pairing(s): baelor "breakspear" targaryen x fem!reader
summary: When Prince Daeron Targaryen refuses your hand in marriage, it puts you between a rock and a hard place. The rock being a deadly sex potion, and the hard place being the heir to the Iron Throne.
words: 21.1k (ahaha. wtf)
cw: explicit, smut, sex pollen, fuck or die, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), virginity loss, hand kink, fluids, belly bulge, mild exhibitionism, implied voyeurism at the end, somewhat forced proximity, brat taming, soft dom!baelor, big dick baelor, baelor is a munch, older man/younger woman, age difference, discussions of pregnancy, breeding kink, mild coercion, this is all very gratuitous, marriage, possessive behavior, noble!reader, reader called 'lady' and 'girl', yearning, poisoning, magic potions, suicidal ideation, sickbed, canon typical sexism, i love you daeron baby but you very much caused this to happen, mildly edited, not beta read
a/n: i made the executive decision to use american english for this instead of the canonical british english of the books. found very little information on the dragon's breath flower as it appears in canon, so i made some bullshit up and based it on devil's trumpet. don't ask me about the capitalization of nothin. Mircalla is named for Mircalla Karnstein from Carmilla by J. Sheridan Le Fanu. Maester Florin named bc I couldn't just call the fucker Thorin Oakenshield. whatever
thank you again to my babes @urhoneycombwitch and @runawaywerewolf for being so nice to me while i lost my mind about this <3
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI
The Targaryens believe that they have the fire of dragons coursing through their veins, but you aren't certain that it's true. If they did, you don't see how they could get anything done, at all. Because right now you do, and it's agony.
Everything hurts. From your head to your toes it feels like your body is filled with venom, burning beneath your skin, your muscles all convulsing in waves of destruction that leave you all but incapacitated. Milk of the poppy does not help, and nor does wine. If you were delirious it would probably be more bearable, but unfortunately your mind is devastatingly sharp. It feels like you have even more awareness of everything than you normally do— your skin is so hypersensitive that you can feel every fibre of your sweat-drenched chemise, and you can feel the temperature of every breath you take as it fills your lungs. The lights are too bright, sounds are louder, flavors more vibrant on your tongue. Every little thing that is happening around you gets filed into your mind so that you feel, in no uncertain terms, like you could fight an entire army yourself and survive. If you were able to move beyond the pain.
You've really done it this time. You didn't believe that the potion was anything dangerous; otherwise you wouldn't have put it in your wine. You were under the impression that it was just a little charm, something cooked up by a wise woman to make lovesick people sleep better at night. You expected it to put a gleam in your eye and a skip in your step, but not this.
"Put this in your wine and watch your love blossom like a rose in bloom," the old lady had told you as she pressed the vial into your outstretched hand. She had taken your coin readily enough and ignored the skeptical look that your lady's maid, Mircalla, had given her. "Drink deep. Enjoy the fortune of love."
Fortune of love, indeed. You're dying. You can tell just by the look on Maester Florin's face as he tests the remnants of the bottle in the corner with some convoluted apothecary setup he's constructed on your vanity table. You feel as though you have one eye on the bubbling beakers, and another eye on Mircalla as she sits by your bedside and dabs a damp cloth over your forehead.
"Is there anything I can get for you?" she asks quietly, and you know that she means well, but you have to physically stop yourself from smacking her hand away. The cloth is too rough on your forehead, scratching and squelching in your ears with the sound of the water, which smells of ale and sour fruit. Perhaps the bucket she used to bring the water in previously had been used to brew cider, but now it just makes the water stink.
"Nothing else, please," you croak at her with as much grace as you can muster. You lightly grab her wrist, squeeze it. "Thank you, Mircalla. Your services won't be needed anymore today, I think. I would not want you to see this any further."
"I am not certain that I should—"
"No. Go, please—" You just barely manage to turn your head away before a spasm of white-hot pain rips through your body, and you scream as you plant your face into your pillow. Both Mircalla and the maester jump at the shrillness of it.
"They're happening more frequently," you hear her mutter to him as she carries the bucket toward the door. "Shall I send for someone? A septon, perhaps?"
"Not yet, thank you. I must discuss the lady's affliction with her privately."
You close your eyes as if to block out the rush of sound that comes from the hall upon Mircalla opening your chamber door. You know that most— if not all— of your own family members, have retreated to other areas of the Red Keep. You assume that it's because you've been screaming loud enough to wake the dead, but perhaps there are other things happening in the castle that are more important than you managing to poison yourself.
"Maester," you grumble out dryly, your voice crackling in your throat. Now that the water is gone you aren't being assaulted by the smell of old cider, but the air still reeks of incense and acrid fumes from whatever his alchemy wrought. "I know I am dying. Just tell me why."
Maester Florin clears his throat and shifts on his feet, holding the little glass vial in his fingers. "My lady. You say that you bought this from a market stall?"
"Yes."
"And… did the seller tell you precisely what it was?"
"She said it was a potion," you tell him, tensing as a wave of pain swells up but then recedes before it can hit its peak, "to bring fortune in love. Nothing more."
There is a long silence, and you wonder if the maester has gone back to his work. You open your eyes a crack to look at him, but he is still standing in the same spot, seemingly deep in thought. Finally, he chances, "It is… not for me to ask what use you have of this potion…"
You groan, and it has nothing to do with the pain coursing through your body. You can't even gather the strength to cover your face in embarrassment, so you simply close your eyes.
It is common knowledge within the castle walls that Prince Daeron refused your hand in marriage after you were presented to him. He cited 'conflicting personalities' as the reason for his refusal— however, you had never had a complete conversation with Prince Daeron. There was no possible way that your personalities could be in conflict; you'd barely met him. Which meant that there was another reason for his refusal.
You knew that neither the King, nor the Crown Prince or his brother were pleased about it. It caused immense trouble for House Targaryen; your own family is one of the Targaryens' greatest allies, so it would only cause a rift between the two households if you were to be turned away with no good reason. House Targaryen could not afford to lose your family's alliance, and so you were asked to remain in King's Landing for another two weeks— or, to put it more plainly, until Prince Maekar or another of the Targaryens could convince Daeron to change his mind.
All of the muscles in your abdomen lock up, and what feels like a roaring hot fire rushes through your body all at once. You scream again, your back threatening to arch off the bed with your convulsing. It hurts so much. How could it possibly hurt so much? How could this little vial of fluid be enough to make you feel like you're burning alive from the inside out? You can hear your own scream ringing around the stone walls of the chamber, loud enough to startle a couple crows off of the eaves outside the open window.
While you're still curled into a ball on the bed, catching your breath, you hear a swift knock on the chamber door before it creaks open. There, you catch a whiff of spice and musk, rich and full. Your eyes fly open in horror as the source of the scent steps into the room with all the lordly grace of the seven kingdoms.
"Maester Florin," comes Prince Baelor Breakspear's voice, usually grounding and calming, but right now it hits you like a lightning bolt in the chest, knocking the very wind out of your lungs. "There seems to be much commotion. May I inquire as to how the lady is faring?"
Maester Florin bows. "Your Grace, I—"
"No."
The word tumbles out of your mouth before you can even stop it. Everything was manageable, more or less, until the Crown Prince entered the room, but now… now, his scent fills your lungs, his words are in your ears, you can practically taste him on the air, like peppercorn and sweet juniper. Your heart pounds in your ribcage like it's trying to escape, your blood singing with fire and your skin prickling with sweat.
You don't want to think about Prince Baelor right now. Each time he comes to mind, it's with an enormous wave of pain ripping through your entire body, as though the very thought of him causes the affliction to double its efforts to end you. Even so, in your mind you see the image of the Prince's concerned face when he stepped into your sick room one day ago, to make the same inquiry and send for a maester to attend you.
You have to get out. You have to leave before the next wave of pain kills you.
You're so tense that when you try to flop over on the bed, you look like a cockroach trying to right itself. "No. No no no no—" In spite of the pain in your muscles, you grab the corner of the goose down mattress and pull yourself toward the edge of the bed, until your upper body hangs off the side, limp as a wet rag.
"My lady, that is inadvisable—" Maester Florin rushes towards you as soon as your fingers meet the stone floor. "You will hurt yourself without assistance."
"Has she been like this the entire time?" Baelor's voice remains steady, but there is a newer, sharper quality to it: he's displeased. If you were to chance a look at him, you would see the carefully concealed worry beneath his practiced diplomacy, but you cannot bring yourself to look his way for fear that it might end you.
Instead, you continue trying to throw yourself from the bed, while Maester Florin actively tries to put you back in it. "No, Your Grace. Aside from the— the screaming—"
Florin's hand connects with your shoulder, and you just about punch him, the pain is so excruciating. Instead, you whack your hand against the front of his robes and bunch them in your fist to pull him close to your face.
"I asked you a question, Maester," you growl at him with a livid expression, watching his eyes widen at your sudden outburst. "Why is this happening?"
"You consumed a powerful aphrodisiac." He swallows, his eyes nervously flitting in Baelor's direction.
You make the grave mistake of following Florin's gaze, and you look at Baelor. The Hand of the King stands at the foot of your sickbed, his eyes focused on you, and only you. His face remains impassive, yet his fingers twitch as though he is contemplating what he can do to intervene.
You push Maester Florin away and begin frantically clawing your way back up the bed towards the headboard. You can feel it: the next wave of heat and pain, building in your toes and hands, inching down your limbs. "Nonono— Maid and Mother's fucking tits."
You manage to plant your face in the pillow before you let out another scream, but this time it seems worse, like you might actually split in half from the pain. You don't know how much more of it you can take. You've drenched your threadbare chemise in sweat, to the point that it doesn't really preserve your modesty anymore. All it does is stick to your damp, oversensitive skin, irritating you and making the sensory overload that much worse.
Once the pain subsides, you begin to rip at the offending garment in an attempt to draw it over your head. You're babbling nonsense, fragments of sentences and profanities that you don't even remember having in your repertoire, but you can still hear Maester Florin as he rattles off technical explanations to his Prince.
"—was purchased from a market stall— seems to be a tincture of moonbloom and gilliflower— another ingredient I have not yet identified—"
Before you can manage to muscle the useless chemise over your head, a hand settles on your back directly between your shoulder blades.
"Don't do that, my lady."
Baelor's voice is directly over your shoulder, gentle but stern. His hand presses solidly between your shoulders, holding the fabric of your chemise against your overheated flesh. You blink, seeing nothing but the headboard of the bed and cream colored linen, but feeling surrounded by him. His scent, his touch, his voice, so close and so strong, should hurt. It should hurt, because until now the barest touch has been agony, exacerbating the pain and torment.
But Baelor's touch does nothing. It's the oddest thing, enough to make you stop moving and tensing up for just a moment. You are still too hot, your skin is still too sensitive, but the only warmth and sensation that Baelor's hand brings is… comforting. Relief emanates from the single point of contact, bleeding through your body in tangible ripples that seem to stretch out down your spine and along your limbs.
That is, until the relief settles low. And then it becomes something else, something arguably worse than the pain. Your core muscles draw up tight and aching, and the heat and agony is replaced with devastating, almost crippling arousal.
You gasp, your back arching dramatically like that of a frightened cat, and you practically throw yourself away from Baelor with all the grace of a scared animal. Or, at least, you try to leap from the bed, but your body is sluggish, and Baelor Breakspear is nothing if not a quick combatant.
As soon as you try to take off, bouncing up like one of the crows into the air, Baelor's arm comes around your waist and drags you back down to the mattress. Try as you might to wriggle free and fling yourself to the floor, Baelor is strong, a force to be reckoned with.
"Stop this at once." Baelor's voice is still just as firm, but the gentility with which he orders you is… it's awful. He commands you with kindness and patience. "I will not abide you hurting yourself."
"Already hurts," you argue, although it's more of a lie the longer Baelor holds you.
It's as though he has the cure to your ailment within his very palms. But, while he holds you down, cradling you with your back to his chest, your arousal grows to a horrifying degree. You can feel your core muscles contract and release, the wetness between your legs smearing your thighs. There is a very likely chance that you may cum without any other form of stimulation, and you will not be able to survive that amount of humiliation. Perhaps he cannot abide you hurting yourself, but you cannot abide acting like a whore in the Prince of Dragonstone's arms.
You make a small, frantic noise in the back of your throat, and whimper, "I have to go. Let me go. Please. Please— Please. My lord, let me go. I have to go."
The small skirmish nears its end as you plant your hands on his forearm and try to push it away, but your hands are too weak and his arm is like a steel belt holding you down.
"Go where?" His voice is too close to your ear. You shiver in his arms, clamping your thighs together to stave off the new waves of heat coalescing between them. Goosebumps break out across your skin, and you feel your eyes widen. He sounds so fucking calm when he says, "There are several flights of stairs to descend before you reach the ground floor. Your only other option is the window, and you will break every bone in your body no matter which way you decide to go, unless you can walk. Can you walk?"
Only if you're touching me. You grit your teeth. "I have to try."
"No." It's Baelor who says it this time, and in spite of all your fighting, you can't seem to drum up any more of it.
You have to admit that it's a relief to not be in pain anymore, even if you have an entirely different set of problems to contend with, now. You slump forward in his arms, hanging your head as you dumbly squeeze at the fabric of his sleeve. "It is not proper for you to be holding me this way, Your Grace."
"I fear that it would be less proper of me to allow you to throw yourself from the window," Baelor explains rationally. Still, he releases his arm from around your waist, only bringing a hand up to move your hair away from your face. You have to physically fight not to press your overheated cheek into the cradle of his hand, like a cat seeking out affection. He pauses, and then says, "Maester, you said that you had not identified an ingredient of the tincture. Could it be dragon's breath?"
"No, Your Grace." Maester Florin speaks from across the room, where he retreated back to his apothecary setup. "With respect, I am familiar with dragon's breath. I would have been able to identify its presence with relative ease."
"She smells of it." Baelor does not say it unkindly.
"It is possible that while the tincture is in her system, the aphrodisiac effects may occur outwardly as well." Florin pauses, then clarifies, "That is, it will cause her to look, smell, or sound in ways that… some may consider… attractive, Your Grace."
Baelor remains silent. The implication hangs solidly in the air. You notice almost immediately that the maester did not include taste in that assessment, although it lingers in the subtext. The Prince is being effected by your presence, even if it is not to the same degree that you are being effected by his.
"You never answered my question, Maester," you finally interject. "Why is it killing me?"
You feel Baelor's fingers tense on your shoulder just slightly at the question, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he waits while Florin seems to flounder for a moment, and then gently supplements, "Please answer the lady's question."
Florin looks deeply uncomfortable. "Your Grace, it's… of quite a delicate subject matter. I hesitate to cause yourself or the lady any offense—"
"Seven above, just spit it out, already!" You swipe your arm across your sweaty forehead, desperate to put an end to the hedging about. "I've been laying here dying for ages! What is it, what?"
"That's enough, now." Baelor holds a hand up to silence you, and you almost think you might bite it, except that he has such beautiful hands. You wouldn't want to mar them. You stare unabashedly at his silver ring and the lines on his palm, and you start… salivating.
Gods be good. You're going to eat him.
Florin hesitates only a second more. "This aphrodisiac… although the recipes differ across various regions, it is normally intended as a… a temporary cure for impotence and infertility. It is… I believe it is primarily used in brothels, to make— er… intercourse more— ehm. Pleasurable?"
You blink. "If it's meant to be pleasurable, then why does it hurt so much?" You still refuse to admit that you're already experiencing the so-called pleasurable function— that is, you're soaking the mattress with it the longer Baelor keeps his hand on your shoulder.
"Well, it is usually taken with the intention of… ehm. Using it for its innate purpose, you see. The aphrodisiac will remain in one's system until it has been expelled during copulation."
Baelor drops his hand from your shoulder and takes a step back. You feel the loss like a punch in the gut— quite literally, all of your muscles tighten at once, and you double over in pain.
Through clenched teeth, you say, "So, you mean I have to… to have sex?" The look on the maester's face says everything you need to know. "Or what? What if I don't? I'm— it hurts so much, I can't— I wouldn't be able to do anything… not on my own."
Your face burns at the admission. The humiliation— the irony of it all is unbelievable. The little lady took a love potion and now can't fuck herself properly enough to get it out of her system. The only hand she reacts to is the one she can't have, because it belongs to the Realm.
Florin chews on his lip while he thinks, and then explains, "This particular recipe seems more aggressive than most. That is likely due to the unidentifiable ingredient. The potion is, essentially, a slow acting poison. If it is not used for its intended purpose… I suppose, generally, there will be immense pain and fits for… three days after ingestion. Delirium sets in after about two days. And then—" His eyes flit from you, to Baelor, and back. "Then, my lady, I'm afraid you will die."
One Week Earlier
Admittedly, you knew it wouldn't work the minute you saw Daeron. He looked green about the face, his eyes so red and bleary that you thought he would keel over at any moment. If you hadn't heard him called 'Daeron the Drunken' behind closed doors, you would have tried to somehow politely ask if he was ill. Instead, you just assumed he'd had one too many before showing up to your presentation in court.
No, you aren't surprised that he turned down the offer of marriage. You were, however, surprised that he did not deliver the news himself. Instead, he sent a servant with a note while you were eating breakfast, and left you to bring it before the King. The entire meeting went over about the way you expected. Prince Maekar went to find Daeron, Prince Baelor apologized for his nephew's rudeness and the inconvenience, and the King assured you that all would be made well.
The truth of the matter is that you have no interest in Daeron, anyway. You do not want a husband who refuses to talk to you, even if his drunkenness was not an issue. Daeron has given you no reason to desire him— at this point, the prospect of the marriage would be a matter of your family's social and financial standing, and your own status as a Princess.
Now that the castle is sufficiently in an uproar about Daeron's refusal, you have made your gracious retreat to the gardens. You don't want to be in the castle any longer than you have to. Your family has already suggested leaving King's Landing in two days' time, and even so, it feels like too long to wait.
From the gardens, you look out over Blackwater Bay, watching ships disappear one by one over the horizon. You have no idea how long you sit there, but the sun slowly creeps lower and lower in the sky, until golden light filters through the leaves of the trees.
"My lady." For how large of a man Baelor is, he is light on his feet. You hadn't heard him approach, and so you jump when he addresses you, spinning around to find him standing a respectable distance away from your bench. When you stand to curtsy, he gives you an indulgent smile. "It appears that you've been out here for some time. I only wanted to ensure all was well."
You fight not to raise an eyebrow at the Prince. "You must have been watching me closely, then, Your Grace."
He squints, then pivots to peer up at the Tower of the Hand, looming over the Red Keep. "Not so close, I should think."
You snicker at that, casting your eyes away from him. Baelor is a handsome man, and kind. You find your awareness lingering on him above all others, and you're beginning to fear that your crush is becoming obvious. You feel nervous in his presence in only the best way, as though you may trip over your own tongue and say something entirely unbecoming just as soon as you open your mouth. That feeling is… refreshing, in the right company. But Baelor is heir apparent to the Iron Throne, Protector of the Realm, and you are simply a noble lady much younger than him, with the prospect of marrying his nephew. Any fantasies you indulge can only be that.
"May I join you a moment?" Baelor asks, and despite your internal angst, you cannot bring yourself to refuse him.
Perhaps it would be more proper to have your lady's maid here with you, but Mircalla has other things to be doing now, and so you sit a respectable distance away from Baelor on the bench while staring out to sea and wishing it was not respectable at all.
"In my week at court, I've discovered that I quite like this view," you say after a beat, to puncture the tight shroud of silence that settles between the two of you. "I enjoy watching the waves. I wonder what it's like to be one of them, sometimes. Rolling always towards the shore."
"Or dashing upon the rocks?"
You hum. "At least they know where they're going, rocks or no."
You retreat back into silence with him, and watch him out of the corner of your eye as he twirls his silver ring around his finger idly. He seems to be thinking hard about something, eyes fixed on the horizon with a purpose. It gives you just a moment to admire his profile— his strong, twice-broken nose, his furrowed brow, the touches of silvery gray in his close-cropped dark hair. The small freckle on his cheekbone. The stretch of his neck from beneath his collar, begging for a pair of lips or a tongue to lavish it.
"My lady, allow me to extend my apologies once more for my nephew's behavior," Baelor says finally, and you turn your eyes quickly back out to sea. "It is not the first time Daeron has been irresponsible with delicate matters. Although, it is also the fault of we who expect responsibility from him, that there must be an apology."
"I don't think it's unreasonable to expect responsibility from a prince," you answer without thinking, and then suddenly remember who you are speaking to. "…Your Grace."
"No. On that, we agree." There is a light chuckle in his voice, a slight humor that you imagine is meant to make you feel more at ease. "I do not imagine that Daeron will take long to rectify his behavior, however."
You feel a girlish temper flare within you at the idea that Daeron could rectify anything. You take a long, sobering breath, smelling sea salt and garden flowers on the air.
"You were married, Your Grace. You know quite well how to approach a—" Woman. You want to say it, but you feel it would be too forward. You reconsider, and continue instead with, "a betrothal. Do you believe that anything Daeron has done makes for a… a loving marriage?"
Baelor considers your question with the attention you would expect from the King's Hand. Then, he answers, "I would not hazard a guess as to the sincerity of Daeron's feelings toward you, my lady. Only he can truly know the answer to that. Though, it may bring you some comfort to know that…" He pauses thoughtfully. "My own marriage was not for love. It was arranged, as duty demanded. But, in time, I do believe Jena and I came to love one another, as well as a match made in service to the Crown would allow. Perhaps your marriage to Daeron would be the same."
You sit with his words. Enter into a loveless marriage, having already been besmirched by the man who you would bind yourself to, and hope that love will come in spite of it all. It sounds like a fool's errand.
"Be that as it may, I believe Daeron has already done some irreparable damage to my reputation." When you see Baelor turn his head just barely toward you, you supplement, "My lady's maid, Mircalla, shares with me the gossip I would otherwise be protected from. Sometimes, it can be… harsh. She is honest with me, which is a quality I admire most, you understand." You look down at your hands to find yourself tearing at your own cuticles in your nervousness. "She told me some hours ago that there are rumors floating about as to why— why Daeron would refuse me. Some speculated that we fought upon first meeting. Others suggest that I am pregnant with another man's bastard. Or— Or that we have already slept together, and that Daeron was not pleased with me. Can you imagine…?"
Your voice fades out on a horrified whisper. Although none of these rumors are true, each of them deal a blow to your reputation in turn. Your eyes sting with tears the longer you think of the different stories concocted about you.
"Although it may satisfy me to have Daeron grovel and beg forgiveness, it makes no difference. From now on I will be known as the whore that Daeron refused."
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Baelor pressing his lips together tightly, raising his chin just a tick. The Prince is quiet for a moment, while you bite back your tears and turn your face away from him.
"You say that honesty is a trait that you value," Baelor remarks, and waits until you nod at him in response. "Then please trust me to be honest. I cannot imagine that anyone would truly believe that of you, my lady. You see, I have had the privilege of knowing you during your time at the Red Keep, and I find you to be exceptional in every way. I can't imagine it, because I cannot fathom anyone viewing you as anything else."
You finally turn to fix him with a watery stare, and find him looking back at you with such solitary focus that you practically wither beneath his gaze. For the first time, you notice that Baelor's eyes are two different colors. The castle is not brightly lit inside, and you have never been close enough to him to notice it, until now. One brown, one violet, they lend even more of a sense of mystery to his handsome features. You have a mind to mention it— you open your mouth to tell him that they're beautiful, but then you think better of it.
He's the Prince of Dragonstone. The Hand of the King. There is nothing that could bring you together.
Baelor holds a hand out to you, his palm facing upward. You peer down at it for a moment before placing your hand delicately in his. Baelor's thumb gently brushes your knuckles, his hand practically dwarfing your own. His palm is so warm, and when he places his other hand atop yours, your skin feels engulfed in flames.
