A/N - this came to me and could not resist a needy, whimpering man.
You knew all too well that this was his undoing. Actions had consequences, and said consequences could be ruthless, afflicting even. Like a dog with its tail between his hind legs; Aerion refused to admit defeat, let alone would he even talk about it.
You were absent when the unfortunate events had transpired, left to your own company in King's Landing whilst your husband attended the tourney with most of his immediate family. Only for him to return a beaten and broken man.
'Gentle Y/N, must you be so bloody harsh.'
Under your careful touch he flinches, the raw gashes looked quite painful: the sheer sight of the open wounds made the pain reciprocative.
'I am, Aerion. Be still.'
You had heard the faint whispers in the corridors and great halls of the castle, bits and pieces of the trial coming together like some puzzle. Aerion himself, exchanged no words on his account: a proud man he was. It came to light that he had yielded, his act of confessing unmasking his duplicity, or so the realm would eagerly believe.
You knew that Aerion had his reasons for the trial. Honour and family went hand in hand. He would never willingly dare to let a man walk freely whom even so much as questioned his lineage.
Aerion's blood bore that of the dragon: and despite his very obvious Valyrian-esque traits, he was persistent to make sure the realm knew of this.
'My poor, sweet thing. You must be in so much pain. Perhaps, I shall fetch for the maester, he may provide the milk of the poppy?'
'No! Do you think of me weak? That a few bruises and cuts could best a dragon?' A vehemence to his brooding voice. Gods, was this man defensive.
'Aerion, I did not mean anything by it... You surely know I dislike seeing you in such a state. My love.'
As he sat comfortably on the bed, a mountain of small cushions propping his upper half up, as you nestled beside him. Despite his protests against your affections, his body spoke a different language. One that leaned closer to your tender touch, your words seducing his troubled mind as it soothed that disapproving voice in his mind.
'Speak more of me. Speak of how you love me.'
His stern command lingered more towards a plea. A gentleness to his voice, that only your sweet ears would hear. This was the side of Aerion he refused to show the kingdom.
'Oh, how I have missed you these past few days... Leaving your wife all alone, aching for nothing more than your touch, your voice, those lips-'
Leaning in ever so slowly, a gentle and sweet peck planted on the part of his cheek that was unscathed. As you moved back, you could gather the faintest smirk struck upon his handsome face.
Heavens, was it no lie that you really did miss him.
'Hmm, go on.'
A small, light chuckle escaped your core, as you repositioned yourself, to a more comfortable position, still sat beside Aerion just a little more closer. Your hands taking in his own hand closest to you, your thumb tenderly tracing over the lines and scars etched in his pale skin.
'I seldom spent my days outside our chambers, locking myself in here, desperate for even the faintest scent of you-'
Aerion willing, [whatever remaining strength lingered] leaning in closer to you; a palm securely planted on the base of your head, his plump lips finding their way to the crook of your neck, suckling at the soft, sensitive skin. Your breath hitched momentarily, as you continued on.
'A-any scent lingering on your clothes, on the linen... Your cushion, seven hells, did your cushion and I become quite friendly.'
'Friendly how so, princess?'
That familiar chuckle once more echoing from your mouth. Teasing Aerion was a privilege in its own right, as you were the only being he would ever allow to live and breathe without so much of a scratch on you.
'You must understand, Aerion. A wife has needs. And I needed you. I needed my dragon but he was no where to be seen. Leaving me like some helpless damsel. I was aching for you, my prince.'
'Desperate to ride the dragon, were you? My poor, needy princess.'
The contact of his other coarse free hand, calloused by the countless training and recent fight, guided your own with a tight grip. You could feel him leading you down, delving between his spread thighs, as you felt the hardening mass pulsating under your touch. Only the cover of the thin, weightless linen barricading the tips of your fingers and his cock from uniting.
'Hmm, so desperate. I took matters into my own hands... That pillow you seem to be resting on, that one... The gods only know of the sins I have committed these past few nights.'
His own hand large enough to swallow yours, remained guiding your palm; softly massaging his stiff cock, his warm cum seeping through the linen, leaving a growing stain.
