Hermes: *struggling through Reader's Temple against howling winds and pouring rain, thunder shaking the building, hanging onto his hat* "DID YOU ANGER ZEUS OR SOMETHING--"
Reader: "Hermes?" *bedroom door swings open to find them standing there naked. The storm abruptly calms* "What...what are you doing here--"
Hermes: "Looking for you! Aphrodite is hosting the feast tonight, she wants you there--why aren't you dressed?"
Reader: "...I don't have any clothes."
Hermes: "First, that would hardly bother Aphrodite. Second, you have countless clothes!" *opens closet before Reader can stop him* "See? Dress, gown, tunic, hello Father, dress--"
The messenger god has arrived from the heavens! 😳✨ I am EXTREMELY proud of this piece!! It took me quite some time, but I’m really happy with the result!! Again, Hermes is just so much fun to work with!!
i know everyone’s mourning and all but i’ve already watched the trial of seven scene like 50 times and i can’t stop thinking about how sexy it was seeing baelor knock maekar off his horse
the trial of seven is the sexiest thing ever broadcast on live television — and yeah, i absolutely agree with you anon, so sexy 😮💨
What do you think Adler’s favorite color is? I want to say that black is definitely one of them? But he has various colors in his wardrobe as we’ve seen from his outfits in both cold war and BO6. Opinions?
...I thought I was the only one thinking about black🤣🤣 omg. Well maybe I would say black and blue but yeah, I don't think Adler would have many other options tbh.
2- ufff my favourites films are Dr Strange, Indecent proposal, Divergent, Inglorious Bastards, Dead for a dollar and battle angel Alita. But this are just a few of them.
3- Awww I love this question!! I love to learn about anything in general, not a specific topic. I'm just curious so I spend more time reading random facts of whatever.
4- I hope that, also I hope you're blessed too🫂❤️ hope to you the best always. Thanks for your lovely and kind words❤️
pairing 𓂃 prince!Baelor Targaryen x wife!fem!reader
Late at night, overworked Prince Baelor Targaryen is buried in paperwork until his wife slips in wearing only a silk robe, coaxing him from his desk and make him forget his duty for the night.
genre and tags 𓂃 Erotic Romance, Smut with Feelings, comfort, Domestic Intimacy
Explicit Sexual Content, Established Relationship, Married Couple, Soft Dom Baelor, Praise Kink, Possessive Behavior, Romantic Intimacy, Desk Sex, Cowgirl Position, Aftercare, Power Dynamics (Prince/Queen), Tender Aftercare, Sleepy/Overworked Husband, Wife Temptation
Trigger Warnings 𓂃 18+, consensual sex, praise kink, possessive language, breeding references (finishing inside), mild power imbalance (royal husband/wife), overworked character, sleep deprivation mentioned, no non-con/dub-con, no violence/abuse
Word count 𓂃 2.2 k
The candle closest to him has been dying for the past twenty minutes, the blackened wick leaning dangerously. You’ve been watching it gutter from the doorway of the small private council chamber, barefoot on the cold stone, wrapped only in a thin robe of dark green silk that clings a little too closely to your skin, still warm from the bed you left empty behind you, the sheets rumpled where you’d waited, growing impatient.
Baelor hasn’t looked up since you slipped inside.
Before him lies chaos: parchments scattered everywhere, crown revenue accounts weeping red ink, half-opened sealed letters, a goblet of wine that’s been half-finished for three hours. His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows, forearms corded and tense, smudged with black ink in places. He looks exhausted. He looks… gone.
You move without sound, the silk whispering against your thighs.
You stop just behind his chair. You lay both hands on his shoulders—gently at first, feeling the tension knotted there like old rope. He barely startles; the faintest shift of muscle under your palms tells you he knew the moment your bare feet crossed the threshold. Always alert, always watching, even when buried in duty.
“It’s almost three in the morning, my husband.” you murmur, your chin nearly resting on the crown of his head, breathing in the faint scent of ink, parchment dust, and the clean sweat beneath.
“I know.” His voice is rough, worn thin. “One more hour. Maybe two.”
You slide your fingers into his hair, slow and deliberate, massaging his scalp with the pads of your nails. His eyes flutter shut for a single heartbeat despite himself.
“You’ve been saying that since midnight.” you point out softly.
A small, tired laugh escapes him—almost too quiet to hear.
“I’m a terrible liar, aren’t I?”
“The absolute worst, my love.”
You lean down further and press the lightest kiss just behind his ear, lips brushing the warm skin there. He draws a sharp, involuntary breath through his nose, the sound almost pained.
