Father's Brother | Dark Baelor Targaryen
Pairing: Dark Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen x (female) Reader
▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.
More at Masterlist
Summary: You hate your father. You hate your uncle all the same, even though it’s his money that allows you and your mother to survive. But nothing ever comes for free in this world.
Modern!AU
WARNINGS: Incest. Noncon. Implied manipulation/coercion.
AN: Comments and reblogs are very much appreciated, but a reblog with a comment is even better. Thanks 💗 Let me know if you like this. Enjoy!
--
You open the fridge, scanning through the scarce contents while attempting to drown out the vibration of your phone. Your jaw clenches as anger builds inside you.
You hate your father. You hate him with all of your heart.
You hate him for never truly being a father to you, always an inconsistent figure that would drop by every few months to play house with you and your mom, always with the promise of getting better and trying harder, only to leave in the quiet of the night a few days later, your mom’s savings shoved in his pockets each and every time.
You hate him for giving hope and then snatching it right back, never truly fulfilling his end of the bargain, for never really caring enough for you and your mom.
You hate him for being such a ghost of a father, for never putting in the effort to be around you or to get to know you, for not taking you out on father-daughter dates, for looking at the five-year version of you and not being sober enough to remember that you were his daughter.
You hate him for all the times he promised to come back for you, all the times he kneeled down and told you to be ready cause this time he was finally taking you out to the movies or to that one amusement park you’ve always wanted to go to only to never show up, not a single phone call or a message to explain as the hours went by and you’d remain seated in the porch steps, trembling with cold but hopeful and insistent that your dad would show up, no matter how much your mom would try to convince you to get inside the warmth of the house.
You hate him for abandoning you and your mother in favor of needles and white powder. For not being strong enough to stop, for allowing the thrill and euphoria of the drugs to get the best of him.
You hate him because while he is a bad father to you, he was even worse to your mother, never once caring for your mom’s health problems and the bills that come with it or for rent or for your college tuition or for groceries.
And right now, as you stare at the nearly empty fridge with the loud buzz of the old appliance increasing the longer you stare at it, your hatred for your sperm donor only grows in volume.
The vibration in your phone sizzles down until it dies off. A moment later, it buzzes once and then twice, before finally quieting down. When the screen finally goes dark, you tap on the old phone’s screen.
A missed phone call and two messages.
You don’t even have to read through the text to know what it says. It’s unpleasant but routine by now. A clockwise visit that you’ve learned to expect as the days drag closer to the end of each month.
You hate your father for many reasons and one of said reasons being his brother’s monthly visits.
Uncle Baelor, like he insisted you call him back when you were a cheerful child and he would lift into his lap and sneak some candy into your hands like it was your little secret. You don’t like to call him that anymore.
Your mom’s eyes dig into you as she plates your dinner, a meager dose of omelette and a dry thin slice of bread.
“Who is it?” she seems reluctant to ask, much like she already knows the answer.
“Baelor.”
You hesitate for a moment. “He says he’ll drop by tomorrow.”
Tension gathers in your mom’s face.
Her face, once pretty and full of life, now turned into a rather haggard one, the hollow cheeks and dull skin coming as a reminder of her soul-sucking job and the health that keeps failing her and the dark circles beneath her eyes only seem to get worse with each month. Another reason to hate your father.
She opens her mouth, but no words come out.
“It’s fine, mom.” you shrug your shoulders and close the fridge, slamming the door harder than the old appliance deserves. “We’re almost running out of food and your meds also need a refill. It's good timing I guess.”
Her frown deepens at that, much like it does every month. She shakes her head, eyes carrying a helplessness so deep that you have to look away.
When she speaks, her voice is nothing but a frail, broken whisper. “I wish things were different…”
And in that moment, you feel just as helpless as she does.
–
You hate your father for a never-ending amount of reasons, but the one that cuts you the deepest is the fact that he was born into money.
A Targaryen, a family that revels in copious amounts of old money and their successful multiple-venture family business. A powerful surname, nearly as distinct as the silver-hair and violet eyes that the majority of the family members have.
You inherited none of them.
Not the surname and certainly not the looks. Your father never married your mother, never bothered enough to sign on the birth certificate and neither did his genes, allowing you to come out as an exact copy of your mother. And while you’re grateful for the latter, you can only dream of how much better-off you and your mom would’ve been had he given you his last name.
A whole world of out-of-reach fantasies haunt you at night, when hunger and stress won’t let you sleep.