"However," Baelor says, and locks you in his stare, "I can believe that rumors abound. It is an unfortunate effect of being highborn that many will speak on what they know nothing about. But rumors seldom bear any truth. They reflect nothing of your true nature. I assure you that House Targaryen, Daeron included, will understand that."
You blink down at your hand, enveloped in both of his. Daeron. Of course, all of this is to convince you not to lose hope, that Daeron will change his mind, that Daeron will decide to marry you.
"I… thank you for your kindness, Your Grace," you respond, for lack of anything else to say. You know that he's being as fair in his judgment as possible, but he has a duty to the King and to House Targaryen. Gently, you withdraw your hand from his as you add, "Unfortunately, I regret that my family are displeased with Daeron's refusal. I understand that they have designs on leaving King's Landing in two days' time. While I know that both you and Prince Maekar are quite persuasive, I doubt that it provides ample time for Daeron to change his mind. I imagine he wanted to refuse me the moment he saw me."
"Why do you imagine that?"
You look out across Blackwater Bay, thinking back to your first meeting with Daeron. When you curtsyed, the princeling looked as though he was going to either throw up or faint, or both. At the time, you blamed it on the drink. Now, you're not entirely sure.
"I believe he finds me ugly."
Baelor huffs a short laugh through his nose, so quiet and subtle that you would not have caught it if you weren't sitting so close to him. You turn to look at him, appalled, and find him with a soft, reserved smile on his face.
"Well, don't laugh."
"Apologies, my lady." Still, Baelor's mouth curves up at the edges as though he just can't help himself. You watch him tongue the inside of his cheek, half-amused. "I mean no jest. I just find it rather unlikely, to be frank."
"I can't think of another reason why," you explain, finally letting your true emotions ring through. You're hurt. You had given Daeron no reason to dislike you; you had been agreeable and good-natured whenever you spoke to him. "He sent his refusal via courier. He wanted not to speak to me, and he has been quite avoidant throughout my entire visit."
"It's true," Baelor replies smoothly. "Daeron has behaved abominably. But I do know him to be kind, and mannerly when given the opportunity."
You had given Daeron plenty of opportunities. You don't want to argue with Baelor, but you think that he is viewing your situation only from the position of a Prince of the Realm.
"How many hours in the day are there? How many days in a week? Daeron could have come to me during any of them, and I would have recieved him. Kind and mannerly though he may be, Your Grace," you say, looking over at Baelor Breakspear with a challenging fire in your eyes, "no one can force a man to want, any more than they can force a horse to drink."
Baelor's expression remains frustratingly unreadable. You gaze into his mismatched eyes as though they will tell you something, anything about what he's thinking, but there is nothing there to betray him.
"Daeron would be a fool not to want you," Baelor tells you, his voice low and edged with a finality that makes you want to take it for fact. "Whether he is or is not, I cannot say. Only time will tell."
"Do you say that as a man? Or as the Hand of the King?" you ask him more pointedly than you should.
"Both."
You gaze at each other for a long time, long enough that the breeze picks up and sweeps your hair up in its gust. You watch Baelor's jaw work— as small of a gesture though it is, it is the only thing about him that tells you he's contemplating something. He is no open book, your Prince, and it frustrates you as much as it seduces you. It sets you daydreaming, watching him openly in the cool evening air as his mouth curves vaguely toward a frown. Down by his knee, he worries the silver ring on his finger.
Then, Baelor lifts his hand, and with a touch so featherlight it's almost inconsequential, he brushes your hair away from your brow and tucks it behind your ear. His skin barely even meets yours— you can explain it away as him just being chivalrous, just keeping your hair from flying into your eyes. But it's enough to make your heart lurch up into your throat, nonetheless.
"It's late," you mutter, now that the sun has dipped below the horizon and the garden is bathed in shadow. You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to regain your composure as you drop your gaze.
"It is."
"It's getting dark."
"Yes," Baelor agrees, then finally looks away from you. He squints out across the bay, staring into the distance at the absence of sun. "The dragon's breath will be blooming, now."
"Dragon's breath?" You shake your head. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I have not heard of it."
"I'm not surprised. It's a night-blooming flower, native to Dorne. There is a crop of them not far off, if I recall. Come, I can show it to you." Baelor stands and offers you his hand once again, and this time, you do not hesitate to take it.
He leads you, arm-in-arm, down the garden path toward the godswood. Just as the treeline begins to thicken in the gloaming, Baelor brings you to a stop.
"Just there," he murmurs, guiding you to investigate a shrub low to the ground, littered with trumpet-shaped red blooms. As he stoops to pluck one from the shrub, he says, "Dragon's breath. They are sweetly fragranced, but do not be mistaken. They can be quite deadly if eaten."
"I'll make sure not to put them in my tea, then," you tell him as you take the flower he extends to you. It smells slightly of jasmine and woodsmoke when you hold it beneath your nose, careful not to let it touch your lips. "It's lovely."
"Yes," Baelor says, watching you closely. His eyes linger on yours for an extended moment, a gentle smile curving his mouth. Then, a serene look crosses his face. "It is said that the First Men would ingest it to convene with the old gods. Whether or not this is true remains to be seen, but I would not advise it, at any rate."
"No, I'd imagine not." You spend a second twirling the little red blossom, the same shade as the red thread in his doublet, the colors of House Targaryen. Quite suddenly, you observe, "They're your favorite."
Baelor is quiet for a moment. "What makes you so certain?"
"You thought of them first. You could have shown me anything in the entire Keep, but you showed me these. Obviously, they're important to you." You peer up at him, and you can't bite back your smirk. "I'm right, aren't I?"
Baelor huffs a small laugh, the second one you've managed from him. The sound of it warms the pit of your stomach. "You're rather sure of yourself."
"That isn't a 'no.'"
"Mm. It's not a 'yes,' either."
You crack a grin. "Okay. Don't tell me, then. But I'm right."
This time, when Baelor tilts his head downward, you catch him smiling, a flash of teeth and a dimple indenting his bearded cheek. It is imperfect, crooked and so very human. He hides it well, but you're able to see it before he gentles his face into a careful mask once again.
He doesn't know that you see it. It will remain your secret, a fascination to look back on when you're in need of comfort. You made the Prince of Dragonstone smile. A real smile.
"Thank you, Your Grace," you tell him quietly, still pinching the blossom in your fingers. "For your company. And your hospitality."
"The pleasure is mine." Baelor looks as though he may leave the conversation there, but then he adds, "One more word before we part, my lady, if you please?"
"Certainly." You step a touch closer to him. A cricket sounds somewhere in the brush. The night is beginning to wake around you, the longer you linger with the Prince. You wonder if you could draw the moment out long enough to see the dawn.
Baelor does not seem overly concerned about it. "I should like to extend an invitation to your family, if you believe they would be willing. Perhaps, rather than departing King's Landing in two days' time, they would agree to remain another fortnight?"
You blink at him. Another two weeks? For what, exactly?
Baelor answers your unasked question, as though he can see directly into your mind. "So that we may have ample time for Daeron to correct his mistake. Of course."
"Of course," you echo. You feel clean out of air in your lungs, stunned for something to say. "Your Grace, I— I would say that my family would have to answer that invitation for themselves. I cannot speak for the lot."
He affords you the most patient of smiles. "I would like to hear your answer before all, if you don't mind."
"Oh."
Another two weeks at the Red Keep. Two weeks for the rumors to spread, to converge and morph into even worse ones. Two weeks for Daeron to insult you by ignoring you, tarnish your reputation by refusing you a second time. Conversely, two weeks for Daeron to decide that he may tolerate your company and accept you.
You look down at the flower in your fingers. Two weeks to search for the sight of Baelor in the halls and in the councils. Two weeks to speak to him again. Two weeks to indulge in that wickedest of fantasies: that you might fall in love with Baelor Breakspear.
"Yes," you tell Baelor, quiet enough that it threatens to be spirited away on the breeze. "Yes, if my family is willing. I would be glad to stay another fortnight, at Your Grace's pleasure."
Baelor nods at you graciously. "Then I will see to your family's response in the morning. Thank you for your acceptance, my lady."
"Thank you for your invitation." You tilt your face towards the sky. "It is quite dark. I fear that I will have trouble on my way back, should I remain any longer."
"Indeed. The fault is mine, entirely. Allow me to walk you to the holdfast."
You make the journey back to the holdfast in comfortable silence. You find that you do not feel even remotely unsafe as long as Baelor is near; otherwise, you would never chance to linger outside the holdfast, even within the castle walls, after dark. But Baelor's presence is a relief. You would trust him with your life. You would probably trust him with even more than that, given the chance.
"My Prince."
You pause in the golden torchlight, only bright enough to illuminate the bridge over the dry moat. Down in the pit there is nothing but blackness, and a sense that if you stepped too close it would suck you in. Turning to Baelor, you have the dragon's breath blossom still in your fingers, and lift it to your face to take in its scent again— sweet, smoky, like a garden aflame. You can understand why he is taken with this particular flower.
Baelor watches you expectantly, a respectable distance away again, as though every part of your conversation this evening had been a diplomatic mission. Cleaning up his nephew's mess. Doing what is right for the Realm.
The idea rattles you. It cuts you deep and hits something within that you thought you'd left in your girlhood— covetousness. The desire to be shown favoritism, attention. To be wanted, not simply tolerated. You are not a girl anymore, but the King's Hand seems to bring her out of you as though it were second nature. You feel the urge to try to bring the boy out of him, which may be an insurmountable task. He is a prince, a warrior and a lord of refined poise and sophistication. But you have never been one to shy away from a challenge.
You step closer to him. Baelor does not move away, but follows you with his eyes, a reserved expression on his face. Perhaps he is trying to anticipate what you may do, but he does not show any signs of backing down. You imagine that he wouldn't, even if you threw yourself at him unceremoniously. If you kissed him like you desperately want to, open-mouthed and wet.
But you are not improper, or desperate. You are a lady, and well-versed in flattery and elegant flirtation. You take the dragon's breath, and you tuck the green stem into the gap between the silk fabric of his doublet and the Hand of the King pin that adorns his chest. It flares up from the pin, as though the fingers of the hand were holding it tight to his heart.
"Keep this safe," you say, your smile hiding your desirous stare. Your fingers rest against his chest for just a second longer than is proper, but you pull them away quickly enough, you think. "I would hate for it to go to waste."
Baelor's eyes soften. "Certainly, my lady."
"You are quite a wonderful man, my Prince." Your innermost thoughts become physical things, they turn balmy on your tongue. "If you may pardon my saying so. I have wanted to for some time, but… the opportunity did not present itself."
Baelor's brows raise just the slightest, but he does not admonish you. "I thank you for the compliment, my lady. You are very kind, indeed." A pause, a breath on the wind. "Lovely."
You stay there, held captive in his gaze. One violet, one brown. Finally, in spite of your sense of self preservation, you tell him, "Your eyes… They really are very beautiful, you know."
You do not wait for his answer or reaction before you bid him goodnight, and all but flee into the holdfast. And so, you are not able to see the way he watches after you with a lingering smile, and a longing gaze in those very eyes.
Present
Baelor sends Maester Florin away with an order to return on the morrow, and to alert the servants that you should not be disturbed. It is not without your notice that after he ushers the maester out the chamber door, he bolts it with a final clang that reverberates in your oversensitive ears.
You lay on the mussed bedsheets, curled into a ball. You are sideways in the bed; there is no point in putting yourself to rights, because the moment the next wave of pain hits you will become a writhing animal once again, a slave to the torrents of agony. Through the stringy, damp strands of your loose hair, you watch Baelor's back.
He leans against the door with both hands pressed flat to the wood, head bowed in thought. Or, is it distress? Perhaps both. You don't quite know what to make of his reaction to your situation, at all.
What you do know is that you feel a wave of heat flash through your body so fast and so sharp that all of your muscles tense at once, and you yelp from the blast of pain. Your head pounds as though your heartbeat originates from it.
Baelor turns at the sound of your anguish, and his face pinches at the sight of you, a small, trembling heap on the bed. "I will fetch Daeron."
"No."
"My lady, please."
He approaches the end of the bed, but you can't do more than follow the sight of his face with your eyes, until it passes too far into your periphery, and you must drop them to his belt. The sight of Baelor's belt inches away from your face is not something that helps your situation at all, however, and so you shut your eyes before your body manages to torment you further.
"Daeron is… unreliable, yes. And irresponsible. I know that you harbor wounded feelings towards him at the moment, but…" Baelor hesitates. Clearly, he knows that he is not making the best case for his nephew. His eyes roam your disconsolate form, and then he finishes, "But he is your best chance at survival. I am certain that he will be agreeable, at least in this pursuit."
"Do you even know if his cock works?"
Baelor is eerily silent. You don't open your eyes to look at him until you feel the mattress shift, and you find that he's sat on the foot of the bed, his back to you once again. His hands loosely grip the edge of the mattress on either side of him, and his posture betrays no real emotion. It is only when you notice the redness of his ears that you realize your words must have unnerved him.
"I would not know, my lady," Baelor answers quietly, after a moment. "Daeron has sired no bastards, as far as I am aware. His drunkenness may prove an issue, but questionable odds are better than none."
"I don't want Daeron. He doesn't want me."
"He is to be your betrothed." Baelor's words are flat, even. Clinical. "I understand that if he had not refused you, then perhaps you would not have resorted to… other methods—"
"I didn't take the fucking thing for him," you finally snap, gritting your teeth against the pain throbbing in your head and in your abdomen.
Baelor's voice surrenders to something inquisitive. "Then, why did you take it?"
Another moment of silence. Baelor is too still, his hand pressed flat to the mattress in front of your face. You stare, unblinking, at the glint of the silver ring on his finger, bearing the insignia of House Targaryen.
"I thought… perhaps there was someone else for me." You take in a shallow breath. "Although, I think my rash decision making outweighs my judgment."
Baelor turns and gives you the most indulgent smile you think you've ever received, even though there is immense pain behind his eyes.
"If you will not have Daeron… perhaps I can call another for you. Ser Duncan may be willing," he suggests, his voice just above a whisper. "Ser Duncan is a good and honorable man. I trust him with my life, and I would trust him with yours."
You stare at him in shock for a moment. "Oh… Oh, yes, of course. Ser Duncan. Ser Duncan. Why didn't I think of that? Ser Duncan the Tall." Baelor remains stoic, nonplussed at your sarcasm. Your stomach cramps up as you blather, "Or, better yet, why not call Ser Donnel as well? The entire King's Guard, even? Drag me down to the Great Yard, maybe they can take turns, pass me off—"
"Enough," Baelor finally snaps, shooting you a stern look. "I will hear no more of that sort of talk from you."
"Or what? Your Grace," you return with a wicked glare. "I will not be foisted off to the first man you think of."
Lit up with the fury of a thousand suns now, and sweating enough to show it, you push yourself up on wobbly limbs and tumble off of the bed onto the bearskin rug on the floor. You land on your aching stomach with a loud, "OOMF," and all the air painfully leaves your lungs.
"Stop this, now." Baelor sounds weary, as though he's bored of a game you're playing.
"No. Leave me." You crawl clumsily across the rug towards the chamber window. "I'm not going to lay there, dying in agony and— and losing my mind. I'd rather throw myself out of the tower. Let me die with quiet dignity and grace."
"Quiet dignity and grace," he eventually repeats, incredulous. He hasn't even gotten up from the end of the bed, but just watches you, fascinated with your display. "You know, I fathered two boys. Theatrics don't impress me, especially when negotiating."
"Yes, remind me again of how you're so amazing at everything, like— fathering sons, and— negotiating," you growl, huffing with the exertion of your endeavor. "Because you're— you're so fucking perfect and chivalrous. The Hammer. With your— fucking— giant, veiny— host of Dornish spearmen."
"My, you're verbose."
It's only when you threaten to tip the table by the window, as you attempt to haul yourself up to your feet, that Baelor rises. He reaches you in three quick strides, snatches you about the waist and throws you over his shoulder, just to carry you back to the bed. Your small amount of spite-fueled energy spent, you merely hang on him like a sack of straw.
Baelor lays you down so that your head hits the pillow, your hands thrown above your head. "Are you quite finished?" he asks sharply, looming over you, his eyes boring into yours. His jaw set, he states, "I am trying to save your life."
"And I am no one's whore." You stare defiantly up into the eyes of Baelor Targaryen, willing him to yield.
And, to your surprise, he does. His eyes soften, his jaw untensing as he lets out a slow, defeated sigh. "No, you are not."
He sits back, his hands still pressed into the mattress on either side of you. You miss his proximity like a lost limb.
"Forgive me. I have been presumptuous in my suggestions. I would never force you into any situation against your will or desires." A pause. "But I cannot sit idle and let you die. I beg you, my lady. Name someone, anyone, who you would trust in this matter. Someone who you would accept. I will bring them to you without question."
You gaze up at him tearfully, and feel another wave of heat blooming in your hands and feet. You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and take in the sight of him, so poised and regal, even when faced with an unmanageable task.
"Baelor."
Your hand— small, clammy with sweat and shaky from the fatigue in your limbs— reaches out and finds his— large, warm, grounding. You pull at his hand, and he lets you. His head turns just slightly, watching you as you cradle his large palm in your two hands and press it firmly against your chest, just below your collarbone.
Whatever this magic is, be it gods sent or gods cursed, it reacts the second his skin touches yours. Your entire body sparks alive with sensation— but rather than the unrelenting heat and pain of the poison coursing through your veins, it's solace. You let out a soft moan at the feeling, like gentle sunlight flooding through your body the moment that his fingers lace with yours.
"My Prince," you whisper shakily, and feel his fingers flex just slightly against your chest. Your heart pounds against your ribcage so hard that you know he feels it. He can probably feel the unbelievable heat radiating off of you. "It's— I feel so much pain. I hear the voices of the guards on the ramparts and I taste— I taste the salt from the sweat on your brow. I feel as though I will rip in two when the waves come, and nothing has made it better except— except you. When you touch me. Your hands on me… it's you."
Baelor is quiet, listening to your rambling speech. Tears stream from your eyes. It is both a relief and a terror to confess what you feel to him.
Then, Baelor removes his hand from your chest and brings it to cup the side of your face. The tenderness of his touch strips you to the bone. You feel like you're breathing only for him, like he commands the very air that gives your body function. His thumb brushes your damp hair away from your face, wiping away your tears with it, and he gazes down at you with such care, such affection.
He says your name softly, but there's a touch of sadness in it. He closes his eyes, breathes in long and slow through his nose. "I cannot do what you ask. You must name another."
"Please." You make a frail noise in the back of your throat, feeling as though you may begin sobbing in a moment. You shake your head, lifting one hand to clutch at Baelor's wrist.
"I cannot," he insists, although he doesn't pull his hand away from you. You don't know if he is bearing in mind what you told him— that his touch is the only thing that keeps the pain from tormenting you. There is palpable tension in his expression, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a firm line. "I am the King's Hand and heir to the throne. If you were to be gotten with my child, it would cause a scandal."
"I am already rumored to be pregnant, remember? House Targaryen has weathered far worse than a bastard child," you remark weakly.
"But you have not. I would not dishonor you in such a way." When you pout and look as though you may argue, he continues, "Whatever rumors circulate about you, we need not give them merit."
"So you would have me carry another man's bastard, instead?"
Baelor snaps his mouth shut, his expression turning suddenly guarded. He makes as though he may pull his hand back as he turns away from you, and your stomach drops.
"Baelor, no."
You clap your own hand over his, turning to nuzzle into the warmth of his palm. On instinct, you plant your lips against his skin, and it's as though something savage bursts alive within you. Some greedy, desperate thing takes hold as your eyes drift shut, with each breath tasting the warmth and spice of his skin as though your tongue were flush to it.
"Don't let go," you whisper into the cradle of his hand. "If you let go of me the pain will return, and I can't— I can't bear it anymore, Baelor, I can't—"
"I know. I won't let you go, darling." He sounds strained even as he reassures you, but he doesn't remove his hand.
There is a long silence, while you practically lose yourself in the feeling of just… giving in. You relax into the glowing feeling, hot pleasure sweeping through your body, up your limbs and into your core, replacing any pain that had been there before. It's glorious. It distracts you, pulls your mind away from the reality of the situation— that you cannot simply have him hold your face and hope that the poison works its way out of your system on its own.
Without meaning to, you drag your parted lips along his fingers, as though exploring them just with your mouth. His fingers are so long. Slender and dextrous, calloused from hours of sword training. You feel each bump and ridge against your mouth and you're trying so hard not to sink your teeth in. Your lower lip catches on the band of his silver ring and draws back, letting the smallest flash of your teeth graze his skin.
You hear his breath catch, and your eyes fly open, suddenly aware of what you're doing. Baelor watches you from the corner of his eye as you press your face into his touch, his jaw locked up tight, his free hand a fist where it rests on his knee.
You feel as though you should apologize, but you can't bring yourself to. Apologize for what? For desiring him? Wanting him? He's so handsome. His differently colored eyes study you, a painful reminder of it. You stare back at him, imagining what it would be like to trace his face with your lips, as well.
"You told me once that Daeron would be a fool not to want me," you say, and you take a purposefully slow breath, because if you don't you may start heaving for air. "Are you a fool, my Prince?"
Baelor lets out a soft sigh, and looks quickly away from you. His fingers twitch slightly against your cheek. He's silent for a long time, long enough that you begin to fear you've misread him, confused his kindness for something deeper.
But then he tilts his head down, and without looking at you, he says quietly, "I am not, my lady. Though, whether my desire in itself is foolish, I have no idea. I may be doomed for it."
"Then… perhaps we are both doomed," you admit, your eyes practically dancing over his features. "I can't think around my desire for you. All I know is that you— you are all that I want in the world. Scandals and suspicious potions be damned."
"Gods above." You watch Baelor roll his eyes toward the ceiling. When he returns his eyes to you, it's with a look of solemn admiration. He strokes his knuckles along the curve of your jaw. "I'm beginning to believe you exist simply to torment me."
You allow yourself to fashion a wobbly smile. "Me? Torment the Breakspear? Never."
Baelor huffs a quiet laugh, looking away from you in a manner that is almost… shy. You can see his jaw flex beneath his short beard and a rosy flush come over his face, and—
You just made Baelor blush.
You lay with that, watching him in the silence. His hand drifts from grazing your jaw to resting flat against your collarbone again, and you lift your own to trace your fingers languidly along the back of his palm. You can hear his breath come out shaky at the light contact, and it's just enough to give you the clarity to really, truly think about this.
His hands on you could be enough, you realize. You practically came the moment that he touched you, and if this magic can just be expelled from your system by an orgasm, it might be that he doesn't need to do anything more than just… put his hands on you. It feels good enough as it is— the heat of him, the smell and the feeling of him, are all adding to the pleasurable fire burning in your core. But, if you felt his hands go… down…
"Baelor."
His name comes out of your mouth faster than it should, and he snaps his eyes to you with a look of sudden concern, as though he expects to find something wrong. But nothing really is wrong— at least nothing that hasn't been wrong to begin with.
"What if—" You bite your lip, trying hard not to move your hips in any way that could startle him off. Your cunt throbs just at the thought of feeling his hands on your body with no barrier. "What if you just… touched me?"
Baelor seems to think your question over, searching your face for any kind of deception. But you simply stare at him openly, your eyes pleading, heart pounding as you feel his thumb stroke once over the hollow of your throat.
And then, his eyes drift down. They linger on the swell of your breast, heaving under the thin, practically sheer linen of your chemise. Everything is too intimate, too bright in the mid-afternoon sun slanting through the open window, illuminating you. Gods, it feels like you're already naked before him with the way he just stares, undressing you in his mind. It hits you directly between the legs, and you clench your thighs together to stave off the rush of arousal.
Your breath hitches, and Baelor snaps his eyes back up to your face, as though he's just remembered himself. "I am touching you."
