Somewhere to reblog & show appreciation of the (smutty) fanfics I enjoy reading, I am a 24 years old woman (she/her), 18+ content (Minors dni), thirsting over (fictional) hotties like it's my job, judgement free, abide by the don't like don't read rule
pairing(s): baelor “breakspear” targaryen x wife!reader
summary: You wear Baelor's shirt to bed. He is very normal about it.
words: 2.4k
cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering, somnophilia, (mild), prone bone, headlock, biting, possessive behavior, reader called 'girl’, yearning, this is quite simply just baelor jumping our bones, i love arm, mildly edited, not beta read
a/n: this is not officially a sequel to my other baelor fic but it can be read like that since i characterized him the same. i rly just want that old man to fuck me in his shirt idk
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI. I BLOCK AGELESS BLOGS.
Baelor has been standing at the foot of your bed for… much longer than he intended to. There's a tilt to his head, seventy-six degrees and counting, and a rise and fall to his chest that seems to be getting slightly faster with each passing exhale.
You do not see it. You are, as it is, asleep.
You're wearing his shirt. This is what has him still as stone, drawing his eyes over you in slow drags that he just can't seem to put an end to.
It's not an elaborate shirt. It's not even one of his best ones— the royal seamstresses have laden him with shirts of silk and fine woven cotton, embellished with hours of needlework or, in some horrifying cases, even beading. He has shirts of every color and shade, shirts of damask and velvet, shirts for summer and shirts for winter. Tunics from Dorne. Doublets from the Reach. Myrish robes. Qartheen samite vests.
You have chosen none of those. The one you have chosen is as simple a garment as he would choose on any given day, to wear against his skin beneath his doublet. White linen gauze, unembellished, unadorned. Its sleeves almost as billowing as its body, coming to plain rectangular cuffs. A simple collar, a sturdy yoke across the shoulders, double-stitched to keep it from unraveling. It is, in a word, efficient. Standard.
He knows, without having to ask you, that you chose to wear this shirt specifically because it is standard. Because it is one that he wears often. The cuffs have gone slightly soft with the wear, the neckline just a bit stretched along the bias. The felled seams are coming undone just a touch at the hem, a fact that he always sees but hasn't brought to the attention of his attendant, because it would mean a week of waiting to have it repaired. It is unfussy. But it is his.
And you are curled up in it like a kitten, asleep in his bed, your leg thrown over a pillow that you had moved toward his side of the bed in his absence. He has spent too long at his work, he knows. You spent too long waiting for him— long enough that you removed your nightgown and donned one of his shirts, and you fell asleep like that. Alone. In the bed you are meant to share with him.
Baelor feels a tightness in his chest that is ringed with fondness, an aching longing for you that hadn't stopped after your wedding, and doesn't seem like it will any time soon. He is too taken with you, too in love and consumed by it for that intrinsic sense of need for you to fade. It is a tender thing, tied around his heart in an intricate knot, with a tail that you hold the end of. You twirl it around your little finger and he buckles like a man who has never seen combat, who doesn't know what it is to stand his ground.
Baelor sighs as he undresses, but he keeps one eye on you all the while, as though you may disappear if he moves too far away. But you don't move. You don't even stir, when his belt hits the stone floor, or when his breeches follow. You are caught up in a world of dreams, unaware of what the sight of your sleeping form is doing to your husband, bringing him to the brink of something he has never quite been able to put a name to.
You do not stir when his hand presses into the mattress.
You do not stir when his weight dips the bedding and he moves slowly, purposefully, over you.
You do, however, stir just the smallest bit when his fingers dance over the curve of your hip through the fabric, feeling its drape over the soft plush of your skin. The meat of your ass, the swell of your thigh. Baelor feels, smoothing and caressing with a languid stroke that is not intended to rouse you, although he knows very well that it might and he does it anyway. Your fingers flex on the pillow that you clutch instead of him.
He finds himself, at that moment, inordinately envious of a pillow. A lump of fabric and feathers in your hands, between your thighs.
His hand grows bolder, a broad stroke over the small of your back, into the dip of your waist. You make a small noise in your throat, twitching the slightest bit as he passes over a particularly sensitive area.
"Shh, my sweet girl," Baelor whispers quietly, a lulling murmur in the darkness. Everything about you is soft— your skin, the fabric of his shirt as it lays over you, your hair, the expression on your face, the candle light on your sleeping body. It overwhelms him. It turns him into something that he's not normally, unless he is with you: a man. Not a Prince, and not the Hand of the King or heir to the throne. Not a warrior and not a subject of songs and poetry, myths and stories. With you, in this bed, he is simply a man in love with his wife, devoted beyond measure.
By the time his hand reaches your nape, your eyes are fluttering open the barest amount. Your face is still pressed slightly into the pillow, but you shift, a perking of your head as awareness returns to you. "Baelor?"
"It's me," he tells you, his voice low enough to not even constitute words.
"Mm. Waited for you," you mumble, confirming what he already knew.
His eyes crease at the corners, his smile overly tender. "I know. I'm here now."
Even as he says it, his hand is finding the hem of his shirt draped over your thigh, its frayed edge tickling against the smoothness of your skin. You hum quietly, dropping your eyelids against the feeling of his warm hand, burrowing between pillow and fabric and skin to find you, bare and wet and waiting for him.
"Oh," you sigh when his fingertip draws a slow circle around your clit.
"I know," he reassures you again, pressing a chaste, sweet kiss to the back of your neck. "I know, my love."
You turn your head further into the pillow beneath you, letting out a small whine at the feeling, your hips arching into his touch. He responds in kind, laying his weight flush to your back, his hand pinned between you and the pillow below.
"You're wearing my shirt," he remarks, his fingers finding your entrance and sliding in, stretching you open quick enough to make you keen softly. He gives you a few shallow strokes, feeling you grind back into the press of his cock against your tailbone. "My beautiful wife, wearing my clothes."
"W-Wanted to— to feel you— mm." Your voice is still slightly slurred with sleep, the heat of his body and the slowness of his movements doing nothing to rouse you more. You are still somewhere between awake and dreaming, pleasantly lulled, drowsy in your responses to him. Still, you moan at the curving of his fingers. "Wanted you… close to me…"
"Then let me be close," Baelor whispers, dragging the wilting fabric of his shirt up over your hips. He puffs a sigh through his nose, the ghost of it breezing against your neck. "What am I to do with you, hm?"
You make a pathetic noise when he moves your thighs apart to fit himself between them, his chest pressed to the curve of your spine, the thin fabric of his shirt separating you. He kisses you beneath the ear.
"You can sleep, darling," he tells you quietly, a whisper into your ear as his cock settles heavy between your thighs, the head sliding hotly against your cunt. Even though his voice is low, it booms through you like a thunderclap. "You need rest."
"I need you," you retort, but your own voice is far off, dipping towards the fogginess of sleep already.
Your eyes flutter shut, a gentle sigh of relief leaving you when he enters you slowly, stretching you open around him. Pressure on your back, pressure between your legs, pressure where his hand is pinned and lifting your hips from the front, angling them back towards him. Baelor's arm comes up to brace beside your head, and the scent of him surrounds you— the same scent that always drives you crazy, juniper and peppercorn, and something slightly like the salt of a raging sea.
You breathe in deep, exhale on a contented, fulfilled hum. Your entire world is Baelor, your mind and body consumed by him completely. His body spanning the length of you, bone to bone, naked skin to thin, ineffectual fabric.