'Your scent was everywhere. All over this fucking bed. I was craving you, my prince. You know that ache I get between my thighs. You know how my cunt clenches when I'm needy for my husband-'
'Fuck, Y/N! Keep going, p-princess-'
'Well, naturally, I found myself grinding against all that was left of you... You left me no choice, Aerion. Made a mess of my fingers too...'
Within a matter of seconds, the dragon himself, was now a whimpering, filthy mess. Drenched in his own excitement; your palm also gaining in on the action.
'Argh- fuck this mess. You'll have to clean it all up you know-'
'Is that so? Only if you admit that you too missed me.'
Guttural grunts that you had grown accustomed to, echoing what you could only imagine paralleled that of a young dragon.
A breathless sigh had escaped his mouth, as his light violet eyes fixed firmly on your own.
'Yes, of course... I missed you more than you could ever know, Y/N.'
How this juicy fic finds me !!!!!!!!!!!! 🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵
Needy Aerion is the best Aerion imo and you miss @lovelykhaleesiii captured him just how I like it 😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫 you’ve outdone yourself somehow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A/N - this came to me and could not resist a needy, whimpering man.
You knew all too well that this was his undoing. Actions had consequences, and said consequences could be ruthless, afflicting even. Like a dog with its tail between his hind legs; Aerion refused to admit defeat, let alone would he even talk about it.
You were absent when the unfortunate events had transpired, left to your own company in King's Landing whilst your husband attended the tourney with most of his immediate family. Only for him to return a beaten and broken man.
'Gentle Y/N, must you be so bloody harsh.'
Under your careful touch he flinches, the raw gashes looked quite painful: the sheer sight of the open wounds made the pain reciprocative.
'I am, Aerion. Be still.'
You had heard the faint whispers in the corridors and great halls of the castle, bits and pieces of the trial coming together like some puzzle. Aerion himself, exchanged no words on his account: a proud man he was. It came to light that he had yielded, his act of confessing unmasking his duplicity, or so the realm would eagerly believe.
You knew that Aerion had his reasons for the trial. Honour and family went hand in hand. He would never willingly dare to let a man walk freely whom even so much as questioned his lineage.
Aerion's blood bore that of the dragon: and despite his very obvious Valyrian-esque traits, he was persistent to make sure the realm knew of this.
'My poor, sweet thing. You must be in so much pain. Perhaps, I shall fetch for the maester, he may provide the milk of the poppy?'
'No! Do you think of me weak? That a few bruises and cuts could best a dragon?' A vehemence to his brooding voice. Gods, was this man defensive.
'Aerion, I did not mean anything by it... You surely know I dislike seeing you in such a state. My love.'
As he sat comfortably on the bed, a mountain of small cushions propping his upper half up, as you nestled beside him. Despite his protests against your affections, his body spoke a different language. One that leaned closer to your tender touch, your words seducing his troubled mind as it soothed that disapproving voice in his mind.
'Speak more of me. Speak of how you love me.'
His stern command lingered more towards a plea. A gentleness to his voice, that only your sweet ears would hear. This was the side of Aerion he refused to show the kingdom.
'Oh, how I have missed you these past few days... Leaving your wife all alone, aching for nothing more than your touch, your voice, those lips-'
Leaning in ever so slowly, a gentle and sweet peck planted on the part of his cheek that was unscathed. As you moved back, you could gather the faintest smirk struck upon his handsome face.
Heavens, was it no lie that you really did miss him.
'Hmm, go on.'
A small, light chuckle escaped your core, as you repositioned yourself, to a more comfortable position, still sat beside Aerion just a little more closer. Your hands taking in his own hand closest to you, your thumb tenderly tracing over the lines and scars etched in his pale skin.
'I seldom spent my days outside our chambers, locking myself in here, desperate for even the faintest scent of you-'
Aerion willing, [whatever remaining strength lingered] leaning in closer to you; a palm securely planted on the base of your head, his plump lips finding their way to the crook of your neck, suckling at the soft, sensitive skin. Your breath hitched momentarily, as you continued on.
'A-any scent lingering on your clothes, on the linen... Your cushion, seven hells, did your cushion and I become quite friendly.'
