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 :)
— summary: after the trial of seven, baelor seeks safety in the comfort of your arms; because for him, the real victory is not winning the battle, but getting back home to his wife.
— pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader
— word count: 1.5k
— content: post-battle care, comfort, domestic romance, established relationship, implied/mild sexual content, nudity, soft!baelor, unspecified age gap, canon divergence (he lives! because we—yes, we—needed that).
The morning is exceptionally quiet and warm that day, the birds are singing outside, and the gentle wind is making the treetops sway under its invisible lead. The world is peaceful.
Ser Duncan the Tall had won the Trial of Seven, much to everyone's surprise, as most believed him to be a mere coward. He proved to be one of the strongest and bravest knights you know. And for that, he had rightfully earned a special place at your husband's court. He deserved no less.
“We should take him with us to Dragonstone,” you suggest to Baelor in a tone as soft as the morning sun slipping through the glass of your bedchamber window.
Baelor breathes heavily, his eyes remain closed as he relaxes in the comfort of your loving care. You run a washcloth across his shoulders, washing away the traces of blood—not his—and mud that have stained his smooth skin.
He had fought exceptionally well. You knew he would. You have the most courageous and skilled knight as your husband.
He looked so handsome in that armor, brave enough to face his own blood for the sake of righteousness. Yet you wished you never had to see him like that again, so far from you, the fate of his life hanging in the hands of the Seven.
“He would make a good royal knight,” he agrees with you, blowing out warm air as your fingers massage a knot in the muscles of his upper back that feels extra strained. “He fought fearlessly.”
“You fought so courageously, Your Grace,” you praise him, so very used to doing it now, that it had become a verbal habit for you. Bending over from behind his bathtub and pressing an appreciative kiss on the back of his neck, easing away the tension and ache.
“I hardly did anything, my love,” he brushes off the flattery with a gentle huff, rising to his feet in the tub, streams of warm water running down his naked, aching body. “Ser Duncan did most of it.”
Your eyes trace the full length of his back, and your pupils grow in response to the sight of water droplets sliding down between his shoulder blades, wishing fleetingly that it had been your own tongue instead.
You flash a gentle smile, though you both know how much you disapprove of his tendency to always dismiss flattery. “Still, you fought as one would expect of the big Baelor Breakspear.”
“Big?” he raises a single eyebrow, his expression melting into a subtle smirk.
“Big,” you confirm, gesturing with your head to the lower part of his body. This makes him roll his eyes, still smiling.
You're already waiting for him on the little ladder by the bathtub, holding his dark bathrobe open by the time he starts stepping out. He smiles in appreciation, his body stretching to get the robe around him properly as you help him.
Once he's right in front of you, Baelor pulls you into his arms, holding you tight and nuzzling his head into your neck, brushing his lips against your shoulder.
“You're all wet, Bae!” you call out, a hint of amusement ringing in your voice as you make a vain attempt to push him away. But your man is so strong and so hungry for your love in the aftermath of such a gruesome battle that he never wishes to leave your side again.
“And that has never stopped you before,” he responds in a hushed, suggestive whisper, his lips lavishing sweet kisses along the skin of your neck. They make a slow, moist path through your flesh, all the way up to reach your mouth, lingering there.
You melt into the kiss, your hands finding purchase on his damp shoulders as the scent of his expensive bath oils and soap fills your senses.
When he finally pulls back, his two-toned, beautiful eyes are soft, reflecting only you.
Sometimes he amazes you, for less than two hours ago he stood on the battlefield, wrapped in that dark armor, caught up in a frenzy of violence and adrenaline, striking down and slaughtering other men with the very hands that now hold you so tenderly. Those same eyes that plot strategies to defeat his adversaries now gaze down at you like a pair of gleaming stars, ablaze with the fires of love and worship and gentleness.
That is your Baelor.
“Flattery will not get you out of a proper drying, my Prince,” you say right against his lips, your hands already reaching for a fresh, thick towel.
Baelor sighs, a sign of deep contentment, and lets you lead him closer to the fireplace, the warmth helping him ease his sore muscles as you dry every part of his body with meticulous care.
