as he moans and comes deep inside you. his balls jerk, drawing up from where they rested against your slick folds as his hips falter to a stop. baelor groans again, emptying himself until he’s satiated. he folds himself then, when his heart no longer clatters against his ribs, across your back, pressing you even harder into the desk.

“my best girl,” he whispers, nosing your cheek. “my special girl.”

[hayatistic]

content warning: nsfw. (assisted) masturbation. underlying corruption kink. makeshift blindfold. naive reader. dubious consent. some blood consumption.

The first time you see Baelor is outside your father’s study.

He’s speaking in a low, conspiratorial pitch, but you can still hear traces of their conversation through the wood your ear is pressing against–the topic of discussion being that of his eldest nephew, who is, apparently, of marrying age.

The richness that coats his voice is audible despite his words being mostly muffled by the thick, oak door, “My brother finds himself preoccupied with his second son as well as the youngest two of his offspring,” there’s a brief pause, then, “it has left him unable to find a suitable match for his eldest son.” 

“I understand, your grace,” is all you are able to hear because two servants are passing by with a loud, wobbling cart that drowns out the last portion of the conversation. 

Just as they’ve rounded the corner, dousing the corridor in silence once more, the handle of your father’s study twists and you’re spinning on your heels to hide behind the nearest stone column.

Your breath catches when you see him exit.

He’s draped in black and dark red silks that accentuate the width of his shoulders and tapered waist, and dons two rings, a pin in the shape of a hand atop his left shoulder, and a heavy weariness that nearly makes you wish you could relieve him of his burdens. 

Though, it’s the dark hair atop his head, heavily sprinkled with strands of silver and grey, and the mesmerizing dual-toned colour of his eyes that captures your attention, causing you to freeze like an ensnared rabbit the moment his stare settles on you.

“Come, come.” your father calls, beckoning you to approach their towering forms with a fond smile, “Your grace, allow me to introduce my only daughter.”

Baelor’s expression falters the tiniest bit–his brows raise and head tilts as he studies you with a slow blink and a fixed, assessing look. 

A soft, “Hello,” leaves his lips, sending an array of chills over your skin despite the syrupy, hushed tone that is used to speak it.

You bow, “Your grace,” and your voice cracks in spite of the effort you put in to disguise the fact that you are, quite evidently, intimidated by the older man.

Your palms dampen and nape begins to buzz under the weight that shrouds his gaze; an unsettling warmth rises over your chest and throat, drifting upwards until it burns the flesh of your cheeks.

“Forgive me, I will take my leave. It was a pleasure to meet you, your grace.” with another low bow, you await their dismissal and then retreat to somewhere you can catch your breath. 

You halt only when the reason behind your heart’s erratic rhythm is exertion, not a pair of odd-coloured eyes.

You are informed, three moons later, that your house and House Targaryen would be a formidable match–one that will soon be united through marriage.

Surprisingly, you find yourself at ease with the decision, it is not entirely unexpected given what you had overheard. What is unexpected is who you are betrothed to; you had been certain the heir had been negotiating the terms for your hand in his nephew's place, only for him to end up as your betrothed.

A fortnight later, Baelor returns, but not empty handed–an array of beautifully crafted wooden cases accompany him, all filled to the brim with expensive oils, muslins and silks, spices, and jewels in the form of matching sets.

During the celebratory feast, he goes out of his way to make you feel at ease, querying how you enjoy spending your days, what preferences you have when it comes to sweet or savory delicacies, if you prefer horseback riding in the mornings or evenings. 

He is maddeningly attentive in a way that is, quite frankly, dizzying. 

Despite enthusiastically answering each one of his questions, and occasionally asking one of your own in return, you could scarcely meet his eyes and you did not have to, to know that they did not leave your face for the remainder of the festivity. 

There was a physical weight that accompanied his scrutiny–you had dug your nails into the meaty flesh of your palms to refrain from passing out.

The wedding takes place a moon after he returns to King’s Landing, with you by his side.

The ceremony is a combination of both of your houses’ traditions; bleeding lips meet, the fingers of bound hands interlace, a chaste kiss is pressed against your skin–leaving a residual mark and the evidence of your union on your forehead.

Baelor leads you to the banquet hall, past boisterous hollers, which the both of you spend barely a quarter of an hour within before he’s leading you down the main hallway, to a wing of the castle you were not given access to prior.

He turns to assess you, “Are you well?” the fluttering in your belly intensifies at the sound of his raspy timbre.

“I am well, your grace.” your reply is almost too soft to hear.

Baelor’s eyes slip, for the smallest fraction of a beat, to your chest before swiftly returning to your face as he outlines your schedule for the next two moons, “If there’s anything you wish to add or remove, please, tell me.”

Then, he’s pushing open a beautifully carved door–one that was unlike anything you had ever seen before–and beckons you inside with a gentle smile and raised hand.

Quivering legs carry you into the chamber, continuing until you are close enough to perch yourself upon the silken bedding. Your intertwined fingers rest atop your lap as you sit with a stillness that mimics the carved statues that line the corridors, and a growing warmth that swells over your face.

Baelor is quiet for a long beat, head tilting as he remains near the door; it goes unsaid that he stands between you and the only route of exit. He’s watching you with a strange glint within the blue and brown of his eyes–it makes your stomach churn from a combination of awareness and uncertainty. 

“What have you been told of tonight?”

The hammering in your chest increases until it’s a deafening rumble that makes it difficult for you to hear your own response, “Forgive my crude language, your grace, I was informed that you will.. slide against me, and then I will be with child.”

The faint creases bordering his eyes deepen, following the pattern of his dark, long lashes. 

Baelor moves to crouch in front of your seated form, hands rising with a deliberate leisureliness so as to not startle you when he begins unlacing your gown.

He’s so close and so incredibly warm.

“Thank you, your grace,” your words are breathy when they hit the air, ignoring the sensation that arises when his exhale fans against your bare shoulder, “you have been so kind.”

There’s an indescribable expression marring his face as he quickens his pace until, a mere moment later, he’s freeing you of the fabrics that cover your shuddering figure.

Did he mean to take you with the blood smeared across your faces? 

“There’s more to it than sliding against one another,” Baelor explains, studying your features with a ferocity that has your face burning hotter and eyes focusing on the line of dried blood that splits his bottom lip, “have you ever touched yourself?"

The casual way he inquires sends a spike of shock up your back, “No!” your fingers clutch at the bedding below as you quickly add, “Your grace.”

His fingers begin unbuttoning his own ceremonial attire, making a show of slowly unlatching every clasp and tugging at strings. Once the final lace is loosened, he murmurs, “Touch yourself,” and takes a step closer to your sprawled form.

You freeze, the speed of your breathing fills the gap between his expectant stature and your flustered expression. When you meet his gaze, your throat tightens as though it means to suffocate you.

“Where, your grace?”

“Between your legs.” he answers as a hand rises to comb through his beard, reminding you of what it had felt like when he had kissed your forehead; the hairs had been softened by oils–a mixed blend that you recognized as jasmine, amber, and saffron. 

Your brows furrow, confusion licks at every ounce of your being, unraveling every lesson you have been taught, “But, you are..”

When your hands do not move from their hold on the clumped silks you rest upon, he removes the dark red sash that had been tied around his waist that morning, then wraps it around your eyes before securing it in place with a firm, but undoable, knot behind your head. 

“Your grace?” worry replaces the confusion you feel.

Baelor’s response is a low-pitched murmur, “It would please me,” you hear him take a step closer until the soft fabric of his breeches are brushing against your thin skirt, “if you pleasured yourself.”

A nervous tremor passes over you–a prickling feeling that climbs up your arms, burrowing itself beneath blood and sinew to reside within bone.

“Spread your legs,” he quietly commands and your throat snags on a shallow, tremulous breath, betraying the traitorous heat unfurling within you despite your mortified stillness.

You recall the little guidance your mother had offered you, “Lie back,” and, “it will end quickly,” but especially, “do not disobey his grace.”

Trembling fingers lift your sheer skirt to settle between the slick-smeared centre of your legs, “Oh,” you whimper; the lack of vision combined with the heightening of sensations and an eagerness to please has you jolting the instant your digit makes contact with your heated flesh.

“Lower,” Baelor instructs, “yes–one finger, slowly,” your skin burns as though it may ignite any moment now.

Once again, his pleasing baritone wraps itself around you, weaving through your senses until all that remains is the way he enunciates every word that leaves his lips–the crisp sharpness in the way select letters are formed on his tongue.

“Gently, like that, yes–very good,” Baelor’s voice is low and hoarse, making him sound almost.. angry.

Your finger follows his instructions, collecting the wetness that you had produced, separating your puffy folds, massaging the bud at the top in small, circular motions until your limbs are spasming and your movements are jerky and desperate.

“I cannot–,” you pause your ministrations, chest heaving as you listen to the sound of his ragged breathing reverberate over the stone walls, “please, I do not..”

In a flash, he’s above you, descending to lick at the vein thrumming wildly over the length of your throat, and all remnants of propriety leaves your quivering form. The low groans he lets out in tandem with your own mewls produces a wetter, noisier slick between your legs. 

He smells so good.

A calloused, heated hand grasps your nape as a pair of lips press against your own; his tongue swipes along the seam of your mouth and, when you gasp, he takes advantage of the parting to taste you. 