You clench around him, and Baelor makes a noise as though you've punched him. So close to your ear, the headiness of it is echoed tenfold. Then he shifts his weight, dropping his hips ever-so-slightly, and then just grinds into you. His cock nestles into the deepest part of you and you groan, your mouth dropping open and face turning towards the breadth of his arm beside you.
"Baelor," you whimper, soft and broken, slurred from the recesses of sleep. Your hand finds his bicep, drawn taut from the muscle holding him up, keeping him from crushing you completely. Your fingers dig in, pull. A silent plea, a command that he follows like a dog on a leash.
Baelor fits his forearm under your head and lifts, letting you rest your chin there against the crook of his elbow, getting you into a loose headlock. Your hand wraps loosely around his upper arm, your body lax, letting him rut his hips shallowly into yours.
"My beautiful girl," he breathes into your ear, and you feel his teeth, bared with intent. His nose pressed to the shell, his beard scraping rough against your cheek. "My heart. My soul."
His arm tightens. Just a tad, but just enough. You mewl like a wounded animal, stretching your limbs so that he can move closer in, can fit his mouth to the curve of your throat, while he throbs somewhere deep in you that makes your head spin and your breath stick in your chest. His weight on you turns full, crushing, an all-over press that pins you flat to the bed, the pillow tucked beneath your stomach.
You are no longer asleep.
"Say it," he tells you, a primal rasp to his voice that wasn't there before. Low, smoky. A dragon. It's dragged from the pit of him, from some hell that lurks deep inside his body. His groan slinks down your spine and pools as raw energy right above where his cock hollows out and reaches the end of you. "Say that you're mine."
"M'yours," you murmur into his arm, breathing in the hot air that radiates from him. "Baelor. M-My heart. My soul—"
A guttural sound leaves you, your open mouth muffled by the bite you take of his bicep when he pulls his hips back and ruts into you hard, hard enough to shake the bed. Baelor's breath in your ear is shaky, stilted with the desperation of his movements, the purpose for which he collects himself.
"Gods above," he groans, his face turned into your neck just as yours is turned into his arm. With great effort, he loosens his hold on you. He presses an apologetic kiss to the curve of your shoulder. "I'm sorry. So sorry, my love."
You make a short noise, shake your head once. "Do it again."
Baelor does as you tell him. He pulls back slowly, letting his cock drag through your walls just before rushing back in with a jolt up the bed. Soft hair grinds against the plush of your ass, his mouth open and heaving with gasps against your shoulder, covered in the fabric of his shirt.
You can taste his need in the salt on his skin, beads of sweat forming in the crook of his elbow, fiery heat pressed flush to your back. "I need to— to wear your clothes more often."
"Yes." The word is hungry. It leaves no room for defiance. "You will."
The hand pinned between you and the pillow moves, snakes down to find your clit again. You are blinded with white light behind your eyelids, your breath gone still in your chest. Then, you pant like your air has no place to go, your hand tightening on his bicep, his arm tightening around your throat.
"Mm. There." The sound of his voice in your ear, while he fingers at your clit and his cock makes you so full that you can barely think, undoes you. Tremors take over your body, and you feel him smile as he continues to work at you. "That's what you get. I want you shaking."
"Baelor." You cum around him, with his full weight holding you down with nowhere to go. You are held hostage to it, to the slow, seductive movements of his hips, the lazy strokes of his finger against your clit.
"That's it. My good girl," Baelor purrs into your ear, and you sob as you clench around him. "My good, sweet, beautiful—"
He runs his tongue lightly across the nape of your neck and groans, ducking his head as he cums. His moans are muffled by his shirt on your back, his body curled over yours like fog. He presses his hips hard against yours, as though he can become a part of you if he gets close enough, deep enough.
"Oh, my love." His whisper falls upon your ears like a dream, like you may wake up and not remember it. But he's real, and he's there on top of you with his heart pounding against your back, and his fist in the fabric of his shirt, the one that started all of this.
He stays there for a breath, and then two. His hips are still flush to yours, but he's stopped moving, stopped the slow grind and the desperate, cloying attempt to get as far inside of you as he possibly could. He simply holds there, with his arm still around your throat, but not pressing in anymore. Just holding. Just cradling.
"I don't know if you noticed," Baelor says after a moment, his voice tremulous and padded by a wad of fabric between his teeth, at the nape of your neck. He releases it. "But I quite like it when you wear my clothes."
You huff a laugh, and press a kiss to the inside of his elbow. "If you do that every time, I may never get any sleep."
Baelor hums. "The chances are very slim, indeed."
Even so, you wear the same shirt the next night. And the one after that.
Summary: The moment Baelor sets his sight on you, he cannot look away.
Word Count: 7.5K
Warnings: SMUT, afab reader, age gap (reader around early 20s), baelor is down bad and he makes you his wife, this is kinda romancey before the filth, fingering, oral (f!receiving) he's a munch, piv, lil bit of manhandling, praise, breeding kink, creampie, swearing, pentames, marriage, not plot heavy, if I've missed anything lmk??
Author's Note: MINORS DNI!! hello besties, heheh I hope you enjoy! ugh I could watch him play with his rings all day. lmk what you think, any comments, reblogs and feedback are really appreciated - thank you <3
Hesitant in remarrying after his Wife’s passing, Baelor underestimated just how fast he would fall for you. Utterly and irrevocably.
The Heir to the Iron Throne was under a tremendous weight of pressure to marry again, weighing him down for many moons until he met you, a new lady at Court in King’s Landing.
At your young age, but years into blossoming womanhood, your parents had sent you to the Red Keep to find yourself a match and secure a noble alliance with a larger House. Your house was much smaller than the Lions, Stags, Wolves, Roses and so on.
They had expectations that perhaps an Arryn or Fossoway would suit you nicely, a benefitted match joining your smaller House with a greater noble House.
What they did not expect however, was to receive a raven delivered scroll from the Hand of the King just one moons turn after your departure stating that you were to now be a Princess of Westeros, future Queen and Wife to Baelor ‘Breakspear’ Targaryen himself.
Baelor was taken aback upon noticing your presence within the Keep for the very first time.
His daily duties had him stretched thin on top of the strain in which the Small Council befitted him. ‘An Heir and Spare’ they say. The Crown Prince already fathered two sons but he understood the importance of securing his line’s succession. The King was ill. Anything could befall his beloved sons at any moment, living in this world of violence, sickness and sorcery.
Fretting over decisions for the good of the realm and House Targaryen, he found himself seeking respite within the gardens of the Red Keep. Leaves rustled against the cooling breeze on this hot day. Birds were chirping soundly and the florals flourished after drinking in the sunlight.
Exhaling slowly, Baelor felt relief within his solitude as he strode through the gardens until he reached the Godswood. It was quiet. Nobody else in sight.
And then he spotted you.
Back against the hard bark of the Heart Tree, your focus was etched into the words of the small, leather-binded book between your smooth hands. Your skirts fanned around you and your skin glistened with a sheen of sweat from the heat.
Baelor’s steps fell short, eyeing you. He did not recognise you.
Lost in a daze of the story before you, your features contorted endearingly at whatever was progressing within the pages. Humming in seeming frustration you snapped the book shut, mumbling to yourself, “Why ought he do so? What a cumberworld!”
Finding the corners of his mouth twitch up, Baelor realised he had been staring for more than a moment necessary. Walking closer, your head lifted to his direction, catching his movement.
