*thinks about OCs* *Thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *Thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS ABOUT OCS* *thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCS* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks ABOUT OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *Thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *Thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS ABOUT OCS* *thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCS* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks ABOUT OCs* *thinks about OCs*
washing dishes is evil because you go "oh fuck there's so many dishes this is gonna take foreverrr" and then you enter the dish abyss and emerge with your abdomen somehow covered in water and your hands all wrinky and then you look at the clock and what felt like half an hour was actually 10 minutes
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.
↪ 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 possessed hands that had reshaped kingdoms. They had held sword and shield, dragged wounded men from battle, broken rebels, and delivered death when duty demanded it.
He just never expected you had other things on your mind when you looked at them.
warnings; hand kink, rough sex, breeding kink, baelor fucks you from behind, sinful thoughts, minors do not react.
Eh, I'd like to volunteer as tribute to have his hands wrapped around my throat. Gosh, please tell me I am not the only one.
𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 possessed hands that had reshaped kingdoms. They had held sword and shield, dragged wounded men from battle, broken rebels, and delivered death when duty demanded it.
Broad-palmed, calloused, and scarred by years of war, they were hands forged for command, not tenderness.
Yet for all they had accomplished, for all they had taken and protected alike, never, not once, had Baelor imagined that his own wife would become so utterly, hopelessly captivated by them.
He would catch you staring whenever his fingers drummed against a table, tightened the leather of his gloves, or absently turned the pages of a book, your gaze lingering with such shameless devotion that it left the Prince of Dragonstone wondering what, in the Seven Hells, possessed you to look at his hands as though they were the finest treasure in the realm.
It had begun with little things. Your gaze would drift toward his hands whenever he spoke at council, whenever he signed decrees, fastened the clasps of his cloak, or absently rolled the heavy rings upon his fingers with the idle habit of a man deep in thought. At first, he dismissed it as coincidence.
Then he noticed you did it constantly.More often than not, Baelor would lift his eyes from whatever occupied him only to find you staring intently at his hands as his thumb lazily turned one ring after another.
The instant he caught you, your cheeks would bloom crimson. You would sputter the most dreadful excuses—claiming you had been admiring the craftsmanship of the rings, or wondering whether the metal pinched his fingers, or insisting you had merely been lost in thought. Neither of you believed a single word.
He had faced charging cavalry without flinching, had stood firm before rebellious lords and seasoned warriors alike, yet there was something profoundly bewildering about the look in your eyes whenever they settled upon his hands. It was not mere admiration. It was fascination, tender and unguarded, as though the very hands that had known bloodshed and battle were, to you, the safest thing in all the Seven Kingdoms.
It happened, as most things between you did, in perfect silence.
Baelor sat across from you, the afternoon sun spilling through the windows as he reviewed yet another stack of petitions. One broad hand rested upon the table while the other idly turned the signet ring upon his finger—a habit so deeply ingrained he scarcely noticed he was doing it.
You noticed, you always fucking noticed.
Your book remained open in your lap, unread for the better part of five minutes, your eyes fixed shamelessly upon the slow roll of gold beneath his thumb.
Baelor sighed without looking up. “Again?”
You blinked and frowned, “Hm?”
“My hands.”
Now he looked at you, one dark brow lifting in quiet amusement. “You are staring at them.”
Heat rushed to your face. “I am not.”
He leaned back in his chair, “You are.”
“I was thinking.”
“About my hands.”
You lowered your eyes to your book with all the dignity you could muster. “Hmm, they are very nice hands.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Baelor's mouth. “What,” he asked, setting the parchment aside at last, “do you find so fascinating about them?”
You looked up from your book, your gaze drifting—as though entirely of its own accord—to those same broad, scarred hands. Your shoulders rose in a helpless little shrug. “I can just imagine them wrapped around my throat.”
Silence, absolute in it's infinite presence, lingered as Baelor simply stared at you, gaze darkening as amusement lingered beneath them. “Oh, is that so?”
