Summary: After meeting each other again, what was supposed to be a one night stand becomes much more. Their connection leaving both of them obsessed with the other. However, when the Targaryen corporation holds a gala - real life starts to seep in to their perfect bubble. Making them wonder if it matters that they do not quite make sense on paper.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, SMUT, oral (m!receiving),fingering (with rings ON), biting, unprotected p in v, creampie, possessiveness, jealousy, some insecurity, quickie, office sex, no descriptions of reader except that she has female anatomy, no use of y/n, praise kink, age gap relationship (reader! is in her mid-twenties, Baelor in his mid-forties), porn WITH plot (let me know if I need to add something)
Word count: 7 k
Notes: This is a part 2 to this story: Trying new things . It could be read as a stand-alone if you do not mind getting a little confused during some parts. These two are absolutely obsessed with each other which makes me obsessed with them. Once again, apologies beforehand if the smut scenes are completely unreadable - this is only my second time diving into writing smut. English is not my first language. I do not own any characters or pictures - SJ
As we enter my apartment I try to ignore my heart pounding in my chest and the way my fingers tremble as I turn the key. It is strange how I was this nervous. I had already been with Baelor. Him simply stepping into my apartment was not a big step. But it felt like it was. Besides, it was not just that. It was not just him stepping into my small apartment clustered with books and trinkets. It was knowing who he was. The picture of him had become more clear. And unfortunately it was a picture that I liked. I liked it a lot.
“I’ll put the kettle on” I say and move to the kitchen, which to be fair is only separated from the living room and hallway with a kitchen island.
“So, this is your apartment," Baelor says, his voice smooth and low. When I glance his way I can see him looking at my bookshelf - and I curse at myself because I realize it had been ages since I had dusted it.
“Yes, this is my apartment” and then my thoughts drift back to his so-called apartment. “Although compared to yours, this is more of a storage closet” He laughs at that and walks up to me, standing by my side at the kitchen counter while still keeping a small distance from me.
“It is more than that. It is very you” This makes me turn to him with an eyebrow raised.
“Dusty shelves and a kitchen in need of a renovation?”
“No. It is warm and honest.” He flashes his smile at me and my breath hitches slightly in my throat.
“Is that what I am?”
“Yes. I think so”
Then silence falls between us. The only sound coming from the electric kettle as I pull out my box of assorted teas. The silence with Baelor was just as easy and comfortable as conversation with him. Other people’s silence made me overthink and nervously blurt out something to fill the quiet. His silence did not.
“So, I gather that you did not tell Kiera my name?” He says and breaks the silence.
“No,” I say and take out two mugs, trying to see if I had any that even slightly matched each other - I did not. All of my mugs were different and came from various thrift shops as well as museum gift shops. “I didn’t tell her much of that night.”
In the corner of my eye I see his grin widen across his face. “You obviously told her something.” My face flushes red at that.
“I will kill Kiera”
“You keep saying that and I might have to tip off the police” That pulls out an unexpectedly loud laugh from me.
While I wait for the water to boil I inch myself closer to him. My gaze being on his hand that he had placed on the kitchen counter. “For what it's worth,” my voice coming out quiet. “I did mean what I told her”
He does not respond at once and despite my nerves screaming at me to blurt out an excuse, I do not. Instead I look up at him, his smile is gone and instead his eyes are looking at me with a darker gaze than he had earlier during the night.
“Is that so?” he asks, his voice matching my quiet one. I only nod at first. Then the drinks from earlier during the night causes me to be bold.
“That night is all I’ve been able to think about these past weeks” I hear him do a sharp inhale at my words. My eyes meet his as I let my hand come up next to his hand, waiting to see if he will breach the distance.
He does. He puts his hand over mine, letting his thumb start moving in small circles on the back of my hand. “Then I am glad that I am not the only one haunted by that night”
“Haunted is it?” My voice comes out smooth as I step even closer, smelling his cologne and smelling him again - sweet yet earthy. I already felt how wetness started to pool between my legs.
“Yes.” He lets his free hand come up and tuck a strand of loose hair away from my face, then he lets his hand stay on my cheek. “I kept thinking of how I let something - someone - so wonderful slip through my fingers. Kept thinking that I’d never see you again. Kept thinking about what I’d do if I did.”
I feel his breath on me, yet neither of us leans in the last few centimeters. Instead we stay there, the warmth of our bodies meeting between us and only adding to the thick and heavy tension.
“And what would you do then” the whisper lands in the space between us - and then he removes it. He crashes his lips on mine, the hand that was on my cheek is now in my hair, the hand on the counter goes to my waist - pulling me flush against him. The moan that falls against his lips is not something I can control. Not after two months of wanting. Not after two months of trying to forget him. Not after two months of touching myself at the mere thought of him.
After minutes, or hours for I could not tell you, we break the kiss with both of us breathing desperate breaths. He leans his forehead against mine and laughs. “I think the kettle was ready minutes ago.”
“I do not care” I say and crash my lips to his again, letting my hands travel over the body that I thought I’d never get to caress again. Then my lips travel to his jawline covered in his grey beard, then his neck all while my hands went up to unbutton his shirt. A teasing smirk takes place on my lips as I leave kisses on his neck that he stretches out for me to give me more room. “Unless you’d rather drink tea?”
“Absolutely not” His voice comes out low and gruff while his hands squeezes my hips. “You look stunning in this skirt and blouse” He says breathless while I undo the last button on his shirt.
“Kiera said I looked like someone’s mom” I say while recalling my best friend’s brutal honesty when it came to fashion.
“A gorgeous mom then, and-” I interrupt his sentence by licking at his pulse point and then biting down on it, causing him to whimper. My hands move on his now bare chest. Feeling the toned muscles underneath. Then I let my lips travel down from his pulse point to his chest and down to his stomach while dropping on my knees. When I reach his waistband I see his dark happy trail and I almost moan at the sight. I let my tongue slide along the dark hairs causing him to grip my hair while groaning my name. My eyes go up to him while my fingers toy with his belt. The question in them being clear - may I?
“You do not have to” he stutters out before closing his eyes. “But if you want to then, …please” I smile while unbuckling his belt and pulling down his pants. He helps me to free his length from his boxer briefs and when I see it again I feel like I am soaking through, not only my underwear, but also my skirt. I might actually be dripping right there on the floor of my kitchen.
He takes my awe as hesitation and he adds: “I am clean. Regularly tested” Which causes me to laugh before biting my lip and looking up at him.
“Good. Me too. IUD too, if you wanted to know.” He goes to say something in response but before he can I let my tongue go across his length causing him to moan. Then I put my mouth on him, slowly taking each and every part of him until I feel him in the back of my throat. Tears are welling in my eyes and I could not care. Instead I move my mouth on him while letting my tongue work him, and gently putting my hands on his balls.
I focus on the taste of him, salty but pure. I had never enjoyed going down on a man. But I quite enjoyed going down on Baelor, especially when it made him groan and let praises fall from his lips while holding my hair. You’re extraordinary. You undo me. You are so good for me. So so so good.
His praise only furthers the wetness pooling and I clench my thighs together to try to calm myself - it does not work. So instead I only moan in frustration against his length - causing him to twitch against my tongue. Then his hands in my hair yank me away.
“I do not wish to be done yet, my sweet girl” The nickname could’ve made me finish right and there. I had dreamed of hearing him say it again.
His hands go from my hair to my hands and he helps me to my feet before kissing me again - unbothered by the taste of himself on my lips.
Without breaking the kiss I guide us into my bedroom and I push him onto the bed. He lays there, his shirt undone and length waiting for me hard and ready. “Take off the rest of your clothes” I say, not quite sure what came over me. I guess months of wanting the same man made me more demanding than I had ever been. He does not seem to mind this, instead he complies.
I take off my skirt first, and then my blouse. As I stand there in the lace lingerie that I had worn in hopes that Kiera and Valarr actually would succeed in finding me a guy. I was very happy that they had not.
Baelor looks at me where he now lays naked on the bed, as he looks over my body he gulps before speaking. “Take it all of. I cannot wait anymore for you, sweet girl.” I listen to his words, but I do not rush
Instead as I reach for one of the straps of my bra I speak. “I tried to go on dates these weeks without you.” I say, my eyes never leaving his. “Each time was more horrible than next.” The strap falls and I move to the other. “All I could do was compare them to you.” Letting my fingers move slowly before dropping the next one as well. “Every time i came home all alone and all I could do was think of the night with you.” Unclasping my bra and letting it fall. Then my hand goes to the waistband of my lace panties that were completely fucking soaked. “And each night I would have to settle with my fingers instead of you.” He groans at my words while my panties drop to the floor and I go to settle in his lap.
I lean down to kiss him and his hands go up to my hips, holding them with a grip that is sure to leave a mark. He pulls away from the kiss and lets his lips travel down to my now naked breast. His lips go to suck on one of my nipples while the other got the attention from one of his hands.
“Baelor-” I moan while grinding my hips down on his thighs, making him leave a delighted sound against my nipple before pulling away from it with a wet sound.
“You are soaked my sweet girl.” His hands move to my hips and guides me as I rut against his thigh. “Here you took your sweet time teasing me, all the while you were desperate.”
“Please Baelor I-”
“You were clean?” he interrupts me by asking and I nod while telling him of the last time I was tested. “IUD?” I nod at that while still rutting at his thigh, leaving a wet mess. “Do you still want to use a condom?” His voice falling into a more soft tone.
“Fuck no” I say before crashing my lips against his. While his tongue enters my mouth, I feel how he guides his tip against my entrance and when he is positioned I slowly inch down. I take all of him, and then sit to slowly adjust to his size.
“You are doing so well for me, my love” he says while rubbing circles on both of my hips. “I didn’t use my fingers or mouth and you are still taking me so well” I cannot answer him, the only sounds from my mouth are small whimpers at feeling him filling me completely. One of his hands goes up to my clit and starts moving in the pattern he had learned worked on me the last time. “Move when you feel ready, sweet girl”
I do. I move up and down, finding a pace that makes my name slip from his lips. My hands go up to his dark chest hair, gripping onto them while riding him. My eyes are on his face, seeing his eyes watching me on top of him. But then, my eyes drift downward to his arms. The bicep on the arm whose hand is on my clit, is slightly flexed - showcasing just how strong it is. The thought is barely formed when I lean down, my lips kissing the skin of his bicep before sucking on it. He moans at the contact and his circles on my clit go a little faster while I am still grinding on his length.
I let my tongue drag on his bicep where small beads of sweat had started to form. Then I let my teeth come out and bite the muscles causing him to twitch inside of me while a groan leaves his mouth.
“You sure do love biting, sweet girl”
“Only you” I say against his skin, causing him to stir under me. He sits up and pulls me closer in his lap.
“Is that so?” He says while I move against him and drop my forehead against his - our eyes meeting.
“Yes” The word comes out somewhere between a breath and a moan. The new angle makes him hit the soft spot inside of me and I feel how a tight coil is already forming in my belly. “Gods, Baelor I am close”
He does not respond with words. Instead he drops his head and he goes to suck on my breasts while still moving his hand in circles on my clit.
“Baelor I-”
“I know my love, let go” He says against my nipple and then bites down on it. The sting of it causes the feeling in my belly to burst and I finish right then and there. He helps me through it by meeting my pace with upward thrusts.
When my trembles still he goes up from my breasts and kisses me, deep and thorough. Then his hands go to my waist and lift me slightly to then guide me to lay down on the mattress. He turns me so I lay on my side and then he lays behind me.
“Lift your leg, sweet girl” I obey, and feel his chest against my back as his length pushes at my entrance again. “I have missed you so much” he murmurs against my neck as he pushes in his length. The feeling of him being inside of me again causes me to let out a sound that is as much of a sob as it is a moan.
“I’ve missed you too,” I say while he starts to rock into me while his hands caress my body. “Every day”
My words make him pick up his pace, his hips slamming into my backside while his length repeatedly touches the spot inside me that makes me insane. His hand goes to my front to rub circles on my sensitive bud again.
“I want you to cum again before I finish” he says while moving against me. “ You can do it, sweet girl. I know you can”
My head falls back against him as I feel the familiar coil in my stomach already forming. The sounds of our moans and our skin slapping together echoes against my bedroom walls and the sounds alone make the coil tighter and tighter. He moans my name against my neck before sucking down on it and that is what makes me fall apart again.
“There we go, so good for me” He says while continuing to slam into me - his thrusts picking up speed. “Where do you want it?”
“My mouth” My words surprised me as I said it. ” Please, Baelor” My begging is what makes him pull out and I move quickly to make my mouth ready for him. He pulls at his length in fast strokes and then he cums and my mouth is on him right away. I swallow every drop of it. The salty taste being addictive.
He puts his hands on the sides of my face and kisses me softly, while gently dragging his thumb across my flushed cheeks. “I am so glad I got stood up that night” he whispers against my lips.
“I am so glad Valarr got you to pick us up tonight” I whisper back and he laughs against my lips before bumping his nose with mine.
…
When the sun cascades on me through the window I feel Baelors breath on my neck, his arm slung across my waist. We had stayed tangled all night and although I had appreciated his breakfast last time, I much preferred to wake up next to him.
I turn in his arm so that my face meets his. I look at how soft his face looks while sleeping next to me. Besides his grey hair, he looked younger like this. One could hardly believe that this man sleeping on my flower-pillowcase was a CEO of a tech company. I let my lips meet his cheeks, in a soft and gentle kiss. Then I move them across his face causing him to stir underneath my lips.
“This is the best wake up I have gotten in years” his voice being gruff and low. I only hum in response while continuing to kiss down his neck before laying my head down on his chest. One of his hands goes to stroke my head while his arm around my waist pulls me closer. “I guess you have to uncross that item on your list.” I lift my head and look at him. “It’s not a one night stand anymore” he says wearing a crooked smile.
“I do not care” I say laying down on his chest, right above his beating heart. “ I’ll take it off the list. I don’t really feel the need to have one any more”
This makes his arm pull me tighter while kissing my hair. “Good” he mumbles against my head. We lay there together, the quiet taking over us as we simply enjoyed each other’s presence. That is, until both of our phones started buzzing with text, after text, after text.
We look at each other and we both reach the same conclusion. “They were fine when we dropped them off” I say while trying to ignore the continuous buzzing of text messages rolling in.
“Well, things turn quickly for them” he says and kisses my head before we both move toward our phones.
Our suspicions had been correct. Kiera was now bombarding me with messages about a fight she was having with Valarr. I sighed as I put on my underwear, as well as Baelors shirt before moving out into the living room and calling her.
As soon as she picks up she starts ranting about what Valarr had done. All I could do was hum and listen to her - for she did not waste a single breath. This was how it always was when the two of them fought. She called angry, ranting about how wrong he was. Then her rants started to get slower and slower and suddenly she is crying about how wrong she is and how much she loves him. Then she hangs up saying an “I love you girl” and I respond saying the same thing.
I walk into the bedroom where Baelor still has the phone against his ear and I hear him say a quick goodbye to Valarr on the other end. He hangs up and puts it on the bedside table. We look at each other and smile as I climb onto his lap.
“They really love each other” I say while settling on his thighs, his hands coming up to my hips.
“In a very intense way, yes” he say while laughing before pressing a kiss to my lips.
My hands go up to his hair - disheveled from the night before. “Have you ever had a love like that?” I say quietly while scratching his head, causing him to hum in satisfaction.
“In the beginning with Jena we were like that. We were teenagers so it was hard not to be all intense emotions and passion” He says while letting his hands move from my hips to my thighs and giving them a squeeze. “Then we had Valarr and Matarys and when you have kids you can’t live your life that way anymore. It’s not sustainable in the long run.” He moves his head slightly to kiss one of my wrists while I am still scratching his head. “And you? Have you had a love like that?”
“Yes.” I say my hands dropping from his head and moving down to his shoulders, resting them there. “It was the longest relationship I had. It was intense and as we got older I realized that we couldn’t keep doing it. So, I tried to talk to him instead. Have discussions instead of arguments.” I swallow as a lump forms in my throat when I think back to the relationship. “He was not ready for that. So, each time we had an argument he responded with the opposite to my approach - he gave me the silent treatment.” My eyes drop to my hands on Baelor’s shoulders. His thumbs move in circles on my thighs as I continue to speak. “It started with a few minutes, then hours and then finally days. The longest was 10 days. And each time he came back he said the same thing. Did you think about what you did?”I shake my head at the memory. “He said that every time and I just accepted it because the silence made me believe that I was the only one that was guilty. Overthinking everything I had ever done until I convinced myself I was horrible.” A tear escapes me and one of his hands goes up to gently brush it away. “Kiera helped me realize that it was not a healthy relationship. She helped me leave.”
“Thank you for trusting me with that” he said, his voice quiet between us, while his hand still caressed my cheek and I leaned into it. “You deserved better than that” I kiss his hand while smiling down at him.
“Thank you”
We sat there for a while until we both agreed that we should get some breakfast. He makes a french omelette while I make coffee that he said was “dangerously strong”. Before he left we exchanged numbers. This goodbye was different than the last time. Now there was a promise of more. A promise that we would see each other again. Although, we did agree not to tell anyone yet. Baelor had never introduced another woman to his sons after their mother’s passing. Even though they were both grown up now he still did not want to rush things. Especially when the thing between us was still unnamed. I had no issue with the secrecy, if anything I did not mind keeping him and the memory of the night to myself.
…
The following weeks Baelor was on several business trips. They were introducing new tech which Baelor had explained to me while on facetime but I had gotten distracted cause he was wearing his glasses which made him - somehow- even sexier. He was constantly in different time zones meaning that calls would always be in the middle of the night for one of us - causing them to be way too short since we both had work in the morning.
Texting made it all easier. Telling each other about our days and what we wanted to do when he got back. My favourite thing was whenever Baelor sent pictures because they were so quintessentially him. He would send a picture of a park in the city he was in and simply write: Very good morning stroll. Wish you were here. The fact that he used periods in his sentences should cause me to overthink - it did whenever someone else used them. But not with Baelor. Because I knew that he did not even think twice about being grammatically correct and it made my chest warm at the thought.
There would also be other pictures: of coffee that he said was almost as strong as mine, of book stores where they had a ‘very good selection’ and anything else that he said made him think of me. I would also send pictures to him. Small things in my everyday life - like the book I had finished that I wanted to lend him, or the dinner I had made off the recipe he had sent me. The only thing was that there was something lacking in our texts - we never sent selfies. Not a single photo of ourselves could be found in the conversations. I planned to change that.
That night Kiera was coming over to have a girl’s night. Our girl’s night always meant the same thing: wine, old rom-com’s, gossip and wearing pajamas. Usually I wore my old set of pajamas that I’d had for way too long. Now, I had bought a new one. A night gown in silk that was still appropriate to only wear as pyjamas but still could have other purposes. I stand in front of the mirror and take a selfie and send it to him, adding the text: Ready for girl’s night. His response comes almost immediately: You look beautiful, my sweet girl. Then a few minutes pass before he sends a picture - this time a selfie of him. He is wearing his work clothes, his hair is fixed and he is smiling at the camera. The text reads : Ready for yet another meeting where I will be thinking of you.
It made me smile and I heart the message going to respond something else when I hear Kiera knocking profusely at the door.
…
“I am not saying you are a bad friend if you don’t come, I am just saying I would be severely disappointed in you” Kiera says while painting her toe-nails.
“Yeah, but you also made it clear that since I do not have an invite that I’d have to be someone’s date”
Kiera wanted me to come to a charity fundraiser thrown by the Targaryen corporation. She said that each time they were at one of these events that Valarr would be pulled into different business conversations, leaving her alone and bored. However, you could not just simply arrive at one of these things. There had to be an official invite - or you’d have to be a plus-one.
“Not someone’s date, Valarr’s cousin Daeron’s date.” She said as if that was somehow supposed to persuade me. “He won’t try anything. He won’t be rude. If anything he will just be grateful that his father won’t berate him for bringing along someone the family deeply disapproves of.”
I simply sigh before taking a sip of wine. I did want to go. To find an excuse to be near Baelor - since the fundraiser was held the night after he came back. But I did not want to go as his nephew’s date. I wanted to go as his. But I knew I couldn’t
The phone call happened the day after. It was late and I had already tucked myself in when he called me - his voice smooth on the other end. The conversation is no different than our usual conversation. Everything flows effortlessly and a smile is on my face the entire time. That is until he clears his throat and his tone changes.
“I need to tell you something” he said and my heart drops. “There is a charity fundraiser when I come back”
“I know, Kiera told me” I thought that was it, but I heard in the exhale he did that there was more. My heart started beating faster in my chest.
“My father is making me attend it with Margot Lannister.” I go still. Everyone knew of the Lannister family. Rich and gorgeous and always in the tabloids. “But I just hope you know that it is completely professional. I have no desire to actually be with her. I hope you know that.”
I listen to his words. I knew that being in his position there were certain politics and games involved. This was one of them that I wish were not included - but alas, it was. When I do not say anything he says my name.
“I’m here, I hear you” Because I knew he did not want her. If he did he would not bother calling me. “Kiera wants me to go as Daeron’s date”
Silence and then, “You should.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, then I get to see you that night.” His tone getting warmer on the other end. “Besides, I think my brother will be ecstatic that his son brings a young woman like yourself as a date.” His words make me blush and I hesitate at first before responding.
“You know what? I’ll go.”
“Good.” he responds.
The next day I called Kiera and she screamed for several minutes before stating that she was going to become my personal shopper since I could not wear my “teacher clothes” to an event like this. She was not wrong. If Baelor was going to stand next to a Lannister I wanted to wear something that would make his eyes only be on me.
…
The woman looking back at me in the mirror did not look like me. Or she did but if my life did not consist of grading papers where students had completely ignored the instructions and then wondered why their grade was not higher.
Kiera had done my hair and makeup, but what really made me look elevated was the dress. A long satin emerald dress that was backless. Kiera claimed that this dress was like me - business in the front and party in the back.
“So I am a mullet?” I ask her as I put my heels on.
“No” she says while fixing her dress in the mirror. “You are all professional and good girl when someone first meets you. Then with time you start showing your lil freaky side” She say smiling at me.
A knock is heard and Valarr steps in wearing a tailored tuxedo. “Look at you ladies” he says with a smile before walking up and kissing Kiera. Then when they break away he looks at me. “Daeron is gonna be one happy guy” Causing Kiera to slap his chest.
“Don’t say that! She might back out.”
I did not back out. Instead we meet up with Daeron who looked me up and down with an already drunken haze. He did not give me a compliment, instead he simply gave me a thumbs up and then let his hand go to my lower back. To anyone else it looked like a gentleman guiding his lady into the fundraiser. But in reality it was him leaning his body weight against me so he would not fall on his ass.
When we enter the gala it does not take long until I see Baelor with his date. Margot Lannister was close to his age - only two years younger. She used to be a model in her twenties and now she worked at one of the more prestigious fashion catalogues.
I knew that they were only together here as a professional agreement. Yet I could not help but feel a sting as I saw him standing next to her. Because they made sense. They were the same age. They both had been married before. They were both incredibly successful. On paper she was a better choice than me - a fact that made a pit in my stomach grow larger and larger.
Then his eyes meet mine. He gives me a small smile, so small that no one else would catch it. But I do. Then his eyes travel down to where Daeron’s hand is - on my lower back that was exposed by the cut of the dress. His eyes do not go up to meet mine after that, instead they turn to whatever man stood in front of him now.
Time passed as I stood with Kiera and Daeron, drinking champagne while I tried to understand what charity this event was even for. Then my phone buzzes in my purse. I take it up and see that it is from Baelor: Take the elevator to the 11th floor. My office is in the end of the hallway - you cannot miss it.
I manage to slip away and find the elevator, pressing the button and feeling how my pulse quickens. I had not seen him in so long.
He was right about not being able to miss his office. It was at the end of the hallway and when I entered he was standing with his back to the door - looking out through the panoramic windows at the city below.
“Hi” I say and he turns, as soon as he sees me he smiles his toothy big smile - the one that made his fangs show at the corner of his mouth.
“Hi” We meet each other halfway and his hands go up to grab my waist. “You look absolutely beautiful, my sweet girl”
“You don’t look so bad yourself” Because gods know he did not. Wearing a suit that looked like it was made for him especially - probably because it was.
His hands move toward my back and as he slides his fingers across my exposed back I shiver from his cold rings.
”This dress…” he says while his eyes go over me.
”Kiera’s work” I say while letting my lips form into a smirk.
”I must thank her then” he says while his hands squeeze me and then his lips to go my neck, causing my breath to hitch.
”You didn’t seem to be pleased about it downstairs” the words coming out of me before I can think them over. He lifts his head from my neck and my eyes meet his mismatched ones.
”I was pleased about the dress” his voice is low as he says it. ”Just not about where my nephew had his hand on you”
”Is the great Baelor Targaryen jealous?” I say, a grin taking place on my face.
”Yes” he answers and then his lips go up to the shell of my ear. ”And were you not jealous of Margot Lannister?”
The grin falls from my face. ”I wasn’t jealous” He raised his eyebrows at that” Okay perhaps a little jealous but mostly I was just…” my eyes fall to the floor while my fingers go to play with the fabric of my dress. ”She makes more sense than me” I whisper.
”What do you mean, darling?” He whispers, one of his hands going up to my cheek and lifts my head up so our eyes meet again.
”She is stunning, and rich and… your age” I say and bite my lip after the confession is out of me.
”Listen to me, my sweet girl” he says while letting his thumb stroke my cheek. ” She may be all those things. But she does not talk to me the way you do. She does not care to listen to my talks of pottery. She made fun of my puzzles. She could not carry an intelligent conversation nor make me laugh.” He drops his hand and puts it back around my waist while his lips go to my neck. ”She does not make me feel intoxicated as soon as I touch her” Kiss. ”She has not kept me awake” Kiss. ”You do all these things to me, my sweet girl” Kiss. ”You are beautiful, and smart and you undo me each and every time we meet” Kiss.
I pull his face up from my neck and kiss him, moaning against his lips while tasting him again after all this time apart. His hands travel on my naked back and occasionally drops to squeeze the curve of my ass. As his tongue enters my mouth I can feel his length pressing against my thigh through his trousers.
”Please tell me that there is no one else on this floor” I whisper against his lips and he smiles.
”No, but we will have to be quick, my love” he says, as one of his hands comes up to touch my nipple through the sheer fabric of my gown. ”Keep our clothes on, simply pushing them aside - okay?” I nod before pulling him down in another kiss.
One of his hands travels up my dress while he guides me to his desk. His long and slender fingers find my slick folds - bare. He pulls back, his eyes dark. ”No underwear?”
”They were too visible in the dress” Which was only a half-truth. For I had wanted the night to end with Baelor. I only did not expect all of this to happen while the event was still on-going.
He smirks at my words before kissing me - deep and hungry. His thumb goes to my clit while one of his fingers pushes in and when he presses I feel the cold metal of his ring against my sensitive folds - causing me to gasp against his lips.
He pulls out his finger quickly. ”Sorry I forgot the rings I can-”
”No, Baelor” I say and grip at his arm,”Keep the rings on” I say before kissing his Adam's apple. He groans before letting his digit enter me again, stretching and making me ready for another. I can feel the coldness of the metal and I feel with each thrust how more and more of my juices cover them. ”Gods, Baelor”
He works his fingers up to a speed, his thumb circling my clit. Then he moves his lips to my ear, nibbling at my earlobe before whispering. ”You are the only one I want, my sweet girl. The only one I wish to touch like this”
His words, his fingers, his rings. All of it becomes too much and I finish - loudly. The sounds echoing in his office. He does not stop moving his fingers in me until I catch my breath. He kisses me and against my lips he whispers. ”Turn around, my love”
I turn around and I feel him lift my dress, then I hear his belt being unbuckled. He puts the tip of his length against my sore and aching entrance. Both of his hands go to my lowerback, he grips at it - surely leaving a bruise. ”I will have to teach my nephew not to touch you like that again”
I go to respond but then he pushes in and all that can leave my lips are moans while I lean across his desk.
He waits a few seconds for me to adjust and then he starts slamming me into the desk. His length hitting parts of me I was not even sure existed. While he moves at a fast pace he keeps his strong grip on my lower back.
”You are mine, my sweet girl” he says. It is not said as ownership, but reassurance. Reassurance that although we do not make sense on paper. Although our dates tonight both seemed like more appropriate matches - we belonged to each other.
”I am yours” I moan, while my face is pressed against some papers on the desk. ”And you are mine”
”Yes I am” he says, twitching inside of me. ”Can I please finish inside of you, my love”
”Yes” I groan. The thought of it making my second orgasm approach faster. ”Please, Baelor”
That is when he spits down on my lower back, pressing his spit on my skin while simultaneously picking up his pace. The sensations of it all bringing me closer and closer.
”Baelor I-”
”Cum my sweet girl, you can do it. I got you” And I cum once again on his hard length. ”So good my girl, so so good for me” he says while still pumping inside of me. It does not take long until I feel him twitch and then spill all of his seed inside me as he buries himself completely while saying my name over and over again.
He stays inside of me for a while, leaning over and kissing the back of my neck. When he pulls out I whimper at how empty I feel, then I feel how our mixed juices start running down my thighs.
”Please come over tonight” he says while we both fix our clothes before heading downstairs. ”I want to talk to you and be next to you” He kisses my cheek and I smile.
”Of course I’m coming over Baelor”
”Good” he removes a smudge of mascara from underneath my eye before kissing me again.
The rest of the gala was spent apart but at the end of the night I got a cab to his apartment. We fell asleep together that night, after starting to do one of the puzzles he had bought while he was away. Perhaps we did not make sense on paper, but the best things in life rarely were.
ᯓ word count: 6.9k
ᯓ series description: Prince Maekar Targaryen was more than content with his life. Well.. content is a strong word.. Nonetheless, he disagreed with his father's insistence upon his remarrying. Something foolish like "securing the realm's future", is what his father had said. To which, he had naturally stormed out of the room, with his older brother trailing after him. "Married. Married, again? Really?" But what happens when his wife is just as headstrong as him, and incredibly sexy annoying?
roe speaks: maekar targaryen,,,, maekar targaryen won the poll (i am posting this slightly early but i have to leave to get groceries guys sorry),,, let's be honest gang this was gonna happen sooner or later lol <3 i need you all to know the original moodboard i made had a picture of maekar that when my friend saw it, he went "count dooku?" and i almost cried ANYWAYS i hope this is good <3
chapters:
ᯓ★ Chapter One: "Am I some fucking prize cow, to be married to whoever at your insistence?"
ᯓ★ Chapter Two: "I had not realised how long it would take to get ready in the morning, Your Grace."
hold the line, love isn't always on time | dilf! maekar x f! reader
Chapter Two: "I had not realised how long it would take to get ready in the morning, Your Grace."
masterlist ★ chapter 1 ★ chapter 3
★ word count: 2.8k (super short, i know!)
