there’s something about his rings. one day it becomes too much.
content: age gap, inexperienced! reader, fingering
wc: 2.3k
(a/n: i always intend for my works to not have specific appearances described so all can enjoy! but if you see anything, let me know!)
you’ve always had a fascination with baelor’s rings— often lacing your arm with his and spinning the cold bands. his palms always so warm, calloused but gentle.
it’d been this absentminded thing you’d started early into the betrothal to him, nervous to soon wed a prince of the realm but also finding comfort in his soothing presence. baelor had never failed to ensure your comfort as preparations were made. it wasn’t his first marriage, that much was known by everyone, but you were younger than him, and he understood why you would have fears. he was well experienced in courts and holding council, and he knew what it was like to have a wife sharing his chambers.
but years had passed since his bed was warmed by another, and as time soon approached to wed you, he couldn’t help but feel the heat rise to his face as he thought of his sweet young bride-to-be against the flesh of his palms, skin to skin.
the day had been exhausting, and for the hand of the king, that was expected; but it wasn’t caused by his duty to the realm. no, rather it was for the heavy thought of you. far too long had he gone without the touch of a woman, and that morning when you’d crossed paths when walking to attend your respective obligations, you’d reach to greet him, shaking slightly but calm when his warm hand covered yours. the look in your eyes as you sweetly said, “it’s a pleasure to see you, my prince,” had held what he could only read as desire. not the kind of desire that held heated passion, ready to take him then and there, but rather longing for too long. he felt it too— it wasn’t exactly a one sided affair.
since those early morning hours, as the night falls over the red keep, the information discussed during the day had merely came and went, but still lingering was the light in your eyes when they’d locked with his.
the final meeting of the day had ended, and baelor had set to return to his quarters, with the intent of sleeping off the desire, wishing to remain ever the honorable gentleman, though his thoughts raced of dishonoring you prior to the wedding.
his feet got the better of him, and before he knew it, he’d reach where your personal chambers resided. if he were anyone other than heir to the iron throne, he’s sure the guards would’ve hesitated before allowing him entrance. but surely, the prince wouldn’t do anything dishonorable, as this is his second marriage, after all.
they announced his visit, and you graciously accepted. as he entered, he saw you sitting back in a chair at the window, messing with some stray strings at the end of the embroidery you’d been working on. he knew much about you, and knew of your indifference of the craft, noting that you only did it, ‘because it is what is expected of me’.
you looked over your shoulder and greeted him, that sweet smile that held care and warmth. he’d returned the smile, walking over to your chair to place a hand on your shoulder.
“good evening, my prince. what’s brought you here so late?,” genuine curiosity laced your words, as baelor rarely ever came to see you late at night.
“is it so wrong of me to wish to see my wife?,” he questioned, though you both knew neither of you truly meant much more than a tease.
you laid the embroidery piece in your lap and raised a hand to lay over his, giving it a small squeeze and then immediately running the pad of your finger over the cool ring placed upon his own.
“you know it is never wrong, my betrothed. had it not been that the wedding is still weeks to come, i would want you here all the time. though, of course we’d share the same chambers, so you’d.. be there regardless.” the more you spoke, the more nervous you became as you lingered on that one word— wife. he said it so casually, like you’d already held the ceremony and been married for some time.
baelor noticed, a soft chuckle filling the otherwise silence of the room.
“do not be nervous, my love. everything will go accordingly, and before you know it we will be wed and the duties of each day will return to normal as they were before,” he said as he gave a small squeeze to your shoulder, then removing his hand out from under yours.
a small, almost inaudible grown of displeasure left you at the loss of touch. you felt the hear rise to your face, then stood up despite barely giving it thought.
“i am not nervous, my prince,” you started with a smile, then fading as you began speaking without care now. “well, perhaps a reasonable amount, but my thoughts have been racing as of recent. i cannot seem to keep them consistent or..”, you trailed off, quickly stopping yourself from telling him something you’d think he ought not know now. not until you are bound to one another.
“what is it? you know if you have any hardships you can always come to me, this much we have discussed before.” baelor was correct; you’d had concerns for what was to come for you as a future lady-wife of house targaryen, and how the world as you knew it would change for you. but he also knew you were not truthful in that being the only reason for your shaky voice.
and you knew too, but neither of you were allowed to act upon that until the next fortnight was over.
you looked away from the floor, then up to his eyes, which were already locked on you. subtlety, you bit your lip, and sighed slightly, turning to ask your ladies to leave as you ‘wished to discuss something with the prince.’
as the door closed, you walked over to baelor, the muscle memory to grab his hand returns and you twisted the cold ring round and round before speaking once again.
“i cannot take this anymore, my prince. it is too much, and too long from now.”
baelor felt his heart flutter with worry, as those words were not what he expected. you cannot take this anymore? the betrothal? perhaps he’d read you wrong, or you’d simply let your nerves get the best of you.
he looked at you with worry in his eyes, watching as you furrowed your eyebrows together in thought. he did not know what to say, thinking of how to comfort you, but you began to speak again.
“not like that, my love. i have had thoughts.. of you. and they have ran through my mind like rapids in a riverbed but i cannot take it anymore,” then you sighed, opening your mouth slightly then closing it, before huffing is annoyance at your own tone, “i need you, my prince. i yearn for your touch.”
your eyes slowly trailed up to his, which were dark with lust as they stared into your own. he yearned just the same for far too long now, and the moral decision now lay on him— to be an honorable man and wait for just a few weeks longer, or to take you on this night, and release the pent up desire that now is mutually announced.
“i.. i cannot take you on this night, my lady. you have honor about you, and i of myself, but when the night comes and i bed you, trust that i will love you right and take you properly.”
the fingers you had playing with his ring now gripped his hand. you pulled to place it upon your waist, letting your own hand stay above it.
“you’ve thought of it too, then. i.. i do not ask you to take my innocence on this night, my prince. but i do wish for your touch. nights have came and went that i could not sleep as i wished for your hands to caress me.”
and there it was, now in the open. you’d longed for his fingers, the touch of the gentle but battle-strengthened hand to please you. days you’d watched as he spared with matarys and valarr, watching as his hands fit perfectly on the weapons, then running his fingers alongside the blade as he taught his sons. days were you ran your fingertips along his hand, holding one of his fingers with several of your own. admiring in secret how long and beautiful they were.
he gave you a small smile and a slight nod, then with both his hands, he turned you around so your back was against his chest.
“tell me, my lady, you’ve not pleasured yourself during those lonesome nights, have you?” the tone of his voice now laced with sensualness, breath hot against your ear.
“n- no, my prince. i wished to wait for you but the days have grown to feel too far away.”
he hummed into your hair, vibrations faint against your ear.
his left hand gripped the fabric of your gown to pull it up, the cool air exposing your bare skin, as the right laid flat just above where you needed him most.
“a shame, that is— for you, of course. no one’s touched you here, not even yourself. your skin is so soft, more-so than i’d imagined, now that i’m finally feeling you.”
you closed your eyes, leaning your head back against him as you’re already growing drunk on the sultry rasp of his voice.
“baelor, please touch me,“ you cried, more pathetic then you’d intended but no care was given.
“hmm, touch you where, my dear? my hand is already placed upon you, i cannot touch you more than i am now.”
damn him, you thought, don’t make me say it.
“i tease you, sweet one. i know where you’d like me most. i saw it in those beautiful eyes of yours this morrow, and i feel it in every breath you take against me now.”
his hand slid down slowly, painfully slow, leaving a trail of cold tracks down as the pads of his fingers pushed gently between your folds, feeling the severity of how wet you were.
“all of this is for me? i was unaware that you would excite this quick.”
‘yes, all for you,’ you thought, though your throat betrayed you as the words tried to push through.
his middle finger teased the entrance of your cunt, rubbing just close enough to get you shaking. you hummed in content ridden with impatience.
finally he pushed his finger in, going deeper than you’d thought possible. you weren’t totally innocent, hearing of how men pleasured their wives through your ladies in waiting and from those gossiping in the garden, but to have it done to yourself was different than you’d always imagined. but truthfully in the best way you’d ever thought possible.
his palm now rested flat against your folds, now soaked with your wet slicked and that damn cold ring rested right against the entrance of your core as he settled there, sending cold chills all across your body.
baelor was a smart man, he caught on quick— the rings. that’s what began to drive you insane.
“my lady, pray tell, are the coldness of my rings enticing you? something so normal is so arousing to you?”
you could only muster up a nod and moan, core pulsing around as he rocked it gently in and out just barely.
pulling his middle finger out entirely, he rubbed your clit with the pads of it and his ring finger, then back into your entrance.
his speed was quicker now, each time he pushed them in they gained easier access inside your tight core. your breathing changing into airy moans, quiet and shy but embarrassingly sultry for simply having your future husband’s fingers inside you.
the pad of his thumb rubbed at your clit, aiding you none in holding back your pleasured sounds.
“that feels good, hmm? i believe this is about as exciting for you as it is myself, i must say. seeing you unravel so easily at the feeling of my fingers inside your beautiful body.”
the slick of your arousal and his quick fingers combined made a wet clicking sound, which grew closer together as he sped his actions up.
“baelor.. my love.. i feel something.. i’m not-“
“i know, sweet girl, i know. just let it go, release that pleasure for me. show me how good i’ve made you feel.”
a tear formed in your eye as the intensity heightened rapidly. now, with your knees shaking, you feared you’d collapse, but the hand holding your gown, with the fabrics still in the grip, slid across until his forearm rested on your stomach. with a tight hold, he pulled you somehow even closer to keep you upright as your release ran through your body.
your whimpered moans sounded faintly like praise of his name, somewhere between baelor and my love; it all ran together. you weren’t even sure of what you were saying, only that the sensation was something unmatched to anything you’d ever felt before in your life.
he held you as you calmed down, humming through the remaining waves of excitement. rubbing you a few more times, he removed his hand from your middle and brought it up to see the mess you made on his hand.
you opened your eyes and immediately felt your face turn hot from embarrassment, looking at how went his entire hand had became.
baelor laughed, letting go of your gown and walking towards the bucket of water and rags that were kept in the corner of your room.
“do not be ashamed, my dear. i find it endearing that you enjoy my hands so much. when we are wed, you will feel it every night, if you so desire.”
SUMMARY - Having met as children and reuniting once you've grown into a woman, Aerion's previous suspicion of you grows into the softest spot imaginable.
CONTAINS - pure fluff, reader is extremely kind, aerion is only kind to reader, classic sunshine x grumpy
A/N - i personally couldn't stop giggling while writing the "pastry" scene. Ughh i need him
The blazing sun over Summerhall was unforgiving, but it did nothing to melt the sour disposition of Prince Aerion.
At barely ten name days old, the boy was already terror embodied. He sat on a smooth rock by the edge of the river, a fishing rod held tight in his small, tense hands.
His eyes glared at the water as if he could command the fish to bite by sheer noble decree.
“They won’t bite if you keep scowling at them,” a bright voice chimed from behind him.
Aerion stiffened, his jaw tightening. He turned his head sharply, expecting a person sent by his father to drag him back to his lessons.
Instead, he saw you.
You were the daughter of Maekar’s most trusted ally, having arrived only an hour ago.
While the adults spoke of their business, you had wandered out into the sun, your heavy skirts already trailing in the damp grass.
You looked entirely out of place among the solemn guards, a little burst of warmth against the grey stones of summerhall.
“Go away,” Aerion snapped, turning back to the water, “You’ll frighten them.”
“You’re the one frightening them,” you retorted easily, completely unbothered by the venom in his tone.
You marched right up to his rock, your slippers squelching in the mud, and plopped down beside him without asking. “My father says that fishes can sense when someone is angry. They don’t like the energy.”
“Your father is a fool, and so are you,” he hissed, expecting you to cry or perhaps run back to the castle.
But you didn’t seem bothered as you tilted your head, watching the bobber dance on the ripples. “You’re doing it wrong anyway. The bait is too high.”
Aerion opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark—something about how a dragon did not take lessons from a silly girl—but before the words could leave his lips, your smaller, warmer hands brushed against his.
You reached out, bypassing his defensive posture, and gently adjusted his grip on the handle, lowering the tip of the rod so the bait sank properly into the water.
The prince froze. No one touched him without permission. No one dared.
Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the bobber suddenly dipped aggressively. A heavy tug yanked the line down, nearly pulling the rod from his hands.
“See!” you gasped, your face lighting up with a blinding grin. “Pull, Aerion! Pull!”
Forgetting his pride, Aerion yanked the rod back with all his boyhood strength. A massive trout broke the surface, thrashing wildly and splashing mud and lakewater directly across his pristine tunic, and right into your face.
Aerion braced himself for the screaming. Noble girls and boys always screamed when they got dirty.
But then a bright laughter echoed across the banks. “Look at the size of it! We caught it!”
Aerion looked from the wiggling fish to your mud splattered face. His lips twitched, fighting a smile before he forced his features back into a proud mask.
“I caught it,” he corrected, though his voice lacked any real bite. “You merely watched.”
“We caught it,” you insisted, bending down to take a closer look at the trout.
Your father’s visit ended shortly after, and the brief, strange kinship evaporated into memory as the years pulled you both down separate paths.
Years slipped by like water through fingers, and when you finally returned to court as a young woman, the boy by the lake had become a man feared by the entire realm.
Aerion was breathtakingly beautiful, and notoriously cruel. He walked through court with a sharp tongue and a sharper temper, but that did not faze you.
From afar, Aerion watched you navigate the treacherous nature of court. You were a vision of light, offering warm smiles to the guards, listening patiently to the older women, and showing unfaltering kindness to everyone you crossed.
To him, it was grating. All noble ladies were trained to be sweet, performing acts of grace to secure a good match or win the favour of higher lords.
He waited for you to finally lose your cool.
But the day never came. No, the reality of your kindness crashed directly into him one afternoon near the small council chamber.
You were walking down the corridor with a butterfly that had landed on your arm when the doors of the chamber burst open.
A flurry of lords tumbled out into the hall, fleeing in terror. Among them was the master of coin, frantically wiping dark ink from his doublet with his bleeding hands, his face pale as death.
“Seven hells,” one of the other lords whispered hoarsely, scurrying past you. “The prince has lost his mind entirely!”
You stopped, watching the chaotic retreat. Instead of turning back like any sensible person would, you set the butterfly on a nearby branch and stepped through the heavy doors.
An iron candelabra laid overturned on the floor, dark wax spilling across the polished wood, and an inkwell had been shattered against the wall.
Aerion stood by the high window, his back to you. His shoulders were incredibly tense, and his chest was rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths.
“I thought I made it clear,” Aerion growled without turning, “The next soul to disturb me will lose their tongue.”
“Then it is a good thing I am capable of writing. I do not need my tongue.” you responded lightly, closing the heavy door behind you.
Aerion went still. He turned slowly, his stormy eyes dark with lingering rage. When his gaze landed on you, he let out a harsh, bitter scoff.
“Come to play the saint for me too?” he sneered, maintaining his distance. “Save your sweet smiles for the lords in the hall. I have no patience for your endless charity.”
You took a few measured steps into the room, keeping a respectful distance yourself.
“I don't think they don’t understand how stressful it can be,” you said softly, ignoring his cruel words. “they whisper and push, expecting you to sit quietly while they try to manage your family’s rights. It makes sense that you’d lose your patience when they refuse to listen.”
He stared at you from across the room, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. He had expected an admonishment, or at the very least, fear.
“They are parasites,” Aerion muttered, his posture unlocking just a fraction. “They look at me as if I am mad because I refuse to let them dictate my bloodline’s terms.”
“I can see that,” you replied gently, giving a small smile. “They may be stressed as well, but no one should have to bend to their whim.”
The room went silent before you spoke again.
“Whenever the court gets too loud for me, I find that walking around the gardens helps. The fresh air is always calming.. maybe it would help you too. It’s quiet out there.”
The fire in his eyes flickered, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. He stared at your face, the lines of his memory remembering the specific curve of your smile.
A breathless laugh escaped him.
“The gardens?” Aerion repeated, his voice dropping the edge it possessed just moments ago.
He took a step forward, assessing your form. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Years ago at Summerhall, you told me the fish wouldn’t bite because of my ‘anger.' Now you’re trying to herd me into the bushes to calm down.”
Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You remember that?”
“I remember a girl pushing my hands around and getting me covered in mud,” he murmured.
He then let out a soft click of his tongue, turning to look at the doorway. “Fine. We will walk the gardens. But only because your previous method somehow worked.”
“Of course,” you smiled.
As the weeks progressed, a unique friendship blossomed between you.
Aerion still remained difficult as ever to the rest of the world, but your presence seemed to simmer that down.
The shift did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the court, leading to an afternoon that they wouldn’t stop gossiping about for days.
You were walking through the outer courtyard with a small retinue of noble ladies, the daughters of prominent lords from the Reach. They were talking endlessly, giggling as they spoke of whatever irrelevant topics crossed their minds.
“You must be careful, my dear,” one of the ladies said, leaning in closer to you. “Prince Aerion may be amused by your novelty but once he grows bored of playing with his new toy, you will be left with nothing but yourself.”
“He is a prince of the blood,” another lady chimed in, her voice tight. “They take what pleases them for a moment and cast it aside. Do not mistake a tyrant’s passing curiosity for actual regard.”
“Aerion simply values sincerity,” you replied, offering an unbothered smile. “There is no game being played.”
“You are far too gullible–” the former lady was cut when Aerion walked out from the room beside.
The ladies instantly adjusted their posture, immediately dropping to curtsies as he approached, each of them desperately hoping to catch the prince’s favour despite their previous warnings to you.
Aerion ignored them, his eyes locking firmly onto you.
Without a word of greeting, and completely disregarding decorum, he walked into the center of the group and stepped right into your space, his frame towering over you.
“You’re late,” his voice was low—meant strictly for you, though it carried across the hall.
“Late for what, my Prince?” you asked, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with your beaming expression.
“I am going to the cliffs, and you are coming with me,” he stated flatly.
Behind you, a collective intake of breath echoed from the ladies. Here he was, actively seeking you out, his attention consuming you and utterly shattering their spiteful claims that you were just a passing game.
You looked back at the girls, giving one last smile before parting from them. “Very well, my Prince, if you insist.”
“I do,” Aerion tilted his head, turning on his heel to fall into step right beside you, his side brushing against yours as he guided you out of the yard.
That would not be the first or last time the court would witness the two of you separating from the rest of the world.
During one evening, after failing in your search for Aerion through the whole castle, you found him alone in the secluded parts of the library.
He was sitting alone, staring dead at a massive volume of ancient Valyrian history.
“I am not in the mood for company,” he hissed out, “leave.”
Your eyebrows furrowed in worry before approaching and setting down a small plate of pastries on the corner of the table. You pulled out the empty chair beside him and sat down despite his request.
Reaching over the plate, you picked up a small pastry and held it right in front of his face, completely disregarding his brooding glare.
“Eat,” you insisted gently as Aerion still refused to acknowledge you. “You always go for these specific ones. I know you like them.”
His fingers that had been gripping the edge of the book twitched, and he finally turned his head to look at you.
The weight on his shoulders gradually disappeared as he looked at the pastry, then up at your fond expression.
Aerion didn’t move to take it from your hand. Keeping his intense gaze locked firmly onto yours, he leaned slightly forward.
Then, totally unprompted, he took a bite right out of the pastry while it was still held between your fingers.
A tiny giggle slipped past your lips, a bright warmth blooming all the way to the tips of your ears at the sheer intimacy of it.
You tried to bite your lip to hide your surprise, but your shoulders shook with quiet amusement as you looked into his smug face.
Aerion chewed slowly, the corners of his lips twitching at your giddy reaction.
“You are ridiculous,” he murmured as he swallowed.
“Maybe,” you agreed, your heart fluttering as you set the remaining half down onto the plate. “But it worked. You feel better already, don’t you?”
Aerion stared at you for a moment, drinking in your presence. He did feel better—the tight, suffocating knot in his chest had already unraveled. But it was certainly not because of the pastry.
Slowly, he hesitantly reached out across the small space between your chairs. With one deliberate movement, he dragged your chair until it hit his.
Then, his hand moved to flip over on the table with his palm facing up, his fingers sprawling open in a silent, stubborn invitation.
You, on the other hand, did not hesitate. You slid your hand into his palm, your fingers easily weaving through his.
Aerion squeezed your hand, his rings pressing firmly against your skin, though his touch was surprisingly careful.
However, the true demonstration of expanse that you two had built played out before the entire court during a grand feast, where Aerion’s attempt to maintain his reputation crumbled.
The feast was deafeningly loud.
You were seated next to Aerion by Prince Maekar.
Aerion had spent the first half of the feast interacting with other lords while you conversed with other ladies.
He was glaring at a group of lesser lords when he noticed your sudden silence. Just then, some of the lords he had been talking to earlier called out to him and he tried to force his eyes back on them.
Aerion was aware that you two were the topic of conversation as of late. He couldn’t let the people of court think he had gone soft. At least that was what his pride told him.
But the sight of your fragile form pulled at him like a physical anchor, shattering his resolve. His demeanor instantly changed.
He turned fully in his seat toward you, his cold stare evaporating.
“You’re pale,” Aerion murmured, voice stripped away of anything harsh. “What is it?”
“Just… a headache, Aerion,” you whispered softly, giving him a tired smile. “The noise is particularly loud tonight.”
Aerion didn’t waste a second as he gently used his hand to cradle the back of your head.
His fingers began combing through the loose parts of your hair, his thumb tracing circles down your temple to ease the pressure.
The chatter around the surrounding tables died down, dozens of eyes tracking his movements, yet no one dared to disrupt. They watched as Aerion paid no mind to everything else the moment you showed discomfort.
You leaned into his touch, a smile returning to your face. “Aerion… everyone is watching.”
Aerion let out a defeated sigh as he grinned. “Let them stare,” he concluded, his fingers tucking in a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve broken me anyway.”
Shifting his broad shoulders, he blocked the rest of the room from view, shielding you from prying eyes.
“You are tired,” he paused, “if anyone breathes a word about that, I will have their heads.”
“You can’t murder the entire court,” you teased, lifting your head up for a moment.
A faint smile broke across his face. “Watch me,” he repeated, guiding your head to rest on his shoulder. “Now hold still and let me fix it.”
and if i said icky!disgusting!perv!robby who lives in a trailer park and spends his time lounging on his couch, drinking beer and occasionally, smoking weed.
and you’re the cute girl next door who’s just moved in, the one who, despite being told to stay away from mean old grumpy robby, you knock on his door anyway. he grumbles when he opens it but stops when he sees you. you’re sweet, bubbly and so soft. he takes a liking to you—especially when you affectionately call him mister robby. after that, you spend most of your nights in his trailer, chewing gum while you’re sat next to him on his couch, babbling on about some stupid boy who likes you but you’re 100% not interested.
one night you come over to his place and he happily invites you in, before he stops you and grumbles this isn’t about some other stupid boy is it? and you huff out a laugh, place your hand on his chest, before saying not this time, just need your help with something mikey, the sweet lilt in your voice going straight to his dick.
you brush past him to sit on his couch and tap it for him to come join you, which he happily obliges. he tilts his head at you when he sits down, watching your face drop slightly—which makes him worried. how could his sweet girl be upset about anything? how could he have let his sweet girl get upset?
“ok.. i lied.”
“about what?”
“this is about a boy.. but uhm.. it’s also not..”
“okay?”
“i don’t know how to kiss.. i was wonderin’ if you could teach me?”
robby can’t believe his fucking luck. all those times he’s spent laying on his couch after you’ve gone back home, his hand fisting his cock as he mutters out your name. many, many times he’s pictured you bouncing on his cock, your hands on his stomach as you giggle on top of him. and now here you are, sat on his couch, asking him to teach you how to kiss—and he’d be a stupid ma to say no.
“oh, sweet girl.. of course i can..”
you squealed in delight, swinging your legs off the couch before settling down on his thigh, your hands grasping at his shoulders. his hands come up to cup your face, pulling you gently towards him, before he gently whispers close your eyes, honey and just follow my lead—which you nod in response, your eyes slowly fluttering closed. his lips were soon pressed against yours, his tongue parting your lips to slide in your mouth. you squeak out a gasp, opening your eyes wide before being lulled back into a daze as his hands move to settle on your hips, dragging you fully onto his lap. your eyes roll to the back of your head as your eyelids flutter closed, lazily kissing robby as he controls every movement. you absentmindedly grind your hips and feel the bulge in his pants twitch between your legs, so you pull off him for a second, saliva hanging between yours and his lips.
“a-are you hard, mister robby? from kissing me?”
“yeah, sweetheart.. i am, feels that good..” he breathes out, watching as you swallow thickly, eyes focused on the twitching in his pants as you grind over him. whining slightly, you look back into his eyes and speak quietly, nervousness overwhelming you for a second.
“can i.. can i touch it, mister robby?”
“of course, could never deny my sweet girl when she wants something, hmm?”
“am i your sweet girl?”
“mmhm, ‘course you are..”
it’s then and there that robby decides to confess everything to you.
“been thinkin’ about you a lot, angel.. been thinkin’ about how good of a kisser you’d be, how soft your little hands would be as you stroked my cock, how your mouth would feel with your lips wrapped ‘round my cock.. and especially how that tight little pussy would feel all stuffed up with my cock..”
✣ summary | things on the second floor have shifted significantly even if neither of you are saying so. cue: stairwell touches, breakfast, and seventeen days of silence.
✣ wc | 13.5k
✣ cw | mdni, older!price x fem!reader, divorcee!price, age gap (20s/40s), fluff, angst in the form of feelings of abandonment, alcohol, smoking, smut, piv
⇽ part one | masterlist
The city has that nice velvety quality it gets after two and a half glasses of wine and some good company – everything’s a little more bleary around the edges, hazier, a little fuzzy.
You’ve spent the better part of the week buried in briefings and phone calls and the kind of inbox that refills just as fast as you clear it, and somewhere between the first and the second glass, the whole weight of the week lifted. Your shoulders are lighter, head held higher. The relief of it finally being over is especially liberating and you let yourself feel it because you deserve to.
Pub lights spill out onto the pavement, music bleeds muted through closed doors, and a taxi pulls off the curb in a hiss of wet tires – the couple that got out are cuddled close, arms looped together, and you watch them for a beat before averting to the ground. The air’s biting at your cheeks and stinging the corners of your eyes, the sidewalk’s slick from the earlier rain, and the puddles caught between the cobblestone glitter in the wash of the streetlights illuminating your way home.
It smells like damp soil and the pinot noir stained in your mouth, a hint of the pumpkin beer that David from Planning managed to splash on your dress in the middle of a very animated impression of your boss. You’re in your good coat too, the burgundy wool one with the deep pockets bought on that questionable Saturday back in September – you remember the one, where you seemingly burned through an entire paycheck on new clothes ‘for the office’.
Your heels are echoing through the street, your cashmere scarf still half unwound from the heat of the pub, and you’re just turning the corner when you smell him.
A scent so distinctive now that your body knows it before your brain does and your steps begin to slacken before you’ve made the choice to. Cigar smoke furls through the brisk air – dark chocolate and fig jam spread beneath a layer of woody tobacco.
You’d like to taste it, you think.
It’s been four days since John kissed you, touched you.
Four days of passing each other on the stairs with his morning coffee from the corner and your bags sliding off your shoulder. Brief corridor conversations about nothing, really, but sometimes he picks up your falling straps without being asked, and you go down the stairs and he goes up them and the days continue on around you like nothing is different.
Except everything feels very different.
He’s leaning against the front of the building off to the side of the steps, one shoulder against the brick, cigar pinched at his side. He’s got his black coat on tonight, the collar turned up against the breeze, a knitted black beanie pulled low to his brows. He’s staring off at something across the street in that way people do when they’re sort of just existing in a moment.
He notices you over the hedges before you’ve turned down the path, the ringing click of your heels giving you away.
As you fully come into view his eyes make a single leisurely pass, taking in your listing gait and your cold-bitten cheeks, the lopsided scarf hanging tenuously around your neck. The tip of his tongue drags along the inner edge of his bottom lip before he forces his bawdy gaze somewhere into the middleground.
“Evenin’,” he says before you reach the bottom step.
“Hi!” you chirp, voice so bright it surprises even you, the word comes out far more enthusiastic than intended, and you watch the corner of his mouth twitch in response.
“Good night?” he asks.
“A very good night,” you confirm, nodding ardently, smile pulling wider than you can help. Your eyes fall to his hand, his index finger hooked over the cigar, and you gesture before you can think better of it. “Think I could have some of that?” you ask, lashes fluttering.
He looks at you and then, without comment, holds it out to you. His eyes stay on your face while you take it and bring it to your mouth, watching while your lips wrap around its head, while you draw in carefully and let the smoke sit warm and rich and sweet on your tongue.
The leaf is damp and you think about the fact his mouth was here first, and that you’ve been thinking about his mouth for four days straight. Something low in your belly pulls tight and you exhale up into the air, the smoke dissipating in the dark.
You hold it back out and he takes it from you, watching you as he brings it back to his own lips. Your fingers find the soft fringe at the end of your scarf and twist.
“How many?” he asks, smoke seeping out around the shape of his words.
You grin knowingly as you turn toward the door. “How many what?”
He’s still just watching you, patient, a brow raising imperceptibly. The cigar sends up a ghost of a thread between you.
“Two and a half,” you reply finally, gripping the railing as you negotiate the first step. “Which is a perfectly respectable amount.”
“It is,” he agrees mildly, in the tone of a man who just did the math on two and a half glasses in relation to your body and arrived at a conclusion he’s keeping to himself.
He pushes off the wall and follows you up the steps, stubbing his cigar out on the railing as he goes.
The foyer is toasty after the cold of the street, not dramatically so, but enough to defrost your fingers. You exhale into it gratefully, finally unwinding your unruly scarf, feeling your cheeks tingle as the chill dissolves. Behind you, the door shuts heavily, and John’s footfalls are one leisurely pace behind yours.
“You walked back?” he asks as you reach the bottom of the staircase.
“It’s only twelve minutes,” you say, which is an answer to a slightly different question than the one he asked – you learn from the best.
“Alone,” he adds, grumbling.
You glance over your shoulder at him as you take the first step up. “John,” you giggle, warning.
“I was only going to say…” he begins, and you sigh ruefully, “that it’s late.”
“It’s half ten,” you counter, walking up.
“And dark.”
“Well, it’s nighttime, so…”
“And you’ve had–”
“Two and a half,” you cut in as you pause, hand on the banister as you look back and smile, “which is a perfectly–”
“–Respectable amount. Yeah,” he finishes, and the tone of it is so dry you could use it as kindling if it were a tangible thing.
You laugh at him, bright and loose, the sound bouncing off the stairwell and coming back to you both tenfold.
He’s just coming up behind you when you take another step and your heel snags a rogue rip in the carpet. His hand instinctually finds the small of your back before you’ve even registered losing balance, and you right yourself with a murmured ‘thank you’ before you keep climbing.
The pressure of his touch, however, lingers after it’s gone.
Gone – which is the operative word and precisely the problem.
You think about it for exactly three more steps before deciding that it should come back.
You come to a stop on the stairs and turn to face him. Being a step up puts you almost level with him for once, close enough that you don’t have to tip your chin for the first time since you’ve known him, close enough to see that damn freckle on his nose and the way the light settles into the lines beside his eyes in a way that opens them up.
You reach out for his wrist, but he pulls back just out of reach, brows furrowing, an amused smile working its way up despite himself.
“No,” he chuckles, suspicious and fond all at once.
“I just–”
“You just nothin’,” he chastises, still smirking as he steps up beside you. “Keep walkin’,” he nods.
And you do, but not before your eyes slide to the side and you suck your teeth.
You manage to behave for four whole dignified steps. But on that fifth one, you make the mistake of looking at him, and he just looks so good in that fucking beanie that your body chooses for you.
You find yourself shifting and leaning into him, pushing your body against his until he’s got the banister at his back and you’ve got his full attention. He looks down at you with widened eyes and you look up at him grinning, your fingers slithering like snakes into his coat, palm meeting the solid curve of his stomach and sliding, sliding, sliding.
“Duck,” he warns, voice tight with restraint, you pause.
“I’m cold,” you sulk.
“You’re not cold.”
“I am.”
“You were fine thirty seconds ago.”
“Well, I wasn’t thinkin’ about it thirty seconds ago,” you argue.
He sighs something akin to a laugh and detaches your hand from his body, depositing it firmly onto the banister on your side of the step. His fingers close over yours, squeezing them around the painted wood.
“You’re bein’ awful cheeky,” he grumbles under his breath. “Hold it,” he insists, giving your hand another press.
“You’re bein’ bossy,” you inform him, tipping your head back so that he can fully appreciate your practiced pout.
“I know,” he replies, completely unbothered.
You both make it all the way to the landing outside his door before you’re turning to face him again, hands finding the lapels of his coat, and he looks at you like he saw this coming three steps ago.
“I just wanna–”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”
“I have a reasonable idea,” he exhales evenly.
“It’s quite rude,” you huff, “saying no to someone before they’ve even asked their question.”
John says nothing in return, he only looks at you. Then one hand comes up to pry your fingers from his coat.
“You’re not even a little tempted?” you whine exasperatedly.
You tilt your head, and the lights catch him at an angle that does nothing to help the humming under your skin. He is very handsome and the wine is simply making it harder to be normal about it.
“Eyes forward,” he says, pointing down the hall with two fingers. “Walk.”
“John,” you mewl.
“What did I say?”
“You’ve said a lot of things,” you point out. “You’re very chatty.”
He huffs before turning you firmly by your shoulders, one hand at your back, urging you, guiding you the last few steps down the hall.
At your flat, you spin on your heel and lean back against the door, he’s close enough that you have to tip your chin again. The wine has flooded your senses making your venture seem all that more attainable and you’re very much aware of how near he is and how much nearer you would like him to be.
Your hands find his lapels again, reaching out, fingers smoothing down the fabric, tugging once at the ends and staying like weights, it makes him shuffle a half-step closer.
“You could… come in,” you purr.
His eyes drop to your hands and then come back to your face, and for a split second he looks like he’s at war with himself, one that he’s only winning by a thin margin.
“Not tonight,” he says firmly, without leaving much room for argument.
But still, the pout arrives before you can stop it, tugging at the corners of your mouth, and you look up at him through the fan of your lashes, foot scooting forward until the front of your shoe taps the toe of his boot.
“Why don’t you want me?” you murmur, but something more genuine sneaks into it at the last second – too honest, too revealing, too indicative of his rejections up the stairs.
He goes still, two lines pulling deep between his brows, then there’s the quietest click of his tongue, and the knuckle of his index comes up beneath your chin, tipping it. He searches your face, cerulean eyes taking in your tipsy gaze when something pained moves through them.
“I think you know that I do,” he says gently, cocking his head. “Hm?”
Your eyes fall to his chest, cheeks glowing.
The calloused pad of his thumb traces an invisible line below your bottom lip, dragging it crooked before his hand drops back to his side.
He steps into your space now and dips his head, and when he speaks his lips are close enough to your ear that you feel the warmth of his breath against its shell, his beard lightly scratching at your cheek. A short breath escapes you and your fingers twitch toward him at your side, but you don’t touch him again.
“Go to bed,” he murmurs, low.
He doesn’t pull back right away though, he stays where he is, the round tip of his cold nose pressing to the soft place just below your ear. You can hear him breathe you in there, like he just couldn’t help himself – taking in the scent of you, your perfume gone tender from the heat of your flesh, vanilla and ginger mingling with the wine seeping through your pores.
He’s close enough to taste you if he’d let himself.
You feel him freeze after, the stiff spine of a man who’s realized exactly how far he just let himself go and is deciding not to go any further. A single measured exhale leaves him before he steps back again. The cold air of the hall rushes in to fill the space where he was as if it was just waiting for the chance.
You hold his gaze a heartbeat longer, fingers wrapped around the doorknob at your back, your pulse pounding at the place his skin met yours.
“Okay,” you concede, barely above a whisper.
“Night, duck,” he says, and the tenderness of it follows you through your door and stays with you long after you lock it.
On the other side, you stand in your dark entryway, coat still on, scarf loose in your hand, the wine warm in your chest, the ghost of his breath still sitting somewhere on your neck, and his voice rattling between your eardrums.
You hear the creek of his door open and close, and you stand there a moment longer, smiling at nothing.
––––––
The knock comes around nine o’clock.
The firmness of the raps reach you with the thick woolen weight of a hangover settled into your temples. You lie there, on the sofa, with your cheek pressed to the cushion, blinking at the coffee table as your brain reassembles itself to being awake.
Your flat, you notice, looks like Friday happened to it. Heels where you stepped out of them just inside the door, your coat and scarf thrown over the back of a chair, sloppily pooling on the floor below. Your purse is tipped on its side across the entryway bench, lipgloss and credit cards and loose change making a slow escape across the upholstery.
There’s a glass of water on the coffee table in front of you that Last Night You left for Morning You, and you reach forward to drain it in four long swallows before forcing yourself up, padding over to the door, and pulling it open.
John’s stood there in a soft grey hoodie beneath his leather jacket, light wash jeans, two takeaway coffees balanced atop each other in one hand. He takes up space the way he always does, like doorways weren’t quite built with men like him in mind.
He makes a quick pass over you, taking in your mid-thigh oversized band tee and the one sock rolled lower than the other. The corner of his mouth pulls up just slightly before he holds the top cup out.
“Thought you might need this,” he offers.
“Ugh, you’re an angel,” you murmur, taking it with both hands and stepping back from the door.
He follows you in without being asked, and when he crosses the threshold he stops short, and you watch him take in your flat the way you did his.
It’s the same bones of a completely different animal – colorful where his is less so, lived-in where his is bare, every one of your surfaces doing multiple jobs.