'Friendly how so, princess?'
That familiar chuckle once more echoing from your mouth. Teasing Aerion was a privilege in its own right, as you were the only being he would ever allow to live and breathe without so much of a scratch on you.
'You must understand, Aerion. A wife has needs. And I needed you. I needed my dragon but he was no where to be seen. Leaving me like some helpless damsel. I was aching for you, my prince.'
'Desperate to ride the dragon, were you? My poor, needy princess.'
The contact of his other coarse free hand, calloused by the countless training and recent fight, guided your own with a tight grip. You could feel him leading you down, delving between his spread thighs, as you felt the hardening mass pulsating under your touch. Only the cover of the thin, weightless linen barricading the tips of your fingers and his cock from uniting.
'Hmm, so desperate. I took matters into my own hands... That pillow you seem to be resting on, that one... The gods only know of the sins I have committed these past few nights.'
His own hand large enough to swallow yours, remained guiding your palm; softly massaging his stiff cock, his warm cum seeping through the linen, leaving a growing stain.
'Your scent was everywhere. All over this fucking bed. I was craving you, my prince. You know that ache I get between my thighs. You know how my cunt clenches when I'm needy for my husband-'
'Fuck, Y/N! Keep going, p-princess-'
'Well, naturally, I found myself grinding against all that was left of you... You left me no choice, Aerion. Made a mess of my fingers too...'
Within a matter of seconds, the dragon himself, was now a whimpering, filthy mess. Drenched in his own excitement; your palm also gaining in on the action.
'Argh- fuck this mess. You'll have to clean it all up you know-'
'Is that so? Only if you admit that you too missed me.'
Guttural grunts that you had grown accustomed to, echoing what you could only imagine paralleled that of a young dragon.
A breathless sigh had escaped his mouth, as his light violet eyes fixed firmly on your own.
'Yes, of course... I missed you more than you could ever know, Y/N.'
A/N - this came to me and could not resist a needy, whimpering man.
You knew all too well that this was his undoing. Actions had consequences, and said consequences could be ruthless, afflicting even. Like a dog with its tail between his hind legs; Aerion refused to admit defeat, let alone would he even talk about it.
You were absent when the unfortunate events had transpired, left to your own company in King's Landing whilst your husband attended the tourney with most of his immediate family. Only for him to return a beaten and broken man.
'Gentle Y/N, must you be so bloody harsh.'
Under your careful touch he flinches, the raw gashes looked quite painful: the sheer sight of the open wounds made the pain reciprocative.
'I am, Aerion. Be still.'
You had heard the faint whispers in the corridors and great halls of the castle, bits and pieces of the trial coming together like some puzzle. Aerion himself, exchanged no words on his account: a proud man he was. It came to light that he had yielded, his act of confessing unmasking his duplicity, or so the realm would eagerly believe.
You knew that Aerion had his reasons for the trial. Honour and family went hand in hand. He would never willingly dare to let a man walk freely whom even so much as questioned his lineage.
Aerion's blood bore that of the dragon: and despite his very obvious Valyrian-esque traits, he was persistent to make sure the realm knew of this.
'My poor, sweet thing. You must be in so much pain. Perhaps, I shall fetch for the maester, he may provide the milk of the poppy?'
'No! Do you think of me weak? That a few bruises and cuts could best a dragon?' A vehemence to his brooding voice. Gods, was this man defensive.
'Aerion, I did not mean anything by it... You surely know I dislike seeing you in such a state. My love.'
As he sat comfortably on the bed, a mountain of small cushions propping his upper half up, as you nestled beside him. Despite his protests against your affections, his body spoke a different language. One that leaned closer to your tender touch, your words seducing his troubled mind as it soothed that disapproving voice in his mind.
'Speak more of me. Speak of how you love me.'
His stern command lingered more towards a plea. A gentleness to his voice, that only your sweet ears would hear. This was the side of Aerion he refused to show the kingdom.
'Oh, how I have missed you these past few days... Leaving your wife all alone, aching for nothing more than your touch, your voice, those lips-'
Leaning in ever so slowly, a gentle and sweet peck planted on the part of his cheek that was unscathed. As you moved back, you could gather the faintest smirk struck upon his handsome face.