★ series summary: Prince Maekar Targaryen was more than content with his life. Well.. content is a strong word.. Nonetheless, he disagreed with his father's insistence upon his remarrying. Something foolish like "securing the realm's future", is what his father had said. To which, he had naturally stormed out of the room, with his older brother trailing after him. "Married. Married, again? Really?" But what happens when his wife is just as headstrong as him, and incredibly sexy annoying?
roe speaks: i have literally been sat at my desk all day writing this bc i could not stop thinking about this also. do i make a dilf masterlist at this point? i think so... anyway guilty maekar >>>
The morning light peeked in through the curtains, casting a soft red glow across the chambers. Your chambers, though you had not quite gotten used to the idea of that. Thinking of your chambers only reminded you of home. Or rather, what was your home. Ah, yes. You would have to get used to this first, and then Summerhall. So much change in so little time already made your head hurt, and you had only just opened your bleary eyes - still getting used to the early rays of the sunlight outside. By your estimate, it was neither too early nor too late to awaken. Your father would likely already be awake, settling into the temporary solar as he busied himself with some matter or the other. You could not imagine anyone else was awake so earl-
KNOCK, KNOCK!!
"My Lady, may we come in?"
"Oh! Erm, yes, I suppose so..?"
You had not expected visitors, not this early! You raise the sheets up to your chin as four maids walk in -trays in their hands. As you tilt your head to one side, you make a sound of confusion, to which one of the maids (presumably the head chambermaid) clears her throat,
"You will bathe and dress this morning, yes? That is what we are here for, my Lady."
Well of course you would bathe and dress! But surely.. surely..
"Surely it is too early in the morning, no?"
"Ah, perhaps you are unused to the weather here. Though it appears awfully early outside, most of the household has awakened already."
"Already?"
"Yes, my Lady. Will you take lavender, sandalwood or rose in your bath today?"
"I suppose I should rise too then. Sandalwood sounds perfect to me."
"Wonderful choice, my Lady."
A part of you guessed sandalwood might be more appealing to your husband to be - though for all you know, he could absolutely despise sandalwood, and despise you too. You shake the thought out of your head, allowing the maids to take you towards your bath - where hot water has already been poured in. The steam is refreshing, and your muscles only relax more as you are lowered into the bath. An oil - presumably sandalwood, given both your choice and the sweet almond-like scent that rises from it - is poured into the water, and then rubbed over you.
One maid attends to your hair, another to each arm and a third to your legs as you allow your eyes to close once more. The steam rises to your face, creating a warm, fuzzy feeling that you quite enjoy as you bask in a comfortable morning.
Mornings before used to be filled with stress - you being rushed about as you and your chambermaid ran about the chambers trying to prepare yourself for the day. It seemed as though mornings here were much more different, much more comfortable. A small part of you feels hopeful - perhaps this is a good sign, perhaps this will all work out after all.
However, all good things must come to an end - even an incredibly comfortable, soothing bath. And so, you are helped back out and dried down. Oils are once again applied to your skin - more concentrated this time - and your hair is carefully dried down. Soon enough, you are dressed and sent off for breakfast with your new family. As you walk into the hall, everyone turns towards you, and the sudden realisation that you are very much late - to breakfast, no less - has you feeling awfully embarassed. Nonetheless, you find your seat, taking it and trying your very best to blend in, as if nothing had ever happened.
Extremely unfortunately for you, it appears your husband to be is not so keen on letting it go,
"You are late."
"I had not realised how long it would take to get ready in the morning, Your Grace."
"Then awaken yourself earlier - that is no excuse!"
"I understand, but-"
"Just - try to be here on time from now on."
You could not speak. Not when tears almost threatened to spill out - over being late at breakfast, of all things! You took in a shaky breath, nodding at Maekar as you slowly cut your eggs, wishing to become invisible at that very moment.
Next to Maekar, Baelor had witnessed everything, and took to elbowing his youngest brother. In response, Maekar scowled at him - and almost yelled too, were it not for Baelor subtly gesturing in your direction. With a frown on his face, he finally looked at you. Your head had remained lowered, but you could not hide the tears that had collected on your lashes. Maekar felt something in his heart - something uncomfortable. Something ugly, twisting and turning as he grimaced, swallowing back his pride. On the one hand, asking you if all was well could easily result in a great deal of unnecessary bullshit - all of which he did not wish to handle. On the other hand, it did not feel right, the way you had shrunk immediately.
Instead of doing what he feels he should have done, he says nothing - going back to his breakfast. Beside him, Baelor sighs - unable to do anything - and you do not say a word for the remainder fo your meal. Whilst it is unbearably long for both yourself and Maekar, it appears to rush swimmingly for everyone else - and you are whisked away into a solar soon enough.
Apparently, the children were all too eager to meet you.
Okay, not all of them.
Aerion could care less either way, much more interested in the training grounds than his father's soon to be wife. And though sweet Rhae probably would have cared, she was much too young to understand what was happening around her - allowing herself to be dragged by her other siblings. Finally, Daeron was… well, no one knew where Daeron was this morning, leaving you with four children. Four, excitable children. No, that is not quite right either, is it? For Aemon was more than content to sit with his books than to rush around causing mayhem.
Daella and Aegon tugged at you, pulling you between them. Daella - as any good princess would - wanted to play princess tea parties with you (in which she would hopefully convince you to convince Aegon to join in too). Aegon did not wish to play princess tea parties. No, instead he wanted you to meet his pet cat - Tiberius.
Rhae could not care less, babbling in her own little language as she clung to you - easily making your heart swoon at her sweet little antics.
"No, come play with meeee! We have tea, and cakes, and princesses!"
"But Tiberius wants to meet you!"
"Well, Father banned Tiberius from the solar anyway, silly!"
"Shhhhhh!"
"Princesses!"
"Tiberius!"
"Tea and cake!"
"A cat! A really cute cat!"
You were unable to tame the unruly beasts that tugged at your gown, and to make matters worse, the door swung open! In walked a somewhat irritated Maekar (though you began to suspect that he was almost always somewhat irritated. You could not blame him, as you remained struggling between the children that probably caused much of his irritation). The children almost falter their attempts at the sight of their father, only to lock eyes with one another again and begin tugging once more. You are… utterly helpless, unfortunately.
"What in the name of the Seven is happening here? Aegon, your pet cat better not be in here - so help me Gods!"
Maekar walks towards you with a stern look in his face, and you pray you have not done anything wrong. However, he directs his attention to the two children - now growling at each other,
"Stop that! I have not raised you to grow- Daella?! That is quite enough, both of you, let her go!"
And let go they do.
Immediately.
Which, you had not expected - at all. You lose your footing immediately, and trip over something just behind your feet - a toy, perhaps? Somewhat instinctively, you clutched Rhae closer. If you were about to fall, at the very least the child in your arms should be safe, no? You never fall all the way though - and instead, one strong arm finds itself under your back. You should not think such things, but your mind immediately fixates on just how perfectly toned the arm feels. Its hand wraps itself at your waist, tugging you up to the owner. It is then that you realise who must have stopped your fall, and embarassment creeps into your skin (for the second time today, mind you),
"My Pri-"
"Give me Rhae. You should not have held her. Aegon, Daella - apologise for your actions and leave. Aemon…"
Aemon raises his head, eyes wide as he finally takes in the situation around him,
"…go read in the library. Leave me, all of you!"
His words strike you most, and you do not waste time in collecting yourself and rushing out of the solars - intent upon returning to your chambers as soon as possible. When you leave, the children did not - much more attuned to their father than you were yet,
"It was not her fault, Father."
"…"
"Aegon tells the truth, Father. We should not have done what we did, it was our fault!"
"…"
Both Aegon and Daella share a look. Something that neither can explain, but both understand all too well as they approach their father. Even Aemon lowers his book, making his way to where Maekar has now seated himself - upon an old chair (which he mentally notes as being far too uncomfortable for anyone to sit on). Maekar finally relaxes his face (and smooths his fingers over his eyebrows in an attempt to release the tension locked up within them. It works, temporarily) and the children all look up at him, expectant,
"You are all right - it was not her fault. What were you both thinking? What if I had not been here, and she had fell?"
"Rhae would have been fine, Father, you saw how she-"
"Rhae would have been fine, yes, but she would not. She would have hit her head on the desk! I understand you are all excited, but you must be more careful!"
Under his breath, Aegon mutters something that Maekar does not quite catch - causing his eyebrows to furrow once more. Daella does hear it though, and lightly smacks her brother on the back of his head,
"Aegon!"
"Do I lie?"
Maekar shakes his head, shushing the two immediately before focusing on Aegon,
"What was it you said?"
"Promise you will not be mad, Father."
"I cannot promise that."
"Fine. I said that you should be more careful."
"More careful? I have all six of you to handle, and you think you know more than I do now?"
"No, I only meant that-"
"Pick your words wisely, Aegon."
Daella huffs. Maekar huffs back. Daella pulls a face, and Maekar frowns - unsure of what it is his daughter is doing. Sweet, young Rhae giggles as she watches her sister and father in a strange standoff,
"What Aegon is trying to say, Father, is that perhaps you were a little careless with your new wife!"
"I was not!"
"You were mean!"
"I caught her! I stopped her from being hurt - what more do you want of me?"
"She left the room crying.. and she almost cried earlier today too!"
"…you saw that??"
"Yes! Clear as day, Father."
He groans - his head rolling back as Aegon and Daella tut in disappointment. Rhae takes her usual glee from the situation, and Aemon returns once more to his book. But Maekar.. Maekar feels a pang of guilt stab through his heart, and then wrap itself around - choking and strangling him until his throat feels as though it will close up. He should have asked you if you were well, if you were okay. You had almost fallen - and could have badly injured yourself - and instead of caring, he pushed you away. He had acted like a complete and utter fool, when he knew better. He stands up abruptly (still carrying Rhae with him) and leaves the solar. Both Aegon and Daella wink at each other, before winking at Aemon (who just nods. Very, very slowly.). Somewhere in the vast halls of the Red Keep, Baelor finally releases a sigh he did not know he had been holding back.
You held yourself pretty well, all the way up to your chambers. Smiled where you needed to, greeted those who required greetings and all in all, there was no reason for anyone to suspect a thing. Right before you entered your chambers, you instructed the guards to not allow a single soul past your door, unless an emergency arises, so that you may 'complete your sleep'. But as soon as you enter your chambers, tears begin streaming down your face - like the Sevens' own sadness, a never ending flow as you try your very best not to sob out loud. Regrettably, it was a difficult task, given how you could not stop crying - nor could you stop your brain from replaying the sight of Maekar's face when he helped you up.
The way he had not even stopped to check on you. You expected he would be more concerned for Rhae, given that she was so young and such a fall could have been terrifying for her - and that you could understand. But to push you away? As if you were not about to become his wife?
Even if neither him nor you had chosen this arrangement, you were both stuck in it. And surely it was the least he could have done - ensured that you were okay?
Unfortunately, your brain likes to spiral quickly. You find yourself making links between this morning and the incident that had only occurred mere moments ago, drawing connections that any rational mind would not and you come to an awfully dangerous conclusion - your husband to be must despise you.
Unbeknownst to you, Maekar had stormed out of his solar (Rhae still babbling away in his arms, drooling over his clothes as he brushed past every single person in the corridor), intent upon correcting his mistakes, and ensuring you were in good shape after all that had happened. The idea of you crying because of his own foolishness did not sit well with him, no matter how hard he tried to ignore the weird feeling in his chest (and no, it definitely was not Rhae, who had now taken to chewing on her father's clothing).
When he approached your chambers, the guards held their hands out to him as he pulled a face of indignation,
"What is the meaning of this?"
"The Lady has requested none disturb her sleep. She did not sleep well last night."
"Well fuck that, and fuck this. Let me through!"
"Many apologies, your Grace, but-"
"You would stop me speaking with my future wife?"
"At her own orders, yes."
"Fuck me!"
He let out a very slow exhale, pinching his nose as he turned away. For a moment, all was silent as he thought of what to do. If they would not let him through, he would have no choice but to walk away. But as he does walk away, he hears your choked sobs squeeze out of the wall - as if the sound could sense that he was there, as if it knew exactly who to find. The sound buries itself in his brain - despite him wanting it to leave immediately - and he tries one last time, turning around,
"She is not happy, and I must speak with her."
"We are under strict orders-"
"Fuck your orders!"
Maekar almost attempts to push past the guards himself (and all three of them know very well that it would not be difficult for him to push past into the chambers), only for Rhae to begin crying. Soft, small sniffles quickly become loud wails and sobs as he rushes the youngest princess away, with a heart heavier than stone. Inside, you heard very little past your own crying, but the sound of the young child's crying has you rushing out of your chambers. Without even thinking, you run down the corridors - right up to a bewildered Maekar,
"What are yo-???"
You do not answer him - instead, you take her into your arms, bouncing her and patting her until her crying eases. He does not say anything, letting you take control of the situation as he takes in your appearance. Tears stain your cheeks, and you face seems somewhat drained, yet you did not hesitate in rushing forwards for a child you barely even knew. When she has fully settled, you return Rhae to his arms and walk back to your chambers as he just watches in bewilderment, with only one word on his lips,
hold the line, love isn't always on time | dilf! maekar x f! reader
Chapter One: "Am I some fucking prize cow, to be married to whoever at your insistence?"
masterlist ★ chapter 2
★ word count: 4.1k
★ series summary: Prince Maekar Targaryen was more than content with his life. Well.. content is a strong word.. Nonetheless, he disagreed with his father's insistence upon his remarrying. Something foolish like "securing the realm's future", is what his father had said. To which, he had naturally stormed out of the room, with his older brother trailing after him. "Married. Married, again? Really?" But what happens when his wife is just as headstrong as him, and incredibly sexy annoying?
roe speaks: i have brainrotted this and this is what you guys GET ik they're only awkward rn but dw they are ab to find each other so fucking annoying that they will fall in love >:)
Prince Maekar 'The Anvil' Targaryen was well known to the realm. Prince of Summerhall, fourth son of King Daeron II and a strong army commander serving in two of the Blackfyre Rebellions, Maekar Targaryen was incredibly well known to all across the realm. And alongside being such a well decorated Prince, our Prince was also well known for an incredibly impatient temper. A harsh man - quick to judgement and quicker to condemnation. Was it a result of his time as a commander, or the youngest of four Princes? None would truly know, but all would beware his wrath nonetheless.
Today of all days, he had been summoned to meet with the small council, to discuss a matter of great importance to the realm. Two years had already passed since the sorrowful passing of his late wife, Lady Dyanna Dayne (who had already provided more than enough in Maekar's eyes), and both the King and his council were in agreement that Prince Maekar was in need of a new wife.
Maekar, however, did not agree.
"What the fuck do you mean, marry me off? Am I some fucking prize cow, to be married to whoever at your insistence?"
"Maekar-"
"No! This is entirely absurd, Baelor!"
The King raised a fist, looking sternly between his two sons as he commanded a silence from them. Both sons fell silent - immediately feeling as though they were young children, being chastised once more - and the King spoke,
"We must secure the realm's future, and your children are in dire need of a mother-"
"I am mother and father enough for my children, Father-"
(This particular comment almost has the Master of Laws snickering, only to be served a particularly nasty glare from Maekar and a stern one from Baelor. He responded by shrinking in his seat and lowering his head.)
"-and we must strengthen our ties across the Realm, Son."
Ties across the Realm. Ties his fucking foot, Maekar thought, as he grumbled and pulled a face. He exhaled sharply, eyebrows crossing over into the shape that they often spent most of their time in. Baelor sighed, and the King let out a noise of exasperation,
"Ties across the realm?"
"Indeed."
"You are the King. Surely you could just tell them to bend to your will or some fucking shit."
"No."
"At least tell me who is in mind?"
"A Stark girl has been considered, but she is less suitable to you. The other options is a Tully girl - of Riverrun, from the Riverlands-"
"I know who the fucking Tullys are. I have no choice, do I?"
"It is for the-"
"For the fucking realm, yes. I am very well aware of that, Father."
With that, he spins on his heel and storms out of the council room, with his older brother Baelor following behind him, sending apologies to all his younger brother had bumped into on his way out,
"Brother-"
"Married. He wants for me to be married again. This is fucking absurd! And to a fucking Tully girl, with whom I'll have absolutely nothing in common and I am expected to smile and wave like a pretty damsel meeting her fucking knight fucking shinging in bright fucking white armour?"
"Well.."
Baelor briefly considered saying 'If the boot fits..' but he could already hear the headache that his brother would have responded with, and promptly chose against it. Probably for the best, to be entirely honest. Instead, he puts a hand on his shoulder, waiting for his brother to turn around. He almost does not, and Baelor finds himself almost pushing his brother to face him,
"Listen, I understand this agreement is not to your liking. But you cannot disagree with the fact that the children need a mother in their lives. It is not good enough for them, that you are divided between them and the realm."
"…"
"Besides, six children for one person is too much - even with the added royal help. Would you at the very least, do me the favour of meeting her? Seeing how things go?"
"And then I will have to marry her, won't I."
"Probably."
"I am in no position to deny, either. Brother, you truly are bothersome."
"Nevermind none of that, I hear Aerion has challenged Daeron to another duel!"
"AGAIN?"
Away in Riverrun, you were stood in front of your own father in his solar, sat at his desk filled with letters and melted candles - arms crossed over as you pout, shaking your head as you find yourself struggling with your own predicament,
"A Targaryen? You wish for me to marry a Targaryen? Father, do you really mean for me to-"
"Marry a Targaryen? Yes, yes I do, sweet daughter."
"But-"
"You will marry Prince Maekar, and I will not hear another word about it - is that understood? You are long past your years of wishing upon stars for a knight to whisk you away, so I implore you - daughter - do not drag my name through the mud. You will do what is required of you, and that is that!"
Tears pool in your eyes, blurring your vision as you sniffle quietly. Your father sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, unable to handle the sight as he makes his way around the desk towards you - pulling you into his arms as you cry onto his shoulder. His heart breaks, thinking back to when you would rush around him, and he would make you flower crowns - oh, the sweet innocence of youth! A hand pats your back as the other rests atop your head, in attempt to soothe your concerns.
Yet, Westerosi culture dictated that you must be married soon. For it was not socially acceptable for a young woman to be unmarried so long. Add to that the fact that it was a match that most would beg for, and you really had no choice but to nod.
At the very least, for your father's sake,
"Good, good. We shall leave on the morrow, for King's Landing."
"Already?"
"Indeed. Your items have already been packed and set aside for you, so I would take this day to finish whatever final things you wish to do."
But there was so much you wished to do. Feel the cool air drift up from the rivers outside, rush through the gardens with your maidens and imagination once more. Make silly little daisy chains, and lay in the fields as sun gleamed through the leaves above. And to think that you would quickly have to leave that all behind to marry a man you knew nought of - aside from his temper. Your shoulders sink as your father ushers you out of the room, and your feet drag you back to your own chambers, where you slump onto your bed. Tears flow more quickly now - easily staining the pillow beneath your face. Outside, muffled sobs echo past your doors, but inside, all your emotions tumble out. Before you know it, exhaustion takes over, sending you off to a sleep you desperately needed.
Back in King's Landing, Maekar paces. Back and forth, back and forth. Completely ignoring his gaggle of children, waiting patiently as their father paces, placing bets on how long it would take before he finally absolutely lost it (of course, Rhae was too young to bet - being a babbling babe of only two - and Aemon refused to join on principle, leaving a glimmering Daeron, a pouty Aerion, a mischevious Daella and an easily excitable Aegon).
So much had happened today, that he had no choice but to make a list:
The Tully Girl - enough said.
Aerion challenging Daeron to yet another duel (after Maekar had explicitly told him under no circumstances is he to challenge his older brother to a duel, especially not after the last time, when Daeron returned practically battered).
Daella convinced Aegon that he could fly. Gods bless Aemon, for if he were not there, the poor boy may have actually attempted to fly.
Rhae. Would. Not. Stop. Crying.
Aerion (Serial Maekar Offender) threw a pillow at his older brother, who ducked. Instead, the corner of the pillow - which was stupidly pointy - struck Maekar in his eye. The two boys immediately began pointing fingers, leading to Maekar shushing the two of them.
Maekar now stood with a very watery eye, anger flaring out of his soul as he tried his very best to not start yelling at his children.
And so, Maekar paces in his solar, a hand over his pained eye - attempting to ignore the water that pools in his eye. Despite his childrens' protests, he refuses to see a maester - "It was just a fucking pillow, Aemon." - but he cannot ignore that it stings so very bad.
After the fourth time pacing, Aerion pulls a face - handing two silver to Daeron, Daella and Aegon, and whispering,
"I cannot fucking believe he has not lost it yet!"
The other three merely shush him, pushing him aside. Maekar pauses his pacing to glare at his children, before returning to it. The remaining three players stay sharp and determined, as Aemon sits with Rhae and Aerion slumps into a chair, bored out of his mind.
The sixth pacing has Daeron out, tossing two silver to Daella and Aegon as he shakes his head and joins Aemon and Rhae. Rhae, for one, seems incredibly joyful at the appearance of her oldest brother, who takes her into his arms and plays with her - finally allowing Aemon to return to his book. Aerion has now taken to crushing walnuts and chewing very loudly, which might just skew the game.
The eighth pacing is where Maekar almost loses his mind. A flash of hope sparks in Daella's eyes, and Aegon has to plant his feet where he is to hold himself back as even more lines crease across Maekar's face. However, to Daella's disappointment, Maekar stays strong - and Daella hands over all her money, and the extra two silver to Aegon.
Now, between the siblings, there was always a secret extra stipulation to fulfill. You could only win the money, if the number you guessed was correct. Which meant that for Aegon to win his twenty silver pieces, Maekar must lose his mind on the ninth pacing. For a moment, he fears it will not happen. His father has already come close to breaking on the eighth pacing, and it is unlikely he will break immediately on the next one, right? Surely he would not. All children leaned forwards just a little bit, as they watched their father, eager to see Aegon return the silver back when Maekar inevitably would not lose his mind on the nint-
"AERION. STOP FUCKING CHEWING SO LOUDLY."
Ah.
It appears the children had forgotten their father's hatred for loud chewing. Aerion's eyes widen, an innocent look on his face as he chews slowly now, looking left and right before pointing at himself. Maekar massages his temples, shaking his head as he continues,
"It is incredibly irritating, and grinding. Stop that immediately."
"But-"
"NO. That is enough. And Daella, stop trying to convince Aegon that he can do stupid things - he cannot fly, NO ONE CAN FLY."
"He has not tried yet, Fathe-"
"AND HE WILL NOT TRY. Humans, cannot fly."
"But we used to-"
"Yes, when our ancestors had dragons. Look around, Daella. Do we have dragons? Would I be here, if we had dragons? Probably not. I would probably be on my fucking dragon, far away from this nonse- Aerion, I will not tell you again. Stop. Chewing. So. Loudly."
"I am just eating, Father."
"Close your fucking mouth when you eat then! Is it so difficult?"
"Yes."
He knew not to say in response, and only scowled at his second son, groaning. Daeron pulled Aemon a little closer, and Aegon took the moment to move slightly closer to his siblings - lest he be the next to receive his father's temper. Instead, Maekar turns and lets out a noise of frustration - hands pushing into the wood of the desk in front of him, grounding him somewhat. For what feels like an eternity (but is in fact, only two brief minutes) the room is silent. The corridors outside appear to be silent. No sound, but that of birds outside the window is to be heard. And then-
CRUNCH
"AERION!"
"I am hungry!"
"Everyone is hungry, Aerion. Some of us are in pain too, you know."
"It was a pillow."
"A pillow, with a sharp corner for some bizarre fucking reason!"
"…"
"I have had it - do not approach me for the next two hours, unless one of you is dying!"
Aemon rose, rushing to his father's side and tugging on his clothes. Maekar looked down at the small child - book in one hand and the corner of his shirt in the other,
"Yes, Aemon?"
"Where will you go?"
"My chambers. You may find me there if some situation arises."
The young boy nodded solemnly, returning to his book as Maekar left the solar. Yet despite wanting peace, he knows better than all that he will inevitably be interrupted by one of the children doing something or the other. Still, he makes his way back to his chambers, lying in the bed and staring up at the canopy that had felt so empty all these years. Soon, it would not be just him in this bed.
The thought worried him more than it should have.
Would his bride be young? Gods, please no. The embarassment of being likened to one of those old men who took a young bride - no, no, he could not do that. What if she hated children? That would not do him any good, given that he had six of them. What if she hated him? Well, he surmised, she probably did. She probably despised him. It would not shock him to hear that. He twiddled his thumbs, lying awake - boots still attached to his feet, hanging off the edge of the bed as he could not be bothered to remove them. Part of him wished to skip dinner entirely, to remain wallowing in his own sorrows and pities. But that would not do, nor would it be proper of a Prince. Plus, the thought of his children running amok without him to stop them was more than enough to bring him back to reality.
Still, a short nap would not be so bad, would it?
You had slept through dinner. It was not intentional, nor was it an act of protest. Your own father knew as much, given that he had come to check in on you after dinner - only to find you fast asleep, snoring quietly on the pillows. A small smile found his face as he pulled the duvet around you, kissing your forehead and leaving your chambers. He could only hope his sweet daughter would remain as peaceful in the hellhole that was King's Landing.
Unfortunately, you awoke in the dead of night - the hour of the wolf, no less. Your brain felt incredibly foggy and hazy, and for all you knew you could have slept through the last three days. Yet you knew your father would not allow that, given the proposal that had been-
Ah!
The proposal!
You remember now the fate you are damned to - to become Maekar Targaryen's wife. Tears begin collecting at your eyes again as you lower your head to the pillow once more. How could you marry a man you had never met? Sure, it was common amongst most, but you had hoped it would not happen to you…
A small part of you considered running away. If you sold all of your jewellery, surely you could make it as far as Essos, no? Live a new life, under a new identity. But the image of your father - alone and in a state of distress as he finds the news of you running away - flashing through your mind is more than enough to stop you from doing so. And so, you lie there, praying to the Seven. Praying that your future husband is not so unkind, and maybe his temper is justified. Perhaps you will find a way to temper his.. temper? Hopefully he will not be so easily angered as the rumours say.
The morning arrives sooner than you would have thought, and you are bundled into your dresses before you can even collect your thoughts, perfumed oils adorning your skin as various jewels sparkle in the morning's warm light. You enter the carriage first, your father after, and the two of you set off on the journey that would ultimately decide your fate.
The journey is long, and irritatingly slow. You feel each and every bump in the unkempt road, through the various layers you don't particularly enjoy being so wrapped up in. Each rocky bump has you grimacing just a little more, and what's worse is the fact that you cannot sleep! Whenever you are slightly close to falling asleep, your eyes rip open at yet - yes, you guessed it - another hump.
Still, there was a certain beauty in the world throughout your journey, and perhaps it was slightly childish of you to do so, but you could not help the glimmer of hope that surrounded your heart.
The day of your arrival had finally come by. Maekar had been pestered enough today, a characteristically irritated scowl upon his face. He had been bathed, scrubbed, oiled (to which he protested heavily. Something about, "If she cannot handle my natural self, should she even be married to me?". No one knew what to respond with to that one) and then clothed. That too, in uncomfortable clothes that clung to his skin in a way he absolutely despised, forcing him to try to pull it away from his neck at every given opportunity.
That was not even the worst part of it all.
The barber attempted to shave him (key word - attempted). He merely swatted his hands about, like an angry horse as his children watched on, unable to hold back their giggles. When the barber had been done cutting the ends of his hair, he brushed him away, only to look at the man that remained in the mirror.
He saw not a groom to be, but a man filled with an anger that perhaps his new bride did not deserve. He tried - he really did - to loosen his eyebrows, unclench his jaw, and make a face that seemed somewhat friendly, only for Aerion to throw a walnut shell at Aemon. And so, Maekar was once again in a state of anger.
Still, he stood now, at the gates of the Red Keep - his children finally somewhat well behaved (or as well behaved as they were capable of being) and beside his whole family. He had initially attempted to hide behind one of his brothers, only for Baelor to have him pushed forward (to which Maekar had muttered under his breath, "Like a fucking prize cow". King Daeron did not approve of this comment.).
Finally though, the carriage arrived. Inside, you sat with your father, covered in the very best garments that could have been put together, just for you. You could not deny it - despite all the fear that filled your heart, you did look like a bride. Seeing yourself briefly in the reflection of a mirror did bring a smile to your face, and your father moved to sit beside you - mere moments before the doors to the carriage were to open. He took your hands in his, raised them to his forehead and let a single tear drop onto them before pulling you in for what felt like the most important hug of your life,
"You will do well - he will be good to you, I am sure of it. I am proud of you, my sweet daughter. Do not give him too much trouble now, yes?"
You nod, though you cannot quite promise to do as he asks.
The doors to the carriage open, and your father exits first. And for a moment, Maekar thinks this is some kind of stupid practical joke being played on him. He almost scowls, except one of the knights offers his arm to help you down from the carriage.
By the Gods, were you a sight to witness. Maekar could not help but let his lips part, only to briefly wet them as he watched you closely. The most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on, and here he was. Almost scowling, with his petulant children giggling behind him. He almost turns to chastise them, but he sees you lift your head slightly. The two of you making eye contact is agreeably more important that Aegon and Daella teasing each other.
As the two of you stare at each other, and your fathers (and Baelor) make their greetings, neither you nor he say anything. You allow yourself to be led inside, and Maekar continues to silently observe you. All the way until Baelor nudges him,
"You are staring, brother."
"Am not."
"I disagree!"
"Then disagree - what is it to me."
"Now, now - you promised to give it a go. Approach her, talk with her. She is sure to be nervous, and a word from her husband to be will surely ease her soul..?"
"…"
"…for me?"
"…fine."
Maekar hides a grimace, pushing himself off the chair in which he sat and approaching you. He points to the seat next to you - somewhat awkwardly - and you shrug - equally as awkwardly,
"So."
"Your Grace."
"Erm.. yes."
"King's Landing seems lovely."
"Oh.. erm.. thank you, I suppose..?"
He had half a mind to yell, 'No! Gods, no! King's Landing is horrible, and stuffy, and horrendously overpacked - I hate this fucking place!', but a quick glance over to Baelor stops him. On the other hand, your heart only sinks further and further. Were you really about to marry someone so aloof?
"How was your journey?"
Long. Miserable. Bumpy. Those were your three options - which would you pick? Long woudl make you seem as though you were some spoilt child, unused to long journeys. Miserable would make you seem ungrateful - which of course, was less than ideal. Bumpy… was accurate, you suppose.