"Y-You—" Your breath hiccups in your chest with how hard you're trying not to gasp for air. "You don't know how cl-close I am to— to—"
You clap your hands over your face, feeling a flush of heat throughout your body that has nothing to do with his hand on you. It's hard enough to be begging him for some kind of stimulation, but to tell him how close you are to an orgasm just from his touch is mortifying.
Not for the first time, Baelor seems to be able to see inside your mind without you voicing your thoughts. "Tell me," he plies gently, his thumb sweeping across your damp skin. He remains so composed, even when you feel like dissolving into thin air. "What is it that you feel… when I touch you?"
He's still hesitant, but his voice holds a curiosity that he hadn't made manifest before now. Everything in you winds up tight at the sound. He's not just indulging you, he wants to know. You know that he's trying to be proper— Baelor is a man of restraint, of infinite patience and regard for honor and decency. You know that he's clinging to his morals even while trying to rationalize the problem set before him.
But he bolted the chamber door, you remember. Behind your closed eyelids, beyond the sound of your heavy breathing and his, more measured, you can hear the clang of the bolt reverberate in your ears all over again. His hands pressed to the solid oak, his head bowed in thought. Why would he have locked you in together? Unless…
"It feels like sunrise after a frost." Your voice is muffled behind your hands, because you refuse to look at him while you say such things. You don't think you could bear to see his face, as you confess, "It is as though all of this poison in me changes, and it becomes heavenly. I feel… when you touch me… as though my body is not my own, but yours to— to do with as you please. To mold to your whim. And I would let you, my lord, I— I would have you do anything that you desired to me, and I would ask you only to do it again. I could glut myself on your touch and it would not be enough, it undoes me in ways I cannot explain, I… You set your hand upon my back and I thought… I thought I was going to c-cum—"
You choke off on a quiet, humiliated sob. So there it is, out in the open now, with no way to take it back. Baelor is still frustratingly silent, but you refuse to pull your hands away from your face to look at him, because you can't find it within yourself to be clever or brave anymore.
"You wouldn't even need to— to deflower me," you continue, blathering now, unleashing any thought that comes to mind as a way to fill the silence. "It would hardly even be anything that would be significant to anyone, just— just lay your hand upon me, and I might— I could—"
"Where?"
All things stop at once. Your thoughts, your breath, your heartbeat. You freeze up like he has just found a way to completely obliterate you with one word. You take a sharp inhale to kickstart your lungs again, and hesitantly curl your fingers away from your eyes to look at him.
Baelor's eyes are transfixed on your face, unwavering, his expression open and earnest. He waits for you to answer him, but when it becomes apparent that you can't, he supplements, "Show me where you would have me touch you."
You consider him for just a second, just long enough for the gravity of his words to register. He wants you to show him. It occurs to you to tell him that he could touch you anywhere beneath your chemise— your stomach, your hip, your knee— and it may yield the same results. But you don't.
You take Baelor's hand, the one resting on your chest so steadily, and you move it. He allows you to, watching you all the time, the pupils of his mismatched eyes blown wide. With one hand you pull at the fabric of your chemise, tugging it up your legs, while you guide his own beneath it. As soon as his hand touches the plush skin of your thigh, you both gasp in tandem— but for different reasons.
For you, it's the burst of sensation, the sharp arcing pleasure that shoots up your spine and grips at something tight and cruel in your core, making you stifle a moan. You were right. The proximity of his touch to where you want it most makes all the difference— you fist at the gathered fabric in your hand and try not to rock your hips toward his touch, but your pussy throbs threateningly at the heat of him so close to it.
Baelor is simply startled. His brow shoots up, his jaw slack as he breathlessly murmurs, "Oh, my sweet girl."
You're drenched down your thighs, a fact that you had failed to mention to him. His fingers slip through the wetness there, feeling it against your skin, and his breath leaves him in shock.
"I— I wasn't like this, before." You take a shaky inhale, and tremors travel through your entire body. "Before you."
It's as though something within him cracks, and all of his inner turmoil is laid bare before you, etched across his features like a carving on stone. The fear, the worry, the frustration, all manifest in his pinched brow and the dip of his mouth, the tremble of his breath. But there is something else there, too— raw desire, sharp as a knife's edge. It's in his eyes, in the way that his shoulders draw tight, in the set of his jaw. It's in his hands, the way that his fingers shift and press into the pillowy flesh of your thigh.
Baelor's thumb sweeps along the curve of your inner thigh, the same affectionate, instinctive gesture that it had been as he laid his hand on your chest. But on this part of your body it is more suggestive, and perhaps ill-advised. His thumb glides too close to the core of you and, quite by accident, he discovers that you are bare of any smallclothes.
Your gasp is sudden and loud. The brush of his finger against your bare sex is enough to make you jump, your hand clamping down on his wrist desperately as pleasure dances like pure dragonflame over your nerves. Your cunt pulses, and a feeble moan breaks from you. "Baelor, please."
He halts, and something changes in his expression. Call it the end of resolve, or a breaking point. There is no hiding anything from him now, you know. He has seen everything, knows what you are laying with.
"No more begging," Baelor finally says, and it's a gentle order. This man who has led armies, who has killed and fought to defend his realm, speaks to you with infinite tenderness. "I have you now, darling. I am for you. You need not beg anymore."
I am for you. He is your knight, upholding his vows, taking up his sword to defend you.
You shiver to feel his grip on your thigh tighten just a bit, a final test of his resolve before he moves it. There is a shift beneath the white linen of your chemise, and then Baelor's knuckle drags slowly through your soaked folds.
Your breath stalls in your chest as your mouth drops open. His touch turns you golden. Your body seems to light up from the inside, fresh heat blooming low in your stomach. Heart pounding in your chest, you stutter, "Oh, fuck— fuck, Baelor, this— this is too much, you don't have to—"
He shushes you, and the look in his eyes threatens to undo you more than his finger tracing a line through your cunt. There is a fire in his eyes that was not there before. The fire of a dragon, of a Targaryen. His gaze feels almost like a physical caress as he says, "Hush, now. I do this willingly."
Fuck. His voice is deep, rich and soft as velvet as he stares at you with that unwavering intensity, touching you between your legs. Your Prince. Touching you between your legs. It completely arrests your ability to think. He is slow, methodical in his movements as he is with everything; he glides the length of his finger through your pussy without rush, letting you feel each bump and ridge as they pass over your clit.
With your heightened senses, you can hear how wet you are, and the salacious sound of his fingers gliding through the mess you've made is enough to drive you up the wall. He begins drawing circles around your clit with the tip of his finger, and you melt into the mattress. You feel as though your pleasure and your need have turned you inside out, bitten chunks from your sensibilities.
He's too beautiful. The thought plagues you more and more. Baelor is too handsome, too competent with his strong hands and too gentle with his lust-roughened words. Gods above, you feel like you could cum— you should have cum by now, with how badly your cunt spasms under his attention, how hypersensitive your clit is as he continues tracing languid circles around it.
Then Baelor dips down and sinks a single finger into you, where you leak and ache desperately for him. Your thighs widen to give him more room, and he takes it, pushes in to the knuckle and gives you a practiced crook of his finger.
A sound rips from you— something animalistic and completely unfamiliar, a moan from the very depths of your fevered being. You tighten a fist in the tangled bedsheets and turn your face to the side, trying to hide from him while he makes you unravel at the seams.
"Look at me, darling." At the hushed rasp of his voice, your cunt clamps down hard on his finger. He pauses, halting all movement until you turn your head to open your eyes to him.
What you find in his face is enough to move the endless soul in you. You have spent two weeks etching Baelor's face into your memory— his careful, poised demeanor, the way he steadies his expression to keep it neutral, tactful. You know his cautious smiles, and you know his deeper one, the one that you hold tight to your chest like a secret. You know his kindness, and you know his disappointment.
But you've never seen this. This unbridled lust, his every feature touched by the amount of desire he has for you. He gazes at you like he feels everything you do, and more. Baelor inclines his head, and he appears so composed, as he always does, but his chest is heaving— you can see it and you can hear it, in the rattle of his inhale, in the obvious rise and fall of his shoulders.
"I will have you look at me when I do this," Baelor tells you, his eyes so dark and hungry that the very glint in them is wicked. It unnerves you, runs quick and hot through your veins. "I will have you see all that I give, and know it is yours to keep. Only yours. Do you understand?"
You swallow hard. "Yes, my lord."
"Baelor." His voice is quiet when he corrects you.
"Baelor."
He flexes his finger within you and your face crumples, your thighs shaking where they lay spread on the mattress. His free hand comes to rest on your thigh and makes to pull your legs further apart, prevents you from moving it back to center. It is not a rough or demanding move, but it conveys his message. Stay. Don't move away.
Baelor whispers something in a language you don't understand— High Valyrian, most like, but it makes no difference that you cannot speak it. It sounds warm, seductive in his throat, and a tremble rolls through your body at the sound of it.
Soft moans fall from your lips as he adds a second finger beside the first, and your hips nearly leave the bed. You take him in so easily, a quiet breath of disbelief leaves him, and he shifts, giving you strokes that have you fighting to keep your eyes open and fixed on him. A gentle back and forth, a hot press against the wall of you. Your body doesn't know how to react— hot then cold, trembling and then still, rocking against him and then backing away as though it's too much and not enough all at once.
His silver signet ring grazes you, hard to offset his softness. You're so close, you can taste your release on the back of your tongue like the entire ocean is rising within you. You grab at the pillow beside your head, ripping at it between fingers that don't know what to do with themselves. Your eyes clench shut at the sudden onslaught, your head tilted back on the pillow.
"Look at me," Baelor reminds you, his voice gently commanding.
Quick as he says it, you snap your eyes open again and find his fixed on you, dark and fathomless. There is a sudden surge, a quickening in your breath. "Oh, gods, Baelor—"
It looms like some wretched, evil thing come to destroy you. You snatch at his forearm frantically, trying to warn him, but unable to form words.
"I know. I feel it," he soothes, a palm moving sweetly against your thigh. He squeezes you there, a reassuring touch even while his other hand takes you apart. "You don't have to hold on anymore. I've got you. I've got you."
Your hips lurch towards him, your vision whiting out. His fingers hit a spot both perfect and devastating inside of you, and your mind's focus is whittled down to a fine point, aimed at him.
"Cum for me, lovely girl," Baelor orders. So you do.
He remains constant. Even when the wave rises and breaks within you, even when you writhe and let out a ragged cry, the sound torn from a hidden, previously unknown part of you. Through the seemingly unending torrents, Baelor remains your anchor. He does not change. He does not move. He does not let you go.
You turn pliant in the aftershocks. He gentles his movements— he does not stop them altogether, but turns them lighter, slower. His thumb brushes over your clit, and you jolt hard enough to convince him to finally withdraw his hand.
Baelor watches you closely, his darkened eyes focused on yours, but that familiar tenderness is returning, creeping across his features. The span of his fingers curves around the meat of your thigh, measured breaths leaving parted lips. His other hand is drenched with your fluids, still held cautiously between your legs as though hesitant to pull back entirely.
"How do you feel?" He asks then, softly.
You blink at him, and then up at the canopy over the bed. You're still shaking, your brain fizzling and humming from the orgasm he'd given you. "I don't… I don't know, I— that's the first time anyone has ever— done that…"
Baelor stays quiet for a beat, a small, affectionate smile curling the corners of his mouth. Then, he clarifies, "Do you think that it worked?"
"Oh." Yes, that. You had somehow forgotten that there is an ulterior motive to all of this, that it is not just sex for the sake of sex. "We… We could check?"
The words leave your mouth meekly. You don't want him to let you go. You don't want him to go away. Yes, you want the poison to be gone from your system, but you are greedy. You want him to stay with you and take you until morning. You want him to keep looking at you like that, like he'd swallow you whole, bones and all.
Unfortunately, Baelor listens. He slowly lifts his hands away from you, leaving you entirely. For a few calm seconds, nothing happens. Your body is still awash with the remnants of your orgasm, your skin still tingling with the memory of his touch. You lay there for a moment, thinking, was that it?
But then you look at Baelor again. He stares down at his hand— the one drenched in your arousal. It shines in the mid-afternoon light, strings of it threading between the parting of his fingers as he… feels it. Rubs his fingers against each other to test the silkiness, pulls them apart just to watch it web across the gap in thin strands.
You watch, wide-eyed, as he returns his gaze to your face. And he lifts his fingers to his mouth to suck your wetness from them. His eyes, amber and violet, trained on your expression until they flutter shut, and he groans.
"Oh— gods on fire."
Your whole body tenses up with the fury of it. The pain. It assaults you worse than before, with a ferocity that scares you. There's so much of it that it is not enough to scream— you can't even breathe for it. You curl into yourself and roll, the muscles of your stomach and core pulling taut.
"No. No no no— Baelor." You whimper, blindly throwing your hand back to grab at him. You find a wrist— left or right, you don't know— and pull so that his hand smacks down onto your flank with a lewd sounding slap. "Didn't work. It didn't— fuck."
"All right. All right, my love. Come here." Baelor's hand slides around your waist to gather you into his lap. You slide across the bedsheets with your spine bent into a crescent, knees pulled to your chest. "I've got you. I'm right here, just relax." You jerk involuntarily in his hold, an elbow catching him in the ribs. He grunts, adjusting his arm around you, curling himself over you like a shield. "Relax. Relax."
You will the tension in your muscles to release one by one. You imagine yourself absorbing into him, your head resting on his strong thigh as you allow your body to feel him. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, the distracting warmth radiating from the space between his legs. The smell of him there, strong and sweetly arousing. The taste of something on the back of your tongue— sweat and something muskier, something more masculine.
Him. The taste of him, through silk, through smallclothes. Your head spins, and you fight not to turn your head further into his lap, not to nuzzle into the crotch of his breeches and just breathe him into your lungs.
"Stupid fucking sex potion," you mumble angrily once the pain recedes. "Secret ingredient. Bullshit."
"All right," Baelor says again to quiet you, laying his hand on the crown of your head soothingly. You imagine that he understands what you're feeling, though, because he doesn't argue.
"What do we do?" Your voice is thin, a barely-there thing in the quiet.
"We continue."
You turn your head. Baelor is gazing down at you, eyes glittering with affection. He exudes a calmness that you cannot feel, even though your overwrought body relaxes into him. "You want to… continue?"
"We need not stop at one." Baelor pets your head, shrugs a shoulder. "I wouldn't, even under normal conditions."
You stare at him, aghast. "Your Grace."
He gives you a wry smile. "We don't know what this 'secret ingredient' is. Perhaps it needs… more. We can continue until it takes." Another pause. "You'll have to forgive me for my choice of words. It's my first time experiencing the… joys of a sex potion, as well."
You snort incredulously, trailing your fingers along his clothed forearm. "And what if it… takes?"
You don't need to elaborate. What if you become pregnant with his child, like he suggested you might? What happens if you bear the heir apparent a bastard, and still end up married to his nephew? What if you cause a scandal?
"Then… we continue," he repeats. "Come what may." Baelor takes your hand in his, presses a kiss to the back of your palm. You are filled with so much adoration for him that it almost wounds you. It sets up a home in your body, right below your heart. "Whatever happens, it makes no difference. You may have anything that you want from me."
"Even your hand?"
"Especially that."
"In marriage?" Your chest tightens up in anticipation. You gaze up at him, willing him to accept you, clutching his hand like he might pull it away, recoil in disgust. If he were to turn you down now, you think that it might just kill you before the poison does.
Perhaps he feels how hard you tense up in your nervousness. He pulls back just the slightest bit and peers at you, taking in your expression, before his own turns into something open, genuine. His eyes crease at the corners as he traces a single finger down the part in your hair, and he replies, "Yes. I will marry you, darling girl. I should have, the moment I was able to. I should have begged you on my knees."
You smile at the mental image that provides. The Hand and Heir on his knees for you. "I would have liked that."
He gives you the fondest look. "I have no doubt."
You fiddle with his hand. His skin is soft, prominent veins running up the back and to the knuckles. You fit your hand to his like a question, examining the difference in size and shape. The ring on his middle finger, still damp from where it's been. In you. In his mouth.
"Why did you do that?" You don't mean to ask the question aloud, but it comes out anyway.
"Do what?"
You glance at Baelor and determine that he's only asking because he wants to hear you say it, and not because he's really confused as to what you mean. He looks coy, which is not something you've ever seen on him before— but you think that it suits him.
"Taste it." The words feel sharp in your mouth. "You didn't have to. I wouldn't have expected you to."
He breathes in deeply, and exhales on a long, low hum. Then, his eyes find yours again. "There are few pleasures in this world that compare to the taste of a woman. I wanted to."
Your heartbeat thrums in your ears. "And?"
"And you taste divine." A deft finger twists in the hair just at the very top of your head, twirling it around and around in hypnotic circles. "I would taste you again, if you would allow me."
It's your turn to hum. You hold his one hand in both of yours, tracing the details of them with your fingertips. Your thumbs map out the dip of his palm, the raised, sword-strengthened calluses beneath his fingers. The meat of his hand, where it connects to his wrist.
Without pausing to feel embarrassment or shame, you bring his hand to your mouth. You brush your lips over his fingers just barely, before you take them in and suck on them. You hear a shudder in Baelor's breath, but you don't stop. It is an intimate thing, to have his fingers stroke your tongue, to taste yourself on him, to know that his own tongue had been in the exact same place moments ago. You whimper and draw them in deep, your lips fitting around the silver ring against his knuckle, your eyes falling shut. He watches you, allowing you to take his swordsman's hand and fit his fingers between your teeth, trusting you not to bite down.
You sigh as you release them, dragging your tongue along the ridges and dips of his fingers on their way out. "I wanted to do that," you admit to him quietly. "For a while."
"You like my hands, it seems," he muses, a note of approval in his voice.
"Very much." You blink at him, suddenly feeling shy under the intensity of his gaze. "I'll let you have me however you want, my Prince. I only ask that first… you kiss me."
"Is that so? Only a kiss?" You nod, and Baelor smirks. He drags the tip of his pinkie finger gently down the slope of your nose. "You drive a hard bargain. If I kiss you now, I fear I may never stop."
"Don't stop."
Baelor lets out a short breath, and then scoops you up into a sitting position. You grunt in surprise, grabbing for his shoulders at the sudden movement, but you settle with his arm tight around your waist. Your heart skips a beat when he cradles your head in his palm, his fingers tangled in your hair.
"I don't think you understand just how wonderful you are," Baelor whispers, his mouth so close to your that the warmth of his lips practically touches yours. He hovers there, a breath away, and it's torturous to hold back. "You'll be the death of me."
With a shaking hand, you rest your palm against his cheek. You feel the scruff of his beard, the way that his jaw tenses the tiniest bit. "And if I don't kiss you, I'll die."
That seems to finally crack his composure. Baelor brushes your hair away from your face, strokes his thumb over your cheekbone, and closes the gap.
His kiss sends shocks of warmth through you, and you melt into him with a quiet sob of relief. Relief from the tension and swells of pain and fear. Relief at finally being able to hold him, to kiss him, open mouth to open mouth. You clutch at his shoulder, his neck, and swing your thigh over his to sit halfway on his lap.
He moves with you, his strong arms keeping you steady as you sink against him, groaning into you. Each point of contact feels bright, like if you opened your eyes to look you would find yourself glowing where he touches you. But his mouth moves against yours like silk, his tongue against yours, and he tastes like peace. It feels like the end of the storm, the answer to all your problems— even if it is only just the beginning.
Baelor's hand slides down to your lower back, holding you fast, splayed wide across your spine. His fingertips press into the flesh there, pulling you closer, until you're flush against him.
Your cunt grinds down onto the meat of his thigh, and you moan brokenly into his mouth. The sound of his name again, sweet on your tongue. He captures your lips with his, his other hand coming down to grip your hip. He rocks you against his thigh purposefully, swallowing the desperate sound that leaves you when your clit presses into the heat of him, through frustrating barriers of fabric.
You make a small, disgruntled noise, and your hand falls to the belt around his doublet. Nails scratching at the leather, you fumble with the buckle until it comes free. You feel beneath the cover of his doublet to find his soft linen shirt, warm from the heat of his body. Strong muscles tense beneath the lightness of your touch.
You huff a perturbed sigh against his mouth. "You are too clothed."
"You are too impatient," Baelor returns, but there is a huskiness to his voice that makes his words seem inconsequential. He shrugs out of his doublet to let your hands wander over his shoulders, down to squeeze the width of his arms. His beard tickles along your jaw as he presses kisses to your skin, trailing up to your ear. "Lie back, darling."
You recline on a pile of tangled sheets, chemise rucked up around your hips. Heat kisses your cheeks and pulses low in your core, your thighs instinctively wanting to close in on themselves, but they are stopped in their endeavor by Baelor's hips.
The mattress dips beside your shoulder where he leans his weight, hovering over you, a veil of security against the rest of the world. He drags his open mouth across your skin like this is not only for your benefit, but for his. You feel the flash of wet and warmth from his tongue, and your back arches up against him. He moves so slowly, savoring, his breath tumbling across your heated flesh like clouds of smoke.
It feels good. It feels so heavenly that you don't quite know how to accept it— you feel almost as though you should move away, but you would only be condemning yourself to more torment. You are bound to the bed by curiosity, an insatiable need to see what he does next. To feel his mouth touch more of you, places that you never thought to feel a pair of lips, teeth, or a tongue.
Baelor skims lightly over your breasts through the fabric of your chemise, while his hands find the curve of your waist. As he lowers, he ever-so-slowly tugs the fabric up, up, up, until you are bare from the waist-down and left open for his wandering mouth.
Your hands cling to him, one clawing against his back, the other gliding over the back of his head, cradling him to you. You gasp to feel the heat of his tongue on the skin just beneath your ribs. "Baelor…"
He hums in acknowledgement of his name, dragging his lips down over the curve of your stomach and lingering there. Baelor is thorough in a way that shouldn't shock you as much as it does— he lavishes you with his tongue and his lips, the quickest grazes of his teeth making you lurch against him with small sighs and moans. You are entirely alive with feeling, winding you up, until your whole body tenses and releases with it.
Then, he's moving. He passes over your pelvis and your aching, swollen cunt, and goes lower, settling between your knees. You make a little sound, a whimper of protest when you can't hold his head in your hands anymore.
He shushes you with his mouth against the inside of your knee, and then the wet swath of his tongue licks upwards in a way that takes you entirely by surprise. Bold, quick, his face so close and coming towards the most intimate part of you that you startle. "Gods—"
"Let me." It's a quiet plea, hushed against the skin of your inner thigh, one big hand cradling it to his cheek. There's the prickle of his beard, then the soft soothing of his tongue after. "My sweet girl. Let me taste you here."
"Yes," you sigh, even as he's already licking over the trail that your arousal has left, smeared across your overheated flesh.
The aphrodisiac effects may occur outwardly. The maester had said as much, and it becomes more and more apparent that, as Baelor lingers there, breathing in your scent and tasting you on his tongue, he is becoming intoxicated by the poison leeching from you. It's in the way his breath falls unevenly from his mouth, the way his gaze has gone a bit glassy with want, his pupils so wide that his beautiful, incongruous eyes are nearly black.
Baelor takes to you with a wide, flat stroke of his tongue that practically burns you alive. Your back leaves the mattress, your hands snatching at his head. Your cry breaks in your throat with its intensity and pitch, already taken to pieces by the single touch of his mouth to your cunt.
He groans into you— fully moans, as though this is entirely for his benefit and it is not something that he's doing in service to you. It is not a sound that you would have ever expected to hear from him, half-animalistic and far from the restrained, princely figure you've come to know him as. Large hands grasp at your hips and bring you further into his mouth, firm and consuming.
His name leaves you on a squeal. You're being too loud and you know it— through the open window, you can hear birds soar past, voices down in the courtyards. Any and everyone will hear you, and what the Prince of Dragonstone is doing to you, if you can't help it. You barely have the mental fortitude to let one shaking hand leave his head and clap over your mouth to stifle your cries.