“Come to bed,” you whisper against his skin. “Please.”
He opens his eyes again, stares at the parchment in front of him like he can will it out of existence.
“If I don’t finish these tax projections before dawn, the council will tear itself apart tomorrow. And my father will give me that look… you know the one. The one that says ‘you’re my son but sometimes I want to throttle you’.”
You wrap your arms around his neck from behind, bending until your cheek brushes his, rough with the day’s faint stubble he hasn’t bothered to shave. Your voice drops lower, intimate.
“And I’m giving you the look that says ‘if you’re not in our bed in the next ten minutes, I’m going to get very mean’."
He lets out a breath that might be a stifled laugh. “How mean?”
You let one hand drift down his chest, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the hard planes beneath the open collar of his linen shirt until your palm flattens against the taut muscle of his stomach, just above the belt. You feel him tighten instantly under your touch, a ripple of response he can’t quite hide.
“The kind of mean where I drag you out of this chair myself… and carry you back if I have to.”
He finally turns his head toward you. Those eyes are shadowed with fatigue, but they burn.
“You’re bluffing.”
You smile—slow, wicked. “Test me.”
Silence.
Then he sweeps the parchments aside with the back of his hand—sharp, almost violent for someone usually so controlled. The goblet wobbles and spills a few dark drops across the wood.
He catches your wrist and yanks.
You laugh softly as you round the chair; he pulls you straight onto his lap, your back to his chest, your legs straddling his powerful thighs.
His arms lock around your waist like iron bands forged in dragonfire, one hand splaying possessively over your stomach while the other slides up to cup the nape of your neck.
“You’re impossible,” he growls low into the curve of your neck, but his mouth is already there—hot, open-mouthed—teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear, then biting down lightly enough to make you arch.
“And you smell like ink and despair.” You thread your fingers through his hair and tug lightly, forcing his head back so you can meet his gaze. “But I still love you. Madly. Stupidly. Even when you’re trying to drown yourself in paperwork.”
His growl deepens—lower, rougher, hungrier. The sound vibrates through your back.
“You’re going to pay for that mouth of yours.”
“I’m counting on it.” You breathe, rolling your hips once—deliberate, slow—feeling him harden beneath you in response.
His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks you'll trace later with a satisfied smile. The silk robe has ridden up your thighs, pooling around your waist like dark water, and the cool air of the chamber kisses your bare skin. Baelor doesn't seem to mind the chill—he's too focused on the heat you're pressing against him.
He shifts beneath you, adjusting so his growing hardness nestles perfectly between your thighs, the friction immediate and deliberate. You feel the low rumble in his chest as he speaks against your neck.
"You came here to tempt me," he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion and want. "And you succeeded. Beautifully."
You tilt your head back against his shoulder, giving him better access. His lips find the pulse point beneath your jaw, kissing, then sucking gently, marking you in the way only he does—soft enough to fade by morning, possessive enough to remind you who you belong to.
One hand slips beneath the silk, palm sliding up the inside of your thigh until his fingers brush the slick warmth between your legs. He pauses, breath catching.
"You're already so wet for me," he says, almost reverently. "Even when I'm buried in ledgers and half-dead from lack of sleep. How do you do that?"
You rock forward against his hand, chasing the pressure of his fingers. "Because I missed you," you whisper. "Because watching you work like this—focused, powerful, exhausted—only makes me want you more."
His thumb finds your clit, circling slowly, and you gasp. He rewards the sound with another slow circle, then dips two fingers inside you, curling them just right. He knows exactly where to press, exactly how deep to go, and the knowledge makes you shiver.
"Good girl," he praises, voice low and smooth as velvet. "Look at you—taking my fingers so perfectly. So eager for me."
You whimper, hips rolling in time with his slow thrusts. The chair creaks beneath you both, but neither of you cares. The candle finally gutters out, plunging the room into deeper shadow, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth and the faint moonlight through the narrow window.
Baelor withdraws his fingers, slick and shining, and brings them to your lips. You open for him without hesitation, tasting yourself on his skin as he watches with dark, hungry eyes.
"That's it," he groans. "Show me how much you want this."
You suck gently, swirling your tongue around his fingers, and his hips jerk beneath you. The hard length of him presses insistently against your entrance through his breeches.
"Enough teasing," he says, voice rougher now. He lifts you just enough to shove his breeches down, freeing himself. You feel him hot and heavy against your core, the tip nudging at your entrance.
He guides you down slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every stretch, every pulse. When you're fully seated, he stills, both of you breathing hard.