"Bumpy."
"Oh."
"I mean, it is to be expected, no?"
"Sure."
Ah. It seems you may have offended him. You let out a small sigh, unsure of where to take the conversation next. Perhaps you should ask about the children? Though, remembering the scowl that he quickly pushed away when you had left the carriage, perhaps that was not such a good idea. As you struggle with where to take the stiff conversation between you, he sits there, thinking.
Were the roads really that bumpy?
Baelor's eyes were almost popping out of their sockets, watching his brother uncomfortably work through conversation with you. He has half a mind to send the two of you far away from the Hall right now, and pray that being alone without prying eyes would somehow create some kind of conversation between you. Unfortunately, that is not for him to decide, and he remains staring in horror as you both just… go quiet.
Later that night, you all have dinner together. Naturally, you are somewhat overwhelmed by the number of people, and the amount of noise. At the upper end of the table, everyone sits deep in conversation as they eat. On the lower end of the table, Aerion throws morsels of food at his siblings and cousins. Smack in the middle of the table are you and Maekar, sat opposite each other.
Maekar promised his brother that he would not yell at the children tonight. He also made Aerion promise not to cause any problems at the table tonight. One of those promises has already been broken, yet he cannot break his own promise.
He stands from his seat, walking over to Aerion and whispering into his ear,
"If you do not fucking stop this stupidity right this moment, I swear I will lock you in your chambers for the next three days. Is that understood?"
The boy immediately lowers his spoon, and Maekar returns to his seat and his food. Yet dinner is still strange between the two of you, given that neither of you have yet found common ground to work with. So far, all you have seen of him is that he is grumpy, aloof and irritable - and incredibly awkward. All he has seen of you is that you are spoilt, strange and cause him a deal of irritation, just like he had predicted.
Baelor's eyes once again flick between the two of you, worry stirring in his mind.
Summary: Maekar is trying to provide a good life for his new wife by removing himself from her company and offering alternatives. He fails. Warnings: a bit of angst because of pining, a bit of smut.
The morning light cut through the high, narrow windows of Summerhall with a pale, wintry insistence, and Maekar Targaryen, prince of the Seven Kingdoms, found himself staring at the ceiling of a room that was not his own. It was decorated with painted vines, a delicate feminine touch he had never bothered to notice before. The bed linens smelled of lavender and something else, sweet and warm. The weight on his arm was the source of the latter.
You were curled against him like a dormouse seeking warmth, both your hands wrapped around the corded muscle of his forearm as if he were a lifeline in a storm. Your cheek was pressed to his shoulder, lips slightly parted in the ease of deep, trusting sleep. A strand of your hair had escaped your night braid and lay across his tunic.
Maekar did not move.
He was a prince, a warrior, a man who had crushed rebellions beneath his mace and watched men die without flinching. But this, the soft, contented curve of your mouth, the way your breath puffed in tiny, even waves against his sleeve, paralyzed him. He cast his mind back, desperately trying to remember when exactly his careful, honorable plan had crumbled to dust. It was the previous night. It had been a fool's errand, a mission of pure and unparalleled idiocy disguised as magnanimity.
For months, he had constructed a cage for you, gilded and sprawling, and called it a marriage. After the death of his first wife, the mother of his children, the very concept of a new bride had felt like a betrayal, a picking at a wound that had barely scarred over after years. His brother, King Aerys, had insisted. The match was politically sound. You were from a fine lineage, a daughter of a loyal house, and your dowry was a collection of trade agreements and land rights that made the court accountants rub their hands with joy.
And you. You were a pretty thing: young, sweet, blinking up at him at the Sept with your big eyes, he had noted absently, and a slight pout on your mouth. He recognized that pout now, not as petulance, but as a sign of deep concentration, an unconscious expression you wore when you were trying very, very hard to be brave.
At the wedding feast, you had tried to engage him in conversation, your voice a soft, hopeful melody against the droning noise of the hall. He had grunted in response, complaining about the seasoning on the boar. You had blinked, then smiled, a small, tentative thing, and said, "Perhaps the kitchens will do better with the lemon cakes, my prince. Would you like me to ask them to bring some?" Deflecting his rudeness with a kindness so artless and sweet it had made his teeth ache.
He had taken you to Summerhall, the seat of his power and the monument to his own complicated legacy. He gave you servants who curtsied low, spacious rooms filled with sunlight and tapestries you seemed to admire, and a generous allowance that could have purchased a small fleet of ships. He had daughters, Daella and Rhae, who were delighted with you, finding in you a new playmate, a doll who could speak and laugh and teach them new embroidery stitches. His sons were a different matter. Aerion was a burning star of chaos somewhere in Essos, Aemon was at the Citadel, chaining himself to books, and Daeron…Daeron was usually never counted. The thought of his eldest, a dissipated dreamer, brought a familiar, leaden weariness to his gut. But the girls were happy, and you were occupied.
He thought he had it all handled.
Everything was provided, he had reasoned, watching you from across the courtyard one afternoon as you and Rhae chased a butterfly. You were a young maiden. His idea of a comfortable existence was good service, a sturdy roof, a well-stocked armory, and a couple of friends with whom to share a flask of strongwine. He had assumed, in his colossal, self-absorbed ignorance, that your needs were the same.
Until he started to see it. The quiet sigh you suppressed when he answered your sweet inquiry about his wellbeing with a noncommittal grunt at the dinner table. The way your eyes, those big, expressive eyes, would track a young knight in the yard as he laughed with his comrades, not with lust, but with a kind of wistful, academic curiosity. You were studying a creature you had never encountered. Daella, his sweet daughter, was already starting to enter that phase of mooning over singers and sighing at sunsets, a phase he dreaded with every fiber of his being. And you, his wife, a lively girl not much older than his own children, were saddled with a grumpy man whose range of communication with her was limited to tactical assessments of mutton and grunts about the weather. You were drowning in comfort and starved of life.
He could commission solutions. Jewelry? A cascade of sapphires appeared on your vanity. New dresses? Bolts of lace and silks in hues of deep green and amethyst filled your wardrobes. Rare books? He had a first-edition history of the Rhoynar, bound in pale leather, delivered to your solar. You had been effusive in your thanks, your pout melting into a radiant smile, but the smile never quite reached your eyes. The problem, he realized with a cold, hard jolt, was not resources.
The problem was romance. He couldn't morph himself into a handsome young knight with a carefree disposition and light humor, the kind of man who would compose a song for you, who would bring you a wildflower he’d picked on a reckless morning ride, who would whisper sweet, foolish nothings in your ear. He was Maekar Targaryen, a blunt instrument, a man of duty and gristle and a simmering, constant irritation at the world.
His poor wife. You were left to smile and giggle quietly at his dry, caustic remarks about a visiting lord’s speech. And you seemed genuinely amused by them, your laughter a soft, surprised ripple of sound that made him pause, mid-chew, in confusion. You were so deprived of pleasant company that you took what you could get from him, poor sweet thing. The realization had made him want to kick himself.
So, he had formed a plan, a scheme that, at the time, had seemed the pinnacle of rational, self-sacrificing genius. He went through his guards the next day under the guise of a brutal, unforgiving drill. He had them running siege patterns, sparring until their padded armor was dark with sweat, watching them like a hawk. He found the one he was looking for: Ser Elyas, a bastard from the Reach. He was honorable, sharp as a blade, and handsome in that sun-kissed, broad-shouldered way that maidens were supposed to swoon over. His laugh was easy, his temperament unruffled.
"Ser Elyas," Maekar had rumbled, his voice a low thunder. "You are being reassigned. You are now the personal guard to my wife, the princess. You will see to her safety at all times. You will accompany her on walks, attend her in the gardens, and ensure no harm befalls her."
He had made it clear to you on your wedding night that he had no intention of bedding you. It was a statement of fact, delivered not out of cruelty but out of a misguided sense of honesty. He had seen the flash of hurt in your eyes, quickly masked by a composed, brittle acceptance. So, naturally, he reasoned, after some time spent in the company of the charming Ser Elyas, you would come to love him. It was a natural, tragic story. A handsome knight and a neglected princess. He had practically gift-wrapped a discreet, passionate affair for you. It was the least he could give it to you, a substitute for the husband you had probably imagined, a way to satisfy that aching, youthful urge for romance that he, a man carved from stone, could never fulfill.
Yet, from what he observed over the following weeks, the plan had failed with spectacular precision. He would watch from a high balcony as Ser Elyas, in his gleaming plate, offered you his hand to help you over a damp patch of grass. You took it with polite, distant courtesy. You would exchange a few words, an occasional jest that made the knight chuckle, but your expression remained serene, unmoved. Maekar, a veteran of countless campaigns, knew the look of a soldier performing a duty. And your nights, as the quiet reports from your maids confirmed, were spent solely in your rooms. No secret knocks, no furtive shadows slipping from your door at dawn.
He was at his wits’ end. What did you want then? He had given you everything your station and age could desire. What would wipe off that pretty, unconscious pout off your face? Perhaps, he had finally conceded, if he talked to you. A novel concept for a marriage, he knew. He would go to you, and perhaps, in a moment of unguarded frustration, you would let your grievances slip.
The previous night, he had gone to your chamber. Your maid, a timid wisp of a girl, nearly dropped her mending box when she saw him at the threshold. "Leave us," he had commanded, and she fled. You had been seated by the fire, a book open on your lap, and you looked like a startled doe at his unexpected presence, your body going rigid, your eyes wide.
"My prince," you had said, your voice a breathless question.
He had felt like an intruder in his own wife's space. "I…I came to see how you were faring," he had managed, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue.
You recovered quickly, your innate grace taking over. You poured his wine yourself, and offered him a plate of fruit and honey cake. "I am well, my prince. Truly. The book you sent is fascinating. The accounts of the Rhoynish are almost unbelievable." You were making conversation. You were making it easy for him. And so you spoke for a while. It was surprisingly pleasant.
He found himself relaxing into a chair, debating the tactical blunders of the Valyrian conquest of the Rhoyne, and you had listened with rapt attention, asking pointed, intelligent questions that surprised him. You had a mind, he realized with a start. A sharp, curious mind hidden beneath the pout and the big eyes.
But he didn’t catch any clues. No lamenting a lack of knights, no forlorn sighs about the gardens, no veiled complaints about his absence. Just you, being…pleasant. So, eventually, he rose to leave. "It is late. You should rest."
The change was instantaneous. The spark of animation in your eyes died, replaced by a stricken, hollow look, as if you were wondering what you had done wrong. Your fingers tightened imperceptibly on the spine of your book. "Of course, my prince. Thank you for your company."
He hesitated. He was a man of military precision, and the sudden, palpable drop in your mood was a tactical variable he hadn't accounted for. He was already in your bed chambers. What kind of husband left his wife's bed chamber right before going to bed himself? A churlish one. A neglectful one. The servants would talk, of that he was certain. The walls of Summerhall had ears and mouths. But he did not care what servants would see or say. Their gossip was the chaff of court life. The thought that stopped him cold, that made his feet feel nailed to the floor, was simpler. He owed you basic courtesy, did he not? He had denied you everything else. He could not deny you the simple, public dignity of a husband who shared your bed for a night.
Before he could overthink himself out of it, he gestured to the bed. "Move over, then."
Your eyes, if possible, grew even wider. "My prince?"
"I will not sleep in my boots," he said gruffly, sitting on the edge of a chaise and beginning to unlace them. "I will stay. Just to sleep." He made a promise to himself then, a sacred oath. He would lie down with you, and he would speak to you until you fell asleep, so you would not be insulted by a silent, rigid vigil. Then, he would leave. He had been insulting you for months by refusing to do his duties as a husband, and this small act of presence would at least be a temporary salve on a wound he had no intention of healing.
He lay down atop the covers, fully clothed in his tunic and breeches, a stiff, awkward pillar of a man. You slipped under the furs with a rustle of linen, lying rigidly on your back. The silence was deafening. Maekar cast about for something, anything, to say. "Tell me more about the Rhoynar," he commanded, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room.
And so you did, your voice soft and hesitant at first, then gaining strength. You spoke of the legends, the songs of the Mother Rhoyne, the giant turtles that were said to be gods. He listened, inserting a dry comment now and again that made you giggle, that beautiful, rippling sound he was growing dangerously accustomed to. He stayed, and continued speaking to you about the defensive layout of river cities, the logistical challenges of moving a legion through marshland, until your words began to slur, your breathing deepened, and your face went slack with peace. He had done it. He thought he would leave when he was sure you were deep in sleep. He would just wait one more minute. Just to be certain. The fire had burned down to embers. The room was warm. The scent of lavender was soporific. And that was the last thing he remembered.
Now, it was morning. The maid’s insistent knocking on the door was a relentless, chipper assault on his senses. He was still fully clothed, his tunic creased. And you were curled up next to him, clutching his arm as if it were the most natural, obvious thing in the world. The knocking roused you. You stirred, a small hum of contentment escaping your lips before your eyes fluttered open. Your gaze, hazy with sleep, traveled up his arm, over his chest, and settled on his face. The reaction was not one of surprise, or at least not the kind he expected. It was pleasure. A deep, luminous, bone-deep pleasure that transformed your features. You were smiling. A shy, pleased smile, as if you had just woken from a beautiful dream and found it still real.
"Good morning, my prince," you murmured, your voice thick and honeyed with sleep. There was a newfound confidence in it, a possessiveness that hadn't been there before. "Are you to have a busy day? I thought I might join you, if it were permitted. Perhaps I could assist you with your letters?"
Maekar found himself staring. The words were simple, but the meaning behind them was not. His plan, the handsome guard, the neglected lady, the grand affair, it all crashed down around his ears in a shower of broken, idiotic pottery. He realized his mistake with the force of a warhammer to the chest. You thought your husband was finally coming around. The gift, the miraculous, improbable gift you had wanted all along, was not a surrogate. It was him.
You wanted this. Him. His presence. His attention. His dry, sarcastic remarks. His tactical critiques of ancient river warfare. His grumpy, unyielding, solid self.
All this time, you had wanted him.
He felt a strange, tight sensation in his chest, a feeling he hadn't allowed himself to entertain for many, many years. It was a seed of warmth, cracking through the cold, hard stone he had meticulously built around his heart. He cleared his throat, his voice emerging as a low, rusty rumble.
"You can join me," he said, the words a surrender. "If you wish."
The pout was completely gone now. The smile that remained in its place was brilliant, a sun emerging from behind a lifetime of clouds. It was a smile just for him. And for the first time since he had been forced to take a new wife, Maekar Targaryen didn't feel saddled. He felt, with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty, that he was about to be completely, irrevocably unhorsed.
The days that followed that first, accidental night established a new rhythm in Summerhall, one Maekar found himself falling into with a disquieting ease he refused to examine too closely.
You had asked to assist him, and Maekar, a man who had never refused a direct request from a lady in his life out of sheer, blunt propriety, could find no reasonable grounds to deny you. You appeared in his solar the next morning, freshly dressed in a gown of pale yellow that made you look like a spring daffodil, and settled yourself in the chair across from his great oaken desk. He expected you to be a distraction. Instead, you proved infuriatingly useful. Your handwriting was elegant where his was a cramped, soldierly scrawl.
You sorted his correspondence into neat piles: urgent, routine, and the one you tactfully labeled "probably insincere flattery from lords who want something." He had let out a surprised bark of laughter at that, and you had beamed at him as if he'd just crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty.
This became your habit. Mornings in his solar, you with your neat piles and your quiet, intelligent questions about the running of the lands. Afternoons, you would walk with him along the battlements, your hand resting lightly on his arm as he pointed out the defensive improvements he was making to the eastern wall. You listened with genuine interest, asking about murder holes and arrow slits with a curiosity that was wholly unfeigned. Evenings, you dined together, and your sweet inquiries about his wellbeing were no longer met with grunts. He found himself actually answering you, describing the frustrations of a dispute between two minor landed knights or the irritating news from court. You would nod, your brow furrowed in thought, and offer observations that were often startlingly perceptive.
And every night, the same delicate, unspoken negotiation occurred.
The first time it happened outside of your own chambers, you had been in his rooms. It was late, the fire burning low, and you had been reading aloud to him from a treatise on dragonlore while he sharpened his dagger. Your voice had grown hoarse, and he noticed the way you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand. He could not, in good conscience, send you shuffling down cold corridors to your own chambers. The very idea was absurd. What kind of husband kicked his own wife out into the night like a stray cat?
"The hour is late," he had said, sheathing his dagger with a decisive click. "You will stay here."
You had looked at him with that expression again, the one that was half hope and half caution, as if you were afraid of misinterpreting his words. "Here, my prince?"
"In my bed," he clarified, the words coming out more gruffly than he intended. "I will take the chaise."
But you had looked so stricken at that suggestion, your face falling in that way he was growing to dread, that he had found himself amending the plan. "Or I will join you. The bed is large enough. It is not seemly for a prince to sleep on a chaise in his own chambers."
It was a flimsy justification, and he knew it. But the way your expression brightened, the shy, pleased smile that curved your lips, was worth the internal grumbling. He lay beside you that night, a careful distance between your bodies, and spoke to you about the properties of Valyrian steel until your breathing evened out into the soft rhythm of sleep. He awoke to find you pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder, one of your hands resting over his heart as if counting the beats.
This, too, became your habit. You clinging to him in sleep like a limpet to a rock, and Maekar waking each morning to the scent of your hair and the warm, trusting weight of your body against his. He told himself it was for your dignity. He told himself it was a small kindness, a basic courtesy. He told himself many things, and believed none of them.
Then there was the incident with the lamprey pie.
A lord from the coastal holdings had sent a gift of lampreys, and the kitchens had prepared them in a rich, heavily spiced pie. You had eaten only a small portion, politely complimenting the flavor, but within hours you were taken ill. Maekar was in the yard overseeing a drill when your maid came running, her face pale as milk.
"My prince, it is the princess. She is unwell. The maester says it is the lamprey, that it has irritated her stomach something fierce."
He did not remember crossing the castle. He only remembered the cold spike of fear that had lanced through him, the way his heart had hammered against his ribs with a violence that had nothing to do with exertion. He found you in your chambers, curled on your side in the great bed, your face waxen and beaded with sweat. The maester was there, a fussy old man who was doing far too much hand-wringing for Maekar's liking.
"She will recover, my prince. It is a mere gastric disturbance. But she must eat to keep her strength up, and she refuses. The princess will not touch the porridge."
Maekar looked at the tray on the bedside table. A bowl of plain, unappetizing porridge sat there, cooling and congealing. You were facing away from it, your eyes closed, your pout firmly in place.
"Leave us," Maekar commanded. The maester and the maids scurried out like mice before a dragon.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked at him with such a mix of misery and embarrassment that it made something twist painfully in his chest.
"I am sorry," you whispered, your voice thin and reedy. "I am being foolish. It will pass."
"You will eat," he said, reaching for the bowl.
"My prince, I cannot. The very thought..."
"You will eat," he repeated, and this time his voice was gentler, an unfamiliar softness creeping in despite his best efforts. He scooped a small portion of the porridge onto the spoon. "Open your mouth."
You stared at him, those big eyes glassy with discomfort, and for a moment he thought you would refuse him. But then you parted your lips, a tiny, obedient gesture, and he carefully slid the spoon into your mouth. You swallowed with visible effort, your face scrunching up, and he immediately had another spoonful ready.
"Good," he said, the praise awkward on his tongue. "Again."
He fed you the entire bowl that way, spoonful by painstaking spoonful, his large, calloused hands surprisingly steady. He did not rush you. He waited between each bite, murmuring gruff words of encouragement that felt foreign and strange, like a language he had never been taught. When the bowl was empty, he set it aside and reached for a cloth, dabbing gently at the corner of your mouth.
Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that made him feel like a hero from a song, when all he had done was feed you porridge.
"Thank you, Maekar," you breathed, using his name without his title for the first time. It hit him somewhere deep, a blow he had no armor for.
"Rest now," he ordered, his voice rougher than he intended. "I will stay."
He stayed. He lay beside you, fully clothed, and let you curl into his side. He stayed until your breathing steadied and the color slowly returned to your cheeks. He stayed even after that, watching the firelight play across the ceiling, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest against his, and wondered what in the seven hells he was doing.
But still, still, he put off the matter of bedding you.
It was not that he did not want to. The realization had crept up on him with the slow, inevitable force of a rising tide. He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to. The sight of you in your thin nightdress, the way your hair spilled across the pillows, the warmth of your body pressed against his each morning, it was testing the limits of his resolve, which had never been particularly strong where matters of the heart were concerned. He had simply never had his heart involved before.
But to bed you would be to open a door he was not certain he could close again. He had built his life around duty, around the cold, hard certainties of obligation and honor. He had loved once, and loss had carved a hollow in him that he had believed was permanent. You were filling that hollow, day by day, smile by smile, and the sensation was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.
He was a coward. Maekar Targaryen, who had faced down rebel lords and laughed at the prospect of single combat, was a coward when it came to his own wife.
Then came the night of the kiss.
It was an evening like any other. You had spent the day in his solar, helping him draft responses to a particularly tedious batch of petitions. Dinner had been a quiet affair, just the two of you, and you had made him laugh, actually laugh, a deep, surprised rumble of sound, with a wicked impression of a pompous lord who had visited the previous week. You had retired to his chambers, as had become your custom, and he had told you about the Dragonknight's campaigns in Dorne until your eyes grew heavy.
"Goodnight, Maekar," you said, your voice soft and drowsy.
And then you kissed him.
It was not a forceful kiss, not a demand or an invitation. It was a brief, gentle press of your lips against his, as natural and unthinking as a breath. A goodbye. An act of simple, uncomplicated affection. You pulled back, your eyes already closing, and nestled into your pillow with a contented sigh, as if you had done nothing of any particular note.
Maekar lay frozen, staring at the canopy above him, his heart thundering in his ears.
You had kissed him.
This was his fault. The thought careened through his skull like a loose cannon on a ship's deck. This was entirely, unequivocally his fault. He had done this. He had planted this notion in your head, watered it with his attentions, and now it had bloomed into something he could no longer ignore.
A fortnight ago, you had been helping him remove his heavy outer tunic after a long day of inspections, your small fingers working deftly at the clasps. It had been such a wifely gesture, so intimate and so natural, that before he had known what he was doing, he had leaned down and pressed his lips to your brow. A brief, chaste kiss. A thank you. He had not even realized he had done it until he saw the way you had frozen, your eyes wide. He had cleared his throat and muttered something about the fire needing more wood, and the moment had passed.
But you had taken that kiss, that single, thoughtless gesture, and drawn a conclusion from it. You had decided, in your sweet, hopeful way, that your husband wanted you to initiate affection as well. That he was too reserved, too gruff, too locked within his own silences to ask for what he wanted. And so, with that gentle, trusting kiss, you had reached across the chasm he had placed between you and offered him a bridge.
Did he want you to? The question burned in his mind, insistent and demanding. Did he want you to kiss him goodnight, as if it were the most normal thing in the world? As if you were truly husband and wife in every sense?
He certainly was not complaining. The ghost of your lips still tingled on his, and his body was reacting in ways that were entirely inappropriate for a man who was supposed to be letting his wife sleep. He was not complaining at all. That was the problem.
He should be complaining. He should be panicking. Because this, this sweetness, this trust, this quiet, domestic intimacy, led inexorably to one conclusion. You would expect children now. The thought hit him like a splash of ice water. Of course you would expect children. A princess, a wife, a woman who had been raised to understand that the bearing of heirs was a fundamental part of her duty. And you would want them, he realized with a jolt. You would want his children. Not out of duty, but out of genuine desire. You would want a babe with his silver-gold hair and your eyes, a child you could hold and nurture and love.
Gods be good.
He turned his head on the pillow to look at you. You were already asleep, your face peaceful, your lips still curved in that small, contented smile. You had no idea of the earthquake you had just set off in his chest. You had kissed him and promptly fallen asleep, trusting him completely, utterly unaware of the crisis you had left in your wake.
Maekar stared at you for a long time, watching the steady rise and fall of your breath, the way your lashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks. His mind was a whirlwind of duty and desire, fear and longing, the cold echoes of past grief and the warm, insistent pulse of something new.
He could not keep putting this off. He could not keep lying beside you, night after night, pretending that this was a mere courtesy. He could not keep telling himself that he was doing this for your dignity, when in truth, your dignity was the last thing on his mind when he felt the press of your body against his in the dark.
But not tonight. Tonight, you were asleep, and he was a coward still. Tonight, he would lie here and listen to you breathe and feel the warmth of your kiss still burning on his lips.
Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be braver.
Or perhaps, he thought grimly, you would kiss him again, and the choice would be taken out of his hands entirely. The thought was not as unwelcome as it should have been.
The kisses continued.
Every night, without fail, you would bid him goodnight with that same gentle, fleeting press of your lips against his. It was never demanding, never lingering. It was a question posed in the softest possible terms, a door left slightly ajar, an invitation he could accept or decline as he saw fit. And every night, for the first several nights, Maekar accepted it the same way: by remaining perfectly, rigidly still, a statue of a man enduring a pleasant but bewildering assault.
He felt you withdraw each time, felt the tiny, almost imperceptible slump of your shoulders as you settled back onto your pillow. You never said anything. You never complained. But he knew. He was a dull rock, an unresponsive lump of granite, and he was hurting you with his passivity. The knowledge gnawed at him, a persistent, guilty ache that followed him through his days and haunted his waking hours.
The fifth night, something in him snapped. Simply, as you leaned in to press your customary kiss to his lips, he found himself moving. His hand came up, rough and calloused, to cup the back of your head. And he kissed you back.
It was not a passionate kiss. It was not the kiss of a man swept away by desire. It was a careful response, a returning of pressure, a silent acknowledgment. He felt your startled inhale against his mouth, the way your body went taut with surprise. When he pulled back, your eyes were wide, your lips parted, and there was a look on your face that made his chest constrict.
Expectation. Hope. A question that had been waiting, patient and trembling, for an answer.
Maekar looked at you, at your big eyes shining in the firelight, at your kiss-swollen mouth, at the delicate line of your collarbone visible above the lace of your nightdress. He thought of all the nights he had lain beside you, rigid with restraint. He thought of the way you smiled at him, the way you laughed at his dry remarks, the way you clung to his arm in sleep as if he were the only safe harbor in a storm.
He resigned himself. The decision came not with a sense of defeat, but with a strange, liberating clarity. He did not want to become the object of your resentment. He could not bear the thought of those eyes looking at him with bitterness, with the slow, corrosive realization that your husband was a man who denied you not only his affection but the most basic experiences of womanhood. You were young and full of life, and he had been keeping you in a gilded cage, feeding you porridge and kissing your forehead as if you were a child rather than a wife.
"You deserve pleasure," he said, his voice low and rough, the words feeling as if they were being dragged from some deep, hidden place within him. "I have been remiss in my duties."
Your breath caught. "Maekar..."
He moved before he could lose his nerve. His hands found your waist, and he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, settling you onto his lap with a decisive, careful motion. You were warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress, your body soft and pliant against the hard planes of his chest. He could feel the rapid flutter of your heart.
"I will not take what I have no right to claim," he said, the words a rough murmur against your temple. "But I can give you this. Let me give you this."
His fingers found the hem of your nightdress, and he pushed it up slowly, giving you time to object. You did not object. You only watched him with those enormous eyes, your hands resting on his shoulders as if you did not quite know what to do with them. He touched you gently, so gently, his battle-roughened hands moving with a delicacy that surprised even himself. He explored the soft skin of your thighs, the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. He learned the shape of you by touch alone, his gaze fixed on your face, cataloguing every flicker of expression.
When his fingers found the center of your heat, you gasped, your head falling back, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He moved with slow, patient circles, learning what made you sigh, what made you shudder, what made your hips buck involuntarily against his hand. He was methodical in his attentions, as he was in all things, and he brought you to the peak with the same focused determination he might apply to a siege.
You shattered against him with a cry that was half surprise and half relief, your body arching, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic. He held you through it, his free arm wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you against the storm of sensation. When the tremors subsided, you slumped against his chest, breathing hard, your face buried in the crook of his neck.
He gave you a moment. Then, with the same gentle efficiency, he rearranged your nightdress, lifted you from his lap, and placed you back onto the bed. He drew the furs up to your chin and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Sleep now," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.
You blinked up at him, your expression dazed and soft and so full of something that looked terrifyingly like adoration. "But you..."
"This was for you," he said, cutting you off with a firmness that brooked no argument. "Rest."
You slept. He did not. He lay beside you in the darkness, his body aching with unfulfilled need, and told himself that this was enough. He had done his duty. He had given you pleasure without complicating matters with his own involvement. It was a tidy solution, a clean, surgical strike. You were satisfied. There was no need to get himself fully involved.
This, too, became a habit.
Every few nights, when the expectant look in your eyes grew too pronounced to ignore, he would pull you onto his lap and touch you until you came apart in his arms. He learned the rhythms of your body. He knew the spot just below your ear that made you whimper when he pressed his lips to it. He knew the pace that made you clutch at him desperately, the slower, teasing touches that made you gasp his name like a prayer. He gave you pleasure as a general might distribute supplies to a besieged city: regularly, efficiently, and with a steadfast refusal to partake himself.
He thought you accepted this. He thought you understood the unspoken terms of this arrangement. He was a fool.
It was a quiet evening, the fire burning low in the hearth, the castle settling into the deep hush of night. He had just returned from a grueling inspection of the eastern watchtowers, his muscles aching, his mood as dark as the storm clouds gathering over the mountains. You were waiting for him in his chambers, a book open on your lap, a cup of warmed wine already poured and waiting on his desk.
You were always waiting for him now. The thought should not have warmed him as it did.
The night's ritual had been completed. You were nestled against him, your body still humming with the aftermath of pleasure, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was preparing to settle you back onto your pillow, to pull up the furs and press his customary kiss to your forehead, when you spoke.
"Maekar." Your voice was soft, hesitant, but there was a thread of steel beneath it that he had learned to recognize. "May I ask you something?"
"You may," he said, his guard instinctively rising.
You were silent for a moment, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of his tunic. Then, you lifted your head to look at him, and the expression in your eyes made his heart stutter.
"Why do you not want anything for yourself?"
The question hung in the air between them, simple and devastating. He opened his mouth to deflect, to offer some gruff platitude about duty and obligation, but you did not give him the chance.
"Every night," you continued, your voice still soft but gaining strength, "you give me such pleasure. You are so gentle, so careful, so attentive. But you never…" You hesitated, a flush creeping up your cheeks, but you pressed on with the same determined courage you had shown since the day you arrived at Summerhall. "You never let me touch you. You never seek your own release. It is as if you believe you do not deserve it, or as if you think I am not capable of giving it."