Heavens, was it no lie that you really did miss him.
'Hmm, go on.'
A small, light chuckle escaped your core, as you repositioned yourself, to a more comfortable position, still sat beside Aerion just a little more closer. Your hands taking in his own hand closest to you, your thumb tenderly tracing over the lines and scars etched in his pale skin.
'I seldom spent my days outside our chambers, locking myself in here, desperate for even the faintest scent of you-'
Aerion willing, [whatever remaining strength lingered] leaning in closer to you; a palm securely planted on the base of your head, his plump lips finding their way to the crook of your neck, suckling at the soft, sensitive skin. Your breath hitched momentarily, as you continued on.
'A-any scent lingering on your clothes, on the linen... Your cushion, seven hells, did your cushion and I become quite friendly.'
'Friendly how so, princess?'
That familiar chuckle once more echoing from your mouth. Teasing Aerion was a privilege in its own right, as you were the only being he would ever allow to live and breathe without so much of a scratch on you.
'You must understand, Aerion. A wife has needs. And I needed you. I needed my dragon but he was no where to be seen. Leaving me like some helpless damsel. I was aching for you, my prince.'
'Desperate to ride the dragon, were you? My poor, needy princess.'
The contact of his other coarse free hand, calloused by the countless training and recent fight, guided your own with a tight grip. You could feel him leading you down, delving between his spread thighs, as you felt the hardening mass pulsating under your touch. Only the cover of the thin, weightless linen barricading the tips of your fingers and his cock from uniting.
'Hmm, so desperate. I took matters into my own hands... That pillow you seem to be resting on, that one... The gods only know of the sins I have committed these past few nights.'
His own hand large enough to swallow yours, remained guiding your palm; softly massaging his stiff cock, his warm cum seeping through the linen, leaving a growing stain.
'Your scent was everywhere. All over this fucking bed. I was craving you, my prince. You know that ache I get between my thighs. You know how my cunt clenches when I'm needy for my husband-'
'Fuck, Y/N! Keep going, p-princess-'
'Well, naturally, I found myself grinding against all that was left of you... You left me no choice, Aerion. Made a mess of my fingers too...'
Within a matter of seconds, the dragon himself, was now a whimpering, filthy mess. Drenched in his own excitement; your palm also gaining in on the action.
'Argh- fuck this mess. You'll have to clean it all up you know-'
'Is that so? Only if you admit that you too missed me.'
Guttural grunts that you had grown accustomed to, echoing what you could only imagine paralleled that of a young dragon.
A breathless sigh had escaped his mouth, as his light violet eyes fixed firmly on your own.
'Yes, of course... I missed you more than you could ever know, Y/N.'
Pairing: Professor!Baelor Targaryen x fem!Student!Reader
Words: 2,725.
Summary: Westerosi history just got even more interesting...
Warnings: age-gap implied [reader is of mature/legal age], professor x university!student dynamics, vaginal fingering, penetrative sexual intercourse, size kink, praise kink, swearing, pet names.
A/N - this was stuck in my brain so here you go x apologies for the wait!
Concentration is a struggle to grasp these days. Not because of the influx of assignments and pending doom of exams, and not because your social life was blossoming beyond your ability to cope. No, it was something you could never have quite thought possible in your cards. To be more accurate, it was someone.
Baelor Targaryen: a tall, hefty man, with a full head of dark hair and a dense beard that proudly showed his refined age with its greyish specks. An intelligent man. In fact, probably one of the most knowledgeable individuals you had ever come across. And thank the gods, is he kind. The air of prestige that shrouded him would have one believe otherwise. Your initial, fleeting encounters with him were typically filled with dread, even if it was responding to a question he posed in lessons: intimidated by his unwavering brilliance.
Weren't most people apprehensive talking to their professors?
It was, however, not an uncommon thing to come across a young woman, or man that did not have some likeness towards Professor Baelor. Whether it was out of sheer respect, admiration or perhaps even a cheeky crush towards the bachelor...
It was known that Baelor Targaryen was admired by the masses, respected by his peers and students alike. And you took it a step further to make sure he knew of this well and truly.