The residual blood that coats both of your lips fills your tastebuds, eliciting an embarrassed whine from your throat.

The invasion of the muscle is quick and unrelenting, stroking against yours in a way that makes your stomach flip pleasantly. His hand ascends to tangle in your hair–angling your head exactly how he wants it whilst tilting your face to reach even the deepest crevices of your mouth.

You had never conjured that such intimacies could exist, especially ones as overwhelming and possessive as this. 

Baelor pulls your final layer of garment upwards until the entirety of your body is on display, then, slots his knuckle alongside your finger to languidly move over the arousal smeared between your folds. 

“Does that feel good, pretty girl?” he croons, rubbing at your swollen, heated flesh with practiced touches as you struggle to form a coherent reply.

“Oh, ple–please,” you’re sobbing, fingers clutching at the ivory cuff around his wrist; you're releasing over his hand with a high-pitched cry and uncontrollable convulsions.

His mouth trails down your chest to lick at the sheen of sweat coating your skin; his sharp teeth tug at your nipples, alternating between suckling and biting until another release is trickling down your legs. 

“Sweet girl,” Baelor rasps, his touch transforms from precise and unrelenting to featherlight as his hand ascends to caress the skin below your navel. 

Once you catch your breath, he withdraws. 

Through the thundering of your own heart in your ears, you hear the jostling of clothes, boots being carelessly kicked to the side, and the sound, as well as the physical sensation, of the bed creaking as it dips under his weight.

“I want you to follow my instructions,” Baelor begins with a lilt, his nose nudges at your jaw and your lashes flutter against the sash hindering you from seeing, “can you do that for me, my dear?”

“Yes, your grace.”

[valarrmorghvlis]

The Marriage Contract

Valarr Targaryen x highborn!reader (no physical description, no specific house mentioned, pick one for yourselves:))

Summary: based on this idea. Valarr has always been a shy, slightly socially inept child, until you held out your hand and invited him to join your friend group. The friendship blooms, and soon you are each other's dearest, closest childhood companions. So close, in fact, that you write a pact to marry each other when you both come of age. When your family has to leave King's Landing, you are devastated, but Valarr promises you will meet again when you are to wed each other. A decade later, you've forgotten about the contract, but he never has.

Tags/Tropes: fluff! so much fluff! friends to lovers, he falls first and hardest, innocent love, betrothal, getting together, reader is oblivious and confused until the end, childhood friends, yearning Valarr, YEARN pretty boy yearn!, Baelor has a headache. Reader has supportive parents (don't we all wish for some)

Rating: sfw (surprise!)

My Masterlist

WC: 12,960 words (whoopsie)

-

197 AC

The godswood of the Red Keep was full of children's laughter. In the wake of the Blackfyre rebellion, it had been nigh on two and a half years since these woods had been graced with the pitter-patter of the small feet, loud giggles which cut through the air like little wind chimes and screams of joy. Now the little lordlings and ladies were returning to the godswood, the heavy air of solemnity lifted like a veil. 

Valarr was sitting by the heart tree, watching the other children play come-into-my-castle from afar. The little prince, at the green age of five, was fidgeting with the hem of his cloak with his little fingers, wishing but not daring to join the game. In the middle of the makeshift castle's borders made out of tree branches, Aelor, his cousin, only one year his elder, was holding his court with a young courtier's son. Around them were at least five to six other children of the Keep, shouting out their suggestions for the identity of the lord of the keep. 

"By your weirwood tree you can only be the bannerman of Lord Tully, Lord Bracken, and so I name you" the courtier's little son declared at the entrance of the tree branch castle, his chest puffed out in certainty. 

"Wrong! You're all wrong! I'm Lord Blackwood, you've got my sigil all wrong!" Aelor shouted out in joy, pumping his small fist in the air. "Nobody made it into my castle, so I win!"

Valarr got up from his observation post, and timidly made his way to the group of boys. "Aelor, I want to play too! Maester Archibald said that I am good at learning the sigils of the houses! I could.." 

"No! we don't have any more space for you, cousin. We're already too many, and we have to wait so long for our turns", Aelor cut him off. The older princeling had never liked his cousin very much, his mismatched blue and brown eyes and dark brown hair with only a thin streak of white drawing a stark contrast to the rest of his family. Everybody else had beautiful, pure Valyrian features, even Daeron, with his dirty blond hair, had lilac eyes to show for it. But Valarr looked half Dornish in coloring, just like his father Baelor.

Rejection stung Valarr's eyes, especially after he had been so brave to get up and ask the boys to play. As he nodded and made his way back to the heart tree, a small hand reached out and tapped on his shoulder. 

When he turned around, he came face to face with you, a child of five as well. You had a big grin on your face, eyes twinkling and hair done up in a braided bun. He knew you from sight; your mother had come to court recently with her household to be a companion to his own mother. 

"Our mothers are friends, so we should be friends too!" You exclaimed, "we're going to play monsters and maidens, you should come play with us!" You waved at the little group of boys and girls a few yards away. 

Valarr blushed at the invitation. Though children were careless beings, they weren't careless enough to disregard the obvious hierarchy between their parents. Other children were taught to be weary of accidentally injuring him; leading to most other children's hesitation to let him into their games. He felt addressed to as an ordinary child for the first time in his short life, and grasped his first chance at a friendship with his small hands. 

When he nodded, you took his hand in yours, shouted out to your little group of friends that he "absolutely had to join" your game of chase, and hurriedly dragged him to them. 

That was the first time he felt the warm, fluttering happiness of making a new, genuine friend. 

-

The two of you were fast friends, soon inseparable apart from the hours spent at your lessons. When Valarr would curl up with a fairytale book under a tree, his little head already adept with his letters, — maesters called him a prodigy, already reading deftly and starting to write at only five years of age —  you'd sprawl out next to him and listen to him read aloud stories of knights, dragons, and princesses, begging him to read you another story before supper time. 

"If we were the princess and the knight from the story, we could befriend the dragon instead of killing it", you mumbled, staring into the leaves rustling in the wind and the bright blue sky. "We could fly away on the dragon, and build a castle on a beautiful unknown island. Then we'd only eat cake, and go on adventures all the time, just the three of us. We'd declare the island ours, and nobody else would be allowed in!"

Valarr's cheeks flushed pink. You liked it when he blushed, you liked pink and you liked Valarr's squishy cheeks. It was a great combination. 

"But what about our families?" He lightly furrowed his brows. Valarr, the little prince, so dutiful even at his age. 

"They could still visit us whenever they want, they're family!" You exclaimed, as if it were the most obvious thing. "

"That'd be nice", he smiled lightly, already envisioning your castle on an island far away, living with you, the dragon, and flying into the sunset for adventures. He'd be your knight, and you'd be his princess. He'd protect you from any harm and get you all the lemon cakes you wanted. 

-

198AC

When Valarr's sixth nameday came, you'd already been six for three whole moon cycles. By then, you'd been inseparable for almost a year, and your families were completely endeared by your friendship.

You woke up on the morrow buzzing from excitement for your closest companion's nameday, almost vibrating in your chair while breaking your fast with your parents. They suggested visiting prince Baelor's family in his solar to bring his son's nameday present, a richly ornamented saddle for his pony.

"Val's six too now, Papa!" you cried out, elated by the thought of being allowed to visit your friend so early in the morning. 

"That he is, my darling." His eyes crinkled in amusement. 

You were practically bouncing at the door when your household set out from your quarters, running laps around your parents and the servants holding the big boxes meant for Valarr. 

When your little procession arrived at the door to Baelor's solar, you sprinted off and nimbly sidestepped the poor startled guards at the door, slamming the doors open and running into the room to see your dearest friend. 

"Happy nameday Val!" You shouted, running straight at him and hugging him tightly. The impact of the hug was great enough that he let out a huff of breath, and only croaked out a quiet "thank you". 

Behind you, your parents were apologizing to the guards, but entered nevertheless, and greeted the heir's household. The servants placed the present boxes on the floor next to the gift pile, then bowed before they took their leave.

"My prince, dear Jena, we wish you the jolliest and the most blessed nameday for Prince Valarr. Apologies for our daughter's.. overflowing enthusiasm to congratulate his little grace." 

Your mother dipped into a curtsy, your father bowing his head next to her. 

Lady Jena was having none of the formalities, and crossed the room in quick steps to greet your mother in a hug, followed by two quick kisses on the cheeks. "Thank you dearly to you both for the lovely wishes, that is most kind. And Baelor and I are simply delighted that our children are so close. It endears me greatly that their friendship blooms so wonderfully just as ours did."

As the adults sat on the high-backed lounge chairs while discussing their mysterious adult topics, Valarr and you padded to his little brother's crib, Valarr wishing to introduce you to his mere 3-weeks old baby brother. 

"He's so little", you wondered at his impossibly tiny hands and feet. 

"His name is Matarys", Valarr introduced him. "Matarys, this here is my closest friend", he then solemnly introduced you to the little newborn, stating your given and family name to the babe as if the little one was to remember it. You giggled at that, and played with his tiny hands. 

"Do you want to open the gifts with me?" Valarr suggested, pointing at the high-piled boxes of gifts from the entire realm. 

You nodded, excited at unboxing the undoubtedly beautiful gifts sent to the crown prince. You both sat at the foot of the pile cross-legged, delightedly tearing through the delicate packaging and revealing the gifts one by one. There was a bejeweled dagger, the pommel a golden dragon's head with a ruby in its open maw. The next was a beautifully stitched doublet, made of shining black and red velvet. Your parents had gifted him a gilded saddle and bridle for his pony, with jeweled ornaments running through the straps. As you looked through the gifts, your face suddenly saddened. 