Embarrassment rushed through your veins as you scrambled to stand, book still in one hand and fluffing your skirts out with the other, upon noticing the zinc alloy Hand Of The King Pin secured onto the man before you. The pin twisted up in scaly plates which the sun reflected off.
Curtseying before him, he noticed the way your plump lips quivered as you spoke.
“Your Grace.”
Soft and subdued, your voice was calming in his ears. He hadn’t stopped smiling, he realised. The closer you drew, the closer he could see every feature of your face. Young, seemingly Valarr’s age and filled with unyielding beauty.
Whichever Lord in the Red Keep had claimed you for his Wife was very lucky indeed, he thought.
“My Lady,” Baelor returned, nodding his head in greeting. “I did not mean to disturb your reading.”
“Not at all, Your Grace,” you rushed out, worried. “I apologise if I have halted your intentions here.”
Baelor could not help but let his mixed gaze linger on you. His eyes were shining against the sunlight as he took you in. One iris so bright blue it reminded you of the Sapphire Isle waters and the other iris so darkly brown that you felt yourself becoming lost in it. The hairs on the back of your neck raised under his watch.
“I came to seek some respite, it has been a busy day.”
You noticed the way his brows pinched together slightly, recalling his troubles. “I will take my leave and let you seek what you need then, Your Grace.”
He wished that you had stayed, a fresh breath amongst his chaotic air.
The second time that the Crown Prince saw you was at a feast hosted in the throne room of the Red Keep. He watched you with intrigue, a young lady trying to navigate her way around the nobles with a visible nervousness through your soft smile as you gently conversed amongst the Lords and Ladies. He thought he had never seen anybody so gorgeous and radiant before. Your features struck him to the core and he could not deny the pull towards you.
Baelor leaned further into his seat comfortably, turning slightly to reach his youngest brother’s ear. “Who is she?” He nodded towards your direction and you instantly stood out in your light pastel coloured gown amongst the dark fabrics of those surrounding.
Maekar’s eyes drifted to where Baelor motioned and he hummed shortly.
“How the fuck would I know? There are always new, young ladies in Court ready to pass their maidenhood to whichever lord gives them attention first. You should know,” Maekar smirked slightly, a knowing glint in his eye.
Baelor only chuckled lightly before stating, “you know none of those ladies have captured my attention, Brother.”
He mulled over whether you were already wed.
Many noble ladies had practically been throwing themselves at Baelor these past few moons, since it became aware amongst the people of Court that he was being made to seek a new wife. Whether it was simply because they thought him handsome, thought him strong and brave or were after the titles that came with being his wife, he did not entertain any of it.
Always presenting themselves to him in tight, uncomfortably high pitched voices, decked out in the most outrageous jewels originating from Qarth and Myrish fabrics draped into gowns, their busts forcefully pushed too far up to reach their collarbones and waterfall of bootlicking compliments flowing towards him.
It had been years since his Wife’s passing and yet, he had not felt a single fraction of attraction or connection with anyone else since.
He settled back into his meal, eyes wandering over to your direction at any opportunity presented, watching you like a Dragon observing a lone sheep before making haste and devouring.
After dinner was had, the tables and seating arrangements were pushed aside by the Red Keep’s staff to make way for social enjoyment and dancing. The Prince of the Realm did not hesitate to approach you with long strides in his poised steps, eager to greet you again.
The group of nobles you were conversing with quickly came to a silence, much to your confusion. You followed their stares which were lingering behind you and slowly tilted your head around to see what had made your peers' words stop.
The Heir to the Iron Throne stood before you, posture straight, yet relaxed. His look was transfixing.
“Y-Your Grace.” Head bowing and body leaning to curtsey, your pulse began to thump through your figure as you lifted your gaze back up to meet him.
“May I have this next dance with you, my lady?” His vocals were deep, articulate and husk. He extended a hand, gracefully awaiting your response.
The group behind you broke out into small gasps. The Heir to the Iron Throne was not known to dabble in such activities since his late wife, no matter how many ladies attempted to be in this very position, which you were blissfully unaware of - being new to Court.
“Of course, Your Grace.” You were in no position to deny the Crown Prince. Your small, smooth hand lifted to meet his extended one with a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. You had certainly not expected this.
He smiled slightly at your bashfulness, large hand taking in the warmth of your smaller one as his thumb moved over your knuckles whilst escorting you in small steps towards the centre of the throne room.
All eyes were burning into you both and you couldn’t help but shake at the unexpected attention. You were far from used to many a people watching your every move.
Baelor felt the tremble of your hand in his and quietly rubbed his thumb gently across your knuckles in an attempt to soothe your uneasiness. Your heart felt like it was going to leap out of your chest.
“No need to fret, my lady.” He began lightly, “I simply wished for an opportunity to speak with you upon seeing your beautiful self.”
His kind words had triggered fluttering within your belly. “T-thank you, Your Grace. How kind of you to say.”
“May I?” He requested permission, motioning with his spare hand, to take hold of your waist. Ever the gentleman.
You nodded lightly, shivering as his arm slithered around your middle, effectively pulling you towards him whilst he raised your already connected hands into the air. His brawny body loomed over you and your chest was near bouncing against him due to your rapid heartbeat. It took all his strength and honour not to look down.
“Do tell me your name, my lady.” He spoke with a smooth, low voice, calming against the hustle of the throne room and others dancing around you to the flow of the music.
Your smooth, youthful skin glowed against the candlelight and his blue and brown crinkled eyes locked with yours deeply as he began to sway with you to the instrumentals reverberating through the Crown Hall.
Your name and House rolled off your tongue as you waited for the visible disappointment to reach his handsome, bearded face. But it never came. And you were surprised.
His heterochromic eyes only twinkled in the flames of the candles situated above on the chandeliers whilst he gazed at you through his dark lashes and you thought him to be strikingly alluring.
Many noble lords attempt to court you until they came to realise the lower level which your House remained at. Men were greedy, power hungry and title seeking. Pretty enough or not, if you were a lady of noble birth who sat lower than the great house of Westeros, many higher Lords would brush you off as if being a common whore.
But Baelor only smiled at you as if your lower status was of unimportance to him.
He recalls the exchange of scrolls with your father, the request to send you here in order to secure a match in marriage. After many moons of pressure from the small council, it seems like The Seven had sent you straight to him.
“Why?” You suddenly asked him with your tender lips pursing plumply and he so wondered what it would be like to lay his own on yours.
Baelor’s mouth moved into a questioning line, a little perplexed. “Regarding?”
“You have many higher noble women to choose from and share a dance with, Your Grace. Many ladies who would be suited better for you.” The hesitancy in your vocals only made Baelor pull you closer and speed up his pace with the increased beat of the music.
“My sweet lady,” he began with a light laugh. You flushed further at his words, becoming breathless amongst the ascending dance movements. “I am the Blood Of The Dragon, Hand of the King and Heir to my Father’s Throne. I have already provided future succession and hold the realm together through many allegiances. Nothing is of consequence to me at this point in my years of living. I have freedom to dance with who I please. And I wish to dance with you.”
Baelor sought you out every day within the Red Keep after that night. Your pretty face, soft voice and gentleness consumed him. He was wrapped up in your kindness, consideration, knowledge and the fanciful interests which you endeavored in.