He pulls back, releasing your clit from between his lips with a wet sound that makes your face burn. His eyes find yours, and you feel pinned beneath the weight of his gaze. "Do not silence yourself. Let me hear you."
You hesitate for only a second, but he doesn't move. Baelor's eyes remain fixed on your face as you reach forward, then stroke a hand over the crown of his head, a tentative and seeking touch. Then he returns to suck at your clit again, and you have to bite your tongue on a whimper.
He remains there for a long time. Long enough that you begin to think you may go delirious from the pleasure, and not from the poison throbbing and coursing through your veins, effecting him as he tastes you. He drags you to the precipice, to a place where reason and restraint don't exist anymore. There, you threaten to burn alive.
You cum into his mouth with a hoarse cry, your head tipped back on the pillows. It splinters through you like it may both destroy you and rebuild you anew at the same time— there's a rush, a flood between your legs that you don't expect, any more than you expect Baelor to stay there and take it, in all its viciousness.
You can't quite think. You feel him lingering there, his lips and tongue still on you, but it's as though you've been entirely unmade. He doesn't move, just remains solid and capable with his attention on your spent cunt, his tongue still lapping at the wetness that drips from you until you're certain— almost entirely certain— that this is not for the sake of the poison. This is not the potion at work. This is sex for the sake of sex.
"Baelor," you murmur, your voice a bit too high and airy in your throat. Your fingers dig at his scalp for something to make sense of. "D'you think— think it worked—?"
"Mm. You need another." Baelor answers you before you finish asking the question, his eyes narrowed as he rears back. His face is painted in your wetness, glistening around his mouth as he breathes heavily. "Let's not take any chances, shall we?"
"No, I wouldn't want to— to take chances— oh."
Baelor is climbing the line of your body, traversing over you like a panther on the hunt. His parted lips trail a wet line over your stomach, and he nudges your bunched up chemise back, further up your ribs. With trembling hands, you grab the useless fabric and pull it, tugging it frustratedly over your head so that you can throw it across the room.
"My beautiful girl," Baelor whispers into your skin, almost as though talking to himself more than you. His palm smoothes over the curve of your ribs and comes up to cup your breast, a reverent and tender touch, as though simply feeling the weight of it in his hand. "So stunning. Oh, I dreamt of this."
"You dreamt…?" You stutter out a gasp when his mouth closes hotly over your nipple, and your hands fly up to grasp the back of his head.
"I dreamt," Baelor repeats, moving his attention to your other breast with the same amount of care. "I wanted. I wished."
You pull him by the nape of his neck and he moves with your urging, lifting himself over you so that you can kiss him. The dampness of your arousal, still lingering in his facial hair, smears against your cheek as you lick into his mouth and taste yourself, oddly sweet on his tongue.
"Take your clothes off," you grumble against his lips, the slightest note of impatience lacing your tone as your fingers dig against his shoulders.
His linen shirt meets your chemise somewhere on the floor. Your hands find his chest, sliding down over hard muscle padded with soft flesh. He has a body befitting a man of his station— a soldier, hard and lean, bearing the scars of battle but unashamed of them. You trace a scar stretching across his ribs, trailing down towards his navel. Unhurried fingers dance over the trail of hair stretching downwards, guiding you towards the waist of his breeches.
"You're beautiful." It comes out more forceful than you mean for it to— but gods, do you mean it. You want to map out his body with your hands and your lips and your teeth, you want to learn every inch of him by rote, and still never stop once you know all. You try to convey it to him with your eyes, because you can't find any other words to express it. "You're so beautiful, Baelor, you must know."
He smiles, and it's that smile. The one that has haunted you since you saw it last, the one that you want to see over and over again. It causes a swelling feeling in your chest that… probably isn't healthy, but none of this is. It would be death to deny it now.
"You flatter me," Baelor says, his thumb stroking idly against your thigh, where his hand rests. His eyes are soft, flicking over you with so much adoration you struggle not to squirm beneath it.
"I tell the truth," you murmur, slipping two fingers just beneath the waist of his breeches to trace just below the fabric. His breath hitches, and you smirk. "I could always lie, but I imagine you'd see right through it, now."
"It would be very unladylike of you," he remarks, his smile turning sardonic.
"Hm. Can't have that." Even as you say it, your hands are untying his breeches, your fingers tugging until you're able to slip them down his hips. "We both know just how ladylike I am."
One boot comes off, then two, and his breeches shed to leave him in his smallclothes. There is no finesse to his movements— the seduction is over, leaving only sharp intent and the promise of what's to come. Desire wound tight like a spring, loaded to snap at a single touch.
That touch comes when you slip your fingers along the band of his smallclothes, a single, featherlight graze against the laces. Baelor's entire body goes rigid over you, as if you've held a blade to his throat. You guide them over his hips and down his thighs, until he snaps to and shirks them the rest of the way. He whispers your name, something between awe and guttural need forming the word in his throat.
"Baelor," you hum in response when your fingers find him and wrap around his cock. You freeze for just a moment— he's larger than you expected, and the prospect sends a little shiver through you. The Hammer, you think to yourself. Of course. He's hot to the touch, burning and throbbing against your palm, so hard it seems like it should be unbearable for him. But he bears it, for you. "Do you know how many women in the realm dream of this?"
He makes a small noise of warning, twitching in your grip.
Your grin turns wolfish as you pass your thumb over the head, flushed and leaking. "Do you know how many would kill for this? Would die to lie beneath you like this?"
"Heavens above." He shudders out a sigh as you stroke him, his forehead falling to rest against yours. "Don't— you mustn't say such things to me, my love, I— I have to be so careful with you. You have no idea."
So this is what it is, to have him lose his composure. No longer the Prince of Dragonstone, Hand to the King, heir to the Iron Throne— in your hands, he is simply a man. A man who wants, whose breath spills warm across your lips. Whose hips search for yours when you wrap your legs around his waist.
"Would you let me have you, my Prince?" you ask him, and your voice is light, inquisitive. It can't be anything else, because you are just as desperate as he is. You don't have it in you to be teasing, you are simply open with your need for him, allowing your innermost thoughts to surge to the forefront. Your forehead pressed to his, you look up through your lashes to find his eyes closed, squeezed shut in some vain attempt to hold on. "My love?"
His eyes snap open to meet yours, pressed so close that your noses touch. Baelor groans quietly when you guide him between your legs without waiting for an answer— it was a rhetorical question, after all.
But all the same, he replies, "Anything you desire."
Baelor drops his hips, enough to follow the guidance of your hand. He fills you in one fluid stoke, and together you take a long, deep breath.
"You are…"
"Perfect." He finishes your sentence for you, hushed and airy though it is. It feels as though you could be interrupted at any moment with the way he holds you, like a secret, like something that should never been spoken or heard about. Like you are only for him to know this way.
He presses his hips flush to yours, making you keen from the fullness, the exquisite stretch. The potion, for what it's worth, does make everything slicker, easier— you are so swollen and relaxed from his mouth, your body so attuned to his that there is no pain. Only the pleasure of his touch remains.
He moves, and it lights you up from within like wildfire. Your back arches towards him, your chest pressing up against his, and a sound unlike anything you've ever made tears from your throat. Arms blindly snatching for him, you wrap yourself around him as though he may try to move away.
He nuzzles his nose against yours, almost too tender of a gesture for the position you find yourself in. "That's it, darling. Take all of me."
Your mind clouds with pleasure as he rocks his hips into yours. You feel like you're drowning in the skin on skin, stripped to the skin and pressed flush to him. Your hand smoothes down his back, feeling rigid muscle and raised scars there, too.
He withdraws and presses forward, setting a slow, deliberate pace that drives you practically mad. He's so gentle and tender even when everything about him, about this situation, tells you that he wants to let go of his restraint. Widening your thighs on instinct, your hand cradles the back of his head, bringing his lips closer to yours.
"Don't hold back," you tell him, and you feel his breath pause where it fans against your cheek. Even though to try to be commanding, your voice cracks. "Baelor— stop holding back—"
Baelor presses a single, chaste kiss to your lips, and you are too caught up in the moment to realize that it's a warning, a subtle apology before he's shifting. He lifts your hips, planting his knees on the mattress before he pulls you into his lap, your back bent over the expanse of his strong thighs.
You slide down the mattress with an undignified squeak, hands scratching along the sheets for stability where there is none. And then you settle into your new position, gazing up at him with a stunned expression.
He's unbelievably gorgeous. His chest leaps with his breath, tanned and freckled skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat. He pants through parted lips, his eyes sharp and focused as they always are, cheeks flushed. He's a vision, and he's all yours.
Baelor splays his hand flat against your chest, running his palm over the skin where, beneath, your heart pounds a drumbeat loud as thunder in your ears. Then he drags his touch down, between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach. His hand settles warm and solid over your navel, thumb stroking you tenderly enough to make you let out a soft sigh.
But then he's sliding his cock into you again, a wicked thrust that punches all the air from your lungs, and his hand presses down. Your brows draw together, your mouth falling open on a silent moan as he hits something so devastating inside of you that it makes your eyes involuntarily roll back in your head.
"Feel that?" Baelor murmurs, his voice roughened with desperation as he does it again, and again. Pull back, push forward, press down. "Feel how deep I am inside you?"
It comes out so… possessive. Spurred on by the fact that he's the only one to do this to you, the only person to see you like this. Like he's staking a claim to you with each roll of his hips. His fingers rub back and forth over the soft flesh of your stomach, and you do feel it— the tip of his cock as he drives it into you, reaching so deep within you that it makes a faint bulge in your lower stomach.
You sob out an incoherent response, lights dancing behind your eyelids. Your hands, searching for something to hold onto as his thrusts gain momentum, find the pillow above your head. You squeeze it, pull blindly as though it will bring you some respite, and the downy soft padding of it covers your face, smothering the obscene moans that spill from your mouth.
Baelor's hand all but slams down on top of the pillow with a dull thump. You feel the impact through the feather stuffing, a slight bump against the tip of your nose before he's snatching it away from you and flinging the accursed thing across the room. It hits one of the open window shutters and falls to the floor.
"Do not. Hide." It's a snarl released from his throat, his hand coming to cup your chin and pull you to center. "Show me your eyes."
You blink your eyes open at him and bite your lip, trying to keep your whimpering at bay. You watch his core muscles flex with the movement of his hips, his chest dappled with golden sunlight, his jaw tightening with the effort to remain consistent, even when you told him to let go.
"There she is," Baelor whispers, a flicker of awe crossing his features. "My beautiful girl."
His thumb strokes across your lower lip, and without even thinking, you close your lips around it. The pad of his thumb, tasting of salt and the sweet musk of your own cunt, strokes against your tongue. A quiet groan breaks from him, his thrusts turning erratic and unmeasured when you suck hard.
Baelor drops his chin toward his chest, his face drawn in silent agony. "Fuck."
Your cunt clamps down hard around him at the sound of the swear falling from his lips. You don't know why the single word is enough to drive you crazy— probably because you've never heard Baelor curse before, and it's such a juxtaposition to the rest of him. The unshakeable prince brought to shambles by your lips around his thumb, your legs around his core.
Your orgasm mounts suddenly, and your teeth bear down hard on his thumb. It's enough to throw him off-kilter. He hisses through his teeth and pulls you with his free hand, seating himself deep inside you, his hips pressed flush to yours. He slides his hand from your waist downward, through the soft curls of hair on your mound. He finds your clit, brushing a circle around it with the tip of one, impossibly gentle fingertip.
You cum so quickly that the force of it turns blinding and sharp. Your cunt pulses on his cock with an urgency that wracks your entire body. But it is not enough for him that you lay there milking him— no, he has to escalate it.
Just as soon as it hits, Baelor's hand is gripping your thigh, pushing your leg up until your knee hooks over his shoulder, and he bends you. Your thigh presses tight to your chest as he moves over you, his cock hitting immeasurably deeper now. You claw desperately at his back, fingernails scratching, raking hard lines that will be too easy for his servants to notice, come morning.
He doesn't let up, even for a second. Still driving his hips, fucking you through the pulsing of your cunt, his body holding you down against the bed. His thumb slides from your mouth with a wet pop, spit smearing across your cheek as he cradles your face. Baelor replaces his thumb with his tongue, kissing you deeply, reverently, like he can feed all his devotion into you with it.
"Good girl," he whispers into your mouth, dragging his hips back slowly and then filling you back up even slower. You squirm, drowning between your legs from the oversensitivity and the entirely new angle he hits at. The sound that he makes is unbelievably erotic, something between a sigh and a rasping moan that cracks in his throat. "So good for me, my darling."
You cry his name, latching onto him with a trembling hand. "Fuck— Baelor. You need to cum. You should—"
"Don't." He shakes his head, fixing you with a heated look. He swallows, exhaling a stuttering breath. "Not— not yet, I don't—"
But you're nodding against him in retaliation, tightening your core muscles around his cock, squeezing him so hard that he makes a noise like you've punched him.
"Fuck," Baelor grits, hanging his head. "Oh, fucking Seven, you just— just can't stand to lose— can you—?"
Perspiration beads on his brow, and you have the sudden urge to lick it. So, you do. You pull him down by the neck, and he goes, following the urging of your hand like it's a command he's beholden to. You run your tongue across his temple, up and over his drawn brow, and he shudders.
In spite of everything— the overstimulation, the frightening possibility that you might cum again— you manage to break a small, breathless smile. Your mouth finds the shell of his ear, and your voice drops unexpectedly low. "Yield."
He plants his hips against yours, pressing your thigh so far against your chest that your knee almost touches your ear. He cums with an exquisite moan against your cheek, your tongue still pressed to his face to taste more of him, as though you can consume the very beauty from his skin.
You take his hand— the one against your thigh, holding it up around his waist— and guide it down between your flush bodies. Even while you feel him pulse inside you, he follows your guidance without question. He rubs a light caress against your clit, just enough to send sparks shooting up your spine.
You cum again for him, and it's gentler this time— like sunlight breaking through a storm. You give him a soft, relieved moan, while you pulse on his cock and your tense muscles release beneath him.
You both lay there in the feeling, letting the pulsations die down as you settle. And then, he stirs just a bit.
"Better?" Baelor murmurs, nudging his nose against yours.
"Much."
You feel him smile as he kisses you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. You let him linger there, smiling into your mouth, for a few more seconds— and then you kick your heel against his shoulder, where your leg is still slung up and pinned against you.
He laughs at the disgruntled noise you make, lowering your leg and smoothing his palm up the length of it as he pulls it to rest against his hip. "My strong girl. You're quite the force when you want something, hm?"
"Don't you forget it," you grumble, but there's no real heat to it.
"I'm not likely to anytime soon."
You sigh when he withdraws from you, but only so that he can roll you both, gathering you into his arms. You lay with your head on his sweat-slick chest, his arm encircling your shoulders to hold you close. Relaxing into him, your body spent, you place a hand over his chest to feel his heart thundering beneath your palm.
Both naked, tangled up in each other, you remain like that for a while. Your fingers drawing idle shapes against his chest, gliding through the hair there as it rises and falls with his breaths as they even out.
He's yours. The thought flits through your mind, light as a feather. He's going to marry you. You'll be his wife. Many things about it make your chest tighten. That you'll be the Crown Princess in the process. That eventually, you will be expected to be Queen.
As quickly as your fears bubble up, one thing quells the flood. He's Baelor. He'll take care of you. He always seems to. You trust him to. You… you love him for it.
"You're staring."
You blink, and tilt your head to look up at him. You had been staring, directly at the mess you made between his legs, while your mind whirled in a dozen different directions. You should probably feel embarrassed at being caught, but there's mirth in Baelor's eyes. His hand pets affectionately against the back of your head.
"We're betrothed," you say, in lieu of an explanation.
"So we are."
"The King should probably know."
Baelor makes a short noise. It rumbles in his chest, against your cheek. "The King can wait until the 'morrow. I'm not terribly enticed by the idea of leaving you tonight." He turns his head slightly towards the open window. "After all, I'd imagine most of the Keep knows about it, by now."
You giggle, turning your face towards his chest. You nuzzle into the hair over his heart and breathe in, smelling the comforting scent of his skin. Remarkably, it is less strong than it has been all evening, no longer heightened to the point of overwhelm. You can't hear every damned thing in the Keep anymore— nor can you taste the saltwater on the air from the bay.
"Baelor."
"Mm?"
"I think it worked." You press a kiss to his sternum. "We did it."
"Good." A pause. Baelor heaves a deep sigh. "Do not. Ever. Drink another fucking sex potion. For the love of the suffering Seven."
You tut, a teasing smile quirking at your lips. "So I shouldn't use the second one I have in my drawers, then?"
Baelor's head snaps towards you. When you see the look of terror on his face, you dissolve into a fit of laughter, pulling yourself closer against his side.
He huffs a quiet chuckle, but you can't mistake the sound of relief underlying it. He lays a warm palm against your bare shoulder. "Troublemaker."
"Yes, I am." You bite your lip, trailing your hand down his stomach, your fingers grazing lightly enough that you watch his abdominal muscles tense beneath the touch. "But I want you like this all the time."
"Naked?"
"Unmoored."
You turn your head to find him regarding you with the same calmness you've come to expect from him, but with a fire burning within his gaze. He smirks slightly. "That shouldn't be too difficult for you to accomplish, I fear."
With a hum, you slip your leg over his hips and lift yourself to straddle him. His hands find your waist, steadying you. You raise yourself up, one hand braced on his chest, the other falling to one of his hands. Beneath you, you feel his cock begin to harden again as you place his hand on your breast.
"Then let me begin, my Prince."
The wedding is scheduled for three weeks later, at Baelor's behest. Long enough for the lords of the seven houses to arrive in due course, but not long enough for there to be question if you indeed are with his child.
You spoke about it at length, actually. He was very insistent, seeing as how he was trying to actively put one in you at the time.
On the day of your wedding, you sit in your vanity chair and fiddle with the cuffs of your dress. It is white and gold, of a fabric quality you've never been able to luxuriate in before. It feels stifling. You fear walking in it, breathing in it, doing anything that may damage it at all. You sit with your spine stiff and straight, allowing Mircalla to fix pins into your hair. Several other serving girls flit about the room, attending to various other chores.
When you feel you've just about had enough of the prodding of pins, a knock sounds at the chamber door. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you shift in your seat, hoping that it may be your husband-to-be, come to steal you away for a moment before the ceremony. It would not be unlike him— Baelor is a busy man, but attentive as often when he can be. Even if it is a mere kiss in an alcove, or a five minute interlude in the courtyard, there is always a time and a place that he can find to be with you, to show you his affections.
But the chamber door opens, and your guard steps a foot into the room. "Prince Daeron to see you, my lady."
Daeron? Your brow draws in confusion, but you rise from your chair, regardless. "Enter."
Daeron stumbles into the room with all the grace of a newborn deer. The maids all pause in tandem, and a hush falls over the room as he blinks up at each of them awkwardly, his blue eyes a bit less bleary than normal, his honey-gold hair tied back with a black ribbon for the festivities. "Apologies for my… intrusion?"
"No harm done, my lord." You clasp your hands anxiously behind your back, all the same. "What may I do for you?"
"I had wanted a word with you, my lady. Alone. For only a moment, if you wouldn't mind?"
You think that you would mind, very much. But the longer you regard Daeron, trying to cling to your vitriol, the less you can find any. You are about to be married to the Crown Prince, a gorgeous and honorable man who you are falling desperately in love with, to no one's surprise.
You cannot bring yourself to refuse Daeron— and so, you dismiss your ladies with a courteous nod.
As soon as the door shuts, Daeron is crossing the room and slumping into an armchair by the window. You do not move, but follow him with your eyes as he slouches, heaving an enormous sigh.
"Are you drunk?" you ask him pointedly.
"Always." He flashes you a sardonic smile. You give him an incredulous look. "Necessity compels. But I am here, and not at a tavern, at least."
"Better wine, I'd imagine."
"Mm, yes. Arbor red. An excellent choice, indeed." He pauses, his eyes flicking over you apprehensively. "I came to… apologize, my lady. I fear I have behaved rather badly towards you, and I felt I owed you an explanation."
You only blink at him. "Yes, you do."
"Right." He licks his lips, seeming to collect his thoughts. "Before you came to King's Landing… I dreamed of you."
"How romantic."
"No, not— not so much." Daeron takes a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You see, my dreams… they have a tendency to come true. It isn't always a good thing." He pauses for a long moment, his eyes focused on the middle-distance, appearing to see something that you can't. "When I dreamt of you, it was… I saw you dying, my lady. I saw you on your death bed. And you cursed me for it."
You say nothing, but watch him as his shaking hands smooth against his pants.
"I didn't know what it meant. But I figured, when I saw you, that if I was going to be the reason for your death— in screaming agony— then it would needs be best for both of us if I held no relation to you. If I could refuse you and not speak a word, it would be… you wouldn't have died. And I wouldn't have been the cause."
"But, I have not died, my lord."
"No." Daeron lets out a short laugh, void of humor. "But, you had an affliction some weeks back, did you not? I heard it was rather a close call." He fixes his eyes on you, and he looks so deeply apologetic. Like a kicked dog, he peers up at you through his lashes. "If I was in any way responsible for— for any pain caused, I am truly sorry, my lady. My intentions were noble, I assure you. My execution, however…"
"Leaves something to be desired, yes." You close your eyes, breathe in slowly. Daeron reeks of alcohol, but you don't allow it to deter you from stepping closer to his chair. "In your dream, what was it that I said? How did I curse you?"
Daeron swallows, his eyes flicking around the room briefly. "You said… 'I don't want Daeron. He doesn't want me. I didn't take the fucking thing for him.'" Your face must betray your thoughts, because Daeron regards you closely before nodding solemnly, folding his hands in his lap. "Right. So, it was that."
Your heart pounds so hard that you swear it's trying to leap up into your throat. "Daeron. Whatever you think you saw—"
"It's not for me to pry." His eyes continuously move from your face to various areas of the room, like he doesn't want to look at you head-on. "What I know is that you are well now, and marrying my uncle. And I am happy for you, my lady. I truly am. It has been many years since I saw him smile the way he does, when you aren't looking." Daeron finally chances to look you directly in the eye, and he looks gravely serious. "Do not take this the wrong way, but I think that we would have been terrible for each other. Wouldn't you agree?"
For the first time since Daeron stepped into your chambers, a smile crosses your face. "You know, I think you're absolutely right. We would have killed each other."
Daeron lets out a sad chuckle. "Quite so."
He looks around, at a loss for a few seconds, before he heaves himself up and stands over you. He's quite a bit taller than you first thought— maybe it's because he isn't slouching as much, now.
"Forgive me, my lady. I've taken enough of your time. I wish you a long and happy marriage." He winks. "Only, one not to me."
That finally earns him a giggle from you, and Daeron smiles, before lifting your hand and pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles. You watch him cross the room, narrowly avoiding bumping into your vanity chair as he moves.
At the door, Daeron pauses and turns back to you with a reserved smirk. "Just so you know. My cock does work. If the need should ever arise again."
He ducks out of the room before the pillow you throw can hit him.
jumpcut mid porn scene to mircalla and florin sharing a blunt outside the laundry rooms like "so do u think they're fuckin or"
summary: on the eve of your arranged marriage to baelor targaryen, your childhood best friend, daeron, indulges you in one final night of defiance before he loses you for good - and baelor does not take kindly to learning that his nephew has taken his future bride to a brothel. (6k)
contents: friends to lovers, arranged marriage, angst, implied age gap, so much yearning, depressed!daeron (fork found in kitchen), also baelor would absolutely talk you through it cw for vague mentions of ocd and smut 18+ (MDNI): public sex kinda, fingering, dry humping
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You were to be wed on the morrow, and Daeron sank into his cups.
He had long lived in the folly that he would marry you someday — his first ever friend, and the only girl he ever dreamed of. But then the crown fell into great debts to your father, who managed all the gold mines from Oldtown to Summerhall; and the only way the king saw to foot the bill was to wed the man’s daughter to his own heir.