You blinked and then, very slowly, the realization of what you had actually said caught up with you.
Your eyes widened. “Oh, Seven Hells.”
The book snapped shut over your face. “I did not mean—that is—I wasn't—”
Your words dissolved into hopeless spluttering and across the table, the Prince who had negotiated with quarrelsome lords and commanded men in battle found himself utterly speechless for perhaps the first time in years.
“My sweet lady wife,” he said at last, his voice unusually measured, “that is not the answer I expected.”
You blushed, “Just pretend I didn't say anything, you are good at that.”
Gods, the sight of your flushed cheeks threatened to undo him, because now he knew he needed to know more, “And what else do you imagine when you think of my hands?”
“Nothing, my dear husband,” you replied as you tried to return to the book in your hands, looking everywhere else but him.
He groaned and rose an eyebrow, “I see,” but then he pushed back, the scrape of the chair shattering the silence that lingered and your eyes widened when he walked around the table, fingers wrapping around the book and with a careful snap, he pulled it from your grasp, placed it on the table and leaned over you—
arms bracketing you as he placed them both on the armrests, “Look at me, sweet wife,” you did not, and the breathless hitch that tumbled from your lips as his left hand rose, fingers wrapping perfectly around your throat as his thumb then pushed your head back and then up, “that is not a nothing reaction.”
“I—I,” you murmured, “it is nothing, I promise.”
But Baelor Targaryen found himself incapable of letting this slip, “No, no more lies, you know how much I despise it. Tell me, or I will pull it out of you,” and then a sinful thought crossed his mind and his fingers tightened briefly around your throat, thumb pressing between your lips as your entire body shuddered, “slowly, quietly, until you are nothing but a squirming mess beneath these hands you admire so fiercely.”
He pushes his thumb forward, your lips parting and he groans as your mouth then wraps around the finger, pressing down on your tongue, “Tell me,” and then he releases you, but just enough to pull you flush against his chest, “or I'll fuck it out of you. Tell me what you imagine, tell me of what you desire.”
Your mouth opened and closed, and the desire he saw reflected in your eyes as you trembled before him, no coherent thought within his mind remained as honourable as he would have liked them to be, “I often think,” you blush further as he pulls you closer, fingers digging into the supple flesh of your hips as the other grips your chin, “of them wrapped around my throat as you fuck me from behind.”
“Hmm, such sinful things that occupy my wife's mind, and have you often imagined this whenever these hands of mine distract you?”
You could feel an insistent heat press between your thighs, “Not often, Baelor,” and then you uttered the word that had broken the carefully woven thread that kept him composed, “always.”
He kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It was hungry and desperate and tasted like salt and years of silence, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand fisting in your hair, tilting your head back so he could take your mouth the way he'd wanted to since the moment the words had slipped from your mouth.
You made a sound—a whimper, a moan, you didn't know—and he swallowed it, pulled you closer, pressed you against his chesty until the warmth of him pressed through your dress.
His hands moved. Down your sides, over your hips, gripping the fabric of your skirts and pulling them up, bunching the wool in his fists until he could slide his palm along your thigh. The skin there was bare, pale and warm, and he groaned against your mouth when he felt it.
“Tell me more,” he growled against your lips, turning you around as the back of your knees bumped against the desk.
“I dreamed of this.” He dragged his lips along your jaw as you spoke, down your throat, over the curve of your shoulder where your dress had slipped. “I dreamed of your hands touching, claiming and not stopping.”
You felt the scrape of his nails against your neck as his hand other hand slid lower, fingers finding the wet heat between your thighs, and you gasped—a sharp, broken sound that he answered with a growl against your collarbone.
“You're soaked.” His voice was thick, reverent, his fingers pressing against you, through the fabric of your smallclothes. “Is this for me?”
“Yes.” You couldn't breathe. “Always—only you—”
He made a sound that was almost pain, and then his hand was gone, and you heard the tear of fabric, the rip of your smallclothes giving way under his fingers, and you didn't care. You didn't care about anything except the heat of his hand returning, bare skin against bare skin, his fingers sliding through your wetness, finding your entrance, pressing inside you with a single, desperate thrust.