Your furniture runs in autumnal colors. A velvet sofa so deep a rust it goes almost copper in the morning light, an oak coffee table distressed at the corners from ware. Your bookshelves are painted the kind of green that takes some thought to name and is filled well past any reasonable capacity – books lined and stacked and shoved where they could fit. The rug beneath it all is an ochre and cream situation with an indescribable pattern, frankly.
Your walls are decorated with paintings you salvaged from secondhand shops – a large landscape canvas above the couch and beside it, a smaller old oil portrait of a young girl and a lamb in a tarnished gilt frame.
There are half-burned candles on every surface, their wax gone sculptural from use. The desk is a spectacular disaster – an old company mug bristling with pens and markers planted in the middle of a landslide of manila folders and loose papers, a laptop half-buried under it all.
The snake plant on the windowsill looks like it’s doing its best.
And after a single deep breath, John steps over your heels without uttering a word.
You drift back to the sofa and pull your feet up beneath you, wrapping both hands around your cup. John settles into the floral armchair across from you, ankle on his knee, entirely at ease in your space in a way that makes last night press a little closer to your beating temples – the stairwell, your hands on him, his breath on your neck, the wine-ache of wanting.
You take a sip of your coffee and look out the window.
“How’s your head?” he asks.
“Fine,” you lie.
“Mm,” he offers, which you think means he believes you and also means he doesn’t.
You look at him over the rim of your cup. The side of his mouth is doing that little tugging thing again which suggests he might be thinking of last night a tad more fondly than you are. Your cheeks start to tingle and you take another sip and look back at the window.
“You didn’t have to get me coffee,” you say.
“I get coffee after my run every morning,” he replies. You look back.
“I didn’t know you ran.”
“I have a routine,” he shrugs.
“Every morning?” you press, which is less a question and more you doing the arithmetic of what that means about the hours he keeps while you’re still horizontal and useless across the hall.
“Every morning,” he confirms.
“And what does that look like?”
He wipes a hand down his beard and uncrosses his leg to bring his elbows to his knees, leaning forward with both hands around his coffee.
“Run eight, maybe ten clicks. Push-ups, pull-ups. Stuff I can do in the flat.” A pause. “More important work gets done elsewhere."
You sit with that, the image of him doing said routine, flushed and sheen. It does a hot, complicated thing in your chest that you choose not to examine on an empty stomach.
“Are you hungry?” you ask.
“I could eat.”
“There’s a place ‘round the corner,” you start. “I go every Saturday. Their eggs are life-changing and the coffee’ll sort you out even if you don’t need sorting.”
“Yeah, alright,” he replies simply, easier to convince than you thought. And you both put your half-drunk cups on the table and leave it at that.
It takes you twenty minutes to get ready, and when you emerge from your bedroom in jeans and a cream knitted jumper with your hair done and your face on, John is standing at your bookshelf doing what you did to his – head tilted slightly, reading spines, curious in a way he probably wouldn’t be if he knew you were watching.
You lean against the doorframe and let yourself look.
He pulls one out – slim, a little battered, Honored Guest by Joy Williams, a strange collection of short stories you’ve had since uni – and turns it over in his hands, eyes moving across the back cover. His thumb runs along the worn edge of the spine, just once.
You let yourself look for exactly as long as it takes him to finish.
“Ready,” you tell him.
He slots it back exactly where he found it.
––––––
You leave the building into a cold grey morning, the air sharp and clean after the comfort of your flat, and fall into step beside each other on the pavement, your shoulder occasionally finding his arm as you walk, neither of you adjusting.
Your breath fogs between you. John has his hands in his coat pockets, taking in the neighborhood observantly – the things that have been here forever, the things that haven’t – and saying nothing about any of it, which is very him.
“It’s just down here,” you say, turning the corner.
“I know,” he says, because he runs past it every morning, which for some reason makes you smile.
The café appears at the end of the next street, its windows glowing against the grey, and even from here you can smell the rich coffee and the butter, and something sickeningly sweet drifting from the pastry case.
It’s the kind of place that’s been here forever and won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Mismatched chairs, intimate tables, handwritten specials on a chalkboard that hasn’t changed anything but its prices in twenty years. The air steamy from the kitchen, the windows fogged at the edges where the cold outside meets the muggy air within.
You watch John take it in from the doorway – a passing sweep of his eyes across the room, assessing and then releasing, his shoulders dropping by a fraction. He looks like a man who has been in enough new rooms for two lifetimes.
The hostess, Diane, looks up when you push through the door, her face doing its usual fond crease of recognition.
Diane is short and brisk, somewhere north of sixty, with cropped grey hair and the same thick-framed plum colored glasses she’s worn every Saturday since you’ve been coming in. She has a way of looking at you like you’re one of hers – which, by the accumulation of Saturdays, you suppose you might be.
“There you are!” she beams, already reaching for menus. “Your usual table’s free, come on then.”
Her eyes slide to John briefly, just once. A quick cheerful assessment, the kind that misses nothing after years of working a room. Her gaze shifts back to you, and her smile seems a bit wider than usual.
“Two this mornin’,” she chirps to herself, but pointedly enough for you to hear, already weaving through the tables.
She leads you both to your table tucked in the corner beside the window.
John is already shrugging out of his coat, his hand catching the back of your chair and sliding it out in a gesture so natural to him he doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it, and you sit down and try to think about the last time someone had done that for you and come up empty.
He settles across from you and picks up the menu.
Diane returns with two mugs of coffee without having even asked. You wrap both hands around one and look at John across from you, properly, in decent light, outside the damp atmosphere of your building for the first time – and he looks almost the same out here. A little easier, maybe. His shoulders seem looser.
He’s looking at the chalkboard specials with a small frown of concentration.
“Full breakfast,” you tell him. “That’s all you need to know.”
He glances at you. “And if I want somethin’ else?”
“You don’t,” you say, grinning. “Trust me.”
He considers that, looks back at the chalkboard, then sets his menu down.
“Okay,” he agrees, and picks up his coffee instead. “I trust you.”
Diane comes back to take your order, addressing most of her questions to John with the deference of someone who has marked he is in charge, which he handles with a patience that suggests he has noticed and chosen not to correct it, and you hide your smile behind your coffee cup and say nothing.
The morning opens up around you, easy and undemanding. You find yourself telling him about last night in the way you do when you’re still a little lit up about something; Cerie from accounts, David from the planning team, the second bar, the questionable decision to order a round of shots. And he listens with that focused attention of his, asking the occasional question that somehow keeps you rambling longer than you mean to.
“David does this thing,” you start explaining, “where he’ll say something, just, bloody devastating about someone and then immediately follow it up with the most sincere compliment you’ve ever heard in your life. So we don’t ever know how to feel–”
Your phone goes off in your purse, a double ding and a buzz.
You reach into your bag, the reflex of it bypassing your brain entirely, and you’re already reading the email before you’ve consciously decided to, thumb moving across the screen to reply.
“–and I think that’s actually just his personality, like he’s not even doin’ it on purpose, he just– sorry, one second– he just has this way of– this’ll just take a–” your thumbs keep moving, “–yeah, no, I’m listening– he has this way of makin’ you feel like–”
The typing catches up with you somewhere in the middle of that sentence and your eyes flick up from your phone and land on John.
He’s got both hands loosely around his coffee cup, watching you with a patience that somehow, with a single word, communicates everything. Heat crawls up your cheeks and to your ears.
You put the phone face down on the table.
“Sorry,” you murmur, shamefaced.
“Mm,” he hums, which is not quite ‘it’s fine’ and not quite ‘it isn’t’.
You take your cup back into your hand, sufficiently chastened, and there is a beat between you that is just slightly sharp.
“What is it you do?” he asks, in the mild even tone of a man who has just watched you conduct half a conversation with your thumbs moving with another and would like to understand what he witnessed.
“Project management for a property development firm,” you say. “Which means I mostly live in spreadsheets and other people’s arguments about budgets until something actually gets built. And then I can go stand on site and feel like it was worth it.” You pause, coffee cup halfway to your mouth. “It’s exactly as relentless as it sounds.”
“Busy at the moment?” he asks.
“Honestly,” you shake your head. “New contract just landed. Big government client, so there’s a lot of paperwork before we even get on site.”
“Whereabouts?” he asks mildly.
“Can’t really say,” you reply, a little ruefully. “Which honestly feels a bit dramatic for a construction project but apparently that’s just how it is with this kind of client.”
He nods once and takes a sip of coffee, and that’s the end of it.
“You’re good at it,” he says like he already knows.
“I am,” you agree. “Which, most days, feels like enough.”
“Most days,” he echoes, just noting that he heard it. He turns his cup in his hands. “D’you like it?” he asks. “Or are you just good at it?”
The distinction lands somewhere you weren’t expecting it to and you go still, your finger tracing the handle of your mug.
“I don’t know,” you admit. “I think I’ve spent a lot of time being good at things other people needed me to be good at.” You shrug once and bite the inside of your cheek in thought. “I’ve no idea what I’d actually choose, if I was just, like, choosing for myself.” You laugh a little then, small and self-aware, cheeks heating. “That’s probably too honest for a Saturday morning.”
“No,” he shakes his head gently. “I asked.”
The way he says it makes the hair at the back of your neck prickle.
He looks at you, something considered moving through his face.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says plainly, a firm thing, like he’s assessed you down and arrived at a clear conclusion and sees no reason to dress it up to pretend otherwise.
You briefly look down at your hands and feel the words settle somewhere you’d like them to stay for a while.
“Yeah,” you say. “Maybe.”
Diane comes back with your food and the moment dissolves into the ordinary business of breakfast – plates set down, cutlery unwrapped, the rhythm of two people eating together.
The eggs are, as promised, life-changing.
And at some point the conversation drifts to the neighborhood and the way it’s changed over the years, the things that have come and gone.
“There used to be a proper hardware shop on the corner, family owned,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the street outside. “Before they put that… whatever it is now. The place with the green juice.”
“The wellness place,” you say, smirking around a bite of toast. “‘Bloom.’”
“Bloom,” he echoes with a disapproval so honest that your smile widens until teeth show.
“When was the hardware shop there?” you ask, curious.
He thinks. “Closed… must’ve been 2006, 2007 maybe.”
You look at him, nose scrunching, doing some math.
“John,” you prompt.
“Mm.”
“I was, like, nine in 2007.”
His eyes find yours over his mug.
His expression moves through several phases in the span of a few seconds, landing somewhere that is not quite discomfort and not quite amusement and not quite anything he seems to know what to do with.
“I genuinely have no memory of a world with a hardware shop on that corner,” you continue, pleasantly. “That corner has always been ‘green juice’ to me.”
He sets his mug down and shifts in his chair more than once, like he’s trying to both lean closer and move further away.
“Nine?” he grumbles, low and incredulous. Less a question than it is something he’s simply repeating back to himself to see if it changes.
You look back at him over your fork, steady and trying to stop the twitch playing at the corner of your lips. “Nine,” you confirm.
He picks up his mug. Sets it back down. Picks it up again.
“Right,” he murmurs to himself, and takes a long sip that suggests he’s using the coffee as something to do with his face.
You say nothing in return, which is its own kind of answer, and hide your smile behind your hand and let him sit with it.
He has another round of coffee and admits it’s the best he’s had outside of this one place in Lisbon – which opens up a conversation about… places.
Places he can talk about and the ones he can’t, the ones he describes only in terms of the food or the sun or the quality of the light, which you understand is the closest he can get to talking about them. He tells you about a market in Marrakech where he bought a spice he still can’t identify but has been putting in everything since. You argue briefly and enjoyably about whether Florence or Rome is the superior city and reach no conclusion and don’t need to.
The café empties and refills around you while you stay at your table. The fogged window beside you clouds and clears with the cold outside and the heat inside. Diane refills your waters with no fuss.
At some point, with no announcement, the bill simply ceases to exist. You notice this in a vague, delayed sort of way that you notice things when you’re mid-conversation – the black folder gone from the corner of the table, John’s wallet already being tucked into his back pocket like he’s done nothing worth mentioning.
You open your mouth in protest.
He picks up his coffee without looking at you, and something in the nonchalance of it closes your mouth again. You watch him take a sip, with no rush, entirely unbothered, and feel something grow into a ball at the soft center of your throat that you swallow down with the last of your water and say nothing about.
On the way out Diane catches your eye near the door and mouths ‘he’s lovely’ with an enthusiasm that requires your full composure to receive gracefully. You smile and nod and absolutely do not look at John, who is holding the door open.
Outside, you fall into step beside each other naturally.
“Thank you,” you say, after a while, “for coming.”
He looks at you from the corner of his eyes. “I wanted to.”
He faces forward again, hands in his coat pockets, the silence that settles between you is comfortable – easy and undemanding, like a quiet that knows it’s welcome.
––––––
On the landing outside your doors you stop, turning to face him.
He looks back at you, hands still in his pockets, the familiar air of the corridor circling you both.
“Same time next Saturday?” you ask lightly.
“Yeah,” he nods. “Alright.”
You grin to yourself and let yourself into your flat.
John stands in the corridor a moment after your door closes, looking at the space where you were. Then he turns and goes back to his own.
––––––
The week after breakfast is a good one, though, unremarkable.
There is the Monday morning stairwell – you running late as usual, coat half on, and him coming up as you’re going down with his coffee from the corner, and the narrow turn of the stairwell meaning he has to flatten slightly against the wall to let you pass, and you squeeze by him with a breathless ‘thanks’ and he says nothing, just watches you go, and you’re already at the bottom before the smell of his shampoo catches up with you in the stairwell and sits in your chest like his hand pressed against it.
There is the night you fall asleep to the low murmur of his television through the wall, your book open on your chest and the lamp still on in the corner, the familiar sound of him simply existing on the other side of the plaster carrying you under.
There’s Wednesday; you come home wrung out, coat slung over your arm, laptop bag cutting into your shoulder, a tension headache sitting directly behind your left eye. You eat a bowl of cereal standing at your kitchen counter because anything else feels nauseating. You think distantly about knocking on his door and then don’t, because there’ll be time, it’s not like he’s going anywhere.
Except that in that same very night – Thursday morning, really – you surface blearily from sleep to the sound of boots thumping. Heavy and purposeful, a rhythm of them that you know now without knowing you know it. And beneath that, faintly, through the shared wall, the muted sounds of drawers, of movement, of a flat being left in a hurry.
Your eyes fully open to the dark ceiling.
You lie there a beat, gauzy with sleep, the sounds filtering through without quite landing. Just him, up late, the way he sometimes is, you think.
You turn over. Pull the duvet up and go back to sleep.
It’s only when you come home the next evening – phone in your hand, still half-reading an email that should have been sent an hour ago – that you see it: a single envelope resting against his door.
You stop. Look at it like it doesn’t quite make sense, your tired brain turning the thought over. You can feel an ache in your stomach begin to prod at your insides, but… it’s just one envelope. Could be anything. Could be nothing!
You go inside, open your laptop to distract yourself with work, order from the Italian spot across town. Later, you watch an hour of television without absorbing any of it.
Before bed, you open your front door and look down the hall.
The envelope is still there.
The corridor is still in the way it gets still when it’s missing something – the air gone thin, melancholy again. Your stomach drops slow and absolute, answering a question you haven’t finished asking yet. You stand there in your doorway in your socks, one hand on the frame, the building settling and creaking around you in the dark.
Then you cross the hall and pick it up.
The post comes every day, and every day you collect it – sliding it from his doorstep on your way in, adding it to the pile on your table with a horrible familiarity you recognize from before. From those first weeks when he was just a name on an address line.
Except it’s different now.
Now you know the weight of his hands. You know how he takes his tea and how he laughs and what it’s like to have his attention when he’s really listening. The way he calls you ‘duck’ when he’s being gentle with you, and the way the whole building feels different when he’s in it.
The stack grows.
You keep picking it up.
––––––
He comes back seventeen days later.
You’re on your couch with your legs over the armrest, a throw pillow under your neck, and your laptop balanced on your stomach. You’re halfway through correcting a report that should have been finished two days ago with a half eaten bowl of pasta going cold on the cushion beside you when you hear it.
Just a key in a lock. The specific sound of it, the teeth of it turning, coming through the shared wall with the clarity that only old buildings and thin plaster allow.
You go very still.
The laptop screen blurs in front of you, the report suddenly irrelevant, your brain doing a careful pivot toward the wall like a plant turning toward sunlight.
You listen to the footsteps crossing his floor. The low thud of something being set down. The familiar creak of his floorboards in a spot near the kitchen that you’ve learned without realizing.
He’s back.
Then you close the laptop, set it on the coffee table, and turn your cheek into the cushion, look at the pile of envelopes on your entryway table.
––––––
John’s door opens on the second knock.
He’s still in his coat, tired around the eyes, a little rough at the edges, a shadow of seventeen days under his jaw, but solid underneath it all anyway.
His eyes find yours and the blue warms immediately.
“Hey–” he starts but doesn’t quite finish before you’re holding his post out. Both arms extended, all of it stacked between you, and you push it into his chest until he has no choice but to catch it, both arms coming up to gather it against himself, and you watch the burden of it register in his face.
He looks down at the pile. Then at you.
You stand in his doorway, swallowing around the ache that’s risen in your throat, close enough to see the slight furrow forming between his brows as he takes in your face properly. Your eyes are stinging at the corners and you blink against it once, hard, and hope he doesn’t catch it.
“Thank you,” he says carefully, testing the temperature.
You nod once before you turn around and walk back down the hall toward your own door, your arms wrapping around your middle.
His voice is behind you only seconds later.
“Hey,” he calls.
You keep walking. The seventeen days are sitting heavy and tender somewhere behind your sternum and you don’t trust your face to do anything reasonable if you turn around.
“Hey.” Closer now, and when you reach your door and put your hand on the knob he’s right there behind your shoulder. You can feel the shift in the air that happens when he’s near and you stop even though everything inside of you wants to put the door between the two of you.
“Come on, duck,” he says gently. Not pushing or persuading, just patient. Like he always is with you. “Let me come in.”
You stand there a beat longer.
Then you push the door open and go inside without looking back, leaving it open behind you and he follows.
You go back to the sofa and tuck your feet up beneath you. John settles into the armchair across from you, still in his coat, elbows on his knees, hands loose between them. His eyes find yours and stay there, you hold his gaze and feel the full sharp aggravation of his composure being more intact than yours.
“I heard you leave,” you say eventually, because one of you has to. “Wednesday night.”
“Yeah.”
“And then I got home Thursday and the post was there and I just–” you stop. Breathe through your nose. Keep your voice level. “I just thought, right. He’s gone again.”
He exhales through his nose, a muscle shifting in his jaw. “I had to leave on short notice. It was–”
“I know,” you cut him off, your eyes squeezing shut. “I know how it works, John. I knew how it worked before any of this.” You gesture between you, which encompasses rather a lot. “I’m not asking you to have filed the flight plan with me. I understand that’s not…” you pause, “that’s not what this is.”
He’s watching you carefully, his head tilted just slightly, listening.
“But,” you continue, and your voice does something small and involuntary on the word that you wish it wouldn’t have, “you could’ve knocked. Even just to say you were going. Two seconds in the hall. That’s all I’m asking.”
“You’re right,” he says simply.
Which is not what you were braced for, and it takes the momentum clean out of you in a way that is almost annoying because you had more to say and now the air has gone out of it.
He looks down at his hands, turns them over once, like he’s checking something, and then back to yours. “I’m not used to–” a pause, longer this time, his thumb pressing along the ridge of his knuckle in a back and forth. “There’s usually no one to tell,” he admits finally. He scratches at his beard, his eyes flicking around the room before finding yours again. “There hasn’t been. Not for a long time.”
“How long?” you ask, gently.
He exhales. “Five years, give or take.”
You wait.
“Her name was Alyce,” he says. “We were married eight years. She left while I was deployed. Which–” the corner of his mouth moves, something that is not quite a smile but more like amusement, “–in fairness to her, I gave her plenty of reason to.”
“John–”
“No, it’s–” he shakes his head, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before coming back to yours. “It is what it is. The job is the job. It takes what it takes and there’s not much left over at the end. She needed someone who could give her more than I could.” He says it evenly, like he’s made his peace with it. “I don’t blame her for it.”
“But it hurt,” you offer quietly.
He looks at you, something moving across his face that’s weary along the edges. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It hurt.”
The rawness of it sits in the room and you look around your flat and think of his and something clicks into place.
“So you stopped having someone to tell,” you say knowingly, understanding.
“It’s easier,” he admits. Not easier because it’s better, but easier because it’s safer. Because the things that can’t be taken from you are never offered in the first place.
“I’m not asking you for anything you can’t give,” you tell him, meaning every word of it. “I just–” you pause, finding it, “I just want to know when you’re gonna be gone. That’s all. A knock at three in the morning, a note under the door. Even a text.”
He sits back in the chair, hands dragging from his knees up his thighs.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he repeats, nodding.
“Give me your phone,” you say, flopping your palm out toward him.
He goes into his coat and reaches out to put it in your waiting hand. You take it, put your number in, give it back. He looks at the screen, his thumb resting against the edge of it, and then at you.
“I’ll text you,” he says. “Before I go next time.”
“I’d like that.”
He nods once, certain, and pockets the phone.
“I’m… I’m glad you’re back,” you admit a bit shyly.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Me too.”
And the armchair, you both seem to realize at the same moment, is very far away.
He unfolds himself from it slowly and crosses the room, and you tip your chin up as he reaches you, expecting something, you’re not sure what exactly. He dips down and presses his lips to the top of your head, your eyes shut. His hand comes up to rest against the side of your face, and you look up at him as his thumb grazes over your cheekbone.
“Night,” he says.
“Night,” you manage, which comes out considerably softer than you intended.
––––––
His flat is exactly as he left it.
He stands in the middle of it for a moment and the silence there feels different than it did before. Before he knew what your keys sounded like and what your laugh did to the air around him.
He makes tea that he doesn’t drink, even if he had, it wouldn’t have settled him. It’ll be a few days before he can sleep.
He sits on the sofa in the dark with his head hanging back. Thinking about the way you looked at him when he opened his door.
Five years of no one to tell, and then you.
He thinks about Alyce. Not with the old sharp pain – that’s long worn smooth – but with the clarity of knowing he’s made this mistake before and exactly what it looks like from the inside. He’s been through enough deployments to know what they do to the people waiting on the other side, and he has no business asking anyone to do that, least of all someone with her whole life still in front of her and no reason to spend any of it waiting around for him to come back from places he can’t even name. He’s being sensible.
He goes to bed. Lies on his back in the dark and stares at the ceiling.
He’s being sensible about this.
At some point the building settles into the stillness of the late hours, the city outside has found its lowest register, and he’s still awake, still staring at his ceiling fan, and the arithmetic he has been doing all evening has stopped producing the answer he needs it to and is producing the only answer it has been since the night you stood at his door with a bottle of whiskey.
He knows what he wants. He’s known longer than he’s willing to admit to himself.
He sits up on the edge of the bed for a moment, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes before he finally gets up.
He doesn’t think about it after that. Doesn’t give himself the opportunity to talk himself out of it. He pulls on a shirt and crosses his flat in the dark, opens the door, and takes those nine steps down the hallway, in his socks, to knock.
On your side of the wall, you surface from the beginnings of sleep, the knock finding you through the fog of it. You lie there in the dark with your heart already doing something that has nothing to do with being startled.
You know it’s him.
You get up without turning the light on, padding through your flat barefoot in your sleep shirt, your hair doing whatever it’s decided to do, and you don’t hesitate at the door, don’t stop to think about what time it is or what it means that he’s here – you just open it.
He’s standing there in the flickering light of the corridor, worn tee and dark joggers, hair slightly displaced, and your face does the thing it does before your brain has caught up – concern pulling at your brows, sleep lingering in the corners of your voice.
“Are you alright?” you ask, rubbing the cloudiness from your eye.
He looks at you. Then he exhales through his nose.
“I thought about you,” he admits. “When I left that night.” A pause, his jaw clenching. “Thought about you the whole time I was gone, actually.” His eyes hold yours, set and tired and very direct. “Still thinking about you now.”
You blink.
“Couldn’t stop,” he adds, a little quieter, like that’s the part that finally got him to this point.
You look at him standing there having apparently lost an argument with himself sometime in the last hour, and you can feel your heart kicking up.
You step back from the door and he follows, and before you’ve finished taking in the fact of him his hands are on your face, palms warm and sure against your jaw, tilting you up toward him.
He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it for, you don’t know, seventeen days, maybe.
He tastes like toothpaste and smells like cucumber.
It isn’t frantic or rushed. It’s deep and sure and heavy, and his thumbs trace along your cheek, and you feel the intention in every bit of him.
You step backward again, and again he follows without breaking the kiss, kicking your door shut behind him, one hand leaves your face to find your waist and pull you in, and you go, your back bending to his will. You kiss your way out of the living room and down the short hall toward your bedroom with the certainty of two people who have been heading here for a long time and have finally stopped pretending otherwise.
The bedroom is dim, the sheer curtains doing little to keep the night out – moonlight pressing through in a pale wash, pooling across the dark wood floor, catching the edge of your wooden bed frame, the honey-dark shoulders of the vase on the nightstand where a bouquet has gone beautifully drowsy, petals loosening at the edges.
The duvet is a deep forest green, plush and slightly rumpled from where you threw it back, and the whole room has this energy, he’s learned, that could only belong to you.
He walks you back to the bed slowly, both hands at your waist, and when the backs of your knees find the mattress he stops. Pulls back from your mouth just enough to look at you properly, his chest rising and falling with a discipline that tells you his control is already working harder than usual, his hands finding the hem of your shirt, his fingers curling into the cotton.
“Can I?” he asks, low.
“Yes,” you answer immediately and breathless, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
He lifts it up over your head in one slow motion and sets it aside, and then he just… looks at you. Not hungrily, he’s just taking you in.
You stand there with your nipples already tight in the cool air of the room, his eyes dropping to them and lingering, and the flush that goes through you is half embarrassment and half something hotter underneath. The patience of him, the absence of urgency, makes you want to fold in on yourself.
His hands trace your shoulders, thumbs over your collar, down to the curve of your waist, his palms warm and slightly rough against your skin. You stand there, your fingers twirling into the fabric over his ribs, and let him do whatever he likes while you try to remember how breathing works.
He bends his head and his mouth follows where his hands had been – your shoulder first, then the place where your neck meets it, then lower, his tongue dragging hot and wet across one nipple before he draws it into the heat of his mouth. Your neck falls limp, chest pushing into him, and your knees go soft. One of his arms is around your back before you’ve registered that you needed it to be.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers against your skin.
Your fingers find the hem of his tee and he lets you pull it off, his arms lifting to help, and then he’s in front of you in the dark. You’ve had your hands on his chest before but this is different. This is him, bare skin and the solid weight of muscle and a scar just below his ribs on the left side that your fingers find without thinking and trace, following the full length of it. He goes very still while you do, watching your face, something in his expression coming loose in a way it doesn’t often let itself.
Your hands drop to the waist of his joggers.
His jaw shifts. His breathing has deepened, every exhale measured in a way that tells you the measuring is costing him. You ease the waistband of his joggers down past the heavy ridge of him – he is hard, has been, the length of him pushing up against the cotton of his boxers – and he steps out of the joggers and kicks them aside. Then he drops to one knee in front of you, his hands finding the waistband of your underwear and drawing them down, all the way to the floor. Then he straightens, hands skimming back up the outside of your legs as he rises, and when he looks at you something darkened with desire moves through his face that you feel from your jaw to the backs of your knees.
“Come here,” he says, low, and draws you down onto the bed with him.
He settles over you braced on his forearms, the solid bulk of him bracketing you, and kisses you for a long time before he does anything else. Like he has every minute of the night to use and intends to use them, his mouth moving from yours to your jaw to your throat to your collarbone, tracing you like each inch of you is worth whatever time it takes.
Your fingers curl into his hair as he kisses the center of your stomach. His hand moves over you slowly – your waist, your hips, the soft inside of your thigh – and the room is hushed except for the sounds the two of you are making, the soft scrape of your sheets and your breath that’s gotten heavier.
You pulse has long stopped behaving itself.
When he finally looks up at you, blue irises glinting in the moonlight, chin resting lightly against your sternum, eyes finding yours, hair displaced thanks to your hands.
“How d’you like it?” he asks, genuine and entirely unhurried, and your breath catches on its way in.
“I–” you start, and stop, blinking the tips of your ears going warm.
He waits, chin still resting against you, eyes on yours, thumb tracing an idle circle against your hip.
The exposure of being asked and actually having to answer makes you look at the ceiling for a moment before you come back to him.
“From behind,” you admit, like a small and private thing being handed over.
His face softens and opens without judgment – and he moves up over you, one hand coming to rest against the side of your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw up to your ear.
“We can do that,” he whispers. “But not at first, love.” His eyes hold yours, darker than they were a minute ago, his pupils crowding out the blue. “I wanna see you.”
You reach up and pull him back down to your mouth, and he comes willingly, and the talking is over.
His hand slides down over your stomach, fingertips dragging down the seam of you for the first time, and you are already so wet for him that the first slow pass of his fingers through your folds makes the both of you go still for half a second. He exhales something hot and rough against your throat at the wetness of you, his middle finger gathering it and sliding back up to circle your clit, and your hips jerk up off the mattress into it.
“All for me?” he murmurs into the hollow of your throat, low and ruined.
“All for you,” you breathe, because you can’t lie to him about this with his fingers between your legs.
He works you slow, keeping the heel of his hand pressed against you while his middle finger slides in tight circles around your clit, then over it, light and then firm and then light again, reading every catch in your breath, every twitch of your hips. His mouth is still at your throat, his beard scratching at your skin. The sound of you against his fingers, the slick wet drag of it in the hushed room, is loud enough that you would be embarrassed by it if you weren’t already past caring.
“Please,” you breathe.
“Tell me,” he says, mouth still at your neck. Not teasing, really – just wanting to hear it.
“Inside,” you manage. “Please, John.”
He gives you what you asked for; one finger first, slipping into you with how wet you are, pressing deep and curling until your back lifts off the mattress and a sound escapes you that you couldn’t have stopped if you tried. The second presses in beside the first and the stretch of them pulls another soft moan that he catches with his mouth.
He works you open carefully, reading every clench and shift of your hips, until you are completely lost and soaking his hand, your fingers curling into his shoulders, the others into the sheet beside your hip, his name a breathy continuous thing behind your teeth.
By the time he shifts and leans back between your legs to hook his thumbs into his boxers and pushes them down you are already halfway gone. You reach down between your bare bodies, wrapping your hand around him.
The sharp breath he pulls in through his nose makes you feel powerful in a way that travels all the way to your fingertips. He watches your hand for a beat before flicking up to your face, your gaze is nowhere near his.
His cock is thick in your hand, heavier than you were prepared for, and the way he twitches against your palm makes drool pool under your tongue. Dribbles of him have already gathered at the head where you spread it down with the pad of your thumb. Your breath goes short and your eyes flick up to his face before you can stop them.
“John,” you breathe.
“Mm,” he hums.
“That’s–” you pause, eyes dropping briefly and then back up, “–that’s a lot.”
Something moves in his expression that is considerably worse than one. “Yeah,” he says, like you’ve just commented on the weather. His thumb comes up to brush your glowing cheekbone. “Alright?”
You nod and guide him to you, the head of him dragging through the wet of you once, twice, before you settle him against your entrance and look up at him.
“Still okay?” he asks, his voice rougher now, the careful control of him working harder than it has all evening.
“Yes,” you tell him.
He comes forward, resting his mass against you, a forearm braced beside your head, the other at the base of your neck. He eases forward, watching your face the whole time, his thumb on the bone of your jaw like he’s trying to keep you present – and the feeling of him, the stretch of him, the slow and overwhelming fullness of him opening you up inch by inch, pulls a sound from you that starts quiet and builds into something much louder, your fingers digging into his back hard enough to leave marks, your head tips back into the pillow, eyelids fluttering closed.
“Look at me,” he coos, the pad of two fingers pressing down on your chin to tip your face back to his.
You bring your eyes back and he holds them there, easy-like. He breathes in slow through his nose, and you follow his lead naturally. He doesn’t move until he feels you adjust, until the tension in your hands ease around his biceps and your breathing finds something closer to his own rhythm, until the tight resistance of your body softens around him completely and your hips cant forward on their own, asking for the rest of him.
“Good girl,” he breathes against your temple, pressing his lips there as he fits the last inch of himself inside of you.
For a moment, he just stays there. Doesn’t move. Lets you feel every vein of him buried inside of you, the heat of his cock pulsing against your walls. His forehead moves to yours and he exhales something wrecked into the space between your mouths.
“Christ,” he huffs.
Then he moves – deep and measured, his eyes staying on your face, reading every flicker, every catch of breath, every involuntary sound you willingly give him, shifting the angle of his hips, adjusting, until he finds the place that makes your back arch clean off the bed and your nails scrabble at his shoulders and your mouth fall open around a moan that could wake anyone on the floors above and below you.
“There?” he asks, voice rough.
“There,” you confirm breathlessly, your whole body pulling toward it. “Th-there– right there, please–”
“Okay,” he says simply and gives you exactly that, again and again, deep and relentless and fucking precise. Again, until the room has narrowed to a dim square of your bedroom and the weight of him and the low quiet things he says against your skin make everything tighter and headier and more consuming.
The tension builds slow and inevitable from the ground up – and when it crests it takes you completely, your whole body drawing taut and then releasing all at once in a long shuddering wave, your cunt clenching, pulsing around him as you come, and you cling to his shoulders while he holds you through every second of it.
His lips find your ear, his voice barely above a murmur.
“You showin’ off, duck?” he breathes, nearly in awe, a grunt as he drags his cock lazily against the quiver of your walls. “Or does your pussy just do that?”
He sounds, insufferably, like he’s smiling.
“It did that for you,” you manage, breathless and completely shameless about it.
He stills, pressing his mouth to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw, his beard brush at your skin.
“Alright?” he asks gently.
“More than,” you breathe, bringing your knee up against his hip.
You push at his shoulder and he reads it without a word, rolling onto his back and drawing you with him in one fluid motion, his hands settling at your hips as you find your balance astride him, the shift in angle pulling a sharp sound from you both.
You look down at him – hair thoroughly displaced, jaw tight, throat flushed, his hands warm and heavy at your hips, his cock buried so deep in you from this angle that you can feel the shape of him against something you’re not sure has ever been touched before by any man.
You feel the heaviness of his eyes on you as you begin to move, rolling your hips in a slow testing circle that pulls a low sound from somewhere deep in his chest.
His jaw tightens. His hands grip harder. The sound reverberates through your palms where they’re pressed flat against him and you feel it in your sternum.
“Jesus,” he moans. “Wish you could see what I see.”
A flush crawls up your spine to your face and you have to look away from him. “Stop,” you whine.
“No,” he breathes through a smile. “You– you’re fuckin’ gorgeous.”
“John,” you warn, unable to receive a compliment under any circumstance, but especially this one. His hands tighten on your hips and he digs his thumbs into the meat of them.
You look back at him and his eyes seem to be everywhere – your face, your throat, the bounce of your tits as you find your rhythm above him, the place where his cock disappears inside you, wet and shining in the low light. His thumb moves from your hip to your clit, and at the first slow circle of it you gasp, tempo stuttering, hips jerking forward.
His hands slide up your sides, calloused palms dragging warm over your ribs, his thumbs grazing the underside of your breasts before settling at your shoulderblades. He draws you down to him, your chest meeting his, and kisses you once, slow and deep, his cock still buried in you, his hand cradling the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.
Then his mouth moves to your ear.
“Hands and knees.”
The authority of it goes straight through you. He helps you up off him with one hand at your hip as you lift, the slow drag of his cock leaving you pulling a moan from both of you. You’re already turning before your knees have found the mattress, his promise being kept, your body moving for him without thought.
His hand smooths up your back and presses, easing your chest down to the pillow, his palm warm and broad.
His hand drags the length of your spine. His mouth follows it part of the way down, between your shoulders, and you feel him exhale hot and rough against your sensitive flesh at the sight of you laid out for him like this.
Then his cock is dragging through you again, the head of it notching into your dripping well, and even after everything you’ve already taken, the stretch of him from this angle has you gasping into the pillow before he’s even fully seated.
“Mmmmm,” you keen, high pitched, “John.”
“Still with me?” he asks, his lips at the back of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
You take a deep breath and exhale slow.
“Very much with you,” you say into the pillow.
He sits back on his knees and his hands find your hips again, fingers pressing far past gentle in a way you will feel tomorrow and are already glad of.
He makes good on his promise.
He starts slow, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt, every inch of him dragging against your walls, letting you feel the full length of him with each stroke. His grip on your hips holds you exactly where he wants you, not letting you push back to chase it, just feeding you his cock at the pace he chooses. The first few thrusts are deliberate, almost careful, like he’s learning what this view does to him before he lets himself have it.
Then he finds it, hips canting just so, and the head of his cock drags against something that has you sobbing into the pillow, your whole body lighting up from your tailbone outward. You feel his answering exhale against your back and his pace begins to climb. The sound of him fucking into you slick and obscene in the hushed room, the quiet slap of his hips meeting the back of your thighs, the wet drag of him pulling out and pushing back in.
And the room goes away completely.
Not because it isn’t happening – it is very specifically and overwhelmingly and in vivid and consuming detail happening – but because the feeling of him like this, the depth of him, the full length of his cock from this angle, the low unrestrained sounds he’s making behind you, is simply too much to hold alongside conscious thought.
He keeps it precise, hitting that spot inside you on every stroke, and you are vaguely aware that your fingers have found the headboard, that your knuckles have gone white against the wood, that you have been making sounds for minutes now that you have no memory of deciding to make.
One hand is splayed warm at your hip. The other slides up the length of your spine, vertebra by vertebra, and into your hair, not pulling, just resting there, grounded, his fingers curling gently at the nape of your neck. He says your name once, low and wrecked, like it got out before he could think about it. Then you feel his chest pressed to your back.