In the late hours, when the old campus of King's Landing had succumbed to the twilight of the evening and silence of the students retiring to their dorms, is when your secret had a moment of truth, a breath of life to exist even if for a few short hours.
It was common for professors to assign a student, a student whom they saw potential in, one whom they thought excelled, to help with the more tedious and outstanding labors that a professor thought themselves above.
You did not mind, in fact, you were quite bashful when you had received the e-mail from him, enquiring if you would be willing to accept the role.
Regardless, Baelor often helped with his own tasks, as he never saw himself obnoxiously superior. Rather, you had the gut feeling that he'd actually enjoyed helping you. He was selfless, always eager to lend a helping hand in any matter. With each passing week, the closeness and confining nature of the job, toiling in his most organised and compact office that was saturated with novels and volumes of all kinds, beheld a power to dismantle the fear you had, replaced with tension...
Banter became easier and welcoming, a lot of your interests and attitudes paralleled with his own. Eventually, the work would be no feat, completed within an hour or two, and yet you found yourself still succumbed to the late hours of the night digressing and occasionally dining on take-out with him, and him alone.
As one thing always leads to another...
The intimacy you had begun to yearn for, your mind ached to manifest into something more physical. Little to your knowledge, Baelor was completely enamoured by you, and did not think he could keep himself poised for much longer. He chose you after all, you were his first choice and very much the only one he'd actually wanted.
On this particular night, you had been given the task to edit a few of the undergraduate papers, countless essays on the history of a city of their choosing: one student took the bold step of discussing the mysteries of Asshai. Some of the points written, you could not decipher to be accurate yourself, and grew tirelessly overwhelmed reading the differing accounts online. Your cautious eyes leered their attention towards Baelor, who sat comfortably in the recline of his chair, engulfed by the legible ink before him. In these moments, your craven eyes lingered over his handsome details, mesmerised by the illusion of the dim, warm light softening his rugged features: beckoning for a closer look.
'Professor- so sorry to interrupt-'
You steadily rose from your seat opposite of his own, making your way over to him with a caution in your step, as though you were approaching a wounded yet threatening creature, that you dared not anger nor frighten off.
'I just have a few questions about this paper, in particular. A student wrote of Asshai and I just can't seem to decipher what to believe and what not to," You coyly plead, like some weak neophyte.
God, his chuckle: almost resembled a deep growl-like noise, echoing his beast-like demeanour. It was teasing.
'Asshai, interesting... Daring for them to try and tackle its history in a 1000 word essay, don't you think?'
Pathetic, your mind spat... All you could muster was a peep of a giggle.
Meekly you stood beside him, leaning an inch closer as you observed him skimming through the pages. The familiar, musky aroma, the hint of bergamot oozing from his intoxicating cologne consumed you now, dulling your attention: you could barely register the words strung in his marking. Aching to breathe more of him in, your breaths grew deeper, attempting to draw in as much of the aroma as your lungs could expand. Your mindless body instinctively drew closer to its seductive scent, taking it in until you felt your lower stomach suddenly pressed against the solid form of his shoulder.
'Oh, shit! So sorry, Professor! M-My apologies!'
The suddenness of your proximity, had jolted his rested arm to spring into action, unfortunately knocking over his fresh mug of coffee over his oak desk.
Pa-thetic... The word tinged with venom, spat across your mind: a blush broke out evident on your cheeks, as you pitifully attempted to clean the mess you had instigated.
'It's quite alright, Y/N. I know it was an accident. Are you alright though?'
In the shame of the accident, you barely registered that the mildly scolding brew had splattered towards you, dribbling down your beige linen skirt, leaving a stained trail in pursuit. Without a moment's hesitation, Baelor reached for the tissue, leaning forward, closer to you, in a heroic attempt to pat dry your skirt, his large fist gliding just over that sweet, sweet spot. An instinctive pulse began to throb with each gentle motion, an excitement your mind could not deny your body: muffling a whimper, seven hells, you were desperate.
'Are you sure you are alright, Y/N? That was hot coffee,' his deep voice was soothing, even more so that his reaction of concern [not even a tinge of frustration etched in] was endearing.