Had you been given the Targaryen surname, not a day would be spent scraping and saving all the pennies you can, of counting every single note and coin only to realize you’re gonna be short for something, of having to stand in the lines of the food banks only to be told that there was nothing more to be given.
You wouldn’t have to make hard decisions, to pick between paying electricity or refilling your mom’s medicine, between paying rent or falling short on the college tuition. If you were a Targaryen by name you wouldn’t have to decide whether you preferred to skip breakfast and dinner altogether for the better part of a month or if replacing your only pair of shoes wasn’t worth it.
No. If you were a Targaryen you’d be a trust fund kid, spoiled and carefree, living your best life. Your mom would be taken care of with the best doctors and expensive treatments and she’d be able to rest instead of working her ass off for the minimum wage.
If you were a Targaryen you wouldn’t have to thank your uncle for the check he brings once a month, feeling your cheeks burn with shame as he gives you the money, fully aware that you and your mom are nothing but a side project of his, a little charity project he works on from time to time as you’re sure the rest of the family thinks.
As if he’s offering you the money out of his heart’s kindness instead of giving you what you are rightfully owed.
But then again - it’s not really charity work, is it?
There is no such thing as a free lunch in this world and you sure do pay a hefty price for what he gives. He gives you something and you give him something else in return. Because that’s how the world works.
If you were a Targaryen, you wouldn’t have to go through the humiliation of being a charity work of your billionaire uncle.
Things would’ve been so much different for you, and sometimes while laying awake at night, mind unable to shut off with all the bills and expenses that keep adding up, you like to imagine how different your life would've had been.
Maybe you’d be a less bitter person, less stiff, less negative.
Maybe you wouldn’t look at your classmates and seethe with jealousy at the clothes and phones and laptops they own. Maybe you wouldn’t cry hidden in the bathroom because someone mentioned that you’ve used the same jacket for nearly three weeks - because that’s the only jacket you have.
Maybe you wouldn’t have to juggle between college and the part-time job at the shitty restaurant, the long hours of standing and serving and tolerating disrespectful clients, all with a smile on your face just to earn scraps that barely get you by.
Life could’ve been so much different and it hurts when you think about it.
Maybe you’d be able to go shopping and have fun and drive a nice car. A sleek, expensive black car much like the one your uncle is parking in front of your house.
There’s uncontained jealousy as you observe him exiting the car.
It doesn’t go unnoticed to you that this is a different car from the one he drove last month, you don’t even know why you’re surprised. You live in completely different worlds and his family changes cars like someone changes socks. They’re filthy rich while you and your mom remain dirt poor - the sad reality of your life.
You hide behind the curtain of the window, bitterly watching Baelor lock the door of the shiny car before heading towards the house with quick steps.
The knock to the door comes a moment later but you don’t rush. Instead you take your sweet time walking to the door, not exactly eager to face him. A second knock resounds, more firmly this time. With a deep breath, you prepare yourself to face your uncle.
His face eases up when the door opens, a small smile dangling on his lips.
He stands confidently tall, dressed with a formal black suit and pants and silver personalized cufflinks much like he just came from the office. His outfit, judging by the appearance, looks like it cost more than your house.
“Y/n.”
“Uncle.” you nod at him as a greeting. You stopped hugging him years ago.
“May I?”
You pull the door wider and watch as Baelor enters with the confidence and steadiness of someone who knows their way around.
A hint of annoyance flares up at that, at the arrogant way he walks in much like he owns the house. Which he technically nearly does. It’s his money that pays for the rent and covers for the utilities, a thought that begrudgingly comes to you.
Instead of following Baelor to the minuscule living room, you head over to the kitchen.
You grab a clean glass and place it underneath the faucet. As it fills up with tap water, you check behind you and then quickly bring your face to the glass.
A globe of spit drops to the water as silently as you can. What Baelor doesn’t know can’t hurt him and God knows he deserves much worse than this.
When you enter the living room, you find Baelor seated on the couch, reading something off of his phone - which you vaguely recognize as the latest model of the expensive brand.
He has removed the black blazer, leaving it folded in the back of a chair. But even while wearing the simple white shirt and black formal pants, he still appears quite the tycoon. A tycoon that has no business sitting on a second-hand couch in the middle of a small living room whose walls have paint peeling off in pieces.
He looks up when you hand him the cup, thanking you. Petty satisfaction blooms in your chest as he takes an unsuspecting sip of the water. Serves him well.
He places the glass on the small coffee table and puts his phone face down next to it. And then looks at you, his gaze assessing you as you stand at short distance.
You stare back at him.