“You feel...” he starts, low against your shoulder, and stops. Like the rest of it isn’t something he’s ready to hand over yet. But he does, regardless. “Made for me.”
You feel the truth of that in his hands and his mouth and the way he presses his forehead briefly to the back of your neck like he needs a second to collect himself.
His control gives way by inches – shorter strokes, harder, like he can’t bear to leave you for even a moment – and you can feel him losing himself in you, the discipline of him fraying with every thrust, until your thighs are shaking.
Your hands fist into the sheets as his hand slides around your hip and finds your clit, fingers working you in slow tight circles. That in combination with the bullying of his cock grows to be too much, too much, too much, too much…
“That’s it,” he whispers, broken, at the back of your ear. “I got you.”
And you let go.
It takes you completely – longer and deeper than before, cresting in a long consuming wave that pulls every muscle taut before releasing all at once, your whole body shuddering through it, your cunt clenching around him so hard he groans against your shoulder – and you press your face into the pillow and let the sound of it go muffled while he holds you through every second of it.
He follows not long after – his rhythm losing its precision, his breathing ragged against your shoulder, your name one last time in that low completely wrecked voice – and then he stills, his cock pulsing inside of you as he comes, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, both of you breathing like you’ve forgotten how and are relearning it together.
The room comes back slowly.
The distant hum of the city. The press of the pillow against your cheek. The solid weight of him, his heartbeat gradually quieting against your back, his hand moving after a moment to rest loose and warm at your waist like it belongs there.
Neither of you speak for a while.
He moves eventually – pressing his lips to your temple before rolling to his side and drawing you with him so you’re tucked against his chest, his arm settles around you naturally.
His hand moves in a slow idle path along your arm. Up and down, not asking anything.
“Hi,” you say softly, into the quiet.
He reaches up and tucks your hair back from your face.
“Hi,” he says back.
You lie there together in the quiet of it, his arm around you, your hand flat against his chest where you can feel his heartbeat slow beneath your palm, and the whole evening sits around you like something you’re both still figuring out the shape of until you both drift off.
––––––
He’s still there in the morning.
His arm is around you, heavy and warm, and you lie very still for a moment in the early hush of your bedroom and take stock of it – of him, of the dull ache reminding you of last night.
You try to move carefully, extracting yourself without waking him, which turns out to be optimistic as his arm tightens slightly before you’ve gone anywhere, a reflexive, unconscious thing, and you go still and wait and after a moment it loosens again and you ease out from under it and sit on the edge of the bed in the soft morning light.
You look back at him.
He’s on his back now, one arm where you were, his face slack with sleep in a way it never is when he’s awake – the lines of his face softer, younger somehow, the silver at his temples catching the pale light filtering from the curtains. He looks, you think, like a person who doesn’t sleep enough finally sleeping.
You get up, grabbing his tee shirt from the floor to pull over yourself, and head to the kitchen.
The kettle is just coming to a low boil when you hear him in the hall, you turn toward his footfalls and he appears in the kitchen doorway shirtless, last night’s joggers slung low on his hips. He leans against the frame, arms crossing loosely.
“Morning,” you say, reaching for two mugs from the shelf.
“Morning,” he replies, voice rougher than usual from sleep, and you feel it in the backs of your knees which is genuinely inconvenient at this hour. “Was lookin’ for that,” he says, tipping his chin at you.
“For what?”
“My shirt,” he smiles sleepily.
“Oh,” you say, leaning back against the counter.
“Oh,” he mocks.
“It’s very soft,” you explain, glancing down at it.
“Mm,” he hums. “S’why I wear it.”
“Would you like it back?”
He looks at you for a long beat, eyes moving down the length of you in his shirt and back up, and the corner of his mouth pulls.
“No,” he says simply. “Looks better on you.”
The kettle clicks off behind you. You turn to pour, conscious of him still watching. You slide his mug across the counter toward him, and he steps into the kitchen to take it, the warmth of him passing close behind you on his way to lean against the opposite counter.
“Hungry?” you ask, already opening the fridge.
He looks at you with an expression that suggests he’s already aware of your limitations in this area.
“I’ve got eggs,” you say, grabbing the carton. “I cannot promise anything about what state they’ll be in when I’m done with them, but…”
The corners of his eyes crinkle. He sets his mug down and pushes off the counter. “Move over.”
“John, I can make eggs–”
“Move over,” he says again, the same way, and you move over.
He ends up making the eggs, showing off while you sit on your counter and drink your tea, just watching him occupy your kitchen on a Sunday.
He leaves mid morning.
Shirtless and in his socks.
“I’ll see you,” he says, which is not a specific plan and both of you know it, but it’s right for the moment.
“Yeah,” you say. “See you.”
He looks at you for a moment, kisses you once, and steps into the hall.
“Lock it,” he reminds you, pointing.
You lock it.
––––––
The days that follow have a gauzy, suspended feel – humming and languid, like the week is holding its breath around something new.
Tuesday evening you’re halfway through a bowl of pasta on his sofa when he comes back from the kitchen with two mugs of tea and sits beside you, close enough that your knee rests against his without either of you adjusting, and you watch something on his TV that neither of you are really watching and it is, you think, almost unbearably nice.
Wednesday he knocks on your door at half seven with leftover curry he made too much of, and you eat it at your kitchen table and he fixes your kitchen drawer that has been sticking for three months without being asked, just notices it sticking when you open it and gets up and sorts it while you’re still talking, and you watch him do it with a feeling in your chest that you’re running out of room to not examine.
Thursday morning you pass each other on the stairs and he’s got his coffee and you’ve got your bag sliding off your shoulder as usual and he steadies it with one hand without breaking stride and says something low and dry about the weather that makes you laugh all the way to the office and occasionally at random intervals throughout your entire working day.
It feels, in short, like something.
But neither of you call it that.
Friday night he mentions the pub.
You’re at his kitchen table after work, shoes off, a glass of wine in hand, watching him cook, when he brings it up.
Casual, offhand, not quite meeting your eyes as he says it.
“Got plans tomorrow night,” he says. “Havin’ drinks with some of the lads.”
“Oh yeah?” You trace the rim of your wine glass. “Kyle and them?”
He glances at you. “Yeah.”
“Can I come?” you ask, which comes out more naturally than you intended, and you watch him shift on his feet before he turns back to the stove.
“It’s just–” he starts, talking into the pot.
“Just lads having drinks, yeah,” you finish, easy. “That’s fine, I just thought–”
“It’s not that,” he cuts in, setting the spoon down before he turns around, and his expression is careful in the way it gets when he’s choosing his words more carefully than usual. “I just think–” he pauses. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. About what this is.”
The kitchen is quiet.
“What is it?” you try, keeping your voice light.
He looks at you. “I like what we have,” he says. “I just– I’m not in a position to be–” he stops. Tries again. “You’re not my– I can’t give you–”
“A relationship,” you say, for him, because he clearly needs the help.
Something in his jaw shifts. “Yeah.”
You look at him for a moment over your wine glass, he’s trying so very hard to be honest with you at the expense of something sitting visibly behind his eyes.
“John,” you say. “I know. And I’m not askin’ you for anythin’ you haven’t already given me,” you tell him, simply and honestly. “I know what this is.” You offer him a genuine smile. “I’m a big girl.”
He looks partly relieved and partly still wrestling with something more complicated underneath it, neither of which he examines out loud.
“Right,” he says, after a moment.
“Right,” you agree.
He picks the spoon back up. The kitchen settles around you both, easy, like a thing that needed saying has been said and the air is cleaner for it.
You finish your wine and he finishes cooking and you eat at the kitchen table with your feet tucked up under you, the conversation finding its usual easy rhythm, and it is fine. You are fine. You meant what you said and you know what this is and that is enough.
“Finally getting on site Monday,” you say at some point, pushing a piece of bread around your plate. “The MoD job. Been buried in paperwork for weeks, it’ll be good to actually see it.”
He glances at you for a moment. “Nervous?”
“A little,” you admit. “First time managing something like this so...” You pick up your wine. “Should be interesting, to say the least.”
“You’ll be alright,” he says, in the tone of a man who has been paying close enough attention to have formed a very firm opinion about what you’re capable of.
Then he goes back to his dinner like that’s simply the end of the matter.
––––––
Monday morning the cab is idling outside the office at half eight, Cerie already in the back seat with a coffee balanced on her knee and a folder open in her lap, David loading the boot with more equipment than any of them will need. You slide in beside her, your own folders clutched against your chest, the weekend still sitting in the back of your mind.
✣ summary | after six weeks of collecting your ever-elusive neighbor’s post, what starts as a polite hallway exchange turns into something hard to ignore. cue: a shared wall, unlocked doors, a broken sink, and whiskey kisses.
✣ wc | 13.4k
✣ cw | mdni, older!price x fem!reader, age gap (20s/40s), divorcée!price, john is fatherly toward reader, fluff, smut, fingering, alcohol, regrettably i have a sick, unyielding need for john to call me ‘duck’ and it has bled through this fic.
masterlist | part two ⇾
The rain never falls straight this time of year. It slants, needling sideways through the cramped street your apartment stands, puddles collecting in the dips of uneven pavement. It’s the kind of rain that forces its way into coat collars and boots, into the mortar between old brick.
Your building absorbs it, wears it like a second skin – three stories of weathered red brick darkened to a rust, old windows fogged with condensation, black iron railings shining beneath a sheen of wet. The front steps slope down the middle from decades of traffic, water pooling slick there before trickling down to the gutters.
Inside, the air carries a musty dampness with it that’s seems to linger even in the summer, smelling like wet wool and old carpet. The stairwell curves upward in narrow turns, paint layered thick on the banister from too many years and too many hands. Every footfall echoes off the walls, some nights you count the steps on your way up. Nineteen.
By the time you reach the second floor, the cold has settled into your bones.
The landing on your floor sits directly outside your neighbor’s flat, the brass 2A tacked there a stark contrast against the black door. The hallway runs narrow and straight to your own door, the dim fluorescents overhead cast a flickering pale glow that never quite reaches the corners. An earth-toned floral runner threads throughout the entire length of the building, its pattern long faded, fibers worn thin and frayed down the center where tenants have passed in and out for years. The white walls that contain it all are scuffed dirty and nicked, marked up by furniture and careless feet.
Your neighbor’s flat is always giving the impression that it might be back on the market.
Most front doors offer some indication of life – a welcome mat, a potted plant, a pair of muddy trainers set to the side.
Not his door, though. Right now, his door offers post.
It began modestly enough, a single envelope resting against the door. Then more joined it as the days passed – thick envelopes, junk, rolled up circulars and magazines that curl at the edges after a few days of being stepped over. The stack grows and grows, leaning against the wood as though it expects, at any moment, to be scooped up by the man whose name is printed on the address line.
You notice his absence before the absurd amount of post clues you in, though. Once you’ve learned his rhythms, his comings and goings are impossible to miss. When he leaves it’s the hurried weight of heavy boots stomping, doors and drawers slamming shut in the early hours. It’s always followed by a melancholy sort of silence, not the daily hush of an empty home, but a stretched quiet that haunts behind your shared wall for weeks on end.
Then when he returns, you’re greeted with the rush of water through the pipes, the pungent curl of cigar smoke creeping through the vents, and the sounds of his TV carrying through the wall until nearly four in the morning.
He’s never introduced himself, never offered you more than a polite passing nod. You don’t know what he does, not really, and until now, you never really gave him much thought.
And only now because you nearly break your wrist because of him.
Your fingers are aching from grocery bags, your thoughts are already drifting toward dinner, and just as you hit the landing your shoe catches the slick edge of a magazine on the floor. The loss of balance is immediate, and unfortunately, graceless. The hallway tilts, the floor rushes up, and oranges spill across the hall and down the stairs. The carton of eggs bursts open against the carpet with a tragic crack. One of the bags split entirely, spilling its contents in every direction.
For a long moment you just kneel there, the traitorous copy of ‘Guns & Ammo’ that caused your fall lies beside you, addressed to one: Jonathan Price. An incredulous breath of a laugh escapes you before you bat the cover out of sight.
You flex your wrist carefully — achey, but it moves. So, you get yourself to your feet and collect your groceries piece by annoying piece, salvaging what you can, muttering to yourself about why you should stick to takeaway as you coral oranges back into the torn plastic bag.
Before heading inside, you bend to straighten the stack of mail beside his door, patting it neatly into the frame so it no longer sprawls across the carpet.
However, the post continues to arrive.
And Jonathan Price continues not to.
As the days pass, the stack inevitably builds thicker. Something about weeks of untouched post just feels wrong. So, when pass his door on your way back from work, on an unconscious whim, you gather his post up and take it inside with you. And you continue to do so, piling it on the table in your entryway, every single day.
Except Sundays. There’s no post on Sundays.
Six weeks pass in total before, one evening, the pipes in your shared wall suddenly gurgle to life.
You’re standing at your sink, hands submerged in sudsy dishwater when the rush of plumbing vibrates through the plaster with the unmistakable sound of his shower warming up.
You wait until the pipes quiet again before gathering the stack of envelopes and ads. It’s heavier than you expect when you lift it. Thick enough now that it takes both arms to hold it all securely against your chest.
Down the short corridor, you make your way to his door and knock once. The rap lands quieter than you meant it to, swallowed by the heavy wood almost instantly. You hesitate, second-guessing yourself until you lift your hand to try again when there’s a metallic click and the door opens just enough to shroud your neighbor in shadow. For a second, he’s only an imposing shape, but then the light catches him properly as he leans forward a bit.
He fills the frame without even trying. You have to tip your chin just to meet his eyes, this close he’s far broader than any glimpses you’ve caught in passing allowed you to register. He’s thick through the shoulders, forearms corded beneath the long sleeves of a worn grey tee that looks softened from years of washing. It clings where it stretches across his chest, molded to him in dampened patches like he pulled it on too soon after stepping out of the shower.
His jeans are loose everywhere except around his thighs, slung low enough that a strip of black elastic and milky skin catches your attention. Your gaze unintentionally trips over the trail of dark hair that whispers up and beneath his shirt.
You can feel your ears starting to warm before you flick back up to his face, meeting a set of ocean-deep irises ornamented by crinkling lines at the corners, tired purple crescents stamped underneath. His beard is grown out past neat — thick and slightly unruly along his jaw, salt and peppered throughout.
Steam drifts out lazily from behind him, carrying the clean scent of soap into the corridor — it's mild, fresh, a little spice beneath it all.
His eyes settle on you with a subtle recognition, view slightly narrowed before, almost immediately, dropping to the stack of paper you’re gripping.
“Evenin’,” he says almost cautiously, voice roughened, like it hasn’t been used in a while. Or used too much, maybe.
You clear your throat.
“Hi,” you manage, “I’m next door.” You tilt your head toward your flat, never under the assumption that anyone remembers who you are.
His gaze lifts again, meeting yours. There’s a vague hint of amusement glinting in his eyes, it reaches the corner of his mouth, pulling up.
“I know,” he nods gently, almost encouragingly, like he’s urging you to continue with your spiel.
You shift the weight of the envelopes and extend them toward him before you can overthink it.
“Right, erm… your post,” you swallow thickly, then proceed to ramble, “It kept piling up. For, like, a long time. And, anyway, I ended up slipping on a magazine a few weeks ago, and then I thought it might be better if someone kept it from takin’ over the hall until you were back.” You inhale through your nose, catching a breath before continuing despite yourself. “And now you’re back, so…”
His eyes widen before he reaches his arms out to takes the heap from you, the simple transfer of weight draws you a half-step closer to him. His fingers brush yours in the exchange — callouses scratching softly, warm. The contact is brief, but it’s also entirely impossible to unfeel.
“You slipped,” he repeats lowly, not accusatory, more like confirming he heard you properly.
“I’m fine,” you assure him quickly. “I just meant… like, it was a lot of post, is all,” your voice tapers off as your mouth starts to feel dry.
“You’re not hurt?”
You shake your head, “No.”
“You’ve been takin’ it in,” his eyes scan the envelopes before lifting back to you, like he’s quietly calculating something. “All of it?”
“Yeah.” You hesitate, then add quickly, “I knocked once. But no one answered.”
“Yeah, I, uh, had t’work.”
“I didn’t open anything,” you continue, suddenly aware of how that all might’ve sounded. “Obviously.”
He smirks at that, his voice becoming something far smoother than it was when the door first opened. “I didn’t think you had.”
There’s a subtle warmth in his tone now. It does something curious to your pulse. You can feel it tap-tap-tapping just below your jaw.
He balances the pile in one large hand and steps back, widening the door.
Your gaze drifts past him inadvertently and into his flat. It’s uncluttered and tidy – not unlived-in exactly, but lacking the charm that makes a place feel claimed. The furniture is purely functional and dated, the walls bare, the floor impossibly clean, the hardwood shines like it was just buffed.
“M’grateful for that,” he adds after a beat, head bowing enough to move into your line of vision and catch your eye, smirk still prevalent.
“It was startin’ to look abandoned,” you babble before you can stop yourself.
“Abandoned,” he echoes, gaze sharpened.
“I just meant— it didn’t look like anyone was coming back.”
Something in his expression settles, one of his shoulders roll.
“Oh, I always come back, love,” he croons just over a whisper and unhurried, like he knows something you don’t.
Your cheeks warm and your head can’t decide between shaking and nodding, fingers twirling into the soft threads of your jumper.
“No, yeah, of course. I didn’t mean—”
“I’m John, by the way.”
He adjusts his weight again, shifting back under the shadow behind him. This interaction feels like it should be over already, you’re almost wishing it was, but you give him your name in return. He repeats it back slowly, like he’s testing the shape of it on his tongue. There’s something deliberate in the way he says it, like it’s being filed away somewhere permanent.
“Would y’like to come in?” he nods his head. “Least I can do is make you a cup’a tea.”
You hesitate, a pause small enough to miss if he wasn’t watching for it. He notices your hesitation without pushing it. There’s no persuasion from him, no charm turned up for effect. Just patience, like he already figures you will.
Your eyes flick from his, past him, and back again. You step inside before you even understand why, just, caution to the wind. Survival instincts at an all time low. But there’s something about him that draws you there.
His flat smells clean – shower steam still clinging to the air, layered over something warmer. Smoke, maybe. Something musky and grounded that feels likely distinctly his. The door clicks shut behind you.
The place is spare. A brown leather sofa floats in the center of the room, the cushions perfectly aligned as though they’re reset after every use. A low coffee table in front of it holds nothing but a neatly stacked set of coasters and a remote placed dead center.
To the side of the TV, a tall wooden bookcase stands in the corner, books neatly arranged, spines perfectly even, each shelf organized by size. There are no pictures on the walls, no decorative clutter on the tables or mantel. It’s as if you’ve stepped into a hotel, but even they put artwork up.
John moves toward the kitchen with an ease that wasn’t there in the hallway, shoulders a little looser. You follow, watching him push the rescued post neatly into the corner of the counter — probably the messiest part of his flat now.
The kitchen is very similar to yours, appliances a little more dated, but just as compact. A short galley space with a small honey oak table at the end beneath the window.
“I meant to put a hold on it,” he says, glancing down at the envelopes. “But I left on such short notice...”
“You travel a lot?” you ask, leaning against the doorway, hands coming together in front of you, fingernails scratching at your palm anxiously.
He’s already filling the kettle at the sink, water rushing loud for a moment before he shuts it off.
“More than I’d like,” he admits.
“For work?”
“Yeah.”
The burner on the stove blooms blue beneath the kettle with a soft tick-tick.
“You don’t exactly look like someone who works from a laptop.”
That earns you the faintest chuckle before he fully turns around, resting his hip against the pristine white countertop.
“No?”
“No.” You shake your head. “You’re gone for long stretches.”
His eyes travel your form, a single brow perking with an interest.
“You keepin’ tabs on me, then?” he asks curiously.
You shrug at that, allowing a small smile to spread.
“Hard not to when you’re the only other person on this floor.”
He offers a short hum then reaches into the cupboard, his shirt riding up with him, you get a peek of his toned tummy as he pulls two mugs down. The ceramic clinks.
“And what d’you do when you’re not monitorin’ me?” He looks at you again just as the kettle begins a low, building thrum.
Your head tilts involuntarily. “I work normal hours and take it home with me. Watch shit TV and order too much takeaway.”
He tsks before he asks, “Don’t cook?” An edge to his tone that’s not quite judgmental and not quite disappointment, but somewhere in the middle.
“I can,” you defend. “I just don’t always see the point.”
The kettle clicks off and he pours the water slowly over the tea bags, steam rising in soft spirals. “There’s always a point,” he says.
“Do you cook?” you ask after a beat.
“When I’m home.”
“Which isn’t often,” you add.
He sets the kettle aside and finally meets your eyes again. “Not often enough,” he agrees, his features softening.
“And when you are?”
He leans back against the counter again. “When I get home? First few nights are rough. Might get pizza,” he admits casually.
“Jet lag?”
The corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “Somethin’ like that.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“Not well,” he shrugs. “Cup’a strong tea helps.”
“Tea?” you quirk a brow.
“Yeah, it’s almost the only thing that settles me.”
You step further into the kitchen without thinking, drawn in more by his incredibly vague answers. “Settles you from what?”
He bites the corner of his cheek, like he’s assessing how much you’re actually asking for, or maybe how much he’s willing to divulge — which doesn’t seem like much at the moment.
“Lack of noise,” he answers at last, nudging one of his chairs out with his foot, wood stuttering over tile. He gestures to it and you move to sit without question.
He brings your mug, leaning over your shoulder with a large hand placing it right in front of you, you notice a few partially healed scrapes across his knuckles.
“Sorry, don’t have any milk yet. Just got back.”
“S’alright,” you reply quietly, wrapping your fingers around the ceramic. It’s nearly too hot to hold, but you welcome the burn; the tingle that blooms its way into the soft of your palm.
John doesn’t sit. Instead, he stays leant against the counter across from you, mug resting in hand, watching you take your first cautious sip.
There’s something steady in the way he looks at you. You only came over to deliver his post. You’re still not sure how it turned into this.
“You live alone?” he asks suddenly.
You pause mid-sip and peer at him over the rim of your mug, lips pursing. “And what exactly do you plan on doin’ with that information, John?”
His eyes widen just slightly before the tips of his ears grow pink
He exhales through his nose amusedly. “Poor choice’a words,” he concedes, scratching at his beard. “Mind’s still in work-mode.”
“You interrogate people for a living?” you tease, unknowingly.
That has him choking around his tea, forcing down a cough that has him hiding behind the mug as he gathers himself.
An unbridled laugh slips free before you can stop it, and something in his posture relaxes at the sound.
“Sorry, you okay?”
“Mm,” he nods far more than he needs to.
“Well,” you turn back to your tea, “I do live alone. But I know how to use a knife, so don't be weird about it.”
He absorbs that quietly, tongue pressing briefly to his cheek, a thoughtful hum low in his throat.
“Right.”
You narrow your eyes and huff. “That’s all I get? Just ‘right’?”
He sets his mug down, gaze lingering on you longer than necessary. “Place next door’s quiet,” he says slowly. “Jus’ wasn’t sure if you had someone in there I hadn’t clocked.”
“But you’ve clocked my noise levels?” you press, unable to help it.
“Shared wall,” he reminds you.
“And?”
“And,” he says, eyes steady on yours now, “it’s good to know who’s on the other side.”
And after that, the conversation slips into something easier. You learn small, unremarkable things about each other, the kind that don’t really feel important at the time. Like how he prefers mornings to nights. That you can’t even make toast without burning it. That neither of you necessarily trust the boiler in the winter time. It’s nothing intimate, not really. But the way he listens makes it feel like everything you tell him is a secret he’s learning, like each answer matters.
Time warps in his kitchen without either of you noticing. The tea cools in both of your mugs before it’s finished, warmth from the kettle fizzles out, and the distance between question and answer shortens. The conversation stretches easily until you glance toward the door and you’re reminded that this isn’t your flat.
“Well,” you say softly, “I should really let you finish settling in.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just watches you stand and carry your mug to his sink.
“I’ve interrupted long enough,” you add with a polite smile.
“Hardly,” he breathes, pushing off the edge, leaving his own mug on the counter in his wake.
He moves to the door with you, pulling it open and leaning against the frame, hand resting loosely on the knob.
You stop halfway into the corridor and turn back toward him.
“Try to get some sleep,” you tell him gently.
Something shifts behind his eyes, like he wasn’t expecting you to remember anything he’d said to you. But his silence after that makes you feel like you’ve misremembered things.
“You said it’s harder when you first get back, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he admits, before averting his gaze to the floor.
“Well, good night.”
“G’night.”
You don’t look back as you step into your flat, but you don’t hear his door close until yours opens. And even then, it takes a second longer than it should.
—————
John can’t sleep.
He didn’t sleep the night before either, despite how heavy his lids were. He laid there on his back, staring up at the slow rotation of his ceiling fan, listening to the quiet eerily settle around him. He thought of you more than he likely should have — the way your skin seemed to glow under his gaze, how your smile pulled the apple of your cheeks up and round, how soft your fingers felt when they brushed his.
Your perfume, too. Fruity, light. How traces of it lingered in his kitchen for so long after you left he couldn’t tell if he was imagining it, if it was something his brain cooked up to fill the silence in your wake.
John really wants to sleep tonight.
But on the other side of that godforsaken wall comes a sharp clatter followed by muffled swearing. Then something else hits the floor with enough force that he sits up before he’s even aware he’s moving. If he closed his eyes he might even believe he’s back on base at this point – and that certainly does nothing to calm his mind.
Another thud. Louder this time.
It’s enough to make him swing his legs over and push himself out of bed. Hurriedly, he steps into the jeans he left folded neatly on an armchair in his bedroom. Boots on but untied, he heads out and down the hall. The sounds grow louder the closer he gets to your door, and though two decades of training have taught him to assess chaos with haste, he can’t quite decipher what he’s hearing.
He knocks once, and the door creeps open a fraction on its own. He frowns instantly, jaw tightening – you’ve left it, not only unlocked, but completely unlatched.
You appear seconds later, rushing forward to pull it open the rest of the way. Your hair is wet, plastered to your temples, chest rising and falling too fast. There’s panic humming under your skin, but John barely registers your appearance at all. His eyes are still on the door a moment longer before they meet yours, and even then, he’s really just thinking about how it was unlocked.
“You’ve a habit of leavin’ that unsecured?” he asks, voice edged in a tone that’s harsher than he really means.
You blink at him, dazed. “Huh?”
“That latch isn’t decorative, duck.” He nods toward the deadbolt. “I could’ve walked straight in.”
A beat passes where you just stare at him, wheels turning and trying to catch up.
Then, he blinks a few times himself, and he finally sees you. Taking in your appearance, remembering why he’s here in the first place, his spine stiffens.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
“I—uh, the— the sink—” you stammer, eyes squeezing shut briefly before you step back and sweep an arm vaguely toward the disaster behind you.
He shifts his gaze past you and to the kitchen faucet spraying in erratic bursts. Water ricochets off the basin and across the counter, a pot teeters on the sink’s edge, your cabinets are streaked dark where it’s soaked into the wood. The floor has its own shallow tide.
John steps forward without a word, you move aside instinctively. The space narrows as he passes, his arm brushing your chest.
He reaches the counter in, what seems like, two strides, boots squelching across the tile. One large hand clamps around the base of the faucet while the other tests the handle. It jerks violently in response, spraying harder, drenching the front of his white tee shirt.
“Christ,” he mutters.
He bends, reaching beneath the sink cabinet, keeping one hand steady on the fixture to redirect the spray. Water splashes down his forearm, soaks into his denim and leaks into his boots. His cheek presses briefly against the counter edge as he feels blindly for the valve underneath.
Behind him, you start to hover — unsure, a little guilty. He can feel you there. Aware of the way you shift your weight, the tension in your breath. Of the way you’re watching him. Of the fact that your door was unlocked when you were alone. How anyone could have walked in. That thought lodges somewhere unpleasant in his chest.
But there are more immediate and pressing matters at hand, so he files it away for later.
“Did this just start?” he asks, voice echoing faintly in the cupboard.
“Yes. It just— it wouldn’t turn off properly and then it—”
His fingers find the valve and he twists harder, effectively closing off the flow. The spray sputters, the pipes groan and then it all just… stops.
The silence that follows is almost disorienting, going from overstimulation to nothing but a slow drip of water and some breathing.
“Oh my god,” you huff, letting out a shaky exhale. “Thank you— seriously— I… I don't know what I would've done.”
John straightens slowly, bracing his hands against the edge of the sink to center himself. He looks down at his saturated clothes, the faint ripple in the water around his boot as he shifts.
“Drown,” he replies evenly, “by the looks of it.”
You grin, a soft laugh slipping out despite yourself. If you weren’t so exhausted, you probably would’ve snorted. “I was handling it just fine before you showed up, actually.”
His shoulders rise as he slowly inhales. “I’m sure you were,” he answers mildly.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
He glances down at the shallow tide circling his boot, then at the cabinet door hanging slightly crooked from where you must’ve wrenched it open in a panic.
“I’m reservin’ judgement.”
“On account of what?”
He tips his chin toward the floor, shifts his boot as if to prove his point. “On account’ve the evidence.”
You follow his line of vision and heat creeps into your cheeks.
“Okay, so it escalated,” you concede.
A short laugh slips from him before he reins it in.
“So I see,” he replies, this time there’s no hiding the amusement.
You move behind him, water splashing underfoot. “You didn’t have to come over, you know,” you say – saccharine sweetly, John thinks.
“I don’t know. The noise suggested otherwise.”
You cringe. “Was it that loud?”
“I only knocked because it sounded urgent,” tone less teasing now.
“You could’ve ignored it,” you nearly sing-song, the corner of your mouth twitching with the threat of a grin. He could have stayed in his flat, but he didn’t.
He looks half over his shoulder again.
“Is that what you would’ve preferred?”
“No.”
“Right then,” he murmurs, nodding once.
You go to take a step forward at the same time he pushes off the counter, reaching for a towel just as he turns toward you, and there isn’t enough space in the kitchen for both of you to correct in time. Your palms land flat against his chest with a wet slap before you can stop yourself.
His shirt is soaked through, the cotton warm and heavy beneath your hands, bonded to the breadth of him in a way that makes it impossible not to feel the shape of what’s underneath; muscle that doesn’t need to flex to be felt. Your palms flatten, pressing, fingers splaying unabashedly as if to test the reality of him. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing under your touch, the heat of him, his solidness, close enough that if either of you leaned even slightly forward there would be no space left between you at all. The thought is tempting.
And John doesn’t mean to look at you the way he is. It isn’t deliberate. But your black tee is no better off than his, soaked through, cotton clinging to the soft curves of your body, outlining you in a way that requires very little of his imagination. The lights catch the damp fabric and he’s tracing swells and valleys he has no business tracing.
He has to force his eyes upward only for it to snag on a single droplet of water slowly rolling down the column of your neck, it travels over your clavicle and disappears beneath the stretched edge of your collar.
You pull your hands away from his chest once you notice the moment tipping.
“Sorry,” you exhale, and it breaks the spell.
He steps to the side a full step, creating space deliberately, dragging his gaze upward successfully this time.
“You, erm… you keep a mop?” he asks, voice cracking and a little rough, heel of his hand rubbing his bearded jaw. “Towels, maybe?”
You blink at him once, twice, like your brain needs a second to rejoin your body.
“Yeah,” you manage. “I do.”
You step around him this time with more caution than before, suddenly aware of how narrow your kitchen truly is, how little room there is for any more miscalculations.
“In the hall closet,” you mutter, disappearing around the corner, leaving him alone in the quiet of the kitchen.
The room somehow feels smaller than it did before – not because of the water or the mess, but because something in the air has shifted and neither of you have decided what to do with it yet. John exhales slowly, dragging a hand down over his face as if he can physically wipe the moment away.
From the hallway comes the muted thud of a closet door, followed by something scraping against drywall and the soft rustle of movement.
“You alright back there?” he calls, voice steadier now, back in control of itself.
“Fine,” you answer, slightly breathless. “Found it.”
When you reappear, you’re clutching a mop in one hand with an armful of towels gathered haphazardly against your chest. You look determined in an endearing sort of way that makes something in his chest yawn. He clears his throat quickly before the feeling can settle into something more dangerous.
“Alright,” he says, stepping toward you and relieving you of the mop before you can protest. “Let’s get this sorted before your floor decides to buckle.”
You look up at him, face scrunching, reaching back out for the handle. “Oh, you don’t have–”
He pulls it out of your reach and sighs. “Humor me.”
He works methodically, soaking up what he can while you kneel beside him and press towels into the worst of the puddles, the fibers darkening beneath your hands. The air smells faintly metallic now, musty from dirty water.
The only sounds for a while are the soft scrape of the mop, the quiet rustle of fabric, the steady rhythm of shared movement in a space that feels too small.
John wrings the mop out over the sink, forearms flexing as he twists the handle and squeezes out the excess water. You have to remind yourself not to gawk at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back, shoulder blades rolling as he moves.
When most of the water has been cleaned up, he crouches to inspect the pipes beneath the sink again. One knee rests against the tile, sleeves pushed higher now, brow drawn together in concentration as he checks the valve with deft hands.
“Cartridge in the tap’s gone,” he mutters, tightening the valve again. “Handle can’t shut the water properly anymore. Maintenance’ll replace it in five minutes.”
“I wouldn’t even know what to tell them,” you sigh, wiping your temple with the back of your wrist and leaving a faint streak of wet there.
He turns to you, blue eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “Just tell ‘em it won’t shut off fully. They’ll know what that means.”
You nod, committing the issue to memory as if it’s more complicated than it is.
He rises and reaches past you to push the window open a few inches, letting a swirl of cool night air slip into the room. It curls around your ankles and lifts the damp edges of your shirt, carrying the scent of wet pavement and the distant hum of traffic.
“Keep it open till it’s dry in here,” he says, brushing his hands together lightly as if to rid them of the last of the mess.
He heads toward the door, and you follow. On the other side of the threshold, he pauses. He peers over your shoulder – to the sink, the cabinet, the open window, the floor – checking each detail like he’s committing it to some internal list. Only after that does he land on you, but he quickly skips to your door, to the deadbolt you hadn’t turned earlier.
He tips his chin toward it. “Lock it properly behind me.”
You follow his gaze, fingers already reaching for the lock. “I will,” you say, trying and failing to keep the smile from pulling at the edges of your lips. “Thanks again. I don’t even know what to say,” you breathe a nervous laugh.
“Don’t have to say anything,” he shakes his head. “Just… don’t touch it until maintenance comes, yeah?”
“I promise you that I won’t,” you giggle quietly.
“Good,” he takes a small step backward, eyes lingering for a beat.
“Night, John,” you murmur.
“Night.”
You close the door, sliding your latch into place as promised. And on the other side, he waits just long enough to hear it catch.
————————
Two days after the flood, you’re stepping out of your flat, tote bag sliding off your shoulder, phone unlocked in your hand, half-reading an email you should have responded to last night, when your hear the creek of John’s door opening at the same time, stealing your attention.
He’s standing there with his keys still in the lock, coat on but open. There’s a faint flush in his cheeks likely from being outside, a takeaway coffee balanced loosely in his free hand.
There’s a split second where you both recalibrate. He blinks a few times as you walk in his direction, taking his keys out and slipping them into his coat pocket, foot planted to hold his door from shutting.
“You alright?” he asks, tone casual, like nothing unusual has ever happened between you.
“Yeah,” you reply, equally steady. “Are you?”
He nods once. “You get your sink sorted?” he asks as you drift toward the staircase.
“Oh, yeah. Landlord sent someone ‘round yesterday.”
“Any good?”
You huff a faint laugh. “Very enthusiastic about pipes. Less enthusiastic about fixing them.”
He scowls slightly. “They fix it?”
“Yes,” you say. “Apparently I ‘over-rotated the cartridge.’ Which sounds a lot like something you say to avoid admitting it was old.”
“It means you forced it.”
“I did not force it,” your jaw falls open slightly in offence.
“You forced it,” he repeats dryly.
“It was an old tap!” you insist.
He studies you for a second, eyes glinting with an admiration for the way you stand your ground over something so inconsequential.
You reach the the stairwell landing, passing by him closely as you take the first step down, hand on the banister, turning sideways to keep him in your sights.
“You call straight away?” he asks casually enough that it should feel that way, but there’s something in his tone that’s almost challenging. “Or did you try fixin’ it again yourself?”
“I called straight away.”
“Good girl,” he replies absently, the words folded so naturally into the rhythm of the conversation that they almost disappear. Almost.
Your breath hitches quietly, every nerve inside of your body coming alight with a current that zips up your spine, tingling the base of your neck before spreading through your jaw until every bit of flesh above your neck begins to glow. Your belly tightens with a molten fever that begins to reach places far lower than it should.
He’s not even looking at you, he just adjusts the lid on his coffee like he hasn’t altered the chemical composition of the air between you.
“Off to work?” he continues mildly, eyes flicking to yours.
You clear your throat, steadying your voice before you answer.
“Y-yeah.”
“Right,” he says, as if concluding the world’s most ordinary exchange. “Have a good one.”
You nod once, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder, mouth running dry.
“Yeah, you too,” you manage as he pushes his door open and steps inside.
He glances once more from the doorway, offering a tight line of a smile before the door closes and separates you.
——————
The sun’s an orange yolk dropped into the cradle of a purpling sky. You’re halfway home from the office when you notice the liquor store’s neon sign buzzing red against the early dark. You slow on the sidewalk, hands tucked into your coat pockets, breath fogging in front of you.
There’s no obligation, of course. He saved you from your untamed sink because that’s just the kinda guy he is. But the memory of it, of him, has lingered with you for days now, slipping in uninvitedly while on calls with clients, during meetings with your boss, fingers flexing unconsciously against your thighs as you remember the solidness of his chest beneath them that night.
The distraction was at its worst today, with John’s ‘good girl’ chanting like a feverish prayer that only the devil themself could’ve conjured and stitched into the back of your skull – his voice, the bass of it, reverberated between your ears for so long you found yourself wishing the vibration would travel lower.