By all accounts, you were taking your betrothal far easier than your best friend. You had no other choice but to keep your wits about you, to plaster an artificial smile on your face and mindlessly agree to everything everyone ever told you to do, or to think. Even now, you let Baelor Targaryen — the husband you did not ask for — give you a tour of the newly decorated throne room where you would have your reception — which you had no say in.
The orante sea of Targaryen red and Highgarden gold blur together, along with Baelor’s words, as you avert your gaze to your hands, where you scratch fresh marks to your already raging nail beds.
“What do you think about it, princess?”
You only vaguely hear Baelor’s words through the metaphorical cotton in your ears. You blink hard and whip your head to face him, smiling before you’ve even registered his question. “I think it’s beautiful, Your Grace— Your mother did a wonderful job decorating.”
“While I appreciate the compliment, my lady, I was referring to our… arrangement,” Baelor corrects with a polite smile, half-hidden behind his greying beard. He slows to a stop in front of you, and you catch a whiff of the musky oils he’d bathed in — a stark contrast to your much lighter, floral aromatics.
“Oh. Right. I think— I think that it’s…” You stumble over yourself to find the words; not the ones you want to say, perhaps, but the ones you’ve been groomed to. Baelor ducks his head to flash you a patient look, and your cheeks flare with embarrassment. “I think that it is wise, Your Grace. If our marriage can ease the crown’s debts, I’m glad to be of service.”
“Is that you speaking, my lady?” he presses with a soft squint in his blue-brown irises. “Or your father?”
Your breath stutters. “I— I’m not sure what you mean, Your Grace.”
“What is it you want, princess?”
Your mouth parts to answer him. But, before you can stutter out a response you only halfway mean, the sound of chair legs scraping the cobbles rings through the expansive room. Your heads whip in tandem in the direction of the raucous noise, where you find Daeron trying and failing to catch himself on a table by the door.
He’s well drunk despite the early afternoon, wearing the ale in his wild golden hair, glassy blue eyes, and flushed red cheeks. He struggles to readjust the ornately decorated bench he’d run into with sloppy hands. It takes him several seconds too long to notice the looks he’s getting in response.
“My apologies…” he slurs, pink lips curling into a sloppy grin that doesn’t match the solemn look in his light eyes. “I seemed to have— Lost my way…”
“Aye. That much is quite clear,” Baelor sighs, much too used to his nephew’s antics by now.
The boy had always favored his ale, but never quite this much. He’s been haunting the halls of the Red Keep for some weeks now — the Kingsguard once found him in a ditch off of Flea Bottom the day it was announced Baelor would be wed to you, all bruised and bloody from the fighting pits. He hasn’t been fully sober ever since.
“Apologies, princess,” Baelor murmurs to you. “Do forgive my nephew.”
“No forgiveness needed, Your Grace—”
There’s another grating scrape, followed by a dull thud of a heavy body hitting the ground as Daeron trips over his graceless feet. He groans when he hits the unforgiving ground, writhing with only his long legs visible from your view of him.
Your features crumple with a mixture of annoyance and sympathy as you look on at the drunken boy. “I should take him to his chambers before he hurts himself—”
“The knights can escort him, my lady,” Baelor tells you.
“He’s much too fragile for that,” you quip with a tender smile. “And as I said— I don’t mind helping, Your Grace.”
Daeron doesn’t make it easy for you.
He never has, in truth, but least of all now.
He smells of musk and sweet ale as he falls heavily to your side, forcing you to carry the brunt of his weight as you help him back into bed. He falls heavily onto the feathered mattress, limp and unmoving. You exhale an exasperated breath and reach for his legs to situate him properly on the unmade sheets.
“Why must you make everything so difficult?” you huff.
Daeron’s head lolls against the pillows, golden hair sitting wildly around him.
“Why must you wound me so?” he argues in indistinct slurs. His glassy, red-rimmed eyes blink slowly up at your towering figure. He musters a trembling grin at the confused look you give him in return. “We both know it is not my uncle you want, petal…”
His eyes flutter shut as he lifts a sloppy hand to his face, trying and failing to find the rogue strand of hair clinging to his lashes.
“What I want doesn’t matter, Daeron,” you sigh and help him brush the golden tress back behind his ear.
Your breath catches in your throat when the boy’s warm hand wraps suddenly around your wrist, fingers warm and gentle as they linger on your wild pulse. He peers up at you with a pair of wet, ocean-colored eyes and murmurs quietly, “I don’t matter?”
“You know that isn’t what I meant,” you whisper and jerk your hand from his grip. “The decision is already made. The hall is already decorated. I’m getting married whether I like it or not—”
“You could always change your mind,” Daeron lilts, as if it were so simple. “And it would all be done with…”
“Not all of us are allowed to be so selfish, my prince,” you mutter bitterly and turn on your heel, heading the short distance for the pitcher of water and bowl of dates left on the table by the balcony. “Some of us actually have to think about other people from time to time.”
Daeron scoffs sloppily, folding his lanky hands across his lean stomach. “I think about other people,” he argues like a child.
“Do you?” you hum with a palpable lack of enthusiasm, beneath the sloshing of water you pour for him in a chalice.
“Aye, my lady… You,” he answers, smiling lazily when you glare at him over your shoulder. “I dream only of you— My Flower of Highgarden.”
“The Flower of Highgarden,” you correct him of the silly nickname that’s haunted you since birth, and walk the water and dates back over the drunken boy. You leave both at his bedside, with an air of distance about you that makes his chest ache. “I am getting married on the morrow, Daeron. It’s happening. So please, get a hold of yourself— if not for your sake, then for mine.
The evening air outside the Red Keep swells with the scent of sage and fresh flowers. A silken breeze rushes through the skirt of your dress as you lean over the balcony, bathing in the sweet scent down below, where the smallfolk leave bouquets and handmade trinkets by the castle’s entrance.
“I don’t understand,” you murmur to the man beside you, with your gaze still lingering on the shuffling crowd. “We don’t do this in Highgarden.”
“It’s custom for people to leave their blessings the night before a royal wedding,” Baelor explains. “Though, to be true, I have never quite seen it like this… They have taken quite a liking to you, it would seem.”
The kind smile he gives you makes your cheeks flare red-hot. You despise his attention as much as you crave it, desperately so. You fake a smile and swallow hard, picking again at the scarred skin of your nail beds from where your hands rest on the balcony. “Well, I am— pleased that the realm is, Your Grace—”
Your breath catches in your throat when Baelor’s wide hand splays suddenly over both of yours, effectively ceasing your assault on your delicate fingers. You peer timidly at him from beneath your lashes and cower at the warmth in his mismatched eyes.
“You are the most comely girl at court,” he tells you, gutwrenchingly gentle, as his fingers smooth over the red marks on your skin. “Why must you destroy yourself this way?”
“Apologies, Your Grace,” you murmur shyly, clearing your throat as you slide your hands from his grip, clasping them behind your back. “It’s a habit I haven’t quite been able to break, it would seem…”
Baelor softens and takes a step closer, pervading the scent of the late evening with his mixture of leather and musk. “I understand that… that I am not the husband you wished for,” the man starts slowly, calculating each word from his mouth. “But I will do right by you, princess. I can assure you of that.”
“I know you will, Your Grace. You’re a good man,” you say with an honest smile. “Even if it was not what I desired, I am no less pleased that it turned out to be you, Your Grace—”
“Baelor,” he corrects with a soft grin, taking a step closer and swiping an eyelash for your cheek. Your skin flares when his hand lingers there. You wonder if he notices.
“Baelor…” you repeat, far more timidly in comparison.
His mouth parts to speak, but he stops himself short. A flicker of confusion dances over his scruffy face before he wonders aloud. “Pardon my forwardness, my lady, but… Have you ever been kissed?”
Thoughts of Daeron flash instantly across your mind at his question. He’s always there in some way or another, stashed somewhere within each of your fondest memories — how he held you when you were younger; how he kissed you, how he touched you.
But that was all make-believe, you figure, a game of house you knew was always bound to end.
So you shake your head against the man’s softly calloused palm and answer, half-truthfully, “Never in a way that mattered, Your Grace…”
The answer seems to please him as his kind smile slowly returns.
“May I?” he offers vaguely.
You know you can’t say no. You’re not sure if you want to. So you nod and whisper back, “Of course…”
You tilt your chin to meet him halfway when he ducks down to kiss you. His beard tickles your delicate skin, a rather foreign sensation compared to Daeron’s shaven face. His lips are thinner than his nephew’s, too, tasting of sweet mint leaves and bitter whiskey. It’s different — good different — and you finally forget to be nervous as you reach suddenly for his bearded jaw.
Baelor freezes against you when you lick into his mouth, with far more expertise than someone who had never been kissed before. It surprises him as much as it excites him; the notion that there is still so much he doesn’t know about you. You catch him smiling softly to himself about it when your kissed lips part with a quiet click.
Your glassy eyes widen into a not-so-subtle look of shock at yourself. You bring your trembling hands back down to your sides again. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I— I forget myself—”
“No. Don’t apologize,” the man murmurs in an achingly gentle voice that does not match the fire in his blue-brown irises. “If you apologize every time I kiss you from now on, you’ll be spending a lifetime doing so, won’t you?”
His words, the solemn promise in them, make your stomach do a backflip.
“Aye,” you nod on bated breath. “I guess so…”
You’re still reeling from the adrenaline rush of kissing a somewhat stranger — both your soon-to-be husband and future king — when you return finally to your chambers. Your heart lurches to a fluttering stop at the shadowy figure you find lying in your bed, bathed in a golden sea of flickering candlelight. You exhale a relieved sigh when you find it’s only Daeron making himself at home in your bed, but you are still no less aggrieved to see him this way.
“What are you doing here?” you snap and quickly close the door behind you.
“Waiting for you, of course,” the now mostly-sobered boy responds through a groan, stretching out his tired limbs as if he’d just been sleeping. His thin chemise rises up his torso when he folds his arms behind his wild head, revealing his pale skin and the tuft of golden hair trailing down into his trousers.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” you argue. “What would people think if they saw the two of us in here like this?”
“Who cares?” he scoffs with all the carelessness of a young prince, smiling wider when you scowl at him. “We know the truth of it— What anyone else has to say on the matter doesn’t concern the two of us.”
“That’s because no one ever taught you that it’s not about the truth of it,” you spit and storm his way, yanking your silken sheets from beneath his dirty boots. “It’s about perception. And you know your father would be cross if he found you in here—”
“My father is always cross,” Daeron scoffs.
“Only because you make him so.”
“Tell me, petal…” the boy begins, swinging his long legs off the mattress and peering up at you with a pair of glittering blue eyes. “Have you ever done the wrong thing?”
Your eyes narrow. “I’m looking at him,” you deadpan.
“Ouch,” he grimaces, grabbing at his heart over his baggy tunic. “But I presume I deserve that…”
“Aye. You do.”
He reaches for your hand when you try to turn away, wrapping his warm fingers around your smaller ones to keep you in place. “Come with me. To Flea Bottom.”
“Flea Bottom?” you repeat with an incredulous twist to your features, scoffing out a faint laugh. “Why would I go to—”
“To do the wrong thing,” Daeron finishes for you, tender with a lingering hope. “With me.”
You shake your head and try to pull your hand out of his, but he only holds you tighter. “I can’t, Daeron…”
“Live for yourself for a change,” he tells you, begs you. “Just once. And I will never speak to you of my heartache again, I swear it.”
By all accounts, you probably should’ve known by the subtle glimmer in his soft blue eyes that he only met trouble. Maybe that’s why you went with him in the first place, you think, for a bit of trouble — god knows, that’s all he’s good for. But, even still, you let him dress you in his trousers and baggy shirt, removing any remnants of your status, before stealing you away to the labyrinth that is Flea Bottom.
He keeps your hand clutched in his larger one as he leads you through the unpaved streets of twisted alleyways, reeking of stables, mud, and baked bread. You laugh like a pair of children as you chase gracelessly behind him, forgetting for a fleeting moment that you are to be wed on the morrow — that you will soon be expected to become a wife and a mother before the season is through.
Eventually, the loud chatter and swirling smoke from flickering fires gives way to something quieter, dimmer; smelling of sweat, sex, and soft perfume. Daeron tucks you into his warm side as you duck into a narrow hall, where moans and cries of pleasure bounce off the cobblestone walls. Your footsteps stutter in shock.
“You didn’t tell me you were taking me to a pleasure house—”
“Aye. I didn’t,” Daeron hums with a lazy grin. “Because you wouldn’t have agreed to come otherwise…”
The brothel is dark, lit only by rogue torches growing slowly dim on the walls. The naked bodies surrounding you on either side are bathed in shadow. The hand not clutching the back of Daeron’s cloak rises instinctively to cover your eyes, shielding them from the lurid sight of sex that sits everywhere you look.
“No. Don’t,” Daeron says and reaches for you with his free hand, curling his lanky fingers around your wrist to gently urge your hand from your face. “I want you to watch— To see what it looks like when you take what you want…”
Your eyes are slow to part from his lighter ones. You glance tentatively all around you — at the woman riding the face of a man on a nearby couch, of another man sandwiched between two masculine bodies by the wall, of two women caressing their naked bodies with gentle touches. It’s completely and utterly scandalous. And you can’t bring yourself to look away.
“No princes, no thrones…” Daeron whispers with his mouth pressed to your ear, and his chest against your back. “No debts, no weddings… Just—”
“Fucking?” you tell him.
“Pleasure,” he corrects. “So, ask yourself, petal, and be truthful… What do you want?”
It’s a simple question. One you couldn’t answer if you wanted to.
You want to be queen, like your father always groomed you to be — you want to marry Baelor, to be rich and powerful and idolized. But another, not-so-distant part of you yearns to be without responsibility and consequence — you want to be with Daeron in some far-off place by the sea, you want to fuck and drink and travel the world and never stick around long enough to learn anybody’s names.
You want all of it. And even though you know you cannot possibly have it, you try hard to take it anyway.
You reach out for Daeron and cradle his shaven jaw like you’re holding the sun in both hands. You drag him to you and press a searing kiss to his mouth, wasting little time in tasting him as your tongue licks suddenly between his parted lips, entwining with his own like velvet twisting with velvet.
Daeron grumbles a moan against you. He slides his warm hands beneath your borrowed shirt, up your stomach, and over your ribcage. He leaves faint trail marks along the skin of your back when he scratches his dull nails down your spine. You shiver against him, and he smiles into your kiss — inhaling your gasped breath when he pushes you suddenly into a cobbled wall, breaking the impact with a hand behind your head.
His mouth pulls away from yours with a low smack, lips swollen and rosy and shining with your spit. His eyes are heavy-lidded as he traces the bridge of your nose with the tip of his.
“What do you say, My Flower of Highgarden?” he slurs, panting hard against your mouth. “Are you going to take it?”
“Depends,” you challenge on bated breath. “Are you going to give it to me?”
The blonde boy nods, with a pink smile blooming lazily on his mouth. “Aye… I am.”
He ducks down before you can blink, kissing you hard enough to bruise. He swallows each of your quiet moans as his fingers creep toward your borrowed trousers, loosening the knot there with eager hands. Your fingers wrench the thin fabric of his tunic into fists to keep him impossibly close while his sneak beneath the hem — past your stomach, over a tuft of coarse hair, and down towards where you need him most.
You coat his middle finger in a thin layer of honey when it slots between your velvety folds, whimpering when he nudges softly at your sensitive clit.
“I can feel you throbbing,” he slurs against you. “’S like a heartbeat…”
“Please…” you sigh, though you’re not sure exactly what you’re begging for — please don’t tease me, please make me feel good, please fuck me.
“I’ve got you…” Daeron murmurs, panting against your mouth and swallowing your moans when his long finger slips finally inside you. His lip quirks into a crooked smile at the pretty noise you make for him.
You only vaguely feel him rutting against your thigh, pressing his stiffening cock against you to ease his own ache while he continues to pleasure yours.
“I’ve got you… Let me have it…”
Your moans fill the shadowed hall, and entwine with all the others.
You scrub the remnants of the sinful night from your body and prepare to become a dutiful bride by early morning. You’re still buzzing from the adrenaline rush as you writhe restlessly beneath your silk sheets. You can almost still feel Daeron’s fingers inside of you, if you think about it hard enough, as well as the outline of his hard cock pressed against your outer thigh, from where he’d gotten off humping your leg like a hound.
You revel in the night as much as you mourn it — pleased to have experienced it at all while simultaneously grieving that you’ll never be that girl again; and still a little surprised that you got away with it at all.
Almost.
A quiet knock from a delicate hand echoes through your expansive, pitch-black bedroom. Your heart lurches into your throat — a fleeting horror that turns into ice-cold panic in your veins a second later. You rise slowly, propping your weight on your elbows, and gazing wearily at the shadow looming beneath your door.
You swallow hard and pray your voice doesn’t shake as you call out, “Come in.”
The heavy door creaks open. A sliver of golden light from the torches in the hallway fills the room as one of your handmaidens shuffles in, gaze averted and hands clasped together. She curtsies and clears her throat, “Pardon me, my lady— but the Lord Hand has requested your presence in his study.”
You hope it’s still too dark for her to see the look of fear that flashes across your features. “The hour is quite late…” is the only thing you think to say, with an audible waver in your voice.
“Aye, my lady,” the young girl nods with an apprehensive gaze. “But he said he was urgent.”
“…Alright, then,” you nod once and hold your breath until the maid scurries off back the way she came. She closes the door behind her with a dull click, and the room returns to a velvet black darkness, with only your trembling breath to fill it.
You’re still in your thin white slip when you make the long trek to Baelor’s study, weaving through the candlelit maze of the Red Keep with two knights flanking you on either side. They work for your father, sworn to protect you and you alone, yet you can’t help but feel a bit like they’re leading you to a slaughter now.
They open the double doors of the expansive study for you and remain just outside of it while you saunter slowly in — slippers scuffing the cobbles like your feet are made of bricks, sweaty hands picking at your worry-worn nailbeds. You wear the guilt all over, like a bad dog with blood on its muzzle.
The fear in your stomach blossoms something fierce in your chest when Baelor’s eyes meet yours from across the way, sitting at his desk with Maekar and Daeron standing just before him. The older men are still in their day garb, made of Targaryen red and black, while the blonde boy remains in the baggy tatters he’d taken you to Flea Bottom in.
Daeron wears the sin all over still, hardly bothering to wash it off his skin, lest some of you go with it.
You cower on instinct when their gazes snap suddenly in your direction. You know you’ve long been caught, even when Baelor gives you a kind smile as you approach him.
“Thank you for coming, my lady,” he says in a gentle voice and sets his quill into the inkpot at his side. “I know the hour is late. I hope I did not disturb you.”
“Of course not, Your Grace,” you assure him and clear your throat when the words get stuck there.
“I thought it prudent to make you aware of some rather… troubling accusations,” the man continues with a knowing glint in his brown-blue eyes, flickers of candlelight dancing in his gaze. “You and my nephew were spied, some hours ago, beyond the walls of the Red Keep, engaging in behaviors that were… unbecoming of a woman of the court…”
“So we snuck out and drank a bit of wine,” Daeron laughs at your side, not yet showered and still reeking of sex and ale. He glances at you with glassy eyes and a lopsided grin before turning back to Baelor. “It’s hardly enough to warrant such arbitration, wouldn’t you say, uncle?”
“You were seen defiling the princess the day before her fucking wedding,” Maekar spits from the boy’s other side, jaw clenched tight behind his silver beard. “You’re lucky I’m not shipping you off to the Free Cities to make a man out of you.”
“Right,” Daeron scoffs. “Punish me for going to a brothel by sending me to the sex capital of the Seven Kingdoms— Ow!”
Maekar’s ringed hand slams hard into the back of the boy’s wild head. He grimaces, rubbing at the crown of his golden tresses with a pale hand.
“Do you not deny it?” Baelor asks you, with a suspicious squint in his gaze, as if he were distantly hoping you would.
“No, Your Grace,” you mutter with an averted gaze, etching new marks onto your delicate fingertips. “I did sneak out—”
“She lies,” Daeron blurts before the words have properly left your mouth. “She did not leave of her own volition, uncle. I forced her out… Wouldn’t take no for an answer…” Daeron’s drunk slurs trail off as he turns to flash you a lazy grin and a pair of squinted eyes. “Better a liar than a whore, right, petal?”
“Watch your tongue,” Maekar scolds from his other side.
“But there was no defiling, father, of that I’m sure,” Daeron continues anyway, head swiveling as he turns to face the other man. His smile widens beneath the strands of blonde hair hanging over his eyes. “I only used my fingers—”
“You idiot,” the father hisses, scooping his son up by the collar of his shirt and dragging him back towards the entrance.
Daeron’s stumbled footsteps echo in the otherwise silent study as he staggers behind him on graceless feet. He’s all but thrown out the door when Maekar swings it open again, only to slam it shut behind him with a booming thud a second later.
The sound rings through the suffocating quiet that you and Baelor are soon left alone in — the kind of quiet that snatches all the air out of a room; the kind of quiet that makes it suddenly very hard to breathe.
“Does he speak the truth of it?” the man wonders after a few long moments, with one arm propped along the arm of his chair and the other folded along the table’s edge.
You inhale a wavering breath.
“He does, Your Grace,” you murmur, lacking the courage to meet his eyes. “I had not planned it— Nor did Daeron, I think— It was simply the circumstances of the moment in which we found ourselves in that—”
“Did you like it?” Baelor interjects your rambling, which he knows is only full of the words you’ve been conditioned to say, and not the ones you truly mean.
You falter at the simple question. “I-I’m not entirely sure what you mean, Your Grace—”
“I’m entirely sure that you’re entirely sure what I mean,” the man hums with a kind smile, chair creaking under his weight when he slouches further into it. “Did you like being undone in a pleasure house like a common whore?”
His words, foreignly brash, and his eyes, foreignly hardened, make your stomach do a backflip.
“I… I don’t know—”
“You never do, do you?” Baelor mutters with a sympathetic squint to his mismatched eyes. “You’re always so concerned about what everyone else wants— What everyone else thinks of you— That you never learned how to form your own opinions…”
You shift uncomfortably before him, feeling utterly dissected under his prying stare and grimacing when you dig a fresh mark onto the skin of your pointerfinger.
“So I’ll ask you again, princess,” the man continues, leaning forward in his seat and never once taking his eyes off you. He peers at you over the flickering candles and repeats, more slowly this time. “Did you… like it?”
You swallow hard and nod once.
“Yes,” you hear yourself say on bated breath. “I think I did…”
“What about it did you like?”
You struggle to catch your breath, more so to find an adequate answer.
“I think that I— I just spent so much time worrying about my duties as the… the wretched Flower of Highgarden,” you laugh bitterly at the stupid nickname. “That I forgot what it meant to feel good. That I was allowed to feel good, and suddenly I was surrounded by people just taking what they wanted, and I felt so…”
“Free?” Baelor finishes for you, brows raised to his hairline.
“Powerful,” you correct, squinting like the word is half-foreign on your tongue.
Something flickers in his brown-blue eyes, something more than just the candlelight, as if he were finally seeing you for the first time.
His chair legs scrape the cobbles as he rises slowly to full height, rounding the table in measured strides, ambling towards you like a predator stalking its prey.
“Is Daeron who you want?” he asks with lowered brows. “Is that where your loyalties lie?”
“My loyalty is to the crown, Your Grace—”
You clear your throat and tilt your chin to meet the man’s gaze when he towers over you, smelling of leather and the old books he spends most of his days studying. Your breath stutters when he suddenly reaches for your face.
“Don’t answer from here,” he murmurs lowly, tapping gently at your skull. His pale pointer finger trails down — past your cheek, over your jaw, and down your thrumming pulse — until it rests along your sternum, just over your racing heart. “Answer from here.”