When he was with you, the responsibilities, pressure and stress of ruling the realm in his Father’s stead seemed to all dissolve and disappear. When he was with you, he did not feel like a Crown Prince of the realm, but simply a man. A man adoring and growing to love a woman as sweet and precious as you were. A man who felt comfort with your presence, gentle and reassuring but inquisitive words.
He knew you were far younger and much more lacking in experience than him but that only spurred on his courting you. He liked being the first man to show and teach you new things that nobody else had before. He liked expanding your perspective on Westeros. And he liked watching you lose composure every time he caressed a part of your body with tender, considerate hands.
Being around you, he felt like a young man again. Excitement running through his veins, shared stolen touches and an unyielding yearning to have you in his arms and never let go.
Passion had sparked between you both and you couldn’t help but nervously reciprocate the Heir’s advances towards you.
Nobody had ever cherished and nurtured you so dearly and genuinely before. When you spoke of any concerns, something you held close to your heart or even just the events of your day, he did not just hear you. He listened to you. Acknowledging every syllable and thought to leave your pretty mouth.
He had begun to seek you out everywhere (much to the Council’s disarray who found their Hand gradually passing more of his duties onto them). From interrupting your daily tasks, library and embroidery lessons to interrupting late noon tea with the other court ladies to sweep you off to the Red Keep gardens for a walk with him. The ladies incessantly held their giggles and gossiping back until the Crown Prince whisked you away out of ear-shot.
Then came the gifts. Treasured jewellery from Essos. Silk gowns from Lys. Ancient books from his personal library within the Keep. And a new bouquet of flowers by the bedside in your chambers every single day when you returned to meet slumber.
After weeks of stolen touches, laughter, deep discussions, sly flirtations and a shared fondness for each other… Today, Baelor had something a little different planned for you both.
Large hand resting on the small of your back, he guided you towards the courtyard of the Red Keep. However, the usually bustly area was completely void of anybody. No members of the Royal Court. No goldcloaks, no Kingsguard following Baelor, and no serving staff were to be seen.
Walking through the halls, you drew closer and suspicion began to fill your senses. Not the bad type of suspicion but the type which had an excited knot forming in the pit of your stomach and made your heart flutter in anticipation.
“What have you arranged this evenfall, My Prince?” You couldn’t help but ask with a growing grin.
Seven Hells, how he loved it when you called him that. Yours. He wanted to be and terribly so.
“Something special for us, my sweet lady.” There was a certain lilt in his voice which indicated something important forthcoming and it made the knot in your stomach tighten.
Gods, how you loved it when he called you that. His sweet lady. It affected you just the same as the very first time he uttered those words to you.
Further down the halls you noticed soft flickering lights, shadows dancing across the stone walls and pillars.
A small gasp escaped your throat as you walked between the stone pillars of the courtyard.
Your right hand lifted to your heaving chest as emotion overwhelmed you from the sight before your eyes. Baelor quickly swerved to your left side, delicately swiping your left hand up into his right one. Your fingers intertwined and you squeezed around his large, rough palm. He squeezed back slightly harder, callouses catching on your smooth palm. A sign of nerves finally overcoming his typically well-composed self.
“This is ever so beautiful, truly.” You gaped at the sight before you and your heart was aflame. He had organised this, for you.
Flamed torches hung against the shaped pillars with candles littering around the floor besides a vast amount of bright, sweetly scented, blooming floral arrangements which created a pathway into the centre of the courtyard where a small table with two cushioned chairs remained.
A crystal flagon of wine sat atop the table next to two golden chalices, flower petals and a silver candle holder organised beside it with small plates of fruits, nuts, crackers and cheeses.
The tiny flames flickered around the flowers on the tiled, flower covered floor, mimicking the shining stars above.
“I know.” Baelor’s affectionate gaze did not leave you as you gushed over and complimented the scene. He smiled and gestured towards the centre, “please sit, my dearest.”
His dearest. Your mind was starting to whirl. You obeyed his instruction, hand never leaving his and pulling him along to follow.
Baelor had the Kingsguard positioned further down each of the halls, under strict instruction to block entry way to the courtyard with no exceptions. He did not want any disturbances.
After three cups of Arbour Gold, nibbling from the placed plates, various topics of conversation, flirtatious remarks and laughs, your head felt tipsy and your heart was thrumming ecstatically.
Comfortably perched on the cushioned seat, your gaze drifted towards the dark night sky, floating across the beam of the moon and the twinkle of the stars.
“I have never felt so at ease and appreciated with you.” You admitted through hazy eyes, still admiring the night above.
“And I, you.” He returned with a small smile, mouth opening to speak further but his words became caught in his throat.
Hearing the hesitation, your gaze drifted back down to meet his and you smiled softly. “What else, My Prince?”
Pausing for a moment, Baelor contemplated his next words. He had spent many late nights in his chambers, preparing for this moment and all of those practiced speeches and words relented as soon as he saw the way you peered at him. So lovingly. So wholly. Like you didn’t see him for all his titles but just him, Baelor, alone.
“I never thought…” he drifted off in thought before straightening his posture to gaze into your orbs. “I never thought that I would be able to find affection with another, after Jena. But you, My sweet Lady, have brought life back into my withered heart. Since I laid my eyes on you for the very first time, I knew that I had to know you. And knowing you now, my heart has never felt so full.”
“Baelor,” his name was whispered breathlessly on your lips and it clung to him, seeping into his bloodstream. You had never used his first name before. He took it as a good sign. Titles and societal boundaries diminished in seconds.
“My dearest, I fear that I can no longer live as I do without you by my side. Without you as my future Queen. The realm is in need of your gentleness and empathetic views. And I am in need of your love. I am pining for you and you alone. There is no one else that I wish to spend the remainder of my life with.” He confessed, bearing his heart on his sleeve. His mix coloured eyes were glistening, tears on the edge of his lash line whilst your own tears already spilled.
Hot on your cheeks and head dizzy from the golden wine, you carefully lifted your fingers to wipe away the wet saltiness.
Before you could respond, the Crown Prince had maneuvered to the floor on his knees and reached to envelop your hands in his. As he rested on his knees before you, tenderly gripping your hands, you smiled through your overwhelming tears of love and devotion.
Bringing your hands to meet his mouth, his smooth, warm lips pressed against each of your palms in a kiss. “Be mine,” he pleaded, looking into your crying eyes. “Be my Wife.”
“Yes.” You laughed lightly, gripping his hands tightly, “and be my Husband.”
The realm was full of delight and celebration.
At first, upon your betrothal announcement to the Heir to the Iron Throne, there had been some uncertainty from the Small Council.
“She is not from a well-known noble House, Your Grace.”
“The Smallfolk here do not know of her, Your Grace.”
“She is not of a strong bloodline, Your Grace.”
“Her dowry is little, Your Grace.”
Baelor did not care. “I have sacrificed much for this realm. There is little consequence in whom I marry now. I have already provided two healthy heirs and there will be more now, as you all requested. Speak ill of my betrothed and you will find your tongues missing the next morn.”
After that, the Small Council became ever gracious towards you. As did the Court, upon hearing that the Crown Prince would cut out the tongues of any bad word against you - not that there was many from your noble peers.
You were kind, playful and clever. The Court had taken a liking to you upon your arrival.
And soon, the wedding ceremony followed. It was a lavish celebration. Baelor never left your side despite the hounds of nobles trying to converse with him, to which he politely dismissed them wanting all of his focus on you. His bride.