He looks like a whiskey man, you decide.
Inside the store, the air smells like cut cardboard and oak, a little dusty. You wander longer than you should, reading labels you can’t pronounce, lifting one bottle after another, circling the aisle with the indecision of someone pretending to know what she’s doing. Your shoes stick faintly against the hardwood as you pace.
The clerk notices your hesitation eventually.
“Need a hand?” he asks.
“I’m just looking for something… smooth,” you decide, though it comes out more like a question than an answer.
He nods as if he’s heard that a thousand times before and points you toward three options just in front of you. You choose the one priced in the middle, not too expensive, but enough to be considered a gift, you think. You carry it to the counter with an anxious flutter beneath your ribs.
The building’s stairs feel longer tonight. Each step echoes louder than the last, paper bag crinkling in your grip with every movement. By the time you reach your floor, your pulse has climbed into your throat. You pass his, going to your own door first, stepping inside just long enough to set your purse down on the table and search deep into the pit of your gut to find some bravery.
You could leave it at his door with a note, you consider.
But you won’t, because that’s not really what you want to do, is it?
The hallway between your flats feels like it begins to narrow with you in it, the overhead light flickering ominously as it always does. His door is only a few steps away, and yet the walk toward it feels more like a trek.
John hears your door before he hears the knock.
The old building carries sound in that way old buildings do. Your door opening and closing is a sound he’s come to recognize now. The soft chime of your keys too, because everyone’s keyring sounds different, the jingle is unique, yours are no exception.
So when the knocks come a few seconds later, he already knows it’s you.
He stands at his kitchen counter, rag still in hand, his heartbeat behaving in a way it hasn’t outside of work in a number of years. He doesn’t know how, in less than a week, he’s gone from not knowing your name to timing his morning coffee run with when you leave for work just to get a glimpse of you, to catch the scent of your perfume in the stairwell.
By the time he reaches the door, he’s aware of the way his shoulders square on their own, the way his hand smooths over his beard, the way his fingers rake through his hair before he turns the handle.
And when he finally opens the door, you’re right there. It takes him half a second too long to draw in a full breath.
Your work coat is still on and hanging open at the collar, the fleece folding over just enough to reveal that hollow at the base of your throat that he just can’t keep himself from finding every time you’re in front of him. Your cheeks are glowing from the stairwell, clothes still carrying the cold, hair slightly mussed from the wind, perhaps.
“Hey,” he breathes, voice getting caught in the folds of his chords enough to crack on its way up.
You lift the brown bag in response, that crooked little smile he’s starting to recognize appears like you can’t quite decide whether to commit to it or not.
“A thank you,” you present it to him, the base of it resting in your hand precariously.
His eyes land on the bag and then return to your face.
“Should I be concerned?” he asks with a teasing lilt.
You step closer to the door, holding it out for him to take.
“It’s just whiskey, John,” you giggle and instantly wish you could take back the hyenic sound that leaves you.
He takes it from you and peers into its depths, letting out a low appreciative whistle.
“That’s… very generous.”
“I didn’t know what you liked,” you admit, aware of how exposed this feels, almost embarrassing now with how slick your neck is beginning to feel. “The man at the store said this one was smooth. I figured that was safe.”
He studies you for a moment in a way that warms your skin even more beneath your coat. Like he’s weighing your intention behind the gesture.
“Be a shame,” he starts, moving to the side of the doorway, “to let it sit unopened.”
“You invitin’ me in?” you ask, aiming for lightness and landing somewhere breathless instead.
This was the idea, wasn’t it? That he would invite you in? So why do you want to run back down the hall now?
“I am,” he nods. “If you’d like.”
He opens the door wider, and when you step past him the air changes in that way it always does when you cross into someone else’s space. Not just in temperature, but in atmosphere and energy – the smells change, the lights change, the sounds change.
He puts the whiskey down on his entry table, holding his hand out while he asks for your coat. You shrug out of it so he can hang it on the hook beside the door.
You quickly notice, however, it doesn’t smell like soap tonight.
It smells like food.
Butter and garlic and something a little smoky, like an iron pan that got a little too hot on the burner. There’s rosemary in there somewhere, you think. It makes your stomach rumble a little, suddenly aware that you left work on a granola bar and a few cups of lukewarm coffee.
“Oh…” you murmur before you can stop yourself, gaze drifting into the kitchen. “Were you eating?”
“Was about to. Just finished cookin’.”
You look closer this time, there’s a plate on the counter with a steak resting in its own juices, some mash beside it still holding the groove of the spoon, green beans piled neatly on the side.
It looks good, but you instantly feel guilty.
“I’m sorry,” you apologize, taking a small step backward toward the door. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can come back.”
He exhales a faint huff of amusement from behind as he slips around you, his hand brushing along the small of your back as he passes toward the kitchen. “You didn’t interrupt anything.”
“I did,” you insist, following behind him now like you're being pulled. “You were literally about to eat.”
“And you were ‘literally’ about to go home and order takeaway,” he counters mockingly without even looking.
You stop short in the threshold, a hand finding rest on your hip. “Excuse me?” you scoff.
At the counter, he looks over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “Let’s not pretend.”
He’s still faintly smiling as he reaches for a knife.
“I wasn’t,” you lie, though even to your own ears it sounds a bit defensive. You were definitely planning on ordering palak paneer for the third night in a row.
“S’that why I see Indian outside your door every night? I thought it might be becomin’ part of the decor…”
Your mouth falls open despite the grin yanking at your edges. “First of all, that’s, like, borderline stalking.”
“Shared hallway,” he replies entirely unapologetic.
“Second of all,” you continue, undeterred, “sometimes it’s Italian.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Right. A woman of culture then.”
He slices into the steak with an adept sort of ease, cutting it into even strips before he reaches into the cupboard to bring down a second plate. It takes a moment before what he’s doing dawns on you.
“John,” you step further into the kitchen, hand reaching out before pulling it back. “You don’t have to feed me.”
“I know,” he says, back still turned. “But I reckon you’re hungry…. So, have a seat.”
He transfers a few pieces of steak to the second plate, adds another spoonful of mash without asking whether you want it, then nudges a few green beans alongside it.
“I didn’t come to eat your dinner,” you continue your weak protest.
He doesn’t wait for you to say anything else, he just slides the plate along the laminate countertop towards you and then tips his head to the small table by the window.
“Sit,” he says, not too firmly, just with an expectation that you will.
And you do, which is something you’ll have to dissect later.
You hesitate half a second before taking the plate and floating toward the chair. You lower yourself into it, perched on edge stiffly, feeling a little unsure of yourself despite having sat here before.
You can feel John notice your tentativeness, a quick sideglance from him as he finishes up pricks at the hairs on your arms.
“Sit comfortably,” he corrects pointedly, as though amending the first instruction. His voice is low and even, commanding even when he isn’t trying to be.
Heat creeps up your spine, but you reposition anyway, scooting back until your shoulders touch the wooden stiles, tucking one leg beneath the other. Only then does he set a fork and knife beside your plate, fingers brushing yours in the exchange. He places a glass of water in front of you too, condensation pooling around the base of it almost instantly, leaving a ring that distorts the grains in the honeyed wood.
He grabs his own plate and sits across from you.
The table isn’t very large, you become acutely aware of that very quickly. Beneath it, his knees hover close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from them. If you extended your leg any further, it would press against his without any effort.
“There,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, eyes lifting to yours across the small space. “Eat somethin’ proper for the first time this week, will ya.”
You take a bite mostly to busy your hands. The mash is still warm, butter melted into salty pockets. The steak all but melts between your teeth, tender in a way you’ve never managed to get it yourself, seasoned simply and perfectly and with the confidence of someone who has never once second-guessed himself over a pan.
“This is so good, John,” you say, before you’ve even fully swallowed. “Like — really good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You nod, watching one brow lift. “And not ‘I’m being polite’ good. Actually good.”
“Mm. High praise from such a cultured young duck,” he replies, dry as anything.
“I don’t just hand it out willy-nilly,” you say primly, the tips of your ears tingling.
That draws a soft breath of laughter from him. “No, of course not,” he agrees. “You don’t strike me as the type.”
“And what type is that?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
“Stubborn,” he answers, a little too easily, eyes steady on yours.
You tilt your head. “Think you’ve got me all figured out then?”
“It’s kind of my specialty,” he says. “Believe it or not.”
“Is it?” you press. The fork turns between your fingers in thought, like you might actually learn something deeper about him right now. “And what else have you figured out?”
He considers you for a moment. “That you ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m curious,” you say. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” You lean forward slightly, elbows finding the table. “Asking questions means I’m interested. Asking a lot of questions means I’m very interested.”
Something shifts in his expression at that, a subtle recalibration, like he hadn’t expected you to say it so plainly. His eyes hold yours for a beat before he glances down at his plate, the corner of his mouth doing something restrained and infuriating.
“Careful,” he says, low and easy.
“Maybe I don’t see what there is to be careful about.”
He looks at you again then, and there’s something in his eyes that is slightly too warm to be neutral.
“No,” he says, almost to himself. “I don’t suppose you do.”
You hold his gaze, refusing to be the first one to look away, even as the back of your neck starts to prickle pleasantly. Eventually, he picks up his fork again, and you take it as a small victory.
“So,” you say, after a moment, tilting your head like the thought has only just occurred to you. “How long have you been holding out on me like this?”
He glances up. “Holdin’ out? On you?”
“Yeah.” You gesture lightly at your plate. “I’ve been living next door to this for how long, exactly?”
“Fourteen months,” he answers, immediately and without blinking, like the number was already sitting on the tip of his tongue.
Taken aback, your hand goes slightly clammy around your cutlery. Less than a week ago you were fairly certain he barely registered your existence.
A faint exhale of amusement leaves him at your silence, eyes dropping briefly to his plate. “Didn’t realize I was under an obligation to feed you.”
“I think, legally, you are now,” you counter, recovering.
He studies you over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip of water, eyes narrowing slowly. “Are you always this demanding?”
“When properly motivated.”
He nods once, like he’s filing that away somewhere.
“You like to cook?” you ask then, watching him.
“I do.”
Frustrated, you drop your fork and knife down with a little more force than intended, the sound of it clattering, ringing out in the small kitchen. His head snaps up at you.
“That’s so vague,” you whine almost indignantly. “Why are you always so vague?”
John sits back slowly now, arms crossing over his chest, fingers tucking beneath his beefy biceps, pushing them out to strain against the sleeves of his shirt. His head tilts, forehead creasing with many lines. “I’ve answered every question you’ve asked me,” he says, tongue licking over his canine behind closed lips.
“You’ve responded to every question,” you correct. “It’s not the same thing.”
Something twitches at the corner of his mouth.
“Men and their refusal to elaborate,” you mutter, rolling your eyes before landing back on your dinner.
“I’d argue it’s more like ‘women and their refusal to be satisfied’,” he returns mildly.
“How can I possibly be satisfied, you give me nothing to work with!” You can feel yourself getting animated now, leaning forward again, and beneath the table your knee presses into his without you even noticing.
He notices, though. And he makes no move to change it.
“Every time I ask you something real you just— you do this thing where you answer juuust enough to qualify and then you stop. And I can see you stopping, John, I can physically see it!”
That gets you a real laugh, fuller than you’ve heard from hin before, it’s gravel-deep and a little raspy, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening as his teeth show just long enough to catch. It dissolves the tension so suddenly you almost feel cheated out of it.
“Alright, alright,” he placates, reining himself back in, still smiling faintly. “What d’you want to know?”
You blink at him, recalibrating your attitude. “Oh, now you want to cooperate.”
“Ask your question before I change my mind.”
You study him for a second, aware that this is a small window of opportunity that may not open again given his track record.
“Okay,” you say carefully. “What do you actually do? Not ‘I work,’ not ‘I travel’. What do you do?”
He exhales slowly through his nose, his smile fading into something more straight lined. His thumb traces an idle line across the back of his knuckle, back and forth across those healing scrapes.
“Special forces,” he admits. “That’s— that’s about as much as I can give you.”
The answer gives your pause. You’re not particularly surprised by it, somewhere in your gut you already knew. So you absorb the information quietly. It reframes him in a way, things you’ve already half-noticed about him like his posture and his stillness, the way he speaks, the way he gives these subtle orders that you never know how to read.
“Okay,” you settle on simply, his answer still swimming around in your head like disconnected puzzle pieces slowly attaching to one another.
He looks at you like he expected more. “Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat, shoulders shrugging smally. “Thank you for telling me.”
Something in him settles before he picks up his fork again, and for a moment you eat in a comfortable quiet, only the soft scrape of cutlery filling the room.
“Does that bother you?” he asks eventually, without looking up.
“No,” you answer honestly. “Should it?”
“Some people find it… complicated.”
“I imagine the right people don’t.”
He looks at you then, eyes shifting from his plate cautiously, something unreadable flickering across his face before he glances away again.
Outside the window beside you, the sky has gone fully dark, the glass reflecting an image of the kitchen, the two of you small and warm inside of it.
“How old are you?” he asks suddenly, like he’s been holding the question back for a while. Your eyes snap over to him again.
“Twenty-six,” you tell him. “How old are you?”
A puff of air exhales slowly from between his lips. “Old enough to know better,” he murmurs to himself, which, again, is not an answer.
“Know better than what?”
He doesn’t reply to that either, just looks at you with that steady expression he has, the one that makes the back of your throat go dry and the tops of your thighs squeeze.
And it’s now, in the quiet of his kitchen, under the gaze of blue eyes, that you realize he is perfectly aware of what he’s doing to you. And probably has been for longer than he’d even admit.
“You’re insufferable,” you inform him pleasantly.
“You’re not the first to think so,” he agrees, unbothered.
Afterwards, you insist on helping with the dishes despite his objections.
“You’re stubborn,” he says.
“You like it,” you push.
John sighs like it pains him as he hands you a dish towel.
There’s something about the domesticity of it that feels intimate. Standing hip to hip in the narrow galley, light above the sink draping you both in a golden curtain, him washing and you drying, neither of you talking very much but not minding the quiet either.
He passes you a glass and his shoulder brushes yours as he reaches past you to set a fork in the drying rack, neither of you move away afterward. The inch that used to be between your arms stays closed now, pressed to each other.
“D’you do this often?” he asks.
“Dry dishes in strange men’s kitchens?”
His mouth twitches. “Yes.”
“No,” you hum through a smile. “You’re the first.”
“First strange man or first time drying his dishes?” He reaches past you again.
“First time drying his dishes,” you chuckle. “Jury’s still out on the other one.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh, low, suppressed, eyes crinkling as he keeps his gaze on the sink.
When the last dish is done and the towel is damp in your fingers and the tap has gone off, the kitchen settles into a silence that buzzes with something unspent. John dries his hands and leans back against the counter, looking at you in an unhurried sort of way.
“C’mon,” he says, tilting his head toward the living room.
——————
He moves to the sideboard where the whiskey is waiting and you drift naturally toward his bookcase, drawn there by the same restless energy that’s been humming under your skin all evening. It’s something to do with your racing thoughts while he’s occupied with the bottle.
“Am I allowed to snoop,” you ask, fingers already trailing over the spines of his books, “or are there rules?” squinting at a title, tipping the text out of line to have a brief look at the cover. You look back at him.
“There are always rules,” he replies, glancing up from the glasses in front of him.
“Naturally,” you murmur, and return to it.
It’s mostly as you remember from that first night in his flat — books arranged by size, spines perfectly even — but you look more carefully this time, now that you know more about the hands that arranged them. History, mostly. A few novels with cracked spines that suggest they’ve actually been read rather than kept for show. A dog-eared paperback in a language you don’t recognize, the cover worn soft at the corners.
There’s a small brass compass that sits at the end of one shelf. A scattering of foreign coins too, silver and copper that don’t match anything in your wallet, currencies from places you probably couldn’t even find on a map.
You lift one, turning it over in your palm. It’s smooth from handling, warm from the ambient heat of the room.
“You’ve got coins from everywhere,” you observe.
“Habit,” he says from behind you. You can hear the quiet glug of whiskey meeting glass.
“Of picking them up?”
“Of keeping them.”
You set it back carefully, exactly where it was. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, and then he pauses, thinks about it. “Reminds you where you’ve been,” he says. “When everywhere starts to look the same.”
You turn that over for a moment, looking at the small scattered collection with different eyes now.
“That’s either very philosophical or very sad,” you decide.
“I think it’s a bit of both, no?”
You glance over your shoulder at him. He’s watching you with an almost smile. He holds out a glass toward you and you cross the room to take it, your fingers closing around the cool curve of it, pressing over his fingers in the exchange.
“The books,” you say, nodding back toward the shelf. “Have you read all of them?”
“Most of them.”
“Which ones haven’t you?”
“The ones that were gifts,” he says, after a thoughtful pause.
You don’t push that one. Just let it sit between you as you both settle onto the sofa — you first, then him, and the distance he leaves is careful and deliberate and already smaller than it probably should be, honestly.
“You’re very minimal,” you say, cradling the glass in both hands.
“You’ve mentioned,” he says before taking a tight-lipped sip.
“I’m saying it again.” You tilt your head. “Does it ever feel lonely?”
Something moves across his face — not offense. More like the question landed somewhere real and he wasn’t quite expecting it to. “Sometimes,” he says, which is more than you expected him to give you.
“But you keep it this way anyway.”
“Easier when you’re never sure how long you’ll be back for.”
You look at him for a moment, this big, careful, frustratingly guarded man, and you feel the particular ache of understanding someone just enough to know how much you don’t.
“That’s a very lonely way to live, John,” you say not unkindly, just honestly.
His jaw shifts. “Maybe,” he concedes, and the word is low and a little rough at the edges.
You take your first cautious sip of whiskey. The burn blooms along your tongue and spreads slow and deep into your chest, and your eyes sting just slightly at the corners. A small cough escapes despite your best efforts to hold it back.
He watches you over the edge of his own glass, amusement soft in the lines around his eyes. “It’ll settle,” he assures you gently.
“That’s what everyone says right before it doesn’t,” you answer, though you take another sip anyway, slower this time, letting the heat spread rather than fighting it.
A low chuckle leaves him at that, and something about the sound in the dim room makes the space feel smaller, the careful distance between you on the sofa somehow already less than it was a moment ago. You’re not entirely sure which of you is responsible for that.
Outside the window the city carries on in its distant, indifferent way — the low hum of traffic, the occasional sweep of headlights across the ceiling — and in here the lamp burns warm and the whiskey is settling into your chest exactly like he said it would and the space between your knee and his thigh has quietly, incrementally ceased to exist without either of you making a conscious decision about it.
You look at him to find he’s already looking at you. His eyes are very blue even in the dim light of the room. Ocean deep and sparkling with amber flecks from the lamp, carrying something unguarded for the first time, simmering on the surface.
“You’re staring,” you say softly.
“Am I.”
It isn’t a question though, not the way he says it. His glass rests loose in his hand, and he makes no effort whatsoever to look away.
“You are,” you nod, the edge of your mouth quirking as you look back into your glass.
His thigh is solid and warm against your knee. And you can smell him this close. Dish soap and whiskey, something musky and spicey, something you’ve decided must belong distinctly to him.
Your pulse is conducting itself with an embarrassing lack of composure that you hope, without much conviction, isn’t visible.
He reaches up toward your face and, regrettably, you flinch gently. Certainly not because you want him to stop, you just weren’t expecting it. And John seems to register that, he pauses instantly when you do. His hand flexes slowly in the air beside you, palm opening unhurried and safe, like an apology before he continues his gingerly movement forward and tucks a strand of hair back from your face. His knuckles just barely graze the line of your jaw as his hand drops.
It was such a small thing, barely anything at all, and yet your whole body responds to it like a held breath finally releasing, like something that has been wound tight behind your ribs all evening just gave way.
“Still think I’ve got nothin’ to say for myself?” he murmurs.
All you can manage in a small shake of your head, your fingers twisting into the wrinkled fabric of your skirt.
The corner of his mouth lifts. And then his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there. He doesn’t pretend otherwise, and you feel the intention of it like a change in pressure, like what the air does in those calm minutes before a storm.
John moves slow enough that you see it coming and still aren’t ready. He leans inward just a fraction, almost imperceptible. It’s the kind of movement that could mean nothing, that could be dismissed totally if you were inclined to do so.
But there is nothing incidental about the way he’s looking at you, and nothing accidental about the way the distance between you continues to melt. He stops short, just close enough that all either of you would need is the smallest shift and there would be nothing left between you at all.
There he waits, close enough you can feel his breath, close enough to admire the freckle on his nose. He’s infuriatingly patient and unbearably still, like a man who has made his intentions very clear and is now perfectly content to let you decide what happens next. In the span of a single held breath, you learn he isn’t going to close the gap.
So you do.
Your mouth meets his and he kisses you carefully. Like he’s learning the shape of you. One large hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb resting at the curve of your jaw, and the touch is so steady that something in your chest just — gives. It comes loose like a knot that’s been tied tight all evening finally being pulled free, its tension unraveling all at once, its ribbon fluttering to floor with an exhale that he swallows.
The whiskey is warm on his lips, a faint sweetness beneath the heat of him, and it mingles with the warmth already blossoming in your chest.
You feel him reach, it’s followed by a soft clunk of his glass setting on the table. Then you feel his hand on yours, prying your cemented fingers from your own cup so that he can place it beside his. All the while his lips continue to capture yours, his beard scratching at your chin when he tilts to deepen it.
Your newly freed hand finds the front of his shirt. Fingers curling into the soft of it like you need something solid to hold onto while the world around you tilts ever so slightly off its axis.
He pulls back, and for one terrifying second you think it’s over, your eyes open, but he’s only paused, his thumb tracing a slow arc along your jaw. His eyes open to find yours and they are blown dark, grey and navy, pupils fighting for space with his irises.
“Alright?” he murmurs lowly, the word barely more than a vibration between you.
“Yes,” you breathe embarrassingly quick, which makes the corner of his mouth curve, and then he comes back to you and this time he’s a little less careful.
His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers curling at the nape of your heated neck, the kiss deepens by degrees, his tongue pushing through to sweep along yours like a tide coming in high.
Your fingers tighten more in his shirt, closing into a fist that twists the cotton tight across him. You can feel the heat of him through it, and it’s so much better than the memory from that night in your kitchen, so much realer, and something akin to lava in your belly responds to the realness of it in a way you feel all the way down to your thighs.
When his other hand finds your neck, the pad of his thumb traces the line of your jaw until he finds your pulse just below it, pressing into it until a soft squeak escapes your throat and he’s grinning against you.
You push into him without thinking about it, closing whatever distance is left between your bodies, your free hand finding his jaw, scratching through the short coarse hair of his beard. He makes a low sound against your mouth that you feel at the back of your teeth, in the base of your throat, in places further south than either of those.
The hand at your neck slides slowly, tracing down over your collarbone, your shoulder, coming to rest at your waist, fingers pressing in through the fabric of your blouse with a firmness that makes your thighs press together. He pulls at you just enough to
communicate something without saying it, and you follow.
Swinging one leg over him, your pencil skirt rides up over your thighs as you stretch across his wide lap, it bunches just under your hips, leaving a salacious bit of fabric between his zipper and the thin lace covering your center.
You pull back just far enough to look at him, to catch your breath, lips swollen, chin chapped. His hair is slightly displaced, your doing. His mouth is bitten-red, also your doing.
His hands are warm and heavy on your hips, fingers pressing into the fat of them.
“Hi,” you say softly, which is an absurd thing to say and you know it the moment it leaves your mouth.
Something like amusement crosses his features and he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair back from your face for the second time tonight.
“Hi,” he says back, voice rough with restraint.
But not too much because then his hands are sliding from your hips to the backs of your thighs, calloused palms grazing across your skin.
“Okay?” he asks, thumb tracing that slow arc against the inside of your knee.
“Very,” you manage.
The corner of his mouth pulls up and his hands begin, with absolutely no hurry whatsoever, to move.
He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, no longer learning. His hands move from your thighs to your waist, sliding under your blouse, palms meeting hot skin.
You press into him greedily, hips shifting forward, chasing something instinctive, a feeling so insistent it makes you rock again, and then again, and you feel him — solid and unmistakable — beneath you, the heat of him coming through the denim. The breath that attempts to leave you hitches in your chest and sticks there.
His hands tighten at your waist and you roll into it again, his jaw tightens and he exhales a groan into your mouth.
The kissing gets away from both of you quicker than you can even keep up with it. His hand climbs your back, fingers spreading wide between your shoulder blades, pressing, pulling you closer until your chest is firmly to his and your back is arched like a bow.
Your fingers fist his hair and then his beard and the warm column of his neck, touching everything you can reach.
You pull back from his mouth, breathing unsteadily, your forehead tipping toward his.
“John,” you breathe, and it comes out lower than you intend.
“Mm,” he answers, his lips finding the hinge of your jaw, the soft patch just beneath your ear, and your eyes close.
“I want—” you start.
“I know what you want,” he whispers against your neck, and you can feel the curve of his mouth against your flesh as he says it.
Your fingers tighten in his hair. Your hips shift again, more pointed this time, and his breath comes out slow and controlled through his nose in a way that tells you it’s costing him his currency of composure.
“John.” More insistent now, your hand fitting between your bodies, fingers crawling to his belt, making yourself clear.
He pulls back to look at you, eyes steady, his hand catching your wrist gently before you get any further.
“Easy,” he says, low. His thumb strokes across your pulse point once before he pulls your hand aside.
“I want—”
“I know what you want,” he says again. “But, not tonight,” he finishes, tone on the edge of pleading.
You make a sound of frustration that dissolves as his hands slip to the backs of your thighs and up, kneading the flesh of your exposed backside.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he starts, very quietly, like he’s telling you a secret, his eyes holding yours with a steadiness that makes your stomach drop toward the floor. “You’re gonna stay right where you are.” His fingers trace the hemline of your underwear, just enough to make you very aware of where they are and where they are not. “And I’m gonna take care of you.” He takes a pause, eyes searching around your face. “Properly.”
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth and you nod.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes softly. “Lean back, duck.”
He helps shift you back to give himself enough space to get a look at you, to soon fit his hand between your already spread thighs.
He doesn’t look anywhere else, only your face, as he gingerly slides his big hands the length of your thighs, his thumbs pressing into the meat inside on their way up until they hit the hot crease that meets your core.
You look down at his hands, your own finding purchase on his wrists — he doesn’t seem to mind. He moves one to your hip, the other descends, the heel of his palm pressing against your lace. He takes his time, moving in excruciating circles, like he’s learning the shape of you through fabric first. You try very hard not to come apart immediately but it's a losing battle from the start given how long it’s been since anyone has touched you like this.
Your head falls back with a soft, helpless sound and your hips push into the pressure, chasing it, making your own friction.
“There she is,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in it.
“John,” you whimper, hips rocking, asking for more without words.
He answers by hooking a finger into the hem of your underwear and pulling them aside. He traces through your folds at a pace that makes your thighs tremble. You can hear your slick separating around his digits, you try not to think about how embarrassing it is to be this wet.
“Look at me.”
And it’s hard. It’s hard to lift your head back up, to meet his wrecked gaze, but you do. You can feel the blood rushing around your cheeks, the whiskey bubbling under your skin.
When he finally — finally — plunges one thick finger into the well of you, your whole body folds, your forehead dropping to his. Your hands move to his shoulders, finger nails digging half-moons through his shirt and into his skin.
“Good?” he asks, low.
“Yes,” you manage, “yes, please—”
He works you open slowly, one finger and then, after he’s made you wait, two. And the stretch of it, the fullness of it slipping in beside his index, pulls a moan from you that bounces off every surface in the room.
He finds a rhythm that unravels you. He pushes deep, until each knuckle is nestled into your heat. He moves them, curls them, pumps them achingly slow until you are completely and utterly lost, rocking into his hand, face buried in his neck, panting.
The tension builds inside of you like a spring, coiling tight and hot. Your breathing goes ragged and your grip tightens.
And then, when you’re already spinning, when there’s nothing left in you capable of forming a coherent thought about anything, he turns his head, his lips at your temple.
“This is why you came ’round, yeah?” The words drop like molten silver into the shell of your ear. “This is what you wanted?”
You can’t answer him, and he knows that, so you just press closer, and let the last of it break over you in a long, consuming wave that starts somewhere deep and radiates outward until you feel it in your fingertips, your jaw, the backs of your knees, and up the length of your spine. Your walls pulse around him, and you can feel how damp it’s all left you in his hand.
You stay where you are, forehead against his shoulder, your breathing coming back to you. His free hand moves in a slow idle path up and down your back.
You lift your head eventually and look at him.
There’s a warmth in his expression that’s more unguarded than anything you’ve seen from him all night, his careful composure worn down, and it does something to your chest that has nothing to do with what just happened and everything to do with who he is.
“That was—” you start.
“Yeah,” he agrees, before you’ve finished.
You laugh softly at that, and he almost does too, that almost-smile making an appearance.
Outside a car passes, headlights sweeping briefly across the ceiling before disappearing.
“I should go,” you say, which is true, but it’s also a little bit of a shame.
He doesn’t argue with you. He nods once, and the arm around your back loosens.
You clamber off of his lap with less grace than you’d like, your skirt fighting with you before it sits correctly again. You feel him watching you fix yourself with a composure that you find deeply unfair given that he’s largely responsible for the state you’re in.
“Not a word,” you warn, without looking at him
“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he croons in a tone that suggests he absolutely was. He reaches for his long forgotten whiskey and takes the last of it down in one gulp.
You smooth yourself out, retrieve your shoes from where they’ve ended up beside the coffee table, and carry them with you to the door. He stands, straightening his shirt, and you notice with some indignation that he looks entirely unruffled. Like the last hour happened to you very specifically and left him more or less untouched.
“Ready?” he asks.
You huff a small laugh, and find you’re unable to look him in the eye, your face turning to your bare feet on his rug.
“You don’t have to walk me,” you say. “It’s literally a hallway.”
“But I’m going to,” he says, and moves to the door anyway.
The corridor is dim, the floral runner threadbare underfoot. You count the paces between your doors. It’s nine.
At your door you turn back to face him.
He’s standing just behind you, hands tucked into his front pockets.
“Thanks for dinner,” you say.
“Thanks for the whiskey,” he returns.
“Yeah, that— It was good.”
“It was,” he agrees, and you both know neither of you are talking solely about the whiskey.
“Night, John,” you say softly.
“Night, duck.”
You turn and let yourself in, the door swings shut behind you, and you stand in the dim of your own flat for a moment just… breathing. Just letting this electric air calm around you.
Your coat is still on his hook. You’ll get it tomorrow.
On the other side of your door, John doesn’t move immediately. He stands where he is and waits. Waiting for the click of your deadbolt to slide home.
But it doesn’t come.
He even waits another moment, just in case, gives you the benefit of the doubt, which he notes is more than past events warrant.
He exhales slowly through his nose, tips his head back briefly toward the ceiling, and turns back around.
Three steps, his hand finds your door handle, turns it, and the door swings open without resistance, which is exactly what he was afraid of.
You’re in the entryway still, back against the wall in thought. You turn your head to the side when the door opens, eyes going wide, lips parting with confusion.
He leans against the door frame, arms crossing slowly over his chest, looking at you with the hard expression of a man who is being very patient. His chin is tucked and his forehead creased three times over.
“I—”
“Second time,” he says over you. “Second time I’ve found that door unlocked.”
“I was literally ten seconds behind you—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Nothing was going to—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says again, the same way.
You look at him for a moment, shoes still in your hand, and he looks back, and you let out a breath through your nose that is not quite a sigh and not quite a laugh and is mostly a concession.
“Fine,” you say.
“Lock it,” he says. “Tonight and every night. Are we clear?”
“We’re clear,” you mutter.
He holds your gaze a beat longer like he’s making sure the message has actually taken root this time, and then he nods once and pushes off the door frame.
“Good night,” he says, pulling your door closed from the outside.
You stand there in your entryway listening. You can hear him waiting, the impatient shift of his weight against old floorboards.
You reach out and turn the deadbolt.
Then all that’s left to hear are his retreating footfalls heading back down the hall to his own door.
You stand there, fingers still on the lock, a smile pulling at the corners of your mouth.
the time the bright prince feels terribly and woefully neglected by his wife… and you become convinced he’s having an affair
genre/warnings:
mildly suggestive, crack, misunderstandings, insecurities, comfort, fluff, mentions of blood, lannister!reader, they have a newborn!
notes:
another part of the dragon and the lioness but can be read as a standalone. based on this ask heheh <3
Maegor Targaryen.
Aerion had told you that was the only name worthy of his son.
Thankfully, he was nothing like the fearsome legacy attached to that name. With his round, full cheeks, soft silver curls, and wide violet eyes brimming with pure curiosity, the babe looked every bit the picture of innocence. Wherever he went, hearts seemed to melt at the sight of him.
Yet for all his sweetness, Maegor possessed one trait that vexed his father to a degree—
He demanded every ounce of his mother’s attention all day and night. Your attention.
“He’s three moons old,” you reminded him one evening with a frown as Aerion watched Maegor sleeping peacefully against your chest, after telling you how his son had to start learning to let go of you. “He needs his mother and I would have him.”
“Three moons old,” Aerion muttered darkly, “and already a usurper.”
Maegor chose that exact moment to sigh contentedly in his sleep and burrow deeper against you, as if mocking him altogether.
The Bright Prince had begun keeping count of your neglection of him. You would visit the nursery first thing in the morning, and should the babe merely blink his large violet eyes and make a particularly pitiful sound, he would refuse the wet nurses and only cease his whimpering when you held him.
And thus, if he cried, you were there.
If he fussed, you were also there.
Spoiled little thing, his son was. What was the purpose of wet nurses if the boy spent half his waking hours attached to you? He really ought to fire them one of these days.
“They said sons take after their fathers, do they not?”
Daeron let out a snicker after draining another goblet of wine, seemingly enjoying his brother’s predicament. “Your son simply makes it obvious to the rest of us how ravenous you are with your lady wife, brother.”
Aerion shot him glare, internally questioning himself why he had agreed to sit down for drinks with his wastrel of a brother.
“I have spent the past three moons exercising a degree of restraint bordering on sainthood, you mongrel.”
That was actually not an exaggeration. Since Maegor’s arrival, the intimacy he once enjoyed with you had become frustratingly few and far between, and he had to think at least thrice these days to take you to bed!
To his credit, he had adhered to the advice of maesters so far— that was to give you more time following the difficult birth.
Daeron stared at him, then barked out a laugh loud enough to startle the maids.
“Gods above, you are serious!”
Aerion threw him a dark glare, as his brother leaned back in his chair, grinning like a fox.
“Well, since you have nothing better to do, then come with me tonight.”
“For what?”
“For a good time, obviously. There is a feast in the city. Music, drink, performers, gambling, a lot of pretty wenches too—”
“Bwah!”
It astounded even you that your babe could be this adorable.
At times, it felt as though you were cradling a happier, guileless miniature of your husband in your arms. There really was no doubt that this child was his.
“He looks so much like his sire, does he not?” You poked Maegor’s plump cheek, and he immediately rewarded you with a toothless grin.
Your lady’s maid sighed with a smile, nearly melted on the spot. “The image of him, my lady. Those eyes and hair especially.”
You laughed softly and pressed a kiss to Maegor’s forehead, placing him back in his cradle.
Motherhood suited you far more than you had imagined. The long nights, the exhaustion... none of it seemed to matter whenever your little boy wrapped his tiny fingers around you or smiled at the sound of your voice. You loved every moment of it.
Yet if you were being truthful with yourself, you missed Aerion too. Before Maegor’s birth, your prince had scarcely gone a day without finding an excuse to pull you into his arms, but now your days and nights revolved around your son, and the moments you spent alone together had become increasingly rare.
And lately, something felt... different. Aerion had begun returning later than usual, and he smelled of wine. The first time, you dismissed it, but by the fourth, a knot had begun forming in your stomach. Since when had he taken to drinking?
Then one afternoon, while walking through the castle with Maegor in your arms, you happened upon two servants speaking in hushed voices—
“The princes have gone again!”
“Again?”
“Aye. To the town.”
“The new establishment?”
“The very same. They say the owner imported women from across the Narrow Sea and Essos. They cost a fortune...”
It didn’t take you long to figure out that they were talking about a pleasure house. Your stomach twisted. The princes?
They must mean Daeron, surely? But who was the other prince? Because, there was no way that Aerion was seeking comfort from common whores now—
Then again, the word of his brashness towards the princess consort, Valarr’s wife, was apparently quite well-known in King’s Landing. A princess from Pentos, she was an exotic beauty, meanwhile you...
People rarely described you as beautiful. Sweet and pleasant to look upon, they would say, but definitely not the kind that would ensnare princes at the first sight like she did. Moreover, after bearing a child, your body was no longer quite the same as it once had been.
The thought lodged itself in your mind, and despite every effort to dismiss it, a terrible possibility began gnawing at you. What if he has indeed sought comfort elsewhere?
You hated yourself for even thinking it. But when one night, several days later, you spotted him near the servants’ quarters with a woman adorned with golden ornaments unlike anything worn in Westeros—
Your breath caught when Aerion had both of her wrists pinned together in one hand and cornered her.
A great many things seemed determined to test Aerion’s patience these days.
The councils. His father’s demands. Daeron’s antics. By the time evening fell, a dull ache had settled behind the back of his head, and all he wanted was peace, a cup of wine, and his wife.
Especially his wife. The thought to have you wrap him in your arms was enough to ease some of the tension from his shoulders as he strode through the corridors toward your chambers.
However, when he entered it, the warmth he expected was entirely absent. The chamber was darker than usual, half of the candles unlit. You sat perfectly still before the vanity desk, didn’t even turn or rise to greet him.
“Wife?” he asked, stepping forward with a frown. Usually, you favored dark room when you were unwell. “Are you ill—”
“Who is she?”