You cry out, your head falling back as he watches—watches your face twist with pleasure, your mouth falling open, the way your body arches into his hand. His thumb circles your clit, rough and perfect, and you’re already too close, the weight of what you had just revealed to him something that he intends to fulfill.
“Not yet.” His voice is ragged, strained with need. “Not yet, I need—”
He pulls his hand back, and you sob at the loss, desperate for him. But then his mouth is on yours again, swallowing your protests, while his other hand fumbles urgently with the laces of his breeches. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel you—”
You reach down, finding him through the fabric, feeling the heavy heat of his cock straining against his trousers. He shudders, his forehead dropping to yours, breath mingling with yours in the tight space between.
“I’m not going to last,” he warns, voice rough and low. “Gods, you have ruined me, you little minx. I need—fuck, you thought of these hands and thought sinful things.”
“Yes,” Your fingers clumsily pull at his laces, desperate and urgent, until you can wrap your hand around the length of him. He is hot and hard, leaking, and the sound he makes when you grip him is broken, raw, almost animalistic.
“I want to feel you. I want—” he grabs your wrist and shakes his head, grinning against your lips as he kisses you once more.
“You wanted my hands, sweet girl, you are going to get them.”
Baelor did not waste time, nor did he waste his words, he did not wait—he simply pulled you flush against his back, wrapped the fingers of his left hand around your throat, turned you both and pressed the other against your back and promptly bent you over his desk. “Is this what you imagined?”
“Fuck, yes.” his fingers tightened around your throat and then he hooked two of his fingers into your mouth, pulled your head back and grinned.
“Then what husband will I be not to indulge your desires,” His hand found your hip, pulled your arse flush against him and you felt the head of his cock press against your entrance, the slick heat of your body welcoming him, and he paused.
He pushed inside you in one long, desperate stroke, you felt it everywhere.
The stretch, the fullness, the way he filled you completely, pressing deeper than you'd thought possible. Your back arched against his chest, fingers curling around the edge of the table, and he groaned into the air, his mouth opening and closing as he removed his hand from your hip, thrust forward and then growled.
“Fuck,” he moved, pulled out and thrust back in, harder this time, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the quiet solar.
The candlelight flickered.
And you, pinned beneath him, gripping the table as if your life depended on it and voice muffled as his fingers delved deeper into your mouth, gods, what else had you kept hidden within your mind?
“So this is what you imagined,” he murmured, “whenever you looked at my hands.”
Baelor’s grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your pulse hammer against his palm. He kept two fingers hooked deep in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue while his hips snapped forward again, burying every inch of his cock inside you in one brutal stroke.
The desk creaked under the force. Your muffled moan vibrated around his fingers as he fucked you harder, each thrust driving you forward until your hips slammed against the wooden edge.
He leaned over your back, chest pressed hot against your spine, and growled low in your ear. “You wanted this—being bent over and used like a whore in my solar.” His fingers slid deeper, almost gagging you, saliva dripping down your chin onto the papers scattered across the desk.
He pulled out until only the head remained inside, then slammed back in, the wet sound of your cunt taking him filling the room.
Baelor’s hand left your hip to reach beneath you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in rough circles while he kept pounding into you. “Look at how wet you are,” he rasped, voice thick with lust.
“Dripping down my cock every time I fuck into you.” He thrust again, deeper, grinding against your cervix, and the pressure made your legs shake.
He released your throat only to grab a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back so your spine arched sharply.
His fingers stayed stuffed in your mouth, forcing you to suck on them while he railed you from behind. The slap of skin grew louder, faster. Sweat beaded on his chest and dripped onto your back as he used you, hips pistoning without mercy.
“Tell me what else you want,” he demanded, voice hoarse. “Because I’m not stopping until this tight little cunt is overflowing with my cum.” He angled his thrusts to drag against that sensitive spot inside you, each stroke deliberate and punishing, pushing you closer to the edge with every brutal snap of his hips. “I will not repeat myself,” he growled, “tell me.”