"What's the matter?" Valarr asked, his brows scrunching up in concern. 

"I have nothing to gift you", you murmured, fidgeting with your necklace. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, commissioned by Baelor at Valarr's insistent demand for your last nameday. The fine golden chain held a delicate pendant, a huge blue topaz placed between winding golden vines. Baelor and Jena had gifted you a matching diadem, a masterpiece done by the castle's goldsmith with blue topaz ornaments and swirling ivy vines. 

You regretted not insisting on getting Valarr a present of your own, especially as he had asked his father to commission something so beautiful just for you three moons ago. 

Valarr's eyebrows furrowed further in confusion. "Your parents have already gifted me the saddle and bridle. You have no need to get me anything else."

You shook your head, and looked down to the floor in consideration. Then, you took your ring off your pointer finger, a small signet ring with your family's sigil on it. 

"I can't take that, that's yours." Valarr shook his head.

"Yes you can, I have many other rings just like this", you insisted as you took his left hand and slid it onto his index finger. "Also, now you have a gift from just me, which is good because best friends should always gift each other things for their namedays."

Valarr flushed while looking down at the signet ring on his finger. He didn't protest any longer, and smiled shyly at you. "Thank you. I'll always cherish it." He nodded solemnly with his promise. 

-

The idea came to you on a sunny day, when you were both lying in the grass, out of breath from the last game of monster and maiden. The two of you hadn't found any other children to join you, already tied up in other games or off to lessons. But playing only with Valarr was just as fun as with the whole group, his company always beat everybody else's. You were looking up at the clouds, thinking that they looked like a herd of sheep traversing a light blue lake.

Suddenly, the idea struck you. 

“Val,” you called, and he hummed in response. “We should get married when we’re older.”

Valarr craned his neck around to look at you, confusion evident in his eyes.

“If we get married, we could be best friends like this forever. Just the two of us. Septa Marya says that one day, my parents will choose a Lord for me to marry, but I don’t want to do that. We could get married like the princess and the knight, and go on adventures and see all the wonders of the world, just like in the books.” You continued, still gazing up at the clouds, imagining the scenes from the fairytales.

He smiled at that. “Yes, we should get married when we’re grownups. I’d like that. Maybe we could go sailing across the Jade Sea, I read that dragons still live there.”

You sat up, looking at him with a smile blooming on your face. "Do you promise?"

"I promise. On my honor." He sat up to face you, and nodded with all the solemness a six-year-old could muster. 

"We need a more serious promise, though. In case we grow up and forget", you added. 

Valarr hummed in agreement. "We could make a vow on the parchment. My father says that a promise made with words on a parchment and then sealed with the houses' sigils are binding." 

"If you want to promise to marry me", he quickly added, a soft blush creeping onto his cheeks. "You don't have to if you don't want to." But your excitement took momentum, and now you were consumed by the idea of being being friends with Valarr forever, without having to marry someone you did not know yet like Septa Marya said. 

"I want to! We have to get married Val, it would be the best thing! But," you hesitated. "How would we make the vow? I don't know how that works."

"I saw a parchment at my father's desk once, I can do it. We just need the big signet rings from our fathers so we can stamp the seals." Val's so smart, you marveled. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent with barely muffled giggles and whispers, as Valarr fleshed out the plan for you. Your little conspiracy meeting only ended when your mothers each sent their maidservants to collect you for supper; even then, you parted ways reluctantly.

-

The two of you chose to execute your plan while the royal party was on a hunting trip. Your parents would be absent from the Keep, with only the servants and the maester or septa to keep watch over you. It would almost be too easy to sneak off to the Hand's Tower and draft an unofficial official document. 

After your parents left the Keep, you sneaked to the solar, where your father's velvet doublet hung over the backrest of a chaise longue. When you patted the breast pocket, where you had observed your father tucking his ring into before riding off to the kingswood, you felt the distinct shape of a ring under your fingers. You pocketed it, evading the eyes of the maidservants. Your heart was beating wildly, and your hands were visibly shaking, never having taken something without leave before like this. But as you left the quarters and headed to the Hand's Tower, the anxiety soon turned into giddiness, with your giggles barely contained as you skipped the rest of the way. 

This felt like an adventure, a mischief, something that the characters from your fairytale did. Like a princess outwitting a cruel witch to reverse her spells, or a young knight valiantly stealing the keys to the cage of his one true love from the pockets of the sleeping giant. If you did this, you and Valarr could live out your dreams, never separated from each other's closest friend. 

Valarr was waiting at the door to his father's office, grinning widely from excitement. The door was not locked by some wonder, and the two of you padded in to the chamber, giggling and whispering from the excitement. 

Valarr sat himself in his father's chair, sitting at the edge of the seat so he'd be able to reach over the desk, while you sprawled across the armchair, facing him. "So what now?" You asked. Valarr was the mastermind of this plan, after all. 

"Now, we write our promises", Valarr stated, pulling out a blank parchment from a drawer after searching for a moment. He dipped the quill into the inkpot, and his hand hovered over the empty page. "Are you sure?" He raised his eyebrows, seeking your confirmation with a hint of insecurity in his expression. 

"Yes! It's going to be amazing when we're married, Val. We're going to go see the God's Eye, the Free Cities, and have a baker make us treats for all meals!" You giggled. Your priorities clearly stood with confectioneries tied to the royal sugar bakers.

"I am going to need to see how to write just like father does", Valarr mumbled as he pulled a parchment with a filled out contract — something about orchards and taxes — and a seal stamped upon it, "it needs to look official."

Valarr was now leaning over the parchment, occasionally looking over to his reference material, brows furrowed in concentration so the letters would be as orderly as possible. While he painstakingly wrote down the short terms of your contract, you were busy lying across the armchair and listing off all the things you wanted to do once you were grown up. Valarr, ever the polite, dutiful child, made sure to answer with "yes, sure" or a hum every once in a while. 

Once done, he pushed the parchment filled with his over to you, his eyes shining with pride. On top of the parchment, both of your names were listed with the proper titles. 

This contract made on the fifth day of the seventh moon of year 198 AC between the two persons parties above binds them in a pact of marriage. When Prince Valarr Targaryen comes of age, the two parties will be joined in marriage in a sacred ceremony. 

This agreement is valid in every corcom circumstance without conditions.

Signed,

Valarr Targaryen 

Your lips moved quietly as you sounded the words out, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. Next to his signature at the bottom of the page, the three-headed dragon of his house was drawn clumsily. 

"What is a pact?" You lifted your eyes, curious over the new word.

"I think it means an agreement or promise in official words, I found it on this sheet." Valarr waved the other parchment in his hand. 

You nodded, quietly marveling at Valarr's adeptness with his letters. The words sounded so grown-up; and the penmanship was slightly wonky, but to you, it looked as perfect as any. 

"Now what?" You asked again. 

"Now you sign your name, and we stamp it. Then, it's official." Valarr said solemnly. 

You took the quill from his hand, and dipped it into the ink. Septa Marya had shown you how to write your name, stating that it was the foremost essential thing a lady should be able to spell. You pressed the tip of the quill into the page, your effort evident in your furrowed brows and tongue sticking out of the side of your mouth. The signature was a little shaky, but it was written in your best cursive, and you reckoned Septa Marya would be proud. Then, you scribbled the sigil of your house next to it, just as Valarr had. 

"Now, we stamp", Valarr put the stick of black wax on the desk, a slight look of hesitation on his face. He was afraid of burning his fingers on it, but he tried his best not to show it as he heated it against the candlelight and dripped the wax onto the parchment. He then rummaged through the drawers and produced a big signet ring, which he then pressed into the wax. You watched, fascinated by the process. Elated, you took the wax from his hand and copied his actions, stamping your father's signet ring into the little pool of wax. 

"Is it done? Is it official now?" You bounced in your seat, clapping your hands from excitement while Valarr blew on the seals to dry them. 

"It is", he confirmed once he was done, a big grin splitting his face. You squealed, then pulled him down from his father's chair to hug him tightly. You were going to marry Valarr, and now you were going to be best friends with him until the end of days. 

-

The news of your departure from King's Landing came abruptly on a cloudy afternoon. Your parents had summoned you to the solar after your lessons, and sat you down on the armchair across from them with a serious look on their face. 

Your initial confusion faded and a feeling of despair and sadness descended upon you as they explained that you'd all have to return home. As they went on about the inheritance conflicts between the minor houses of your region and how they, as their liege, would have to be present to manage the quarrels, your mind wandered to everything you’d be leaving behind. What of your friends here? What of the delicious cakes and beautiful gardens? And most importantly, what of Valarr, your best friend? 

Their faces blurred as your eyes welled up with tears. Although you pressed your lips together to appear brave, a helpless sob wrenched itself from your mouth. 

Your mother noticed your distressed state, leaving her seat to kneel before your armchair and hug you tightly until you'd calmed. Your mother's hand drew slow circles on your back, whispering words of consolation. 

"When do we leave?" You asked as your mother loosed her hug, teardrops clinging to your lashes. 