There were performances, celebratory activities, dancing and a great feast following your martial vows in The Sept. Lords and Ladies alike travelled from all across the realm to attend the Crown Prince’s second wedding, and to see if his youthful bride was truly as beautiful and kind as claimed.
“Time for the bedding!” A drunken, foolish lord from the Iron Islands shouted out late into the night, amongst the celebrations. The crowds roared with enthusiasm, eager to see the Crown Prince bed his new, young and beautiful Wife. The realm’s new Princess.
Your happy expression fell as the words reached your ears. Lips turning downward into a worried pout as you looked up at your new Husband.
This was something you had not considered with much thought. Being from a small House, the bedding ceremony’s importance was not that of the greater noble Houses. And with Baelor already having been married perviously, the thought of a public bedding ceremony was resting at the very back of your mind. You suppose that was very silly of yourself now.
“Husband, I-I-” you were at a loss for words.
Shaking his head, you had never seen such a fury rise within Baelor. “I will not let any man lay their eyes upon you in such a manner,” he reassured you, taking your hand tightly in his. The cool metal of his rings provides a grounding sensation amongst the chaos and his words calmed your rapid heartbeat.
The Grand Maester approached you both, slyly leaning over to His Grace’s ear. “Shall we prepare your chambers, Your Grace?”
“No,” Baelor gritted out in frustration. “We shall not.”
“But I do think it wise-”
“Rest assured, Grand Maester,” Baelor cut him off, “there will be proof of consummation in nine moons time.”
Swallowing at your beloved’s words, a foreign heat rushed to your core as you clutched Baelor’s strong hand.
And so, your new Husband whisked you away between the crowds of royals and nobles after ordering the Kingsguard to prevent any persons from following you both to your newly shared marital chambers.
Being the epitome of chivalry and justice, Baelor had never once pressed his lips to yours during his time courting you. He knew that your young maidenhood was untouched, no man ever claiming you in such a way before. He hadn’t even attempted to steal a kiss from you no matter how dearly he wished to, especially when he confessed his feelings and asked for your hand. He hadn’t even enlightened you when you leaned into him like you desperately wanted it too.
The door to Baelor’s chambers slammed shut and suddenly you were pushed against it. The hard wood met your back, a harsh gasp left your throat in surprise and all honour left your husband. Baelor was a starved man, itching to feel every inch of you.
His large hand gripped the side of your face, resting on your jaw, fingers peaking between your styled hair at the back of your neck. The contact was so sudden, all air left your lungs as his other hand grasped at your waist, kneading through the fabric as he held you in place.
“My Prince,” you blurted in shock, gazing at his lustful expression. His scent filled your senses, fresh mint, burnt wood and something sweeter surrounded you.
The hair of his beard tickled your face as he drew closer and finally, after weeks of wondering what it would be like, he pressed his mouth to yours.
It was tender, delicate and warm. Your arms snaked up to reach his covered shoulders, pulling him closer whilst you were melting into him.
His tongue dipped out slowly, wet and spongy against your untainted lips, begging for an entrance. Parting your lips under his ask, you began to move yours against his, following your natural instinct as he started to explore your mouth and move with you.
You couldn't help the gentle moan which vibrated onto him. The Dragon had set you alight with his flame and you wanted more.
“Seven Hells,” he grunted against your lips as he reluctantly departed, catching his breath. “The Gods have known how long I have waited to do this.”
“You’re not the only one.” With fluttering eyelashes, you slowly pushed him back further into the room and his grasp on you loosened, allowing you to move him in the direction of the giant four-postered bed.
His lips curled up at your movements and implication. Tonight you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.
“Lay down, Husband.”
Baelor felt like combusting at your command. Blood rushing to his cock, his breeches tightened whilst he sat on the edge of the plush bed to lay back.
You approached him with a sultry look which he hadn’t seen on you before and you shifted your heavy skirts up, knees finding the padded mattress as you moved to straddle him.
“Fuck.” The word left his mouth as he took in the sight of you climbing over him until your pelvis met his. He groaned at the weight of you pressed against his hardening length.
You rested both hands beside his head whilst his large hands dipped under your skirts to caress your smooth, soft thighs. Whimpering slightly at the new feeling of his touch, you leaned down to meet his mouth with yours again.
You may have been a maiden but some of the Ladies you spent time with at Court were not shy about discussing their marital beds. And you listened, learning things which you did not think possible, with Baelor in mind. You expected that a man of his age had expectations and you wanted to impress him. To show him how much you wanted it too.
But you knew him. He was your Baelor. And you knew that he would not fret over the skills and movements you had yet to learn to please him.
His lips were hot against yours, mouth moving hungrily and eagerly tasting you. His hands slowly reaching over the warmth of your thighs to grip your hips tightly and push you onto him.
Moaning at the hardness and sudden friction, your hips jolted at the contact, causing Baelor to grunt. He was painfully hard now, a wetness seeping into his breeches from his leaking tip. It feels like he has waited his whole life to see you like this.
“Grind your hips onto me,” Baelor directed between kisses and you obeyed, small whines escaping you whilst you moved your clothed heat over his hardness.
Calloused hands moving round to cup your arse, he kneaded the flesh, enticing a breathy moan from you. His touch felt passionate and needy and you wanted more, an ache growing deep within your core.
“Just like that, My sweet Lady. My sweet Wife.”
“I-I want more,” you pleaded as he grabbed your cheeks harder, a soft smack making you gasp at the slight sting it left behind.
Before you could process anything else from being too wrapped up in these new heightened feelings, his arms left your skirts, quickly grabbing your torso and flipping you around.
You hit the bed with a quiet bounce, panting as you watched the Crown Prince top you before sinking lower and leaning off the edge of the bed. Your brows furrowed in confusion as he was on the floor leaning on his knees but his strong hands quickly distracted you, wrapping around your ankles, pulling you to the edge - you let out a small squeak in surprise.
“Lift your hips for me,” he ordered, reaching for the thin fabric of your smallclothes and swiftly pulling them down your legs as you complied.
“Oh,” he muttered airless, taking in the sight of you. Heat rose to your cheeks and you bashfully tried to snap your legs shut, never having anybody see you like this before. He only gripped your thighs tightly, pulling you open again to offer your hot, weeping, slick cunt before him. “Gods be good.”
Heat rushed through your body as Baelor took in the sight of your spread legs, tongue darting out of his mouth to lick his lips.
“Do you trust me?” He asked, gazing at you with passion and need burning in his blue and brown eyes.
“Of course,” you spoke earnestly, awaiting his next move.
Lifting his arm, his long, strong fingers moved towards your sopping heat. Slowly, he dragged his index from your wet hole up to your bundle of nerves and you shuddered pleasantly.
“I have barely touched you and you’re already dripping for me, sweet girl.” The low, measured tone of his vocals nearly made you squirm in embarrassment. Was that not normal?
“I-I’m sorry, Y-your Grace.” You fumbled to apologise, not knowing any different, having not laid with a man before.
“No, no, My Wife. And no more royal formalities. You are perfect,” he hummed, rubbing soothing circles on your inner thigh which made you keen. “Let me show you how perfect.”
Baelor had dreamt of this moment, eager to please and devour you, and he shifted your legs so that they rested over his shoulders. His breath was hot on your inner thighs whilst his wet tongue stuck out to drag along your skin, his beard scratchy, making you tingle at the contrast.