You inhale a wavering breath, glassy eyes darting back and forth between his unblinking ones.
“In a… In a perfect world…” you start in a trembling voice, struggling to keep the man’s gaze as you turn instead to your reddened nail beds. “Daeron and I would take off for Sunspear or Casterly Rock— Somewhere by the sea, where the sun is always shining— And the world would just be the two of us, fucking and drinking and loving all we want…”
Baelor’s brows perk at your sudden brashness. “Then why don’t you?”
“Because this is not a perfect world,” you answer plainly, half-morose. “And I’m not so selfish as to pretend that I don’t have my own duties here…”
Baelor’s lip quirks in a gentle smile beneath his greying beard as he exhales a laugh through his nose.
“A trait rather befitting for a future queen, perhaps…” he hums and points his mismatched gaze to the silk bow sitting at the chest of your slip, tracing it with the tip of his pointerfinger.
“Despite my… regrettable actions…” you trail off, just barely able to meet the man’s gaze as you peer up at him from beneath your lashes. “My racing mind did inevitably run into thoughts of you, Your Grace…”
“Really?” he hums. “Pray tell.”
“Daeron asked me what I wanted, and I thought first of you,” you confess. “And I realized I had grown quite attached to the thought of becoming your wife. Of ruling beside you— some many years on, of course, but— The sheer thought of it made me… It made me feel like I could conquer worlds.”
“Aye,” Baelor nods, with a fire in his brown-blue gaze that matches your own. “We will.”
He’s kissing you before you can blink, pressing his mouth to yours and cradling the back of your neck in a calloused hand, urging your jaw upward with his thumb. He steals the breath from your lungs under the weight of his searing kiss, as fierce and merciless as taking a bite out of an apple. It’s all tongue and teeth and spit — a passion you weren’t sure a man as wooden as Baelor was able to give, or otherwise cared to.
A string of saliva connects your mouths when he pulls away from you. Baelor smiles softly to himself when you try hopelessly to chase his kiss, swiping the thread of spit away with the pad of his thumb when it clings to your chin.
“Did you cum?” he asks you, then follows quickly at the look you give him. “When my nephew fucked you with his fingers at a whorehouse— Did you cum?”
His prying gaze darts rapidly between your glassy one as you struggle to answer — unsure of whether to be honest or to tell a feeble lie in hopes of placating his ego. You decide, finally, to tell the truth.
“Yes,” you answer and nod once into his hand.
“And I trust it will be the last time?”
“As you command, Your Grace—”
“Baelor,” he corrects.
“As you command, Baelor.”
There’s a twinkle of subtle mischief in your gaze that makes his lips curl into a quiet smile. He leans down again, and you think he’s going to kiss you, but he only traces the bridge of your nose with the tip of his.
“You are not as soft as the tales would tell it, are you? Flower of Highgarden,” he hums in a melodic voice, breath fanning over your mouth. “Gentle, yes. But not soft.”
“What’s the difference?” you whisper, and he feels the breath of it over his bearded chin.
“A soft person wouldn’t dare touch a knife, would they? But you… You’d kiss my forehead before pressing a blade to my neck— That’s gentle,” he explains, walking you backward with meandering footsteps that rhyme with your own.
Your breath catches in your chest when the backs of your thighs collide suddenly with the edge of the table. It scrapes once on the cobbles, and then again when Baelor urges you suddenly around with a firm hand on your elbow. He spins you away from him and presses you further into the wooden edge with his chest flush against your back.
“And I am— The idiot who would thank you for slitting my throat…” he mutters in your ear, scruff scratching at your neck as his calloused hands crawl up your thighs, pushing up the hem of it as they go. “As long as it meant you touched my skin…”
His wide palms trail over your hip bones, up your stomach, and past your ribcage. They settle finally under your breasts, just lingering there, and you wonder if he can feel the way your breathing stutters beneath them — if he can feel the way you fight the urge to grind your ass against his cock.
“Is this wise, my lord?” you whisper, nose brushing his bearded jaw when you peer hesitantly over your shoulder. “Our wedding is at dawn— They’ll be expecting a bedding ceremony—”
“Aye. They will. And you can pretend to be the sweet, virgin wife for the people on the morrow all you want,” Baelor hums, reaching for his belt with one hand to undo the buckle there. “But there’s no use in pretending when we’re alone, is there?””
Excitement stirs in your flaring chest and down into the pit of your swirling stomach, throbbing somewhere in the depths of your loins the same way you had for Daeron. You keep his stare when he pulls his half-hard cock from the confines of his trousers, mouth watering for a taste of him.
“No… I suppose not,” you say on bated breath and let Baelor fuck you stupid in the middle of the candlelight study — moaning his name within the cobbled walls, mere hours before you recite your sacred vows before the gods.
Daeron Targaryen + Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!reader
✿ you and dunk are tasked with escorting prince daeron from king’s landing to summerhall. the journey is long, and you are all quick to become more than just travelling companions.
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 13.4k (omfg)
✿ cw: fem!reader, no y/n, reader can be read as plus-sized (mentions of larger thighs, tummy, etc) but is otherwise physically undefined, reader is dunk’s best friend/travelling companion, some plot (a lil slow burn), yearning, SMUT, threesome, slight voyeurism?, oral (f&m!receiving), brief face-fucking, m!masturbation, fingering, unprotected piv, spanking, multiple orgasms, cum-play/eating, praise, pet names (sweet girl, pretty girl), breeding, praise, dirty talk, overstimulation, lowkey soft dom!dunk, but also soft dom!daeron too so idk, strong language, dunk is very protective, daeron is a cocky little shit, reader is exactly where she wants to be >:)
a/n: straight up long as hell lmaooo but you can all thank lovely @ladythedrunken for this <3
DAY ONE
You sit idly atop Chestnut, stroking your fingers through his dark mane as Ser Duncan fusses over the front cinch of your saddle. You watch him curiously, his big hands tugging at the leather strap and ensuring it sits snugly against the bay horse.
“Must you do this every time?” You ask him, cocking your head as you watch his dirt-stained hands work.
He looks up at you with those watery blue eyes you have become increasingly fond of during your time with him. He stares at you as if only just noticing your presence.
“Yes,” Dunk replies simply. “If the saddle doesn’t sit right—”
“I’ve been tacking my horse since I was ten and two,” you remind him with a subtle smile, unhooking your foot from a stirrup and nudging Dunk’s side with the toe of your boot. “Even more, I’d say I saddle better than you do.”
Dunk’s hands drop from the cinch strap, but not before he takes hold of your ankle. His hand covers the joint completely where it’s obscured by the worn hide of your boot. He holds you firmly, gently guiding your leg away from his side and back towards your stirrup. You feel the heat of his hand against you, breaking through the barrier of your boot, and you find yourself biting your lip as he sits your foot back against the steel of the stirrup.
“Ser Arlan taught me to saddle,” Dunk says, planting a couple of firm pats against your calf. His hand waits there, cupping the flesh. “Do you think you are better than him?”
You smile down at him. “Yes.”
He lets out a dry laugh, before suddenly noticing he still has his hand on your calf. Cheeks tinted pink, he withdraws his hand and steps away, but not before giving Chestnut a gentle stroke down the neck.
You watch the hedge knight turn then, and your gaze rises to the horizon. King’s Landing sits framed by the sea, the early morning sun bright behind the stone spires of the Red Keep that jut towards the sky. You notice a group of men approaching then: riding black palfreys down the trodden dirt road, cloaks pulled low over their heads. Dunk stands beside Thunder, fingers stroking the warhorse’s nose as he assesses the approaching troupe.
“I must admit,” you begin, the dull echoing of hooves on earth reaching the still air around you. “I’m surprised he didn’t flee.”
Dunk offers you a huff. “There’s still time.”
The group of riders reach you and Dunk in less than a minute, and they pull to a stop several yards away. You watch a few of them pull down their cloaks, revealing somewhat familiar faces of the kingsguard. You recognise Roland, who leaps from his horse with a pained grunt. He turns to a hunched, hooded figure after he’s dismounted.
“Off,” he instructs firmly, tugging the hem of the figure’s cloak.
The figure groans, slumping over further in his saddle. “No.”
Roland frowns, shooting you and Dunk an apologetic look. Dunk waves his hand, and Roland takes a step back, gesturing to the hooded figure.
“His grace has been rather reluctant, as you can probably imagine,” Roland says to Dunk, before his eyes find you. You smile at him, and he returns it. If Dunk clocks it, he doesn’t let on, but you know him better than that, for the way he clears his throat is anything but casual. Roland continues, his eyes on you still, “His palfrey is loaded with supplies. Food, water, coin. Enough for the weeks ahead.”
“Thank you, Ser Roland,” you say politely, bowing your head.
Ser Roland turns and thumps the reluctant royal on the leg. “Prince Daeron, behave yourself, for Ser Duncan and his lovely companion will not be as forgiving as I if you attempt another escape.”
Daeron finally sits up, and his hood falls away from his head. You watch him carefully. His blond hair is a scraggly mess atop his head, framing his paled face like strings of gold. His eyes, a misty violet-blue in the early morning sun, are framed by dark circles, and the lines of his nose and lips are pink, as if he had just been plucked from his sleep. Despite his post-drunken, dishevelled state, you can’t help but notice the prince’s obvious beauty.
“I do not doubt that,” Daeron drawls, eyes sinking to find Ser Duncan standing beside his horse. He looks the giant man up and down, and a small smile stretches across your lips as you watch the prince’s eyes linger on the strong expanse of Dunk’s muscled shoulders. Daeron sighs through his nose. “How is it that you have gotten bigger since I last saw you?”
Dunk shrugs, the movement drawing his cloak tight around his shoulders. Daeron watches it closely as Dunk speaks, his tone even. “M’not sure, your grace. But m’lady feeds me well.”
Daeron looks up then, as if only just noticing you were there. His eyes find yours and you offer him a small smile. Something tight knots in the base of your stomach as you watch a thin smile creep across his face, his eyes soft but searching. Searching for something—you’re not sure what—in the pools of your irises as he sits up a little straighter in his saddle, gloved hands ringing around the reins.
“I see,” he says, still looking at you. “Lady…?”
You give the prince your name.
He repeats it like he can taste it.
Dunk turns to Ser Roland then, and the knights shake hands. “We shall disembark, ser.”
“Take care, Ser Duncan,” Roland tells him, before clambering back onto his horse. He offers Dunk one last sympathetic look. “Please keep the prince out of trouble. Prince Maekar awaits his arrival at Summerhall.”
With that, Ser Roland and the surrounding kingsguard take off back towards King’s Landing, leaving you and Dunk in the presence of Prince Maekar’s eldest son. Dunk walks forward and takes hold of Daeron’s horse’s halter, his other hand petting the black stallion soothingly. Daeron watches this happen from atop his horse.
“He looks fit,” Dunk utters, directing his words to you. “We will aim to journey until the sun begins to set.”
You nod.
Daeron frowns. “Surely you do not expect me to sit astride for that long? My father does expect heirs of me, believe it or not.”
You can’t help but chuckle, and Daeron’s eyes sparkle as they find you. Dunk huffs, giving the royal horse one last pat before retreating back to Thunder. He addresses the prince as he boosts himself into his saddle.
“We will take rest when I say we will take rest,” Dunk informs, offering the prince one last pointed look before he turns to you. His eyes immediately soften, and you nudge Chestnut forward until the two of you stand abreast. “Shall we take leave?”
You nod, wriggling a little in your saddle to get comfortable. “Yes.”
“I will take lead,” Dunk says, urging Thunder forward. You pull Chestnut in beside Daeron, and he glances at you with a surprisingly sober smirk on his handsome face. Dunk looks at the two of you over his shoulder. “M’lady, you will ride beside his grace. Please use your dagger if he attempts an escape.”
You laugh as Daeron gapes.
“I distinctly remember the orders from my father were to deliver me to Summerhall unharmed,” Daeron says, eyes flicking from the solid mass of Dunk’s back to your pretty face. “And as for the image of a beautiful woman driving her blade into my thigh… well, that’s not as much of a deterrent as you think it is.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dunk bristle as he nudges Thunder into a brisk walk. You do the same, with Daeron mimicking your movements. As you settle into the beginning of your journey, you raise a brow in the prince’s direction.
“You speak quite openly for a prince,” you tell him.
He reaches up and pushes a strand of blond hair away from his face. He looks at you with eyes that seem to pierce straight through. “So I’ve been told.”
You can’t hide your smile.
He cocks his head. “Do you find it improper?”
“Quite the opposite,” you reply, gloved fingers stroking the thin leather of Chestnut’s reins. “I find it rather endearing.”
Daeron lets out an abrupt laugh, head falling back until his hair disappears into the cloak’s hood that gathers at his shoulder blades. “I don’t think my manner of speaking has ever been described as endearing, but thank you.”
You shrug, then reach across the small gap that separates you. Daeron watches you carefully as you gently take hold of his cloak’s hood and pull it over his head. You watch his smile vanish behind the dark material as you pull it tightly over his head and face. You laugh when you realise he’s essentially riding blind.
Dunk looks over his shoulder at the sound. “Is everything alright?”
“Fine,” you say, withdrawing.
Daeron adjusts his hood so it sits perfectly: obscuring most of his head and shadowing his face just enough, but the glint of his violet-blue eyes is hard to miss.
That night, after several upon several hours of riding—and several more breaks for Daeron who, rather unsurprisingly, has the bladder of a common child—Dunk decides it is time to retire for the night. The sun has just slipped beneath the distant hills, and the sky is alight with hues of pink and orange that fill the forest clearing with a kaleidoscope of bright colours. You take the liberty of tying all three horses up beneath the branches of a towering ash before dashing a line of oats across the ground for them to snack on. A few yards away, Dunk has sat Daeron down on a bedroll—physically sat him down, pushing the prince onto his arse with two strong hands on his shoulders—and now hefts a pile of branches in his arms. He drops them on a flat piece of ground.
“I’ll tend to the fire,” Dunk says, looking up as you approach.
You place a gentle hand on his back, a silent thank you, before you walk around him. You breeze past Daeron, who sits cross-legged on the thinning bedroll like a sulking child. He looks up at you with watery eyes, his pale features bathed in the ichor of the sunset.
He calls your name. “Will you sit with me?”
You ignore him as you open one of the sacks tacked to your saddle. You pull out a loaf of bread, wrapped in clean linen, then a pouch of salt beef. Daeron frowns as you approach with the food, kneeling beside him whilst Dunk finishes up the fire. You hear it begin to crackle as you settle the loaf of bread across your lap and tear it apart.
“What is this?” Daeron asks, a deep dent in his brows as you hand him a generous chunk of bread and a handful of hard salt beef. He takes the food as if it were poisonous, peering at it and waiting for his fingers to start withering.
You hear Dunk sigh through his nose as he dusts his palms across his thighs. “Supper.”
“Supper is supposed to be edible,” Daeron mutters. The point of his tongue peeks out from between his lips, and he brings a strip of beef to it. He licks it, then pulls his tongue back into his mouth, smacking his lips. His frown deepens. “This is horrid.”
“You will eat what is given to you,” Dunk says.
With the fire roaring now, he lumbers over and sits beside you and across from Daeron. He watches with rapt attention as you split open a chunk of bread and stuff a bundle of salt beef between the pieces. You hand it to him, and Dunk hefts it gratefully in his hands.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Daeron scoffs, still looking at his bread and beef. “I thought you said your lady feeds you well? I’ve fed better to the dogs that roam Rhaenys’ hill.”
Dunk scowls. “Don’t you—”
But you laugh. “Well, my prince, please feel free to forfeit your meal. I’m sure I can go and find a hungry dog to feed it to.”
Daeron goes quiet. You hum to yourself, enjoying the heat of the fire on your back as you stuff your own segment of bread with beef. You take a bite, and by the time you chew and swallow, Daeron has mimicked you and raised the stuffed bread to his mouth. He eats without another complaint.
DAY FOUR
“Might we stay at an inn tonight?” Daeron broaches, calling to Dunk who rides a few metres ahead. “My back pains me.”
“No,” Dunk replies simply.
Daeron groans, tipping his head back until his hood falls. “Please.”
“No.”
Daeron turns to you, pouting. “M’lady—”
“No,” you say.
“Please.”
“Ask again and I shall confiscate your bedroll,” Dunk grumbles ahead. “Your back will pain you more if you have to sleep amongst the dirt and rocks.”
Daeron rolls his eyes, and looks at you. His eyes are soft in his sobriety, and they appear clearer as they drag across your body. The smile that crosses his face is nothing short of satisfying as an obviously pleasing thought crosses his mind.
“I’m sure the lady would share hers with her prince,” he utters, and it’s your turn to roll your eyes.
You notice that Dunk doesn’t react with words, but you recognise the way the muscles of his back shift as he stills in his saddle, shoulders hunching as his grip goes white-knuckled on the reins.
You reply to Daeron to ease your poor knight. “I will gladly give mine up. I will share Dunk’s—it would be a tight fit, but I think we’d manage.”
Dunk’s ears go bright pink.
Daeron runs the point of his tongue across his bottom lip, saying nothing more.
DAY EIGHT
The three of you pass through a small village to replenish your inventory. Dunk heads into the market, and you sit with Daeron on a hill overlooking the open field dotted with stalls. He yawns and tips to the side, resting his cloaked head against your shoulder. Birdsong fills the air overhead, the sky a brilliant blue and the grass beneath you soft and lush with drying dew.
Daeron’s body is warm beside yours, and you feel your body sway with each of his inhales and exhales as Dunk’s large figure vanishes from view. You should tell the prince that what he is doing is considerably improper, that he shouldn’t be resting his head against the shoulder of a common woman. But, as you sit atop the grassy hill, you realise that he is as much a common man with the cloak over his head as you are a common woman. So you stay silent.
“You smell heavenly,” Daeron suddenly says, and the abrupt break in silence nearly makes you jump in fright. “Like… honeycakes.”
You scoff, rather unladylike, but it settles and you don’t feel guilty about it. “I haven’t bathed in eight days.”
“You bathed in the river two days ago.”
“Without soap,” you reply, then nod towards the market. “Dunk is getting me more.”
Daeron hums. “Does he know which kind you like best?”
The question feels odd. It feels as though it had been pushed out into the open after a long period of sitting in the shadows.
“Dunk knows everything about me,” you whisper, fidgeting with the rope belt that hangs from your waist. The fibres are soft and well-spun beneath your fingers compared to the coarse thickness of Dunk’s belt. When Daeron doesn’t respond, you continue. “I have known him for many years, your grace.”
“So you must know he cares for you?”
There’s a tight knot in your belly. It’s so heavy you feel you might sink into the soft grass beneath you; you might fall back into the dirt and it will consume you like flesh from a carcass.
“Of course,” you say quietly. “He is my closest friend.”
“Ah.” Daeron clears his throat, still leaning against your shoulder. “He cares for you more than that, m’lady. I know it.”
“You know nothing.”
Daeron peels himself away from you, his eyes finding yours and mirroring the bright blue of the sky above. He peers at you like he’s known you all his life. There’s a comfort that crosses between you, and he leans back on his hands, eyes never leaving yours.
“I know plenty,” he says. “I have spent years frequenting the Street of Silk. I know what lust looks like in the eyes of men, m’lady, just as much as I know what love looks like.”
You feel yourself growing hot beneath the low collar of your dress. You look away. “You cannot speak of such things with me. It is improper.”
Daeron laughs. “I recall it was you who found my openness endearing.”
You suck your teeth, withholding a scornful reply.
The prince continues, undeterred. He says your name, soft as silk. “The hedge knight is in love with you.”
You don’t look at him. Or maybe you can’t.
“I know what love looks like,” Daeron echoes his earlier words. “And that man… looks at you how my father looked at my mother.”
You finally turn to him then. His eyes are cast downhill and there’s an almost imperceptible furrow in his brow. Ivory teeth sink into the flesh of his lower lip as he loses himself in thought, and you go against all of your common sense and place a comforting hand against his knee. That breaks whatever stupor he was in, for he looks over at you as if you’d just saved him from drowning.
“Dunk is in love with you,” Daeron says like the words hurt coming out.
You nod.
It’s not as though you didn’t notice the way the hedge knight reacted to you: the way he reacted to your touch, to your attention, to your words. You knew how red he got when you insisted you bathe together, and you knew how hard it was for him to keep his eyes rooted to the riverbed as the water flowed around you. You knew how much he liked it when you complimented him, when you praised him, and you knew he keened like a proud dog when you applauded his strength or his bravery. You knew how obsessed he was in making sure you were safe, how consistent he was in checking your saddle before each ride, or sweeping the inn before your sporadic stays.
“I know.” You finally find your voice. “I suppose it sounds strange coming from another person. Especially…”
Daeron grins. “A prince?”
You chuckle. “Yeah.”
Daeron hums, and you realise your hand is still on his knee. You remove it, and you could have sworn he almost looked offended.
“So… what does lust look like?” You decide to ask, the question almost too loud in the natural silence that fell between the two of you.
Daeron looks you up and down, smile slowly slinking away. He meets your eyes. “You’d know.”
DAY NINE
You wash yourself the next morning with the honey wax soap Dunk had brought you—the soap you always sought out each time you found yourselves perusing stalls of village markets. You are by yourself in the slow-moving stream, willows framing the banks with their low-hanging branches, their sage-coloured leaves brushing the clear water. You can hear the low voices of Dunk and Daeron a little upstream, who are lounging half-naked against the shingled bank.
The water is cool around your waist as you lather the soap across your arms, beneath them, then over your breasts. Yellowish bubbles cover your skin as you scrub yourself with a pumice next, then dip yourself beneath the surface to rinse. When you rise and wipe the water from your eyes, you find Dunk approaching along the bank with his head lowered.
“Hi, Dunk,” you greet him, wading towards the bank, the waterline sinking lower, lower, and lower still.
Dunk clears his throat. He holds your fresh clothes in his hands, folded neatly. He holds them out to you, his eyes on the rocks at his feet as his cheeks slowly turn pink. You smile when you leave the stream, bare to the forest around you.
You stand right in front of him, just as you always did. “Thank you, Dunk.”
“S’alright,” he mutters. His ears were pink too. No matter how long you had known each other, he still found himself heating up each time you approached him like this. He holds your clothes out. “I’ve washed your other dress and the lot. They’re drying.”
“Thank you,” you say again, taking your chemise from the top of the pile. You shake the excess water off yourself, feeling almost foolishly like a dog, before unfurling the garment.
“Dunk, I lost your soap in the stream,” came Daeron’s voice, and you yelp as one of Dunk’s hands shot out to grab your upper arm.
He settles you directly in front of him, shielding you from the approaching prince with the mass of his body. Still holding your dress in one hand, he holds you firm with the other as he tosses his head over his shoulder, watching as a stark-naked Daeron stumbles over the rocky shore. You giggle, catching a brief glimpse of the prince’s pale body before Dunk is shifting you closer to his chest, hiding you.
“Well, dive down and get it,” Dunk says a bit too roughly.
“Your grace,” you greet, unable to see him, but you stick a bare arm to the side and offer him a wave from behind the wall of Dunk.
Dunk pulls you closer until you’re pushed right against him. You suck in a breath, your bare tits squishing against the strong pudge of his abdomen.
“I will get the soap, just wait downstream,” Dunk growls out, and you feel the reverberations through his body as it passes through your bones.
You can’t see the prince, but he’s smiling. The smile on his face is so brazen that Dunk feels the need to haul a large rock in his direction. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds you to him until the prince turns on his heel and retreats back around the willow, his bare arse on show.
Only when Daeron has disappeared does Dunk realise how he’s handling you. His ears go even redder—if that was even possible—and he immediately guides you away from him. He drops his arms, but doesn’t move, his eyes on the stream.
“M’sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean—”
“Do not apologise.” You slip your chemise over your head and let it settle against the curves of your frame. “You saved my decency.”