Same as you, your eldest uncle also failed to inherit the Targaryen genes. The short dark hair matches with his beard, both of them sprinkled with grey.
There’s a maturity and a severity in his face that often makes him look much older than what he truly is, though you know he just recently celebrated his thirty-seventh birthday. His eyes, one violet and the other brown, perspect you attentively.
He gives you a small, kind smile that you don’t retribute.
“How have things been? With the two of you.”
As if he cares. Fighting back the urge to scoff at him, you shrug your shoulders.
“Fine.”
He gives a small nod, eyes searching around the division. “And your mother?”
You try not to show how much that question bothers you.
“At work.”
Baelor’s attention returns to you. “And how’s college going?”
“Well, I guess.”
“That’s good. Education and knowledge are two things you can never have enough.” he says with an approving nod. “College is a good experience, prepares you for the future. Do you have friends there?”
“A few.” you lie.
“Good.” Baelor’s eyes dig into you. “And boyfriends?”
You shift the weight between your legs. You despise how every question sounds like an interrogation and you wish he’d just hand over the check and get over with the rest.
“No.” you speak the truth this time. “I don’t have time for that.”
Baelor lets out a quiet hum as he reclines on the couch.
“You do well. You should focus on your studies before anything else.”
The silence grows for a few moments. When Baelor speaks again, it’s with a softer tone.
“You didn’t attend my birthday celebration.” he gently brings up. “I was quite sad not to have you there. The whole family was in attendance except for you, that is.”
You know that.
Your cousin Daella’s Instagram is public and you’re not a stranger to stalking her posts from time to time, a habit that you can’t let go of, no matter how much you try.
She posted quite a lot for that day - mostly her own photos, with the stylish gown and glamorous makeup - but a few videos of the event also appeared through the flood of selfies.
Something had rotted in your chest while you used the college’s wifi to watch the numerous shots of the tower of cake and the huge pile of presents, all the sparkly designer dresses and the shiny jewelry and for once, you were glad you didn’t attend.
You would have made a fool of yourself, dressed in the best outfit you own - washed away jeans and a pink blouse. It’s not like you have a dress at your disposal when you can’t even afford a new pair of shoes.
Baelor continues.
“Matarys was quite eager to meet you. He kept asking for you, if at last he was going to meet you.”
You swallow and shrug your shoulders. “I was busy.”
The silence prolongs itself for a moment and Baelor looks at you as though he’s expecting you to elaborate. When you don’t, remaining with a blank face and arms crossed, he lets out a small sigh.
“Yes, I’m sure you were.”
You can’t contain the flare of anger at his tone.
“I was working the entire day. So, yeah, sorry for missing your fancy birthday party over that.”
Baelor grimaces at your small outburst. His hand begins to toy with the expensive, golden rings adorning his fingers.
“I know. You are a very hard-working girl and I did not mean otherwise.” he says, as a justification. “I only meant that you have a family that would very much like to meet you, if so you wished.”
You bite your tongue to avoid telling your uncle that if the rest of the family is anything like him or your father, you’re better off not meeting any of them. Your mom is all the family you need. All the family that is actually here for you, unlike those rich fake uncles and cousins.
“And it’s not just my son Matarys. Your grandmother Myriah speaks of you quite often. Asks me about you all the time.”
“Right.”
All the internet pictures of Myriah Targaryen showed a woman with kind features and grey hair, pretty jewelry always adorning her neck and hands. She looked much like a modern grandmother, dressed impeccably.
Then again she knows where you live, she knows where you study, she knows her eldest son comes to your house with a check every month. So what’s stopping her from coming to you herself or God forbids, giving you a call.
Your uncle’s eyebrows rise at your silence.
“She’d be most glad to meet you. All of the family would.” Baelor assures you, before adding. “If you agree, next month we could-”
“Like I said, I’m busy. College, work, my mom. My plates are full at the moment.”
You cut him off more indelicately than you should considering he’s the one with a big wallet but you’re getting tired of walking in circles. You’re growing impatient and anxious and you just want him and his arrogant ass out of your house, the only place you find some solace in.
You take a step forward.
“Can we… get it over with?” you ask. “Please. I’ve got exams to study for.”
Baelor expression falls in the slightest, brows furrowing and then easing up. He’s quick in molding his face back to normal, wearing that mask of composure he always does.
“Of course.” he answers. “Let me get it for you.”
You exhale shakily as Baelor stands up and reaches for his jacket, digging into the pocket until he retrieves the white envelope, where inside lays the check.
Finally.