A soft whine escaped you, not that you were complaining but you couldn’t help the curiosity that was consuming you. You instantly felt nerves rise within, he knew exactly what he was doing… and you did not. He had done this before and you were lacking.
The ladies at Court had never mentioned their Husband’s head between their thighs.
“What are you doing, Husband?”
A smirk filled his features as his tongue licked up your thigh, leaving a wet trail before responding, “showing you how much I have desired to have you like this.”
As soon as those words left his mouth, his head was swiftly buried in your heat, hot tongue licking up your slit as he groaned, effectively tasting your juices. You expelled a guttural moan, back arching and hands finding their way to grip his short, soft hair. The heat of his tongue licking up your sweet, dripping folds was sensational.
Baelor was aching hard whilst his mouth worked on your soaked cunt, dipping his tongue into your entrance, he had you chanting his name like a sorcerer casting spells.
“Baelor, oh Gods! Mhmmm! B-Baelor, please!” The soft scratching of his beard made his tongue feel all the more euphoric and you never thought it was possible to feel such a way. You clung to his head harder.
He lathered your sweet pussy with his spit, having drunk every drip of you and quickly pulled away, much to your dismay. After a beat, his fingers were back at your heat again and you mewled when his middle finger slowly slipped into you.
“That’s it sweet girl,” he panted, drawling, beginning to work his finger in and out of your wet, velvety walls, “you’ll take what I give you. I need to make sure you’re able to take my cock.”
His words hit your core and you clenched around him, gasping for air. The feeling of his finger curling inside you was doubled as he added another digit and your moans filtered through the air with the squelch of your wet folds as you adjusted to the intrusion.
Baelor continued to pleasure you with his fingers, mouth eventually coming back down to meet your mound with his tongue latching onto that sensitive bud of yours. His fingers curled up, hitting a specific spot within and you threw your head back, relishing in his touch and tongue flicking your bundle of nerves. Your eyes flutter shut, hands finding their way back to his dark, greying hair, pulling him closer to your core, wanting more.
“I never want to taste anything else again,” he mumbled against you, lavishing in your wetness.
Baelor let out breathy groans as you clung to him harder, the vibrations shooting straight against your throbbing heat. Ever so tenderly, he began to spread his fingers inside of you, scissoring you open. Your moans halted slightly as you tried to accommodate the foreign feeling of being stretched open.
His eyes drifted up to you in concern whilst his fingers continued to open your tightness. His length was throbbing in his breeches, begging to be buried deep within your pure pussy, but your discomfort made him pause.
His mouth retracted from your core, gaze drifting over your breathless form. You peered down at the lack of movement, catching your breath. His mouth was covered in your slick, coating his beard and it stirred something within you.
“Please do not stop,” you begged through heavy lids, lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks. “I need you desperately Baelor, I need you deep inside me,” you confessed, giving way to your carnal desires.
And that was all he needed to continue his actions, pumping in and out of you slowly, spreading his fingers within your wet walls as his lips connected with your clit again, sucking your bud until you saw stars. A pleasurable tightness in your lower region, building up so intensely that you thought you might faint.
Your breathy cries of pleasure filled his ears whilst he increased the pace of his fingers, feeling you clench around him.
“Husband,” your voice croaked through moans as you arched your back and pushed your hips up to meet his face. “I-I’m feeling so-”
And then Baelor went harder, sucking your bud whilst flicking it with his tongue, his strong fingers curling up in you so deliciously and repeatedly that you suddenly screamed out, reaching a heightened peak of consuming pleasure.
Waves of pleasure washed over you and tingles spread throughout your body, your soaked cunt throbbing as you leaked all over the Crown Prince’s face and he groaned against you in appreciation, drinking you up and slowing his movements as you came down from your high.
“What the fuck was that?” You murmured, chest heaving in blind euphoria.
Baelor chuckled, slightly shocked at the bad word rolling off your pretty lips, raising his arm to wipe the remnants of you from his mouth and glistening, thick beard.
“That, was the first of many, My sweet Wife.”
He began unbuttoning his doublet as you lay there breathless, stripping the top layers of the expensive materials cut to fit him seamlessly. Despite his older age, Baelor was extremely muscular and his skin was taught around his arms and abdomen until the slight pudge of his lower belly poked out. And it aroused you. Muscular with a soft stomach. He looked like he had been carefully curated by The Seven, themselves.
“Can you manage to stand, My Love? I wish to see all of the beauty that you bare.”
Shifting onto your elbows you pushed yourself up gradually, body still reeling over the new sensations that you just experienced. Baelor’s hands went out to guide and support you. Your legs were shaking as you stood before him and he pressed his lips against yours hungrily.
You could taste yourself on him and you whined when his tongue mixed with yours. His arms wrapped around you, fingers untying the laces at the back of your dress which held it together. Soon after undoing the lacing, he parted, hastily pulled your dress down, lifting you out of it to leave you in one last layer. A thin cotton underdress.
The torch flames within Baelor’s chambers illuminated your every curve through the fabric and he groaned deeply, “I need you, sweet girl.”
Before you knew it, you were stark naked, sprawled out onto the bed with your head beneath the plush pillows as his mouth worked on your breasts, sucking gently and kissing your hardened nipples. Massaging you with his hands, he was drunk on your satisfied moans and tender hands gripping his sturdy shoulders.
Baelor’s hot skin was pressed flush against yours and it felt incredible.
“You were sent to me from the Gods, I have no doubt,” he confessed, worshipping your body. “The most beautiful woman to grace this Realm.”
“I love you,” the words tumbled from your lips and he abandoned your breasts to kiss you feverishly, uttering the same words back to you between kisses.
“I want your cock to fill me up, dear Husband.”
Baelor’s self restraint exited his body at your crass words, his leaking tip aching and wishing nothing more than to dive into your soaked, warm depths.
Immediately, he was rid of his breeches, letting his long, girthy cock spring free to hit his belly before he was back on you, hot mouth attached to your neck, sucking on the sweetest spot which made you mewl.
“I-is it supposed to be that big?” You asked nervously, through your pleasured moans.
“Not usually for other men.” He couldn’t help but grin into your neck. His sweet maiden. His sweet Wife.
Trailing his fingertips down the valley of your breasts, across your stomach and onto your mound, you trembled. The pad of his thumb found your sensitive bud and began drawing slow circles against you. You whined at the sensation, bucking your hips back into him as he laid between your legs.
“Please let me feel you already!” You were desperate to feel his body connect with yours.
“So needy,” he began, leaning back to take his length into his spare hand whilst his other continued to focus on your clit. “You’re going to take me so well.”
Spreading your legs wider to accommodate him with more room, your fingers fiddled with the silken bedsheets, watching his hand move along his cock before shifting closer to tap his swollen mushroom-shaped tip at your still soaking entrance.
“It may hurt at first,” his concerned, mix-coloured gaze never leaving yours as he continued, “do tell me to stop if it becomes too much.”
Heart swelling, you nodded gratefully.
He resumed his movements with his thumb on your bud as his cock head dragged between your folds, picking up your slick. The sensation caused a needy whine to escape your throat.
Baelor pressed forwards, his tip slipping into you and you hissed slightly at the sharp intrusion.
Slowly, he pulled back before sliding into you a bit further and you gasped, clutching the sheets tighter. He persisted slowly, rolling his hips back and forth, inch by inch, as you adjusted to his thick girth.
The circular motion of his thumb rubbing your nub provided the perfect relief of the tight stretch around his length.