“Fuck, Baelor—I, I only ever thought of you taking me like this, your hands claiming every inch of me, gods, I imagined that perhaps if you fucked me like this long enough, I'd be able to give you a child.”
Baelor’s rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, then slowed into deep, rolling thrusts that dragged every thick inch of his cock through your soaked walls.
He eased his fingers from your mouth, sliding his palm down to cup your throat instead, thumb stroking the frantic pulse there. His chest pressed to your back, sweat-slick skin sliding together as he curled over you, mouth brushing your ear.
“Keep talking,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-rough. “Tell me how you picture my hands on our child.”
His free hand slid beneath you, palm splayed wide across your lower belly, fingers spreading as though already imagining the swell there.
Each measured thrust bottomed out, grinding against your cervix, filling you so completely you could feel the heavy pulse of his cock inside you.
“I'd like to give you a daughter, and I can't help but imagine how you'd hold her.”
He huffed a breathless laugh. “I’d hold her the way I have always held you, not in the same manner I have done now,” he breathed, lips tracing the shell of your ear. “Gentle. Careful. But these same hands would never let go.”
His hips rolled forward again, slow and deliberate, the head of his cock nudging that tender spot with each pass.
“I’d cradle her against my chest while you rest. Kiss her tiny fingers. Watch her sleep between us.”
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another, softer, as his thrusts stayed deep and unhurried, letting you feel every ridge and vein.
“A daughter,” he repeated, almost reverent. “Ours. I’d teach her to be strong, but I’d also be the one she runs to when she’s scared. And every night I’d come back to you and put another one inside you if that’s what you wanted.”
His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make you feel owned, while the hand on your belly stroked in slow circles, matching the steady rhythm of his cock claiming you.
“Say it again,” he whispered. “Tell me how badly you want me to breed you until you’re carrying my child.”
LOOK AT THOSE FUCKING HANDS! LOOK AT THEM! SOMEONE SUFFER WITH ME.
the lights are all out, and you’re laying in bed with a sleepy brendon park. you haven’t been able to fall asleep yet, even though he’s tracing nonsense against your back. you ask him to talk, knowing that hearing his voice is the quickest way to settle your mind.
he huffs. because of course he will, whatever you want, but he doesn’t have anything about his day that he really wants to talk about. the OR was slow.
“okay. come here,” he says, adjusting you so that you fit better against his chest. his palm cradles the back of your head, and you feel his fingers against your skull.
“your occipital,” he says, carefully pressing against the bone. “sagittal suture here… somewhere.”
“very sexy.”
“hush.”
he maps out the parietal bone, your zygomatic process, the slope of your mandible, naming each bone as he goes.
you laugh, somewhere along the way, probably at the temporal process. “you can’t name all of my bones.”
his fingers still. “you asked me to talk,” he says. “i’m talking. and yes, i can.”
you roll your eyes, quieting so that he can continue what he started. his fingers poke at your cervical vertebrae (“atlas,” he tells you at C1). he brushes over your clavicle; it tickles.
“scapula,” he murmurs.
you glance up to see that his eyes are closed. he’s mapping you by touch alone, face relaxed. his hair is freshly washed, missing the gel that normally keeps it out of his face during the work day.
your mind says touch, but the weight of his hand gliding across your skin keeps you still.
“first rib.” a feather-light touch. “true ribs, one through seven.” he pauses against each one. “false ribs. eight to twelve.” his voice rumbles through his chest, against your ear. “floating ribs.”
you’re not sure how far he gets in naming bones; you fall asleep somewhere between iliac crest and greater trochanter.
my doomed targaryen dark haired princes. they both deserved to be kings and would’ve easily made the best kings their house had ever produced. GRRM when i catch you!!!!
tangentwithtanner
vaporwave
prguitarman
pixelskylines
turnnoffyourmind