You take your dress from him next, and he waits patiently, listening as you pull yourself into it. After a moment listening to you huff as you tug the material to sit on your body the way you want, he feels a hand on his chest.
“Dunk,” you say gently, turning to show him your back. He finally looks at you. “Can you tie my back please?”
Dunk has done this a million times. He might just be better than any lady in waiting. Besides, you feel more like a princess with him anyway.
You wait, the soles of your feet resting against rocks as you feel his hands descend on you, taking the ribbons of your dress. He slowly begins to thread them, following the pattern. With each curl, his fingers brush against you, and you purse your lips, Daeron’s words echoing around your skull like the bells of a sept.
Love. That single word sticks to the grooves of your brain as Dunk’s fingers warm against the covered skin of your back.
After a moment, he finishes and ties the ribbons off, taking a deliberate step back.
“There,” he announces as you spin back around. He can look at you now. “Perfect.”
DAY ELEVEN
“Surely we can reward ourselves with a night in an inn?” Daeron queries, both hope and fatigue noticeable in his words.
The day had been particularly strenuous. You had reached the Stormlands, and Dunk was insistent on pressing on for as long as possible.
The morning had started freezing and wet: rain lashing the earth, sky heavy with clouds that would alight periodically with white flashes of lightning. Dunk had opted to remove Thunder’s saddle then, storing it on Chestnut and pulling you to sit before him—much more comfortable bareback than to attempt to squeeze the both of you between the saddlehorn and the firm lip at the back. His thick body shielded you from much of the rain that flailed in from behind, and he bundled you against his chest, warming you as much as he could.
By midday, the clouds had cleared but the wind had found you. Strong gales blew through the valley, and Dunk kept you in the fortress of his arms. Daeron groaned as he rode beside you both, complaining as the wind billowed his cloak and pushed his hair into his eyes. He was wet and cold and princes shouldn’t get wet and cold, he had argued.
The wind thankfully died by the afternoon, but the rain sought you all out again. The droplets were thin but icy, and poor Thunder looked miserable with his mane flattened across his face and his hooves caked in mud. The kingsroad had long churned to mud and the journey seemed to drag on and on forever.
Evening passed and the rain ceased, and when night fell and a small scattering of illuminated buildings appeared out of the gloom, Daeron almost shouted with joy.
“It’s been a long day,” Daeron continues, casting Dunk a pointed look.
Dunk sighs through his nose, sparing a look down to where you are slumped against his chest. You wear his cloak over top of your own, bundled beneath the thick fabric. Your eyes are closed and you breathe softly, one of his strong arms wrapping around your middle.
Almost in agreement, both Thunder and Chestnut let out simultaneous snorts.
And when he feels you shiver against him, his mind is made up.
“Fine,” he says, and Daeron beams in the semi-darkness. But he’s not doing this for him. He’s doing it for you.
A few minutes later, Dunk is gently shaking you awake as Thunder trots towards the inn’s stables. You stir with a little whine, and Dunk feels something lurch in his chest.
And in his trousers.
“What’re we doing?” You ask, sitting up slightly and rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes. You blink and look around, noting the inn and the wafting aroma of a warm cooked meal.
Dunk carefully extracts himself and slips off of Thunder, Daeron gladly dismounting his own palfrey as a stableboy approaches. Dunk turns and lifts his arms as he so often did when the two of you rode together. You offer him a lazy smile in thanks, your hands finding the pillowy muscles of his biceps as his hands find your waist.
His hands are strong and wide against you. He hefts you like you weigh little more than a babe, bringing you down to earth as your dress and cloaks billow around you. Daeron watches the interaction from afar, leaning back against his horse as Dunk’s hands remain on your sides and yours remain on his biceps. The knight’s eyes flit across your face and land on your mouth for a second too long, your bodies a hair’s breadth apart.
Behind Dunk, Daeron groans. He hands the reins of his horse to the stableboy and tosses him a dragon. The stableboy’s eyes widen as he clasps the coin in one dirty hand, and Dunk turns to shoot Daeron an incredulous look.
“Should you be flashing that kind of coin ‘round here?” Dunk hisses. His hands leave your waist, but you tiredly chase the contact: your arms wrapping around one of his, face smushing into his upper arm.
Daeron casts the stableboy a bored look, who is now taking both Thunder and Chestnut as well. Daeron points between the horses as the stableboy looks up at him, eyes wide. “Make sure they all get oats. And an apple—” he turns to Dunk. “—Do horses eat apples?”
You hum, too tired to respond, but Dunk does anyway. “Yeah, I’spose, but—”
Daeron’s already turning back to the stableboy, who looks no older than ten. “Yes, make sure they get oats and an apple.”
The stableboy nods and hurries away with the horses, and Dunk can’t help but watch them go with guilt lodged in his throat.
Daeron saunters towards you, and the knight startles when the prince hooks his hands around his free arm.
“C’mon then, Ser Duncan,” Daeron drags out, tugging the knight along. “I long for an actual mattress.”
Inside, Dunk makes it apparent that Daeron was not leaving his sight, no matter how much the prince begged for his own room. To Dunk, he would rather sleep on the floor whilst the prince got a comfortable bed, than risk sleeping in another room and allow the prince a chance of escape.
“You treat me like a prisoner,” Daeron grumbles as Dunk shoulders open the stiff door to your room for the night.
“You run, I chase,” Dunk says. “And I really don’t feel like chasing you.”
The room is cramped but warm. The ceiling is low, which Dunk found out too late when he bumped the crown of his head against a wooden beam. Two beds are crammed into the small space: one with a wrought-iron frame and a plush straw mattress, big enough for two people, and another tucked in the corner which was short and narrow and obviously intended for a child. On the other side of the room, a crudely made wooden chair with a singular pillow placed on the seat.
Dunk says your name gently, and you stir where you continue to lean into the softness of his arm. “You’ll take the large bed.”
Daeron gapes as he sheds his cloak. He then gestures to the child’s bed. “I am not sleeping on that.”
Dunk grunts. “You’ll sleep where I tell you.”
Daeron huffs and crosses the room. He sits on the edge of the larger bed and crosses his arms over his chest.
You giggle, unwinding yourself from your hedge knight and slipping off both his cloak and your own that obscure your body. You place them both on a hook near the door. You turn to Dunk, offering him your back after slipping your shoes and stockings off.
“May you untie me, ser?” You ask him quietly, and Daeron’s eyes snap over to you both.
Dunk ignores the prince and gets to work. Tenderly, he undoes the ties at the back of your dress, and you hum to yourself all the while. Daeron’s stopped sulking, and he observes the blush high on Dunk’s cheeks as the hedge knight loosens your garment. He also notices the way the dress’ collar slips down, revealing more of your chest and the upper slope of your breasts. He swallows thickly, and feels something stir deep inside him as your dress falls away and you are left in your chemise.
“Thank you,” you say, bending to gather your dress. Your arse is so close to brushing Dunk’s pelvis that his breath hitches and he nearly chokes on it. When you right yourself and cross the room to hang up your dress, Dunk shoots Daeron a look. The prince just smirks. You return. “I don’t mind sleeping on the smaller bed.”
Dunk shakes his head. “No. You’ll sleep here. The prince is fine on the child’s bed.”
“No, I am not.” Daeron lies back on the large bed.
Dunk scowls as you giggle and approach the bed. You crawl onto it until you’re lying beside Daeron, and the prince turns his head to watch you clamber beside him, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. Gritting his teeth, Dunk sits down in the old wooden chair. He should rip you away from the prince, scold you for being so close, banish the dreamer to the corner of the room like a petulant child.
But he doesn’t. He just watches.
“We can share,” you mutter, laying on your side.
Dunk’s heart tightens, and his jaw works as the muscles there tense. “No, you will not.”
Daeron mirrors your position, eyes glimmering in the candlelight as he blatantly ignores the larger man. “How kind of you.”
Dunk leans back in the chair, the wood creaking. “Daeron, get off the bed.”
Daeron’s eye flick over to Dunk. “Oh, the first name. Am I in trouble?”
“You’re about to be. Get off the bed.”
You sit up a little and look over your shoulder at your hedge knight. His cheeks are pink, there’s a light sheen of sweat glistening high on his forehead, and you note the shuddering in his shoulders as he sucks in a deep, calming breath. He looks even larger in the shadows: tall and wide and so, so big.
“The lady said we can share,” Daeron says, and you support his statement with a nod. If Dunk didn’t love you so, he would have reprimanded you too. A cat-like smile creeps across the prince’s face after a moment of tense silence, and Dunk’s heart leaps into his throat when Daeron’s hand closes around your chin and forces you to look at him. “We can share, can’t we?”
You nod. “Yes.”
Daeron mock pouts, thumb stroking the soft curve of your jaw. “Well… what about Dunk? Can he share with us too? We both know that bed will be much too small for him.”
You nod again, humming. “Mhm.”
Daeron turns back to Dunk, still holding your chin. “There we go, ser. She says we can all share the bed. How lovely is that?”
Dunk’s half hard.
He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but it does. He can see every curve of your body as you lay on the bed in your thin chemise, and he can see the way you react to the prince’s touch. His cock stirs in his breeches, and the prince’s soft goading is not helping. That scares him a little, and he suddenly feels the need to drink several pints of ale.
Daeron shifts to look at you. His pupils are so wide his eyes appear black, and there’s a flush on his cheekbones that gives you butterflies. He doesn’t look like a prince, with his hair tucked out of his face, a healing scar dashed across his cheekbone. You want to touch it.
So you do.
You raise a hand and bring your fingers to his cheek, feeling the raised skin there. Behind you, Dunk growls out your name, but it feels less a warning of don’t touch and more a warning of be careful. Daeron’s eyes droop, blond lashes fluttering as you run your thumb over the healed laceration. A small sound leaves him, and you catch his throat bobbing as his head chases the contact of your fingers.
Dunk should rip the two of you away from each other. He’s fighting with himself, fighting with his duty. He should be protecting your honour, your virtue as a lady, but he should also be protecting whatever honour a prince like Daeron has left. That crosses his mind, and he frowns, then his thoughts shift. Daeron has been in more whore houses than Dunk has slept in hedges—he’s slept in a lot of hedges—and suddenly, he feels queasy. The prince is dirty. Surely he’s diseased. Surely if you touch him, you will—
He hears you whimper.
He snaps himself from his daze, and his heart drops into his stomach.
You’re kissing the prince.
Still cupping Daeron’s face, you both move at the same time. When your mouths meet, you whimper, and a whine-like noise slips from Daeron’s throat too. His lips are warm and surprisingly plush, and they move against yours like he’s done this a thousand times. His tongue flicks across your lips, and you part for him, allowing him to lick into your mouth and slide his tongue across your own. You whimper again, and one of his hands finds the back of your neck, pulling you even closer.
The chair groans as Dunk springs to his feet.
Daeron pulls away, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his body as Dunk looms over the bed. The prince smiles as you pant, and Dunk’s fury is reflected in his blue eyes.
Dunk’s fists clench at his sides. “Stop.”
Daeron dips his head and kisses you again. You whine, and the sound spears right through Dunk’s heart. You kiss Daeron and taste the salt of dinner and the lingering wine from his flask. He licks over your teeth, and you try to keep up, something hot and honey-thick pooling in the base of your belly as you press against him.
Dunk calls your name. You pull out of the kiss and Daeron peppers kisses from the corner of your mouth and down your throat as you peer up to look at your knight.
“Please,” Dunk whispers, knees knocking against the mattress where he stands. “Please don’t do this.”
You pout as Daeron sucks harshly at a particularly soft spot at the hollow of your throat. “Dunk, I… I want this.”
Dunk chews his lip, brows furrowing. “But… I…”
That makes your heart stutter. You use all your strength to push Daeron away from you, and you roll towards Dunk, your chemise riding up the thick of your thighs. You kneel on the mattress, ignoring Daeron’s whines as your hands find Dunk’s chest. His fingers wrap around your wrists. He’s burning hot.
“Dunk,” you whisper, craning your head.
Dunk goes shy under your gaze. You look at him like he’s so much smaller, so much more noble, so much less of the giant oaf he’s always been told he was.
You look at him like you love him.
“Dunk,” you repeat, and he finally meets your eyes without breaking. You give him a soft smile and he swears he may melt. “Dunk, my sweet knight. Please let me have this.”
Dunk frowns. “I’d let you have anything, just… not this. Not him.”
Daeron lets out a small noise of offence.
You caress Dunk’s chest, feeling the soft muscle and the rapid beating of his heart. “I know, I know, but Dunk, my sweet boy, please. I want this, okay? I want this… and I want you, too. I want—gods, I want both of you.”
You don’t need to turn around to know Daeron is smiling like a dragon atop a horde of gold and glitter.
Dunk seizes like he’s been struck. “What?”
You don’t back down. You’re too far in to retreat like some fair maiden. “I love you, Dunk. And I want you. I want you, and I want Daeron.”
“Where…?” Dunk frowns, shaking his head. “Where is this coming from?”
“From deep within, Ser Duncan,” Daeron chimes in behind you, and you glance back to see how he’s lounging against the bed like a cat. He gives you a wink, one of his hands pressed flat to the front of his trousers, barely concealing the pitching tent there. He continues smoothly. “Your pretty lady is not the maiden you think she is.”
Dunk scowls at the prince. “Do not speak of her as if she is one of your whores.”
Daeron laughs, and you soothe Dunk with more pets to his chest.
“I do not kiss my whores, ser,” Daeron says, sounding bored. “I do not kiss them, nor do I particularly like them. They are convenient. Our pretty lady on the other hand…”
Our hits Dunk across the head like a blow from an axe.
He growls, and his hands shoot down to grasp your hips. You suck in a startled gasp as Dunk pulls you into him, your hands pinned against his chest. A pleasant heat is filling your core, and your thighs squeeze together as your heartbeat seems to travel south.
“There is no our,” Dunk spits, and it’s the gruffest you’ve ever heard him. “She is mine—she is my lady, and I will not allow you to treat her like the women in the brothels you frequent.”
Daeron rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, Ser Duncan, I will not speak to her like a Silk Street whore,” he says, looking you up and down. His smile is sinister and it makes you whine, the sound making Dunk’s eyes widen. “But I will fuck her like one.”
Dunk’s eyes flash. “How could—?”
“Dunk,” you plead, and his eyes are on you in an instant. “Please let… let me have you.”
You don’t mention the prince, but Dunk already knows he’s a part of it.
He’s scared. Dunk is scared of whatever the hell he is about to do. He’s scared of whatever he’s saying yes to when he dips his head and slots his mouth to yours, his arms tight at your waist. But you moan into his mouth—it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard—and suddenly he’s not scared anymore.
Dunk’s mouth is rougher than Daeron’s. Less coordinated, a bit sloppier, but he’s eager and it makes your cunt clench around nothing as he holds you to him. You lick the seam of his lips and he groans, his mouth opening. Your tongue finds his and they smooth together so naturally it makes you feel faint.
The mattress sinks behind you, and suddenly another warm body is pressing to your back. You whimper into Dunk’s mouth when Daeron’s hands ghost around your ribs. He cups your tits through the material of your chemise, his thumb and forefingers finding where your nipples harden beneath the fabric. His mouth draws against the curve of your shoulder, tongue licking the neckline of your chemise. You feel his hard cock against you, the tent in his trousers pushing tightly against the plush curve of your arse as your hands work across Dunk’s chest.
You drag your hands down Dunk’s soft belly, finding the hem of his tunic and tugging on it. Dunk extracts himself from the kiss with a disgruntled huff, pupils blown wide as he yanks his tunic over his head one-handed. You bite your lip, smiling as you drag your hands across his stomach, beneath the curve of his pecs, up and over his freckled shoulders, then all the way back down. Dunk bends to kiss you again. This time, it’s him licking forward, tongue passing heavily over yours, tasting honey on your gums.
Daeron grinds himself against you, and you can’t help but moan at the warmth of him pressing against the split of your arse. Your chemise rides up, revealing the backs of your thighs, and Daeron takes that as an invitation to slip the hemline up, up, up until he can settle the bare material above your arse.
He groans, one hand moving to cup one of your arsecheeks as he ruts himself against you. You pull away from Dunk’s mouth to sigh out and lean back into the contact. Dunk huffs and shifts, noticing the prince’s actions.
Fuck it.
He takes your chemise and rips it over your head. You yelp as it flies over your head and disappears somewhere in the room, leaving you completely bare and pinned between the two men. They’re both mostly clothed and searing hot against you. It makes you dizzy.
Dunk doesn’t avert his eyes like he usually does. He takes a step back and allows his eyes to rake down your body, following the dips and curves. He groans, falling to his knees, and you gasp out, taking hold of his shoulders as he kneels beside the bed.
He presses a kiss to your stomach. To the spot above your navel. Then he heads lower, with his hands on your hips, and kisses down your navel and along the curve of your lower belly. You whimper, Daeron still kneading your tits and grinding himself against the cleft of your arse as Dunk’s breath fans across your stomach before he’s kissing directly over your mound.
You keen, head bent to watch Dunk sink even lower.
He moans, eyes finding yours through his lashes. His eyes find your thighs next.
“Can I?” He asks around a whisper, and you reply by spreading your thighs. Daeron helps you, holding you steady as your legs part and your slick core meets the warm air of the room. Dunk moans again as his eyes find your slit. “Gods, you’re beautiful.”
Daeron hums in agreement, still rocking his hips against your arse, his fingers rolling your nipples in small circles. You’re leaning back against him, neck craned for him to lick and suckle at the sensitive skin between your neck and shoulder.
Dunk angles his face forward, and you squirm when his nose presses between your folds, followed closely by the warm press of his lips. He splits you and breathes in, his own exhale hinged around a whine that vibrates through you. You grip his shoulders tightly.
Daeron chuckles, leaning his chin on your shoulder and looking down at the big man hunched before you. “You ever eaten pussy, ser?”
The crudeness of it has heat flaring through you, and you have half the mind to close your thighs around Dunk’s face. Dunk ignores the prince as his tongue unfurls and slides between your silken folds, sliding up and down. You cry out his name as he sucks your clit into his mouth before letting it go with a slick pop, only to follow the movement with a few chaste kisses, then he’s dragging his tongue back down again. He repeats this several times until you’re trembling, and he finally, finally, curls his tongue around your hole.
You suck in a breath, and Daeron chuckles again. “Clearly you have.”
Dunk pulls back, lips ghosting over you, just enough to mutter out, “I‘ve never,” before delving straight back in.
Your head falls back even further as your moans fill the room. Most of them writhe around the syllables of Dunk’s name. A stuttered whine of “you’re doing so good” has his cock tugging painfully at the seam of his breeches, pre-cum wetting the fabric.
Meanwhile, Daeron is back to licking and biting across your shoulder. He’s switched sides now, and the hand which had been fondling the fat of your arse shifts. It curls, like a serpent, around your hip then over your lower belly. It passes across your mound, then dips lower until a finger presses to the puffy bead of your clit.
Your eyes fly open. “Daeron.”
“S’alright…” He whispers, kissing the pulse beneath your ear as he wriggles his finger between your pussy and Dunk’s face. He hears Dunk grunt, but ignores him. Instead, the prince slowly starts rubbing firm circles against your clit. “This feel good?”
“Yeah,” you breathe out, Daeron’s finger on your clit and Dunk’s tongue sliding into your cunt. Heat fills your stomach, sweat building along your spine, your hips twitching.
Dunk’s hands on your thighs find your hips as his mouth moves against your pussy. He holds you upright, stopping you from toppling off the bed. You anchor yourself on his strong shoulders too, and you find yourself closing your eyes as your body begins to thrum with pleasure. That familiar feeling begins to build inside you: tight in your abdomen, surging down your spine and weaving between vertebrae. Building, building, heat blooming in your belly, a teeth-splitting tightness that stretches across the front of your womb.
Daeron’s long hair tickles your shoulder and the side of your face. You feel his heart hammering between your shoulder blades, and you suddenly realise he’s half-naked. You don’t recall him ever taking his shirt off.
He grinds his cock against you, panting against your neck as his finger works circles across your clit. “You feeling good, sweet girl? Is Dunk making you feel good?”
“Uh-huh,” you breathe, stiffening in his arms. Dunk’s tongue shoves deep inside you, the thick muscle splitting you open. His mouth is burning hot against you too. And Daeron’s finger is incessant on your clit, your hips bucking to meet the movements. “Oh, gods, fuck, m’gonna—m’gonna—”
“That’s it,” Daeron whispers. “That’s it. Let it happen.”
The tightness in your belly snaps clean in half. Heart stuttering in your chest, you release with a sob of both of their names. It fills the space like a chant as you come, your fingers digging deep into the freckled flesh of Dunk’s shoulders as his tongue laps up the slick that threatens to drool out of you. Daeron strokes you through it too. Your body shakes against his, pleasure white-hot at the ends of your nerves as he gently rocks his cock against your plush arse. Your thighs clamp around Dunk’s head, and a deep moan rips out of his chest. He pulls away from you, kissing your thighs as he retreats. Daeron slips his hand away.
Dunk’s face is slick with you. “Gods, sweetheart…”
Daeron grins down at the knight over your shoulder. “Good?”
Dunk doesn’t respond. He sits higher on his knees and spreads your thighs once more. Two thick fingers swipe through your slick folds, splitting your pussy open. You whine, arching against Daeron as Dunk’s fingers find your hole.
And sink inside.
There’s a small aching stretch, and you hiss around the intrusion. Dunk mutters a sincere apology, kissing your stomach, but his fingers don’t relent. He pushes them in, stretching you open, curling and flicking and sinking deep. You take him to the knuckle, and he coos at you. Daeron kisses you on the cheek, feeling your body tighten.
“Easy, easy…” Daeron says against the warm skin of your cheek. He kisses you there again, his stubble scratching the soft skin.
Dunk sucks in a deep breath. “Gods, you’re so tight.”
He pulls his fingers out, then gently pushes them back in.
“F-fuck,” you curse, fingernails pressing crescents into Dunk’s shoulders. “Dunk, oh my gods—”
Daeron grabs your chin and twists your head around. He slides his mouth against yours then whines into the contact, and you mirror the sound with heat returning to your womb. Dunk watches your mouths connect with his brows knitting together and a solid weight in the base of his tummy. As your mouths move together, he catches glimpses of tongue, pushing and pulling, and his cock jerks in his breeches. He groans low as his eyes find your pussy again, and he focuses on where you take his fingers.
He leans forward then, fingers crooking deep inside you, and presses his mouth back to your clit. He suckles gentle, watching you the entire time, and he relishes in the way your hips buck and you pant into the prince’s mouth. A low whine flees the confines of your mouth, and it makes Dunk’s cock leak against the material of his breeches. But Daeron is quick to chase your noises, his tongue bullying between your lips and licking the sounds from you.
Daeron serves the blistering heat in your belly: his teeth drag along your lip, his tongue sliding along the points of your teeth; he clutches your jaw in a warm hand, and his chest is just as warm pressed against your bare back. His cock strains heavily in his breeches, and he’s positive that if he doesn’t free himself in the next few minutes, the fabric will rip open.
“Ser Duncan,” Daeron addresses the hedge knight when he pulls back from the kiss.
Dunk looks up, two thick fingers continuous in their movements. You feel the sword callouses at the base of his inner knuckle and the rub makes you keen.
“Might we bring this to bed?” Daeron asks, rubbing his hand down your side in soothing strokes. “I think our lady is ready for us, don’t you think?”
Dunk grunts, begrudgingly sliding his face out of your pussy. He slowly pulls his fingers from you too, then gives your clit one last pet as he slides them across your folds. You whine at the loss of contact, pussy fluttering around nothing as the hedge knight gets to his feet, the floorboards beneath him groaning.
Behind you, Daeron squeezes the fat of your hips before the warmth of his body retreats. He shuffles up to the head of the bed, resting himself amongst the fraying pillows. You let him sit for a moment, focusing on your knight. Your valiant, noble knight.