You exhaled blissfully, and Baelor could not get enough of the sight before him. Your hair was sprawled out amongst the pillows, eyelashes fluttering, breasts bouncing slightly with each slow thrust he made whilst his cock was slowly delving further into your depths.
“Seven Hells,” he grunted at your tight, sopping maidenhood, “I am the luckiest man in Westeros.”
A smile reached your lips at his words until he was fully sheathed inside of you, the air leaving your lungs as you struggled to catch your breath at how deeply you felt him inside of you.
“S-So deep,” you babbled amongst moans as he began to roll his hips whilst setting and increasing his pace.
“You’re taking me so well,” he let out a guttural groan between thrusts whilst you creamed around his long, thick cock, “you were made for me, sweet girl.”
Soon enough, his cock was repeatedly bruising your womb, thrusting into you at an animalistic pace whilst your knees were hooked over his strong shoulders and your hands tightly gripped his muscular biceps at either side of you - nails digging into his flesh.
“Fuck,” Baelor grunted, thrusting into you deeper, harder, “I want to fill you with my seed.”
You cried out into moans as he hit a particularly deep, spongy spot inside. All you could do was lay helpless as he pleasured and fucked into your throbbing, drenched core.
Your pussy clenched tightly around him after his words and he noticed, a small smile appearing on his face as beads of sweat dripped from his forehead.
“Oh,” he chuckled lowly, voice rasping, “you like that? You want to be stuffed full with my dragon seed.”
“Y-yes!” Your mewls only increased with his pace and cock slamming into your womb. “Let me give you more heirs, My Prince.”
Baelor’s balls tightened as they slapped against your arse, his hips stuttering and he quickly disregarded one of your legs on his shoulder to strum the pad of his thumb against your clit again.
His groans of pleasure mixed with your moans and the wet slapping sounds of where you both connected filled the air shamelessly. The Court could not see your marital consummation but they would definitely hear it.
The same pleasurable tightness from earlier was returning, building up from deep within your core and your whines became louder.
“B-Baelor,” you gasped out, feeling him so deeply, as if his cock was in your throat. “I’m g-getting that feeling again.”
“Good,” he breathed heavily, “that means my seed will take and you will be swollen with my little dragon in time.”
Breasts bouncing rapidly from his unrelenting thrusts, the tip of his cock kissed the deepest spot within you and with the speed of his thumb on your sensitive nub - your body convulsed underneath him, shaking euphorically and tingling with utter bliss.
“That’s it, sweet girl.” He coaxed you through it. “My beautiful Wife. You’ve been so good for me.”
Screaming out his name as you reached that heightened sensation for the second time, you shook along with the waves that crashed over you whilst he continued to fuck you through it.
You moaned lightly, coming down from your heightened senses as you gazed at his agape face through heavy lashes. “Fill my cunt with your seed. Let me give you another dragon.”
Baelor’s pace quickened at your words, hips slamming into you whilst his cock pulsed inside your soft, clenching walls. Groaning deeply, his cock was nestled at your deepest point, spurts of hot white seed shot into your womb, rope after rope whilst his hips stuttered.
The thick wetness shot into you caused you to whine softly as he slowed, filling you with his dragon seed. He dripped out of your hole as he rolled his hips to a halt, still buried within you and head tilted back back in pleasure.
After a moment, he came to his own senses, warm hands carefully lifting your leg back down. Slowly, his thick length pulled away from your seed-filled cunt and you let out a whine at the loss, now feeling empty.
Baelor was breathless as he collapsed beside you, hand reaching for your own as he pressed a kiss to your damp shoulder.
“Are you well, dear Wife?” His voice emphasised concern for you after the abuse he thoroughly conducted to your maidenhood.
“Unbelievebly so,” you uttered, laughing lightly, despite the soreness around your core, chest still heaving. Your body was reeling over the pleasure you had just experienced.
Flipping onto his side, he now faced your naked form with a smile, lifting your connected hands to tenderly press a kiss to your knuckles.
“Maybe a daughter this time,” he suddenly spoke, fondness shining through his orbs. “There are too many sons in this family. She would be a fiery version of you with the Blood of the Dragon.”
You couldn’t help but giggle into the hot air, “hopefully not too fiery.”
Pulling your Husband back closer to crash on top of you, you locked your lips with his in a heated kiss.
Summary: Baelor teaching you High Valyrian while he braids your hair.
Warning: NONE. (OMG CAN YOU BELIEVE IT)
"Perzys hen ūnogon," he corrected.
You sighed, letting your forehead fall against your hand. "It’s not my fault your ancestors put too many s’s in their speech. Every word sounds like hissing."
Being married to Baelor was easy. Bearing the title of Princess of Dragonstone proved less daunting than you had anticipated. Even sitting upon the high bench to watch knights batter one another bloody in the yard was simpler still.
Mastering Valyrian, however, proved to be something else entirely. A language that had bested you where swords and courtly politics had failed. Every strange sound twisted itself around your tongue until speaking felt more akin to sparring than conversation.
"You will be queen one day," Baelor said. "Queens ought not require translators."
An hour earlier, the two of you had sat side by side in a quiet nook of the library. As your focus began to wane and the text blurred before your eyes, he pulled you between his legs. His broad thighs penned you in, leaving little choice but to continue the lesson.
"Again," he said from behind you.
Before you could protest, one large hand settled at the base of your neck. A soft sigh escaped you.
His thumb pressed slowly into the tense muscle there, working in small circles. The pressure was firm enough to ease the ache that had gathered from hunching over old books all evening.
You felt your shoulders loosen almost immediately. "Baelor..."
His hand moved lower. "Read, my love."
The broad span of his palm slid across your shoulder, kneading carefully through the stiffness he found there. The lesson was quickly losing its battle for your attention.
You sighed in surrender. "Perzysss—" The word died on your lips once more.
"The s is not to be pressed, my dear." His voice settled warmly against your back. "Valyrian is not a force. The sound comes from lower."
Two fingers came to rest against the hollow of your throat. "Here."
You swallowed at the touch, but it lingered for only a moment before he withdrew.
Then his hand slipped into your hair. Slowly, he spread the strands apart, untangling each knot. His fingertips skimmed your scalp as he worked, never pulling when he met resistance. Instead, he separated each tangle until your hair slipped like silk through his hands.
When a loose curl escaped beside your ear, he caught it immediately, brushing his thumb along your cheek before guiding it back into place and folding it neatly into the plait.
Those scarred hands, marked by countless years in the yard and large enough to encircle a man's throat, moved through your hair with astonishing gentleness.
After a while, he smoothed your hair down your back and divided it into three sections. One strand crossed over another, then the third, and the braid slowly began to take shape.
You tried to focus on the page before you, but every gentle pass made the words blur a little further.
"It's almost supper, Baelor," you sighed. "Can we go now?"
“Almost.” He paid your words no mind, working in silence. With each movement, his hands continued lower as the braid formed, gentle pulls following every weave as he crossed and wove the strands into place.
He worked the braid to its end, fastening the final twists before reaching for the silk ribbon upon the desk. He tied it off and let it cascade over your shoulder.
"There you go." His lips brushed against your ear. "Gevie," he whispered.
At the word, you turned slightly. He was close enough that you could count the dark lashes framing his mismatched eyes.
"I know that one. It means beautiful."
A smile softened his features. "Yes." He pressed a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. "Now read, ñuha gevie dāria. Then we'll head to supper."