"You are capable," he said, the words escaping before he could cage them.
"Then why?" Your pout was there, that unconscious, pretty pout that he had come to know so well. But it was accompanied by a look so loving, so open and earnest and full of desperate hope, that it struck him like a blow. "I could learn. I could learn how to please you, if you are willing to teach me. I am not afraid. I want to be a true wife to you, in every sense."
He felt something cracking inside him, the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart beginning to crumble. "It is not a matter of teaching," he said, his voice strained. "There are…consequences. You are young. You should not be burdened with..."
"Children," you finished for him, and he was stunned into silence. "You are worried about children."
It was not the only thing, but it was the easiest to admit. He nodded stiffly.
You took a deep breath, and he watched as you gathered your courage, your hands clasping together in your lap. "If you do not wish for children," you said, your voice steady despite the tremor he could see in your fingers, "I can drink moon tea. We can postpone the idea. I have spoken to the maester, and he has assured me it is safe when used sparingly."
Maekar stared at you. You had spoken to the maester. You, his sweet wife, had gone to the old man and asked about moon tea. The image was so absurd, so unexpectedly bold, that he almost laughed.
But you were not finished. "I would like to have a child someday," you continued, and now your voice grew softer, more wistful. "One child of my own. No matter a boy or a girl. And I would raise it with the best of my ability, with all the love I have to give. But…" You reached out, your small hand coming to rest on his cheek, your thumb brushing the line of his jaw. "I would like to have a life first. A marriage. A husband who does not treat me like a delicate piece of glass that might shatter at his touch."
Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that had undone him from the very beginning.
"I want you, Maekar," you whispered. "I want my husband."
The walls crumbled. The last defenses fell. Maekar Targaryen, prince of Summerhall, breaker of rebellions and terror of his enemies, looked at his young wife and realized he was only a man. A man who had been fighting a losing battle against his own heart for longer than he cared to admit. A man who loved his wife.
He loved you. The truth of it was a physical thing, a weight in his chest, a fire in his blood. He loved your laugh, your pout, your clever mind and your gentle hands and your infuriating, wonderful habit of clinging to him in sleep. He loved your courage, standing before him now and baring your soul with nothing but hope to shield you. He loved you.
"Gods be good," he breathed, and then he was moving.
His hands found your waist, and this time there was nothing careful or clinical about the touch. He pulled you against him, crushing you to his chest, and his mouth descended on yours in a kiss that was nothing like the chaste, hesitant presses of lips you had shared before. This was a surrender. A desperate, hungry admission of everything he had been too stubborn to say.
You gasped against his mouth, and then your arms were around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, and you were kissing him back with an enthusiasm that made his head spin. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your faces inches apart.
"You foolish, stubborn man," you whispered, but your voice was thick with tears and joy. "I have been waiting for you to understand."
"I understand now," he said, his voice a low, wrecked rasp. "Forgive me. For all of it. For the neglect, for the distance, for the guard I foisted upon you like a fool..."
"You gave me Ser Elyas?" Your eyes widened, and then a surprised laugh bubbled up from your throat. "Oh, Maekar. I thought he was just a very attentive guard. I wondered why he kept trying to recite poetry at me."
Maekar groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. "I am an idiot."
"You are my idiot," you corrected, and the possessive warmth in your voice was his final undoing. "My husband. And I believe you owe me a proper wedding night."
He looked at you, at the mischievous glint in your eyes, at the loving curve of your smile, and he felt something he had not felt in many, many years. Hope. Joy. A future unfolding before him that was not merely duty and endurance, but something bright and warm and achingly beautiful.
"I owe you much more than that," he murmured, and he lowered his mouth to yours once more.
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen/Fem!Reader
Word Count: 5.1k
Summary: In the month-long gap between his proposal and your wedding, Prince Baelor does all he can to keep his hands off you.
Contents: tyrell!reader, established relationship, age gap, smut, power play, sexual tension, unprotected premarital (scandalous!), teasing, oral sex (fem receiving), frottage, denial, scent kink, biting, "just the tip", certified pervert Baelor Targaryen
The Prince of Dragonstone is not what you expected, in more ways than one.
You had expected to pursue the Prince Valarr, when you’d first come to court. By all accounts, he was kind, measured, too dutiful for his own good. Handsome, if you were any judge of men’s looks. Easy, your mother told you. Prince Valarr would not deny you anything, should you become his wife, and you knew it from just a few minutes of conversation with him. If you nudged, he would flop over, belly up.
And yet, against everything you had been raised to want, you found yourself pulled to his father instead. Every conversation you had with Prince Baelor was more engaging than the last when you realized he did not expect you to only be knowledgeable in matters of fashion and embroidery. His willingness to converse with you deeply, truly, beyond courtly pleasantries, brought you closer till you spent more time with him than his son — more time than was appropriate.
Now, a moon’s turn after your departure from King’s Landing, you were returning as the Crown Prince’s betrothed instead.
He had taken some convincing, when you first confronted him with your desire, one you knew he returned despite his insistence that it was a passing fancy, that you did not truly want a widower who is twice your own age, that you knew not what you spoke of. But you were nothing if not skilled at persuasion, and when he finally came to you at Highgarden, you were smiling at him knowingly before he could even bend down on one knee.
There was another month to go, still, till the day of your wedding, much to your dismay. While you were uncompromising on your vision for the grand occasion — you’ve had the details planned since you were a child, and you would not let something as silly as time stop you from importing the Qaathi silk of your dreams for your wedding dress — you must admit, the precautions taken to preserve your honour in the time since you’ve arrived are beginning to grate your nerves.
Baelor Targaryen is known for his impressive patience. It is his ability to lie in wait that won him countless battles against the Blackfyre pretender, and it has never once hurt his cause to exercise caution, to wait and strategise before charging in headfirst.
And yet, he feels his patience slipping.
He held himself back when he first met you, repressing his affections as you grew closer, reminding himself countless times that it was improper to want someone ostensibly meant for his own son. He was hesitant even when you yourself proposed a marriage, confessing that you loved him, as he loved you — he barely allowed himself to indulge when you threw your arms around his neck and pulled him into a desperate kiss. Even then, he waited over a fortnight after you left in disappointment till he rode for Highgarden, taking the time to discuss it with his son and his own father.
Baelor Breakspear, the Hammer, known for his unbreaking composure. How humorous, he thinks, that my reputation will be soiled by someone in a silk dress instead of chainmail.
The dresses you brought with you from Highgarden were all quite stylish, elaborate and brightly coloured, and much more low cut than anything worn by the other ladies at court. Even now, as you sit across from him in an evening gown, properly long-sleeved and dark-coloured, the sleeves sit just under the curve of your shoulders, exposing the top of your chest. Your hair, perfectly curled and braided, does nothing to hide the expanse of your neck from his roaming eyes.
You converse pleasantly, ever the agreeable girl you’re known to be, chatting with his nieces about the wedding preparations and how you’re finding King’s Landing now that you know it is to be your home. You are the picture of propriety, and yet he is having trouble keeping his eyes off you.
He is painfully aware that he could call you to his chambers. You’ve been kept on the opposite side of the Red Keep, far from the Tower of the Hand, in the same Maidenvault built to save the first of his name from his own temptation — the irony is not lost on him. And yet, if he sent for you late at night, no one would deny him, not now, when you were to be his wife in a month’s time. He could take you, over and over again, loudly, and no one would question his honour as a Prince of the Realm.
The judgemental eye it might draw upon you, however, is something he could never forgive himself for.
That is what stops him every time, when his base urges creep in, reminding him of his royal privilege to have whomever he wants; he cannot bring himself to compromise your honour.
You, on the other hand, seem determined to do the opposite.
He accompanies you back to your chambers after supper, the Kingsguard and one of your lady’s maids following behind as faithful chaperones. Quiet chatter fills the silence on the long walk back to the Maidenvault, discussion of who might run into whom during the wedding reception, which Lords are not to be seated together lest old, petty rivalries rear their ugly heads once more.
“Mm, but who are we to deprive your subjects of free entertainment?” You say, a playful smile gracing your face. An easy chuckle leaves him; he found himself laughing more in a minute of your company than he had in the last two years
“I suppose they will have to settle for the free entertainment the Crown is already providing, considering how many musicians have been brought from the Reach for the occasion.” His tone is light-hearted, no real heat behind the admonishment of your excessive requests for the wedding.
“I know so few dances from this region, Your Grace, and I will not be deprived of dancing at my own wedding solely because I do not know the songs!”
“No, we couldn’t have that.”
“You will, then?” You turn to stand in front of him, stopping him in his tracks, finally realising they’ve arrived at your chambers. “You will dance with me? As much as I please?”
That look you’re giving him, equal parts teasing and pleading, sends a shock down his spine, the same one that overtook him when he first laid eyes on you. Those eyes have haunted his dreams ever since, taunting him with his own desire, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it.
“Of course, my dear.” He tells you, his voice calm, measured, the smile on his face giving very little away. He wants to call you much more. My love, my heart, the object of my every desire, my wife. He curses the chaperones you are constantly accompanied by while in his presence, always within earshot, stopping him from speaking to you openly as he did when you came to him that night and bade him to admit his affections. He had never spoken so openly before, not even with Jena, and now he longed to tell you again, that he would dance with you till his feet fell from his ankles as long as you wished it, that he’d keep you up all night if he could.
When you lean up, onto the tips of your toes, and press a whisper of a kiss to his cheek, despite the presence of your chaperone, he almost slips. His breath stops in his chest at the warmth of your lips on his skin, the exposed expanse of your chest pressed to his just so. He knows if he looked down he would see into your dress, down at your breasts, and he clenches his teeth together in an effort to stop himself.
“Thank you, my Prince.” You say, sweetly, your voice breathless. His jaw unclenches once you’re a safe distance away, but he can still smell your perfume in the air.
It’s all he can think about, even once he’s bid you a goodnight. He has half a mind to steal one of your nightgowns before it makes it to the laundry, just to keep the scent of you close.
Try as you might, you cannot hold back the smug smile on your face.
Baelor has not been able to tear his eyes away since he laid them on you today. You’d sent for him, having asked around till you discovered he had zero meetings with the Small Council today, and bade him to accompany you on a walk through the palace gardens. A chaperoned one, of course, but the chaperones could not stop you from wearing one of your most daring dresses; your mother had smirked when she saw it. It was a pink number, the fabric light and airy, well-suited for both the Reach and King’s Landing when summer heat hung heavy in the air. The detailing on it, winding embroidery creating patterns of stems and vines all along the dress in red thread, was some of the finest you’d ever seen.
There was also, of course, the extremely unnecessary cut outs at your waist, framed by a red rose-patterned silk, baring the skin of your waist just so. At Highgarden this dress wouldn’t have so much as turned a head in your direction, but this was not Highgarden, and for that you were grateful.
Baelor was doing his best to keep his eyes and hands to himself, purposefully setting the former forward, and the latter clasped behind his back, where he could squeeze them as tight as he needed to in order to restrain himself.
The conversation came easy, as it always did. No Small Council meetings did not mean no work, there was always a petition to grant, a marriage to approve on the King’s behalf, a grievance to assuage.
“I appreciate that you can speak so freely of the work you do, my Prince. There are many a Lord that would never concern a Lady in such matters.”
“You are to be Queen one day, my dear,” He replies. “Soon you will curse me for burdening you with such matters.”
You give him a humoured smile as you reach a grand fountain in the gardens, carved from gleaming marble and babbling with water. You wander closer, silently beckoning him to follow — you know, with the chaperones a safe distance away, that any conversation between you would be masked by the sound of flowing water. “Well, I doubt the Small Council would allow a woman to sit in on policy discussions even if she is Queen, much less one that is with child.”
That raises the Prince’s eyebrows, in shock and intrigue. “Rest assured, there will be no pressure for you to bear children so soon after we are wed, as I have two heirs already. I promise, you will be spared much of the early scrutiny. If you were to desire no children at all, my dear, I would not force it upon you.”
His reassurance is sweet. Far too sweet for your intentions.
“I should like to begin fulfilling our marriage duties as soon as possible, my Prince.” You look up at him through your eyelashes as you speak, your expression schooled, so your chaperones might think you’re having decent conversation. You lower your voice, just above a whisper, though you know they cannot hear you. “A moon’s turn feels much too long to wait, does it not?”
Baelor’s eyes flutter shut, his chest rising with the deep breath he takes, and for the first time since you’ve met him, the Prince of Dragonstone flushes a subtle pink. You can’t help the small proud smile that upturns the corner of your lips.
“I have waited an agonising amount of time to be with you, my love,” He finally speaks, his mismatched eyes settling back on you with a new intensity. “I will not have you dishonored because I cannot wait a moon’s turn longer.”
It’s your turn for your cheeks to heat, a burning ache filling your chest at the sound of his voice, far lower than you’ve heard it before. You know, tonight, you’ll do your best to recall it with a hand between your thighs, desperately trying to sate the hunger he’s inspired in you.
“My Prince-”
“My Lady!” Your Septa calls, her stare a disapproving one, and you both realise that you are standing far too close to each other.
“The tulips are this way, my dear, I know you wished to see them in full bloom.” Baelor announces, loud enough to be heard from meters away, and leads you away from the fountain before you can say another word to make his britches feel too tight.
You try not to let the frustration at her interruption show on your face for the rest of the walk.
It happens several days later.
You have scarcely seen your betrothed since that afternoon in the royal gardens. His time became far too occupied with matters of the Realm as the Lords of Westeros arrived from far and wide for the wedding, using their time in the capital to make their petitions to the Crown in-person. Every time you happened upon the throne room, the Good King Daeron was seated on that ghastly chair, a crowd of noblemen filling the room as they await their turn to speak. And next to the King, there he was, standing at his father’s side as his trusted Hand, looking every bit the part. It caught your breath every time, to set your eyes upon him in this setting; you could see it then, the crown on his head, clear as day. It might be you there someday, standing next to Baelor as his Queen while he sits upon the throne.
And yet, you found you cared little for the title now. All that mattered was that you were with him.
You’ve grown restless in his absence. It’s barely been a week, but you can’t stand the sight of his empty chair at supper, the brief greetings you share when you pass each other in crowded halls, your eyes brazenly displaying the way you long to spend more than a clock-tick in his presence.
It felt like madness. All your life you believed marriage would be simple for you, as it was for your mother, and her mother before her. A husband was an easy thing to influence, to wrap around your finger and bend to your will, and you’d grown into a woman of marriageable age assuming no man would ever cause you grief. This tugging ache, this burning for someone’s touch, was not what you anticipated, from a husband nor a lover, and you found yourself, for once, incapable of containing yourself. You felt it — in the frown that marred your face when Baelor retreated from you, the ache of longing at the sight of his back, the dizzying heat between your legs when you thought of him late at night that you simply could not soothe by yourself.
When he finally summoned you to his solar, much too far into the night to be appropriate, you could not dress quickly enough. You cared little about the nervous stares from your lady’s maids as they helped you into your gown, a deep red colour, perfect for a Targaryen bride. The Kingsguard knights trailed far behind you, your steps far too quick for them, but you could not find it in you to delay.
You are breathless when you finally land in front of his study. There is little time to collect yourself before the guards step in front of you to open the door, quietly announcing your presence to the Prince before departing. Leaving you standing before your future husband, alone, and several meters further from him than you’d like to be.
He stood up when you’d entered the room, like one might expect a common Lord to do in the presence of royalty. And yet he stayed behind his desk, frozen in place, his eyes meeting yours with something unknowable in them; something smouldering and torrid that you couldn’t name if you tried.
You stay like that for what feels like forever. Stunned into stillness before each other, silence only interrupted by the thudding of your heartbeat in your ears and the low, crackling fire.
“I have missed you.” Your words come quieter than you expected, almost a whisper. There is no one here to watch your impropriety, and yet you cannot speak your words any louder out of careful habit.
“As have I.” His voice is hoarse, like he is straining to speak, and his eyes never move from yours.
You take a hesitant step towards him. “Baelor-”
And then whatever stupor had overtaken him is broken. He rushes towards you, his hands coming to either side of your face, cradling you between them, and his lips are on yours quicker than you can fathom.
His kiss is feverish, demanding, invading your every sense so you have no choice but to surrender, but you wouldn’t resist him anyways. You arch your neck backwards to accommodate his height, you let his tongue pass your lips, you let him steal the breath from your chest till your lungs burn, and still you whine quietly when he pulls away, never allowing more than a clock-tick to pass before your mouth is back on his.
He has to tug you away, forcing you to still so he can rest his forehead against yours, his lips still tantalisingly close.
“I am a selfish man,” He declares with a rough whisper, his eyes closed, as if looking upon you might damn him forever. It feels like cruelty when he brushes his nose against yours, teasing you with his closeness.
“Baelor, please-”
“I have struggled, in vain.” He continues. “I have done everything to stay away from you, and I have failed, time and time again.”
His lips brush against yours again, a ghost of a touch, barely there and then gone before you can blink.
“Marrying you might be the most selfish thing I have ever done.” He says it like a confession. “I am a knight. I swore before the Gods to uphold honour, and yet honour means nothing to me when it keeps me from you. You have ruined me, my love.”
A laugh escapes you, quiet and light, far too light for the situation, making his eyes reopen and harden. “This is humorous to you, then?”
“Yes, my Prince,” You admit easily. “I have you right where I wanted you.”
His lip curls, half-sneer, half-smile, and you are given no time to react when he reaches down, his hands moving away from your face, to your waist, to the back of your skirt before lifting you and carrying you to his desk.
“You said a moon’s turn was not too long to wait,” You tease, still smiling.
“I lied.” Then he smears his mouth against yours again.
Your legs part instinctually around him, far too focused on his lips being back on yours to resist when he lifts your skirts. You cannot part from him, even as his hands trail from your stocking-clad calves to the bare skin of your upper thighs, drawing a gasp from you. Your arms come up to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, your hand settling at his nape, fingers trailing through the cropped hair there.
You would have kept him right there forever, if you could — it’s he that breaks the kiss again, ignoring the disappointed noise you make as he lowers himself to his knees, and brings yours to rest on his shoulders. He keeps his eyes on you, that same heated look in them, as he pushes your skirts up further, giving you plenty of time to protest before the fabric is ruched up to your waist. His gaze falls then, to the space between your legs, and it does not stray as he leans in to press a feather-light kiss to the inside of your thigh. You cannot hide the gasp that escapes you at his touch, and you cannot bring yourself to look away from him. One of your hands leaves his head, coming to rest on the desk behind you, balancing you as you lean back to watch him.
His pace is slow as he explores your soft skin, pressing his lips to every inch of it, savouring the feel of it and leaving a burning trail simmering wherever he wanders. The mere heat of his steady eyes on the core of you is enough to make you squirm in place.
“I have never seen anything so divine,” His voice is low, just for you to hear. He leans closer to you, close enough that you can feel his breath right where you need him most, and takes a deep inhale of your scent, a low groan brewing in his throat upon exhale. “As you, bare and soaked for me.”
“Baelor.. Wh- what are you-” And then his mouth is on you, cutting you off with your own gasp.
Your eyes screw shut, suddenly unable to bear the thought of opening them, of seeing what he’s doing to you. The tales that you heard of this, whispered between women in scandalous confession, could never have prepared you for what you felt. The heat of his mouth on you, his tongue kissing and lapping at where you’re wettest for him, steals your ability to breathe. It is too much, too quickly, white-hot pleasure flowing through you and fogging your head until he has to squeeze your thigh to break you out of it.
“Breathe,” He reminds you, but you shake your head.
“I can’t!”
“You must,” He pulls away, till you can no longer feel his warmth on your skin. “Or I will be forced to stop.”
“Dont!” The plea comes without hesitation. “Please, please, don’t stop, I want-”
“Breathe for me, then.” He takes a deep breath in, and you follow him, stuttering air filling your lungs once more. Satisfied, he leans back into you. “That’s it. In… and out… in-”
His tongue dips through your folds again, turning your exhales into pleasured sighs. The sound is too obscene to bear. The slick, wet sound of his lips wrapping around the crest of your sex and sucking, pulsing rhythmically around the sensitive bundle there. The hand that had settled behind you on the desk now provides you an anchor, keeping you grounded as you match his rhythm with cants of your hips, chasing the pressure that builds low in your belly.
“Yes, my love, just like that.” He says, reverent, watching as you give in to him fully, only able to answer with soft moans and muttered nonsense.
His finger is much thicker than yours, stretching you more than you ever could as it presses into the tight ring of your entrance, just as you’d hoped. The metal of his ring, brushing against you every time he pumps the digit in, only adds to your pleasure, the cold-hard shock of it on your soft folds making you gasp with every movement.
Baelor works you like he knows your body already, guided by every pleasured noise you make, every mindless moan of his name. When they turn high and uncontrollable, your head tilted back, rocking yourself against his mouth more insistently, desperately, he knows you’re close. A second finger joins the first, the pace just a touch faster, pulling you towards the edge at his will.
The subtle press of his fingers upwards turns your moan into a soft cry, and it hits you all at once, the pleasure cresting and then washing over you. His mouth doesn’t leave you once, doesn’t stop his open-mouthed kisses at the top of your sex, sending pulses through your body till you’re pushing at his forehead, even as you continue to press your hips into him.
He comes away with an awed, dumb smile on his face, drunk on the taste of you, his beard damp with it. He rises from his knees and leans over you, wrapping an arm around your middle to pull you up, and you’re too loose-limbed to do anything but go with him as he kisses you again.
You can feel his hand between you, shifting against your stomach, and you part from the kiss to find him grasping himself through his trousers, pulsing squeezes around his stiff cock. Quiet grunts fall from his lips with every press of his hand, and for a moment you simply watch, mesmerised.
Then your hand lands over his, hesitant. Unsure. “I want… I want to watch.”
A pained groan fills your ear as his forehead drops against yours. He makes quick work of the laces on his trousers, and you pull down his breeches with equal fervor, freeing his cock from the fabric.
His member is thicker than it is long — you can feel the burn of him stretching you already, distantly, making you clench around nothing at the mere thought. The tip of him is a flushed, ruddy hue, dripping with a clear liquid that you dare to feel at, gathering the slick on your thumb just to see. Baelor’s breathing is laboured as he watches you bring your thumb to your lips and lick, a pleased hum escaping you at the flavour.
“Fuck,” He growls, his hand finding his shaft again immediately, enveloping it like he can barely stop himself as he licks into your mouth, desperate to taste himself on you.
His mouth slows against yours when you reach down again, resting your hand over his fist. He pants against your lips as he lets your hand replace his, guiding your fist over him in measured, hard strokes.
He’s hard under your touch, hot and firm and slick with pre-cum already. Your cheeks burn as you realize just how much you like it, the heaviness of him against your palm, the moans you pull from him just with your touch. His lips move against your own, and he begins to rut into the tight circle of your intertwined hands, fucking your fist like- like-
The realisation, that this will be what he does to you, is breathtaking. He’ll move against you just like this, but he’ll be inside you, working his way into you till you fit perfectly around his cock, and you feel that ache of desire between your legs once again. You moan his name softly, absentmindedly, as you move to guide him towards your entrance, spreading your thighs and shuffling closer to him.
The hand covering your own stills, forcing you to stop.
“Not yet, my love.” You whine in disappointment, but he hushes you gently. “We must be patient.”
“Please, Baelor.” You are begging, you realise. Something you’ve never done before in your life.
“We cannot,” He insists, still denying you, even as he moves closer to the edge of the desk, and slots his hips against yours. It feels like he’s branded you from the mere brush of his cock against your inner thigh, teasing you with how near you are to what you’ve begged him for. He’s infuriatingly gentle as he removes your hand from his shaft, shifting his hips and then thrusting himself between your folds.
Your mouth falls open on a cry as the tip of him slides against the crest of your sex, the most sensitive part of him nudging against the most sensitive part of you. He draws his hips back, then forward again, gliding against you instead of inside you, careful not to enter you as he does.
At first, you cannot protest, not when the pace of his hips rutting against you leaves you senseless, unable to do anything but clutch at his shoulders and let him give you a rough feign of a fuck. Anyone who walked by his study now would never know that he isn’t deflowering you, from the sound of your skin slapping against his, your moans mixing with his. So close to what you want- need-
“Please, please, just the tip, my love, it won’t-” You find yourself pleading with him again, through desperate whimpers and pants every time his cock brings you another shock of pleasure, shooting up your spine and settling in your belly, building you towards sweet release. But he ignores you, the hand that’s not splayed across your back coming to bunch in your wrinkled skirts, fisting the fabric and pulling you against him, nearly lifting you off the desk to meet his thrusts.
His eyebrows are drawn together as he stares down at you, unbreaking even as he chokes on his own air, looking mad with hunger for you. He’s unbelievable like this, restraining himself from taking you as he should, as he has every right to, divulging his urges while still leaving both of you wanting, aching for each other.
He makes a sound like he’s wounded, then, his head dipping to rest on your shoulder before his teeth set hard on your neck, drawing a shocked cry from you as his punishing pace stutters, grows uneven and desperate. His hips bunch against yours once more and then you feel it, his release spurting onto your heated skin, spilling onto your sex and your thighs.
You both remain still, panting together, for a moment. You cannot find it in you to loosen the grip you have on him, even as he lifts his head, pulling his hips away from yours just an inch so he can see the mess he’s made of you. The moan that leaves him is awed, his grip on you tightening at the sight of his spend all over you, dripping obscenely.
“There will be no bedding ceremony,” He states, suddenly, drawing your unfocused stare back to him. “No one else is allowed to see you like this. I won’t have it. But the Lords will need their proof of our consummation.”
His hand comes to feel at your sex, causing you to jolt in his arms, a pained whine spilling from you. “That’s why I cannot fuck you the way I want to, not yet. When I take you on our wedding night, they will see it plainly on the sheets. They will finally know you’re mine, Princess.”
“‘M not a princess yet.” You find it in you to say, quietly, unable to raise your voice quite yet.
Baelor simply shakes his head, still looking down at where he’s marked you with his seed. “You are mine, now. In every way that matters.”
the “sexy lamp test” but for disabled folks: if you can replace your disabled character with a beloved pet dog that needs an expensive surgery to survive then you have to throw out your manuscript
Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+.
Lyonel Baratheon x Wife!Reader
Masterlist
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms Masterlist
General Synopsis: Lyonel is horrified to discover what conditions his new wife comes from, and you are just as horrified to learn that things are not practiced in the world as they are within your father's House. A good wife is obedient, by correcting hands if need be. That is the philosophy you have been raised on since birth. A lady obeys. A lady agrees. A lady endures. Lyonel does not want you to endure, but some habits are so much harder break. (slow burn)
Content Warnings: emotional abuse (parental), child abuse (punishment), psychological conditioning, trauma responses, arranged marriage, anxiety, mention of first time intercourse, slow burn, angst.
AN: This fic won the vote! I promise that this is not all doom and gloom, but the reader has a rough go of it at the beginning. Lyonel has my entire heart in this.
** = smut
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight**
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten**
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve**
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen**
Chapter Sixteen**
Chapter Seventeen**
Whore!Lyonel Baratheon x Whore!Duncan the tall x Velaryon reader SMUT
MASTERLIST - SEND PROMPTS - AO3
Summary; Hurt and betrayed by your duplicitous, cheating husband, you seek out a pleasure house for a revenge fuck; little do you know, you catch the eye and interests of two very skilled men-
Stormhedge x reader - ALSO THEY ARE HUSBANDS IN THIS!
Inspired by this masterful, sensual Lyonel artwork by @josnaket and I must entirely give all my thanks to @adumbgirlinloove for helping plot and fuel the insanity on this one. We just needed the boys to be whores ok? The excellent banners by @pxrce-lain thank you so much.
You stand in the street. And you stare upwards. Neck craning.
The huge house above you heaves with life. From every window. From behind the gaps in every patterned shutter. Slithering out from under every marmalade orange rooftile. The outside brick frontage is cream as churned butter. Clung with thick climbing green vines. Ones that burst with purple flowers that smell of honey.
It’s packed with noise and heat and song that leaks out the seams. In the blue wash of night that takes this reeking city, the windows stand square and proud. Gilded in gold. You can hear laughter, strong plucked strings of seductive music. Other, more deeply vocal noises you don’t need to guess at the nature of.
“Fuck.” You hiss.
Your stomach squirms itself in knots. Like the old ones in sailors rope, that hung off the wharf.
You turn on your heel. You pace another length down the street. Slippers cutting a path in the wet dusty dirt. Your seaweed green skirts trail in it. Blue velvet cloak hem now sodden in muck. The light rippling off it. The jewellery on your wrist, crinkles like shells colliding. Twinkling silver.
You don’t know if you can do this. Once that threshold is crossed. There’s no snatching it back. Literally.
A breeze shudders up like a hot cough from from bay. Tar, salt and wood. Fish skin and old sea-logged rope. It sweeps over you. The real true filth of this city cuts through the street, butting up against the polite boudoir imagery this place sells. The streets you crammed through, smelling like rotten meat, piss, ale, and sun baked dirt. The soiled perfume of normal life.
You turn over your shoulder. Cloak falling in your eye. Hair whipped in a curling strand over your hood. Pearl earring swaying at your neck in a heavy cold drop.
You look at the golden mouth of that doorway. The promised land. It opens to let two drunk men stumble in. From here you can see a flash of red and orange. Silks hanging up. Lewd crimson tapestries lining the halls no doubt. Bodies twisted in the fabric in sexual repose. Platters of rich fruit and deep dark cups of wine to ply the customers with.
Scent sneaks out the arched wooden doorway. You can smell it from here. Luxurious incense. Sensual jasmine and warm cedar. The air trickling with it; it is all spice, sweat and heat. You know there holds naked hot flesh, and pure debauched sin behind that door.
You look down at your hands. Bring them up from under your velvet cloak. They’re shaking. The silver band on your ring finger wobbles. Tears shiver under your eyes. Ones you’ve had to choke back for far too long.
You give yourself a breath. You yank that mocking band of silver off your hand and shove it deep in your cloak pocket. No one need know.
You’re done with being frustrated. And angry. So bitterly angry you could cleave heads off shoulders with one blow. Lash the lands like a furious tempest. You could drown the world with your rage. Like some ancient sea goddess walking out the waves with desolation to hand.
You were through with feeling like a second choice in your own halls. Your halls. Your bed. Your name dragged through the silt to be laughed at. Passed over in favour of younger, perkier girls. All swaying silk dresses, and easy trite smiles.
You were of House Velaryon. Old, rich stock. Fine blue blood in your veins as ancient as foam whipped off the seas. You were a daughter of Driftmark, and its salt-bred tides wrapped your bones.