Your voice was eerily quiet, yet cut through the air so sharply. It was so abrupt that for a moment he simply stared at you, and only after a solid minute did you turn to him, your expression cold enough to frost glass.
“If you tell me now, I may still find it in myself to be merciful and merely send her away. Is it Pentos? Myr? Or perhaps Lys?” The corner of your mouth curved into a sneer. “Lys is famous for its prostitutes, after all.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened. “What do you imply me doing, wife?”
A surge of anger rushed through his veins, severely taking offense. How could you think that lowly of him?
But whatever retort had been forming on his tongue died immediately, because to his astonishment, there were tears in your eyes.
“I gave you a son. I nearly died bringing him into this world.” Your voice trembled slightly as you rose from your seat. “I know we are not always of the same mind, but how could you humiliate me by bringing a common whore here? Do you intend to flaunt her to me?”
You looked devastated, and more than anything, he hated that look in your face. Who had planted this absurdity in your head?
“You are talking nonsense—”
“Nonsense?” Your voice rose sharply. “I saw you with her!”
This had to end. Suddenly Aerion crossed the distance between you in three strides, and you flinched as his hand caught your shoulder, attempting to pull away, but he would not allow it and forced you to face him.
“Look.”
He lifted his other hand before you. At first you did not understand, then your gaze fell upon the gold band encircling his finger. His wedding band.
Aerion stared at you hard, his violet eyes blazing.
“I have worn this since you put it on me on the day of our wedding, and never removed it since.”
On the day of your wedding, the two of you had scarcely been able to tolerate one another. You blinked as another tear fell, trying to hold yourself together.
“You think I would dishonor you? Shame the mother of my son?” he growled through clenched teeth. “I still could see the blood you shed in childbed even in my nightmares. Does that mean nothing to you?”
Three days after Maegor’s birth, your fever worsened and you fell unconscious. You remembered feeling cold, and the bleeding had the sheets beneath you soaked with red. When you awoke, the maesters were surrounding your bed, and your maids were crying.
But standing tall amidst them was Aerion, who never left your side for the remainder of the night. Later, you were told he had threatened every maester in the Red Keep with death should they fail to save you.
The fury in his violet eyes burned brighter. “Now do tell and enlighten me. What part of that ordeal would make me look at another wench and decide she is worth more than you?”
You were still not fully convinced. “But you... the servants saw you going to the whorehouse—”
Aerion let out a harsh exhale.
“I was retrieving Daeron,” he grounded out, each word bitter. “Father’s orders. The wench you saw me with is his whore. A fortune-seeking dullard, I just banished her from Summerhall.”
“You have been drinking lately too—”
“So now I’m forbidden from having a drink?” A muscle twitched beneath his right eye. “I face constant shit and my foolish brother every day. I can’t even bed my wife when she’s next to me and our son hogs her time all day and everyday, meanwhile she is thinking I’m hiding some whore in another chamber— and now I cannot drink? Tell me, do you actually want me to keep my sanity, or do you want to see me lose it and hang the first man I see?”
Somehow, the way he phrased it made you feel sorry for him. You pursed your lips, looking away. “Sure, have your drink, then...”
“Oh, I fucking will, woman, but first thing first—”
Before you could even gasp, he dived in, crushing his lips against yours.
The anger that had choked the room only moments ago dissolved into an instant, consuming heat. It was a punishing kiss at first, choking the breath out of you, but it quickly melted sensually as his hands roamed the curve of your body.
It sure had been a while since he had his hands on you. A moan escaped your lips when he fondled your breasts and pressed you against his torso, creating a delicious friction.
When he finally pulled away, it was with a heavy, ragged breath. His gaze burning down into your eyes as his thumb gently traced your lower lip, which was now swollen from his kisses.
“If it were up to me,” Aerion murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper, “I would fuck you senseless—”
His expression softened, a rare, vulnerable shadow crossing his features along with the rise and fall of his chest. “It’s taking everything in me not to. The fever after your last labor nearly took you from me, and I won’t gamble with your life.”
“I can take moon tea—”
“That blasted tea will make you sick. You are not taking that until it’s absolutely necessary.”
You blinked up at him, your expression softening into a sweet gaze that completely disarmed him. The sheer innocence in your eyes was his undoing.
With a low groan, Aerion leaned down and pulled you in for another deep, lingering kiss, sealing his lust against your lips, before trailing his mouth downward, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder to suck your skin hungrily.
“Who could have known…” His voice was a low, teasing rasp, the words vibrating directly against the skin of your neck, “that my wife is such a fiercely jealous woman that she actually made herself cry?”
He was relishing in this, you realized. When he broke away this time, a victorious smirk touched his lips. “Are you content now, my jealous wife?”
You shot him a look, feeling a heat rush to your face. You tried to muster a glare, but the blush staining your cheeks betrayed you entirely.
“Incorrigible man...” you muttered, turning your face away to hide your embarrassment.
Aerion only laughed, the sound rich and genuinely amused—a rare sound for him these days. “Perhaps,” he conceded, his thumb gently tugging your chin back so you were forced to look at him. “Now what else should I prove to you so you will be satisfied?”
“I want Maegor now.”
Your husband arched an eyebrow, exasperated.
“This is absolute treachery,” he muttered, though there was no real heat in his words. “I finally get you to myself, and you immediately call for that little tyrant?”
. . .
A few moments later, the maids entered the chamber, gently putting baby Maegor into your waiting arms. The moment the infant settled against your chest, he let out a happy, bubbling giggle, his tiny hands reaching up towards your face.
Aerion stood unhappily over the two of you, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the display.
“He is fat.”
You scowled at him, tightening your hold over your son protectively. “I love him fat.”
That little boy could be the fattest babe in the Seven Kingdoms and he would still be the apple of your eye. Yet, as your husband looked down at his son, a sudden realization washed over him—
He had always thought the boy took entirely after him, but looking closely at Maegor’s beaming smile, Aerion saw you. The babe had his violet eyes and his silver hair, but the contour of his face, the gentle curve of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes—it was all yours.
Now he sort of understood why he also found him adorable.
“Let me hold him,” he said, already pulling the babe from your grasp.
He brought Maegor against his own broad chest. It was a surreal sight, seeing your brooding prince cradling a fragile, soft infant with the utmost care.
Your heart warmed at the sight though, a profound sense of peace settling over you as you looked at the two absolute loves of your life.
Epilogue
The tender silence lasted for only a minute. Maegor, apparently deciding he had tolerated his father’s hold, suddenly squirmed. With a whimper of protest, the babe pushed his small hands against his father’s chest, fighting the embrace.
Before Aerion could adjust his grip, Maegor’s chubby little hand shot upward, unceremoniously slapping right at his father’s face, as well as scratching his jawline.
Aerion blinked, his head tilting back in sheer disbelief at the audacity of his own flesh and blood. He looked completely stunned, before a look of deep betrayal crossed his features as he glared at his son and you utterly failed to contain yourself and burst into a fit of giggles.
(rookieroommate! x ltghost + tf141, medical procedures (stitches), mentions of torture, angst)
You don't know what you did to deserve any of this but you were about to start praying for forgiveness.
As Easter passed, you grew closer to your pre-scheduled deployment that lasted a month or so. No biggie, nor anything you hadn't done before. However, this time you were going to be paired with a parent team– or well just a team you were supposed to listen to. Again, not a big deal, and definitely not something crazy either.
The first issue arose when it came to training. See, one of the soldiers from said team happened to be the kin of a general, and not one whose name was used lightly. You never planned to act out though, so there wouldn't be a problem in theory. That is, if the son wasn't an absolute prick, and you didn't have the awful luck of being picked to be his mentee.
It started off not that bad, just insults everytime you slipped up, which admittedly wasn't even that often, but it only motivated you to try harder anyway. That’s what the parent team should’ve been aiming to do anyway— encourage you all with your training. However, it soon quickly shifted; his hits became sharper, almost unfair.
The first time you toppled to the ground, blood spilling across the mat everyone turned in shock, not expecting to see such a sight. “Really? You couldn’t even block that? You’re not good enough. Go, now.”
And so you left to the medic tent to get your broken nose stuffed with gauze and wrapped properly, only returning to the bunks later that night. One of your closer teammates came to sit down beside you, a frown set on her face. “Did you piss him off or something? He looked soooo mad after.” She questions, confused by this sudden unusual behaviour– general’s son or not, he still had standards he needed to uphold.
You shrug your shoulders, just wanting an early night's rest so you could catch up on training in the morning– a trip to the medic wasn’t an excuse for a break. “I didn't..do anything different. I didn't even say anything the entire time.”
“It’s not your fault.” You hear a voice pipe up from behind you, a boy you only met during training here. This was a necessary course for soldiers at your level, so your actual team wasn't here with you. He comes over and hands you a water bottle, a frown set on his face as he sits on the bunk opposite. Technically women and men had different tents, but it wasn't time to turn in for bed just yet. “He’s General Shepherd’s son.”
The name rings a bell in your head but you can't exactly figure out from what, and instead you just gratefully take the water bottle. “Thanks. I guess it's just another stuck up nepo baby.. Huh?”
The two of them nod in response, chuckling quietly just in case he happens to be lurking nearby. Hopefully if you just stay in your lane then he’ll leave you alone.
—----------------------
He did not in fact leave you alone even once.
You had tried nearly every single possible approach to fix this situation but it was like the target was permanently nailed to your body in bright neon red. He yelled at you constantly with corrections during training, and then some more when you sparred with others. When the simulated exercises came around, your name was at the top of every list of concern along with a stupid reason circled beside it. Every time you corrected your previous mistakes, new ones appeared, and to your dismay, the other instructors wouldn't bat an eye to your pleas for some guidance. That’s the worst part really; you hadn't actually even complained about the harsh treatment at all, only ever asking for them to show you what you were doing wrong.
You began to realise quickly that this wasn’t as much of a problem on your half, but a result of a vendetta you hadn't even been aware of. After asking nearly every instructor, not one could give you a solid improvement you could actually do in each of the situations. Besides, his complaints started to become obviously stupider by the day.
“Really? He got annoyed because my shoe wasn't tied twice?!” You throw your hands up in the air as your friend practices their stitching skills on you, trying to close up a particularly nasty wound on your shoulder.
“I know it’s rough but will you please stop moving so much!” She yelps as blood starts to spill and you give her a sheepish look, keeping still as best as you can as she cleans the wound again.
“I’m sorry, it’s just –Ow! Are you really sure you know how to stitch?” You hiss as she drags the needle through the sore skin, wincing as you turn to her with a very obvious frown.
“I do! I’m just..” She finishes it as fast as she can, tying it off with a satisfied look, hands planting on her hips. “Ay not that bad! I mean.. It looks closed?”
You roll your eyes, rolling your shoulder to check the pain and surely enough the stitches don't break nor does it seriously ache. “It’ll do. My point is, i’m not even going to even pass the course at this rate! What the hell is the point of all of this then?”
“You just have to keep pushing through it, okay? Everyone knows he’s being extra harsh anyway, they’re just too afraid to speak against him.” It was true; someone had to be a serious idiot to not see the obvious problem he has with your mere existence. With a soft sigh, you nod along to her words– maybe she was right. In some weird way, you were just his stress ball, and he’d probably be squeezing you until this course is over. But he wouldn’t pop you surely, you hadn't actually done anything deserving of it.
—-----------------
“That’s it, everyone stop. None of you are getting any food because of this.”
You’ve only placed one carrot in your mouth, just like your friend who sits beside you, so surely this can't be your fault this time. So naturally you let your fork drop back against the plate, blinking at the others who also don't dare to question why he suddenly spoke.
“We do not raise pigs in the military.” He scoffs, arms crossed over his chest as he walks over to a soldier who dared to keep chewing, snatching his tray out of his hands and placing it on the side.
“And she is a direct example of this. You wait for everyone to sit before you eat, and you do not take a portion for a man.” He sneers as he walks around to you, plucking the plate from before you and dumping it directly in the bin. The whole team stops and turns their heads towards you the second he announces it, leaving you burning with unexplainable shame.
This wasn't even your fault– you didn't make the portion sizes, in fact the workers used to give the women less and even on the self-serve areas you did so because you didn’t want to feel sick during your sneaky training when everyone was asleep. Mind that fact, there has never even been a rule to only eat once everyone's arrived in the month you’ve already been here for.
“Get out! Now!” You stand up straight as he yanks at your shirt and shoves you towards the door, You stumble but keep yourself silent, already leaving before you get personally targeted even more.
—--------------
Everyone’s looking at you strangely, and people don't even let you speak in their direction before they’re walking away. They glare at you for every yelled word, for every extra lap you never provoked, and especially the countless times the hot water has been cut for your group.
You sit by the lake not too far from the camp, trying to reign all the muddled feelings as you scrub at your hair with the salty water. Today your own teammates banned you from entering the showers, and the worst part was that they couldn't even do it with hatred in their eyes.
“Listen– you can't be here, okay? If you’re here, he’ll punish us all and we don't want that.”
“But I'm not even doing anything wrong! I’ll even take the cold water –”
And that’s how you ended up trudging down here, trying not to think too hard about whatever is bubbling beneath the water on the other side of the rocks. Just the other day you had to get a friend to sneak you a bread roll because of the food incident. What the hell would be next?
You didn't want to admit it but you were actually afraid, especially with how you wouldn't even blame your friends if they chose to stop talking to you as well. What if you really had been causing problems this entire time?
And you couldn't stop it if you tried. After all, you've been sleeping outside for the past week with new wounds appearing daily. You always promised that you’d push through everything, every rude instructor and pretentious high ranks too. You swore you wouldn't let it get to you, but you could feel it slipping past, eating at you.
—--------------------
The end of the course couldn't have come any slower, and everyone received their passing results save for the few who genuinely had caused nothing but issues in the other team. Then there was you– you who had him sneer in your face as you went home with no certification. Apparently since he had been the one assigned to grading you, that meant he had all the right to decide whether you passed or not. This time you didn't pick yourself back up– you had a small feeling he preferred when you had your face against the dirt– figuratively and literally.
You return to base and sit at the edge of a truck with silence towards you, even if it is all over. Maybe they believed he could still revoke their certifications too. Either way you left the truck last as the rain poured down, the contents of your bag spilled across a muddy puddle. You can't even blame him for this– it could be absolutely any of them.
Dragging the ruined fabrics inside, you ignore the looks others give your sodden state. Was Simon on deployment? What would he say when he found out you did all of that just to completely fail? This wasn't fair– you had tried so hard, you worked so hard just to be thrown under the bus because one guy didn't like the way you looked.
“Miss, you need to come with me.” You blink at the obvious higher rank standing right infront of your room door, and pause.
“Huh?”
You barely get a chance to question why when another three come out from around the corner and you immediately drop your things. “I didn't—I've— did he report me or something? I never—“
“Do not resist soldier, or we will use force.”
“Sorry— sorry, okay!” You hold your hands up high, realising this is not some kind of joke especially when two have guns pointed directly at you and something tells you they are not afraid to shoot someone as insignificant as you.
Two of the men come and grab your arms, restraining them behind your back as you squirm before eventually going lax— clearly you couldn’t do anything else but let this happen.
—————-
You’re escorted to an interrogation room, all your belongings stripped off you and then your hands locked into handcuffs on the table. Anxiously you bite at your lip— what the hell was actually going on? Eating more than you should did not lead to rooms like these nor measures this serious.
A lady on the older side enters the room clutching files, her badge reading CIA. “I want you to tell me everything that happened over the past weeks.” So you do— from when you arrived at your first meeting with entering the base, not forgetting the details of the General’s son's hatred for you. Of course, you had to phrase it differently though; even you weren't immune to being afraid of him. So his obvious bullying and harassment turned into him not liking you often and punishing you multiple times a day. And you just had to accept that.
She notes down the details, along with her own information, trying to see if it connects or not. A lie or the truth? You knew you were being honest, but she didn't, and that meant you may even be considered the enemy as of right now.
“You’ve been accused of leaking information, files from Captain Price’s office.” The woman suddenly says as she closes the file, stares hardened towards you. “I’ll give you one chance to confess.”
“I would never do that ever, Ma’am.” You shake your head adamantly but she doesn't seem too impressed. What the hell was she talking about– Did someone really report you for a crime this serious? Wouldn't Simon know you’d never do that?
Would he not defend you?
Obviously you want to argue, shake your head adamantly, and insist you’d absolutely never ever do that under any circumstances. But something tells you they won't believe you and just their opinions on you wont be enough.
You’re escorted to a sort of holding cell, consisting of a small room and bathroom and wake up groggily the next morning. Unfortunately, still in your soaked clothes, a cold is probably about to clog your throat.
And you just wait, hoping for them to come and get you, saying they’re sorry for the mistake and it was a misunderstanding. You wait past breakfast, lunch, and dinner, for a day on end. They gave you new attire on the second day thankfully, but you still couldn't get an ounce of sleep in fear. The other convicts in the other rooms were loud sometimes, violent and you’d see the guards run across, detaining them. On the third day you were taken for a medical exam. The regular ones were intrusive as it is, but paired with the non stop troubles this whole month, the prodding and poking at all your injuries didn't help.
It’s only on the fifth day, when you drag yourself to sit upright, does a key jingle in the lock of your door. “Good you’re up, we’re going.” The guard opens the door and you stand, quietly letting him cuff you and bring you back to the interrogation room once more.
Your eyes widen in relief when Price appears in the doorway, lips parting in surprise. Though immediately you shut up on seeing the Captain’s harsh gaze directed onto you as he enters the room. Beside him is the same woman from the CIA before.
If you speak out of turn, would they suspect you more? But if you only speak when spoken to, would they think you were trying to be calculated?
———————————
“I would never look at any of his files— he always keeps his drawers locked too! Ask him— he’ll tell you. He won't even tell me the country his missions are in—”
Even with your constant denying, they kept going through the claims against you. And with every single one, came another forged evidence. Supposed notes with your signature, pictures and videos taken out of context, testimonies from the people with you for the past few weeks.
Well, she was always getting into trouble for one thing or the other.. just to get sent to the infirmary too sometimes. I reckon she didn't even go, could’ve looked around for all we know.
She hardly slept with us for the past week or so, and she’d regularly go to the lake on her own. I saw her on the phone once or twice too.
She always muttered to herself and scribbled down notes when no one was looking— then she’d stash it with her other stuff.
How could you even argue against that? You did all of those things, but without the context you did try to give.. they didn't believe you. You couldn’t find it in yourself to try and fight any longer when they announced they’d be detaining you for a few days until the allegations were investigated properly. All you could do is fall quiet, give up slowly, knowing that it was your word against whatever higher up wanted you out of the picture.
——————
“Ghost, ah’m sure that it’s not them. He’s playin’ games with us— ye know this!” Soap pats a hand on the back of Ghost where they stand behind the one sided glass, watching your interrogation unfold.
He knows in his chest that it isn't you, deep in his heart, just from how you struggle and desperately argue the reasons for every single incriminating evidence that matches up so well. But Simon never trusts his heart, no it’s far too erratic most nights and he’s been in this job long enough to know when to keep it locked behind bars.
This all started a month ago, when he left for a mission during your course. An ally had betrayed them, or rather prioritised their own needs over lives.
“You know, Ghost, you really should look deeper at who you keep close to.” The American had laughed in his face as he called for his men, his arms crossed over his chest. “Just a thought.”
It only spiralled from there— he knew and trusted the team, but who else was there outside of it? The receptionist he passed by in the mornings? The lady in logistics he discussed plans with? The man in admin who handled file transfers?
You?
You.
He had drowned himself in nearly every single file when he returned from that mission, looking for every link to you even if it was something as stupid as when you slipped on a bar of soap and bruised your ass. Yes, that is in your medical records to your dismay. He found nothing in the slightest that could tie you to leaking secrets or the like. Sure you slept in his bed and occasionally used his desk as a hard surface when he didn't mind, but he always kept most important files locked away.
Then a report came from the parent team instructing you, supposedly anonymous but it seemed to be a soldier not worth mentioning anyway. You were acting strange. Sleeping outside of the tents, always sneaking off, causing trouble. Before that you had skittish behaviour when he got injured, sure he had been.. affectionate with you but what if that was a scheme too? Had he really fallen for it?
So he ignored every message you sent whilst at that camp, if anything giving you the driest responses possible to make sure you didn't try and run. It hurt him, especially when you’d try and subtly complain, too afraid to say too much else the instructors caught you bad mouthing them. You sent sad faces all the time, sometimes a voice message that would be deleted after, and he assumed you must’ve been so choked up on tears that you couldn't keep it there longer than a few minutes.
“She’s still denying.” Price reenters the room as you sit alone now, huffing and crossing his arms over his chest. “I showed her the evidence found in her belongings and she still won't confess.”
“That’s because she’s not the one who leaked the information.” Soap scoffs, elbowing Ghost in tandem, waiting for him to agree. “Ghost can confirm that, can’t he? Graves is just being a fuckin’ prick.”
“We can’t rule it out, Johnny.” Ghost says all too solemnly and Soap’s elbow falters, body going lax as he looks up at his lieutenant in shock.
“You can't be serious—”
“He’s right.” Price butts in, a frown set on his face. “Both of you should go, I don't want anyone thinking we’re getting biased here.”
Reluctantly Soap follows Ghost out of the room, but as he’s about to question him about what he just said, he’s already down the corridor. What the hell were they doing? This wasn't right in the slightest– how could they not blatantly see that it wasn't you?!
“How is it going?” Before he had even realised, he had made his way to the rec room and was standing before the kitchenette where Gaz was boiling water. Their mugs were already set on the counter, the steam slowly rising out of the kettle as he pours the coffee grains inside.
“Nowhere– she hasn't confessed because it’s not bloody her.” Soap huffs in response, bracing his palms on the counter as he huffs, watching the water turn the mugs to a murkier colour. At least Gaz understands, nodding along in tandem to his words, though that’s probably why they're both still sergeants. Sitting back and having to listen to the evidence is never fun.
“Let me guess, Price told you that we can't argue the facts against her?” He raises a brow, already knowing that he’d state the same thing he always does. Either way it makes Johnny snort.
“Not this time, but he implied it pretty fucking clearly when he glared at me.” He takes the mug with a small thank you before following him over to the couch, slouching against him all too quickly. “Don’t get me started on Ghost either– just sat there and watched.”
“Anything he turns in might end up being biased. Stupid too, if anyone knows her best it’s him.. I just cant understand why her team mates would lie too—-”
Before Gaz can finish, the door slams open, heavy boots approaching and they both look up as Ghost rips his mask off, and drops a pile of files in their before them.
“Second Lieutenant Shepherd.” He practically growls the words out, seething and they both look down in shock as they flicker through the logs of him being on that same trip as you, big circles around your name and connecting to the descriptions in a few of the witness testimonies. “The bastard has been framing her– and of course he’s the son of the General.”
“He may as well swear his allegiance to Graves than play these stupid games..” Johnny scoffs but pats Ghost's knee as he sits in front of them, still with his blood boiling. “We just need the proof now.”
“He must’ve threatened everyone else on that course. No wonder she was sleeping outside and going to the lake– he must’ve gave her no other option.” Gaz scoffs, equally as annoyed and Ghost nods along to his words.
“We’ll force the information out of them then– one of them has to spill.”
“Wait–” He stops Ghost as he begins to stand again, hand catching his sleeve. “I’ll do it. I think I have an idea that’ll work.”
—---------------------------------------------
Today you don't have the luxury of Price, no you’ve had a much harsher man who seemed like he wanted your blood personally painting his office. The questions were invasive, non stop and forceful, especially when he dug through your phone and looked through the messages you had sent to others.
You weren't some kind of double agent by complaining about the instructor, you were just another useless soldier regretting all the life choices that led you to sniffling over the phone to your friend back at base. He kept putting words in your mouth too, leaving you scrambling to defend yourself while he tried to use it against you, constantly interrupting and riling you up.
“Fine, you think you’re such a smart girl lying like this? Well, the General just approved for.. new methods to be used in our next meeting.” He snarls towards you, almost beginning to laugh to himself as he looks at the files a lowly private passed him. “Do you want to admit to anything now?”
You didn’t of course you didn't, stupid you, still being stubborn and so you were dragged back to that cell once more. This time your pillow is soaked from your tears, face buried in the flat thing as you do your best to contain it. Why hadn’t Simon contacted you once? Was he really out on a solo deployment?
He hadn't responded to any messages while you were at the camp and he hadn't come to see you once in this holding cell, even Soap had tried to get a peek at you sneakily whilst you were escorted away. Why the hell were you crying pathetically in here anyway? Well, probably because you were getting tortured by the organisation you signed up to and for something you hadn't even done.
—
“Of course, his bastard son.” Laswell scoffs as Price looks at the evidence given by his fuming Lieutenant, practically itching to just kill.
“Unfortunately it’s not proof enough— especially his rank. We need witnesses and confessions.” Price’s fingers grip the edge of the paper a little too harshly, trying his best to stay sane in the current situation. There was no holding back though when there was blatant proof you were innocent.
“Kyle’s gathering it.” Soap speaks up, a frown set on his face since he unfortunately had been told he’d just scare the rookies off altogether if he tried
“..Good. Ghost, come with me, we need to buy them some time.”
—---------------------------------
“You think that General’s son gives a shit about you? She’s about to get fuckin’ sliced up in there if you dont tell me the truth right now and you will be next.” His finger points at the chest of one of your prior teammates who is pressed up against the wall and likely about to piss himself.
Soap had sworn he wouldn't come near and yet here he was, staring around the corner and fighting the urge not to record the scene before him– he did not even know Kyle was capable of something so.. aggressive. But then again, they were all on the same team for a clear reason.
Naturally the rookie agreed quickly, telling him everything and confirming what they had heard from two others already. That was more than substantial evidence, and now they just had to get it back as fast as possible.
—————————————-
“That’s enough!” Price’s voice echoes out in the cold dark room you’re in, except you can't see him with the blindfold tight over your eyes.
“They approved—“ The man interrogating you starts to speak only for a rustle of clothing to immediately sound out, along with Price’s stern voice.
“I said enough. Why don't you make sure your witnesses aren't bribed before you start pointing fingers?” He argues, and all of a sudden someone’s slightly cold hands are on your face, unwrapping your blindfold.
You blink as light reaches your eyes for the first time in hours— maybe the first stop to this interrogation was by depriving you to make you go insane. Either way you’re glad to see Kyle as he fusses over you, making sure they haven't laid a hand on you.
He helps you upright, knowing your legs are probably wobbly from being sat still for so long and you hold onto his arm. Was it really all over?
“We’re going.” Price nods for you and Gaz to follow, and you look back one last time, eyes catching onto a glint of metal. It’s coming from a tray set near the chair you were tied to— sharp edges and in various sizes. Like ones you’d see in a butcher's shop.
—-
“I’m sorry Captain..” You sigh, rubbing at your arm to ease the anxiety buzzing through you as Kyle holds you close. He looks pissed, and he doesn't even answer, just shakes his head at you before continuing to walk.
Eventually you reach a meeting room and you’re ushered in, only to come face to face with the woman who you talked to initially.
“Ma’am.” You salute in respect, even if you wince with the movement. Even if it’s only been days in that, it feels like years. What if it wasn't the end..? What if they had decided worse for you?
“Apologies for.. before. Thanks to the 141, there’s more than enough evidence to prove you’re innocent.”
All you can do is just nod firmly to her words, suddenly feeling very small in this room with elite soldiers. You’re not sure even why this is the only time you’ve felt the gap between you too, but it’s stronger than ever. It dissolves quickly however when you make eye contact with Simon across the table, your promise to him before only replacing the feeling with guilt instead.
“We need you to tell us everything you heard about the General’s son. No reservations this time.”
So you do, for the next couple of hours, answering any questions they have. They mainly just want to know how he acted, anything awfully suspicious, or anything you even heard that you wouldn’t typically repeat.
“How did he act in training?” Price asks, and the woman you now know to be Laswell glances towards you too.
“He was harsh on me, but other than that he knew his stuff, I didn't doubt for a second he was a professional. The way he handled situations just made him feel like a nepo baby..”
“Handle situations?”
“He’d blow up on us like it was bootcamp— well, he blew up on me. Not so much anyone else unless they did something that actually would call for it..” You shrug, half expecting them to want to know more about what he did to you. As if remembering, the scars and bruises throbbing along your arms, rubbing against the hardness of this chair.
Thankfully they had gotten you water to chug down, which you’d been sipping non stop to try and keep yourself awake. All the sleep you had gotten since coming back was barely any better than what you had there, probably worse with your body aching and sore.
“Alright that’s it for now. Kyle, Johnny, c’mere and look at…”
Their voices start to fade out in your ears as they move to all stand around the table, Simon forced to put his back to you and concentrate on the task at hand. Besides, as long as you were out of immediate danger, it’d be fine.
You were starting to question if it was really okay for them to speak about important topics when you were sitting right here. It’s not like he dismissed you anyway, and you’re too nervous to even think about asking for anything. You probably shouldn't try to play victim either— as far as they knew, you came back from camp probably tired that's all, and unfortunately had to go in the cold cells for a couple of days whilst this went down. Hardly the crime of the century.
Right.. it’s not important, you should just sit quietly and obediently, do absolutely anything you can to not make Price glare at you again like he had in the interrogation room. Anything—
“Hey— Earth to Rookie?”
You snap out of it, eyes drooped to see Kyle standing above you, a concerned look over his face. Suddenly you see the entire room staring at you, and you swallow quickly. “S-sorry, i was just making sure I didn't forget anything. Did you want something?”
Oh shit, Price is staring at you again, what if he really does get angry again? Any CO getting angry was nothing compared to having this Captain’s glare on you— half because of the sharpness but closer to the fact you know he absolutely does have the intention and execution behind each one.
His looks do kill.
“Do you want to go back to your room?” He asks, his words going slower in your tired brain and you freeze. Was this a trick question?
“W-whatever’s easier for you, sir.” You stammer out, much to your dismay, but at least you seem a bit more awake now.
“Go, you need the rest. Kyle, go get her food and come back when you’re done. We have a lot to talk about.”
A sinking guilt starts to form in your gut as the sergeant listens to his captain immediately— had you really ruined their whole meeting because you were a bit tired? Oh- no, no, this is wrong— you didn't mean that!
“C’mon. The cell food definitely wasnt good.” Kyle gently wraps a hand around your arm and you stand almost immediately, glancing between all of them. Simon definitely wouldnt be back tonight.
—---------------
He screenshots the uber receipt, ready to ask a favour of a fellow soldier to bring the food here when it arrives– he definitely won't let you go and get it. Just as he sends the message you come out of the shower, now dressed in more comfortable clothes, and stinking less of damp now.
“I got someone to grab food for you, here I grabbed a few drinks from the rec room too.” He gestures to the small table where he has his favourites, and the few he’s seen you drink too. But he pauses when he looks up at you, catching a glimpse of marks beneath your sleeves.
“During training..” You mumble, because why should he care further– they’ve gotten much worse than this and come out smiling. If you were a strong soldier, you wouldn't dare to complain even if it was because of unjust treatment.
‘When you’re in a real fight, you won't be whining about what's fair and what's not, your only focus will be to survive.’
That’s what they’ve drilled into your head, even more so in that interrogation room with that man. A real soldier doesn't tell such lies to comfort themselves– they accept the facts for what they are worth.
“Maybe you should swing by the infirmary tomorrow?”
“Yeah, i will.” You probably shouldnt worry him any further else he starts to think you’re stupid and self sacrificing too. Besides, that medical exam you had for the interrogation didn't actually do much but take note of your injuries, and even then they didn't seem to care too much. Almost like they wanted to find things against you.
“Okay.. i’ll see you tomorrow. Try and get a good sleep okay?”
He leaves you for the night, and you dont get spend much more dwelling the past days, or the past months, falling into a deep sleep immediately. Though a small part of you does shuffle up to the side of the bed in hopes Simon would sink down next to you by morning.
Thinking about Maekar and Baelor and spanking and how they both have their own ways of doing it.
warning(s): smuttiness, spanking, maekar being more bratty than reader
Maekar is as sharp as he is stern, for him it’s punishment, it’s about teaching you a lesson and something that undoes him. A sort of stress reliever if you will. Rough, calloused fingers drag you over his lap, scooping a hand up your thighs and flipping over your skirts to reveal your skin.
“Stay still, girl.”
His words come out gritted and breathless, ignoring your whines as he smoothed a hand right over your arse cheek as your wriggle, another hand clamping at your leg to keep you in place. He doesn’t waste any time before striking you, a red hot sting searing through your skin as he goes in for another.
And another.
He takes pleasure in it in the depraved way sort of way, hearing you beg and moan at the sensation, desperately moving to soothe the ache between your legs. But it doesn’t come. Instead, he gives you another five or so more in quick succession without stopping stop, pinching at the skin harshly until there are tears streaking your face.
Only then, does he give in. And not only because you’ve earned it, but because of how you feel against him, flush and warm, and it makes him lose his mind.
That’s his issue when it comes to punishment, he can hardly teach you a lesson because he can’t manage to follow through with it without losing his resolve.
Maekar is as impatient as they come and as soon as he makes you look at him, red faced and needy, he sets you into his lap with a grumble, forefinger and thumb clasped at your jaw. And as soon as he touches you, kicking your legs open wide, sliding two fingers through your folds already soaking with arousal, he’s picking you up and taking you to bed.
Because he simply cannot wait.
Whereas, unlike his brother, Baelor is careful, slow and calculating through every word and action before he even has you over in his arms. But this is where that patience of his sweetens it, he makes you burn for it.
The cool jewel and gold of his rings tease the flesh of your calves and thighs, having you bent over his lap entirely or pressed into his chest so that he can hold you. He slides them up sensually, sliding away your skirts inch by inch until you are bare in his hold. Your skin pimples at the air hitting your backside, but his touch is warm, hot enough to make you shiver.
For him it’s a methodical thing, and seeing how long you can last until you are undone is what makes him fight his own restraint. He cradles a hand at your head, stroking over your hair and pulling the few loose strands out of your face almost agonisingly when he lands the first blow.
Sharp and true.
He shushes you gently, cooing in your ear, but the glint in eyes tells all. He’s not letting up, not so easily. Another comes, and another, patterned cracks through the air where his hand connects to your ass. His hand places delicately over the small of your back, fingertips pressed into the skin as he gives you another.
Only when he’s decided you’ve had enough, and you are blinking up at him through small tears and face flushed does he pull you up into his lap. His mouth moves to the shell of your ear, holding you closely as hands trail the sides of your waist, tracing between your thighs.
“Do you think you’ve earned forgiveness, my heart..?”
yeh, this man has completely taken over my brain and i am not complaining
Summary: Baelor ties you to the bedpost with silk, blindfolds you, and takes you apart with his hands before fucking you through a fourth orgasm, all with his characteristic careful attention and quiet authority
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x sister-wife!reader
Warning(s): +18 MDNI, Explicit sexual content, smut, bondage, silk restraints, blindfold, soft dom/sub dynamics, overstimulation, fingering, multiple orgasms, spanking, consensual kink, negotiated consent, established relationship, praise kink, aftercare, reader insert (no use of y/n)
"Tell me what you want."
Not an opening to negotiation. Baelor asked the way he did everything — with the full weight of his attention, those mismatched eyes on your face in the candlelight, his hands resting on your waist with the deliberate stillness of a man who had decided to be patient about this and meant it.
"You know what I want," you said.
"I want to hear you say it." His thumb tracing a slow circle at your hip. "All of it. Clearly."
You held his gaze. The particular quality of him in this register — the soft authority of it, the composure present but carrying heat underneath, the patience that was also its own kind of pressure — did something immediate to your ability to be composed about any of this.
You told him. Clearly. All of it.
He listened without interrupting, which was somehow more devastating than any response would have been. When you finished he was quiet for a moment, those eyes doing their reading of your face.
"And if you want to stop," he said.
"I'll say silver."
"And I will stop immediately."
"I know you will."
He looked at you for another moment. Something in his expression — the private warmth of him, the specific quality that had no diplomatic function — settled into something more focused. More certain.
"Lie down," he said. "On your back."
He took his time with the silk.
Three pieces — he had them ready, which told you something about how long he had been thinking about this, the particular planning of Baelor evident in the way he shook each one out with unhurried hands. Deep blue, thin enough to be soft against skin, long enough to give him what he needed.
He tied your right wrist to the bedpost first. Not tight — enough to hold, enough to give the restraint meaning, but with the careful precision of a man who had thought about the difference between symbolic and damaging and had strong opinions on the subject. He ran his thumb under the silk after he knotted it, checking the space, checking your face.
"Alright?"
"Yes."
The left wrist. The same care. The same check. You pulled lightly against both and felt the silk hold and felt something in your chest loosen into something warm and specific.
He picked up the third piece.
"Last chance to tell me no," he said.
"Baelor."
"Humour me."
"I do not want to tell you no."
He folded the silk carefully — his hands moving with the attention he gave everything — and came to sit beside you on the bed, and his hands found your face with a gentleness entirely at odds with what was coming, and he pressed his lips to your forehead before he covered your eyes.
The world went dark.
The silk was smooth and warm and smelled faintly of cedar and the specific quality of not being able to see him — of hearing his breathing and feeling his weight on the mattress and knowing he was looking at you without being able to look back — hit you somewhere immediately and thoroughly.
His hands moved to your shoulders. Traced down your arms. Checking, still, the quality of attention he gave this no different from the quality of attention he gave everything — the full and undivided weight of it, now that you couldn't see it, somehow more present than ever.
"Good?" he said quietly.
"Very," you said. Your voice had already changed register.
You heard something that might have been him almost smiling.
Then his hands moved, and the patience ended.
He started with his mouth.
Your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your breasts — working with the thoroughness that was specific to him, the unhurried mapping of a man who intended to know every response before he did anything requiring a response. The blindfold made it worse, or better, the not-seeing meaning every point of contact arrived without warning, his mouth finding places that made you pull against the silk and make sounds you had not prepared.