"In four days, at daybreak." Your father had a look of sadness as well, knowing that his daughter had found true, close friends at court. His guilt at having to tear you away from them due to his and your mother's duties as lord and lady paramount apparent in his expression. He’d always been exceptionally lenient to his only daughter’s wishes, but now he was faced with a wish he could not possibly fulfill.

But the promise. What of the promise with Valarr? You were going to get married. Panic washed over you. 

"But what about Valarr? We were going to get married. I promised him," the truth spilled out of you with a new wave of tears. You let out a poorly contained sob, and your mother held you again in her arms as you buried your face in her shoulders. 

"I'm sorry, sweetling. We both are. But sadly, it cannot be helped." She patted your back, assuming the talk of marriage was simply a talk of a child's whimsy, a play-pretend between two children. Children could be quite imaginative when playing, after all. 

You sniffled, but nodded. No more fairytale readings with Valarr, no more playing lord of the crossing or monsters and maidens with the children of the court — and Valarr, of course —, and no more pony rides with your parents and Prince Baelor's household. Your little heart ached from the farewell, but you knew you could not stay when your parents were returning to your ancestral home.

When you took your leave to go to the godswood, your eyes were still red and swollen from the tears. Valarr spotted you from afar, and got up from his seat under the heart tree — our seat, you thought — to greet you, but his face fell when he saw your expression. He placed the fairytale tome on the ground, and walked up to you to meet you halfway. 

"What's the matter?" His eyes searched your face, seemingly trying to guess the source of your distress from your look alone. 

"We're leaving, Val. Mama and Papa just told me", you choked out, the lump in your throat from suppressing another sob growing almost painful. 

His eyes widened at first, then fell into a sad frown. "But you're coming back, right?" he asked hopefully. 

"I don't know", the corners of your mouth tilted down even further, "could be months, years 'till  we get back.”

His gaze fell to the ground, his lips pulled into a taught, downward frown mirroring yours. He started fidgeting with the ring on his index finger, your signet ring on his index finger. 

"It's going to be okay", he tried to be reassuring, though his voice shook slightly. "We took a vow, remember? When we're grown up, we'll get married, and we'll see each other again then. I will make sure of it."

"Promise?" Your voice trembled. 

"Promise." Valarr nodded. Your Valarr. Your dearest, closest friend in the world. You nodded back, and you walked together to the heart tree, settling into your usual seats, and Valarr opened the book to read out your favorite story anew for the umpteenth time, the one about the princess, the knight, and the fearsome dragon. 

-

208 AC

You sat on the terrace of your ancestral home, overlooking the gardens. The warm, early spring breeze threaded through your hair, the sun shining gently over your skin. The gardeners were working tirelessly, planting saplings and flower seeds for them to bloom once summer came. The watered wine on the side table had grown lukewarm under the sun’s rays, the open book in your lap laid forgotten as you watched the gardeners work their magic.

“My lady,” your maidservant called gently from behind you. “Your lord father wishes for you to join for afternoon tea in his solar now.”

You simply nodded, closing the book shut and placing it on the side table to stand up from your comfortable seat. Your mind was still firmly with the gardens, and what it would look like once the fruit tree saplings and the flowers bloomed. You hoped that there were peach trees among those planted today, peach tarts were truly one of the most delicious creations in the whole realm.

When you reached the double doors to your father’s solar, you waved off the guard’s question to whether he should announce your arrival, and swung the doors open yourself. Your parents were already seated at the tea table, lounging comfortably while leading a hushed discussion with smiles on their faces. You chose a chaise longue to sprawl on, and picked up a lime biscuit to nibble on.

“Father, mother, what might be the joyous matter you are discussing?” You raised an eyebrow, ignoring all the crumbs that were spilling all over your gown.

“We have royal invitations to the Red Keep, we leave in a sennight’s time,” your mother turned to you, a smile spreading on her face at the thought of visiting her dear friend, Lady Jena. “It will be marvelous to return there, do you remember when we spent a year at the Keep? You used to have quite a few friends there as a girl.”

You vaguely recalled the hazy memories, already a decade past now. Running through the godswood, learning to ride a pony, the games played with the other children, and the stories read under the heart tree.

“I remember,” you smiled, “I was devastated when we left. I think I had quite a nice time there.”

“You did,” your father smiled fondly. “And we think it would be nice for us to visit again. Your mother has missed Lady Jena’s company dearly, and you could reunite with your childhood companions. We would like for you to accompany us to the Red Keep.”

Your mind then jogged a deep-seated memory, Valarr. Your Valarr, who had been one of your dearest childhood companions. You remembered his plump cheeks, the curious white streak through his hair, and his mismatched eyes. For a few months after your departure, you had exchanged ravens - you had help from Septa Marya to write your letters - but, as children go, the contact had dwindled slowly. But he had always held a fond, nostalgic space in your heart. 

The idea of seeing your childhood friend was not entirely unpleasant, you decided. You pouted in consideration, then asked: “What is the occasion, anyway?”

“The King has declared a royal tournament in honor of Prince Valarr’s sixteenth nameday. There will be plenty of our bannermen participating, and some of your cousins. You will not lack in company whilst we reside there.” Your father explained.

“And it would be a marvelous opportunity to find you a match! You’re a woman grown, love, and perhaps a handsome Lord or knight would catch your fancy,” your mother added joyfully.

You weighed the pros and cons on your mental scale, your pout persisting as you looked down at your tea cup. The long carriage ride to the Red Keep sounded dreadfull, but the occasion did seem quite merry. Plus, if you were lucky enough, you could secure a match of your preference as to avoid marrying an old, wrinkly Lord as some of your lady acquaintances had. Finally, you gave a nod in agreement.

“Wonderful! Remember darling, we leave in a sennight. Make sure to instruct your maids to pack your prettiest gowns! Oh, what a beautiful feast it will be,” your mother clapped her hands in elation, then sighed with a dreamy look. Your mother did always regard these occasions with her typical sense of whimsy, and her excitement to revisit her old friend, Lady Jena, only fanned her joy.

You nodded and smiled, perhaps it would indeed be nice to visit the place from your childhood again.

-

As the guests to his nameday tournament continued to stream in through the Red Keep’s gate, his eyes searched through the processions, his ears perking up at every announcement of the stewards. Most guests were arriving many days in advance to the festivities, but the presence he was most looking forward to was nowhere to be seen yet, despite the letter of acceptance sent by a raven days ago. He fidgeted nervously with the little signet ring on his right little finger, the child's ring now being too small for any other digit. 

As he mechanically greeted the arriving Lords and Ladies, his mind kept wandering off to the neatly folded piece of parchment in his desk drawer. Only three more days, he reminded himself. Only three more days before his nameday, and there would be no more proposals of marriage pacts from houses he cared little for, no more dutifully reviewing the portraits sent from every corner of the realm, and he could finally declare his intentions before his family and the council.

As the sun started hanging low, his hopes for the day were starting to dwindle as well, before he spotted a procession in the distance, the unmistakable flag whipping in the wind with your sigil proudly stitched upon it. His heart leapt up in anticipation, but he commanded himself to remain steady at his father’s side.

It seemed to take an eternity for the carriage to finally pass through the gates and spill out its inhabitants. As he duly noted your father and your mother stepping out of the carriage, his eyes were tirelessly searching for your familiar face. When he finally spotted you, it felt as if the gods had slowed time before his eyes. 

It had been almost a decade since you last saw each other. He had been besotted with you then, a simple playground child’s fancy, but now, the woman grown walking towards him, carelessly exchanging jests with your parents, snatched his breath away from his lungs and left him gasping for air. Time had changed you, but at the same time, it hadn’t changed you at all. The childish features had left your face, leaving behind a delicate, lovely visage, seemingly carved by the Maiden herself. The curvature of your nose, dropping into a philtrum and smoothing into the arch of your lips had stayed exactly the same as he remembered, as had the playful glint in your eyes. 

As the rounds of greeting went by and you came to stand in front of him, he felt as if the gods had grasped him from the present and placed him back in time, standing dejected by Aelor in the godswood, as you tapped on his shoulder for the first time and invited him to join your group to play. He had fallen back then — as hard as a six-year-old with no real understanding of love could fall — but now he was helplessly spiraling again as you dipped into a curtsy before him. 

"Prince Valarr," you greeted, his name falling from your lips sounded like the sermon bells of the Great Sept themselves to his ears. 

"My lady," he collected himself and steadied his voice, "it is good to see you again after all this time." With all the grace himself, he carefully took your hand — a beautiful hand, he remarked — and kissed the back of it lightly. He could only hope that the slight nervous tremor would go unnoticed by you. When his gaze lifted to your face again, his eyes trailed down to your neck, where the blue topaz was glinting in the notch between your collarbones. The embers in his heart were fanned into a full-blown flame as he recognized the pendant, his pendant, a sign of his childish affection for you from a decade ago. You had kept it. What's more, you were wearing it even after all this time. 

"As it is to see you," you smiled at his recognition, "I still hold our memories of childhood quite dearly." To anyone else, it might have come across as simple courtesy, but to Valarr, the fact that you held fond memories of him felt like salvation granted by the Seven themselves. 

Valarr would have been content to stand there for the rest of eternity, holding your hand loosely in his grasp, looking at your face as the setting sun graced your skin with a golden glow. But as the round of greeting went by, he was forced to let you go, and greet the rest of your household in tow. 