"My queen," he murmurs, hands sliding up to cup your breasts through the silk, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble under his touch. "Ride me like you were born for it."
You begin to move—slow at first, rising and falling, savoring the drag of him inside you. His hands settle on your hips, guiding but not forcing, letting you set the pace. His head falls back against the chair, eyes half-lidded as he watches you.
"Look at you," he breathes. "Taking every inch of me. Perfect. Magnificent."
You quicken your rhythm, thighs flexing as you grind down harder. His composure cracks—his breath comes in sharp gasps, hips snapping up to meet yours. One hand leaves your hip to slide up your back, tangling in your hair and tugging gently to expose your throat. He kisses the sensitive skin there, then bites down lightly.
"You feel incredible," he groans. "So tight, so wet—gods, I could stay inside you forever."
You lean forward, bracing your hands on the edge of the desk, parchments scattering further as you ride him faster. The angle changes, and he hits that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You cry out.
"That's it, my love," he whispers against your ear, voice strained. "Take what you need. Ride me until you come apart."
His free hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles. The combination is devastating. You shatter around him, crying out into his palm, body trembling as waves of pleasure crash through you.
He doesn't stop. He keeps thrusting through your orgasm, chasing his own, hips snapping up with desperate urgency.
With one final deep thrust, he follows you over the edge, spilling inside you with a low, guttural groan. His arms wrap around you, pulling you back against his chest as he rides out the aftershocks, burying his face in your neck.
For a long moment, the only sound is your shared ragged breathing and the faint crackle of the dying fire.
Then he presses soft kisses along your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. His hands stroke your sides, soothing, reverent.
"I love you," he murmurs against your skin. "More than the realm. More than duty."
You turn your head to kiss him—slow, deep, lingering.
"And I love you, even more than that" you whisper back. "Now come to bed. For real this time."
He chuckles softly, the sound exhausted but warm.
"As my queen commands."
He lifts you gently, still joined, and carries you.
Baelor doesn’t speak until you reach the heavy oak door of your private chambers. He shoulders it open without breaking stride, kicks it shut behind him, and crosses straight to the bed.
The sheets are still warm, still tangled from where you’d waited earlier. He lowers you onto them with careful reverence, never once slipping free of your body. Only when your back meets the mattress does he finally ease out of you—slowly, reluctantly—drawing a soft, shared hiss from both of you at the loss.
He pauses above you, braced on his forearms. Moonlight spills through the tall windows, painting silver streaks across the sharp line of his jaw, the faint ink smudges still on his forearms, the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.
"You’re beautiful." he says quietly, almost to himself. His thumb traces the swollen curve of your lower lip.
You feel the warm trickle between your thighs and clench instinctively around nothing. His gaze drops, dark and possessive, watching it with something like hunger even though he’s just finished.
“Stay like that a moment,” he murmurs.
He rises onto his knees, reaches for the small silver ewer of water on the bedside table. He pours some into the shallow basin, dips a soft linen cloth, wrings it out. Then he returns to you, gentle as he’s ever been.
The cool cloth glides over your skin—first your inner thighs, then higher, wiping away the evidence of both of you with slow, careful strokes. He’s thorough, reverent. When he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth aside and pulls the heavy furs up around you both.
Only then does he lie down, drawing you into his arms until your head rests on his chest. His heartbeat is still too fast, still thundering from what you just did. His hand finds its favorite place—curved possessively over one thigh, thumb stroking idle circles.
“You were right,” he says after a long silence. “I needed this. Needed you.”
“I know.” You press a kiss to the center of his chest, right over the steady drum of his heart. “You carry too much alone.”
You feel him exhale—long, slow, the sound of a man finally letting go of the weight he’s been shouldering since sunset. His free hand finds yours beneath the furs, fingers lacing together.
“Tell me you’ll wake me if the dreams come again,” you whisper.
His lips brush your forehead. “I will.”
“Promise.”
"I swear it."
You smile against his skin. “Good. Because if you try to sneak back to that desk at dawn, I really will get mean.”
He chuckles—low, tired, warm. “Noted, my queen.”
His hand slides up your spine, slow and soothing, until it settles at the nape of your neck. He holds you there, thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear.
“Sleep now,” he murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You let your eyes drift closed, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing slowly matching yours. The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is his lips pressing one final, lingering kiss to the crown of your head.
Author note : Hello again my fellow Baelor enjoyers. As you can see I'm coping with episode 5... which I've personally decided doesn't exist so here we are.
Hope you enjoy the reading, there is more to come <3
ps : don't hesitate to tell my if you have any ideas for other stories ! id be thrilled to grant your wishes :)
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