His hand moved to your breast. Cupped it. His thumb across the nipple, once, twice, feeling your back arch toward him.
Then he drew back his hand and brought it down.
Not hard. Precise. The sharp crack of it and the specific bright sting and the sound you made was immediate and bypassed every managed layer — and his hand returned immediately, palm flat and warm, soothing the sting with a pressure that was almost worse than the hit.
"Again?" he said. Conversational.
"Yes."
Again. The same precision. The same immediate soothing. Your hands pulling at the silk not to escape but because you needed to do something with them and had nothing, and the restraint of it was its own specific thing, the helplessness of being held open to whatever he decided to do next.
He moved lower.
His fingers found you without preamble and the sound he made at what he found there was low and immediate — a sound of satisfaction, of a man whose assessment has confirmed something he already suspected.
"Already wet, my heart?" he observed. Not quite a question in its entirety.
You said something that was not technically a word.
"Good," he said, and his fingers began to move.
Two fingers. The particular certainty of Baelor when he had decided on an objective — not building, not testing, going directly to the places he had mapped on other nights and knew with absolute confidence. Curling, pressing, finding the rhythm that made your hips lift toward his hand. His thumb on your clit. Working both simultaneously with the focused attention that was always him, always this, even now.
You came apart relatively quickly. Ten days of context. The blindfold. The silk at your wrists. The specific quality of Baelor's fingers when they were doing this without patience — and the sound you made when you came resonated off the walls and you felt him still his hand and work you through every tremor before he drew back.
A moment.
Then his hand came down on your cunt.
The sound you made was not dignified. The sting of it, sharp and immediate, the specific vulnerability of the target — and his hand returned, palm pressed flat, the heel of it grinding against your clit before he pulled back again.
"Baelor—"
"I have you," he said. Calm. Certain.
Again. The crack and the sting and the immediate warm pressure of his palm. Your back arching off the bed, your wrists pulling against the silk, the whole of you responding in a way that had no composure left in it.
"Good?" he said.
"More," you moaned
His fingers returned. Three this time — the stretch of it immediate and significant, a sound leaving you that was half complaint and entirely not, your body adjusting, accommodating, the fullness of three fingers and his thumb on your clit building something considerably less patient than the first.
He worked you with the thoroughness of a man who had been given a task and intended to complete it to his own exacting standards. Not varying, not teasing — the relentless focused rhythm of Baelor when his patience had been replaced by intent, hitting the same place with the same pressure with the same consistency until the thing coiling in you had nowhere to go except where he was directing it.
You came harder the second time. The silk biting into your wrists as you pulled against it, his name leaving your mouth in pieces, his fingers not stopping — working you through it, past it, into the oversensitised shaking aftermath without pause.
"Stop— Baelor— please—"
"One more," he said pleasantly.
"I can't—"
"You can." His fingers still moving, slower now, gentler, but not stopping. "I know you can. I will not stop until you give me another one."
The sound you made at that was not a protest. Not entirely.
He brought his hand down again — the breast this time, then the other, then once more on your cunt with the precision that suggested he had been thinking carefully about sequencing — and the combination of his fingers inside you and the sting and his thumb on your clit built something that had no architecture, no careful approach, just the blunt overwhelming accumulation of everything at once.
The third orgasm was less structured than the others. It arrived with less warning and more force, your whole body pulling against the silk, Baelor's name completely unraveled in your mouth, and he worked you through every second of it with his fingers and his thumb and the steady certain presence of him until you were shaking and entirely speechless and had nothing left that resembled composure.
His fingers slipped free. His hand stilled.
The room was very quiet except for your breathing.
Then his hands found the blindfold.
He removed it slowly. Gave you a moment to adjust to the candlelight, to find his face — and when you did, the expression on it was something that went directly through the post-orgasm haze and landed somewhere warm and immediate. The careful attention of him, the mismatched eyes dark and fixed on your face with an intensity that had not diminished, the slight flush of him, the specific quality of Baelor very thoroughly undone and very thoroughly in control simultaneously.
He looked at you for a moment.
Then his eyes moved down.
The sound he made was involuntary and immediate.
"Gods," he said. Low. The composure entirely gone from his voice. "Look at you."
You were aware, dimly, that you were a considerable state. Flushed from throat to chest, still shaking slightly, wrists still held by the silk, the evidence of three orgasms and his hands unmistakable.
He touched you — his fingers returning briefly, barely a touch — and the sound he made this time was rougher.
"You are absolutely soaking," he said, with the tone of a man making an observation he cannot quite believe and intends to address. "Do you have any idea—" He stopped. His jaw tightened. "I have been thinking about this for an hour and somehow you've still managed to—"
He reached for his laces.
"Tell me," he said, pushing the clothing away with rather less ceremony than usual, "if you need me to stop."
You looked at him from your thoroughly wrecked state and said something that was not technically a word.
"I will take that as a no," he said amused, and positioned himself, and pushed into you.
The sound you made echoed.
He groaned — low and long and stripped of everything managed, his forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder at the specific fact of you, soaking and warm and clenching around him with the oversensitised responsiveness of someone who had already come three times and was apparently entirely prepared to do so again.
"You feel—" He stopped. Moved. The groan that followed was not a word. "You are absolutely—" another thrust, deep and certain— "Gods."
He was not gentle. He had not been gentle since the moment he unfolded the first piece of silk and you had not asked him to be gentle and he was, at this point, in absolutely no condition to be gentle — his cock driving into you with the focused urgency of a man who had been patient for an hour and had exhausted his supply of it entirely, each thrust full and deep and certain.
Your wrists still held. The silk still present. The specific helplessness of it — of having no hands, of being able only to receive whatever he gave you — with the three orgasms behind you and his cock buried in your cunt and his thumb returning to your clit because apparently Baelor intended to be thorough about this as well—
"Baelor—" The word came out slurred. "I can't— I'm— please—"
"You can," he said. Breathless now, the composure entirely absent, fucking you with the single-minded focus of a man who has ceased to be the Hand of the King and is simply this — here, undone, present. "You absolutely can. You have been doing it all evening." A thrust that punched the air from your lungs. "One more. Give me one more."
You gave him one more.
He followed you immediately after — his rhythm breaking, his face pressed to your neck, his cock buried as deep as it would go as he spent himself with a sound that had nothing of the diplomat in it, nothing of the composure, nothing of any version of him that existed outside this room.
For a very long time afterward neither of you moved.
His weight on you. His breathing slowing against your neck. Your wrists still loosely held by the silk, the restraint somehow comfortable now, familiar, the silk warm from your skin.
His hands moved — finding the knots at your wrists with careful fingers, working them loose with the same precision he had used to tie them, and when the silk fell away he drew your arms down slowly and held your wrists in his hands and pressed his lips to each in turn, checking, attending, the Baelor who thought about everything reassembling himself quietly in the aftermath.
"Alright?" he said.
You stared at the ceiling.
"I have," you said, after a moment, "lost the ability to form complete sentences."
He pressed his lips to your temple. "I will take that as a yes."
"It is emphatically a yes."
He settled beside you, drew you against him, his arm around your shoulders with the careful warmth that was always his in the quiet after. His thumb tracing slow absent circles against your arm.
"The silk," you said, eventually.
"What about it."
"Keep it."
A pause in which you felt against your side the specific quality of Baelor fully smiling. "I had every intention of keeping it, my heart," he said.
You laughed. It came out slightly wrecked.
His arm tightened around you once, briefly, and then relaxed.
Outside, the castle went about its evening. Inside, the candles burned low and the silk lay on the covers and Baelor held you with the full and undivided attention he gave everything that mattered to him, which was its own specific kind of bondage, and one you had never once wanted to escape.
A.N.: in my mind, reader in Three Heads of the Dragon AU is primarily a dom when it comes to Maekar, but one touch from Baelor and it's all reversed oopsies
Can you please do a Baelor x bratty niece reader smut
ᴛᴇᴀᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴍᴀɴɴᴇʀꜱ | ʙᴀᴇʟᴏʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ
─ summary: After Ashford, Maekar is furious with Baelor, and Baelor is frankly upset with his brother for letting Aerion's behaviour get this far. King Daeron decides to try to fix the rift in the family; you are to marry your uncle. You make it your mission to be as difficult a wife as possible, culminating in sneaking out of the keep during a festival and getting caught in disguise kissing a commoner in the street. Baelor clearly has to do something about your behavior.
─ pairing: Baelor Targaryen x niece!wife!reader
─ word count: 4k
─ content: 18+ MDNI | filthy smut | no plot | degradation | spanking | p in v | orgasm denial | oral male receiving | squirting | targcest | dubcon
─ a/n: Thank you for all your requests, reading, comments, and reblogs 🖤
The silence in the solar was a physical presence woven from unspoken fury. Moonlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, carving the room into stark planes of silver and deepest shadow. You stood before him, near the centre of the room, feeling like a specimen pinned for display.
"You shamed yourself tonight."
Baelor's voice was quiet, cold. He did not look at you, but stared into the hearth where the last embers of the fire were dying, casting a faint, ruddy glow on his profile. "You shamed your father, you shamed our house, and most of all," he paused, "you shamed me."
Never, in the entire course of your marriage, had he spoken to you with such venom, such withering contempt. This was not the gentle prince who had tried so hard to meet you halfway and earn your favour. In his place stood a stranger, a man whose shoulders were rigid with a fury so tightly leashed it felt dangerous.
You opened your mouth, a hundred defences and accusations crowding your tongue. It was just a dance. It was a festival. No one recognised me. But the words died, unspoken, as he turned his back to you.
"Undress," he commanded.
The word was so out of place that for a moment you were sure you had misheard him. A short, disbelieving laugh escaped your lips. "You cannot be serious."
He did not turn. "I will not ask you again."
The finality in his tone left no room for argument, no space for defiance, no crack for your pride to slip through. Your hands clenched into tight fists at your sides, your nails digging sharp, painful crescents into your palms. This was madness. And yet, as you stood there in the moonlit bedchamber, you felt the urge to obey.
Your fingers trembled as they found the laces of your gown. The heavy, expensive silk seemed to resist your touch, clinging to you as if reluctant to abandon your body to the cold air and the even colder gaze of your husband. The knots were stubborn, your fumbling, shaking fingers making clumsy work of them. Finally, the last knot gave way; the gown sighed as it slid from your shoulders.
You stood before him in only your thinnest shift, a simple slip of pale silk that was nearly translucent in the stark lunar light. It clung to the curves of your hips and breasts, doing little to hide the hardened peaks of your nipples, which pebbled against the sudden chill. Exposure had never felt so complete, so absolute.
Baelor turned then. His eyes raked over your body with a slow, deliberate intensity that made you feel unbearably hot despite the cold. His expression was a mask of cold indifference, giving nothing away. He walked towards you until he was right in front of you.
"Kneel," he ordered, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl that vibrated up your spine.
"No," you whispered, looking down at the floor.
His hand shot out, not to strike you, but to grip your chin, forcing your head up to meet his gaze. "You will do as you are told."
A choked breath escaped your throat, and with it, the last of your defiance crumbled into dust. Your legs felt weak and watery, but they held you just long enough to lower yourself to the floor. You kept your eyes downcast, focusing on the intricate patterns on the floor, on anything but the man towering over you, a dark colossus of rage and ownership.
His fingers moved to tangle viciously in your hair, gripping thick handfuls of the strands. He pulled your head back, the sting on your scalp a sharp, searing line of fire that made you cry out. Your neck was arched at an uncomfortable, vulnerable angle, your throat exposed to the cool air.
"Look at me," he demanded. "What shall I do with you, princess."
The word princess was a curse on his lips. His other hand moved to the laces of his breeches, his long, skilled fingers working with practised efficiency. Your eyes widened even further as he freed himself. His cock sprang forth from the confines of his leather and linen. It was massive; longer and thicker than you had imagined, a roadmap of thick, prominent veins pulsing beneath the skin. He began to stroke himself, his hand moving slowly up and down the length, and a strange, dark, undeniable arousal coursed through you. Your cunt clenched in a sudden, aching throb of need.
"Open your mouth."
You complied without thinking, lips parting automatically. The surprise of your own submission hit you then. How could you be aroused by this humiliation? But there was no denying the slick wetness gathering between your thighs, the way your body responded to his authority, to the sheer power he exuded, even as you felt shame.
"Keep your knees apart," he ordered. "Hands behind your back."
You shifted your position on the cold floor, spreading your knees wide, the position feeling obscene and open. You laced your fingers together at the small of your back, the posture thrusting your breasts forward and leaving you utterly at his mercy.
The swollen head of his cock brushed against your lower lip, leaving a salty trail. The taste of him; salt and pure, unadulterated masculinity, exploded on your tongue. At first he was slow, allowing you only an inch, then two, letting you adjust, but his patience, if he had ever possessed any, vanished quickly.
His hips began to move, thrusting deeper with each powerful stroke. His grip on your hair tightened, using the strands as reins to control your movements, to pull you onto him. The head of his cock battered against the back of your throat, making you gag, your body convulsing with the reflex. Tears streamed freely down your face, blurring your vision, as you struggled to breathe through your nose, to accommodate his relentless, punishing pace. The sounds were obscene; the wet, slurping noises of your mouth, the grunts from his chest, the desperate, choking gasps that tore from your own throat.
"That is it," he grunted, his voice rough with exertion, his hips snapping forward. "Take it all."
You found your body beginning to move, a desperate, instinctual rhythm. You rocked back and forth on your knees, seeking friction, some small measure of relief from the throbbing ache building between your legs. Baelor noticed.
"Filthy girl," he growled, his voice laced with contempt. He yanked your head back harshly, pulling his cock from your mouth with a wet pop. A string of saliva connected your lips to his head for a moment before breaking. "Did I give you permission? Stop that right now."
You froze, the shame burning through you, hot and sharp. "This is your punishment." His voice was as cold and hard as the stone beneath your knees.
With that, he shoved his cock back into your mouth, resuming with renewed vigour. His heavy sack slapped against your chin with each drive. Your jaw ached, a deep, throbbing pain, and your throat burned, stretched to its absolute limit. And still he used you, his breathing growing ragged, his thrusts becoming increasingly erratic, chasing his own pleasure with a singular, selfish focus.
Then he spilled his seed down your throat in hot, thick pulses, a seemingly endless flood of cum that flooded your mouth, coating your tongue. You swallowed frantically, your throat working, desperate to take it all, to please him, to prove you could obey, to be good, even as some of the viscous fluid escaped your lips to trickle down your chin and drip onto your heaving breasts.
When he finally pulled away, you were left gasping for air, your body trembling with a combination of exhaustion, pain, and a searing, unfulfilled desire that made you want to scream. He stood over you for a long moment, his cock still semi-erect and glistening. Then he reached down and hauled you to your feet.
His hands gripped the delicate neckline of your shift. With a sharp tug, he ripped it in half. The fine silk tore like wet paper, leaving you completely, shockingly naked before him.
"Get on the bed," he commanded, gesturing with a jerk of his head toward the large, four-poster bed against the far wall.
For a moment you could only stare at him, your mind a complete blank.
"If I have to ask you again, I will increase your punishment."
The threat, spoken so calmly, sent a bolt of fear and excitement through you. You scrambled backward, almost falling, before turning and half-running, half-stumbling toward the bed. You climbed onto it, the cool, smooth sheets a shocking sensation against your overheated, sweat-sheened bare skin.
"On all fours."
You complied instantly, positioning yourself on your hands and knees in the centre of the mattress, your backside facing him. The position exposed your most intimate, vulnerable parts to his gaze. You could feel his eyes on you, taking in the delicate curve of your spine and the glistening, flushed folds of your cunt, already dripping and swollen with need.
You felt the mattress dip heavily as he knelt behind you. For a moment there was only the sound of your own panting breaths. Then his touch landed on you, light and gentle, as his fingers traced the elegant curve of your spine from the nape of your neck to the cleft of your backside. The touch made you shiver, a wave of gooseflesh rising on your skin. You thought, perhaps hoped, he might take you then, might finally end this exquisite torture and fill the aching emptiness inside you.
Impatience got the better of you. You pushed your hips back, a silent, shameless begging, trying to impale yourself on what you hoped was waiting for you.
"Do you wish to be taken like this?"
"Yes," you breathed, the word a desperate, broken puff of air. "Now, Baelor."
His hand came down on your backside hard. The sound, a sharp, crisp smack, echoed in the quiet room. The sharp, biting sting made you cry out, more from shock than from any real pain.
"You still lack manners," he said, his voice hardening again, all the softness gone. "You will take what I give you, when I give it to you."
His hand came down again, this time on the other cheek, a matching blow that landed with perfect, stinging precision. The blows began to alternate. You lost count of how many he gave you. The initial sharp sting morphed, spreading into a deep, pervasive heat that throbbed through your entire body. The pain mingled with pleasure, creating a confusing, intoxicating mixture of sensation that made your head spin.
Soon you were dripping, slick juices running down the inside of your thighs. Your legs shook uncontrollably, the muscles straining with the effort of holding you up. You could hear yourself making sounds; mewling, babbling, desperate whimpers and pleas that you barely recognised as words.
Baelor chuckled, the sound dark and deeply mocking. "You like this, don't you? Filthy girl, your cunt is dripping for it."
The humiliation burned, but so did the desire. You found yourself pushing back to meet his hand, shamelessly asking for more, for harder, for anything and everything he was willing to give you.
"Please," you begged, the word torn from your throat, raw and ragged. "Please, Baelor."
"It seems you are learning," he said, his voice holding a note of satisfaction.
His touch changed then. The spanking stopped, leaving your cheeks throbbing and burning. Two thick fingers slid effortlessly into your dripping cunt, stretching you deliciously, filling you, giving you immediate relief. His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that made your eyes roll back in your head and a loud, unrestrained moan tear from your lips. It felt so good, exactly what you needed, a perfect, overwhelming pressure that sent you hurtling toward the edge of a blinding release.
Just as you felt the first tremors begin to build deep in your core, he stopped. He pulled his fingers out and lifted his thumb away. A desperate, frustrated wail escaped you. You wanted to cry from frustration.
"Please, please!" you begged, pressing your face into the cool, scented sheets to muffle your broken sobs. "I am sorry, husband, so sorry. I beg you, please, I need you."
A triumphant smirk crossed Baelor's handsome features, though you could not see it from your position. You felt his hand move up your spine, the touch sending shivers of anticipation through your body, before tangling once again in your hair. He leaned over you, his body blanketing yours, his hard chest pressing against your burning back. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he whispered.
"Now was that really so difficult?"
A choked, ragged sob tore from your throat, your entire body trembling. You shook your head, unable to form a single word further.
Baelor chuckled. "How fortunate you are to have a husband as forgiving as I." His fingers, which had been stilled on your skin, began to trace abstract patterns on the sensitive flesh of your thigh. His fingers brushed perilously close to the apex of your legs, and you whimpered. "I will give you what you want. You are being so good now, so pliant."
Before your muddled brain could process the shift from punishment to reward, he moved. His hands, strong and sure, gripped your hips, and with a single, decisive movement, he flipped you over onto your back. The force of it knocked the air from your lungs, your world spinning for a second before righting itself. With another rough yank, he dragged you down the mattress until your backside was on the edge. You were completely exposed, vulnerable, positioned for his use.
Your breath hitched, catching in your throat as your eyes finally took him in. You saw him in his full naked glory for the first time. He was magnificent. Lean and corded with the muscle of a warrior, his chest was a broad expanse dusted with dark hair that narrowed into a tantalising trail, a clear path leading down to the neat, trimmed dark hairs at the base of his cock. It looked even bigger than when he had forced it past your lips. Your cunt clenched instinctively at the sight of him.
You moved to snap your legs shut, but your legs barely moved an inch before you froze. Baelor's gaze had found yours. His mismatched eyes hardened. It was a silent command; you obeyed, and your legs fell open again.
"Since you seem to have a taste for fooling around with common men," he said, as he stepped between your splayed thighs, "I will treat you like a common whore." His hands were rough as they gripped the backs of your knees, pushing them up and out, wider, impossibly wider, until you were spread obscenely. "This is what whores get, is it not?" he growled, lining himself up. "Taken hard and put away wet."
He positioned the blunt, thick head of his cock at your weeping entrance, notching it against your soaked, swollen folds. You were so wet from his earlier torment. There was no warning; with one brutal, powerful thrust of his hips, he slammed into you.
A scream tore from your throat as he split you open. The stretch was incredible. He felt so much bigger at this angle, so much deeper than you had ever imagined possible. It felt like he was impaling you, driving all the way up into your chest. Your back arched off the bed, your hands fisting in the sheets.
Baelor gave you no time to adjust. He pulled back, his cock dragging against your clenching walls until only the head remained inside, then he drove into you again, just as hard, just as deep. Your scream dissolved into a choked, broken moan. He set a relentless rhythm, taking you as you had never even dared to imagine in your darkest, most secret fantasies. Long, impossibly deep strokes, plunging his massive length into you again and again. The room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, mingling with your desperate, tearful cries.
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, your muscles trembling with the effort, needing to see, needing to witness your own possession. The sight of his sweat-slicked body moving between your spread thighs, his dark, glistening cock disappearing into you again and again, only to reappear slick and shining with the evidence of your arousal, was incredible.
You had never felt like this before. Never experienced such overwhelming pleasure so seamlessly intertwined with the feeling of being possessed, of being owned. He took you thoroughly, the thick head of his cock battering against a deep, sensitive place inside you that you never knew existed. Each brutal thrust sent electric sparks shooting through your veins, made your toes curl, made your breath catch in your throat. Your breasts bounced with the force of his movements, the nipples tight, pebbled points of aching need.
His hands left your hips, moving with deliberate purpose up your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. They settled around your throat, his long fingers wrapping around your neck in a grip that was firm but not constricting. "Look at you," he growled, his hips never ceasing their devastating rhythm. His thumbs stroked the sensitive skin over your racing pulse. "Taking my cock like you were made for it."
You could not answer. You could only gasp for air, your eyes wide, locked on his as he continued his relentless assault on your senses. "You behave so well when you are full of cock," he whispered, his voice dropping to a filthy murmur. His grip tightened infinitesimally. "Is this what you needed? A good, hard fuck to put you back in your place."
The words should have enraged you, but instead they sent another blinding wave of arousal crashing through you. Because he was right; gods help you, he was right. You felt more alive, more present, than ever before. Your body sang with a pleasure so intense it was almost painful.
You fell back against the sheets, your arms giving out, unable to hold yourself up any longer. You were completely at his mercy, unable to do anything other than scream his name and moan. "Baelor! Baelor! Oh gods, yes, do not stop, please do not stop." The words were torn from you, a litany of desperate, mindless pleas.
He shifted his stance, changing the angle of his penetration, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. The new position was devastating, allowing him to plunge even deeper, and you cried out as the thick head of his cock brushed painfully, exquisitely against your cervix. He leaned forward, folding you nearly in half, his face now close to yours, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against your breasts.
"That is it," he grunted, his breath hot and damp against your ear. "Take all of it. Every inch." His pace quickened. "You wanted this. You wanted to be used."
It was so much. The fullness, the relentless, deep stimulation, the filthy words whispered in your ear like a prayer. You felt the build starting deep inside your core, a tight, hot coil of tension winding tighter and tighter, climbing higher and higher with every powerful thrust. Your entire body tensed, your toes curling, your inner walls clamping down around his cock like a vice.
Baelor reached between your sweat-slick bodies, his fingers finding your swollen, aching clit. He began to rub it in a perfect rhythm, matching the tempo of his thrusts, applying just the right amount of pressure to send you hurtling towards the edge. "Let go for me," his voice rough with his own impending release. "Show me how much you love it."
That was all it took. Your release crashed over you; you screamed, your back arching off the bed, your body shaking uncontrollably, and then something new happened. A gush of fluid erupted from you, soaking his abdomen, drenching the sheets beneath you. You did not even know what you had done, only that it felt incredible, that your body was convulsing with a pleasure so intense it bordered on agony.
Baelor groaned. "Yes, that is it, soak me, you filthy girl," he growled, his hips pistoning faster, chasing his own release. The sight of you, the feel of you, pushed him over the edge. "I am going to fill you," he snarled, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as his own climax took hold. "Breed you."
His words pushed you into another release, smaller but just as intense. He slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, his body going rigid as a bowstring, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he spent. You felt the hot, powerful pulses of his seed deep inside you, pulse after pulse, so much of it, emptying himself into you as he groaned your name against your skin.
Baelor's full weight pressed you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside you, still twitching with the aftershocks of his release. You were a mess. A ruined, satisfied, well-taken mess.
Slowly, he lifted his head, his mismatched eyes meeting yours in the dim moonlight. The anger was gone, replaced by dark satisfaction, and a hint of something tender beneath. He gently brushed a sweaty, tangled strand of hair from your forehead.
"Now, have you learned your lesson?"
You nodded. "Yes, but perhaps teach me again, just to make sure it sticks."
tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, killing of animals, graphic depictions of domestic violence, graphic depictions of violence, religious guilt, infidelity, please read at your own risk
ch. 7 | masterlist | ao3
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There’s blood everywhere.
Crimson staining the concrete under you, and splattered on your husband’s sleeves. The juxtaposition of your husband and Simon solidifies itself then. Something that made your mouth water and heart race with desire when it came to Simon is repulsive on your husband. Something that lodges a lump deep in your throat, makes it difficult to swallow the tears running down your cheeks.
Your hands shake as you reach out to the bunny lying there motionless. Fear runs through your body, raging anger, but the guilt is the heaviest.
It’s your fault. It’s all your fault.
The bunny was innocent. A sweet, pure thing that had nothing to do with you and Simon or your deceit. And still, your husband took his anger out on it, snapped its neck in two like it was the one coercing you to Simon's doorstep. The poisoned apple.
He’s too narcissistic to realize it was him. Too much of a coward to confess he was the one who forced you down this dark and moldered path. One that made you lose your wedding ring somewhere in the backroom of Simon’s butcher shop when you left your dignity on your knees.
Your husband had hardly noticed really, it’s not like he paid attention to detail when it came to you. You were shocked when he did notice, stuttering over your words, and you offered a weak apology, saying you had lost it while washing the dishes.
It was a lie, he knew it. A part of you thinks you didn’t try to convince him on purpose. That you lost it on purpose because you didn’t know how to end this any other way. It’d be easier if he was the one.
Everything else after that is black, a flurry of running after him as he storms to the backyard shed. You had screamed so loud when he picked the bunny up, the poor thing kicking its hind legs in the toughest fight it could muster. It looked so tiny in his palm, trapped in his confines.
“Been letting you feed this damn pest in my backyard and this is how you repay me?” He spat it out with fury, globs of saliva landing on your cheeks.
“Put it down, please." You spoke calmly, masking the way your chest was vibrating with anxiety. "I don't even know what you're talking about, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. There's that damn word you trickle in. A front. Appeasement of sorts to show you still care, that this is a marriage you want.
“I should’ve known, marrying a whore like you.”
Whore. He says it so often you don't even bat an eye. Sweetheart, whore, the words have become analogous at this point.
You were too late after that. The sound of its cracking neck came first. Its thrown limp body on the floor. Its head makes a thud as it lands hard on the gray cement at your feet, blood splashed underneath it.
It all happened so fast you didn't have time to react besides falling to your knees next to it. The worst part is you didn't even name it. A part of you afraid of the attachment you would've grown when you knew it would eventually lead to this. Afraid of what it would mean when he finally did.
You think you black out for a few seconds, coming to in short fuzzy bursts as reality dawns on you. It's funny the way raw meat did not affect you, not when Simon was the one meticulously handling it. Funny how you were willing to lie on the butcher block next to it all, be the sacrificial lamb instead, but this draws a vizierial reaction.
You stay still, despite your quivering fingers, until the fog clears, until your hands stop and your heart calms. Everything clashes together then, morphing into this ugly, angry monster in your chest that takes over. Years of just burying it down, pretending you were okay, boil over and your pretty bow that sealed it all together unravels. Tears in two for the first time since you've laid eyes on your coward of a husband.
You look up at him then, at the ugly figure that has the audacity to call himself a man. You won’t be too late this time.
“You’re right.” You stand, saying it with the same conviction he spat at you, except yours has reason, a deeper meaning than insecurity. "It’s the butcher. Had me on my knees last week.”
He storms across the distance then, an anger in his eyes you're not quite used to. You don't move though, not even a flinch when he wraps his hands around your throat and slams you against the wall of the shed. Your head throbs from the impact, a panging tightness radiating from your skull down your spine. Your hands find purchase on his forearm, dragging your nails along his skin until it draws blood, legs kicking out as the bunny had in his grasp too.
“Right on top of the meat you eat for dinner every night.” You say it between your strangled breaths and stinging lash line with tears you try your best to hold back.
His fingers tighten around your neck after that and the edges of your vision go dark, hands losing their grip on him when you physically can't fill your lungs with air. You see your mom at the edges, the abuse she endured when you were young. When she wasn’t brave enough to do something about it and leave. When she put her faith above reality. Above you.
You think maybe you should be thinking about your faith instead of hers. Muttering a prayer you were forced to memorize growing up, but none of them come to mind. None of them could help you now. This God should’ve saved you years ago.
The rest is a blur, you don’t know what you grab, or how you even manage to, but it’s heavy, and you can barely wrap your fingers around it. All you know is it makes your husband’s hands fall from your throat, falling back after repeatedly bashing his head with it.
Your cross necklace follows him, silver jewelry ricocheting off the floor. You think it has to be a metaphor, a sign from this God. Being set free from the expectations of religion, set free of the shackles that weighed you down for so long. The cross scalded on your skin melted off.
There’s blood dripping from his forehead when you finally stop, and he’s looking at you in shock, fingers dabbing at the wound like he hadn't just had his hands around your jugular. It makes you laugh, a sound that comes out half broken from your strained throat.
“We’re done.” It's raspy, but final.
You don't look back as you walk back inside the house you've lived in for years. Don't even give him a shred of acknowledgement when you pack a duffel bag.
You find you don't have much of importance in this house besides Simon's jacket.
You don't even realize you've got blood on your shirt and under your finger nails until you're outside Simon's door and he looks at you concerned.
You’re not even surprised when you see your ring glimmer out of the corner of your eye, pinned to the wall like a trophy he’s won.
- Synopsis: Prince Baelor has found himself bewitched by his youngest son’s septa, a most unfortunate fate for a prince, a lord husband and a pious man.
“Everybody serves the realm in some way. The farmers grow the crops and keep our bellies full. The shepherds tend their flocks and give us wool for our clothes. Masons build our walls, carpenters our roofs and merchants carry goods across the kingdom.Septons pray for our souls and meesters tend our wounds and keep our knowledge. Soldiers stand watch on the walls, ready to bleed so others may sleep in peace. And the king rules them all…”
And whores wet the cocks of men, you thought, smiling at the snotty little prince reciting his work.
The royal couple applauded. Baelor scooped his son up, lifting him high and kissing his cheek, sending the parchment fluttering from Matarys’s hand to the floor.
There goes a day's work…
“Bravo,my son. Well done!” Baelor boomed, kissing him once more.
You stared at his lips. If you moved closer, you could trace the lines on them. Count them even…
You took a slow step forwards, your movement catching Baelor’s eyes.
“A poet, I tell you!” the Dondarrion woman said to you. “You’ve made a poet of him. Soon he will be writing verses to rival the finest of bards.”
“Do not fill his head with foolishness, dear. He’ll be making speeches as his brother’s hand one day. Serving the realm as I do. Won’t you, Matarys?” the heir said, casting the two of you a sidelong look as he set his son back down.
“Yes, papa!” the princeling said with a nod before running back to you.
“Thank you” he coughed out,watching as his son took hold of your hand.
“There is no need to thank me. I live to serve.” You took hold of the seven pointed star hanging at your neck and pressed a kiss to it.
Baelor clenched his jaw.
“Gods preserve you, good septa.” Lady Dondarrion said warmly, smiling at the sight of her sweet Matarys resting his head against your arm.
You smiled back at her. You were fond of the woman.
Even fonder of the fact her lord husband had left her cunny lonely for far too long.
“And you, my lady,” you said with a dip of your head toward the couple. “your grace.”
⛧
“Are you thinking of falling upon your sword again?” you whispered, sprawled upon a bed of furs.
Your legs were spread wide, your fingers slowly trailing over your wet cunt.
Baelor squeezed his eyes shut. “Close your legs and dress yourself.”
With a huff, you pushed yourself upright. It was always the same. At times you felt like some actress in a mummer’s play, made to play the same part day after day.
At least they were paid for it. Whores as well. Ladies were meant to bear children and provide heirs.
And what do I get from it? you thought bitterly, before remembering.
“You mustn’t shy away from pleasure,my prince.”
Baelor opened his eyes, wincing when they went at once to your breasts.
“Your talk does make me want to fall upon my sword for being such a fool! Thinking with my cock instead of my head. Pleasure is fruitless...”
You arched a brow as you rose to your feet. “Then why do you keep seeking it?”
“Gods know.” He bit at his lip. “I do not even like speaking of such things with you. Aren’t you meant to be better than the rest of us? Where is your piety?”
“ You certainly did not care about my piety when you first had me,” you said. “Back then, your words were entirely different...In your own words…”
You picked your robes up from the ground and clutched them tightly to your chest.
“It was my arse you first noticed,remember? You said trying to hide it under these robes was a fucking shame. And when you tore them off me, it was my tits. How I kept such tits hidden was a mystery to you. You told me fucking my cunt was the greatest pleasure you had felt in a long time. And that you would not stop seeking it.”
You noticed his breeches beginning to tighten once more.
“Your vulgarity never ceases to appall me…good septa.”
You frowned and gave a small shrug. “As I said, your own words.”
⛧
Matarys recited his prayers whilst you sat in the corner half listening, mending one of your hoods, the very same one a certain someone had torn in his temper.
Take your robes off, he had grumbled that night. You had wanted to be fucked wearing them, so you stood there stubborn as a mule, until he tore the hood clean off your head. You had never seen him so wound up before.
Matarys giggled when he stumbled over a line, pulling you from your wandering thoughts. A fair child, red of hair, the boy always seemed to have a smile upon his face. It was one of the reasons the court had taken to calling him sweet Matarys.
“Less giggling, more learning, sweet prince.” you muttered.
You had been a glad child once, before they sent you to the motherhouse. A girl of five and ten. The air in those rooms was so thick and stifling it half choked you. Worse, you shared it with three others. Girls who came from nothing and acted like it and you were never shy about telling them so.
They could never beat the insolence out of you. When they tried, you only breathed a sigh of relief. Every time the whip bit into your back,you felt alive again. You had never stopped looking for that feeling since.
“ I must leave you,my prince,” you told the little princeling. “Run along to your lady mother, she misses you.”
“Yes, good septa,” he nodded. “I will recite the new prayer I learned.”
He turned and ran off toward his guard, leaving you alone once more. Thank the gods for that.
⛧
You thought of Baelor’s hands. Those strong, thick fingers,sunspotted and calloused.
You imagined them pushing into your mouth, making you suck on them. You pictured them mauling your tits, pinching and twisting your nipples until they ached.
Then sliding down to your arse, grabbing and spreading your cheeks hard, squeezing the flesh until it burned red.
And then those same hands on your face, gripping your jaw, squeezing so tight it hurt, only to pull back and slap you across the cheek.
You rode your pillow faster, grinding your wet cunt against it with desperate little rolls of your hips. A needy moan slipped from your lips.
“Yes…harder….slap me again…please…baelor…” you whispered feverishly to yourself.
You slapped your own face hard. The sharp sting bloomed across your cheek and you moaned louder still.
A creak came from the door. You should have stopped, but the ache between your legs was unbearable. You feared you might die if you stopped, dropped dead right there with a pillow wedged between your thighs. What a sight that would be.
The door swung open. The figure standing in the dark only made you rut all the faster.
Baelor slammed the door shut. His face was a dark, seething red.
“You sent my son away for this,” he said. “To bother his mother while you wallow in your own filth. You miserable-”
“Hit me then!” You gasped the words out, your brow furrowing with pleasure. “Hit me. Hit me. Hit me.”
The words came out like a chant. It was the first true prayer of your life, the only one that ever came straight from your heart.
Your hips never stopped moving, grinding shamelessly against tour wet pillow while he watched.
Baelors eyes widened in shock before fury took him completely. He strode over, caught a handful of your hair and yanked you off the bedding, throwing you onto your back.
“Hit me,” you begged again. “Please, baelor. Hit me.”
He cuffed you hard across the face. The slap cracked loud in the quiet room. Your head snapped sideways and a grateful sob tore from your throat.
“Yes,” you cried, laughing through the whimpers, your thighs spreading wide for him like a bitch in heat. “Again. Do it again.”
He struck you a second time, harder than the first, then pinned you by the throat, his thick fingers squeezing the breath from you.
“You have gone mad!” he growled.
You whimpered beneath him. “ So have you.”
“What have you done to me, good septa?” he breathed, ripping at the laces of his breeches.
“Your filthiness has infected me. The gods have abandoned me for this. I know they have never been at your side. I leave my wife neglected, the realm neglected…all because of a cunt belonging to a supposed godly woman?” he spat.
You shook your head. “The gods knew to send me to you. They knew! They want this! The mother looks fondly down at us.”
He scoffed, his voice bitter. “Gentle mother, font of mercy…”
You took his cock in your hands, giving it a hard tug as you finished the verse.
✧ pairing: baelor targaryen x female reader (no use of y/n or any form of physical descriptors).
✧ content warning: oral fixation, reader is enamoured and needy, gentle but unintentionally intimidating baelor, baelor’s slutty rings, hand/finger sucking, orgasming via mouth stimulation and yes it’s possible I did my research 🙂↕️, reader doesn’t know what she wants until she does.