Your marriage was as cold and loveless as the deep black seabed. It had started off in fondness. You tolerated one another. Bedded when you needed too. Soon, it ran dry. Became about making the motions and nothing else. Worst of all, your womb remained empty. That was when his eye began to wander—
You suffered blow after blow of humiliation. Watching your husband openly flaunt his dalliances. Indiscreet affairs held right under your nose.
Then you’d received word, a mere day ago, a nasty sneer caught out the side of a maids mouth, that one of your husbands mistresses, had fallen with child.
That is what had driven you here. The grain of sand that tipped the scales.
You’d heard tale this pleasure house before you, was the finest there was in all of Westeros. All types of variety, and flesh of every kind on offer.
Your husband had been the one to break your wedding vows.
Now, you intend to finish the job and shatter them to dust.
Scatter the ashes in the wind and laugh as it slips through your fingers like white sand.
You march on up to that door. You take the worn iron handle, and you twist it and push inside. Heat rushes to meet you.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
The walls inside pulse red like spilled blood. Cut veins. Heavy and close. The ceilings shiver with hung silks and bulging arcs of fabric. Iron lanterns frame golden light in squares. Throwing dozy red pools over your skin, when you push your hood back.
Men and women revel around you. Romping. Naked, some dressed, some merely rumpled. Slumped on low plump chaises, bolster cushions stuffed and spilling over the tiled floor. Some are pleasuring their guests. Some are being pleasured right in the open.
Candles are crammed on every surface. Flicking upward light like dragon tongues. The sides of the room is lined to with people, and antiques from far flung corners of the lands. Frescoes of naked men and women frolic in chalky paint across the dim walls. Red grapes and cut pomegranates are piled in bowls like molehills, off a low placed table. Glistening like rubies.
You see men half undressed, aswell as women. Bodies glisten with chains and jewels. Looped down manly naked shoulder blades. Coral red beads or orange silk shawls draped over bared breasts. Laughter and jasmine clots the air, along with music threading its notes from somewhere hidden.
Everywhere you look; the choice is endless. Dark haired man. Petite white haired woman with skin so beautifully dark it drank the light. Tall pale redhead. Paler than moon. Strong tan thighs. Arms bulging with hair and muscle. Curvy hips. You can scarce breathe with the sensuality of it all.
One woman breaks from her silk draped doorway. Cocks a hip. Flaunts herself in your path as easy as a summer breeze.
She’s barefoot. Ankles ringed in gold bangles. Her hair raven black, down to her waist. Eyes were so green it was striking. She’s naked with a mulberry brocade robe lapping open at her sides. Her nipples flash in the light. Perked and pierced with gold.
She sizes you up with a flick of her lashes. Goblet in one hand. Tilting her head cool and easy. Taking the measure of your noble posture and regal clothes.
“May I help you, precious?” She purrs. Accent landing somewhere between Tyrosh and Myr.
You look at her. Wet your lips. She looks like a rippling pantheress made flesh. It made you seize up.
“I’m looking for- someone.”
“We have many someone’s here.” She tells you plain. Eyes narrowing to see if you were worthy of her time.
“I need uh… A man.”
She smiles down at you. Eyes dipping low. Trying to make you out under all that swathing velvet. Pretty. Veiled. Posture stiff. Noble blood.
“Any particular sort?”
She sweeps her arm across the room. “We have big, slim, short, tall. Well-hung. Average. Pretty men. Handsome men. I have some who want bruises and punishment. And some who’ll beg and whine for your cunt and your pleasure. Name your price and your type. Precious.”
You reach in your cloak. Withdraw a sizeable pouch. The stags within clink. Her grin glistens with red wine and hunger.
“No expense spared.” You state. Hopeful.
She looks voracious.
“Hmm for that? You get my top boys. I have someone very good. A little older. But very wild. Dark haired devil. He’s one of my best. Will tongue fuck you to tears, and pound you like a bull til dawn.”
“I just want someone…” the words turn to sand in your tongue. You swallow and it clicks down your throat.
“I want kind. Someone soft. Who’ll treat me gently. Not see me as something to use up, and discard.”
Saying it hurt more than you thought. Tears threaten your eyes again.
Her grin curls on one side. “I understand. Precious. Do you care about his… size?” She arched a brow.
You shrug modestly. Clinging your hands together. “I suppose not.”
She chuckles. It’s warm as drizzled honey.
“Come. I have just the man for you.”
The room she leads you too is empty. But the evidence of whose been before you makes you sweat under your dress. Rumpled bed. Perfume in the air like a living ghost.
“Wait here. Precious. My man will be with you shortly. I’m sure you’ll enjoy him.” She closes the door with her laugh sliding in the gap. Your coin in her hand.
You stand at the threshold. Moving in slow like you’d be told off for lingering.
This room was bigger that that red den downstairs. The walls no less oppressive. Slaked in russets and oranges. A palatial bed takes up the centre of the room. Purple sheer curtains hide the rumpled, crushed blankets. Copper silk bolsters and blue linens. Feather mattress no doubt.
Wine and more fresh fruit lay to one side. A carafe of red. A golden platter of honey drenched, sticky figs lay in a circle. The house pulses sound around you. Moans of all kinds bat at the doors. The creak of a bed repeatedly hitting a wall.
You spy the window. Covered with a misty blue curtain and a patterned wood shutter. Pinpricks of light burst across the cloth like freckles. You draw it aside. Feel the cool night air sighing in, brushing along your skin like a lover-
“My lady.” Comes a honeyed dulcet from behind you. Accent soft at the edges like it’s been sanded round.
You spin. Caught. A gasp leaving your lips. And when you see the man filling the doorway; your mouth stays hung open like a sea cave.
He wasn’t just man. He was entirely too much, man.
He was four heads taller than you at the least. Wide shoulders like a sturdy Ox. all muscle and rippling with power. But softened in places. A giving pouch of a stomach. Healthy cover of large pecs. Thighs that look as solid as ancient tree trunks in the godswood.
He’s wearing a navy robe. Thin gauze. His pale skin shimmers under the chiffon cloth. He’s recently bathed. Oil seeps a rich, thick scent off him. Verdant vertiver and cedar.
His body was like carved marble, but his face is where you get stuck.
He even looks kind.
Eyes blue as the narrow sea from your bedroom window. A noble jaw. Fine blade of a nose. Hair worn long to his shoulders. Copper-blond in the dim light. A smile that was rugged and warm, white teeth imperfect and a little crooked. But it added to his rough hewn charm.
His smile quirks at the corner with catching you off-guard. “Apologies. Didn’t want to startle you.”
You fidget with your hands. “Forgive me. I’m not usually one for being skittish, but I’m not used to-“
You turn to the room. Making a broad gesture to that truly, huge slab of a bed. Incense trails a sickly smoky path up into the corner of the ceiling. Candle flames snap on every surface. Moans skate across the walls from other rooms. Some high and violent shouts. Others more grunting and low.
You suddenly note how many large mirrors frame the walls. Inbetween the blue tapestries of writhing bodies and naked figures. It makes those rope knots in your stomach tug again. This entire place is made to sell and shout about sex. In a way you’ve been taught was not proper.
He smiles. A breathy laugh. He finishes your words for you.
“But you don’t frequent whore houses very often. That’s alright.” He soothes.
Coming in properly. Gently shutting the door behind him. Blocking out everything else. Tapering your time and attention down to him.
“I may be big, but I promise you I’m not a brute. Why don’t we have some wine. My lady- if you’d like.” He urges. Gentle as if he was calming a wild, thrashing horse.
“Very much. Yes. Please.” You swallow. Noticing your dry mouth and throat.
You flicker a weak smile his way. Wanting to curse yourself for how foolish you’re appearing.
You watch him move to the side. The low table where the fruit is. A wall of his fragrance smacks you as he moves past. Woodsy and fresh green. Like new sapling oak trees.
He pours you both a cup of wine. The goblets cold to the touch. Carved of intricate metal. A soft silence descends as you both sip. Flood sweet, heady red on your tongues.
He seats himself on the bed. You remain stood. He casually lets his eyes find you. Still garbed up like you were expecting to catch a chill.
“It’s warm in here. You can loosen your cloak if you like. No rush though if you’re not ready. Take all the time with me you need.”
“Don’t imagine your mistress would be too pleased with me taking up your whole night.”
You deprecate yourself. Looking to the expensive rugs on the floor cause you can’t believe how soft his eyes are.
“You paid good coin for me. I’ll not see you dissatisfied. She wouldn’t care for that either. Our reputations here make her a rich, powerful woman. That relys on keeping our clients happy and safe. Unless they pay to feel otherwise.”
You look over at him. He’s so sincere. Blue eyes blazing at you.
You were rather warm. You’re sure for a trade that required naked skin, the rooms had to be kept a decent temperature.
You slip your fingers for the pearl clasp of your cloak. Let it fall from your shoulders. Shimmering velvet. Like waves falling down your body.
His eyes take you in. Slowly. Without making you feel less. Or dissected.
He sees more of the shape of your delightful figure under the plain cascade of silk. The bell sleeves were long and framed your slender arms and hands. It hugged your waist and flared at your hips.
The neckline just kissed your shoulders. The way mist draped the sea on cold mornings. There’s no overdone embroidery. No fripperies or fuss. Just silver at your wrists, throat, and fingers. A lariat necklace wedged with sapphires draped down your throat. Curls of patterns that seem like shells on the metal. More pearls clasped around the design. Draping off your small hands too.
You look like some soft, sacred thing, dredged with care out of the sea. Wrapped in clinging weeds and sand. Like a salt crusted pearl. A goddess reborn. A precious treasure tucked inside a shell. Something special.
You retake your goblet. Another inch bared. Slow progress.
“I’m not here to shame you into doing something if you’re scared. If you’ve changed your mind, you’ll have your coin back. Every one. And I’ll walk you to the door myself. My lady. No harm in it.”
You open your mouth. But no sound comes out.
An honest whore who won’t take your coin regardless- how refreshing.
The oddest feeling squirms within you. Unsettled and sharp. Something your tide-worthy bones can’t meld well with. Defeat.
You answer him in kind. You stand your wine down. Wet your dry lips. You cross to stand before him. Hands fussing with your pearl rings. “Can I be honest?”
“I encourage it. Yes.” He nods. Sweet as sugar, and so calming.
“It’s a betrayal that has led me to your door tonight. A humiliating hurt so deep I scarce know what to do with it. Still don’t. But all I know is, I am so sick and tired of being frustrated, and alone and feeling second choice. I wanted someone to look at me. And see someone worth looking at. Not to be glanced over.”
The words sting as they leave your tongue. Your courage torn to strips. It hits deep in your chest like an arrowhead. The truth. You are of no consequence. You are unloved.
You don’t want to be alone. Not again. Not tonight.
A sombre expression takes his face as he sips the wine.
“Your husband?” He checks when he lowers his cup. Voice dipping into a darker tone.
Your heart knocks into your ribs. “How did you-“
“Sweet thing. I’ve been in this business a long time. I know a lot more than you’d think. You’d be shocked how many wives we get come in here.”
“Don’t know whether to find that reassuring or awful.” You concede.
“I understand your reticence. You never thought you’d find yourself seeking a whore for the night.”
“I’m coming to learn that life deals us all sorts of unpleasant hands at times. I’m trying to make peace with that.” You tell him. “It’s not going very well.” You jape. Voice watery.
“Gods. Listen to me-“ you curse yourself. Hand pressing to your brow. “I pay for your services, and end up boring you to tears.”
Is it any wonder you’re alone. You soft, sea foam fool.
“I’m not bored.” He assures. Eyes melting into yours.
“Then that either makes you the kindest soul alive. Or an incredibly good liar.”
“I don’t lie.” He tilts his head at you. “Lying is a filthy sin.”
You smile. Urge yourself to walk over. Linger closer to him.
“Devout are you?” You check. Arms crossed over your belly.
“I think you’ll find lots of cries for gods to be found within these walls.” He flirts.
You start to smile. “I imagine so. The size of you…”
You let your eyes fall for the first time at his lap. Piles of fabric bunched there. Wrinkled blue gauzy cloth that did nothing to hide the sheer weight of the cock that rests against his thigh. He’s big everywhere.
“Don’t have to be shy. My lady. I can disrobe for you. All you need do is say the word.”
That snaps something in you. Breaks the brittle fraying rope of your patience. You lean over and cup one side of that handsome, strong face.
Then you sway down and slant your lips over his.
The kiss is hurried. Pushed on him. Yet he melts to it. Smile tracing yours.
When you pull away, startled by your own brazenness. Breathing against his lips. Dry and hot. He tastes like deep red wine. “Forgive me- I didn’t ask if you were allowed to uh, kiss.”
He smiles. Huge hand cupping your face. Strokes your hair out the way of your cheek. “You’re allowed to do whatever you like with me-“
“That’s dangerous.” You smile gently. He feel like hes won something seeing that.
“Yes it is.” He smiles back like sin. “May I touch you properly? Let me taste those pretty lips again.”
You’re dumbstruck. You nod.
His hand lands soft on your waist. Respectfully. Covers the whole dip of it. Feeling along the fine silk of your dress. The flare of hip. The skimming arch of a rib.
He rises slowly from the bed. Stands his wine down. Your hands splay to his chest. Gauzy chiffon and heat of him blossoming under your touch. Gold gems inlaid with blue. Glittering and laying over the hollow at the base of his throat. Chains so fine and dainty it looked like liquid gold poured over his pale skin.
One hand stays to your waist. The other dances soft patterns on the nape of your neck. Your curling hair cupped to his palm. He has to bend down to kiss you- but he finds the reward to be well worth the sacrifice in height.
“I never asked your name.” You whisper before his kiss landed. Mortified that the lightning strike of lust in seeing him has stripped you of all your good courtesy and sense.
“It’s Duncan. Sweetness.” He offers. Thumb swiping over the back of your neck.
“Duncan.” You whisper. Treating his name like prayer. Maybe he’ll make a devout of you too.
His mouth softly finds yours again. Puts his lips on yours so gently, it makes you sigh. He wraps you up in his big arms. Makes you see stars. Your tongue feels drunk and clumsy, falling against his.
Your heart sighs against your ribs. This is what being held and cherished truly felt like. To be wrapped in the arms of a lover, who treated you like a man who’d seen shore after years at sea. Someone who saw you. And didn’t dare look away-
The kiss turns intense. Teeth and passion. You let yourself arch to his arms. They band around you. You’ve never felt safer.
He held you the way the tide did when you swam in High Tide’s beaches as a child. Suspended and utterly caught. Nothing had ever held you as sweetly as this.
His arm is around your back. A solid band of muscle. You feel the heat of him even though your simple silk.
“Would you undo my laces.” You ask against his spit wet mouth. Hot warm lips searching for you when you pull back.
“Turn around.” He answers. Softer than sand.
You spin to him. You trust him. His hands graze your hips. Seeking upwards. Finding the small laces that ran down your neck. He deftly weaves them free. Gets you down to your stays and shift. The laces on your whalebone stays he also undoes. At your bidding.
His hands pause on the straps of your shift clasped off your shoulders when you’re down to that final layer. Breath coming fanned hot over your ear. “May I, my lady?”
“Yes.” You breathe. It hitched when you feel the linen open, falling down to your hips. He pushes it free. Big hot hands falling gently on your waist when he was done.
You moan when you feel his lips descend for your shoulder. Eyes closing and mouth open like you’re praying when he kisses the slender crook from neck to shoulder bone.
“I wish to look at you. Sweetness. Turn for me.”
You work up the bravery to spin back and stand before him. In naught but your skin and your jewels. The pearls and gems rest at your sternum. Hanging between your breasts.
Your hair he takes the careful time to shift and arrange off your shoulders, spilling it down your back. Looking at your eyes rather than your pebbled nipples, or what lay between your legs.
“You’re beautiful.” He hushes. Softly the words bloom between you. You could curl sated around those words forever from his gentle mouth.
You can’t recall the last time someone called you that.
You tuck your fingers at his chest. Just under the neckline of his own gown. He’s gazing at you with such heat in those eyes now you know what blue flame feels like. It’s jarring.
He smiles like he’s been waiting for you to ask this of him. Those big fingers undo the flimsy tie slung low about his waist. He shrugs the material off and down his shoulders. Drops it to the floor at his heels. The sheer enormity of those shoulders and that chest comes free.
He must have oiled from a bath. Because the sheer amount of heat and perfume rising from his skin makes you near dizzy.
You look at his muscular chest. Wide as a wall. Packed with muscle and a healthy layer of weight. Your fingertips cross down over his pectoral to his nipple. The wide flat disc a pale pink in the light. Freckles and dusky copper hair catches the light in a fine dusting. He sighs with delight at your hands on him.
“You are beautiful too. Not worth the insulting title of a whore. Duncan.” You tell him.
When your eyes sink to his ribs. His belly. And then below, your mouth really does drop. Something that could shame a horse hangs between his legs. A thick column of a cock. Ruddy and flushed. Resting against huge thighs.
No doubt about it. He was much larger than your husband. In a way that made your throat dry and your cunt clench.
“Flattery gets you all sorts of places with me.” He grins. Unashamed. Yet the slightest tinge of a blush takes his cheeks.
How sweet that is, a man who sins and fucks for a living. And he preens and blushes at your kind words. Capturing you in his hold. Palms skimming down your back. Over your hips to grab your ass.
“Come to the bed.” He poses it as a question. Not a certainty. “If you’re ready-“
You take the hand he offers. He walks you to it. Let’s you place yourself down on the covers. Where you sit, blooms up the scent of cotton. Warmed by sun and kissed with the oaky scent of his skin and sweat.
“It’s been some time. I-“ You do try and get the words out but they lodge in your neck like pebbles. “We haven’t. I haven’t been bedded, in some, many, months.”
He crouches before you. Brushes his fingers to your jaw. Tilts it up to make you look at him. Fingers mapping your skin like he was touching something sacred in a Sept.
He looked almost pained for you. Brows dipping in the middle in a frown. “None of that. I’m not taking you yet. We’ve got other things to do first.”
Your face is a pretty, confused picture. Your hand comes to circle at his huge, thick wrist. Eyes gleaming in the candle light like coins.
“First off. You’re going to cum on my tongue. Sweetness.” He promises like it’s nothing. “Because I never take a woman until I’ve made her cum at least once. That is my only rule.”
It tips your stomach upside down and inside out to hear the words spoken so plainly. “Oh.”
“Only if it pleases. My lady.” He soothes. Happily. “Lay on your back for me.”
You kiss him again. Hands digging fingers in his neck. Lips joined again. He tips you back. Hand spread huge on your ribs. Your spine meets the soft cottons and silks rumpled below you. All you can focus on is the blissful, warm tenderness of his mouth.
Your arms come up to cross at his neck. Resting at his shoulders. His body is as massive and as heavy as he appears. But he’s keeping his weight off you. Kissing your lips numb with delicate skill. Tongue tangled with your own.
His hand moves - slow as honey. Melts across your stomach. Down your navel. Taking great care to pet through the thatch of curls at your cunt.
You breathe shakily into his lips when his fingertips drape a little lower. Catching the wetness of your pussy.
“Can you spread your thighs- I’ll need the room.” He urges.
You do as he says. Watching as he lowers his mouth to your neck again. To suck wet spots under your ear that turn into wet shapes. He trails his nose over your skin.
“You smell divine.” He mumbles. “Heavenly. Like the sea has worked its way into your skin.”
It made him think of a windswept shore. Dune grass ruffled in the breeze. Air alive with the scent of salt, and a mineral rich ocean, abutted with rugged cliffs.
You close your eyes and let yourself fully get lost in the sensation of his mouth closing over your nipple. The warm strike of his tongue that makes your hips twitch and your body arch to him.
He lavishes attention on your breasts. Until they feel aching. Tumbling into his mouth and every suck undoes more of your reticence. By the time he makes it to your belly. Nose grazing your stomach. Your fingers are twisted deep in that copper hair.
Your legs lay wide and open for him. His hands frame your thighs. Nipples aching and wet exposed to the smoky jasmine air.
“Anyone ever eaten your cunt before, sweetness?” He seeks.
You hold his gaze. “No.” You feel shame wash your cheeks and chest.
“Then I’m glad to be your first. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve the honour of such a perfect cunt as this.” He tilts his head looking down as two fingertips push through the wetness that seeps from you.
His fingers circle your clit. A little swirl that pressed back into your body. It made you groan. Sudden and sharp- eyes threatening to roll back.
“You’ve touched yourself I take it?”
“Sometimes.” You tell.
Because you had. On nights when your cold empty bed mocked you. When that ache cradled between your hip bones started to drive you mad. When you needed something stronger than wine to take the edge off. Then. You did sink your fingers between your legs and try to place yourself elsewhere.
Pain was more your lot than pleasure. When you had to hear the offending grunts and wet slaps of your husband roughly using one of the maids, out in the shadowed alcoves when he thought you were long abed. Her squawks twinned with his hog-like sounds. Then his footsteps when he walks right past your door groaning in satisfaction. Belt buckle jangling.
The silence afterwards made a fool of you. The slam of his bedchamber door. You fell asleep tear stained and empty more often than you ever did wet and truly sated.
“Let me get rid of those pesky fears. Sweetness. I can’t wait to bury my tongue in you any longer.”
He lays his mouth to your cunt. Broad, long strokes with the flat of his tongue to spread you open. Delves his tongue right inside you as you cry above him.
He doesn’t hesitate. He gets his face right into your pussy. Everything gets involved. Chin. Lips. Cheeks. No place untouched.
You can’t help it. You arch. You whine his name so loud you’re sure it makes it though the walls. Sweat builds on your brow and at the dip of your lower back. All you can feel is his wet mouth as he slurps. You near nothing but the laps and sucks as he makes vivid, fierce love to your cunt with his tongue.
You rut your hips. Unintentionally sliding yourself across his lips. He lets you. He knows you need to find your rhythm. Smiles when he sees how you’re throwing your head back. Hand a vice in his long soft hair already. Strands viced like copper wheat in your fingers.
“Oh, Duncan-“ You sigh. When his lips close in a suck over your clit, you lose your mind. Eyes flick back in your skull. Body limp. He directs your hips with his hands. Takes them both and smears his mouth to you again and again. Groaning in satisfaction.
He lashes his tongue. He swirls. He suckles and licks. A heady pulse begins to push up in your lower stomach. Bliss unfurls through you in incredible waves. Each one batters through and leaves you stunned. One hand slides up your body and tests with holding one of your breasts as he feasts down below. You whimper with the sensation. He catches your nipple with clever swipe of his thumb.
He presses one thigh to the bed. Baring you open wider as the pleasure reaches such an intense peak you hardly know what to do. You want to shuffle away because it’s too much. The threatening edge of it is so great. You feel it will swallow you whole - just like he is.
The pleasure crests and breaks. You cum with his tongue struck deep in you, his nose pressing your clit. Watching up your body as you writhed. Slick with sweat. Your release throbbing, fluttering around the push of his tongue as you descend from the high of your orgasm.
You pant hard to catch your breath. Tits swelling and falling on your heaving chest. Eyes glazed. Mouth loose and open. His name dried on your tongue in bliss.
He licks his lips. Takes his face out from your pussy. Soothingly drags a thumb over one hipbone. “You looked like you needed that.” He decided cleverly.
You can scarce unstick your tongue from your mouth to answer. “I- gods.”
“Don’t be sinning on me now.” He teases. Pressing an indulgent kiss to your stomach. Hovering over you still.
You look up. Taking in his state. He looks composed and sweetly serene. Even with your wetness shining well over his mouth and cheeks. When you drop your eyes, you see the huge state of him. Leaking and hard. Flushed bright red at the head. Clear fluid sliding down in trails to his heavy sac.
You swallow. “Will you- fuck me?”
“I’ve an idea.” He insists.
He climbs back and sits up on the edge of bed. Encourages you to climb in his lap. His cock looks insultingly big thrusted up straight and true from his groin.
He takes your hand and moves you to be closer. Gets your waist ringed in his big hands. Settles you over him. You whine when his cock brushes your pussy. You answer with a needy clench. Knowing exactly where you next need him.
He cups under your jaw. Thumb along your jawline. Sweat wicking along his skin and yours. Melting together. Your breasts pushed to his chest.
“Will you have me like this? Some prefer to be on their hands and knees. Safer not to look. Easier to take when you can’t fret over how big I am.”
“Like this. Please-“ your hands are on his cheeks. In his hair.
You can’t bear to have him anywhere but right here with you. The closeness enough to intoxicate. His scent. His sweat. The sear of his hot skin. Your arms wind around his neck. Thighs spread wide enough to hurt, over his.
“We go at this slowly.” He tells. “I don’t want to hurt you. You keep eyes on me. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Grabbing his heavy cock at the base. He gets you placed over it. Up on your knees. Stabbing kneecaps into the soft sheets.
“There you go, sweetness.” He breathes. Watching your mouth drop open.
He breaches you slowly as promised. Your cunt splitting over the thick girth. He lowers you gently. Hands vicing your. Elbows braced on his sweaty shoulders. His hands all over you.
He breathes, open mouthed at the feel of your clamping down on him. Made his eyes flutter. Taking in the pretty sight of you in his lap, pussy dripping like heaven down his cock. Ass meeting the muscled columns of his thighs. He feels how tensed you are.
“Easy.” He slides his mouth to yours. Takes your mind completely with a kiss that stuns. Sinks you lower and lower down on him.
You cry out when you finally settle fully onto him. Cunt pulsing so tight it makes him choke. Gods, you were tight. Warm and grabbing him tight like wet silk. He knows it can be a lot after a while without this kind of penetration.
You push your forehead to his. Moaning into his lips when his cockhead curves a spot inside that made you come alive. More alive than you had been in months. You buck in his hold. He’s there to keep you steady.
“There it is. My sweet. That’s the spot I’m going to fuck. It’s gonna make you cry out for me. Again and again.” He promises.
“So good. Fuck. So much-“ you mumble. Panting. Love drunk against his lips. Your hips ache from the strain already. But you’d sooner die than pull off him.
He scoops his fingers under your ass. Grabs you and guides the pace. Drops and lifts you off his cock in a pattern that gets you gasping. Clit grinding on the downstroke against the wiry bush of curls at the base of him. He likes how he can feel you pulse over him.
You raise up a little on your knees. Desperate to keep the pace he’s set. Breasts starting to bounce. Hands digging for his shoulders. Nails punched with his sweat.
The jewels at his throat shimmer and wink at you. He lowers loses his mouth in your bouncing tits. Licks the sweat and salt of the sea off you. You whine. Pitchy and high.
Face screwed up in sheer pleasure. Mouth dropped wide. He takes the opportunity to shove his tongue into your mouth. Suck at your own tongue and swallow a moan. Eat it off you.
You hum his name. Desperately cupping his face. Right there in the moment with him. Pleasure biting at your heels. Chasing and rocking the same obliterating goal. Your teeth meet messily in the fierce kiss.
His hips starts to push to yours. Riding together.
“Cum for me sweetness. Let go. Take what he never gives you. Take every bit and know you deserve it. Gorgeous girl.” He soothes.
Kissing his way to your ear. Chin lost in your neck. Hand up your back as you wrap yourselves in the other like a warm cloak.
Your eyes tremble with tears. “Duncan.” The sheer weight of the admission sinking into your skin. You tremble in his hold like a leaf.
“I’m right here.” He whispers. Lips searching for yours. Big hand cupping the back of your neck. Hair sticking to his sweaty palm. “Focus on me. Let it all melt away.” He urges.
He takes the lead to get you there. Drills his hips up into you with savage rhythm to punch his cock to you again and again. A bruising pace. Yet, it’s exactly what you need. What you’ve needed for months. He fucks the moans right out your mouth and into his.
Your whines climb higher and higher. Voice raw and hoarse. His name entwined with the gods. Nails in his scalp. Head tipped back to the heavens.
He fucks you hard and fast enough to summon a shout from your mouth. The enormity of the feelings moving through you is terrifying. It starts in your lower back. Sweeps for your calves. Up your thighs. Bursts open in your stomach and takes the rest of you sweeping with it. You shake. You cry. You can’t believe how right it feels.
You sag to his body. Let him use you however he needs. Clutching on the for the ride as the shocks and crests bleed into perfect bliss. Shattering on the rocks like a wave. Dispersing to the sea again when it’s done.
Your hand sinks to the damp hair at the back of his neck. Fingers clutching. He spills to you. Deep and hard with his hips jerking and twitching to your own.
You feel wickedly delighted by feeling the hot, steady splash of him inside you. It feels good. Like you’ve rectified a wrong gone long unpunished. The realisation of it makes a fierce thrum of passion plough through your chest.
He pants and cradles you to his lap. Fingers dimpling into your ass. Sweat beading his brow as you writhe and feed each other the high with the last little shocks of climax. Rutting and rubbing hot, fevered skin.
You delight in seeing a blush climbing its way uo his neck and chest. Settling at the base of that gold necklace of his. Your release slicks you together where your joined. You drip even more now.
You sigh for him. High and airy. Happy.
“You are divine.” You rasp. You feel like you near bit your tongue in half when you came.
He breathes a satisfied smile. Cheeks red hot. Contrasting to his gold red hair. “As are you.”
He traps you into a lippy, slow kiss. Tasting of the musk of you, wine and sweat. “That husband of yours is a fucking fool. Sweetness.”
You don’t know what to say to that. You agree entirely. Instead, drag your fingers down the thatch of slight hair at his chest. Golden fuzz in the light. His sweat sinks into your fingertips.
The haze slips away. Like a sea breeze twisting through your fingers. You have to let it pass- clammy coolness takes your skin. Now you must redress, and leave his embrace.
He makes a face as you pull back from his chest. Take your hands off him. Shift in his lap. Softening cock feeling big inside you still.
“You probably have a whole queue of other clients to see. I should go-“ you decide softly.
“You don’t get to leave that easy. Stay a minute. Come back to yourself. Have some more wine and then find your clothes. Besides. I have some tea for you to take. To ensure no, accidents occur.” He strokes his thumb across your chin.
His huge paw of a hand comes up to stroke the back of your sweat-licked hair. He leans to presses a warm kiss to your brow. Gently helps you manoeuvre off him, on legs that shake and knock like a newborn fawn.
He sets you back on the covers. Twists to find his robe. Ties it loosely around his body again. But it honestly, it is no good. Now you know how delicious that body is, your eyes roam every inch as he crosses to the far side.
Past the huge copper bathing tub that could seat five. You think you can guess as to why. He could comfortably host an orgy in these rooms. The bed could sleep ten if needed. You watch his wide back, he pours something into a wooden cup. It steams and swirls.
You’re clutching the bedsheets to your cooling skin when he comes back. Raking your fingers through all the knots in your wild hair.
He passes you the cup. “Drink all of it. And another pouch for you to take home, to have tomorrow. Just to be sure.” He winks at you.