'I-I'm fine, I promise. I'm just so stupid. Such a clutz! I've ruined their paper... All that hard work, a-and now you'll have to explain-'
'It's alright, sweetheart.'
That wasn't a word you had ever heard trail off those lips before...
It dismantled you, quite literally a breath hitched in your throat and your train of thought vanished into thin air. You could only ogle over his face, your focus repeatedly shifting to and from his lips as though waiting for the faint echo of the word to reach your ears. Tunnel vision consumed you, as the contact of his hand, a hand much larger than your own, cupped at your cheek with a tenderness you had never been exposed to before, subtly guiding your face upward towards his own.
Those eyes [it was a well-known fact that Baelor possessed the unusual feature of heterochromia]. Though right now, in these precious seconds, you truly took in just how striking the contrast of colours were.
The dusty air felt denser, thicker with the exchange of both your heaving, warm breaths. Not long, before your breath came to a halt, as Baelor's lips smacked against yours. A passion that could only be driven by hunger, you felt-no-you knew, he had initiated this. For his hands now gripped you tightly, pulling your delicate self in closer to his sturdy body, as he pinned himself against you, shattering the distance between.
'Fuck, do the gods know how long I have been waiting to do that-'
A smile that beamed across your blushing face: you couldn't remember the last time you had ever smiled like this before, the purity of it.
'Mhmm, well do not stop on my account, Professor-'
An appetency hung in his glare now, matched with a relieved smile of satisfaction. His look suggested he could devour you right there and then, and you would do no such thing to refuse him.
With an unsurprising degree of brute, you were swiftly plopped onto the semi-dry desk, the scent and wetness of the remnants of coffee now seeping into the material of your skirt. Though you could care less, for this sudden side-track of 'work' would unfold an even more larger, more deliberate mess. The slow pooling of your own wetness was beginning to seethe through your folds with each stretching, feverish kiss. He barely let you go, even to catch a breath of his own: one brawny arm snugly wrapped around your waist, his hand tightly adjusting its grip as though to buckle you down beneath him. With his towering figure looming over you, he made it certain that this deed would be done.
Baelor's other, more ambitious hand had now scrunched the length of your skirt up over your lap, finding its way to where it was most wanted. In the dark, lonesome hours of the many nights, it was your own sad, little hand that sought relief, yet now... Baelor had that pleasure.
His bare, thick digits [two at first] bore a slow, deep rhythm to their pumping action. In and out, taking in the heat and warmness emanating from your inside, the silky surfaces that grew wetter by each passing minute. Gods were his hands big. You felt his fingers stretching you from the inside, with his palm barely fitting between your entrance, you strategically parted your legs even more to give way: his body shifting closer in. Holding you with such strength, you felt secure in his arms, sheltered against any animosity beyond those doors, by his grey eminence.
'Aren't you the eager one, sweetheart? Is this truly what I do to you?'
With his lips freed from your own, you hastily took to muffle your mouth, the whimpering moans that you were aching to scream, against the crook of his damp neck: the razor burn of his shaven beard harsh against your soft skin.
'I-If only- If only you'd known sooner-' A whimper of a broken sentence.
'You don't think I have not taken notice of you, sweet girl? The way you look up at me with those eyes? Such a pretty doll. Or the way you bend over my desk? A tease you are.'
A foreign yet compelling third finger thrust its way in with the rest, his sloppy motion quickening with each damned confession.
'My pretty, little doll you are.'
'Ahh- only your pretty little doll, B-Baelor.'
'That's correct. And what does my doll want from me, huh? What does she want me to do to her?'
By gripping the edges of the desk provided no ease to the tension simmering deep inside of you. Your body reaching out for him, pressing your shaky self closer against him. Your polished nails sinking deeper into his flesh, for if it had not been for his ironed, white dress shirt and dark brown vest protecting the bare skin beneath, damage would have been made.
'A-Anything, please,' You desperately sulked.
'Wrong, sweet girl. Use your words, I know you can-'
The intensity of his throaty growls reverberated against your exposed, tender skin. Between his words, he tenderly left a wet trail of shallow kisses where he could taste the familiar fragrance of your skin.