✦ — you’re infuriatingly infatuated with your betrothed’s hands, especially his long, thick fingers.
during the entirety of your courtship with baelor, he never pushed past the boundaries of what propriety allowed. the occasional light, and wholly formal, touch of your hand had been the most physical contact he partook in during your joint, and always supervised, gatherings.
even so, against your better judgement, your gaze would often drift to his hands the very moment you were within his vicinity.
you noted the way his long fingers would frequently fiddle with his rings, wishing you might try them on your own digits to compare the fit. other times they were laid interlaced upon his lap, offering you the opportunity to regard his knuckles–the thick pointedness to them. the sudden thought of them dragging against your lower area sent a sharp jolt down your body. you nearly clenched your thighs around the frontal fabrics of your skirt, desperate for any form of friction to soothe the immoral images that plagued your mind.
when you were in a particularly needy state you would follow him to his private library in hopes of catching a glimpse of those long fingers turning a page, or caressing the spine of a book.
as, to your delight, they presently were.
baelor’s neatly trimmed nails dragged against the dyed leathers, handling each book with a touch so careful it made you ache. periodically, he would withdraw one from its place on the shelf, using his index and middle fingers to run down the middle section of the pages to separate them.
depraved thoughts of how those nimble fingers would separate you flashed across your mind.
luckily, he could not see you from where you stood, on shaky legs, having purposely chosen an unlit area far back enough to hide–
“hello,” baelor greeted suddenly, his silky tone sending a hotter wave of heat over your face. he turned slowly until he was facing you, a curious tilt to his head. his odd coloured eyes trailed over your features before flickering behind, likely heeding both your flustered exterior and the fact that you were unchaperoned in his private space. though, he kindly chose to make no remark on either observation.
under different circumstances you would have returned his greeting with ease, perhaps even have made a lighthearted joke to dissolve the tension. however, as your fingers clutched at your skirts, you struggled to force a reply from your throat, brain scrambling to formulate an excuse that would hide your true, twisted intentions for being there.
how on earth could you speak when a flutter swirled deep within your abdomen, leaving you breathless and dazed.
instead, to your embarrassment, the only action your body decided was appropriate at that very second was a swift turn and hurried escape.
even now, as you sat on the floor of your chamber, back pressed against the wall, your face burned with humiliation as you recalled the interaction in detail.
gods, how strange he must have thought you to be.
the only option left was complete avoidance–until the wedding, that is. no more lingering stares, no self-indulgent visual imageries, no more dreams that left you feeling unfulfilled.
and so, now you must ask yourself how you ended up at the entrance to his personal gardens.
the avoidance lasted a mere four days.. it was pathetic really.
baelor was settled leisurely against the cushioned seating area, his attention focused on the contents within the leather bound book resting atop his lap. oh, how you wished you were on the receiving end of his fixed gaze. with each slow turn of a page, your breath stuttered.
“will you not accompany me, my lady?” you jolted at the sound of his voice.
how did he consistently appear to be aware of your presence now?
your legs moved of their own accord towards him, as though he had spoken to them directly instead of you. in a desperate attempt to hide your trembling you lowered yourself to the grass below, your skirts brushing against the side of his leg as you settled. you knew that, that was no proper way for a lady to sit, especially when alone with your betrothed. however, at this very moment, you wished for nothing more than to receive the same undivided attention that he seemed to only bestow upon his books.
baelor’s form became rigid.
neither one of you spoke, not even as you gazed up at him or as he placed the now forgotten book on the table to his other side.
from this angle, his handsome features struck you sharper than before. the silver strands that were heavily mixed throughout the darker ones of his beard and hair shined majestically in the morning light. his broad shoulders seemed even wider from where you sat, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.
he remained unmoving for a long time, lips parting in deep thought, his eyes roaming as he studied you in ways that you’d only been able to conjure up in dreams.
then, the palm of his right hand reached down to cover the side of your face in a tender cradle. your eyes fluttered shut as the heat of his skin against your already warm cheek seeped in, feeling as though you were pressing against a torch.
“forgive me for not providing you with the attention you deserve.” the earnest, velvety way in which he spoke, coddling you in a way that would have been humiliating under different circumstances, evoked an embarrassingly powerful reaction within your lower abdomen.
“have you been sleeping well?” how cruel of him to inquire after your sleeping schedule, even if he did not know that he was the reason behind many restless nights of tossing and turning.
“I have not, your grace.” you confessed, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. having already behaved in a wanton manner, what good would come of also being a liar.
baelor’s thumb stroked the side of your mouth so lightly, you would have thought you imagined the touch had he not repeated the motion once more.
both of your hands rose to lightly grasp his wrist just as your face turned towards his wide palm. all thoughts of what was appropriate slipped from your mind the second you pressed your lips to his thumb.
there was a sharp intake of breath, followed by a deafening silence.
nothing moved, not even the branches that only moments ago had been fluttering in the wind.
surely, now was the moment you would open your eyes, remove your lips from his skin, and apologize for behaving so debauched.
instead, you placed another kiss to his palm, this time with an open mouth, and then another, and another. one to the pad of his middle finger, then his ring, and then your lips were against the back of his hand, softly brushing against his knuckles.
your eyes fluttered open just as you turned his hand back around, both of your gazes colliding the second his thumb made contact with your tongue.
baelor’s mouth had parted further now as short breaths escaped in tandem with the rise and fall of his chest. his brows were drawn together, almost making him appear angry. however, it was his odd coloured eyes that were the most fascinating–now nearly identical to one another, the blown pupils concealing most of their colour.
you manoeuvred his hand so that his middle and index fingers could slide into your mouth, the drool that had collected there allowing for easy passage.
“gods,” was baelor’s only response to the obscene sound of your mouth suckling him. saliva had begun to drip down the corner of your lips and the side of his hand.
you could taste the book he had been holding on his fingers, and something else that was entirely him.
just then, his upturned fingers brushed against the roof of your mouth, eliciting an electrical jolt through your body. a soft hum escaped your throat, encouraging him to repeat the movement until your hips were jerking clumsily in unity with the motion of his fingers.
the expression on your face must have alerted him to what was happening before you even realized. he was suddenly in front of you, free hand coming up to support the back of your neck, his knees pressed into the grass on the outer sides of your own.
then, you felt it. a deep fluttering from between your legs, one that evoked ripples of pleasure to each limb in a way that made you lightheaded. you were shaking, maybe even crying, at the clarity and fulfilment your release brought after being so wound up for months.
baelor’s arms held you against his chest, admiring the way his wet fingers glistened in the sunlight. he murmured soft words of reassurance and, though you could not hear them due to the ringing in your ears, the deep vibrations of his chest pressed against yours was comfort enough.
“are you angry?” you asked finally, once your breathing had stabilized and body settled. your voice laced with guilt and embarrassment.
“whatever for?” was his faint response, his unsullied hand continuing to massage circles into your lower back.
your face shifted from his chest to his face, eyes searching his features for an ounce of disgust.
baelor immediately understood what it was you were in need of, understandably afraid of the consequences of your actions.
his eyes met yours, gaze somehow both heated and soothing. the corner of his mouth had upturned, and it was in that moment that you realized he had known, he had always known.
“nothing happens within these walls that I do not allow.” baelor stated simply, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I am aware of all, and more.”
✧ pairing: baelor targaryen x female reader (no use of y/n or any form of physical descriptors).
✧ content warning: mention of marriage annulment, smut, father-in-law turned husband, soft dom baelor, loss of virginity, humping, baelor being so hung it won’t fit, squirting, praise kink, baelor (happily) being objectified, cock warming, breeding.
✧ disclaimer: i don’t usually do part 2’s but i had to because.. yeah. we’re sexualizing the FUCK out of that old man, i’m being so serious.
✦ — three moons had passed since your marriage to valarr had been annulled on the account of it not being consummated.
baelor, after bringing you to another release, had carefully placed you on the lounge seating near the window ledge before covering you with a shawl. he had then straightened his own clothes and promised you that by morning, you would be relieved of your duty to his son.
startled, you sat up in fear that valarr’s reputation would be ruined but baelor reminded you with a reassuring shake of his head that he would never allow that to happen, and that you needn’t worry. he had pressed a kiss to your forehead afterwards, leaving a red mark of your shared blood as a reminder for when you woke up the next morning that this hadn’t been a dream.
now, three moons later, you were married to the man who had been your good-father for a year and a half in what felt like a lifetime ago. valarr had married kiera only a single moon after the marriage had been annulled, and your own marriage to his father had taken place two moons after theirs.
you and baelor hadn’t yet been able to consummate your own marriage–though, it had only been several days since the celebratory day that had legitimized your union to the older prince.
albeit, not without trying.
“please,” you cried, chest arching deeper into the furs beneath your body. you spread your legs wider, causing your hips to rise higher to accommodate the distance.
baelor’s own hands were fisted in the silken sheets that had bunched up on either side of your head, breath coming out in pants as he continued lapping at the bitten, tender skin of your shoulder blades.
you had come four times–twice from his mouth, another from his fingers, and a final time from the jutting of his cock against your clit–and it had made no difference. his cock would not fit, only the tip could nudge inside before you were crying; you begged him to continue but each time he would stop and go back to preparing you.
“please, I can take it this time,” your voice was raw from spending the last hour pleading for him to make it fit.
baelor hummed, his hips continuing to steadily pound between your own so that your clit was continuously being prodded at. gods, if you looked at the fur beneath your bodies you were certain they would be soaked with your mixed substances.
“I know you can,”
the smooth timbre of his voice sent another gush of wetness dripping from you, increasing the volume and intensity of the repeated meeting of your lower halves.
“sweetness,” he continued, mouth moving to your ear as he lowered himself against your back, “I know you can, because you will,” the hair of his chest tickled your damp spine, spiralling you closer to another release. “however, that day doesn’t have to be today.”
“but,” you began, craning your neck to meet his lower-lidded gaze, and pressed a clumsy kiss to his mouth in an unspoken plea for him to properly take you.
baelor groaned softly, the slight rumbling of his chest against your back sending a stab of arousal in your lower abdomen.
“you can take it?”
he lowered his position to rest on his forearms, allotting himself to fully press against your back now.
“then take it.”
his hips began to rut harder against your own, it would have had you moving higher up the bed if he hadn’t held you in place with the weight of his body.
an embarrassingly loud moan left your throat as white dots floated across your vision, a release more intense than any you had ever experienced prior washed over you. his movements did not stop–they didn’t even stutter–he continued to ram against you even as you felt yourself gushing against him with every slide of his length.
a pathetic “oh,” was all you could muster out, eyes rolling into the back of your head as your mouth fell open wider in a silent cry.
you would be shaking, trembling like a leaf on a branch, if baelor wasn’t holding you down.
your mind, in a state of absolute blissful contentment, drifted to thoughts of how the same man who had smiled with fond affection the first time you had called him good-father the day you had married valarr, was now bringing you to completion over and over again on his well-endowed girth.
your eyelids began to droop as pleasure dripped through every inch of you, exhaustion lulling you into a very satiated slumber.
you were scarcely aware of the kiss baelor pressed to the edge of your hairline, sweet words whispered against your skin like a prayer.
you awoke with a yawn, snuggling further into the ticklish warmth against your cheek. you opened one eye, pleasantly surprised to find your head resting on baelor’s chest. your body was curled up against the left side of his own, with his arms loosely wrapped around your sheet covered torso.
your fingers rose to lightly thread through the grey and dark hair sprinkled across his upper body, eyes following the stripe of striking white hair that trailed down his belly and even further.
you slowly lowered the sheet draped over his waist, swallowing audibly at the sight of his softened appendage laying against his thigh. it was intimidatingly large and it wasn’t even hard yet. the neatly trimmed hair around the base emphasized the size and–good gods, was that where valarr had gotten the staggered patch of white hair on the side of his head from?
your gaze moved to his hefty, firm balls beneath, their size just as formidable as the main focus.
you were grateful he continued to sleep, knowing he would tease the glossy eyed look and heated expression on your face if he had been awake.
you glanced up at the movement of his head turning and appreciatively admired the feather-y light movement of his lashes, the grey that now covered a larger portion of his hair than the dark, and the fine lines of age and scars from battles that marked his tan skin.
you wished to kiss him, show him how deeply you loved and cared for him.
wiggling, you loosened yourself from his hold before moving down to lay comfortably between his parted legs. now, face to face with his cock, you were certain there was nothing you wanted to do more in that moment than pleasure him with your mouth the way he had done repeatedly for you.
you pressed a light kiss to the tip, fascinated by its softness, heaviness, and warmth. soon enough, you were lapping at it, eagerly laving the sensitive flesh with licks until it had hardened and his breaths were coming out rapidly.
“dear girl,” baelor huffed, his fingers gently combing your hair back as you continued to press open mouthed kisses against him. “gods,” you opened your mouth to take the tip inside, noisily suckling on the head and the little else of his length that you could comfortably fit in your mouth.
after several minutes of struggling, you released him with a pop, glancing up to find his odd-coloured stare already on yours with unabashed adoration.
“I wish to help you release, tell me how,”
“use your tongue.” he spoke after a beat of silence. he moved you forward with a guiding hand splayed against the back of your head, urging your lips to the underside of his tip. “there, that’s it, right there,” he murmured, mouth falling open as you enthusiastically flicked your tongue.
you didn’t stop, not when he warned you that he was going to release, not when his cock spurted across your face and hands, and not when he pleaded for you to stop. you continued, hands squeezing the base of him as your tongue continued its cruel ministrations.
within seconds you were looking up at him from your back, hands caged to the side of your head as his own held your wrists in a light grip.
“rest assured, I’ll remember that the next time you’re begging me to stop,” he promised, brows tightly drawn as he struggled to control his breathing.
you stared up at him quietly, eyes sparkling with wicked intent that revealed you were not remorseful in the slightest.
he softened, his nose brushing against your own that was still covered in his spending.
“come, let’s get you cleaned up.”
several more days had passed since and, unfortunately, your maidenhead was still intact.
during breakfast that morning, baelor’s hand had purposely brushed against your own as he leaned his head down to whisper, for your ears only.
“tonight.”
immediately, warmth spread up your face and down your chest. you gave a quick nod and then focused on your food, the maids, the sound of the rumbling spring clouds–anything but his eyes that remained knowingly glued to your features.
he made well on his promise, retiring from his duties as the hand and heir earlier than usual to prepare you.
“will it be like this every time?”
your vision blurred as you were nudged closer to the edge of another release.
baelor’s thick fingers maintained their speed inside your walls, four fingers stroking and twisting until you were shaking and pleading.
“no.” he spoke between kisses, his teeth and tongue pulling at your flushed, damp flesh to leave a littering of marks on your sensitive skin. “only–gods, you’re dripping–only the first few times.”
his usual diplomatic, kind tone had transformed into a deeper, breathless huskiness. in the soft light you could scarcely make out the colour of his eyes, his pupils blown as he leaned back to admire his handiwork across your abdomen, breasts, neck, and thighs.
“please, baelor,” you tugged his head back to yours, hands pressed to the coarse hair over his cheeks as you licked the sweat running down his temple.
he reached out of your line of sight to pour an unfamiliar substance over his fingers before guiding them back between your legs. you startled at the warm oil being worked into you before cantering your hips against his hand, begging with shameless abandonment for something bigger.
finally, he maneuvered you with his hands on your hips as he pressed forward, the head of his length pushing through you.
“please,”
a stray tear ran down the side of your face, his lips following its path into your hairline with a softness so sweet it made your chest ache.
after several minutes of slowly adjusting, pushing, murmurs of praise and monitoring your expression, he was fully sheathed in your warmth.
“there,” he said finally, voice strained and jaw muscles ticking. “now, we are truly husband and wife.”
you nodded, eyes dipping into the back of your head at the overwhelming feeling of fullness that flowed over you. it sent delicious shockwaves from where the two of you were conjoined, to the tips of your toes and the top of your head.
“so warm, so pliant,” baelor cooed, “my sweet girl,” his hands spread your thighs wider before moving to brace himself on either side of your head. “taking whatever I give her.”
you felt delirious at the praise, garbled words leaving your lips. “take anything–oh–so big, it’s–I can..”
his eyes flitted across your face, a pink hue colouring his own flesh at the exertion it took to hold himself still.
soon enough, he was holding your mouth open with a hand on your chin to plunge his tongue in tandem with his hips. his taste, scent, heat, and weight engulfed all of your senses, leaving you helpless and agreeable.
“my dear girl.” he mumbled, scraping the hair above his mouth over your lips until they were swollen and raw. “look at you,”
your back would have arched off the bed if he wasn’t pressing you down, leaving you lightheaded and whimpering.
“I’ve dreamt of this every night for two years,” he revealed filthily, hips snapping harder, the blunt head of his cock abusing a spot inside of you that had you keening from the feverish pleasure.
two years?
your eyes opened with alarm, walls squeezing him harder at his admittance until it felt as though every ridge and vein had melded into your own flesh.
“yes,” baelor answered your unspoken question, “I know.” he buried his face in your neck, the sound of his balls slapping against your skin increasing until you were certain every soul in the castle could hear you coupling.
“I am a selfish,” he grunted against your skin, not sounding the least bit guilty. “to lust after what I thought I could never have.”
his cock twitched repeatedly, filling you with copious amounts of his precum.
“but the gods knew I had to have you,” he confessed, fingers brushing against your bud that wantonly pulsed from neglect. “either in this realm or another.”
the combination of his obscene admission, skilled fingers, and bulky cock splitting you open sent you barrelling into a spasm so intense you were certain you had fell unconscious for several minutes.
when you came back to your senses, baelor was staring down at you, a look of longing and desire burning within his odd-coloured gaze.
“please,” you slurred, “I want it all, baelor,” your thighs pulled him down harder against you. “I wish to be full of you.”
he groaned at your words, louder than he had ever before, and slammed his hips harder against yours, not stopping until he was pressing inside of you to coat your deepest depths with his seed. his nose nudged at your own as he remained buried, ignoring the sensation of your mixed fluids dripping out.
his head slumped against your chest, the sweat from his brows falling onto your equally damp skin.
your fingers threaded through his short, greying hair, alternating between tugging the strands and scraping your nails against his scalp. he made a sound deep in his chest–one that you would tease him at a later date for–that sounded like a cat’s purring.
“it’s true,” baelor rumbled out once he had caught his breath. “I’ve dreamt of having you for much longer than you know.”
his fingers ceased their mindless caresses across your arm.
“does that upset you?”
you looked down at him, finding his mismatched eyes already fixated on your face.
“it does,” you whispered, index finger running down the length of his nose. your walls gripped his softened appendage snuggly as vulgar images raced through your mind. “we could have been doing this much sooner.”
his tense posture relaxed as he gave a light laugh, bracing himself on one hand to look down at you.
“we have all the time in the world, now, my sweet girl.”
✧ pairing: baelor targaryen x female reader (no use of y/n or any form of physical descriptors).
✧ content warning: reader is valarr’s wife, arranged marriage, non-consummated marriage, blood consuming, humping against a door, peeing out of embarrassment, heavy focus on baelor’s sharp canines, pillow riding, emphasis on baelor being hung, lots of kissing and tongue licking, voyeurism, baelor is widowed and casually fucks.
✧ disclaimer: reader imagines that baelor would be sweet in bed (and he can be) but he’s also sort of perverse and unhinged in a way that only someone who’s constantly in control of his actions and words in the public eye, can be in private.
✦ — you and valarr have an agreement; he has kiera, and unbeknownst to him or anyone else, you have your filthy, depraved thoughts that revolve around his father.
it was simple in the beginning, truly.
you hadn’t ever desired being a wife, nor had valarr ever wanted to be a husband. it was the perfect arrangement.
much to your delight and ease, it was kiera whom he bestowed his affections upon and when the topic of children was brought up within the court, the both of you easily brushed it aside with, “well, of course we’ve been trying,” when the truth was you had never even lain in the same bed as your husband.
the wedding night had been spent sharing stories of the past, nibbling on the fruit lavishly splayed across the table, and greedily indulging in the sweet wine that you were, previously, never allowed more than a single cup of.
however, now you were a wife and a princess, and no one could tell you what you were or weren’t allowed to do.
a year passed easily, with valarr touring the countryside or sneaking off to see kiera whenever he could.
meanwhile, you were left alone to enjoy your books, daily rides through the gardens on the horse your father-in-law had generously gifted you, and your growing collection of hobbies.
even so, you and valarr would dine together when it was possible, sharing tales of the day or discussing a handful of topics at once. you adored your friendship with him and you knew the feeling was returned with equal enthusiasm.
it was a dream come true.
until it wasn’t.
you hadn’t known exactly when feelings had begun to trickle from admiration and platonic affection for your husband’s father, into a burning, gnawing hunger.
perhaps, though, it was the first time you saw him in his training armour. you had only been able to catch the final minutes of the fight, unbeknownst to you at the time how those last moments would haunt your dreams for the next several months.
baelor was above his opponent, his knee pressing into the other man’s helm.
“yield.” he commanded with finality, voice echoing within the arena.
the hand to the king and heir to the throne, who had only ever spoken to you softly with kind words and fatherly affection, appeared to be an entirely different person in that moment.
a sudden, deep ache settled in your lower abdomen, growing so swiftly that it had you nearly tripping over your skirts in your hurried retreat.
the first time it happened was a mistake.
you had barely registered what was happening, what with your consciousness still tethered to sleep and the filthy dreams of your father-in-law that your mind was restlessly conjuring.
your hips moved frantically against the pillow–it had somehow lodged its way between your legs in the middle of your slumber–until you felt pleasure slowly blooming throughout your body.
“your grace,” you groggily moaned against your silky sheets, fists bunching the fabric for leverage whilst your core dragged harder against the pillow. “oh, please.”
you imagined baelor there, perhaps above you or maybe below, mouth on your ear as he called you the nickname he had affectionately given you the day your engagement to valarr had been announced.
“my dear girl.”
“yes, please,” you cried out, face down in a pool of your own drool.
baelor’s arms would wrap around your torso, assisting you in finding release.
“my dear girl,” he would continue to coo as he placed kisses over your face, jaw, neck, until he returned to your ear where he would say–
you came with a startled moan.
the second, and third, and most definitely forth time it happened were not mistakes.
you hadn’t had a good night’s rest in months.
when you closed your eyes all you could see was baelor throwing his head back in laughter, odd-coloured eyes crinkling in amusement at the corners, his sharp teeth on display in an open mouthed smile.
then, there were the dreams that plagued your sleeping mind, those of his hands touching your breasts, thighs, hips.
would baelor kiss you differently from how valarr had, when he had lightly pressed his mouth to yours the day of your wedding ceremony? it had been a peck so subtle against your lips that you had thought you imagined it entirely.
your musings and disorienting thoughts had you roaming the halls late into the night.
you stopped only when you came across a door that hadn’t been fully shut and poked your head inside, brows drawing together when you found it empty. you walked in out of curiosity, leaving the door partially ajar, just as it had been before you entered.
it was a simple room with a table in the middle, a few sizeable cabinets lining the walls, and several shelves filled with old, dusty books.
however, what you found odd was the fact that it was warm from a fire that continued to burn and appeared to have been recently fed logs.
“oh, your grace, whatever do you mean by that?” a woman’s sultry voice questioned from the hall, startling you into taking cover in the cabinet across the room before you could interpret what was happening.
the door swung open and your heart lurched at the sight of baelor and a woman of the court frantically pawing at one another.
he shut the door with a kick of his boot before returning his attention to the woman whose tongue was loudly licking at his throat.
“your grace,” she started, fingers undoing the laces of his breeches as his own lifted her skirts with a frenzied neediness that you had never seen him display. “I need it.”
“what do you need?” baelor responded in an authoritative tone.
his uncharacteristic demeanour sent a wave of heat throughout your body, fanning the fire burning in your belly in a way that left you lightheaded with want and envy.
“your cock, your grace,” she shamelessly answered, giggling when he harshly turned her around and bent her over the table.
“ask nicely.”
he was already aligning himself with her entrance, hips canting forward from what you could see through the cabinet doors.
“please, your grace, please, nothing fills me as you do.”
her back was arched, bottom wiggling as he mercilessly slid in to the hilt, uncaring of the burning stretch or whether she was prepared to take him or not, because she never was, no one was.
“yes,” she slurred, eyes rolling back as he ruthlessly plunged in and out, his hands resting on her hips to anchor her back against his hips.
he looked majestic, you thought, with his mouth open as a look of unfiltered lust etched itself over his usually neutral, undecipherable face.
baelor’s hand moved to wrap around the woman’s throat, pulling a deep moan from her.
“take it,” he mumbled, hips pistoning at a speed that would have alarmed you had you not been so aroused.
his odd-coloured eyes were nearly shut, the lowered lids and blown pupils giving him an intoxicatingly predatory appearance. the grey hair near his temples had begun to glisten with sweat, and you wished to do nothing more in that moment than lick it.
suddenly, the woman pushed him backwards, dislodging him from inside of her before dropping to her knees to take his twitching appendage into her mouth.
your eyes widened at the size of him, another wave of arousal soaking your inner thighs as you understood what she had meant by, “nothing fills me as you do”.
the sound of baelor’s sudden guttural moan had your ears burning with a desperate, selfish desire to be the only one fortunate enough to hear him unravel like that.
as experienced as you were certain she was, even she could barely open her mouth wide enough to take all of him, choking multiple times as she struggled to swallow more of him down.
“that’s it,” baelor murmured, voice raw with desire. one of his hands rested atop her head, fingers loosely tangled in her hair. he continued to whisper words of praise, each one sending sharp sparks of electricity through you. his free hand moved to lightly grab her around the throat, a ringed finger rubbing the column of her neck as she suckled.
an unintentional gasp left your lips when you realized he was feeling the slide of his cock down her throat each time she moved along the length.
immediately, both of them stilled at the sound.
you clasped a hand over your mouth even though the damage had already been done.
you had been discovered.
baelor gently pulled the woman’s mouth off of him with a pop. a thick string of saliva connected his tip to her lips, but neither one of them appeared concerned as their thoughts were now on the intruder lurking in the cabinet.
gods, this was it, you were going to be hanged.
he pulled her up by the elbows and leaned down to mutter in her ear, nodding reassuringly when she looked up at him again.
swiftly, she left in a manner that would give no one reason to suspect that lewd activities had been occurring within that very room just minutes prior.
baelor made no move to cover himself.
was it an intimidation tactic? or perhaps, he figured that there was no point in modesty when the trespasser had already witnessed so much vulgarity.
“I can hear you.”
was that frightened heaving coming from you? you could scarcely hear it over the sound of your heartbeat thunderously roaring in your ears.
in a matter of seconds, baelor had crossed the room and swung the doors of the cabinet open to reveal your trembling form.
his mouth parted and brows rose in disbelief.
neither one of you spoke or moved, though, you were certain you couldn’t even if you tried.
gods, how pathetic you must have appeared; tears running down your face, hands splayed against the back of the cabinet’s wall for stability, face and chest flushed from both arousal and guilt.
involuntarily, your gaze fell to between his legs, stomach churning at the sight of his large, dangling cock obscenely glistening with precum and saliva.
“your grace, I–,” you began meekly, shoulders visibly shaking. your eyes drifted back up to his face, head bowing in shame when you saw the pained look of bewilderment painted across his features.
you couldn’t control your muscles, dread and humiliation at being caught bleeding into every ounce of your being. helplessly, you could feel the steady stream of your bladder emptying itself running down your legs, visibly pooling under your nightgown.
if you had glanced up, you might have seen the way his face softened.
“I heard voices.. I know I shouldn’t have been walking at such a late hour, I truly–I don’t,” garbled, nonsensical words fell from your lips. “it was the only place I could hide, I’m so, so very sorry, your grace.”
the room fell silent once again.
carefully, baelor tucked himself back into his breeches before stepping back.
“this never happened.” he said after some time, then left the room.
your body unceremoniously slumped to the floor, unbothered by the fact that you were sitting in a puddle of your own mess.
how could you ever face him again?
especially, now that you had seen what he looked like near completion.
from that night onwards, as though you had no control over it, your gaze would drift to him more frequently than before, eyes darkening as you would watch him eat, drink, speak.
baelor had caught you staring numerous times, a look that you could not quite describe passing over his features before leaving just as swiftly.
you had even accidentally made eye contact with the woman you recognized from that night. however, as she hadn’t seen your face, she merely nodded in acknowledgement before turning away.
a fleeting, sick thought drifted across your mind before you could stop it.
she shared a startling, surface-level resemblance with you.
you shook your head, willing the voice to not feed your delusions further. how much longer could you go on, aching for your husband’s father so much so that it physically hurt?
you found yourself climbing his tower one rainy night, mad with desperation and wanting, and before you had even had the chance to lift your hand up to knock, the door opened.
baelor stared down at you, mouth pressed in a line as he remained unmoving, offering neither his typical greeting nor kind smile.
“I have,” you croaked, visibly shivering under the scrutiny of his undivided attention. “I have something I must ask of you.”
he barely stepped to the side so you could enter, albeit not without brushing against him. if he was curious, he did not visibly appear so; face devoid of emotion, proving his capabilities when it came to concealing his true nature and hidden desires.
he quietly moved into the room.
your mouth opened and closed repeatedly, no words leaving it because the truth was: you didn’t know how to even begin.
several minutes of silence filled the room.
“you appear to not know what it is you have come to ask for,” baelor drawled, exhaling slowly as his odd-coloured eyes studied your face.
he hadn’t said it cruelly nor was it spoken to humiliate you, nevertheless, it did all the same.
“I can learn,” you mumbled, so quietly that you were sure he hadn’t heard you until he grasped your neck in a hold that was unlike his usual featherlight, brief touches.
“is that so?”
you nodded wildly, gaze droopily drifting down to his nose and then his mouth before returning to his eyes.
baelor moved closer, mouth opening in a gesture that mirrored your own.
without warning, his tongue licked a solid stripe across your mouth, ignoring your alarmed gasp as he repeated the action.
soon, you were following his example, your own tongue timidly swiping at his.
it was filthy and noisy, between your panting and the sloppy sounds bouncing off the walls, you felt as though you might die of embarrassment.
then, his hand grabbed at the back of your neck and he was kissing you. it wasn’t anything like you had imagined it would be, nothing about it was soft or gentle, only greedy and hungry. it had your knees buckling, forcing him to support you by the waist to stop you from falling to the ground.
“my dear girl,” he began, sending a tidal wave of tingles throughout your shaking form. “I know.”
your brows drew together through your hazy, lustful daze.
“know what, my grace?”
neither one of you acknowledged the fact that you had replaced “your” with “my”.
“I know valarr has never touched you.” baelor confessed, his sharp canines pressing against your jugular, lightly nibbling at the skin before swiping at it with his tongue.
you froze, dark spots hovering around the edges of your vision.
“how long?”
he ignored your inquiry, opting to pull harshly at your thin shift until it tore. his mouth moved to the newly revealed flesh, teeth leaving little marks as they grazed your skin.
“your grace,” you cried out when his lips latched onto your nipple, rolling it between his fangs. “how–oh, gods–how long have you known?”
his hands came up to gently cradle your face.
“I’ve always known,” his voice was soft as he spoke the words you felt you already knew.
embarrassment cascaded over you.
the man you had spent nearly all of your marriage desiring had always known you hadn’t been touched, made love to, fucked.. a strangled whine left your lips as a new neediness settled in your belly.
“I can learn,” you said again, determinedly arching into his warmth. “I’ll be good for you, I can take anything you give me.”
baelor pulled the rest of the fabric off of you before lifting you by the underside of your thighs, hoisting your body against his own.
“anything?” he hummed, lips pressing open mouthed kisses against your face.
“anything, please,” you returned his affection with a desperate eagerness, mimicking his languid kisses as your core messily pressed against him.
your fingers tugged the short hair at his nape, tongue dipping out to trace the creases near his eyes before moving to lick at his greying beard.
“I’m not particularly fond of deflowering maidens.”
unabashedly, your hold on him tightened as a pathetic need to prove yourself overwhelmed your senses.
“I’ll take anything you give me–however you give it, please.”
“anything,” baelor repeated, nose running alongside your throat. he moved across the floor, arms securely holding you to him, until he had you up against the door.
you gasped at the coolness of the wood against your bare back, pressing yourself closer to the warmth of his body.
using the door to help support your weight, he removed one hand to untie his breeches, holding himself at the base to slide the meaty head of his length against your leaking core.
“oh,” you collapsed forward, panting against his neck.
baelor repeatedly nudged at your clit, not stopping even when you came, your fluids soaking his cock.
amidst your babbling and quivering, you took ahold of the sides of his face in your hands, taking a moment to admire how wonderfully the passing years had aged him.
urgently, you forced your way into his mouth, feeling yourself drip at the deep-chested groan that escaped him. his beard burned deliciously against the delicate skin around your mouth, which you were certain glistened with your mixed saliva.
“mmh-,” you moaned louder than before, exploring every crevice of his mouth. you paid extra care to his sharp canines, feeling his cock twitch against you when he pricked your lip, a metallic tang filling both of your tastebuds.
you pulled back, shivering at the way his pupils had enlarged. you looked down at his mouth, hips dragging clumsily over his cock at the sight of your blood and drool coating his lips.
baelor appeared to be equally affected as he pressed himself harder against you, teeth digging into the tiny puncture in your lip until you were sobbing in need.
it took you a few attempts to return the favour but eventually you did, biting until the tender skin of his own lip had broken.
it was as if something had flipped in him.
baelor’s hips rutted harshly against your own, blood smearing across the lower halves of both your faces as you happily swallowed his grunts.
“I should have made you my wife,” he rasped against your chin, cooing when you hysterically nodded in agreement. he pulled back, affectionately pressing a kiss to your mouth when you desperately chased his retreating lips.
“would you have liked that?”
your head nodded once more, nails dragging through his short hair until it was sticking up in all sorts of directions.
“more than anything.” you confessed, licking at your own bloodstained, swollen lips.
“perhaps, there is a way.” he spoke slowly, testing your reaction as though he was afraid you would refuse, even with him holding you open against a door.
your breath caught in your throat as you examined his features for any sign of deceit.
“truly?” you asked softly, eyes watering with unspoken words.
✧ Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x female reader (no use of y/n or any form of physical descriptors).
✧ Content warning: some dubious consent, reader is mute, large age difference, thigh riding, power imbalance, scar worship, loose mentor-mentee relationship, kissing, mention of suitors, tongue sucking, subtle father figure connotations.
✦ — Baelor discovers you, the young daughter of a lord who had opposed him during a minor rebellion, with a slit throat and a faint pulse near a riverbed, and decides to grant you a second chance at life.
Upon learning that you would have difficulty ever uttering a discernible word again, Baelor had kindly made accommodations to ease your struggles.
He had taught you how to write more eloquently, assisted you with broadening your vocabulary and knowledge by allowing you unrestricted access to his personal library, and provided you with the shelter and protection your family had been unable to upkeep when they had chosen to side with a traitor.
And here you were, nearly a decade after he had saved you that rainy afternoon, seated on a cushion near the hearth of his solar with your legs folded neatly by your side, watching your saviour fight to stay awake.
Baelor was opposite you, perched comfortably on his wide reading chair, scanning scrolls and various other letters that demanded his immediate attention, all while visibly battling not to succumb to sleep’s awaiting embrace. His eyelids gradually sank lower until the gaze he used to assess the parchment turned into narrowed slits; shadows coloured the skin beneath his eyes, their presence proving how tired he truly was despite his stubborn refusal to admit it.
You had long since abandoned your book, finding his struggle far more entertaining than “The History of the North”, the contents of which he had insisted he would quiz you on during breakfast the following day.
His hair had grown significantly greyer since you had first laid eyes on him all those years ago.
He had been the first person your vision had settled upon once you had awoken from a two moon long slumber, the startling contrast of his one blue and one brown eye had your eyelids fluttering open and closed repeatedly, their unusual pairing, as well as his distinct features, had made you believe he was a figment of your imagination.
The soft, amused lines that often creased around his eyes when you would visibly convey your visceral loathing towards a particularly old-fashioned court custom had also deepened as he had aged.
Whilst you had had your lessons on etiquette, history, and embroidery since you were young, there were many things you did not have the chance to learn before entering the court’s watchful eye, and it was the older prince who took the time to educate you with patience and guidance.
He had confessed to you one spring evening, after two years of being under his care and guidance, that he had always wanted a daughter.
“How many chapters have you completed?” Baelor’s soft timbre wrought you out of your musings, his gaze moving from the words in front of him to your undivided, star-struck stare.
Your head whipped down, opening the book back to where a feather had held your place, and indicated with your fingers how far you had delved before becoming distracted.
“Six?” his brows furrowed, a hand rising to absentmindedly stroke his beard. It was a habit, you had learned long ago, that he did when he was unsatisfied with your progress, “I imagined you would be nearly done by now.”
It was your turn to communicate your disapproval of his excessive expectations with a shrug of your shoulders and a jut of your lower lip. Feeling brave, you pointed at him, made a motion that represented sleeping, and fixed him with an accusatory look.
“My fatigue has no bearing on your studies,” Baelor responded, his own reading long forgotten as he discarded the scroll on a nearby table.
“I should confess,” he began suddenly, appearing uneasy, “that there have been some discussions amongst my council concerning your best interests.”
You placed the book beside you, uncaring that you hadn’t marked your place, and leaned forward.
“You are,” Baelor’s fingers tightened around the arms of his chair, his digits pressing so harshly into the soft fabric that you were certain there would be residual indents long after he had released his hold on them, “at an age where it would no longer be appropriate for you to remain under my care.”
As though you had eaten expired food, your stomach churned violently; the overwhelming lightheadedness that assaulted your senses made you grateful you were already seated on the floor.
“I have found quite a few amiable suitors, all of which you will have the opportunity to get to know before you make your final decision to.. marry one of them.”
You moved to a kneeling position, the majority of your weight resting on your calves, as you stared at the older man with a betrayed, anguished look on your face.