You sip the tea. It’s almost minty and sharply herbal. Not unpleasant. But you’d rather have more wine. He knows. Smiles as he passes you your cup of wine to wash it down with when you’re done. A better taste left on your tongue.
He cleans you when you rise from the bed. On one knee with a warm wet cloth that smelt like roses. Taking the salty leak of his spend from between your legs. Naughtily sinks his face in and kisses your curly mound when he’s done. Looking up at you with a wide smile when you gasp.
He rises to full height. Helps you pull on your clothes with plenty of kisses dropped on your naked skin. Some to make you squirm. Others make you moan. All of his attentiveness makes you smile.
Moneys worth and then some. He was worth his weight in gold.
You find a purpling bruise on the crook of his neck. Vicious purple. Marked with the edging of teeth. “I apologise.” You frown as you find it. “I didn’t realise I’d been so rough with you.”
It makes him smirk. “No. No. Sweetness. That wasn’t you. Don’t worry. That was-
He’s just helping loop your dress up over your hips, when the door swings open with a heady whine. It makes you jump. Shying away. The illusion of the peaceful utopia you’d built together, exposed.
It makes Duncan frown. Draws you into his arms. Keeps you out of sight of the door. With the shield of his own body. His jaw grits. He’s ready to snap in anger at whoever it was. “Close the door won’t you. For fucks sake-“
You brave a glimpse over your shoulder. Spy the man whose filling the doorway like he could woo the wooden frame it’s in.
From the looks of him; you believe every inch of that.
“Apologies lover. Figured you’d be finished by now. Heard you had a sweet morsel in here.” Comes the low drawl of a voice, that only knows how to seduce.
Deep and playful. The way a panthers tail curls when it walks. Easy seductive grace. That’s what this dark man made you think of;
He’s shorter than Duncan - but that’s not a surprise. There’s not many men that could match his height. But he’s tall and still broad enough to swoon at.
His skin is gloriously tanned. Hair a dark cloud of raven-silver on his head. You would say halo, but the devilish nature of his smile entirely belied any saintly imagery.
There are big orange gems laid in gold, circling over his neck. And naked chest. Pearls too. Draped across his shoulders like he’s bathed in the stars. He’s covered in jewels and gold, that click and rock when he moves. Gold thick cuffs on his wrists. Bangles. Earrings dangle to his shoulders. One a fat purple gem shaped like a teardrop. The other is a pearl the size of an olive.
Hoops punched through the tops of his ears. More cuffed around his bulging upper arms. His fingers drip in rings too. Every thick one adorned. Gems and jewels thrown across every inch of his skin, like he’s a treasure in his own right.
Your mouth dried out when you see he also has gold rings forming little circles at his nipples. A chain webs across and over his shoulders joining them together. It jangles when he moved.
He’s holding a wine glass down by his thigh. Near empty. His chest hair is matted and grazed with sweat. Scratches are raked over his shoulders. Punctured in his sides. He looks like he’s been thoroughly, viciously mauled, and laughed right through every second.
A golden cloth, like the heart of the sun, similar in thin nature to dunks gown, is tied around his hipbones. Dipping scandalously low. A pelt of dark hair carpets his chest. Bolted with silver and ink. That same colouring leads in a happy trail down his belly below where the fabric ends.
He has red scratches scored on his chest. Neck covered in mouth shaped bruises like red and black love hearts on his skin.
His eyes are dark, glittering. Black as beetles wings. And they settle on the sight of you circled in Duncan’s arms, with predatory intensity. His grin slopes wider across those kiss-bruised lips.
“My, my. Aren’t you a delectable one.” He leers.
Smoothly invites himself in and prowls to where you’re stood. Smoothing your dress over your shoulders again. Even clothed, his grin makes you feel utterly naked.
You come to realise, this man is all mouth. He runs loudly. As loudly as the rest of him, which is screaming with the weight of shiny jewels and gold.
“Usually I don’t much care who takes up their time with my husband. But I’m sorry to have missed you...”
That word catches you upside the head like an arrow. Husband.
“Husband?” You twist in Duncan’s arms. Peering up at him. Eyes wide.
Duncan nods. Smiling down at you. “You didn’t give me that bruise. Sweetness. That was this one-“ he jerks his head to the other man.
“As you can see, he’s got quite a mouth on him.”
He eyes over at the other man with daggers. “Do you have to be so coarse? Lyonel? Some days I swear. You behave like the arse end of a mule.”
The man blows Duncan a kiss. Leans up and seals the deal. Pecks a lippy kiss on the side of his face. Enough to make him wash pink with a blush.
“Your mule. Lover. But hung like a fucking stallion might I add.” He sticks his tongue though his teeth and grins. Catches your eye. Sneaks his hand down to pinch at Dunk’s ass.
Duncan’s huge hands slip your cloak back up your shoulders. Fastens the pearl clasp together. He brushed a hand lovingly over the back of your hair.
“See you to the door, sweetness?” Duncan asks.
“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be fine.” You insist.
Lyonel scans you from head to toe. Oh yes. Your cheeks blazing with the glimmer of sweat. Glistening with joy, like a woman whose been properly, thoroughly, pounded. By the monster cock he knows is hanging between his husbands legs.
Lyonel catches your hand before you can slink away. Reels you in with it. Folds your cloak out his path. Leans down and kisses your knuckles. Looks deep into your eyes after with a spine-melting grin.
“Look at you. Gods. You’re fucking delectable. Ask for me next time. Won’t you?” He buoys his brows at you.
You don’t know how to look away. He’s hypnotising.
You swallow. Nervous. Withering under his intense gaze. “What makes you think I’m coming back?” You fluster.
He chuckles. Grin a bright flash. It’s the most dark and delicious sound you’ve ever heard.
“Trust me. Not many like my Duncan. Pet. You’ll be back.” He winks.
LYONELS PART COMING NEXT—
Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiiousstrawberriies @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @whatislovevavy @happinessisaloadedgun @faelinda @crayonbug @celestrys @sallymaywritings @captainfern @theprophaecy @multyfangirl @angstybadger @asterionex @liliac-dreamer @goregal22-blog @stainlesssteelbedframe @ghostlybfgf @fayefayefay
[Tommy Miller (game) x F!reader, Joel Miller, Sarah Miller]
Solar Power - Masterlist
It was supposed to be casual: a hot contractor in a pony tail, improper use of company time and zero expectations. Then, a promotion pulls you back to your home country just as Tommy Miller starts feeling like home. Unfortunately, ambition doesn’t care about timing or love, and neither do USA visa's. You will have one last summer in Texas with your summer boyfriend.
Warnings: No Outbreak, AU, the last of us, smut, explicit sexual content
Chapter 1 - Selling sunshine
Chapter 2 - Where women glow and men plunder
Chapter 3 - How to Accidentally destroy your situationship
Have a story kn your head about him but can't get around to writing it until you can't find any fics that scratch the itch
Step 3)
Start writing and get pretty far, but not far enough to put anything out
Step 4)
Get writing fatigue, and want to read something to take a break, but the only character you have room for in your head is the same character you are writing for currently
Step 5)
Now you can't read or write anything and the cycle continues
part I - part II - partIII - partIV - part V - part VI - part VII - part VIII - part IX - part X - part XI -
Summary: You and Sandor entertain an evening in the high class brothel. Maybe even lay your soul bare to him. Apologies no heavy action (yet) Mostly filler and fluff and talking.
Please come chat to me or my inbox with any sandor reqs. I’m very thirsty. Reblogs or comments are very welcome my lords, ladies, they’s and gays-
He was certainly a sight to behold.
When you come to the doors. He’s pacing like a caged tiger. Roaming the entrance hall like a predator, packed muscles tight with anger, fresh blood to sniff out.
His expression and stance changes the second he claps eyes on you. Eases a little.
“My apologies. Ser. I didn’t realise it was my lords guest of honour you were seeking. I thought you were after one of our girls.” Margan stated. Folding his wrists to cross over his front.
“What kind of fucking whore house needs armed guards?” He sneers. Growling around at the men surrounding him. Teeth sharp. Eyes mongrel hungry for violence. For split skulls and unrest. What he’s so used too.
“The civilised kind.” Margan answers brightly.
You come level to him. A ratty black hood half folded over his ruined scars. The dirty black cloak enveloping his body. But the apparent flash of dull armour underneath adds extra bulk to his already hefty frame. Made Tallin’s men weary.
“Finished your grousing?” You raise a brow. Arms crossed over your chest. Amused. Smiles to counter his frowns.
He looks to you. Mouth closes into a grim line. Treating him like an errant squalling brat in need of a smack.
“Came to…. To make sure you weren’t…” He can’t finish the words. Motions towards you with his sword. Maybe he didn’t care to finish his words in front of present strange company.
“As you can see. I am in one piece. Unmolested. This is one house in Kings Landing that won’t see me harmed.” You tell.
He scowls around him. Until the men surrounding him move back a couple steps. The stance to fight in his posture eases only lightly. Not that they’d pose him much trouble. He could wipe them out with one swing of his huge arm.
“We’re not used to soldiers from the palace frequenting our establishment.” Margan informs him.
“Happy to be an inconvenience.” Sandor grits out.
You roll your eyes. Heap any more testosterone onto this moment and someone would end up with their skull bashed in.
You put yourself between him and Margans guards.
“Why don’t we go have some supper. Seeings as we’re both here. Think I’ll be needing more wine.” You supply. Tone heavy with annoyance.
You gather your skirts and turn. His ensuing bark follows you.
“I’ve not coin enough for this fancy fucking place.” He snips.
“I don’t need your coin. Clegane. Just your company. Now come. And put your fucking sword and fangs away.” You tilt your head in the direction of the tavern across the courtyard.
You go through the brothel to get to it. Across the courtyard and down the steps. Well concealed and only for those who know of its presence. It’s not for the rabble like the taverns across the way outside these cherished golden walls.
He eyes Margan sharply. All side eye and venom.
The man steps back with a clever - too knowing - smile.
“Enjoy your evening. Ser.” He nods his head in a bow.
Sandor grumped, as he stalked off after you. All ill temper and wrath. The heavy clunk of his steps in situ with the rattle of his armour.
You lead him through the courtyard. Even now, under growing dusk, the sky lost to peaches and copper and pinks, slanted sorbet shades, the activities haven’t lessened. Girls frolicking naked in the fountain. Sprawled across clients laps. Noises of pleasure bleeding out from the side rooms. His size gains a few new sets of eyes as you both walk by. Man that big couldn’t not be stared at.
When you come to the curtained door, swathed ochre velvet, it’s pulled aside for you. He ducks through, dipping his massive head so as not to hit the uneven stone archway.
A serving girl guides you both to a table. One cloaked in half gold light and the swallow of shadow. Private and intimate.
You take a seat at the conspicuous tucked away table, hiding in the corner. A tapered white lit candle flickers patterns on the old wood. Two glasses wait for you. Yves’ touch, you’re sure. A small white flower sits in some water in a mishapen vase. Snipped of the vines just outside. Sugars the air.
He lands himself opposite you. Wood groaning on the bench seat. The air in here is all perfume too. Too fucking sweet. Like honey. There’s no raucous noise or stumbling crowds. Just people feasting and drinking in a gentle murmur. This beats the scrappy back alley pubs he’s used to frequenting.
The air coming from the kitchens down the stairs smells like roasting waxy lemons and chicken. Potatoes seared in beef fat. Enough to make his stomach clench.
Some noncy bard plays soft ballads in the corner. The ceiling has flower vines scrawling over it like green veins. Popping open with white blooms. Fucking poncy if you ask him.
At the table, he took up as much space as he liked. Blessedly, without asking permission. Here, he was freed. Somewhere Lannister influence didn’t hang like vultures. Or rules of employ stick to the corners like cobwebs. He folds his hood back off his head. Leaves it open at his sides. Sits and looks at you opposite.
Light turned to blackened gold at the rooms edges. Stuck to other figures like mud. Made them dull. Unimportant. Light rolled over and flattened them.
The enfold of candlelight seemed to do the opposite for him; to you, it brought him out.
Every rough crevice. Every bump of scar. Naked yellow light unforgiving. The flicker of the candles writ sonnets across mean skin. Shines in the slick of sweat gathered in the base of his neck. Settled into those deep brown sad mutt eyes like it could live there.
Of course he’s sweating. Hauling all that metal armour and hard edged anger and suspicion around.
“So…” You begin. Laying your arms on the table.
“Following me, were you?”
You drum your fingers on the table. One hand tucked under your chin. Elbow on the scarred wood table. The drums of your fingers ripples the candle. Makes a gold and black dance across the table surface.
His mouth twitches to the side. Whiskers tugging stubby on his chin and around his lips. That move you’ve noticed he does when he can’t use his gauntlet fists or steel to smash his way out of answering.
“Not a safe place for a maid. Out here at night. Among the rats and whores. And fuck knows who else lurking down a dark alleyway.”
“Evidently you were lurking.” You answer back.
“Kings landing is a lawless fucking place. Pardon me for wanting to keep you from all the rags and rats and filth. That rabble outside aren’t kind when they see a palace uniform.”
“I can assure you there’s more danger for me roaming inside the keep, than out of its walls.”
“You don’t fucking know that.” He snaps.
You soothe his agitation. “I’m armed.” Making motion to the dagger that never left your thigh.
“Suppose it’s someone you can’t outfight. A gang of them. Maybe. Follow you down a dead end. Cut you off. They’d toss you around like a cut of meat and slit your throat when they’re done.”
You remain unmoved. Placid.
“You’re painting a very dark picture of my evening off.” You frown. Commenting dryly.
“Just being honest. Red.” He stares at you pointedly.
“That’s what we do isn’t it? Honesty?” He looks at you a tad too hard.
“Well. I need a drink in my hand for that….” Turning your head, cool as anything, beckoning a serving wench over.
She walks in a way that makes her her hips rolling and sultry. Smile bright when she sees you. Recognition flickers across her smile. Brightens her eyes.
The gathered fabric up her legs tightens to her every step. Snug to the ride of her hips. Hair glossy dark, spilling down her back. She’s Lorathi colouring. Beautiful small links of gold rests on her smooth sternum. Looks like liquid gold dripping down her neck it’s so fine.
She clings to your side when she arrives. Steps smooth as velvet. Sultry as a panther. She pours wine heartily into his cup. Right to the brim. No half measures in this house. Wine flowed freely all night; and that wasn’t the only thing that came offered.
His eyes follow the smooth charming path her fingers take. Sliding along your shoulder. Under the curtain of your hair. A fingertip dances a sultry circle on your bare shoulder. He knew now-
You’d had women before.
“Will you be needing company tonight, mistress?” She seeks. Voice so sweet you’d think her throat was lined with sticky husky honey.
Your hand kindly closes over hers. Softly. Fingers wrapping to the gaps of her fingers. You look up at her and smile. It’s full of myth and secrecy. A side to you he’s seldom seen, how comfortable you are with her touch.
“Thank you. Arina. But just the food and drink is all I’ll be having. I have a friend with me this evening.” You politely decline. Nodding your head across to him.
She turns her head. Doesn’t even turn a hair at the terrible grotesque sight of him. In fact, she eyes him up like you first did.
A huge haunch of a man, large set, with thick shoulders, broad thick arms. Surely a fat long cock to match the rest of his huge hulking stature.
His eyes narrow back in an uncertain scowl.
“We will gladly welcome your friend too.” She purrs. Her head tilting to size up the set of his hunched shoulders.
“Is he as big as he looks?” She teases.
“Perhaps next time.” You finish.
She slides her hand under yours. Brings it up to kiss your knuckles tenderly. “We miss you. My fiery one.”
Your cheeks warm a little at the compliment.
Sandor eyes her like a threat. Until you tell her to be so good as to leave the wine jug.
She doesn’t seem swayed or deterred. Merely a smooth shift of her hip, slips her arm off you, and she’s back on her way through the tables. A wake of sandalwood and vanilla teases after her like a lingering kiss.
He raises a brow at you. Nearly makes you flush even more.
“I’m no green maid. Sandor.” You state.
“I can see that.” He says. Referencing the wine wench. His eyes follow her over the room where she sways to pour more wine and smile sinful invites. Clearly you’d known comforts at this tavern. Flesh and otherwise.
“And I don’t think the whores hereabout would offer me much trouble...” You joke all brazen. Smile crawling across your lips. Finger circling the rim of your cup.
“You got a cock under that skirt, Red?”
Your smile is wide enough for teeth to flash in the candlelight. Makes his stomach feel light. It was as if the apple of your cheeks were gilded in gold leaf. A rare treasure for him to enjoy.
“Who says you need a cock to enjoy a whore… plenty of ways to get around that. She showed me a few of them.” You tease.
He shifts in his seat. Best not think too long on that particular image. He can’t help but think of her hands roaming your skin the way his do. Fingers moving over your breasts or between your legs. Throwing your head back in pleasure with her long hair tangled in your hands.
He gives you the hard corner of his eyes as a look that’s intended to sting like a punch.
“Women don’t offer threat. It’s men. Low-born men who come sniffing for a pretty thing like rats to feast when the lights are low.“
“Then I thank the gods I have a big scary dog here to see those rats off.”
“Don’t know why I fuckin bother trying to keep you out harms way. Red.” He grunts.
Thankless fucking task.
That makes you grin. Nails sliding under his skin he wants to bat away. But can’t seem to bother. You’ve hooked him close with them like meat hooks. He doesn’t want to shadow your steps and worry about you. Yet here he fucking is.
“I thank you for your attention. Trouble does seem to make a habit of finding me, however.” You remark.
“Ain’t that the shagging truth.” He awards gruffly. Lifting his small cup to his mouth. You admire the way his huge thick fingers cover nearly all the metal from view.
“Yet tonight. Seems you’ve found me instead.” You press. “You tracked me here. Don’t deny it. You wouldn’t have found it otherwise.” Your eyes narrow. Sharp as diamonds and as sparky as gunpowder.
He fidgeted. Slurped back wine. Avoided your eye. Guilt.
“Let me speak plain. Sandor. I don’t think I owe you much of an explanation you grumpy fucking git. But I’ll give you one anyway….”
“Despite what you think. I didn’t come here for sex. I came here to acquire something. Something I’ll be needing if we are to carry on the way we have been.” You elucidate.
Now you have his attention.
“My cousin owns this establishment. And his wife and I are close. And very dear to me. I asked her for something and I came to collect.”
You’ve piqued his interest.
“And what’s that? Red.”
“Moon tea.”
Eyes snap to yours. Panic writ in them. Dancing gold. Face stoic.
“Rest easy. I’m not. But I’m taking precautions. To be certain there are no unwanted mishaps in our future.”
“Why didn’t you just fucking say that.” He snips.
Your head tilts. Dangerous. Your eyes - those devastating eyes of yours - spark in the dark.
“Why didn’t you trust me.”
You stumped him there. He grits his jaw.
Trust doesn’t come naturally to him. That’s why. He’s found a small kernel of it in you. But he’s always been and always will be wary. It’s kept him alive thus far.
“I don’t trust any damn cunt in this shit city.” He spits. Gulping more drink.
You do see that right enough. Neither do you. Two burned sides of the same warped coin.
“You could have made a good start by trusting me. Clegane.”
A hound never lies. Well. Neither does his bitch.
He looked sore. A little shamed.
“Aye. I know that. Now.” Was apparently the only concession you’d get out of him.
“Don’t be so fucking mysterious next time.” He barks.
You smile. That was his forgiveness. A rare small gem of it bestowed on you. Rough cut and spat your way crude, of course. Nothing about him fell softly.
“We’re not wed. I don’t need you to know my every movement.” Your eyes can’t half pierce a man when they need too.
“Wanted to be sure you weren’t walking into danger.”
“Got that loud and clear.” You state. Pouring him more wine. Inching your fingers over to cover his fingertips. “I trust that about you.”
The look he gives is sour. Voice deep warning. “Don’t rub it in.” He warns. You chuckle.
Your conversation is halted by the sudden arrival of food. A serving girl slides a huge jointed roast hen on a heap of fried potatoes onto the table before you on a wide oval platter. Another platter too, this one heaped with fine and exotic cheeses, warm steaming breads, butter and fat plump fruits.
You shove the meat his way. Sup back more wine and pluck at the fruits. Watch him devour the chicken with a barely restrained hunger. He leaves the plate in the middle, nudges some back your way. You refuse it.
“I’ve eaten.” You state. You drink instead. He tears more meat off the bone. Rabid hungry dog.
Which grants him cart blanche to leave nothing but the bare bones. You fully believe he’ll have the pattern off the plate too. Man as big as he is with a huge appetite to match.
“The fuck does your cousin do to warrant a place like this?” Sandor asks through a mouthful. Scouring his hard cynical eyes over this poncy place. Flowers snapping into bloom on the ceiling. The whores wearing gold silk. The luxuries that drip off every single guest. This place is drowning in riches, and then some.
“He’s high up in the Iron Bank.” You tell. “Never really asked what he did to be honest. He owns this mansion and a few more like it in Kings Landing. He also has vineyards and villas in Pentos and Braavos.”
“All this and you never asked?” He ribs.
You pick up your cup and tip and roll the wine around in it.
“When the wine is this good, I say nothing.” You beam. Before you take a pull from it.
That actually pulls a rare smile out of him. You mirror it. It feels nice.
This feels suddenly, alarmingly intimate. The full sweeping wash of a realisation takes you. This may be the first time you’re sat eye to eye with nothing ulterior.
No work or chores, duties, tearing you away. No motive that leads to sex. This may well be the longest conversation you’d had. One where you keep your clothes on. It feels like he’s paying court to you - of sorts. Definitely not traditionally. Nothing about this pairing is going to follow tradition.
“One thing about you I still don’t get. Red.”
“Just the one?” You seek.
“You’re not curious. Are you. About anything. All the times we’ve been together. You’ve never even asked me about it.”
“About what?”
He gestures with a thick finger to the burns across the side of his face. The ones that dip and warp the skin. Half hidden by his long waving hair.
You hold his gaze. Seriously. “Figured it was your business.”
He narrows his eyes like he doesn’t get you.
“Surely you’ve heard rumour by now. Run rampant at the keep. Do they not?” He challenged. Looking between you and his food.
Maids and servants do gossip.
“I don’t put much stock into whispers and heresay. Or to sly rumours bred by nastiness.” You offer. You’ve heard rumour certainly. But they pass over you like river water. Running endlessly away. You let nasty rumours with growing teeth sink in elsewhere.
“You want to tell me? Then go ahead. I’m not going to dig into someone else’s pain to sate any questions. If I wanted to know, I’d have asked. I suspect I will not enjoy hearing the answer of why your face got melted away.”
He chuffs a sound that could be a laugh. An exhale of air through his nose.
“You are fucking different. No two ways about it.” He almost says it under his breath.
“Yes. I’m a spiky difficult bitch. According to most.” You beam.
“Spiky.. hmm. Yet the first time we met, barely knew me, you told me about the scars on your back.” He nods. Gesturing to your shoulder.
“Because you asked.” You shrugged openly. Like it made such hale sense. Hands wide on the table top each side of your wine goblet. Holding nothing back.
He seems amused. Smile tugs the corner of his bristled mouth. Nods slightly.
“Maybe it’s because I didn’t see any real danger to you. For days when starting my position everyone told me what a brute you were. Tried to make me scared and see me shrink down with tales of you slaughtering men with one swing of your sword. Making maids and servants cower and scurry away when you walked past…Told me how cruel you were.”
“Not inaccurate.” He offers. Sipping more wine back. Snapping chicken bones apart to get at the meat.
“I was expecting cruel. And then, I saw you for the first time.”
“Aye. Chewed seven shades of shit out me for not stitching a wound properly. Mouthy bitch.”
“Yes. But that wasn’t the first time I saw you. That was the first time I spoke to you.”
He lowers the goblet from his lips. News to his ears. “Then when?”
“It was in the gardens when I was coming down a corridor carrying a tray. The Princess Mrycella came bolting to your side. After you came back from Winterfell. She launched herself at your leg. You didn’t look down at her. But she wasn’t the slightest bit scared of you, or your scars. Not one bit. She gave you a small blue flower. You grumbled of course, but you took it. When she’d gone… I watched you slip it in your pocket.”
“Silly token from a little girl.” He offers. Making it nothing. Crushing it down.
“Bollocks to that. You kept it too. Don’t pretend. It’s the same one that’s pressed on your bedside.” You add.
He can’t catch you out for this one. Looks at you like he doesn’t know how to deal with someone whose laid him bare. The seat creaks when he leans back. In this apparently, to you, he must be open.
“I knew then you may have been a grizzled guard dog. But you weren’t a rotten one. You were one of the good ones. Just….had a nasty temper. A foul bark perhaps.”
“Funny.” He remarks. Dry as dragon bone. Throwing bare bones down onto the platter when he’s done.
“Glad I can amuse.” You beam.
You let the gentleness of the room and its surrounds stir around you for a moment. The soft strings being plucked. The sound of wine being poured. Dornish gold settling with a swish into a metal cup. The scent of flowers that drifts down from the ceiling. The warm air that glides like silk over your skin.
It’s a barb to think you have to swap this life; this brief window of calm, peace, for more toil and danger up at the palace. Back to being barked at and shoved around from pillar to post because you are not highborn. You best eat your scraps without fuss and be grateful for every crumb.
“When you back on duty…” He seeks.
“Dawn.” You sigh.
“Same as me.”
“Can’t believe the Prince lets you wander very far.” You remark in a ribbing manner.
He looks grouchy with it. Mildly annoyed. Why did you have to bring up that little shit on my night off.
“Hes always got something to squall about. Doesnt matter if im there or not. He has more underlings to bully.”
You nod.
“Just so you know. I have secured a room for the night.” You tell him. Looking down at some torn bread and split fruit on your plate as you said it. You dared to flick your gaze up to find his. Blazing into yours.
“I’m allowed to bring a guest.” You flirt. Eyes glittering fine as gems. Looked like you belonged to this place.
That quirks one side of his mouth. “Are you now?”
You drain your wine. Stand up. Let your skirts fall to your knees.
When you lean over and offer him your hand. He takes it.
it was simple, it was sweetness, it was good to know
Roy Kent × Fem!Reader
word count : 15.1k a fucking whopper I started writing and couldn’t stop this is the longest oneshot I’ve ever written in my life
summary : the 5 times Phoebe got dropped off at your house and the 5 times Roy realised he was in love with you.
content warning : tooth rotting fluff with the whole Kent family line, a little angst if you squint really really hard, allusions to smut towards the end but non actually written, me calling Roy’s sister Molly but I can’t remember where I first saw it, no use of yn.
masterlist
a/n : if you want to see a spin off based on any part of this please dot because writing this has broke my writers block!!!! I’d love to write some more Roy <33
1. the first time
It had taken Roy about 15 seconds to decide he was going to drop Phoebe off with you.
When Molly had shown up on his doorstep at 5am, with an asleep Phoebe in her arms, citing she'd been called in for a surgery, he mentally rearranged his whole day to accommodate for his favourite girl. It wasn't until lunchtime rolled around that he remembered an important meeting with Ted and Beard that he, unfortunately, couldn't get out of. So, while brainstorming who on earth he could leave Phoebe with, his mind quickly settled on you.
You were sensible and probably good with kids considering he could remember a couple of mentions of a niece of your own, and he knew - given it was the weekend - that you'd probably be free to look after her. And, not to Roy's surprise, you'd quickly said yes when he called to ask if that was okay.
While it had only been 20 minutes since Roy called, he was already at your doorstep, Phoebe's hand held tightly in his as they waited for you to answer the door.
"Is she pretty?" Phoebe asked, eyes unmoving from the unfamiliar front door as she spoke to her uncle Roy.
Roy scoffed at the question, unsure where it had come from and why his niece couldn't have asked this in the car. If she'd asked in the car he would've given an enthusiastic yes, a smile creeping on his lips as he thought about you, and how you always looked pretty - even if you were in a Richmond pullover and sulking in your office - especially then, actually. "Why does it matter?"
Before Phoebe could answer him, your front door swung open, you behind it with a wide smile. No sooner then it had opened, you'd crouched down to Phoebe's level, giving her a small wave and a bright smile. "Hi Phoebe! I hope you don't mind that you've got to spend the day with me instead of your uncle Roy."
"I don't mind at all," Phoebe shrugged, the straps of her backpack moving greatly with the movement of her much smaller shoulders. "I see my uncle roy all the time."
The laugh that bubbled past your lips made Roy's heart skip a beat, and for a moment he forgot why he was even standing on your doorstep.
As you stood up straight, you gently took Phoebes hand in your own, pulling her closer to you and your home and giving Roy the opportunity to head off for his meeting. "We should let your uncle Roy get going then, shouldn't we?"
"Thanks again for doing this, I owe you one." Maybe I could take you to dinner as thanks? Roy wanted to add, but wasn't brave enough to do so. If he wasn't so head over heels for you, maybe it's be easier to do something about it.
"Don't worry about it," you brushed him off, gently pushing him off of your doorstep and back in the direction of his car, knowing he had places to be. "I'd like to think you'd do the same for me."
"Bye uncle Roy!" Phoebe shouted, giving him one last wave before running into your house, you quickly following after her to make sure she didn't injure herself exploring the new territory.
Thankfully, she made a b-line for your couch, climbing onto it and emptying the contents of her backpack out on the seat next to her. She pulled a colouring book into her lap and grabbed a fist full of pens, quickly pulling off the caps of her favourite colours and getting to work on her masterpiece.
"Have you had any lunch yet, Phoebe?"
"No, uncle Roy was about to make me lunch when he called you."
While you knew Roy was rushing to his meeting, you didn't realise he'd seemed to forget about it completely.
Phoebes lack of lunch had you searching through all your cupboards for something suitable to feed a 7 year old, and when you couldn't find anything you'd have wanted to eat at 7, your turned to her with a smile. "How do you feel about a trip to Tesco? You can pick out whatever you want for lunch?"
"Perfect!" Phoebe cheered, pushing her pens to the side as quickly as she'd picked them up, running back to your front door to put her shoes and coat on. As soon as she was dressed, you opened up the front door, grabbing your car keys from the dish by the door and directing her in the direction of your car as she ran ahead of you in her excitement.
"Phoebe, you don't need a booster seat do you?" While you had your own niece, she was still young enough to be in a carrier everywhere she went, so you weren't entirely sure what the protocol was for 7 year olds.
"I don't have one in my uncle Roy's car." That was good enough for you.
Phoebe spent the whole car ride to the shops chatting your ear off, bringing you up to speed on everything that was happening at school and football and how many times she'd been red carded this season alone. In many ways, she was like a miniature version of Roy, so it was easy to love being in her presence.