His strong arms wrapped around you, drawing you flush against his chest. And you found yourself hoping that if death ever came for you, it would find you like this; safe in his arms, his warmth surrounding you, the last thing you would ever feel before darkness took you.
this is my first time writing fantasy, it might not be 100% accurate but i think i’m developing a knight kink.. spare me (18+)
𝔥𝔢 𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔴 you weren’t interested in attending your own birthday ball, you had been quite vocal about it over the last 24 hours. despite your irksome complaints your waiting maids dressed you, and you showed up for attendance.
he thought you looked ravishing, but even in your early mornings when your mane is disheveled and crust still remains in your eyes, he believed you to be the most beautiful woman he’s ever set his eyes on. your hair delicately styled, long and curled, bosom spilled beautifully over your corset, although he knows it’s sinful to think of such a thing.
your corset drenched in expensive pearls and gems that reminded him of your wealth and status, as well as the personally crafted tiara that lopsidedly sits atop your head. he catches himself staring at your tiara a lot, is it wrong to admit that he likes the social hierarchy you possess? that he is nothing but your devoted knight? he shouldn’t think of how it makes his heart quicken to think about, or how it makes his blood rush to his groin. he’s not sure where that excitement origins from, and chooses not to ponder too much on it.
the only thing that was worth the mentioning tonight was the wine, you were warned by a few that you should slow your pace, but it was your birthday, how dare they judge? but you pay it no mind, your couldn’t bring yourself too. your body language says it all, tiresome the way you rest against your throne. the wine was definitely catching up, making you a bit drowsy. head in hand, slump against your decorated throne, you finally look over at your knight. he stands firm in his armor, body faced forward. his feet firmly planted, always on guard, ready to protect, he is your lovesick protector. he swore an oath long ago that his body and life were yours, not long after his heart followed.
it’s quite the blessing how attractive he is, you’d be a blatant fool to deny that he was wonderful to gaze at.
his jaw sharp and pronounced as if it was hand-chiseled by stone, jet black curls sit gorgeously at his gorget, his lips similar to the head of an arrow, and his eyes large as if you were staring at a fawn.
“sir michael.” for the first time tonight since you’ve arrived at the ball he looks at you. “your highness?”
“i’m tired.”
“do you wish to retire?”
you simply hum. a curtly nod of the head he passed the message to the royal messenger. with a cry that announces you’d be leaving, you huff with relief.
your loyal knight holds out his hand to help you off your throne, your balance is wobbly and he’s quick to bring a large hand to your lower hip for stability. in a hurry he’s apologizing for the misplacement of his grip, but your quick to reassure him. not that you totally mind him touching you there anyway. with a steady hand across your waist and your hand rested on his chest plate, the two of you slowly make your way back to your chamber. navigating through the busy crowd, those with respect bowed or curtesied you, but you could see the looks of slight judgement or disappointment, due to your tipsy state. latching into your knight wasn’t helping the current image either.
the chaos and commotion from the ballroom dies down the closer you return to your bedchamber.
he looks down at you woth subtle worry, and you’re fighting the urge to roll your eyes. everyone’s so dramatic, it was a few drinks and it’s your party for heavens sake. “don’t glare at me like that.”
“like what, your highness?” he’s playing aloof, but he isn’t doing it well.
“it was two glasses.” in a poor attempt to rightfully defend yourself, you watch his lips tighten as if to non-verbally say ‘that is false’. in reality it was four glasses, but who is he to pass judgment?
“just want to make sure you return to bed in one piece.” that’s his way of joking, and you can’t help but return a soft grin. “you will take care of me?”
“of course, princess. not only is it my sworn duty, but a pleasure.” you give him another hum, allowing a soft silence to settle in the air around you. nothing but the clank of his armor and the rustle of your gown consumes the sound in your ears.
“here we are, your highness. would you like a maid to assist you in getting ready for bed?”
you turn to him slowly, hands still softly rested against his chest plate, “i’m far too tired. you can assist me.” you’re insistent in simply being too exhausted to wait for a maid to arrive, your knight can surely help you disrobe. he swallows hard at your statement, he knows it is not his place, but you did technically give an order.
he can feel a prickling sensation towards the back of his neck, and the swell of his cheeks grow hot. silently you guide him further into the candlelit room, his heavy thumps echo against the walls of your chambers. you wait for him to close the gap between you, stood in the middle of the room. his eyes are intense, you can see that he is nervous. there’s already been obvious tension between the two of you, you’ve been teetering on a tight rope for quite sometime. the two of you know it’d be ridiculous to publicly act on any attraction, and if you do it’s extremely subtle and in secret. this however, feels much more intense, but you can’t seem to help it. you know better, you should’ve ordered him to fetch a maid, but you so desperately want him to touch you. a touch that will linger for days for you to relish in until he touches you again.
“turn around please, princess.” he’s trying his damnest to keep his breath leveled, but quite the opposite, he’s holding it. his hands are delicate when he moves your hair over your shoulder, giving him access to your tightly tied corset.
his jaw is clenched as he undos the ribbon and watches the fabric loosen itself, a breath of relief escapes you and he nearly chuckles, but he’s much to tense too. you assist him, in removing your pannier and seemingly various petticoats. leaving you in just your chemise. he’d be a liar if he denied the way his eyes wander down your figure, heart nearly jumping at the sight of your bare thighs.
he assists you in making your way to the bed, but a random question that’s been weighing on you all night, won’t allow itself to be held. especially with this wine in your system.
he softly rests you against the mattress before you ask, “do you still have the handkerchief i gifted you long ago?” the question completely throws michael off, but he answers anway. “yes, your highness. it was a wonderful gift i cherish.”
“what is it that you do with it?” the question is truly innocent in nature, it’s pure curiosity. but the hidden truth makes michael panic, and you know him so well you recognize it instantly.
“what?” you tilt you head, his lack of answer only egging on your curiosity, “is it improper?”
and the face that you hold is truly full of wonder, not that you’re necessarily naive, but you truly want to know. he doesn’t know if he can bring himself to tell you the honest truth. that when he’s in private in the depths of the night, he almost morphs into a feral beast at the scent that your handkerchief still has. senses flooded with the same potent lavender scent that you smell of right now. how he shamelessly ruts himself into his calloused hands desperately imagining them to be yours. softer, dainty, touch him in a way so tender he’d fall apart instantaneously. no he mustn’t tell you such a thing.
he still hasn’t said anything, his face has only deepened reddened shade. you grab his hand with a sudden lurch of wonder and nosiness. “is it?”
he lies, “of course not, you highness. it’d be improper. i store it somewhere safe.”
“you don’t put it to use?”
and he nearly chokes on his on spit, until he quickly realizes you mean for sweat and tears and such.
“i wouldn’t want to soil it.”
you give him a suspicious eye, not fully satisfied with his answer, but to sleepy to press him further. you fully get beneath the covers this time, politely ordering him to tuck you in. he gives your forehead a modest kiss, and before he get the chance to detach from you for the night, your grip on his hands tighten. “i wouldn’t mind if you did.”
and when he’s alone he takes your words to heart, dark curls slick against his forehead with sweat, his head is fuzzy the way he mindlessly repeats your name again and again. your lovesick knight brainlessly drunk on you, and he’s gripping your handkerchief for dear life. babbling and muttering nonsense, he doesn’t even care how sinful his thoughts are at this point, with pathetic pants his mind is only consumed of reaching one goal.