A desperate wish to speak once more filled your heart, it had been your sole prayer for years, one that you hadn’t silently begged for since the day Baelor told you that you did not need an audible voice to relay a message worthy of being heard. Now, as you were subjugated to his decree, you wished for your voice to return to you with a quiet sob.
“You will be happy,” he spoke gently, “as well as generously taken care of.”
You wanted to confess to him that you longed to remain by his side until the end of your days, listening to his mild complaints concerning the realm all the while gladly completing the reading he would assign you.
Of course, you could send him letters outlining your opinions on the novels you had finished, which would not be much different from how you communicated your thoughts to him presently, but you did not want to be away from him.
Baelor refused to look at you, his jaw clenching beneath his beard as he revealed that arrangements for you to meet each one of your suitors would be made in the upcoming days.
Distraught, you moved forward, skirts tripping you as you closed the distance between yourself and the man whose decisions you had once obeyed blindly.
When Baelor’s gaze finally returned to yours, your vision was too blurry to notice the glossiness to his own eyes–he was not unaffected by your uncharacteristic outburst.
Desperately, both of your hands grasped at one of his hands, a tingling of sparks traversing up your limbs and settling heavily over your heart at the feel of his calloused, large hand cradled within yours. You could count on one hand the number of times you had touched him since he had found you, most of which had been accidental.
“I will not allow anything to befall you, if that is what burdens your heart,” was Baelor’s strained reply to your hushed cries.
Frantically, you shook your head and bowed your face to kiss the top of his hand, your hold tightening.
“Rise,” Baelor ordered and for the first time since your heart had opened to the older man, you refused to follow his command.
His knuckles against your lips suppressed the sound of your cries; your warm tears flowed freely onto his limb, running down the length of his fingers to collect at the tip of his digits before falling into the chaotic mess of your skirts below.
Baelor spoke your name in a low, pained tone, his available hand moving to push your chin upwards until your tear-stained, puffy face was visible to him once more.
“Do not be afraid, sweet girl,” he offered you a kind smile, one that once would have had your heart racing and stomach fluttering pleasantly.
Now, it evoked unwanted, distressing thoughts.
What if you never saw it again?
“On the morrow, after you have slept on it, you will see that–,”
The older man was cut off by the abrupt collision of your mouth against his parted lips.
Baelor’s startled form remained still when you awkwardly enclosed his upper lip between both of yours, inexperience evident in the clumsiness of your movements.
Less than a beat later, Baelor had moved you backwards with a firm hold on your shoulders, his breath leaving him in quick huffs as the gravity of what you had done hit both him and yourself like a bolt of lightning.
His alarmed expression caused a wave of dread and humiliation to cascade over you, an ice cold pit of regret now replaced the frightened swirl that had afflicted you only moments prior.
In a flurry of movements, you twisted out of his light grip and fled.
The following weeks were torturous, to say the least.
You silently endured the distance Baelor had created between the two of you, his solar and private library no longer welcoming sanctuaries that you could seek peaceful solitude and warmth within.
Suitors met you and, once you ignored them thoroughly enough, disclosed their reluctance to move forward.
Initially, each one was more determined than the last to be the one who, if they could not steal your affections, would earn your respect and willingness to form a strategic alliance with their house.
Of course, there were some suitors who believed themself above you, reiterating words you had heard countless times.
“A traitor’s daughter is provided refuge by the very man whose life her father had plotted and treasoned against,” one had said during a stroll of the gardens, “how ironic.”
“If I were the prince, you would not have been shown mercy, of that, I am certain,” another had mumbled underneath a tree after you had accepted his offer to watch the sunset.
The final suitor you would grant your precious time had been the most filthy of his vulgar predecessors.
“Has he tasted you? Is that why he kept you to himself all these years? A silent mouth to fuck?”
Before you had the time to process his crude allegations, he pressed his unpleasant mouth hard against yours, inciting a startled sound from deep within your chest.
Of its own accord, your hand rose and firmly struck his cheek.
Days later, when you refused to meet another suitor, despite the desperate pleas of your lady’s maids and chaperone, Baelor himself was forced to take matters into his own hands.
“You must be willing,” were the first words he had spoken to you in weeks, exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders and heaviness of each step he took, “I had expected you to behave more mature regarding this subject.”
You moved to your desk to scribble several sentences, occasionally stopping to glare up at his patiently waiting form, before holding it out for him to retrieve.
“I do not wish to be married, especially not to a man who is incapable of behaving like a gentleman.”
Baelor read your words aloud, a grimace tugging at the side of his mouth as he looked at you pointedly, “Who has behaved ungentlemanly towards you?”
You motioned for him to continue reading.
"He kissed me without permission, that is why I struck him."
A livid look passed over Baelor's face before he schooled his expression back into a mask of composed neutrality.
"I was not informed that he behaved in such a manner towards you, but I assure you he will be dealt with."
You reached for a fresh piece of paper to jot down another message before you held it up for him to read from where he stood.
“I will take meeting each suitor more seriously if, and only if, you offer your assistance in the teachings of one, final subject of my choosing.”
“Very well,” Baelor agreed with a tilt of his head, a weight settling over his shoulders as he watched you continue to write.
You hesitated once you finished, placing the stiff quill down firmly as an onslaught of thoughts plagued your mind. Finally, you turned over the note to his outstretched hand, the tip of your finger tingling pleasantly when it brushed against his heated palm.
“I will not marry until you have taught me how to properly and thoroughly–,”
Baelor’s voice cut off, his figure stiffening until you could nearly feel the flustered indignation rolling off of him in waves.
“You cannot be serious.”
When you made no movement to reveal you were jesting, Baelor gave a firm, disapproving shake of his head.
“No,” was his adamant reply.
Immediately, your hand returned to the quill, a hurriedness to each stroke you wrote.
“I have never asked anything of you, except this. I ask for your guidance one last time, on a subject that I wish to be better acquainted with. It is merely a peck that I wish for.”
The look of disbelief and then contemplation that reflected within Baelor’s eyes told you that he was truly considering it.
“A peck?” he questioned, taking a seat on the cushioned chair in the corner of your bedchamber, “Then, you will return to your suitors?"
You could have dislocated your neck from how enthusiastically you nodded, your hands rising to press over your chest as a silent vow to uphold your end of the deal.
He sighed frustratedly, a hand moving to pat the short hairs atop his head downwards.
“Very well,” he held out a ring adorned hand when you bounced over to him, “but as soon as I say stop, you will stop.”
Once more, you nodded your agreement and moved to hunch over his frame.
Baelor stared up at you pensively, his lips tightly pressed together as he waited for you to get this urge out of your system.
As though he were a sacred gift sent directly from the Gods to you, you carefully cradled his face in your hands and leaned forward to plant a light kiss over his tense mouth.
For a moment, neither one of you moved, the cool exhale of his breath tickling the top of your lip.
You had kept your eyes open because he had, but soon enough your lashes were fluttering until you could no longer hold the heavy weight of your eyelids up.
A low sound left his throat in response to your sigh, his eyes drooping when you cautiously pulled at the flesh of his bottom lip.
Baelor’s mouth parted, wide enough to allow you access to lick the front of his teeth.
You had spent countless evenings watching them appear and disappear as he read to you; equally having imagined what his tongue would taste and feel like against your own each time it had swiped across his lips to moisten them.
“Stop,” Baelor’s raspy voice entered your ears and settled heavily between your legs, a visible tremor moving across your limbs as he shifted beneath your hold.
Urgently, you held him in place, a secure loop of your arms around his neck as your head turned sideways to press a kiss below his right eye.
“You appear to be–,” you cut him off, tongue swiping at his temple to taste the saltiness of his skin.
A mewl left your throat when you returned to his lips, the messy melding of your mouth against his was unpracticed but willing and desperate to please.
You were certain he had had past lovers whose skill when it came to something as simple as kissing would put your experience, or rather, lack-of, to shame. However, it did not matter, not now that you had finally fed your desire to know what he tasted like.
A deep noise rumbled through Baelor’s chest, scattering your thoughts into nothing except how he felt.
When you pulled back to regard his face you found his darkened, mismatched eyes already on you, his lips moistened from your spit and reddened from your nibbles.
“Have you had your fill?”
His cropped, dark grey and silvery hair stood in messy clumps atop his head, courtesy of your fingers and their ceaseless tugging. Though, it was the dusky pink hue that coloured the tops of his ears and cheeks that fascinated you.
A sharp intake of air filled Baelor’s lungs when you drew closer, your thumbs caressing the sides of his eyes before you bent to place kisses against the heated flesh of his cheekbones. He exhaled your name unevenly, the huskiness to his voice made it sound like a plea and a prayer mixed into one word.
Would he be upset if you marked his flesh?
Determined to leave a remembrance of this encounter into his skin, you suckled a large, colourful spot into his throat.
Baelor’s subtle shift of his head, his body instinctively submitting to your ministrations, was all the permission you needed to continue. With a newfound hunger, you returned to his mouth to suck on the wet muscle of his tongue, the suction of your cheeks slipping it further past your lips.
In a lapse of momentary judgement, Baelor pulled you over him, your knees resting comfortably on the cushion below, a calf pressed to either side of his thighs.
The sound of teeth clashing, saliva obscenely mixing, low sighs and deep moans filled the chamber; the lewd combination of noises created a swirl of arousal within your abdomen.
Baelor’s reluctance to view you as the woman you had gradually grown into under his tutelage was now forgotten as your hips bucked against his thigh, fingers grasping roughly at the coarse hair of his beard to angle his head how you wanted it.
Unthinking, you unlatched your lips from around his tongue and leaned backwards, pulling his face to your neck.
Baelor’s tongue swiped across the scar that horizontally marked your throat, the sensitive flesh tingling under his attention.
“Sweetling,” he rasped, panting against the marred skin that had once been your most painful insecurity.
His affections were laved heavily over the length of your neck, the stifled murmuring of “I would have never,” was followed by an array of kisses and light nips, and then, “let this happen.”
The underlying insinuation of his words had you pulling him back upwards, your open mouth fitting against his with a frenzied neediness.
It felt like you could kiss him for days and not feel an ounce of hunger or fatigue.
“Wait–,”
You scarcely heard him over your loud whimpers.
“Sweet girl,” Baelor called, gently pushing you backwards to examine your features and took a shuddering breath at the sight that greeted him; his widened pupils dragged down to lock on the string of spit that still connected your mouth to his, “this has gone on far enough.”
A look of hurt passed over your face, an embarrassed whine bubbling up in your chest when he turned his head to the side when you attempted to kiss him once more.
“You are more than proficient at..” he trailed off, his throat bobbing as he leaned further back, “well, you know.”
Nudging closer, your mouth made contact with his again, a twist of your torso releasing his already loosened hold on your arms.
Baelor’s quiet complaints fell on deaf ears, his lips moving against yours even as he repeatedly assured you that you did not require any more of his teachings.
Haphazardly, your hips continued to shift against his firm thigh, the feeling of your wet core dragging against the heat of his limb proved to be too much when you felt the quickly approaching tendrils of a release begin to wash over you. The scorching temperature of his leg somehow seeped through the layers that separated the both of you, his hands moving to help you find your completion despite the occasional murmurs of protests he exhaled against the skin of your burning cheeks, extended throat, and swollen lips.
“Baelor,” you struggled to stutter aloud, his name was barely discernible and strange on your heavy tongue, but his head snapped up at the sound of it regardless.
An indecipherable look spanned across his face, his heated, wide hands rising to cradle your face.
Baelor leaned forward, his hesitancy forgotten as he assisted you with reaching your peak.
He lifted his solid thigh to press more snugly between your legs, the strength of it sending wisps of pleasure that began at your core and dispersed throughout each of your limbs left you malleable above him.
During the onslaught of pleasure, you would later recall your lips returning to his, the depth of his open mouth swallowing your cries of ecstasy to replace them with guttural groans of his own.
Baelor’s lips moved down to your throat a final time, licking at it over and over again until the skin felt raw and tender beneath his care; he lapped at it as though he could replace the large scar that rested there with an even more noticeable one of his own making.
Dark spots danced around the edges of your peripheral, their size growing until your vision was rapidly tunneling.
Your hips ceased their movements as a blanket of satiated bliss enveloped you; your limbs weightless and tingly in the aftermath of your release.
The last sound you heard before you succumbed to darkness was Baelor's hoarse voice. His words were muffled against your collarbone, leaving you to wonder what it was he had said before your mind drifted to a state of familiar unconsciousness.
quarrels between you and your husband are not new, but when a heated argument turns into the two of you see it fit to give each other silent treatment… it takes an incident to make both of you realize that perhaps a lion and a dragon are not a bad match after all
genre/warnings:
very suggestive, childhood enemies to lovers, jealousy -> marital quarrel (aka aerion YEARNS but gets constipated instead), description of injury, mentions of blood, hurt/comfort, romance & fluff, first time with aerion bc he’s finally losing it, lannister!reader
notes:
a continuation of the dragon and the lioness but can also be read as a standalone. i thought i love only valarr but apparently aerion is such a goofball i love him too <3
Aerion did not know what you had done to him.
Lately, his thoughts were all about you. Where you were, what you had eaten for the day, to whom you talked to... by one means or another, he always knew.
And damnably, there were moments when his mind betrayed him too. That instead of savoring this distance you maintained, other thoughts came creeping in—
Thoughts like bending you over his desk, stripping your composure piece by piece... until there was nothing left but you breathless under him—
For any normal man, such fixation upon one’s wife might have been a blessing, but let’s not forget that you were his enemy-wife.
Was it some sort of cunning Andal sorcery? Whispered into his ear while he was asleep? Or perhaps you had slipped something in his drink? Something insidious enough to root yourself in his thoughts?
It made no sense.
But what made even less sense... was what he was feeling right now.
His jaw tightened as his gaze drifted across the hall, where you stood far too comfortably in conversation with Daeron.
His own brother. Aerion didn’t like how you were with his drunkard of a brother. The way you inclined your head as you listened, the curve of your lips—soft, polite, endearing in a way... It was so different to the sharp look he was accustomed to.
Gods, how it vexed him.
There was… something deeply infuriating about the ease with which you seemed to forget yourself—forget him—when you talked with Daeron. What could possibly be so amusing that it drew laughter from you so freely?
So he did what (arguably) anyone in his shoes would do: listening in.
Not openly because he would not be caught stooping to that, but close enough— just within earshot, where your voices carried if one paid attention.
“You fare better with my brother than I thought.” Daeron gave a low snort, shaking his head almost in awe. “Only a remarkable woman would be able to.”
There was a brief pause before your reply came, your expression almost wry.
“He could be a menace…”
The words struck like flint to steel.
A menace. Aerion’s jaw clenched harder, a burn searing inside his chest. A menace? That was what you thought of him? What you would say to his brother?
Before any sense could take hold of him, the Bright Prince was already moving. The distance between you closed in long, purposeful strides, his presence cutting cleanly that both you and his brother turned to him.
“A word,” he spat. You barely had time to react before his hand closed around your wrist, and he was already pulling you away.
. . .
The instant your husband hauled you away, a knot of unease twisted in your stomach.
The door to your marital chamber opened with a sharp push, and just as quickly, it shut behind you. You stumbled slightly at the sudden stop, surprise flickering across your face as you turned to him—
But Aerion was already looming close, his violet eyes dark with fury.
“You are—” he started, gritting out every word, “—to conduct yourself in a manner befitting my wife.”
You blinked, wide-eyed and clueless. “What do you mean?”
After the tourney at Storm’s End, you thought you had made meaningful progress with him. True, you still quarreled every now and then, but it was not quite as severe as before. And for one, the wall of pillows that once divided your bed had since been cast aside.
“Start behaving in a way that does not bring disgrace upon my name,” Aerion continued, his voice sharp with disdain.
“When have I ever done—”
“Don’t feign innocence with me, wench. You have been behaving as though you have no husband to answer to.”
What was this nonsense he was prattling about? You had only just conversed with Daeron, and of all men in Summerhall, he was the most harmless soul there was.
“Are you suggesting I’m having an affair?” Your voice rose, tinted with disbelief. “Aerion, he is your brother—”
“Brother or not, I am not blind,” he cut in sharply. “History is not so kind as to spare men from betrayal simply because of blood. Do not pretend such things are beyond you.”
You couldn’t believe this. The accusation lingered, and his very presence suffocating in its intensity. Something lurched in your chest at the way he worded it.
“You would do well to remember your place.” Something dark and ugly flickered in his violet gaze. “If you cannot even manage the duties expected of a wife, then you will soon prove yourself inadequate.”
This madman. Was the things they said about the Targaryen madness true after all? You didn’t know why your eyes were getting watery.
But by all Seven Gods, you refused to show it to him. You held his gaze, fingers tightening against the fabric of your skirts.
“If that is truly what you think of me… then so be it, my lord husband.”
The way you hissed out made Aerion tilt his head to reassess you. Oh, but you were far from done. You had enough too.
“From now on, I request a separate chamber as I cannot share a chamber with a man who thinks I’m an unfaithful wife— I will explain it to your father should he ask.”
And before he could answer—before he could twist your words into something else—you turned on your heel. Your steps were swift, resolute, carrying you toward the door before the sting in your chest could betray you.
Ever since that day, you avoided Aerion as though he were a plague.
You wasted no time in moving your personal belongings into one of the guest chambers—the farthest one from his, you made sure of it. The servants had looked at you strangely, though none dared question it. By nightfall, the room had been made entirely your own, and from then on, the door remained locked whenever you were inside.
Your hours were filled with all womanly pursuits there were—embroidery, painting, books... sometimes you were lost into them until late night.
You had your space now. Your peace. You no longer had to endure his temper or unreasonable accusations, and probably should have done this from the very first day of your marriage. Being rid of him was a blessing—
So why, then, did it irritate you… that he made no effort to seek you out?
He is so infuriating!
With a sharp motion, you stabbed your needle into the embroidery more harshly than intended, as though the act alone might banish every thought of your stupid husband from your mind.
. . .
Aerion had thought that distance would do him good, really.
He had hoped that once you were no longer within reach, whatever strange fixation had taken hold of him would fade, starved by absence.
Oh, but it had not. If anything, you plagued him more.
Your absence was louder than your presence had ever been. He kept thinking of your smile when he told you of his shit day, your puckered lips when he boasted, and how you would held the blanket tighter when you were cold at nights.
You asking for separate chambers had not been part of his expectations. Not once had it crossed his mind that you would be the one to walk away first, and now he was alone in a room that had once been his during his boyhood—
And damn, it felt so... unbearably empty.
He struggled to make sense of it. He should have been relieved. There were no more sharp-tongued retorts to provoke him and no more tempting presence to unsettle him at every turn.
So why did the silence grate?
Why did each night alone leave him more irritable than the last?
Aerion still didn’t know the answer, but he did know he needed a fucking distraction.
The next morning, he found himself riding alongside his father’s hunting party, the chill air biting against his skin as they rode through the woods.
Prince Maekar had cast him a glance, one brow arching high. Aerion was not known for early mornings, least of all voluntary ones. But he let him be all the same, thinking that perhaps his boy had finally gathered some of his long-lost wits.
The hunt would end in afternoon. And yet—
By midday, the Bright Prince had not loosed a single clean shot.
Aerion was usually a decent shot, but somehow this morning, his focus always frayed, his thoughts drifting— your face rose in his mind more times than he preferred.
Not as you had been in the hall, smiling at Daeron, but as you had looked at him then.
“If that is truly what you think of me… then so be it, my lord husband.”
More than spite, you looked hurt. Though you had tried so damnably hard not to show it, and worse, he realized it only now. He lowered his bow, something twisting uncomfortably in his chest.
Seven hells, if I could just—
Aerion exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. By the time the hunt ended, his mood had only soured. He reined his horse in beside his father at last, silent for a moment before asking his father a question out loud.
“Father, do the Andals practice sorcery or the sorts?”
Prince Maekar turned his head slowly, fixing him with a look of pure exasperation.
“Are you drunk, boy?”
The evening meal was quieter than usual.
Prince Maekar sat at the head of the table, his presence imposing as ever, while his sons occupied their usual places—Daeron already halfway into his cups, Aerion brooding over his goblet, and Egg watching them all with bright, curious eyes as he munched on his meat.
Maekar’s gaze flickered towards his second son briefly before he addressed the nearest servant. “Where is my good daughter tonight?”
Your handmaiden, standing a careful distance away, dipped into a respectful bow. “My lady is unwell, Your Grace. She sends her apologies.”
Aerion did not look up, scoffing inwardly as he took a drink of his wine. You were avoiding him, he was convinced of it. This was merely the next step in your petty defiance.
Daeron, on the other hand, perked up at once, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.
“Unwell, is she?” he mused, glancing at Aerion. “Or am I witnessing some grand marital dispute from a safe distance?”
His younger brother’s violet eyes snapped towards him. “Hold your tongue.”
“Oh, I am merely curious,” Daeron drawled, leaning back in his chair with careless ease. “You drag her away in a fury one day, and the next she vanishes from supper entirely? You must have incurred her ire. Ladies do tend to prefer husbands who do not bite, brother.”
Egg snorted softly into his cup, quickly trying to disguise it as a cough.
Aerion’s jaw tightened. “At least I do not drown myself in wine to make myself tolerable company,” he shot back.
“You believe yourself more tolerable than me?” Daeron raised a brow, amused. “You?”
Egg, unable to resist, piped up, “If she is avoiding you, you must have said something particularly dreadful, brother.”
Aerion shot him a glare. “Stay out of matters you don’t understand, you little—”
“Quiet, all of you!” Prince Maekar hissed, looking over the unruly lot that were his sons. He shot a withering look at Daeron, a grim one at Aerion and ushered Egg with, “Finish your meal and return to your quarters, Aegon.”
Egg only gave a careless shrug—entirely unbothered, if not faintly amused by his brother’s state—before taking his leave soon after. Aerion, for his part, scoffed under his breath, his temper already stretched thin to its breaking point.
“She will attend when she pleases,” he spat curtly, as though that settled it.
And yet, for the rest of the meal, his eyes strayed more than once to the empty seat.
. . .
You were ill... and you were not faking it in the slightest.
This was the third day now, and perhaps it was your own doing when you spent one night too deep in your painting that you didn’t sleep. Your body felt sluggish, heat pooling beneath your skin in a way that left you both feverish and cold. Sleep came often, but never restfully.
You probably should have a maester look at you soon. You shifted beneath the covers, your breath shallow as you tried to coax yourself into sleep. By now, your eyes stung faintly, your composure worn thin.
And worse, you missed him.
You had been so certain of your anger, and yet here you were— aching for the very man who had wounded your pride.
Perhaps the fever had muddled your thoughts and stripped away any reason, but you found yourself wishing that Aerion were here. That he would push open the door without warning, standing at your bedside with that sharp, infuriating presence—
“You stupid little menace...” you grumbled under the blankets, forcing your eyes shut. You would not allow yourself to falter before him though.
And just as you began to doze off— the air shifted. You immediately knew you weren’t alone. Your eyes snapped open, wary.
At first, there was only the dim outline of your chamber, shadows dancing faintly in the low candlelight. Then, a glint of steel caught the light—
A blade.
Instinct seized you before thought could. You twisted sharply as the knife came down where you had been only a heartbeat before.
The mattress tore. You scrambled back, heart pounding, vision swimming as you forced yourself upright. Your hand grasped blindly—finding the nearest object—
The rogue lunged again and you swung whatever it was you had grabbed.
. . .
The wine tasted particularly good this late evening.
Aerion was not exactly a fan of alcohol, but sometimes dulling his senses made thinking certain things easier. He had turned it over enough in his mind, brooded on it, weighed it— and come to a decision.
Tonight, he would put an end to this cold war between you. He would drag you back to your marital chamber if he had to. The nights without you had grown so unbearable that it felt as if they were driving him towards a slow, simmering madness.
Across from him, Daeron had sunk deeper into his usual drunken stupor, though his tongue remained as loose as ever.
“You know,” he slurred, lifting his cup lazily. “You are a fortunate man, brother.”
Aerion turned his head slightly, regarding him with a nonchalant glance.
“What does Lady Lannister lack for? She has it all. Beauty, wit, spirit…” He let out a chuckle. “Nothing at all. You ought to cherish her.”
To Aerion, all he heard was his brother coveting his wife. His lip curled slightly, irritation sparking.
“I don’t want to hear that from—”
A shrill scream suddenly cut through the hall that the two princes stilled. Your handmaiden came rushing in, her eyes wide with terror, pale and breathless, addressing him instantly.
“My prince! An attacker—! In my lady’s chamber!”
The world suddenly came to vivid focus. In one dreadful heartbeat, Aerion was already on his feet, seizing the sword displayed on the cabinet, the fine steel already drawn as Daeron sobered instantly, rising from his seat.
The brothers tore through the corridors, servants scattering in their wake. Aerion cannot think—he only drove forward with harsher strides, a single thought consuming him.
Anyone who dares to injure you would pay their price in blood.
The moment he arrived, your chamber was in chaos. Your other handmaiden lay crumpled on the floor, bathed in her own blood, whereas you—
You stood there, trembling, a candlestick clutched in your hand like a weapon, eyes wide and unfocused as the attacker struggled at your feet.
For a single, suspended moment, Aerion saw nothing but red.
His sword thrusted cleanly through the man’s shoulder, pinning him to the floor with a sickening force. The attacker cried out, writhing in agony—but he paid him no mind.
His focus was you. He reached you in one stride, as you threw yourself on him.
“You—!”
The strong arms of your husband came around you at once, pressing you against him, holding you fast—and in that instant, he felt the searing heat from your skin.
“Aerion…” you breathed, laced with relief at the mere sight of him.
But whatever words he had died in his throat when your knees buckled. Your fingers slackened, the candlestick clattering to the ground.
He caught you before you could collapse, arms tightening instinctively as your weight went limp against him. Your head fell against his shoulder, your breath faint, and your body far too warm.
Something cold and suffocating coiled around his chest.
“My lady!” your handmaidens cried out, their voices frantic, but he scarcely heard them, because for the first time in his life—
Aerion felt a raw, undiluted fear for you.
“Why was I not told my wife was this severely ill?!”
The Bright Prince’s voice rang through the chamber, sharp and furious. Almost everyone—and Prince Maekar—flinched at his harsh tone.
Your handmaiden shrank beneath his vicious anger. “My prince, I did inform you—”
Aerion’s gaze only darkened further, which made her recoil. It was not only your condition that had stoked his wrath, but also the very fact that Summerhall had been breached by some nameless assailant.
“I want the wretch who dared trespassing my wife’s chamber bound in the dungeons with no water. I will question him myself.”
He turned sharply to the guards, snapping, “And if you allow another vermin to slip into this fucking castle again, I swear to the Seven, I will have your hands and feet severed for your failure— you’ve proven them useless enough as it is.”
Nothing and no one could soothe his temper. Prince Maekar might have deemed his son excessive in his threats, yet… he understood, in some measure, and said nothing.
The maester, who was already tending to you, spoke calmly over the tension.
“It is the spring fever, my prince. Unpleasant, but not uncommon these days. If she makes it through the night, there is every chance she will recover.”
His gaze was fixed on you then, who were still and deathly pale. It looked as though even drawing breath had become a struggle for you, and he was on the verge of turning his wrath upon the maester when—
“Aerion…”
Your voice was no more than a whisper, yet it reached him. This was the second time this night you had called his name.
Maekar saw it firsthand— how the fury ebbed from his boy’s gaze, giving way to raw concern as he hovered over you. In all his life, he had only seen Aerion like this twice: once, when the boy had stood by his mother’s sickbed… and the second time, now.
Truthfully, the Prince of Summerhall had nearly abandoned hope for him. His second son had grown into someone so cruel and vain... and in Maekar’s mind, binding him to a proper lady like you had been a last, desperate attempt to salvage whatever remained of the happy boy he had once been.
Aerion’s hand had found yours, fingers closing around your palm as though to anchor you there. The maester glanced between them. “My lady needs rest—”
“She is asking for me,” the Bright Prince replied, leveling him with a dark stare. “I am staying.”
There was no room for argument in his tone.
Maekar studied him for a moment, something unreadable passing through his gaze. Then, with a subtle look from his eyes, he motioned for the others to withdraw from the chamber.
Having gone through this himself with his late wife, he knew exactly what Aerion must be feeling. Still, he allowed himself a moment longer at the threshold to watch while the others left.
The four dragons on Maekar Targaryen’s personal arms stood for all four of his sons, but deep in his heart, Aerion had always been different. He was the son who resembled him most— that same fire, quick temper, and unquenched thirst ran thick in his veins.
He could see how Aerion was determined to stay, his hand still wrapped firmly around yours. Now he had taken a seat near the edge of the bed, stroking your face in silence.
Something in Maekar’s expression softened, just barely.
Then he, too, turned and left them to their silence.
Consciousness came to you slowly. Your eyes fluttered open, vision still blurred at the edges, only to find your silver-haired husband quite close to your face— violet eyes fixed intently on your face, as though he had not looked away for hours.
Your heart fluttered. If this was a dream, you did not wish to wake from it. For a moment, you simply stared at Aerion, dazed, trying to make sense of him.
“…You look dreadful,” you croaked, noticing his disheveled hair.
“And you have been unconscious for almost twenty hours,” he returned dryly, lacking his usual bite. “You have little ground to speak on appearances.”
“Twenty…?”
“Your fever broke not long ago. You were burning like a forge.”
“And yet here I am,” you retorted, a hint of humor slipping through despite your weakness. “Still very much alive. How unfortunate for you.”
There was a brief silence. You became aware then, of the fact that Aerion was not merely near you, but lying on the bed itself and facing you, closer than he had been in… days.
“Your maid told me you have been ill, and still you chose not to summon a maester,” he started, his irritation slipping through. “And look what demanding a separate room got you. Brilliant.”
You frowned, irked. “I didn’t think it necessary then, but who could have imagined anyone might come and go from Summerhall as they pleased—”
“I will have that wretch’s offending arms severed and leave him as a corpse—”
“Oh? How very assertive of you. I certainly did not ask you to loom over me like some—”
“Like some what?” he cut in, sharper now.
You faltered, then looked away again, something tightening in your chest.
“…Why do you suddenly care?” you asked instead, pointed. “Aren’t you the one who thinks I am not beyond unfaithfulness? You should have just let me succumb to my illness so you could find a new, prettier and younger bride in my place.”
While a part of you wanted to be near to him, his accusation hurt you in equal measure. Meanwhile, Aerion went still. For a moment, he said nothing—only watched you, something dark flickering behind his gaze.
“You think I would stoop to that?” he questioned at last, voice low, edged.
“What else should I think?” you shot back, meeting his eyes now despite the ache in your head. “You made your opinion of me quite clear—”
That was when his patience snapped. He did not let you finish, because before you could fathom anything, his hand suddenly pulled the back of your head and—
—his lips crashed against yours.
It was not gentle—or at least, not at first. It was searing, sudden, born of frustration, anger— also days of tension, of unspoken thoughts and unacknowledged feelings. Myriad of things seemed to spill into that single kiss.
Your hand rose instinctively, pressing lightly against his chest, to steady yourself more than to push him away. And then the kiss softened, if only slightly— less force, less anger, and more something else entirely. Lust?
Something either of you chose not to name in the end.
When he finally pulled back, the violet of his eyes blazed, as if holding on the last strands of his control.
“You infuriate me—” he growled, voice tight, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. “You vex me, you are everything I never want in a wife, yet—”
For once, Aerion was at a loss of words. His hand lingered at your cheek, thumb brushing faintly against your skin as though savoring the feel of your skin, because in fact, this was the first time the two of you were this close on your own will.
Your gaze was unfocused, wide and glassy, lips parted slightly as you looked at him. You were the very image of the girl he had once waited for in the halls of the Red Keep during your visits in his boyhood.
How funny was it that he actually fell for you? Almost begrudgingly, Aerion tugged you closer, spitting these words as he held your gaze with that steadfast urgency:
“I lied— you are everything I want after all.”
And then, he kissed you again. His lips found yours with a quieter intensity, no longer clashing but claiming—slow, deep, as though he meant to make you feel every bit of it. His hand slid from your cheek to cradle the back of your head, drawing you closer and deepening the kiss.
“Mmh, it felt fucking mad... wondering what you were doing—” he bit out against your lips, the words rough. “I can’t stay away from you for a single fucking day and and yet you can go about... as though I do not exist?”
“Ah, mmph...” you breathed, drawing him closer to you as his hands traced along your sides and up the length of your spine. He was so warm, so solid— from the very moment you saw him riding in that tourney at Storm’s End, you had secretly wanted to hold Aerion Brightflame in your arms too.
The two of you were like two lovers discovering each other. Your husband rained hot kisses on your skin, from your mouth, jaw, throat, to your cleavage—
You hadn’t even realized that his deft fingers had been making a quick work of your bodice, and suddenly you were naked before him.
“F-Fuck...” he grounded out, laving his tongue on your bare chest. You inhaled sharply, feeling how he took your left breast in his mouth and sucked hard. You moaned, gripping the back of his head, savoring the heat that was coiling in between your legs.
Your voice was melody to his ears and Aerion started grinding against you, putting everything he had known of pleasuring a woman into practice.
“Aerion—” your breath hitched, your senses heightened, your whole body trembling— his tongue and lips were everywhere in your body he could touch.
It was overwhelming how close he was, how completely he seemed to surround you, as though there was nothing left in the world but him.
“Say my name,” he commanded, only then realizing how deeply he craved the sound of his name falling out of your sweet lips.
And so you did— when he held you as though you were something fiercely his, and when you clung to him as though you had always belonged there. You called his name over and over, crying it out at one point, when he buried himself to the hilt inside you and filling you with everything that was his.
And somewhere between defiance and surrender, between resentment and longing... the lines between enemies and lovers blurred for the dragon and the lion on this night.
. . .
The next time you awoke, you were in Aerion’s arms.
You were nestled against him, your head resting upon his bare chest. His arm draped securely around you, as though even in sleep he would not let you stray far.
Your husband—your enemy since you were children of five—had staked his claim over you. He had kissed you, bedded you, claimed your maidenhead and, Gods help you, you had been lost in the allure of the first night you had long dreaded since before your wedding.
Your fingers moved idly across the pale expanse of his chest, tracing slow, absent patterns—half in thought, half in quiet wonder.
Perhaps your prodding had been a moment too long that Aerion stirred.
His arm shifted slightly, and one violet eye cracked open, casting you a sidelong glance. You startled, hand stilling at once.
“What?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.
“Nothing,” you replied quickly.
He did not look convinced. Still, he said nothing further, only watched you for a moment longer before his gaze softened, just slightly. His hand, which had rested idly against your back, began to move in slow, absent strokes along your spine.
Never in your life had you seen Aerion Brightflame this… tame.
“Yes. I am comely enough,” he muttered after a beat, catching your lingering gaze. “You may stop staring now.”
A huff left you. “You are insufferable, even at this hour.”
“And you are unexpectedly tolerable.”
You let out a snort, and he had a half-grin on his face. “Careful, wife. You may grow fond of me.”
“Do not flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
Who would have thought that the two of you—who could scarcely endure one another’s presence—would find yourselves here, like this?
You did not speak the thought aloud. Instead, after a moment, you said, “If this—” you gestured vaguely at the sheets, “is to… continue—”
Aerion’s brow lifted slightly, looking as if he had taken some sort of offense. “If?”
“—then I will have one condition.”
He regarded you with mild curiosity, before letting out an exasperated exhale, tempering his voice into a mocking tone.
“Very well, my lady… and what, pray tell, do you demand of me now?”
You hesitated, just briefly, before meeting his gaze.
“No more visits to the whorehouse. Under any circumstances. You are not to shame me in any form.”
The words lingered, and you could feel the warmth rising to your face even as you held his gaze. You braced yourself—expecting resistance, a sharp retort, perhaps even mockery.
But instead—
“Done.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “That was… remarkably quick.”
Aerion cast you a withering stare, shifting slightly as he settled more comfortably. “You misjudge me, wife. It does not interest me.”
Your frown deepened, suspicion threading through your expression. Surely he did not fully grasp what he had just given up.
“Aerion, do you even—”
Oh, but by now, your husband knew what he had to do. He cut you off in the only way he seemed to favor— with a kiss.
He then moved above you, trailing wet kisses along your throat and shoulder. You should have pushed him away, yet you didn’t.
When he finally drew back, a roguish grin had settled onto his face. That damn, handsome face.
“You think too much. Just rest your pretty little head, my lady.”
“And you think too little,” you returned, though the bite had dulled.
A faint hint of amusement touched his lips, and you knew what he said to be true, much to your chagrin.
“Then we are simply… well-matched.”
Ever since the incident in your chamber, something had shifted. No one spoke of it, or noticed at all… save, perhaps, Prince Maekar, who watched his son with a sharper eye than most.
Aerion, for his part, remained very much himself. Haughty, vain and simply cruel, he still made a sport out of other’s suffering. And you simply listened with the composure of a saint, playing the demure wife to his fire.
While the two of you might fool everyone with the act, you could never with the Anvil— a seasoned man with a colorful experience of his own.
And soon, he saw it with his own very eyes.
Prince Maekar had taken to his usual walks through the gardens. It was meant to be a solitary habit, at least until he turned the corner and found his son bending you over the marbled table—
In the very picture of impropriety.
After a brief pause and a high arch of an eyebrow, he simply turned away, continuing his walk as though he had seen nothing at all.
There were some things a father did not need to witness twice… though, for what it was worth, it was not so terrible a sight after all. And he knew one thing for sure—
There was no such thing as a secret that could truly be kept.
. . .
The romance of the dragon prince and his lion princess would become an anecdote in many years to come… but before then—
Right now, it was Summerhall who had come to know first... that the dragon too had captured the lion’s heart.
tagging @mommyoftwoo @w1tch-hazel @kitkatrattrap @zarrockette4 @cupidsms @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @heywtvsss @kimkhyuna as per request and those asking for part 2 teehee! thank you for reading if you have reached this far <33