As you arrived at Tesco, you made Phoebe promise she'd stay close to you at all times, not wanting to lose her as soon as Roy had entrusted her in to your care - that wouldn't be good for anyone involved. Phoebe was quick to pull you by the hand in the direction of the frozen aisle, clearly set on something in particular for her lunch.
She broke free from your hold as you reached the end of the aisle, heading straight in the direction of the frozen chicken nuggets and pulling as hard as she could to open the door. Once she'd managed to pry the door open, she climbed inside of the freezer, attempting to reach one of the higher up shelves in search of what she wanted.
"Phoebe, sweetheart, let me help you." As you stood behind Phoebe, you put your hands under her arms, picking her up and bringing her to your height so that she could grab whatever she'd been looking for. "Turkey Dinosaurs? Good choice."
"The only correct choice, bruv." Isaac was right behind you, Colin on his left and Will on his right.
"Oh, boys, hi!" Phoebe leaned in closer towards you as the sudden appearance of the three men. While she'd exhumed confidence from the moment you'd met her a few hours ago, she seemed to shy away slightly at the sight of the three footballers. "What're you doing here?"
"Day off, innit." Isaac, never a man of many words, was quick to answer your question, though had one waiting for you in return. "Who's this?"
Phoebe's grip around your neck increased slightly again as Isaac pointed directly at her. You shifted her in your arms so that she'd face the three a bit better, knowing non of them posed any threat to her. "This is Phoebe. Phoebe this is Colin, Isaac and Will; say hi."
Now that she'd been introduced to them, a wide smile curled onto Phoebes face, her toothy grin making an appearance that had Colin and Isaac smiling right back.
"I didn't know you were a mum." Will spluttered out, staring at you and Phoebe with a rather surprised look on his face.
"Oh, I'm not," you were quick to reassure, though immediately regretted it as you had no clue how to explain how this child they'd never seen before had come into your care. You knew Roy well enough to know he loved his privacy more then anything, so you decided the best course of action was to keep it. "She's my niece."
"Cool." Isaac nodded, prompting the others to nod on silent acceptance of the knowledge they'd just gained. "Can you pass me a bag of the turkey dinosaurs, Phoebe?"
As soon as Isaac got his bag of turkey dinosaurs, he, Colin and Will were quick to leave, waving a goodbye to the two of you and getting on with the own shop. Once they'd left the aisle, you let out a loud sigh, pent up tension from the sudden reunion seeping out of your body. Phoebe dropped the turkey dinosaurs into the basket you'd picked up, wiggling out of your grasp and taking your hand instead.
"Why did you tell them I was your niece?" Phoebe guided you further down the frozen aisle as she questioned your actions, walking a few paces in front of you, your connect hands dangling between the two of you.
"Your uncle Roy is a very private person," you started, unsure exactly of what was the right thing to tell a 7 year old on such a matter. "I didn't want to tell them you were Roy's niece in case they decided that meant something more"
"Something more?" Phoebe wandered out loud, stopping in front of the ice cream section and pulling the door open. "Like if they though that meant you were dating my uncle Roy."
Jesus Christ, 7 year olds were so much smarter and observant then you'd thought. "Yeah, something like that."
"And why aren't you dating?" You didn't know what to say to that, instead opting to pick Phoebe up once more so that she could reach the specific tub of ice cream she was searching for. "My mum says uncle Roy should date someone nice and you're nice."
"Well I'm glad you think I'm nice, pheeb's." You ruffled the blondes hair as you placed her back on the ground, allowing her to place the ice cream in the basket before grabbing her hand once more. "How about we grab a pizza too? Just incase you're here for tea?"
Phoebe loved the idea, sprinting down to the end of the aisle in search of the pizzas with a wide smile on her face.
The rest of your day with Phoebe had flown by, you'd come home and eaten your lunch of turkey dinosaurs and potato waffles, done some colouring in, played knights and dragons, eaten your ice cream, and watched a movie. As the first spy kids had come to an end, something you'd put on at phoebes request all though you were heavily invested in it the whole time, you put the pizza she'd picked out in the oven.
"Phoebe," you shouted from the kitchen as you made your way back into the living room. "It's getting kind of late, sweetheart, do you have any pjs in your bag?"
"No," she instantly replied, licking her spoon clean of ice cream even though it only really added to the rim of vanilla that had formed around her mouth. "I don't pack pjs in my bag because I have some in my room at uncle Roy's house."
If you'd have had the common sense to ask earlier, you might've picked some up while the two of you were in Tesco, but you hadn't, and now you had to make do with what you had. "You want to get in some of my pjs pheeb's? I'll get into pjs too and then we can be all comfy while we eat our pizza and watch spy kids 2."
"I won't fit in your pjs." Phoebe countered, but got off the couch nonetheless, placing her empty bowl on your coffee table and joining you by the kitchen door. Lacing her fingers through your own she allowed you to guide her in the direction of your room.
She dove straight for the bed when you opened the door, similarly to how she'd made a b-line for your sofa earlier in the day when she'd arrived, but was quick to hop right back off of it when you opened your wardrobe doors. You stood quietly behind her as she picked out one of your T-shirts to act as a night dress.
"This one!" She proclaimed, quick to swap her current outfit for your top before sprinting out of your bedroom. Before you could ask what on earth she was doing, the oven started to beep. "Pizza's ready!"
You picked up the pile of clothes Phoebe had left behind, throwing it by her shoes at the door so that you wouldn't forget to pack them up whenever Roy came to collect her. Then you went back to the kitchen, clicking the timer off to stop the loud beeping and pulling the pizza out of the oven. Phoebe stood behind you doing some kind of 'pizza dance' as she'd called it as you cut it into 8 slices, grabbing one big plate to place it onto.
"Race you back to the sofa." Phoebe didn't need to be told twice, running for the sofa and throwing herself into the mess of blankets, pillows and felt tip pens. As soon as the two of you were comfortably settled, you put spy kids 2 on, the pair of you tucking into your dinner without a thought spared as to where Roy was or just how late it was really getting.
Though you didn't remember falling asleep, a knocking at your front door had you waking up. Sometime between pizza and now, Phoebe had crawled into your lap, and instead of waking her to go to the door, you scooped her into your arms, resting her on your hip as you stumbled sleepily from your sofa to your front door.
When you opened the door, Roy looked like he'd been prepped with an apology, something about how he'd never meant to come back so late and how he really owed you one now but his words befell him at the sight of you and Phoebe on the other side of the door.
It was a sight to behold, especially to a lovesick Roy. Your hair was all tousled and you still looked half asleep, Phoebe was fast asleep in your arms and in what he guessed was one of your shirts. "Roy," you crooned, opening the door even wider. "Come in, I just need to pack up Phoebe's stuff."
Roy shuffled into your living room, his hands still tucked stiffly in his pockets as you began to pace around the room packing phoebes things while she was still in your arms. It was a level of domesticity Roy hadn't been prepared to see when he came to pick up his niece, and it sent his head whirling.
It was almost too easy to imagine you in this position with him, and a child of your own in your arms instead. He shook the thought from his head, bending down to pick up phoebe's day clothes and shoes from beside the door as you put all her felt tips back into her bag, along with her colouring book - save the first drawing she'd done which she'd torn out, demanding you keep it to remember your day together.
When you were certain you'd collected everything from the couch that had come in her bag, and put it back where it belonged, you turned to face Roy with a sleepy smile. "How was your coaches meeting?"
A smile curled on Roy's lips, something rare that almost surprised you to see. "Good. Long. But we got shit done so I can't really complain; although it would've been nice if it could've wrapped up before fucking midnight."
"Oh my god, is it that late?" You passed Phoebe's backpack to Roy, watching fondly as he slid one strap over his shoulder like clockwork. The thought couldn't help but slip into your mind that it was a sight you'd like to see more often.
"What did you two get up to today?" Roy asked, pulling Phoebes coat from the hanger by the door and slinging it over the crook in his elbow.
"Well, we went and got some lunch, and did some colouring, and played knights and dragons and watched spy kids 1 and 2. She kept me nice and busy, don't you worry."
Roy reached out for phoebe, taking her slowly and gently from your hold in his best attempt to keep her asleep as he took her home. "Not too busy I hope."
"No just the right amount." You bit back a laugh, cautious to not wake the sleeping child now that she was safely in her uncles arms. Pushing a strand of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail back behind her ear, you thought back fondly on the day you'd shared and how easily It was to get on with Phoebe. "She's a great kid."
"Yeah, she really is." Finally, Roy was back on your doorstep, Phoebe in his arms and the pitch black of night behind him. "Thanks again, I really owe you one."
"It's no issue, really, I had a great time." You closed your door too, you leaning against the edge of the it being the only thing keeping it open. "Always happy to do it again, if you need me."
A million different responses crossed Roy's mind, some just inappropriate and some really fucking corny, so he settled on the easiest one to say. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight." You responded with a small wave, creeping back into the darkness of your house without another word.
As Roy made the short walk down from your front door to his car, he tried to control the erratic beating of his heart less it wake Phoebe up. Though you'd offered to take Phoebe in again if he ever needed it, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to take you up on the offer, not when the domestic scene of you with his niece made his feelings for you even more intense.
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2. the time when Roy had too many appointments
Though Roy had sworn he wouldn't drop Phoebe off with you again for the sake of his own feelings, he was calling you up to ask if you could look after her again less then a week later. Molly had been called into work again last minute, and it just so happened to be on the day when Roy decided to get all his check ups out of the way in one fell swoop.
You'd assured him through the phone that it was okay, and that you'd absolutely love to hang out with her again, however, when you'd asked how soon he'd be dropping her off the line went quiet.
"That's the thing," Roy started, a hesitance to his tone that told you he was reconsidering this whole request and on the verge of rescheduling his 5pm dentist appointment. "You'd need to pick her up from school. I can pick her up from 7pm, at the latest, so you'd just need to pick her up from school and give her some tea. I hope that's not too big-"
You didn't let Roy finish his sentence. "It's no problem Roy, really. Send me the address and I'll be there at 3pm?"
"Pick ups at 3:10, but that's perfect, thank you." You couldn't even see him and you could feel the smile that was pulling at his lips on the other side of the phone. "I really fucking mean that too, thank you."
"It's no problem Roy, really, I'll see you later."
You had an hour before you needed to pick Phoebe up, so you made a run for Tesco, picking up a jar of pasta sauce incase she didn't want the half a bag of turkey dinosaurs and potato waffles that were still in your freezer, a bag of popcorn incase she didn't want ice cream again, and a set of kids size 8 pjs.
Though Roy said he'd be back for her by 7pm, you doubted she'd want to stay in her school uniform, and it'd be better to get a size 8 and it be too big then pick up a size 7 and it be too small.
On a second thought, you grabbed a second pair of the plain pjs, and some tiny slippers, knowing it wouldn't harm anyone to keep a spare pair of comfy clothes and shoes for her incase she came by again at the last minute. While you were in the kids clothing section, you picked up a pair of jeans and a pack of plain T-shirts, wanting to be prepared incase she were to ever show up in her pyjamas instead of her day clothes. Deciding you'd got everything you needed, you sped through the checkouts and got in your car, not wanting to be late to pick up Phoebe from school.
Luckily, you arrived with 5 minutes to spare, lingering around the gate with the other parents that had come to pick up there kids. Only then did it dawn on you that you may have needed some kind of note to prove you weren't kidnapping Phoebe and as you pulled out your phone to text Roy in a frenzy, you'd discovered he'd already sent you a message.
Teacher knows you're coming, I got Molly to send a message. might ask you to sign some shit confirming you picked her up though.
Even though Roy wasn't here, you felt ten times calmer, moving through the gate as it opened and towards the classroom door furthest from it, as Roy had told you to go to. A loud bell rung and suddenly kids came sprinting out from all directions, some running straight to and out of the main gate and others nervously looking around for whoever was picking them up.
You watched as a head of blonde hair in two neat plaits lingered in the classroom door, eyes scanning the playground for a familiar face, her mouth dropping open in a gasp as she made eye contact with you. With a cry of your name, Phoebe came running from the classroom, a bright smile on her face at your sudden appearance outside her classroom. "What are you doing here?"
"Your uncle Roy has got the dentist, so we're going to go back to mine for tea - if that's okay pheeb's?"
"That's perfect! Lets go home." Phoebe tried to pull you out of the playground and back to your car, but you pulled her back to stand in front of you.
"One minute sweetheart, got to make sure your teacher knows I'm not kidnapping you." Phoebe lead you right back to the classroom door, calling on her teacher, Ms Bowen, as she dragged you into the room. "Hi, Ms Bowen, I'm here to pick Phoebe up; I think Molly told you I was coming?"
"Ah yes, Mrs Kent, it's a pleasure to meet you." Mrs Kent Mrs Kent Mrs Kent. Molly, Roy's sister, had told Phoebe's teacher that you were Mrs Kent. It took everything in you not to absolutely spiral with the new piece of information.
"Yeah, lovely to meet you," You tried to avoid Ms Bowen's gaze, it having an edge to it that suggested you weren't entirely welcome here. "Roy said I might have to sign something, so you know I'm not fucking kidnapping her or anything." As soon as the words slipped from your mouth you were apologising for them. "I'm so sorry that just slipped out."
"Well, at least I can be sure you're Mrs Kent. You and Phoebe are free to go." You barely had time to say goodbye to Ms Bowen before Phoebe was dragging you towards your car, impatiently pulling at the handle in an attempt to get in quicker and spend even more time with you. If you weren't so caught up in the fact you'd just been called Mrs Kent, then maybe you'd find her excitement even more endearing.
"So, how was school, pheeb's?"
The car ride back home was filled with another update from Phoebe on what you'd missed in the 4 days you hadn't seen each other and the 3 days of school she'd had since the weekend. Since it was a slightly longer drive back home then from Tesco, you'd even got to introduce Phoebe to some of your favourite songs.
As you pulled onto your street, Phoebe was already buzzing in her seat, desperate it seemed to get inside. Letting her make a run for the door as you got out of the car, knowing she couldn't get in without your key, you made your way around to the boot, pulling out your bag of goodies. "Got you some stuff to change into pheeb's," pulling out both the pyjamas and the normal clothes, you handed them to her, keeping the slippers in the bag still. "Go get changed and bring me your uniform when your done, yeah? I'll pop it in the wash for your mum and we can put on a movie or something until tea time."
Phoebe was sprinting off in the direction of your bedroom to change within seconds of you finishing speaking. In the two times you'd had the pleasure of meeting Phoebe she always seemed to be rushing and running about, but that was what kids were like, you guessed; even if she was the calmest child ever - and she was pretty calm compared to some of those other kids you'd seen in the playground today - you reckon you'd think she was all over the place, especially compared to yourself.
When Phoebe came back out in the plaid, pink pyjama bottoms and a plain white t-shirt, she declared she wasn't hungry yet and wanted to watch spy kids 3; telling you it was basically mandatory for you finished the movie series now you'd watched the first 2. You were happy to oblige of course, Phoebe cuddling into your side as you took a seat next to her on the sofa.
Half an hour into the movie, you whispered the question of what to have for dinner to Phoebe and she perked up at the mention of pasta, allowing you to bail on the second half of the film in order to make it. It didn't take long of course, but you were wary of the fact Roy was picking her up sooner rather then later this time around.
Roy. Roy. Even thinking of the handsome coach you worked with had your thoughts spiralling. Once you'd managed to crack your way through his hard exterior, you'd found one of the most thoughtful and caring people you've ever met, and if you didn't like him already, that side of him had you falling head over heels. The Roy that brought you coffee in the mornings when he stopped to get his own, the Roy that would buy you lunch without asking if you wanted any but would kick up a fuss if anyone else tried to get him to add to that order, the Roy that left sticky note reminders on the door of your office because he knew you'd forget something, the Roy that trusted you so much he was willing to leave his niece with you on multiple occasions. Your brain had been so consumed by Roy that you'd made him up a plate of pasta, and instead of putting it back into the pot, settled with covering it in tinfoil and giving it him to take home. However, before you could call Phoebe in to ask if she wanted cheese on top of her pasta, there was a knock at your door.
In an instant, you pulled the tinfoil back off of the extra plate of pasta, and opened the bag of grated cheese, then rushed to the door, opening wide to find Roy on the other side. "You're just in time for dinner." Without thinking, or so much as a hello, how are you, or how was the dentist, you grabbed Roy's hand, pulling him inside your house and into your kitchen. "Pheeb's dinner!"
"Uncle Roy!" Phoebe shouted, running into the brunettes arms, him bending down to pick her up. As soon as she was perched in his hold, she was quick to recount the days events like she had with you a couple of hours earlier, only pausing to answer your question of 'cheese?' and taking a fistful to sprinkle on her plate whilst finishing her recap of the day.
It was only then did Roy notice that you'd already played three bowls of pasta up, even though you shouldn't have been expecting him soon enough to eat with the two of you. Carefully he put Phoebe down, handing her her bowl of pasta and urging her to get back to the sofa and eat, promising that the two of you were right behind her.
"You made me up a plate?" Roy asked, part confused and part in complete adoration. The simplicity of it; such a small action meant so much to the retired footballer. Even in his absence you'd thought of him, made extra food for him, plated it up perfectly in time with his arrival. If he allowed his thoughts to wander, he would've revelled in the warmth of the action, in how loved it made him feel - as though normalcy was something completely within his grasps. As if it was something he could easily have with you.
"Yeah, of course I did. Can't have my favourite coach going hungry, can I?" You squeezed at his hand when you called him your favourite coach, and only god knows what would've happened if Phoebe hadn't called your name from the room over. Roy was certain he would've made a move; told you exactly the kind of effect you had on him, or squeezed your hand back, or even kissed you. Though he wasn't entirely sure, he knew he wouldn't have let the moment slip through his fingers so easily.
Although, when he walked into the living room, palate of pasta in hand, he received something better then anything that could've happened in your kitchen. You and Phoebe were curled up together on the couch, her little legs thrown over your lap and a pillow on her lap for her to balance her pasta on. Phoebe's head rested against your shoulder as she ate and you turned to see where Roy was, a smile curling on your face as you saw him in your kitchen doorway, pasta in hand.
You craved the domestic scene that was now playing out before you, like something straight out of a dream.
Phoebe's favourite place on your sofa had quickly become the corner, meaning the only space available was next to you. Roy, for once in his life, took full advantage of the opportunity, sitting as close to you as he could claim was suitable and allowing himself to really enjoy the moment.
Even when dinner was long finished, the three of you were curled up together. Spy Kids 4 had been put on in order to appease Phoebe's demands that you finish the series and Roy's arm moving to the back of your couch cushions, and in turn over your shoulders, meant he'd slowly moved closer to you. The two of you spent the movie talking in quiet whispers, you filling him in on any context needed from the first three movies and him telling you about his day full of appointments. The pair of you would've happily stayed there, on your couch, cuddled up together, forever, but Phoebe's gentle snores told you it was best for them to get going.
"She's already in pjs, so you don't have to worry about that and - oh!" You left Roy in your doorway, an asleep Phoebe in his arms in a mirror image of 4 nights before. "I washed her uniform so Molly wouldn't have to."
Roy's heart was bursting at the seams at the evening you'd shared, and now this? While it may not seem like much to most people, to Roy it was everything. Not only had you offered to look after his niece on multiple occasions at the last minute, you'd gone out of your way to buy her pyjamas that fit just because she was coming by, and you'd washed her uniform to take a weight off of her mum's shoulders - who you'd yet to even meet. It's like you were trying to make him fall ridiculously in love with you.
Love.
That wasn't a word Roy was supposed to use; at least not when you were only friends. But how could he not fall in love with you? He was sure that anyone who spent more then 10 seconds in a room with you fell in love with you; how could they not? You were so easy to love; selfless and caring in a way he'd never seen before, someone truly one of a kind.
"Seriously, thank you." Roy's face entirely softened as he spoke, tension seeping out from his features to a degree you'd never seen before. "I don't think you know exactly how much this means to me and Molly."
"Oh please Roy, It's nothing-"
Roy cut you off, his hand coming to rest on your arm, his thumb running up and down your forearm. "No. It's a fucking lot - and it means a fucking lot. Just accept the thank you, yeah?"
A bashful smile creeped onto your lips, your head ducking as you suddenly became very aware of the fact Roy was looking at you and touching you. "Okay, yeah, you're welcome."
"Perfect." Once again, you got a glimpse at the dazzling smile that Roy kept reserved for only the most important people in his life, the look of it alone making your knees weak. They only got weaker as Roy leaned in closer to you, placing a chaste yet scratchy kiss to your cheek. "Goodnight."
In a daze, you murmured a 'goodnight' back, this time waiting until he'd driven off before going back inside; and even then, you stood behind your door, processing exactly what had just happened and why you hadn't returned the sweet gesture.
Roy Kent and his adorable niece were going to be the death of you.
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3. the time you were meant to be going on a date
So far, in the three hours you'd been getting ready, you'd done your eye liner, wiped one side off, redone it, wiped the other side off and redone that, at least 200 times. You just couldn't get it to look right. And when you'd expressed to Keeley that maybe this was a sign from above you shouldn't be going on this date, she'd insisted, yet again, that you had to go because she was your perfect match.
Though you'd never met the girl, Keeley was determined to set you up with her, claiming from the very second she'd walked into KJPR asking about a job, she knew she was the one for you.
Part of you thought she just wanted to help you get over Roy, especially since this was the 9th blind date she'd set you up on since you'd confided in her about your feelings for the ruggedly handsome coach. Each one she'd claimed was your soulmate and each one, so far, had turned out to be a complete and utter douche bag. Despite her failure to actually find someone compatible for you, you greatly appreciated her enthusiasm and effort.
A knock on your door had you screeching down your phone at Keeley that you weren't ready for this, but one last twirl in front of the camera, and a 'you look hot as fuck babe' from the matchmaker herself, had you ready to face your date.
To your surprise, however, when you opened the door you were met with Roy, Molly and Phoebe, all in pyjamas and Phoebe's little hands curled into tight fists that twisted into the fabric of her uncles T-shirt. It took you a second to process the scene before you before you could offer a rather confused, "Hello?"
Though this wouldn't be the first time Roy had shown up with Phoebe on your doorstep, it was the first time he'd ever shown up unannounced and with his sister in tow. "This is a bad time, isn't it." Roy's sister, who you'd come to recognise as Molly, whispered, her gaze flickering across your knee length, fitted, red dress. "You look stunning though."
"Oh my god, thank you." With the silence finally broken, it was like your brain had brought the rest of your body up to speed, offending a hand out for Molly to shake. "Molly, right? It's great to finally meet you."
"Great to meet you too, I've heard great things." General pleasantries we're exchanged between the two of you, though it wasn't as awkward as it usually was when you were meeting new people, instead it was like bumping into someone you hadn't seen in a few years but genuinely missed.
In the noise of your small talk, Phoebe took the opportunity to whisper three little words into her uncles ear. "She's so pretty."
Roy's cheeks burned as his niece said everything he couldn't, and so easily too. It was obvious you were dressed up for a date in that long, burgundy dress that hugged you just right, and he was struggling to take his eyes off of you.
"So what brings you to my doorstep at 6pm on a Monday?" You asked, hesitant to ask at all incase you touched a sore spot. Molly had never shown up with Roy when he dropped Phoebe off, which told you this was potentially more serious then his other last minute drop offs - especially when he'd never shown up unannounced before. "Not that I'm upset that you're here or anything, just a bit confused."
"Clearly, you're on your way out, so we won't bother you, we just-"
You didn't let Molly explain, pulling out your phone, and sending to a quick message to your date and to Keeley, explaining some family stuff had come up last minute and offering to go out some other time. "My evening just freed up, actually." You offered Molly a genuine smile, taking Phoebe from Roy's hold and into your own. "Why don't you go and get into your pjs Hun, and then we'll pick out a movie?"
"Do you still have my ice cream?" Phoebe asked, tilting her head to look at you better. Now she was closer, you noticed her eyes were rubbed red, almost like she'd been crying.
"Of course I do sweetheart, and I've still got turkey dinosaurs if you've not eaten dinner yet."
A sniffly 'yes please' left phoebes lips before she got down from your hold, running into the direction of your bedroom without so much as a goodbye to her mum or her uncle Roy. When Phoebe was out of earshot, you closed the door a little, talking in hushed tones. "Is everything okay? What's going on?" And with a second thought, you added. "You don't have to tell me, I didn't mean to pry."
"Phoebes dad showed up." Molly simply stated, folding her arms across her chest protectively. "He knows he's not allowed around her, and we didn't know where else to take her while we dealt with him." Your heart ached for the little girl. In the short time you'd got to know Phoebe, you'd quickly come to absolutely love her to pieces - and you couldn't understand how anyone wold want to hurt her. Phoebe was a complete and utter ray of sunshine and, considering she was only 7 years old, was one of the kindest and smartest people you'd ever met. "You didn't have to take her, if we'd have known you had plans we wouldn't have just fucking shown up."
Molly sharply dug her elbow into Roy's side as she spoke, clearly signalling that she'd thought that Roy had had the decency to ask you if you would watch Phoebe before they showed up in your doorstep. A laugh bubbled past your lips at how offended Roy got by his sisters words, a comeback never leaving his lips as you interrupted him with a smile. "It's fine, really, I love hanging out with Phoebe. Besides, I wasn't really looking forward to this date anyway."
Now that caught Roy's attention. "Why not? You look fucking great, you'd have probably had a great time too."
Rather selfishly, Roy was incredibly thankful that they'd show up unannounced, he didn't want you to go on a date, and it seemed as if you didn't either. "Keeley keeps pushing me to go on these blind dates, it's not really my thing, but she keeps insisting she's found my soulmate, so I keep going on them to appease her." You leaned in closer to the two incase Phoebe heard your next words, though considering she was related to Roy, you knew she'd heard worse. "All of them have been fucking pricks so far though."
"Good thing we showed up then, yeah."
"Yeah."
Molly looked between the two of you with a smile bit back between her teeth, trying her hardest not to give anything away as she watched the two of you. "Well, we better get going, deal with this so we can take her off your hands as soon as."
Taking Phoebe's back pack from Molly's outstretched hands, you slung it over your shoulder. "Oh don't worry about rushing back, she's more then welcome to stay the night here. Do you need me to drop her off at school in the morning?"
"Oh no, she's all finished for summer now, so you don't have to worry about that." Molly's gaze lingered on you for a while, then she pulled you into a tight hug, cradling you in such a way you felt like a kid again. "Thank you so much for this. I really mean that."
Tears threatened to pool in your eyes at the genuine thankfulness to her words. Roy had told you before that he and Molly greatly appreciated you looking after Phoebe every now and then, but this felt so different to that - it made you understand why he'd told you to just accept the thank you.
"Yeah, of course, like I keep telling Roy, anytime you need me, I'm here."
"Oh, wait." Before Roy and Molly could head back to his car, he handed you a carrier bag that he'd been holding at his side since he appeared on your doorstep. "Your tshirt, and those pyjamas. I wasn't sure if you had anymore, and kept meaning to return them to you anyway."
"Ah, thank you!" Though you never said anything when Phoebe raided your closest, she'd picked your favourite sleep shirt, and you were glad to have it back. "I got another pair of pyjamas for her in my wardrobe anyway, or she could've just used another one of my shirts; she would've been fine either way. But, thank you Roy, I appreciate it."
"Yeah, no worries, washed them for you and everything so, they're all good to go." Molly shouted a goodbye to Phoebe who had made herself comfortable in her spot on your couch, and then said one to you, thanking you again for your help. You said one last goodbye to both her and Roy, waiting on your doorstep to wave them off before going back inside to tend to Phoebe.
Once Roy had driven out of your street and had started on the journey back to his sisters place, she turned to him with a shit-eating grin on her face. Molly had been waiting years to be able to tease Roy about someone he liked, and while he'd had plenty of flings over the years, nothing was ever serious enough, and non of them were ever nice enough, that Molly felt like she could get a rise out of Roy by teasing him. This time though, she knew it was different.
"She's incredible." Molly started, keeping her gaze intently on her brother, though his remained firmly on the road. "She cancelled her date to look after Phoebe, already had a change of clothes and food for her, and she's fucking hot." Molly let out an overly loud sigh as Roy ignored her words. "So tell me why on earth you haven't made a move on her yet? Because if you don't, I certainly will."
"Fuck off." Roy grunted, his grip on the wheel tightening at his sisters words. "She's obviously not interested in me like that if she was going on a date with a fucking stranger." Now that he'd started talking on the matter, Roy was worried he'd never stop. He'd not yet had the opportunity to talk about his feelings for you, the matter being as simple as he wasn't sure who he could tell. He even went as far as considering calling a diamond dogs meeting to get the weight off of his chest, but luckily, or rather unluckily for Roy, his sister had beaten the diamond dogs to it. "I wouldn't want to ruin what we already have anyway. She's so... good, with, like, everything. She's so kind, and she cares so much about everyone else; did I tell you she made me dinner when I asked her to pick Phoebe up when I had the dentist? And Phoebe! She's so good with Phoebe and I just- fuck!"
"That hard to get the words out, huh?" Molly teased, poking her brother sharply in the arm. "You must really like her." Before Roy could interrupt with what Molly knew would be another iteration of 'fuck off,' she added. "She likes you too, y'know."
"I'm sorry," Roy gasped, eyes tearing away from the road for only a second to stare at his sister incredulously. "Did you forget she was about to go for dinner with someone who isn't me?"
"Yeah I know that stupid," Molly scoffed, folding her arms back across her chest as she sunk into the seat of her brothers car. "But I did see the way she was looking at you - the way you were looking at each other - and I'm telling you, she likes you."
"Shut the fuck up." And that was that. Molly didn't need to tease Roy any further because she knew she'd hit a sore spot. Roy really liked you, and not that it mattered but Molly really liked you too - and Phoebe absolutely loved you - but Roy was still too scared to ask you out. That was punishment enough.
Phoebe hadn't seemed phased by the departure of her mum and uncle, and a part of you was thankful for that. Though you didn't really know anything about Phoebe's dad, apart from what you'd learnt in the past 10 minutes, you were surprised to see she'd bounced back pretty quickly.
"So pheeb's, you want dinner now, or in a little bit?" Throwing yourself next to the blonde on the sofa, she was quick to cuddle into your side, wrapping both her arms around your bigger one.
"Can we have dinner now, please." She whispered into the warm skin of your arm, her fingers scratching at the fabric of your dress.
"Of course we can sweetheart." You squeezed her in for a tight hug, before standing from the couch, quickly putting on the oven and pulling the turkey dinosaurs and potato waffles out of the freezer. You lingered in the doorway as you waited for Phoebe's dinner to cook, watching as she searched for a movie to put on while the two of you ate. She seemed so much more relaxed then when you first opened the door, and you hoped it's stay that way now she was here and safe. At the beeping of the oven, your turned away from her, plating the two of you some dinner and quickly returning to the sofa.