Then, he heard his mother speak words to your mother that sounded as though angels were descending from the heavens and blowing horns: "Dearest, it has been way too long! Oh, how I have missed you so. We must meet for a family afternoon tea, just our two households." She held your mother's hands in her own two hands, both giddy at the long-awaited reunion. 

"Of course, Jena. Whenever you'd like. I'm sure my husband and my daughter would greatly enjoy it as well." Your mother beamed, and it was decided. Your two households would take afternoon tea in two days' time, in the privacy of the royal gardens. Valarr stole a glance at you, and his heart stuttered at your soft smile. 

-

On the day after your arrival, you sat in the gardens under the white marble pergola with the other young ladies of court, as would be expected of you. Everyone was chattering excitedly about the upcoming tourney, which was no grand wonder as the castle seemed to be buzzing in preparations for it. The first day was set to be on the prince's nameday, with all the champions' jousts taking place on that day. The next few days would consist of melées and lower ranked jousts. You sat next to an old acquaintance of yours, a daughter of a bannerman of your father, only a year your senior, making her seventeen years of age. 

"Oh, I hope Ser Devin will ask for my favor! How dreamy that would be," she looked into the distance with her eyes glazed over. Currently, she was swooning over your eldest cousin, who was part of a junior branch of your house and stood first in line to inherit his father's lands and castles. Personally, you did not understand the appeal, but politely smiled and nodded as to not spoil her fun.

"And are you looking forward to seeing any specific knights in the tilts, my lady?" A girl your age sitting on your other side inquired. If your memory serves you right, she was the daughter of a Stormlord. 

"Oh, well I suppose I will cheer for my cousins, of course," you said, as it was common courtesy, "but otherwise, I must say that I am not quite sure yet. Perhaps the knights of the Kingsguard, they are famed to be the most magnificent knights of the realm, after all."

Some ladies sitting in your vicinity nodded at that. A girl you did not recognize started with a faint flush on her cheeks: "I most certainly am excited to see Prince Valarr in the lists, he is the very picture of chivalry, not to mention how handsome he is!" Murmurs rose in agreement. 

Well, you could not deny her on that front. Valarr had definitely grown into his features; soft, pudgy cheeks had long been replaced by sharp, carved lines. His mismatched eyes he used to be insecure about only added to his handsome face. But frankly, you had a hard time imagining the sweet, timid boy from your childhood being so gallant in the lists. 

"The Prince comes of age upon the first day of the tourney, I wonder what sorts of arrangements will be made in regards to choosing a match for him. How dreamy it would be to marry such a handsome prince! He is even the heir's heir, as if his gallantry and handsome were not enough." Another lady spoke out wistfully. 

"Well, if it is his affection you are seeking, I am afraid we'd all be out of luck on that front," lamented a slim, brunette girl, surely a few years your senior. "He's already been presented with hundreds of potential matches and it's said that he turned down every single one of them, one of them from my own family."

"So do you suppose he simply has no intention to marry?" Your lady acquaintance's eyes widened. 

"Aye, or I reckon he has a paramour, every man has desires, after all," snicked the brunette girl. 

You frowned, as that sounded highly unlikely for Valarr, but held your tongue. As if the sweet, gentlest boy you used to know would ever dishonor himself and a woman that way. 

"Whoever that woman is, I do greatly envy her," another girl you did not recognize sighed deeply, "What wouldn't I give to be in her place."

-

The afternoon tea on the day before the beginning of the tourney took place in the more private areas of the godswood, the little clearing in the woods had been transformed into a small gathering space, with chaise longues and cushions placed on the grounds beneath ornamented parasols. The only other presences aside from your two families were the servants, and the occasional small children running by, playing their games in the godswood just as you and Valarr had as children. 

Lady Jena chatted happily away with your mother, lounging comfortably on the cushions. Prince Baelor sat on a chaise longue, facing your father, discussing lordly matters with him. You were sprawled out across the feather cushions and half-heartedly following the conversations when you heard someone clear their throat from behind you. 

When you tilted your head back to face the person, the upside-down face of Prince Valarr greeted you. He was holding a hand out and lightly smiling, as far as you could tell from your position. 

"Would you take a walk with me?" He asked, an almost unnoticeable hint of pink gracing the tip of his ears. 

You have an affirmative hum, then got up to your feet to turn and face him. He was offering you his left arm to hold, which you gingerly accepted. 

"Are you looking forward to the tourney, my prince?" you asked as to make polite small talk. He had grown into a quite tall young man, and you had to crane your neck to see his face at a close distance. As you did, you admired the beautifully carved lines of his cheekbones and jaw, he really had turned into an exceptionally handsome prince.

Valarr frowned slightly at that. "There is no need to be so formal, we did use to be quite close, after all." 

"Well then Valarr," you corrected yourself, "are you excited for the tourney?"

Valarr's pink flush extended to his cheeks at the sound of his name falling from your lips. "Yes, among other things, I suppose."

"One's sixteenth nameday is always an occasion to look forward to," You agreed casually. "I am sure it will be a day to remember."

Valarr's steps slowed, which meant that you came to a halt with him in tow. "Speaking of sixteenth namedays," his cheeks were really quite pink now. You wondered if he was feeling warm under the sun's rays. "I believe yours has to come to pass three moons ago, if my memory serves me right." He smiled shyly. 

You were slightly taken by surprise. Had he really remembered that detail? 

"Yes, it has. Although, I denied my parents the pleasure of throwing a tourney or any form of extravagant celebration for the occasion." You mused. 

"I had something commissioned for you," he reached into the pocket of his doublet with his free hand, and produced a small, square box. "You did tell me back then that best friends should always gift things to each other for their namedays."

You pulled your hand away from Valarr's arm to examine the box. When you opened it, small, ornate earrings made of twisting golden vines holding a blue topaz in the middle came to sight. Your breath caught at the goldsmith's intricate handiwork. 

"Valarr, this is.." You searched for words. "Beautiful, thank you. It is really most thoughtful of you." It indeed was, as you noticed that it matched your necklace gifted from him all these years ago perfectly. 

"You must forgive me," you scrunched your eyebrows, a slight pang of guilt going over you, "I did not bring any personal gift for your nameday. My parent have brought a-“

Valarr's smile did not falter as he interrupted your panicked words. "No matter, I had something in mind as to what you could gift me for my nameday, anyways."

You looked at him in confusion. 

"I would like to ask for your favor to wear at the tilt tomorrow," his mismatched eyes searched your face. For what, though, you could not tell. "For old times' sake," he added hastily. 

It made sense, you supposed. It was not unusual for knights to wear their sister’s, cousin’s, or a close companion’s favor, so Valarr simply must have continued to value your childhood friendship more than you expected. Still, it confused you as to why he would not wear the favor of a lady he wished to court.

“Of course,” you agreed, to his relief. “It would be an honor to have you wear my favor.”

He offered you his arm again to keep on walking, which you gladly accepted. As you walked further around the godswood, the sounds of children playing grew closer.

“Hai-yah!” a boyish voice cried out. When you turned your head in the direction of its source, you spotted two young boys, one with a shock of silver hair, another one with a tuft of auburn hair. They were wielding tree branches as if they were swords, clashing them against another and running wildly through the woods.

As you watched them, a strange sense of nostalgia bloomed in your chest. You distinctly remembered these woods, the familiarity growing stronger with every step. The two of you used to run through these very woods a long time ago, laughing wildly and jumping over the twisting roots.

“Little brother! Cousin! I must ask you to compose yourselves before our distinguished guest,” Valarr called out to the two boys. They slowly halted their wild chase, and padded over to you.

“My lady, may I introduce you to my brother, this is -“ 

“Matarys,” you interrupted Valarr’s introduction when you recognized the soft, auburn curls. He had been only a newborn when you last saw him, but Lady Jena’s auburn locks and Prince Baelor’s stern jaw was evident in the young princeling. “My Prince, it is an honor to meet you. Last I had seen you, you were still only a babe.” You dipped in a shallow curtsy and introduced yourself.

Valarr smiled fondly at you recalling the short meeting. 

“The honor is all mine, my lady,” Matarys bowed, albeit a little clumsily. “Are you the lady friend my brother has been talking about?” He studied your face.

“Matarys,” Valarr hissed, the tips of his ears burning. Matarys let out a giggle, but held his tongue.

“And I’m Egg, my lady!” The silver-haired boy cried out, bouncing in excitement. “My name is actually Aegon, but everybody calls me Egg for short.” He grinned.

“It is a true pleasure to meet you, Prince Egg.” You dipped into a curtsy, your use of his nickname earning a giggle out of him. 

“One day, I will be Ser Aegon of the Kingsguard! You see, I’m already training hard to be a strong knight.” He puffed his chest out, which reminded you a little bit of a small bird puffing its feathers to make itself seem bigger. You smiled fondly at his antics.

“Speaking of,” Egg turned to Valarr. “In case your squire cannot come, could I squire for you, cousin? Daeron does not wish to participate, but I would like to be a squire. Ser Donnel has already said I would make a good one! I-“

“Sure, cousin,” Valarr mirrored your fond smile at the little boy. “Gareth is quite healthy as of now, but at the event that he may not be able to partake, I will send for you.”

Egg whooped in joy, thanked Valarr, and took his leave by making an exaggerated bow. He dragged Matarys with him, who politely bid his farewells to you while Egg pulled at his arms. 

“He has grown so fast,” you murmured as you resumed your walk, “sometimes, I cannot believe how time has passed by so quickly.”