He simply gazes at you as you dry him off, appreciating the delicacy with which you still treat him, even after all these years. The way your eyes light up with devotion and fondness when they fall upon his naked form. He is not as in shape as he was in his younger days—although you always remind him that he maintains himself too well, aging like fine wine—nevertheless, you still love him just the same. Perhaps even a little more now.
He loves how your body always yearns for his, always ready to be his, to take everything he has for you.
You are the most gorgeous creature he has ever laid eyes on. Occasionally, he even contemplates that you should be with someone closer to your age, your youthfulness, your free spirit. But you assure him that you don't belong anywhere else but by his side.
He's quite confident that, if this same sequence of events had occurred a few years ago, he would already be fucking you like a feral savage by the fireplace, right there on that damp towel.
He may do so eventually, but he first requires some time to catch his breath.
Since, he is definitely aroused by the sight of you kneeling down in front of him, gently rubbing the towel along his thighs, your face so close to his already semi-hard manhood. You know exactly what you're doing, teasing him like that.
Baelor lets out a low rumble, a combination of pleasure and protest, as he feels the warmth of the fireplace on his back and the much more intense heat of your gaze burning into him from below.
His fingers reach down to run through your hair, not to brush you away, but to anchor himself to reality as his pulse speeds up again, this time for a battle far greater than that of early dawn. That is, to please you.
“You're a wicked little temptress, my lady,” he exhaled, his voice cracking.
You bite your lower lip, holding back one of your devilish little smiles, your hand now busy drying his other leg, trying to look innocent. “I'm not doing anything, Baelor.”
“Liar,” he accuses, his voice vibrating with a hint of feigned reproach and pure desire. “You're a bad girl.”
You chuckle to yourself, a sly vibration that ripples against his thigh as you finish drying his skin. Slowly, you rise to your feet, letting the towel fall to the carpet like a heavy petal, and catch his deep gaze, the one that never fails to see right through you.
Baelor Targaryen is a know-it-all, everyone knew that. But his favorite topic to explore and learn about has always been you.
“If I were a bad girl, my Prince, I would have left you with the blood and mud of battle still clinging to your back,” you whisper, pulling closer until your breasts, bulging out of the neckline of the tight nightgown you're wearing, press against the damp fabric of his robe. “Instead, here I am... taking care of you.”
“That is true. You take such good care of me,” he breathes out the praise, just how you like it, tilting his head to capture your lips once more, this time with a longing he no longer bothers to hide. “Such a good wife for me, hm?”
With his unoccupied hand, he undoes the knot of his robe with a graceful movement, letting the fabric slide off his shoulders.
The warmth from the fireplace casts long, golden shadows across his broad chest, and before you can so much as squeak something, Baelor lifts you off your feet. You let out a small yelp of surprise that trails off into a giggle as your legs instinctively wrap around his waist.
“Baelor, the bed is on the other side of the room!” you complain with feigned indignation, even though your hands are already busy caressing and holding onto his shoulders. “You must rest. The maesters were insistent that you shouldn't exert yourself too much.”
“Fuck the maesters. I can do whatever I please, especially when my pretty wife is pampering me.” he replies in that deep, commanding voice he uses in council, but now tinged with a mischief that only you recognize. “The bearskin carpet is much closer, anyway”
He gently lays you down on the furry rug in front of the fire, and you pull him down toward you so you can kiss him.
Affectionately, he presses his forehead against yours. “All I could think about was coming back to this place. To you.”
“You'll always come back to me, Baelor,” you recite the promise he often swears to you. “You're too much of a stubborn man to ever leave me alone in this world.”
Baelor smiles at that, that crooked smile that you fell in love with years ago, and seals the promise with a kiss that tastes like love and solace. Like home.
Academy Award for Best Actor in a Supporting Role:
Well frankly, I've never given anybody their freedom before. And that I have, I feel vaguely responsible for you. Plus, when a German meets a real life Sigfried, that's kind of a big deal. As a German, I'm obliged to help you on your quest to rescue your beloved Broomhilda.
Christoph Waltz as Dr. King Schultz in Django Unchained (2012, dir. Quentin Tarantino)
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