With a pile of dinner plates and ice cream bowls on your coffee table, and a movie minutes from ending, you turned to face Phoebe with a soft smile. Brushing back the hair that had fallen into her face, you gently woke the girl, telling her that it was time for bed now. Too sleepy to fully wake up, you picked Phoebe up, opting to carry her to your guest room instead. However, when you'd tucked her in and tried to leave, she'd gripped tightly onto your hand.
"Can you stay with me?" If her quiet and sleepy state didn't have you agreeing, the knowledge she was in an unfamiliar environment would've. Even though Phoebe had been in your house plenty of times now, she'd never stayed the night before, and it was easy to understand how that might freak her out - especially on top of the night she'd had.
"Yeah. Come on then." Instead of sleeping in the guest room, you picked Phoebe right back up, carrying her to your room and putting her down on the left side of your bed. Finally having the opportunity, you sat down at your desk, pulling out a packet of makeup wipes, and wiping off the eyeliner you'd worked so hard to get right. Even though your date never got to see it, Roy did, which was even better as far as you were concerned.
Just as you'd finished brushing your teeth, in fresh pyjamas, and making a mental note to buy a toothbrush for Phoebe next time you went to Tesco, you heard a shrill cry of 'mum.' Running back into your bedroom you found Phoebe wide awake with tears in her eyes, looking around in an urgent search for the woman she'd just cried out for.
"Hey, Pheeb's," you soothed, flicking the bedroom light back on before you approached her, not wanting to freak her out more. When she recognised your face past the haze of sleep, she was quick to reach out for you and you were quick to cross the room to meet her, pulling her into a hug and rubbing soothing circles into her back. "We're at my house remember, your mum and uncle Roy had to do some stuff so you're having a sleep over with me, okay?"
It took a good half an hour for Phoebe to fully calm down, but once she had, she was out cold again. This time, you lay in bed beside her, keeping an arm wrapped around her shoulders to make sure she knew she was safe. Before you went to sleep yourself, however, you sent Roy a text, leaving out the details of phoebes nightmare and just keeping him updated on things.
Phoebe's out cold so don't worry about picking her up until morning. Breakfast is at 8. There will be a plate for you and Molly whenever you get here xxx
You didn't wait see if he replied, and didn't worry yourself over if three x's at the end was too many, setting an alarm for 7am and putting your phone into do not disturb.
Thankfully, you beat Phoebe and your alarm to waking up, giving you a head start on making breakfast. If you knew anything, it was that kids loved sweet stuff, and given Phoebe's affinity for ice cream, you knew waffles were exactly what she needed this morning. Ted had given you a waffle machine as part of your present in last years Secret Santa and promised you you'd find a use for it eventually, and you were slightly surprised to find out he'd been right.
You got right to work on the batter recipe that came with the machine, letting Phoebe sleep in until the point you were ready to cook them. Though she'd been reluctant to wake up at first, at the mention of waffles and ice cream for breakfast, she sprang out of bed, hesitating in your hallway as she heard a knock at the door.
"You wait here while I get it, yeah pheeb's?" Phoebe nodded silently, creeping down the rest of the hallway so that she'd be able to hear who was at the door without being seen. Although you were 90% sure it was Roy and Molly on the other side of the door, you didn't want to risk anything.
Looking through your peep hole, your suspicions were proved right. "Good morning Roy, Molly." Phoebe came sprinting round the corner at the mention of her mums name, running right into her arms as you opened the door wider for her. "Waffles and Ice cream for breakfast, think we all deserve it, yeah?"
Molly mouthed a thank you at you as Phoebe directed her towards your couch, Roy allowing you to close your front door then following you to the kitchen.
The image of you, still sleepy and in your pyjamas, hair mused and making breakfast for him and the rest of his family, made his heart twist and his stomach churn. In some cruel twist of fate, everything he wanted was right in front of him but it wasn't that which he could call his.
"I know it's non of my business," you started, placing two scoops of mix into the two waffle shaped holes in the machine Ted had bought you then closing it, flipping it over, and scooping up another spoonful of mixture ready for when these ones were done. "But, is everything okay? Are Phoebe and Molly okay now?"
Why did you have to care about his family so much? Moments like this made Roy think you knew of his feelings for you, and that you were doing every thing you could to push him to tell you. Surely you had to care for him, at the least, not everyone would do what you did for him, and definitely not with the same level of enthusiasm and genuine happiness to do it.
"Yeah, everything's okay." Roy kept it short, knowing that ultimately, it wasn't his story to share. "Are you okay? I know we kind of ruined your plans last night."
"How many times am I going to have to tell you that I didn't even want to go?" The laugh that bubbled past your lips had a smile forming on Roy's face. He loved how easy it was between the two of you here. Sure, you made him smile and laugh at Nelson road all the time, but at Nelson road he felt like he had to be Roy Kent: here, he could just be Roy, Phoebe's uncle. And you really liked Roy, Phoebe's uncle. "Besides, I had a better evening with Phoebe, and the 10 minutes I spent with you and Molly, then I would've had on the date anyway."
"How can you be so sure of that?" Roy's voice was even deeper then usual, not that you'd ever thought that was possible, from tiredness, and you'd only just noticed that he was still in his pyjamas, much like yourself. "That you wouldn't have enjoyed yourself?"
Roy leant over you, not noticing how blood rushed to your cheeks as he took the first two waffles out of the machine for you, allowing you to get the second lot started without hurting your fingers from picking up the fresh waffles. "My hearts not in it, you know?" You turned to press your back against the counter top, now chest to chest with Roy in the closest proximity you'd ever been. Neither of you made an effort to move. "The whole dating just to date isn't for me, I don't think. And if I'm going to date to, um, to marry someone, I'd much rather it be someone I know, someone who knows me."
You were worried you'd been a little too on the nose in your explanation, but Roy didn't seem to mind. He leant forward slightly so that he could rest his palms against your countertop, caging you in between his muscular arms. "Is that right?" You nodded silently, allowing your gaze to flicker down to his lips now that he was inches away from you. There was no way you were reading too much into things this time. "And, would that someone, would they have to be anyone in particular?"
"Yeah, yeah they would." You answered breathlessly, tilting your head back up so that your gaze would meet Roy's but instead brushing your nose softly against his.
Roy was finally going to do it.
A cry of your name and the padding of footsteps had Roy stepping away from you, Phoebe running into the kitchen with Molly hot on her tail. "Are the waffles ready?"
"You came at the perfect time!" You answered, brushing the moment off of you, and turning back to the slightly cooled waffles, sliding them down the counter towards Phoebe and Molly along with the ice cream scoop. As they plated up their waffles, you took yours and Roy's out of the machine, putting them onto plates and giving them time to cool before you added your ice cream on top. You watched intently as Molly and Phoebe plated up their food, your fingers drilling against the countertop in wait.
The second they'd left the kitchen and headed back to the living room, you turned to face Roy, leaving him no time to think as you grabbed the front of his shirt and pressed your lips to his. It was hot and messy, the two of you fighting to condense several months worth of building tension into one moment. At even the slightest of noises from outside the kitchen, you pulled away, turning your back to Roy immediately and scooping some ice cream onto your cooked waffle.
"Want ice cream on yours?" You asked Roy, turning to face him. His cheeks burned red and breathes heaved from his chest as though he'd just run a mile, his hair was a little more tousled then it had been when he first walked into your house and his lips were red and wet.
"Fuck the ice cream."
Roy grabbed you by your waist, twisting his fingers into the fabric of your sleep shirt to keep you close to him as he pressed a firm kiss to your lips. Roy's free hand moved up to caress your cheek, his other hand snaking around to rest on your lower back, pulling you even more into him. Moving one hand up to his hair, you kept the other on his shirt, keeping him close to you. While you'd imagined Roy to be a smooth kisser, you'd never imagined the day would come where he would actually be kissing you.
At a call of both your names from Phoebe, you broke apart once more, passing Roy his ice-cream-less waffle and pushing him out of your kitchen, taking full advantage of the fact that if he sat down first, you'd have no choice to to sit basically on top of him. You were sure he wouldn't mind.
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4. the time when Molly dropped Phoebe off instead
"And that's why the two of you need to get married."
Roy had been actively avoiding you since your kiss in the kitchen two weeks ago. And this was the 4th time in two weeks that Molly had asked if Phoebe could come over; two of them due to the fact both her and Roy were busy, and the other two being due to the fact Phoebe needed to have 'girl talk' with you. So far, girl talk had consisted of Phoebe listing reasons as to why you and Roy were perfect for each other.
"We're not going to get married, Pheeb's."
"But why not?" Phoebe dramatically collapsed into your sofa cushions, ignoring the fact her over the top tumble had knocked over one of your piles of folded washing in favour of going back to questioning you. "He talks about you all the time. And I see the way you look at him when he drops me off and picks me up."
"But he hasn't picked you up or dropped you off in two weeks sweetheart," you were back in the uncomfortable scenario of exposing something to a 7 year old, and you were trying your hardest not to let your confused feelings towards Roy interfere with what you wanted to say. "So, I don't think he wants to see me anymore. And that okay! But it also means we're not going to get married."
"But why not?"
"Phoebe." Your sterner tone had Phoebe sitting up right, her legs dangling over the edge of the sofa. Putting down the freshly washed t-shirt, you knelt down in front of Phoebe, taking her hands in your own and squeezing gently. "It's not that simple, sweetheart," pushing a strand of hair back behind her ear, she met your eyes. "I wish it was, but it is isn't. Me and your uncle Roy aren't going to get married, Pheeb's, but I'm sure he's going to find someone amazing someday, and you're going to love them."
"But I don't want him to find someone else amazing." Phoebe sulked, tears brimming at her eyes as she thought about a future without you and Roy together. While she was definitely thinking of the worst possible outcomes, the potential it could come true alone was enough to send her to tears. "I want him to find you! I don't want my uncle Roy to marry someone else because then I'll have to hang out with them and not you and- and- and-"
"C'mere." You pulled Phoebe fully into your arms, adjusting yourself so that you were both sat comfortably on your couch. "When your uncle Roy finds someone he loves, and he wants them to be a part of your life, I'll still be here. And you can always come and hang out with me, whenever you want. That isn't going to change Phoebe. I care about you a lot, okay?"
Phoebe couldn't find the words to express what she was thinking. She wanted to scream that you were the person her uncle Roy wanted be a part of her life, that you were the one he loved. Even though she was only 7 years old, she was certain that she knew what love was: and love was the way you and her uncle Roy had sat together, eating waffles for breakfast and talking with her mum, love was the way you and her uncle Roy talked about your day in a whisper over spy kids 4 because you wanted her to enjoy the movie still, love was the way it took her uncle Roy exactly 15 seconds to decide he wanted you to look after her on that Saturday 2 months ago. But she didn't know how to say all that in a way she could get you to understand. She'd tried everything and you still wouldn't digest the crumb of Roy's love that she was trying to explain to you, so she settled on the saying the best thing she could.
"Promise?"
"On my life." You ruffled her blonde hair, causing a smile to pull at her lips. You went back to folding your washing and Phoebe went back to watching her movie, like the two of you always did.
The peaceful moment was unfortunately interrupted by a loud and quick succession of knocks at your door. You put down the shirt you'd been folding and even Phoebe paused her show to come and see who was at the door.
"Jamie? Hi, what- what are you doing here?" Phoebe seemed to have some idea, walking past you to grab Jamie by the hand and pull him to sit on your sofa.
"I invited him." You had too many questions to counter that statement, mainly how she'd contacted Jamie and why he didn't bat an eye at being invited to your house by a 7 year old. "We need to discuss uncle's day."
Phoebe had told you about uncle's day - a day to celebrate her love for her uncle Roy - but you weren't entirely sure where you and Jamie fit into that puzzle. "Why do you need me and Jamie to discuss uncle's day, Hun. I don't think your uncle Roy would want either of us to celebrate uncles day with him."
"Of course he would!" Phoebe cried, pulling out her notebook and one of her felt tip pens, flicking to a blank page in her notebook and writing 'uncles day' at the top neatly. "Jamie is his best friend and Uncle Roy loves you, of course you've got to be there!"
Before you could remind Phoebe that you'd just had a conversation about why that wasn't the case, Jamie turned to face you with a wicked smile. "I knew you and Roy had something going on."
"We don't."
"Is that why he's been all moody at training for the last two weeks?" At your silence, Jamie took it that he was correct, a gasp slipping past his lips. "Did you turn him down? Of course it's okay if you did, but why?"
"No. I didn't turn him down." Phoebe's ears pricked up at that, making you realise exactly how what you were saying sounded. "I can't turn him down if he never asked me anything."
"But something happened?" Jamie pushed, leaning his elbows on his knees, Phoebe sat in a scarily mirrored image of him beside him.
"Fuck off." You scoffed, a smile curling onto Phoebe's lips. In the weeks you'd spent hanging out with her, she'd filled you in on every inside joke she shared with her uncle Roy and everything that made him the best uncle ever. "You can bill your uncle Roy for that one Pheeb's." Phoebe flicked back to the front of her notebook, adding a line to a very long list of tally's that had accumulated there.
Jamie tightened his gaze on you, readjusting his headband so that it kept his hair out of his eyes better. If it weren't for the unwavering, and slightly creepy, nature of his gaze, you were sure you would've just kept it to yourself.
"I kissed him." You'd attempted to mouth the words at the striker, but he hadn't picked them up, instead mouthing them to himself over and over again until he loud out a loud gasp, repeating the words out loud. Phoebe let out a squeal, jumping up and down on your couch cushions in complete and utter joy. An hour ago you'd told her you and her uncle Roy would never get married and know you were admitting that you'd kissed - things were coming up Phoebe, she'd decided. "But, he hasn't spoken to me since."
"Yeah, but that's what Roy's like, you know?" Jamie extended an arm to you, encouraging you to crash down in between him and Phoebe on the couch. You took him up on the offer, curling into his side and letting Phoebe curl into yours. "He's like, super mean and cold on the outside and once he lets you get to know him, he's all... all soft. And I don't think he knows it's okay to be soft sometimes." You let your head fall against Jamie's shoulder, Phoebe nodding beside you at Jamie's words. "I think you've got to show him it's okay for him to be all soft. Cause he really does care about you, I just don't think he knows how to tell you that."
"That was," you didn't even have the words for it. Somehow, Jamie had crawled inside your brain and soothed the exact source of your worry. "That was very insightful Jamie, thank you."
"No worries, I'm proper smart when I want to be me. Plus, when you spend so much time around the guy, it's hard not to see past that façade he puts up." Jamie removed his arm from around your shoulders, rubbing his together and then loudly clapping. "So, uncles day-"
You, Phoebe and Jamie spent the rest of the after noon feasting on whatever snacks they could find in your cupboards and planning out every little detail about uncles days. The pair had convinced you to make an appearance even if you and Roy hadn't reconciled come uncles day; Phoebe wanted you there and that was enough for you. By the time 5pm had rolled around you'd offered to get started on dinner for the 3 of you, but Jamie said he'd best be heading out and Phoebe reminded you her mum was picking her up soon enough anyway.
"Pheeb's, go and get your bag your mums here." When you opened the door, however, you were surprised to find Roy on the other side of it, his hands shoved into his pockets and half facing away from you. "Oh Roy, hi, I didn't know you were picking Phoebe up."
"Me either," he grunted, staring intently at the floor as he let out a long sigh. Finally, he looked at you, shifting nervously under your gaze. He's practiced what he wanted to say at least 200 times on the way over; he knew Molly asking him to come pick Phoebe up was her pushing him to talk to you. All he wanted was to talk to you. But he was too scared of fucking things up and loosing you entirely that he'd resigned to the fact that he would just have to avoid you for the rest of his life. For once, Roy needed to just do it, to tell you how he felt and throw sensibility to the wind. If you liked him, and that kiss wasn't a heat of the moment thing, then great; if you wanted nothing to do with him? He'd figure it out. All he had to do now was-
"Jamie? What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Jesus, Roy, hello to you too." Jamie scoffed, pushing his hair back and out of his eyes then folding his arms across his chest. "I was just dropping off something for Keeley. Don't get all jealous on me old man, I'm not here to steal your missus." Jamie then turned to you, wiggling his eyebrows at you suggestively now his back was turned to Roy. He pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek before running down your driveway, presumably to escape the clutches of a pissed of Roy. "See you later love, you too Phoebe!"
"Bye Jamie!" Phoebe shouted, waving enthusiastically at her new friend then turning to her uncle Roy with a frown. "You owe me £1, uncle Roy."
"Bill me." He took Phoebe by the hand, taking her backpack in his other and walked away from your doorstep without so much as another word to you. Phoebe yelled a goodbye before she get in Roy's car but Roy continued to ignore you, even as you waited on your doorstep to wave them one last goodbye.
Roy spent the whole drive back to molly's and the rest of the evening absolutely kicking himself. Part of him wished he'd just come out and said it while he had you alone on your doorstep, but the worse part of him - the part that didn't believe he was worthy of you - told him Jamie being there was a sign it wasn't the right moment. And maybe, he thought, the right moment would never come.
Jamie was right. You were going to have to be the one to show Roy it was okay to be soft; especially with you.
—————————————————————————
5. the time where Roy told you how he felt
Phoebe had kicked up a fuss when she found out she was going to have to spend the night at her uncle Roy's, which was a massive surprise to everyone involved. It was well known that Phoebe loved spending time with her uncle Roy, and no matter what Molly or Roy said to her, they couldn't get a confession out of her as to why she didn't want to sleep at her uncle Roy's tonight.
When Molly had dropped her off, for the first time in years, Phoebe cried at the though of her mum going to work, and that told Roy enough that he was in for an eventful night.
He'd tried absolutely everything. He'd offered pizza, turkey dinosaurs, spaghetti, ice cream, popcorn and every favourite food she'd ever had in an attempt to wipe that frown off of her face, but nothing had worked. He'd even willingly been the princess in princess and dragons, put on a fucking tiara and tutu and she still didn't budge from her place on his couch. When bed time finally rolled around, he'd spent 6 hours in silence with Phoebe, a frown etched onto her poor, little face that all he wanted to do was turn into a smile.
The first sound he got out of Phoebe all day was a loud and shrill cry of your name at 4am. Roy ran for the first time in months from his bedroom to hers, terrified as to what could have his niece crying out for you in the early house of the morning. When he arrived on the scene, he was met with Phoebe sat upright in her bed, tears spilling down her cheeks and her hair sticking up in every direction. Her tiny fingers were death gripping a teddy bear that Roy had bought her when she was a baby and when she saw Roy in her doorway, her sobs only got louder.
Roy was quick to cross the length of the room, scooping his niece into his arms and holding her tightly against him, whispering soothing words into the crown of her head and running his fingers up and down her arm. Usually, this method would have Phoebe back asleep within half an hour, but as the clock pushed closer to 5am then 4am, he knew things were different this time. With each sob came a long pause, filled with shaking of shoulders and sniffles galore, and the occasional whimper of your name. Whatever had upset her, clearly wasn't going to be fixed with the usual uncle Roy remedy, and so Roy picked Phoebe up, slipping on his slippers and walking out his front door with his car keys in hand.
While the drive to your house had never been quick, it felt even longer then usual today. Phoebe spent the whole drive over still sniffling, and even though her tears had stopped flowing, the ache it caused in Roy's heart made it feel like they'd never stopped. In his whole life, he'd only seen phoebe this inconsolable a handful of times, and even then, she'd always been responsive to his attempts to find out what was wrong. The fact she kept calling out your name amidst her tears made his heart ache all the more.
It was no secret that since he first dropped phoebe off at your house all those weeks ago, the two of you had become practically attached at the hip. He loved phoebe, and as much as he tried to deny it, he loved you, and he loved that two of the most important women in his life loved each other, but he didn't think he was ever going to be brave enough to let you in in the way the he wanted to. Phoebe had happily voiced her opinions on the matter the last time he'd picked her up from your house, happily proclaiming that the two of you needed to get married yesterday and live happily ever after with 2 dogs and a family trip to Disney world. Roy had told her the two of you weren't going to get married and Phoebe had scoffed, saying that you'd said the exact same thing and she didn't understand why when you loved each other.
If he wasn't so distracted by how distraught Phoebe seemed, he'd have maybe taken the time to consider this was some wicked scheme she'd concocted.
When he pulled up outside your house, like he expected for 5am, all your lights were off, but with a still teary-eyed phoebe in his arms, he didn't think twice about knocking on your door with enough vigour you'd think his life depended on it. As far as Roy was concerned, it did.
Once he saw your hallway light flicker on, he let out a sigh of relief, a weight being lifted from his shoulders as you approached the door. The soft glow of the hallway light far behind you made you look more like the Angel Roy thought you were, your hands wiping at your eyes as you tried to wake up. Before you could ask what was going on, or why Roy and Phoebe were on your doorstep so early on this summers morning, Phoebe was throwing herself from Roy's arms with a cry of your name, blubbering into you shoulder the most words she'd said in the past 12 hours. "I had a nightmare."
In that moment as Roy watched you take his niece into your arms and comfort her more in 10 seconds then he had seemed to be able to do in an hour, he knew Phoebe was right that day in the car.
He was in love with you, and he was pretty sure you were in love with him too.
Roy closed your front door behind him, following behind you as you carried phoebe towards your bedroom. He couldn't hear what you were saying to her, but he could see how easily she relaxed in your hold - it made him relax knowing that whatever had plagued her nightmares was being calmed, even if it wasn't by him.
As you finally entered your bedroom, your bedsheets tousled from when you'd got up to answer the door minutes ago, Phoebe had dropped back to sleep in your arms. You weren't entirely sure if it was your words that had sent her back to sleep or if she'd tired herself out from crying so much, but you didn't dwell on it, tucking her into your bed and pressing a kiss to her head. Turning around, you found Roy leaning against your doorframe, the tight, grey shirt not leaving much to the imagination as to what was underneath it. Taking him by the hand, you pulled him back down your hallway and into your kitchen, leaving him in the doorway, you clicked the kettle on and pulled two large mugs out of your cupboard.
"Can't believe you got her talking." Roy whispered, suddenly very conscious of the fact it was 5:30 in the morning and you were no where near awake as he was. "I couldn't get a word out of her, except your fucking name."
You nodded as he spoke, putting a tea bag into each before and then, when the kettle had whistled and clicked, filling them 3/4 full of hot water. "So, she didn't tell you what her nightmare was about?"
"Wasn't even entirely sure it was just a nightmare until I heard her say it here."
"She thinks you're not going to let her see me anymore if you marry someone else." You'd both heard tearful stories from Phoebe about how scared she was that you two weren't talking anymore, but you'd never realised just how much it was affecting her. "I've talked to her about it before, you know, promised her I'd always be apart of her life even when you found someone you were going to marry, but I didn't think it was stressing her out this bad."
Roy didn't take a sip of his coffee when you passed it to him, instead looking at you confused while you took a long sip of yours. "What makes you think I'm going to marry someone else?"
"Well, you know what I mean Roy." You took another long sip of coffee, waking up more and more with each drink. "We're not going to get married, and I don't want phoebe thinking that you're not allowed to live your life and keep me in it."
"Why are we not getting married?" Roy's question had you stuttering and stumbling to try and make a sensible and coherent answer. It was one thing for him to show up at the crack of dawn and speak to you for the first time in weeks. It was another for him to now be suggesting he wanted to marry you. "I'm not sure if you realised, but I don't just go around introducing Phoebe and Molly to everyone... and I don't go around kissing just anyone either."
"Well, that's rich," you scoffed, using both hands to bring the warmth of your coffee closer to your face. "I'm not sure if you realised, but a normal person doesn't kiss someone like that, and then go no contact with them for nearly a month."
"Kiss someone like that, huh." Roy placed his untouched coffee down on your kitchen counter and took two steps closer to you, his hands coming to rest on your hips as he was now right in front of you. Though when you thought on it, he always had been. "And what exactly does that mean." Roy let his thumbs run over the exposed skin between your T-shirt and your pyjama shorts, the gentle motion sending tingles down your spine and causing you to arch yourself slightly into him. The smirk that formed on his face told you things were playing out how he wanted.
"You know," you whispered, letting Roy take your coffee cup from your hands and place it beside you on the counter. "Like," he gently cradled your hands in his larger ones, moving them to rest on his shoulders becket letting his fall back to your hips. "Like you want to be with them, like you-"
Roy cut your words off by pressing his lips to yours, using the momentum of his movement to tilt your head back, allowing him to get a better angle as he pushed his tongue past your lips. Quickly, you pushed him off of you, not giving him the chance to get a word in edge ways before you began to speak. "You can't keep kissing me like that, or at all actually, if you don't want this, us, whatever we are, to become something. Because I want it to become something." Jamie's words echoed though your head. Maybe you had to be the one to show Roy that it was okay to be soft sometimes, to let people in.
"I love how kind you are beneath all the gruff and cold exterior you try to put up. I love how fiercely you love Molly and Phoebe. I love how you leave little sticky notes on my office door so I don't forget to do things. I love how you bring me coffee in the mornings when you get your own. I love that you buy me lunch and get all grumpy when someone else tries to add on to the order." Sweeping your thumb across the middle of his brown, you brushed away the tension that had clearly been building there since the moment you'd pushed away from his kiss. "I love how your face gets all scrunched up when your confused and how you have the most wonderful smile I've ever seen but only let the people you love get a glimpse at it. I- I love you, Roy, but I can't handle you liking me one minute and ignoring me the next. I need you to open up to me about what's going on inside you head."
Roy pressed a kiss to your forehead, moving one hand up to cradle your face. If his heart wasn't already so full of you, it would've been now. Even though he'd known he was in love with you before this conversation in your kitchen, it had really consolidated to him why he was in love with you. You loved Roy Kent, Phoebe's uncle, lunch buyer and wonderful smiler.
"I've never been told I have a wonderful smile before." He pressed another kiss though this time it was to your temple, and the another to the end of your brow. "That's probably because you're right, I only show it to the people I love." Another kiss was pressed just below your eye, the scratchiness of his beard against your cheeks eliciting a giggle from you. "And I really fucking love you."
Roy leaned in for another, proper, kiss, though you dodged it allowing it to land on your cheek instead. "Is there anything else you wanted to say?"
Roy let out a loud groan, your head thrown back in laughter at the image before you. He shook his head at you though the wide and bright smile you loved never left his face. "I'm sorry I ignored you for 3 and a half weeks because I was a grumpy sod who couldn't talk about his feelings like a fucking grown up."
You hummed happily, nudging your nose against his, a smile now curled onto your own lips. "Yeah, that'll do just nice." Standing on the tips of your toes, you wrapped both your arms around his neck, pulling the two of you together. "Now, C'mere."
Roy happily complied, pressing his lips firmly to your own in a mess of groans and tongue, only pulling apart when you couldn't contain your smile any longer. Even then, he pressed a series of quick kisses to your lips moving them up across your cheek, along the tip of your ear and then down the side of your neck. You tilted your head to rest against his left shoulder, giving him better access to the right side of your neck, but before things could escalate any further, you gently pushed him away from you. "Phoebe is a room away."
"You've got a guest bedroom though, right?" Roy purred, resuming his attack on your neck, the scruff of his beard scratching against your skin sending shivers down your spine.
"She'll be up in an hour or so." You tried to deter Roy further although you didn't particularly have your heart in it, wanting more then anything to continue what you'd started now that the pair of you had everything out in the open.
"I can do a lot in half that time." He countered, his grip on you tightening a fraction and the kisses he was pressing against your neck now having scrapes of teeth to them.
Grabbing Roy by the chin, you turned him to face you, pressing a soft and slow kiss to his lips. "Please, with what I've got in mind, it's going to take at least twice the time we have." You revelled in the look of pleasant surprise that crossed Roy's features, pressing another kiss to his lips. Now that that was something you could do whenever you wanted, you weren't sure you were ever going to stop; he was just so kissable. "Want to help me make breakfast?"
"Where do you need me?"
You and Roy danced seamlessly around each other as you prepared breakfast for the two of you and Phoebe, sneaking kisses between exchanges of ingredients or just because you could. When things were nearly ready and it was just past 7am, you went to wake Phoebe up, careful not to startle her after the long night she'd had. Since you hadn't discussed with Roy anything about you telling Phoebe, you didn't mention it, letting her sandwich herself between the two of you as you ate breakfast together over reruns of adventure time.
Part of you couldn't believe that everything had pretty much worked out how you wanted it. Sure, it wasn't a nice feeling when Roy left you in the dark after sweeping you off your feet, but ultimately, the two of you were together, and with Phoebe snuggled between the two of you on your couch, you had a glimpse of the domestic life you'd dreamed of.
Roy was thinking something similar, looking at you and phoebe beside him. Something so simple as eating breakfast together had him dreaming of a future, that a few months ago, he never would've thought would be within his grasp. He could already picture a scene like this but with you slightly older, and still as beautiful as ever, two kids snuggled between you and a dog or 3 curled up at his feet. He hoped one day the image would be as real as the one before him right now.
"Shit, what time is it?"
"8am."
"We need to get going soon." Both you and Phoebe turned to Roy in confusion, heads similarly tilted in a way that had him fawning over the both of you. "Your mum is picking you up at 9am and you need to be dressed and ready to go, Pheeb's."
"Tell Molly to pick her up from here," you said, taking Phoebe's empty plate and stacking it on top of your own. Placing them both down on the coffee table, you turned to Phoebe with a soft smile. "There T-shirts, jeans and some shoes in my wardrobe, next to where I keep your pj's, yeah? And you know where your tooth brush is, don't you?" Phoebe nodded her head, still chewing her food, but with a kissed pressed to her temple, she was sprinting off in the direction your bedroom.
"You have day clothes here for phoebe? As well as pyjamas?" Roy whispered, a bright smile forming on his face for the millionth time this morning. This was a sight you were never going to get sick of.
"Yeah. I picked the day clothes up when you asked me to pick her up from school the first time, and then after you and Molly took her home after she slept over, I figured it couldn't hurt to also get a tooth brush and some other stuff. Just incase she ever needed them."
You'd never seen so much love and adoration in one persons eyes. "I fucking love you, did you know?"
Before you could respond, the padding of feet all the way down your hallway and across your living room filled your ears. "So you are getting Married?"
a/n : if you made it this far hello!! thank you for reading my first ted lasso fic, feel free to leave feedback and/or send in a request to my inbox!! much love <33 mwah
Love how tumblr has its own folk stories. Yeah the God of Arepo we’ve all heard the story and we all still cry about it. Yeah that one about the woman locked up for centuries finally getting free. That one about the witch who would marry anyone who could get her house key from her cat and it’s revealed she IS the cat after the narrator befriends the cat.