Valarr hummed in agreement, and the two of you started back to the clearing.

-

On the bright and early morrow of his nameday, Valarr Targaryen used his privilege as a crown prince of the realm, and ordered his page to summon the Small Council for the first time in his short life. After he dressed himself in a formal doublet and trousers, he opened the small drawer of his writing table, and took the small, folded parchment out. He held it in his hands, feeling the weight of the hide and the wax seal. The passing of time and his frequent touches had frayed the edges, the surface smooth from the oils of his fingers. The creases and wrinkles showed that it had been folded and unfolded many times over the past decade, but the content etched in ink was still very much legible, clear as day. He tucked the parchment safely in his breast pocket before leaving his quarters.

He willed his drumming heart to calm on his walk over to the council chamber. The nervosity made him restless, his hands lightly shaking upon close inspection. As he waited for the council members to arrive, he mindlessly turned the signet ring with your house’s sigil on his right little finger, willing it to give him courage for what was to come. 

The members of the council arrived one by one, some with still bed-tussled hair. His father, Baelor, was perfectly composed as ever, and raised his eyebrows at him in curiosity as to what the summons may be about. The remaining council members sat down groggily, and mumbled a good morrow and merry nameday wishes to Valarr.

“My Lords, father, I thank you greatly for your presence, and your heartfelt nameday wishes. I wished to bring a matter before the Small Council this morrow, ahead of the tourney starting at midday.” He did his best to speak with the quiet authority of his father, and stilled the small tremor in his voice. “As you all know, I have come of age today, and wish to let my intentions for  marriage to be known. After all, it would be my utmost duty to the realm to marry and strengthen the line of succession.”

Many nodded, Baelor merely raised his eyebrows even further at his son’s sudden declaration of his interest for marriage. After all, he had sternly rejected every single courtships and proposals until now, and he had begun to suspect that he had no intention to marry at all.

“That is most wise, my prince,” croaked the old Grand Maester. “The council has a list at ready of all the eligible ladies of the realm, including-“

“Thank you, Grand Maester. However, that will not be necessary”, Valarr interrupted with a raised hand, “for I have been promised to a lady for nigh on a decade already.”

All eyes in the council chamber widened almost comically. Using the stunned silence, he took the parchment out of his breast pocket, unfolded it carefully, and placed it on the table. Baelor reached calmly for it, and read the words carved into it, remarking the childish handwriting. The Grand Maester rose from his seat, and leaned down from behind him to inspect the document as well.

“What is this?” his father asked, eyes lifting from the parchment.

“A marriage contract,” Valarr stated plainly. “It’s been signed by our own hands, and has the official seals of our houses on it.”

“I can see that,” Baelor furrowed his brows. “When-“

“My prince, if you would excuse me,” Grand Maester interrupted. “Marriage contracts usually involve witnesses, and I can’t seem to see any accounts of them.”

“I am a witness to this contract,” Valarr declared firmly. “I was there when it was written, signed, and sealed, obviously.”

“My apologies, your Grace, but a witness is usually-“ the old maester croaked.

“I am a prince of the realm, and a man grown as of today. Do you mean to doubt my abilities to stand witness to such significant matters?” His voice deepened, summoning an air of authority and sternness seldom witnessed in him.

The room fell into silence. Finally, the silence was broken when Baelor spoke. “According to the date, this was agreed upon when you both were but six years of age. Do you mean to stand by this contract nevertheless?” The look on his eyes was illegible. 

“I do not take vows for naught, father,” Valarr stood his ground. “I have given my word upon my honor, and will stand by it. I have loved her since I was a boy, and will not take any other to wife.” He hesitated for a sliver of a moment, then added, “if she will have me.”

Baelor put the parchment down on the table, and pinched his nosebridge. The Grand Maester immediately picked up the document, and inspected it so closely, Valarr was worried he may bury his nose in it.

“My Lord Hand, the seals and signatures are indeed.. genuine. And if the prince and the lady are in fact, both of age, then I fear that there are no grounds upon which this contract can be denied.” He sighed.

Valarr watched his father’s reaction. For what seemed like an eternity, Baelor’s eyes remained closed, with his hand pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, he opened his eyes to face his son, and placed his hands on the table.

“And you are certain, my son?” He asked, an exasperated look on his face.

“I have never been more certain, father.” The young prince met his gaze steadfastly.

“Very well,” Baelor huffed out, “I will speak to her father about this after the jousts today. Considering the delicate nature of this.. pact,” he waved his hand at the parchment, “I will need to approach this matter in a careful fashion.”

Valarr felt a great weight lifted from his chest, and breathed out in relief. Through the window, the sky seemed to shine a brighter blue, the trees the most vibrant green, and the sun’s rays graced everything with a golden glow.

“Thank you, father.” He bowed his head slightly.

“Do not thank me yet, son. We will see how the day goes, and whether her family will agree to this arrangement. Until then, nobody is to speak of this matter to those outside of this council.” With that, Baelor rose from his seat, and dismissed the council with a curt nod of his head. As Valarr watched the rest of the council members scurry out, he felt he could’ve hugged his father, so great was his gratitude at this moment.

-

The gates of the Red Keep was buzzing with excitement as carriages and horses carried the spectators of the tourney out of the Keep and towards the tourney grounds right outside of the city gates. As you sneaked a peek out of the carriage window, you could see children running alongside, shouting in glee as they made their way to the tourney as well. 

You held a silk ribbon in your house colors in your hands, fidgeting mindlessly with it as you watched the narrow streets of King’s Landing pass by. The topaz earrings dangled from your ears, swinging along with every bump and pothole in the road. Your parents were chattering about the participating knights, and voicing their concern for your cousins’ safety. You were admittedly not too concerned about the matter, the jousting lances’ tips were made out of soft wood, made to shatter, and your overeager aunt and uncle had commissioned very intricate armors for your cousins to joust in.

When you rode past the city gates, your eyes were greeted by hundreds of colorful pavillions and banners snapping in the wind. The empty meadow outside of the city walls had been transformed into a marvelous tourney ground, bustling with life. 

The carriage stopped, letting your family step out onto the spring grass. Your parents craned their necks as they searched for your cousins’ pavillion, which was spotted rather quickly due to the tall flag with your heraldry stitched upon it. You threaded your arm through your mother’s, walking past the busy squires, merchants shouting out for the nobles to look at their wares, and steelworkers hammering away in their tents. 

Once arrived at your relatives’ pavillion, your parents eagerly entered, wishing to bid your cousins good fortune for their tilts. You were briefly distracted in front of the entrance by a small mouse scuttling about, watching its movements, when a warm touch on your shoulder startled you.

Your body whipped around in surprise, and yelped when you came face-to-face with Valarr standing before you in his armor. His broad frame, with the added breadth of the armor, easily towered over you.

“Hi,” he was already smiling, dimples forming on his chiseled cheeks. His mismatched eyes were glinting with something you could not quite place. When he spotted the jewelry dangling from his ears, his smile widened.  

“Valarr, hi,” you breathed out. 

“I wanted to come see you before the jousts started shortly,” he took a small step towards you. The heat eminating from his body was almost palpable, even through his thick steel armor. “For the favor.”

That made sense, you supposed. You did promise him a favor for the tilts today. 

You were still holding the silk ribbon in your hand, the floral stitchings along with your house sigils had been embroidered by your own hands. 

“May I-“ you gestured at his arm hanging by his side.

“Oh, yes, of course.” He slightly lifted his arm, allowing you sufficient space to wrap the ribbon around his upper arm, and secure it with a bow. 

“It’s beautiful, thank you.” He took your hand, and bent down to plant a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “I must get going, the champions must be present when the start of the tourney is announced. I hope I’ll see you in the stands.”

"You will," you smiled back at him, "happy nameday, Valarr. And good fortune in the lists today."

"I have all the fortune I need, but thank you," Valarr mused, holding up the arm with your ribbon tied around it. 

And with that, he took his leave. You blinked, processing whatever just occurred, then collected yourself and entered the pavilion to wish your cousins good fortune. 

-

Your mother's closeness with Lady Jena ensured that your family's seats in the stands were situated right next to the royal box; offering an excellent view over the jousting grounds. As you sat, the herald blew the horn, marking the start of the tourney, and announced the champions as they rode in.

The crowd burst into a roar as the knights in shining armor rode in on their mounts, you quickly spotted Valarr, the white streak in his hair a clear beacon even from a distance. Your ribbon on his arm was snapping in the wind, you could faintly hear the whispers of courtiers speculating whose favor the Young Prince could possibly be wearing. Riding on his pitch black destrier clad in elegant armor, he really did paint a handsome picture, his body moving fluidly with the horse, adeptly commanding it with a squeeze of his legs and a light tug on the rein. His black armor with his house’s sigil enameled on the breastplate glinted in the sun, and you briefly wondered whether that was done intentionally as to blind his opponents in the sunlight.

The champions raised their swords as the crowd cheered, then all bowed their heads to the royal box in a show of respect before riding off to the sidelines where their squires were waiting. The champions’ first opponents rode in as well, searching for their squires in the chaos of it all.

“Helmet!” You heard Valarr shout out to his squire, his voice a couple notes deeper than usual. He was always soft-spoken and gentle, and you had never heard him sound quite so commanding before. Soon, his white streak was hidden under the helm, and he was only recognizable via his armor.