'I-I want you to bend me over, and fuck me. Over your desk-' A breathless revelation that ignited a movement of his lips shifting into a sly smile. Confirming he had heard and felt the core truth of your plea.
'Reading my mind now, are we? Want me to fill you up to the brim? Want to smell of your professor's hard, hard work?'
Against the concoction of ecstasy oozing from his words, his hand that had been so eagerly exploring you, sprung free from your clenching walls, a helpless squeak escaping your swollen lips in exchange. His digits now coated with a glistening film, Baelor barely spared a second to deny himself a taste.
'Divine.'
'B-Baelor-'
His calculating and deliberate actions, only proved just how refined he was, in this particular sector of life. He was not aggressive in his demands nor his words, although more a sensual and guiding figure.
'Turn over, sweetheart,' A gentle whisper of a command, his expert hands aiding your movements with a gentleness to it.
'You certain you want this?'
'Of course- I-I've never been so certain of anything.'
There was that grin again, against your soft margins.
Hearing the haste unbuckling of his belt and pants being undone, was one of the most thrilling sounds you could have possibly heard. The oozing tip of his fat cock rigid in impatience, and between your folds felt luxuriant.
This would hurt, no doubt.
Guiding his teasing cock just ever so slightly between your sleek entrance, that low-growling chuckle echoing from the walls of his broad chest to your arched backside.
'See what you've done to me. How you make me feel, my sweet girl. Making me suffer in those classes with you sitting up there, looking so perfect, hmm?'
Your lingering breaths now in sync with each other as one vigilant arm remained holding you close against him, keeping your faltering self steady. The other, guiding his unwieldy cock, delving a little deeper into you, easing his mass into your tight, satiny walls.
'I wish to not hurt you. I hate to break my most precious doll... But this will hurt, okay?'
Your body now rigid, heeding to his warning. You had just prayed the pain would be nothing more than a jolt, lasting for a minute or two. Regardless of whether Baelor had eased his mass in, inch by inch, your tight walls tried desperately, pathetically to take him in. All of him.
'Holy fuck' You painfully cried out: a hand gripping the table's edge once more, and the other wrapped tightly around his wrist.
Hurt was an understatement... It was pain on a dimensional scale that was both scathing and exhilarating. A type of discomfort you were willing to endure over and over again.
'That's it baby girl, that's it- Doing so, so well.'
An overwhelming electricity coursed through every artery, fibre and atom of your being. Detonating a wave of vitality from within your core, like some type of defibrillator. His thrusts were careful, yet powerful. Each time he caved into you, you felt the table shifting forward beneath your own weight and his. Mindlessly, your body desired him despite the strain. Your walls now eagerly lubricated, clenching around his throbbing cock. His grunts vibrating in your ear, as his hot breath dampening your soft skin: just the cherry on top.
'Gods your so fucking tight, doll. How you've been craving for me. Day dreaming of this, I have no doubt. Ahh, fuck-'
'A-Am I doing well? Am I your n-number one girl?'
A struggle to even think let alone speak, yet you were needy for his approval, for his validation alone. He was your professor after all.
'So fucking proud, princess. Letting me stretch you out, just to take me in, FUCK- I'm going to cum, precious-'
Feeling your body spiralling into an earnest orgasm, your breathless, whimpering moans only triggering his own crescendo. Swiftly pulling out of you, rousing you one final time.
Sparing a few minutes recuperating, processing what had just happened: Baelor wanted you, just as you had wanted him. Welcomed by himself, you found yourself seeking comfort and care in his lap, as he sat himself once more in his deskchair. Contently embracing your exhausted yet much appeased self. A gentle peck planted on your flustered cheek.
'I guess our evenings might not be so dreary after all... Not that I ever felt that way towards you, Y/N. These evenings spent together are what I look forward to most. And now... Seven hells, are we going to have fun, my sweet, sweet girl.'
Ohy gooooosh yes this was everything I'd hoped it be! Professor Baelor is such a treat 😍 Thank you for writing and blessing us with this because it's ✨️🤌✨️