Your skin prickles with anxiety and anticipation as Baelor places the paper on the coffee table before coming to stand before you.
He stands much too close, your nose catching the distinct fragrance of his cologne. A hand rises to your face, the back of his long fingers caressing your cheek with a feather-light touch.
His gaze darkens as it lands on your lips, still humid from the lip balm you put on earlier.
“I’ve done my end of the bargain.” his voice deepens as he inches closer, his hand slowly descending until the back of your neck is trapped in his palm.
“You fulfill yours now.”
–
You hiss at the uncomfortable feeling.
You dig your nails into the back of your thighs, the self-inflicted pain helping you distract from the thick cock that is splitting you in half. A single tear escapes from the corner of your eyes, quickly slipping down your neck.
Baelor leans forward until his body is molded on top of yours, his weight pressing you down on the bed. His forearms rest against the pillow on each side of your head, trapping you in.
“That’s it, sweet girl. Taking my cock so well.” he praises you, lips hovering over yours before capturing them into a kiss. He pushes his hips and swallows down your whimper as he buries himself to the hilt.
He groans, a deep sound that vibrates through your chest, but remains still, letting you get used to him. You squirm, feeling a dull ache at his cock stretching you to the fullest and yet twitching at the short curls at his base that tingle your clit.
His kiss turns insistent and you take the cue, obliging by parting your lips and letting Baelor deeper into your mouth, his beard scratching at your skin.
Nausea gathers in your stomach when your brain reminds you that the man whose tongue is inside your mouth and whose cock is balls deep into your pussy is none other than your own uncle.
You hate your father for an endless list of reasons, all of them valid on their own, but the one that truly breaks you is that he’s the sole reason why every month you have to lay on your back and let his older brother fuck you raw.
All because life is unfair and you were born with shitty luck, because your uncle has money and you don’t.
Baelor parts the kiss and presses his forehead to yours, mismatched eyes boring deep into your soul as he begins to move.
He starts at an excruciatingly slow rhythm, calm and unrushed as he intently studies every shift and expression that appears on your face, easily catching on whenever a sparkle of pleasure brightens your face and being quick in adjusting the angle to keep hitting that spot.
Your cheeks burn with betrayal and humiliation as wetness begins to accommodate his intrusion, as pleasure begins to build inside you and Baelor is fast in catching that, the corner of his lip twitching. He forces you to hold his gaze as he begins to build a steady, firm pace that has your single bed squeaking at the effort.
Your tight walls cling to his cock, the stretch feeling just delicious and it doesn’t help that his pelvis keeps brushing against your sensitive bundle of nerves, sparkling in a way that has you clenching around him.
You release your hands from your thighs that are now burning from the strain of keeping them apart for so long, and slither them around his back, clinging onto the older man as he fucks you vigorously. His warm breath fawns over your face, flushed cheeks and Baelor groans when your walls clamp around his shaft like a vice, eager to get the release you so desperately desire.
“Baelor…. ah, uncle, please.” you beg, feeling your climax right around the corner.
Baelor fucks you with strokes that reach deep enough to nearly make you lose your head, each slam of his hips against yours hard enough to have breathless sounds punctured out of you and the coil inside of you keeps dangerously tightening with each rigorous thrust.
“Go on then, sweetheart. Take what you need. Cum all over my cock.” he pants, clenched jaw and strained voice telling that he’s getting closer as well.
A few more strokes and the coil inside you finally snaps like a storm, pleasure exploding like a million little stars that have your back arching and your lips falling apart in a soundless moan and in this moment, you couldn’t care any less that the cock you’re coming all over belongs to your uncle, because your own fingers are never able to deliver such a devastating orgasm.
Your impending orgasm has Baelor reaching his as well, slamming himself home with a harsh thrust as he comes inside you with a heavy groan and a curse, forehead pressed against yours.
The aftermath washes away the pleasure and replaces it with something less pleasant, the disgust and horror slither underneath your skin like it always happens every month, after the deed is done.
Baelor breathes heavily on top of you, attempting to catch his breath and you remain underneath him, frozen like a statue. Feeling impure and disgusting for doing what you did, even if there was no way of escaping it.
And then the silent, cold anger returns and you feel upset. At yourself for just giving in without much a fight, at the world for being so unfair but most especially, at your father because he’s the root of your problems.
And with your uncle’s cum slowly dribbling down from your pussy and his cock still stretching you out, you close your eyes and swallow back the disgust.
It's done now. For this month, at least.
Four more weeks to pretend that this never happened before the money runs out and your uncle comes back knocking at your door.