As the knights lined up by the lists, the warhorses were impatiently huffing and stomping on the ground. You squinted to see who Valarr’s first opponent be, and identified a blue enameled fish upon the armor. A Tully, then.

The horn blew, and kicking up a great dust storm, the mounts galloped forward, the riders upon their backs lowering their lances. The first pass was over in a blink, the wooden tips of tourney lances bursting against shields and armors, and you saw that some riders had been unhorsed already.

Your eyes seeked Valarr out, and to your relief, him and his black destrier emerged from the dust cloud victorious; his opponent lay unhorsed on the ground. Valarr dismounted at the sight, and walked over with a hand on the sword’s hilt to his opponent, struggling to get back on his feet.

From a distance, you faintly heard him yell out, “I yield, my prince! I yield!” Only then, Valarr eased the grip on his sword, and held his hand out to help him get off the ground. The crowd burst out in another wave of cheers at the sight; praising the Young Prince for his chivalry. 

In the next tilts, Valarr faced five more challengers, one of them being his own cousin, Aerion Brightflame. He donned a spiky black armor, paired with a helmet showing a monstrous visage upon it. After two titillating matches, Valarr finally rode him down; after which Aerion rose against him, unsheathing his broadsword. The melée that followed was not short-lived, steel met steel in a flash of sparks and wooden shields splintered under heavy blows, until Valarr unarmed him and held him at swordpoint. 

The crowd, highborns and smallfolk alike, were roaring in his support; a glinting hope in their eyes that Baelor Breakspear’s line proved to be just as skilled in arms as he was. An ember of pride was fanned every time he raised his lance arm after unhorsing an opponent, your favor waving in the wind. Maybe it really had brought him good fortune.

Your cousins fared adequately enough, Devin, the eldest, unhorsing two opponents before being unseated himself in the third tilt. The others had not been so lucky, and fell from their horses in their first rides. But they all seemed unharmed, aside from minor scraps and bruises.

The tilts, which started at midday, continued until the sun was nearing the western horizon and a pale moon shone on the opposite side of the sky. There was only one tilt left for the day; Valarr was to ride against Ser Roland of the Kingsguard. After a brief break, Valarr returned to the lists.  He swung onto his black destrier, riding to the sidelines as his squire followed with the helmet and shield in his arms. 

As Valarr held his helm in his hands, his head turned towards the stands. At first, you thought he might be looking at his family in the royal box, but his gaze came to rest upon you. His hair was matted from sweat, dark brown strands plastered across his forehead from the heat and exhaustion, but his face held a determined look. You held eye contact and gave your dear childhood companion an encouraging nod before he slid his helmet on. You could not be sure due to the distance, but it almost seemed as if the corner of his mouth lifted in a soft smile before it was obscured by the enameled helmet.

His squire promptly delivered him the shield and put the lance in his hand, and scurried off to the weapons’ racks as to be ready when Valarr would need his next lance.

Ser Roland looked formidable as well on the opposite side of the lists, he was sitting upon his chestnut warhorse, clad in all-white armor and cloak of the Kingsguard. He was older, and more experienced, which pushed the odds in his favor. However, Valarr rode as if he had been blessed by the Warrior himself that day, the memory of the success in the council chamber that morning filled his tired muscles with strength, and he felt almost battle-high.

Not a moment too soon, the herald announced the start of the final tilt. “May the Crone guide your lance, and the Warrior grant you strength!” He cried out, then blew the start horn. 

The sound of the hooves striking the ground thundered across the meadow, the cheering of the crowds so loud your ears were threatening to ring. In a flash, both lances broke cleanly off the shields, and both riders remained seated. You held your breath as Valarr seemed to sway slightly, but he quickly regained his composure. As he urged his destrier around, you were not sure if the glint of his mismatched eyes gazing in your direction was only imagined or not.

The second pass was more brutal; the riders met in a clash of bursting wood again, but Ser Roland had met Valarr’s pauldron with the tip of his lance, sending the Young Prince reeling from his seat. In contrast, Valarr’s lance had harmlessly broken against the Kingsguard’s shield.

A collective gasp went up from the crowd as Valarr’s body lurched backwards, with only one foot remaining in the stirrups. However, to the delight of the spectators, his hooked his foot firmly around it, and pulled his body upright again, sitting tall upon his mount. 

As the horn urging the third pass blew, Valarr kicked his destrier’s sides firmly with his greaves, riding with his torso lowered against his mount, and his shield raised in defense. In the final moment before impact, Valarr’s lance drifted laterally by a minuscule bit, its tip bursting against Ser Roland’s breastplate in a shower of splinters. Ser Roland was cleanly unhorsed, landing with an uff on his back.

The crowd erupted in a roar, and you felt yourself grin at his victory. He had won his nameday tilt, your sweet, gentle Valarr had truly grown into a most gallant knight.

While the cheers died down and Ser Roland was helped up by his squires, the herald climbed down from the stands and marched towards Valarr holding the wildflower crown. The victorious prince lifted the helmet off, revealing a proud smile upon his face. He nodded to the royal box in a show of respect, to which Baelor and Jena rose their cups in response.

Valarr took the wildflower wreath from the herald, and the grounds fell into silence in anticipation to which lady would be crowned queen of love and beauty by the Young Prince. You looked on in anticipation as well, but your breath caught in your throat when he urged his destrier towards your family.

He softly called out your name, and you felt all eyes turn towards you. “Would you grant me the honor of crowning you as the queen of love and beauty?” You almost choked on your own spit from surprise. “For old times’ sake.” He added in a hushed voice, his eyes glinting under the blueish lights of dusk. Despite the apparent exhaustion, he looked beautiful. In the background, you vaguely perceived an excited squeal from your mother.

You barely registered yourself nodding before you made your way down to the railing and lowered your head to accept the wildflower crown. Valarr gently lowered it on the crown of your head, and brushed a hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. In your daze, the deafening applause and cheers from the crowds sounded almost muffled in your ears. You accepted the crown in a haze of confusion and perplexity. To the onlookers, his eyes held the look of a man utterly enamored when gazing upon you, clear as day. Not that you noticed.

-

The festivities in the Great Hall were as grand as any, if not grander. King Daeron the Good had not been frugal at all when planning his grandson’s sixteenth nameday feast, quite the contrary in fact. There were seven absolutely extravagant courses gracing the tables, not even counting the appetizers and desserts. You dug in as your hunger had grown quite insistent during the day, t’was hard work sitting unmoving in the stands under the sun. Jests aside, the food was marvelous, every course truly a testament to the castle’s cooks.

When the last course had been cleared away by the servants, the guests started to take to the dancefloor. Strangely enough, Prince Baelor had vanished from the dais around the same time. Probably some matters of the realm, you brushed it off as the Hand of the King attending to some royal affairs. You adjusted the flower wreath on your head as it was starting to slide down to your brows, and watched the dancing pairs glide across the floor. As you reached for your goblet of wine, a warm hand reached from behind and tapped on your shoulder.

“Valarr,” your face broke into a smile when you saw the victor of the day’s jousts. “My congratulations for winning in the lists today, you rode splendidly.” 

“Well fought, my prince,” your father, seated next to you, joined in with his own praises.

“Thank you, truly.” Valarr tilted his head in gratitude. “Would the queen of love and beauty grace me with her first dance?”

You looked down at his hand held out in invitation, before nodding and graciously taking his hand in acceptance. As you walked to the middle of the floor, heads turned as they spotted the crown prince and the flower wreath perched atop your head. You both took up the starting pose, with your hand placed on his shoulder, and his arms wrapping around your waist to rest on the small of your back. His hand gently held your free hand, and you drifted into familiar steps of the dance.

“Do not be alarmed,” Valarr whispered, “but I think my father has just summoned yours to his solar. I saw his page speak to your father, and leave the room with him.”

“Oh?” Your head tilted in bemusement. “Whatever might that be about?”

Valarr’s cheeks reddened at the question, and your confusion deepened. Perhaps he did not feel well discussing his father’s more confidential proceedings, so you decided to leave the topic for the sake of the poor boy. Your two families had been close for a decade now, surely they had enough matters to discuss. If it was important enough, your father would disclose it to you later anyways. 

“Your final tilt against Ser Roland was magnificent, by the way,” you teased, “I had feared you might lose your seat during that second pass, but the recovery was quite impressive.”

The poor prince’s cheeks grew impossibly redder. Even as a child, he’d never been adept at handling praise. He could only mumble out a thank you. The contrast between the valiant knight at the lists and the blushing prince in front of you was almost adorable; perhaps Valarr had not yet entirely outgrown the sweet, timid boy he used to be.

As the song came to an end, a Lord you did not recognize stood in front of you, requesting your next dance. Valarr, ever the kind, dutiful prince, took his leave to return to the dais. 

The status as the queen of love and beauty of the day came with a steady stream of dancing partners, you forgot their names almost as soon as they introduced yourself; you were never really adept with names and faces anyways. When your feet began to ache and you excused yourself to take your seat by your mother’s side, a page intercepted you just as you were about to pull out your chair. Your mother raised an eyebrow at that, her husband had been occupied in a meeting with the Hand for a good while, and apparently it now required your presence, as well. 

“M’ady, I apologize for the interruption. The Hand and your father require your presence in the Hand’s solar.” The young boy, twelve years of age at most, stuttered out.

“Of course, would you be so kind as to lead the way?” You smiled as you lowered the crown from your head and placed it on the table, assuming you’d be returning in a short while.

-

The dim, torchlit corridors leading to the Hand’s solar were unfamiliar at first sight, but as you ventured further with the young page, the memories started swarming back. The afternoon teas with the two families, Valarr’s sixth nameday morrow, and sitting idly while your father discussed lordly matters with Prince Baelor surfaced with every step you took.

Soon enough, you stood in front of the familiar double doors leading to Baelor’s solar. This time, you patiently waited as the page announced you before stepping in. You were greeted by the sight of Baelor sitting at his desk, your father sat in the armchair facing him. The candlelights bestowed a rather serious atmosphere in the room. 

“Father, my Lord Hand,” you took a shallow curtsy, “I have heard you sent for me.” You searched their faces for hints as to what this may be about, but failed miserably.

“My lady, thank you for joining us,” Baelor tilted his head. “We have quite important matters to discuss with you, specifically-“ he briefly searched for words, “regarding your marriage pact.”

Your head went blank. “..What?” What is it with a marriage pact now?

Letting the evidence speak for itself, Baelor slid a piece of parchment in your direction. You approached his desk, and lifted the document to your eyes. The parchment was obviously quite old, but not old enough to crumble in your hands. The soft, smooth surface indicated frequent handling, as did the numerous creases. The writing upon it was carved into the hide in a child’s handwriting, and it contained a very briefly written marriage contract between you and Valarr. When your eyes reached the end of the parchment, you identified your own handwriting as a child, crooked and wonky in a way the late Septa Marya used to scold you about. Your thumb traced the wax seals, worn down by time but still obviously genuine.

Oh. You now feintly recalled the day where you produced this document. It came as a surprise that Valarr had kept this all this time, but then all Valarr did the last few days was surprise you. 

“Valarr presented this contract to the Small Council this morrow, he says he will not take anyone else to wife.” Baelor calmly explained, watching your face closely. “The Grand Maester has inspected the document himself, and has declared it genuine. I initially wished to discuss this matter with your father alone, but he has insisted on hearing your opinions on this. Believe me my lady, neither of us will see you married unwillingly on the basis of a pact you signed at the age of six.”

You briefly unpacked your mental balance scale, weighing your options. The benefits included the fact that 1. he was your dearest childhood companion, 2. he had grown into a quite handsome man, and 3. he was considerate, gentle and kind. The only drawback was.. Well, you rummaged through your head, but failed to come up with any. 

“Will you have him?” Baelor asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern at your silence.

“Yes, I will,” the words left your lips without a hint of hesitance as you placed the parchment back on the table.

“Are you sure, daughter?” It was your father’s turn to question you.

“Yes, why not?” You shrugged. “He’s grand.”

“Grand?” The Hand’s eyebrows rose in amusement at you describing his son as grand. You and Valarr’s antics today were certainly providing Baelor’s facial muscles with quite an exercise.

You nodded, as if your statement was to explain anything and you did not understand what the confusion was about. He truly was grand, after all. There wasn’t much else you could wish for in a future husband. The crown prince and your father were staring at you with a look one could only describe as bewilderment.

“Just to confirm, you will accept the terms of this.. contract, and take my son as your lawful husband?” Baelor asked, a slight look of confusion upon his eyes, wondering whether you had heard the question correctly.

“I will, my prince.” You nodded again, your casual tone steadfast.

“Then it is settled,” The Hand looked to your father, who nodded in agreement.

As you and your father took your leaves from the solar and shut the doors behind you, you came face to face with Valarr, who had obviously been pacing. His gaze shifted between you and your father, a look of hopefulness evident in his eyes.

“Val,” you softly called his name. “Guess we truly are getting married now.” You shrugged lightly, and giggled. 

A sigh of relief punched itself out of him, and he looked to your father.

“You have my blessings, my prince. You can consider yourselves.. officially betrothed now.” He offered a slight bow.

“That is most wonderful news,” his face split into a smile as he stepped towards you to clasp your hand within his own two hands. “I swear, I will do the utmost to make you happy, anything you want. Simply tell me, and I will see it done. Even if it is not in my power, I promise I will make it so.”

You blushed, then looked down, suppressing a wide grin. Only then, your eyes trailed down to his right hand, where the small, children’s sized signet ring rested upon his little finger. Your breath caught in surprise as the torchlight glanced off the polished band.

“You kept it,” You murmured.

Valarr looked confused for a moment, but lowered his gaze to follow yours. When he realized what you’d meant, his joyous smile melted into a more calm, fond one.

“Of course I have, it’s from you. And I promised to always cherish it.” 

Oh. You felt as though somebody had smacked you on the back of the head. Every hint, every glance, every word clicked into place in that moment. Valarr had been in love with you all along, since you were all but children. He’d taken care to remember all your childish promises to each other, even keeping the scrap of parchment tucked away safely for nigh on a decade. 

“Have you really? After all this time?” Your voice was hushed, your heart picking up its pace in your ribcage. Your lips parted slightly in awe.

“Yes, love. It’s always been you.” Finally, he confessed, his beautiful, mismatched eyes gazing adoringly at you. 

As if it was the most natural thing in the world.

- Epilogue -

When you returned to your family’s assigned quarters, your motherr was already waiting at the tea table, eagerly waiting to hear what all the fuss had been about. When your father retold the events of the evening, she was practically bouncing in her seat in excitement at your betrothal.

“In retrospect, I must ask you, daughter,” your father turned his head towards you, “have you been aware of the existence of that document all this time?”

“Frankly, I had forgotten,” you shrugged. “But now that I saw it, I do remember sneaking into Prince Baelor’s office that day.” Your parents tried to look scandalized, but the air of amusement was evident.

“Darling, she did try to tell us that one time, remember? When we told her we were leaving King’s Landing.” Your mother’s eyes lit up, recalling your confession which they both had assumed was simply a child’s fancy. “She said that she was going to marry him, and that they promised.”

“Well, nobody expects their six-year-old daughter to go and sign a marriage contract,” your father snorted. Honestly, that was a fair assessment.

“The most important thing is, it did turn out quite well,” you held up your palms in defence, a smirk on your face. “I am quite satisfied with the match, if I dare say so myself.”

Your parents laughed out at your understatement laced with a jest. Indeed, it had turned out quite alright. 

Taglist: @good-night-starlight @enouche @literallyafallenangel @rakiroad

Note: I loved writing this so much!! I already have so many ideas for little snippets of their first kiss, wedding night and fun little misadventures, so if it's wished for, I'll be more than happy to write them! Thank you all so so much for liking my initial concept for this fic, it means the world to me <3

[targlove]

Valarr Targaryen

Series: The Godswood Escape

Summary: A young lady resents her unwanted betrothal, and attempts to flee the Red Keep. Unluckily for her, even the most gallant of knights does not wish to aid her escape. (Inspired by Queen Charlotte.)

Female reader (she/her pronouns & AFAB). She has no physical description (only brief mention of her having hair). No use of Y/N.

Word count (so far): 21k

The Godswood Escape

A Walk in the Godswood

The Great Yard

The Great Sept of Baelor

Maegor’s Holdfast

The Library

The Sworn Sword

The Solar

The River Gate (coming 20 June)

The Tower of the Hand (coming 27 June)

TBD

(Anticipating ~16 chapters in total; I haven’t finished writing yet!)

I cross-post all my work on AO3 as well!

If you would like to be tagged, please let me know! You can leave a comment here or under one of the chapters, or send me an ask or DM. Asks of any kind are always welcome, I love hearing your thoughts or answering questions about the story!

[the-darklings]

𓈒 ˳ ˳ 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

Bobby's been a shit boyfriend for months. When you disappear through a wall in the basement of Clark's furniture store, you wake up in the Backrooms, where a better version of Bobby is waiting. One who actually shows up, one who loves you, one who never, ever wants to let you go.

bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby

cw: emotional neglect, psychological horror, backroom entities/lore, implied creature violence, emotional manipulation by non-human entity, alcohol abuse (secondary character), grief/loss, verbal arguments (no physical violence), angst.

𓈒 asks/mini concepts 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 playlist

‽ part one / concept. ‽ part two. ‽ part three. ⸘ interlude: entity 0 ‽ part four.

extras:

҉　- main story canon compliant piece.

Ꮺ୧ making out w/ better bobby. Ꮺ୧ better you! ҉　 Ꮺ୧ "baby." ҉　 Ꮺ୧ "open your mouth." Ꮺ୧ pillow fort. Ꮺ୧ in the beginning. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ my, what long tongue you have. Ꮺ୧ sunlight. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ slow dancing. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ rib time. Ꮺ୧ conceiving w/ bb. Ꮺ୧ bb watching you w/ bobby. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ intimacy hdcs w/ BB. Ꮺ୧ memories. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ cuteness aggression. Ꮺ୧ twins au. Ꮺ୧ mr. kitty. ҉　

⎋ M.E.G. ENTITY 0 — RESEARCH FILE INDEX:

↹ MEG-ENT-0000-ADDM-██ — Restricted Addendum: Reproductive Capability Assessment (Filed Under Protest)

[lopata-four]

Members of House Florent 🦊💙

[sfaira]

Dragon dreams

[lopata-four]

Viserys Targaryen & Aemma Arryn (pregnant with Rhaenyra) ✨A series of book portraits of all the marriages of the Targaryen family✨