Your hands find the thick mass of his shoulders as he hulks over the edge of the bed, and you whine as you tug him down. He obeys without a second thought, allowing you to slam his mouth onto yours. You moan, tasting yourself on his tongue, his lower face sticky with your remnants. Dunk’s hands find your back and he pins you to him, groaning low in his throat as he kisses you. Gently, he rubs his clothed cock against your pelvis, and the weight and shape has you stilling, body on fire.
“Dunk,” you whisper against his mouth, one of your hands finding his hair and taking a fistful. “I love you.”
Dunk shudders as you scratch his scalp. His heart leaps out of his chest at your words, and he can’t help the string of whimpers that escape him knowing that you love him. You love him.
“I love you,” he says, then kisses you. It’s sloppier and meaner in a way he didn’t intend. He tries to pass on all of his feelings, but they’ve been bottled up for so long that your teeth clink together and your tongues mash without rhythm. It still makes you moan though, and he pulls out of the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. “I love you.”
That makes you giddy.
Behind you, Daeron moans. It’s hinged half on pleasure and half on impatience.
“I could watch the two of you kiss all evening,” the prince drawls, palming himself through his breeches. When did he take his trousers off? “But I really, really don’t want to wait any longer. I have been told patience is not my strongest attribute—”
You tune him out, turning your body, then looking back over your shoulder at Dunk.
His ice-blue eyes are on you, but they’re dark with desire. His hands fidget with the ties of his breeches, as if warring with himself. But he can’t hide the large imprint of his hard cock in his breeches, and he can’t hide the fact he’d kicked his trousers off some time ago. His eyes roll down your naked back and a small sigh leaves him. He looks over at Daeron next, who is unlacing the ties of his own breeches as he watches the scene in front of him unfold.
You face Daeron. He looks especially regal against the pillows: his golden locks spread around his head like a halo, or maybe a crown, his bare chest bathed orange by the candlelight. But his eyes are almost animal with the way his pupils dilate and the irises all but vanish.
“How do you want me, my prince?” You ask him as he shucks his breeches off.
His hard cock falls free, slapping back against his stomach when he fists himself, fingers wrapping around the base. The head is ruddy and flushed red with blood, and your eyes trail along a prominent vein on the underside.
Daeron moans in response, eyes flitting between you and the towering mass of man behind you. The surface of his chest flushes with his arousal as his heart rate increases. He sits up further against the pillows, then pats his thigh.
“You’re going to be good and come and take your prince’s cock,” he says, then looks at Dunk. “And you’re going to open your mouth nice and wide for Ser Duncan, okay?”
You bite your lip as you smile and crawl across the bed to him, your tits swaying as you do. Daeron groans at the sight, twisting his hand around his cock, base to tip a few times, before you close in. He dips his head to kiss you, his free hand seizing the base of your jaw as his tongue bullies past your lips. When you break the kiss, the room around you glows with candlelight. Orange, amber. Shadows distort around you in an almost dream-like state.
Then, Daeron spins you. He manoeuvres you until your back is to him, and you kneel between his spread legs. You lock eyes with Dunk now, who slowly clambers onto the bed. The mattress protests beneath his weight, but he slides over the sheets until he’s kneeling in front of you. Daeron hums, obviously pleased, and leans forward.
He sinks his teeth into the soft skin of your shoulder in a playful bite as he drags the head of his cock down the split of your arse. You yelp at the contact, but something clenches in your belly.
“Daeron,” Dunk warns, his voice an even timbre in the relative silence of the room.
Daeron groans his response, then laves his tongue across the little indents he had bitten into your shoulder. His other hand clasps his cock tightly before he leans back and gathers saliva in the front of his mouth. With a gentle hand to the middle of your back, he carefully bends you forward until you fall into Dunk.
Dunk’s next movements are automatic: he holds you tenderly, large hands massaging your sides. He does this while Daeron leans back and spits down the crack of your arse, the sensation sudden and surprising and forcing a moan from the depths of your chest. Daeron smiles to himself as you whine, nuzzling your face between Dunk’s pecs as he presses the head of his cock against your cunt.
Your hole is slick and glistening, wet with your arousal and the remnants of Dunk’s spit. It makes his cock twitch, and he circles the fluttering hole a few times before he gives it a few solid slaps with his tip.
“Such a pretty girl,” Daeron whispers, running the head of his cock through your folds as you squirm in Dunk’s hold. He rubs your back, then takes hold of your hip. “Now be a good girl and help Ser Duncan out of his trousers.”
You do as you’re told.
With Dunk supporting you, blush sticky on his cheeks, you untie the knots at the top of his breeches. When you loosen the strings, you help the large man shuck them down past his hips until his cock can fall out. You whine, hard cock flopping against his thick thigh, slit wet with pre-cum and a lurid red that makes desire coil tightly in your gut. Sure, you’ve seen Dunk’s cock before, but it’s a whole lot different when you’re about to suck it.
You lean in and wrap a hand around the base.
Dunk’s breath hitches, his entire body shuddering. “Oh, gods, sweetheart.”
The tip of Daeron’s cock pushes in, and you mewl loudly. It pulls you apart in the best way and you find yourself becoming dizzy with need as Dunk’s warm cock rests against your cheek. It pumps hot with blood, and you angle your head to press a line of lazy kisses up the shaft, over the dip of his frenulum, and onto the head. He hisses at the exact time Daeron groans, the head of the prince’s cock swallowed by the wet clutch of your cunt.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the prince rambles, pausing momentarily. This reprieve gives you the chance to dribble across the head of Dunk’s big cock and chase it. You tongue the weeping slit, and the shaky moan that leaves the hedge knight’s mouth has your pussy clamping vice-like around Daeron. The prince breathes out, gripping your hip before slowly feeding more of his cock into you. “That’s it, that’s it, here we go…”
Dunk sucks in a breath, a large hand finding the back of your neck as your lips suck around the tip. “Easy, easy, sweet girl, be gentle…”
You hum, looking up at your hedge knight with glassy eyes. He returns the watery gaze and groans again, and you take the opportunity to hollow your cheeks and drag your mouth down his cock. Dunk’s chest shudders as he holds you, the muscles of his soft abdomen contracting. Behind you, Daeron holds your hips as he slowly pushes in. Deeper than before.
Dunk down your throat, you choke on a moan. Daeron’s smiling to himself as he splits you apart, cock spreading your pussy open with each pull outward. On the outstroke, Daeron keeps just the head of his cock inside you, waiting for just a second too long before pulling you back on to him. He does this a few times, and it has your body burning hot beneath your skin, that knot in your lower belly reappearing.
The bed creaks softly, the poorly-made frame scratching against the wooden floor. Daeron grunts and groans behind you, one of his hands reaching forward to run up and down your spine, feeling the dip and the sweat-slick skin there. His other hand pulls you back against his cock, which punches up towards your cervix as you arch, taking him deeper.
You slide your tongue along the vein on the underside of Dunk’s shaft, and you look up when he moans your name. You exchange another look, each mirroring each other’s desperation—feelings long withheld as you suckle around the head before forcing yourself back down. You taste the musk of his precum dribbling along the flat of your tongue. His cock twitches too, as if he’s been on the edge of release since the moment you put your mouth on him.
Daeron shoves into you, his rhythm firm but unhurried. So princely, resting up against the pillows, legs spread, one hand on your hip as he helps you fuck yourself onto him. The fat of your arse moves with you, and the hand once on your spine finds one of your arsecheeks. He grabs the flesh, kneads it between pale fingers, before pulling the hand back and bringing it down with a loud smack.
That earns a reaction from both you and Dunk.
You pull off the bigger man’s cock with a slick pop, a moan falling from your lips straight away as your spine dips. Dunk’s cock slaps against your cheek as your eyes close, and he hisses at the sudden lack of contact, the hand on the back of your neck tightening. His eyes shoot up, finding Daeron already looking at him.
There’s a fox-like smile on his blushed face, and Dunk watches with furrowed brows as the prince lands another audible smack to the flesh of your arse, still rolling you back onto his cock.
Dunk growls. “Do not put your hand—”
“She likes it, Ser Duncan,” Daeron utters, his hand rubbing soothing circles across you.
You respond with a small mewl as you desperately shift back to meet Daeron’s thrusts. Dunk’s frown deepens, but he can’t help the way his cock jerks and dribbles against your cheekbone. As he looks over at Daeron, Dunk’s hips jerk involuntarily, his cock sliding wet against your warm cheek. The friction makes him whimper, lips parting, balls drawing tight.
Daeron smiles, watching Dunk rut his cock against your face. He looks down at you next, seeing the pleasure distorted across your features as his cock pulls you closer and closer towards your release. His own pleasure is hot in the pit of his stomach, and he feels it tugging at the base of his spine as his breathing picks up.
“Want to spill inside you,” Daeron whispers suddenly, head falling back, hair brushing his shoulders as he continues to bring you against him, again and again. His words make you moan, eyes fluttering open as you attempt to press kisses to Dunk’s cock—but the giant holds your head still, continuing to ruck his cock across your cheek, making a mess of your face. Daeron hisses, righting his head once more. “Cunt’s so fuckin’ tight—it’d be a waste not to fill it. A waste—a waste of dragon seed to spill—fuck—spill anywhere else.”
You pant. “Daeron, my prince—”
Daeron ignores you. “Come on her face, Ser Duncan.”
Dunk groans. “I—”
“Do what I tell you,” Daeron grits out before drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. He’s got his hands on your hips now, squeezing the flesh as he drives you onto his cock.
You moan, your entire body shaking. Your arms have long given up on you as you rest against your forearms, mostly atop Dunk as he rubs his cock against you. It’s warm and wet on your face, and the whiny little pants falling from his lips have pleasure tightening in your belly. Daeron seems to nudge against that knot, over and over again. He’s so deep, the angle sucking him right in, that you can’t help the tears that bead at the corners of your eyes as you whine his name, his title, into the thick warmth of the room.
Dunk comes first. His fingers on your neck squeeze you like the grip of a sword, and the sudden pressure traps your moan in your throat. He calls your name as his cock jerks. Thick ropes of cum splatter over your cheek, dashing high over your forehead as well as he groans and rocks, mattress protesting beneath him. You close your eyes, whining around a whisper of his name, as his seed paints the warmth of your face, and you feel it dribbling when your own orgasm hits you.
You’re not sure how long it’s been since you’ve come this hard. Daeron’s cock deep inside you, the pressure snaps hard in your belly and shoots pleasure right down your legs. You tremble as it overtakes you, back dipping even further as you fall into Dunk’s hold. You knees ache where they bend in the sheets, and a fizzing heat sprints down the cable of your spine while Daeron fucks you through it.
“That’s it, that’s it,” Daeron rambles, movements slowing. He’s barely thrusting anymore, just grinding himself against you.
He groans, and you think it’s supposed to be your name, but it’s lost in his own pleasure. You whisper his name as Dunk pets you, simmering down from his own release, and Daeron groans once more before he’s coming. Just as he said, he spills inside you, shoving himself so deep you swear you can feel him spilling into your belly. It’s hot and thick and almost uncomfortable as you bend and take it, his hips stalling completely and his cock pumping with the beating of his heart.
The prince pulls out after a minute.
As soon as he parts from you, Dunk’s hands are shifting, and he’s pulling you away from Daeron and between his legs as he sits on the bed. You don’t have the strength to fight him off, and you allow him to cradle you to his chest. He kisses the top of your head, but you feel his half-hard cock against your tummy as one of his big hands slides down your back. He palms your arse as he holds you.
“Sweet girl?”
“Hm?”
Dunk places a kiss to the top of your head. “You think you can take my cock?”
The earnestness in his question makes you giggle, and he huffs against you. His hand squeezes the fat of your arse hard, and you yelp, before the world shifts around you once more. You spin until you’re facing a grinning Daeron, who strokes his cock lazily as it hardens in his palm. Dunk grunts as he pushes you back down, and you giggle again as you accept your fate and keel over. Your head finds Daeron’s lap.
“Hi, pretty girl,” he greets you, then bends.
He licks a fat stripe over your cheek, licking Dunk’s seed from your warm skin. You want to squeal, to wiggle away from him, but Dunk is holding your waist as he forcibly pins you into an arch, marvelling at Daeron’s seed dribbling from the clutch of your cunt. Daeron groans low in his throat as he licks, then pushes his tongue into your mouth. One hand finds your jaw and holds you while you kiss. It’s more tongue than anything else, and you taste Dunk. That makes you whimper.
Suddenly, you feel the thick head of Dunk’s cock drag up and down your slit. You pull out of Daeron’s kiss to gasp Dunk’s name, sparing a look over your shoulder. Dunk’s in a trance: his eyes drawn to where your pussy flutters, gaping as Daeron drools from you, down the curve of your inner thigh. His cock is fully hard now, bruising red at the tip as he smears Daeron’s seed through your folds.
The hand on your jaw draws your attention from the hedge knight. Daeron guides the tip of his cock to your mouth.
“Tongue,” he whispers. An order.
You oblige, poking your tongue out just as Dunk notches himself inside you. It’s a tight burn, a pulling intrusion in the base of your womb as your walls part for him. Your tongue slips back into your mouth, pressing to your bottom teeth as you groan. Your entire body shakes, and Daeron huffs above you.
He slaps his cock against your slightly parted lips. “Come on, pretty girl. You can do it, stick your tongue—oh, yeah, that’s it… good girl.”
You stick your tongue out for him mid-sentence, and he beams. Smile wicked on his face, he slaps the head of his cock against your tongue. It lands heavy and with a loud plap, the sound drawing Dunk’s eyes away from where he’s slowly feeding his cock into you.
Daeron’s head shoots up. Both men freeze.
Dunk’s cheeks are flushed a brilliant red as he and Daeron look at one another. Then, Daeron slowly slides his cockhead along the bumps of your tongue, and he moans ridiculously loud as he slips into the heat of your mouth. At the exact same time, Dunk pushes forward: spearing you on his cock, holding your hips tightly as your pussy opens up around him, walls silken smooth and tight. Both men enter you at the exact same time, eye-contact loud in the silence of the room.
You mewl like a kitten, lips wrapping as your nose is brought flush with the neat thatch of blond hair at the base of the prince’s cock. At the same time, you feel Dunk’s hips come to rest against your arse. They both still again, and you almost pass out.
Dunk breaks the silence first. He groans, and it’s broken around the vowels. “Oh, gods.”
“Can’t believe we waited this long,” Daeron utters, petting your head. He’s still talking to Dunk. “She’s fucking tight, isn’t she?”
Dunk’s brows pinch as he fights to stay still. You can feel his cock throbbing inside you. It makes you whimper, the vibrations thick around Daeron’s cock.
“Y–Yeah,” Dunk stutters.
“Bet she’s wet too, huh?” Daeron cocks his head.
“Yeah,” Dunk whispers, chest rising and falling rapidly. “I can…”
He stops himself with a bashful shake of his head. He’s trembling.
Daeron smiles. “You can what?”
Dunk groans. “I can feel… I can feel her drooling around me.”
You close your eyes, jaw aching as you hold your teeth away from Daeron’s cock. Dunk’s words flush a heat through your veins that makes you dizzy, and you swear you can see tiny little fires igniting, flashing in the black of your closed eyelids.
Dunk decides to move then: he pulls his cock out of you until he’s completely out. He watches, whispering your name like he can’t quite believe it, as your slick dribbles out of you, milky-white with the remnants of Daeron.
The prince watches the knight carefully. He slowly guides your head backwards, then forwards. With surprisingly gentle movements, he moves you up and down. You open your eyes then, gazing up at him as he watches Dunk.
“I want to come before you do,” Daeron says, then suddenly snaps his hips. He shoves himself down your throat, and you choke on it—gagging loudly enough for Dunk, half way inside you again, to freeze. The prince grins. “So be a good lad and hold off, will you?”
Dunk’s top lip curls. “Do that again and you’re out.”
“I don’t know what you mean…” Daeron knows exactly what the knight means.
Dunk pushes in and out, giving a little thrust that drags the prominent vein nicely along your posterior wall. You mewl around Daeron’s cock.
Dunk nods at the prince. “You know what I mean. Do it again and you’re out.”
“Oh, you’d kick a prince out? Into the cold, dark night? That’s not very knightly of you, Ser Duncan,” Daeron chides, then repeats his actions. The flushed tip of his hits the back of your throat and you gag, tears wet along your lower lashes.
“Daeron,” he hisses. “I’ll tie you to that bed and make you watch.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad.”
Dunk pushes in. You whine, suffocating. Daeron feeds his cock right to the back of your throat again, and Dunk feels your cunt clamp tight around him, your entire body descending into shivers as you struggle for air.
That’s it.
With a growl, Dunk hauls you off of the prince and yanks you directly into his lap. You gasp, choking on your own spit, as your back lands hard against Dunk’s warm chest.
Daeron pouts. “That’s not fair.”
Dunk snaps his hips, the angle driving him right against that perfect spot inside you. It knocks a mangled cry from your throat, the noise reverberating off the walls as Daeron watches from his throne of pillows, a heavy dip in his brow. Dunk starts a rhythm, and you can’t do anything but take it. He pulls you down onto his big cock over and over, manhandling you, squeezing the fat of your hips, your thighs, your waist—he’s everywhere and it’s intoxicating.
Daeron sits against the head of the bed with his cock leaking in his hand and a frown etched onto his face. But you know it’s superficial. You can see the glimmer in his eyes as he observes where Dunk’s cock bullies into you. There’s a thick white ring around the base of Dunk’s cock, and the mixture of your slick and the prince’s release dribbles out of you like honey.
There’s a storm brewing in your belly. It’s fiercer than before.
Dunk’s big arms wrap around you. The skin there is mottled with a mosaic of scars and bruises that seem to glow in the orange candlelight. Daeron traces them momentarily before he finds your tits, bouncing as Dunk fucks you, then your face.
“This isn’t fair…” Daeron whispers, but he doesn’t really mean it. He strokes his cock, his movements paced perfectly with Dunk’s thrusts. The prince gazes at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. “Look at me, pretty girl. Please.”
Your eyes, previously unfocussed and fluttering as you battle towards your release, find his. His pupils are so wide and the blush on his cheeks has spread to his ears.
“Dunk’s so big, isn’t he?” Daeron whispers.
Dunk groans and you nod desperately. The giant buries his face against your shoulder, sucking and biting, tasting the salt of your skin.
“Yes,” you reply. You feel him so deep, you’re taking him so deep. “Yeah, he is.”
“Where do you feel him?” Daeron asks, and Dunk groans again, almost embarrassed.
You reach a shaky hand down and press a palm flat to the curve of your belly. Daeron follows the movements. He hums around a whine as you press down a little.
“There?” Daeron chokes out as he twists his wrist. “You’re feeling Dunk in your tummy?”
You curse. “Fuck, yeah—yes.”
“You like him there? You want him to fill you?”
Dunk’s entire mass shudders, his hands vice-like on your hips.
You moan, fighting to keep eye-contact with the prince. But it’s proving difficult, pleasure sticking to every fibre of your being. “Daeron.”
“Answer your prince, sweet girl,” he orders softly. “D’you want him to spill inside you? You want him to fill you like I did? You want his cum, don’t you?”
You feel like you’re on fire. Daeron’s words scorch hotter than the flames mounted to the walls of Dragonstone, and you find yourself sparking the embers of your release. Smoke billows, flames rise, your body sets alight.
“Yes.” You feel like you’re begging him, when it’s Dunk fucking you. “Please.”
Dunk groans, nuzzling the skin below your ear. “I’ll give it to you, I promise.”
Across the bed, Daeron smiles. “That’s it…”
You release with a moan, and you’re thankful the strong knight has such a fierce grip on you.
The flames inside overwhelm you and you tumble into your pleasure, body shaking, skin slick with sweat. Your pussy grips tight around the thick of Dunk’s cock, and the sensation knocks the air from your lungs. You pulse around him, hips jerking as he drives into you. He mouths at the skin of your neck, and your head falls back onto his shoulder as you shudder, your eyes falling closed as the energy is sapped from your body.
Dunk and Daeron both spill at the same time. You don’t know it, lying with your eyes closed in Dunk’s muscular arms, but they know it.
Daeron spills across his knuckles with your name on his lips, little whimpers following as he ruts into his fist and chases the tail of it. Splatters streak across his abdomen too, his abs contracting with each small jerk of his fingers. Strands of hair cling to his dewy forehead, and he pants like a dog when his pleasure finally crests and settles.
Dunk comes with a guttural groan. It’s more animal than man, and it vibrates through you, sinking deep into the marrow of your bones. His cock fits deep against the plug of your womb. He’s mumbling something as his hips stutter—take it, take it, sweet girl, jus’ be good and take it—and he completely empties himself inside you.
Before he stills completely, he whispers a whiny “I love you,” straight into your ear.
His hands stroke your sides as you emerge from your bliss. He mouths along your neck, then kisses your cheek, holding you firmly against him as you all settle and the room seems to settle with you. Daeron reclines against the pillows, softening cock slick and resting against one of his strong thighs.
After a moment, he sinks until he’s laying flat on the bed. You open your eyes fully now, blinking away the exhaustion, as you catch the glimmer in the prince’s eyes. He crooks a finger in your direction.
Dunk holds you and answers. “No.”
Daeron scoffs. “I wasn’t asking you.”
“No.”
“S’alright, Dunk…” You turn your head to press a tender kiss to his lips, and he whimpers when you slowly extract yourself from him.
You offer him a similar sound as your pussy gapes, leaking, as you shuffle back up the bed. Dunk gingerly lifts himself off the bed, heading to collect his clothes from the floor, as you clamber over to Daeron, who guides you in straddling his face.
You grip the headboard with a weakened arm. “Daeron, I can’t—”
“It’s okay, sweet girl, m’not gonna be mean,” Daeron coos, taking a gentle hold of your hips and pulling you down. His breath ghosts against your wet core. “Just want a taste, okay? I’ll be so gentle, I promise.”
He watches him and Dunk ooze from you for a second too long—a second too long, because his cock gives a feeble jerk against his thigh—before he brings you down atop his mouth. His tongue licks through your folds once, and when you tell him off through a flurry of high-pitched whines, he drags his tongue down to your hole. He laps up what he can, tasting the dull salinity and the musk and the fresh water. It makes his eyes roll, and he can’t help himself, stuffing his tongue inside you.
Sensitive, you try to sit up. “Daeron.”
Daeron grumbles something against you, his hands tight on your hips. He licks he and Dunk’s spend from your cunt, his nose pressing against the swollen pearl of your clit. He rocks his face into you, and you whine again, bordering on a squeal.
Thankfully, two warm hands find your armpits and hoist you up as if you weigh nothing. Daeron’s eyes snap open, and he watches as if he’s had something stolen from him as Dunk pulls you off the bed. You settle on your feet, panting as the hedge knight plants a kiss to the top of your head before urging your chemise back over the curves of your body.
Daeron complains with a petulant huff. “I could accuse you of treason for that.”
Dunk rolls his eyes, hugging you as you adjust the way your chemise sits on your body, skin sticky with sweat.
“You’re too spoiled for your own good,” Dunk mutters. “Too used to getting what you want.”
Daeron rolls his eyes. “So what?” I want her, so I should—”
“Shut up.” Dunk feels the need to throw something at the prince as you cling to his strong body. He holds you like he never wants to let you go again.
DAY SEVENTEEN
Prince Maekar greets the three of you as you dismount your horses before the grand doors of Summerhall. Daeron stumbles slightly as he hits the loose stone, and you giggle as he reaches a hand out to you to steady himself.
Dunk bows his head before Maekar, and Daeron continues to cling to you as you both approach the white-haired prince.
Maekar offers Ser Duncan a polite smile, then casts a look towards his son. Something flickers across his face, Daeron watching you closely.
Maekar clears his throat. “Thank you for returning my boy to me, Ser Duncan. Once again, I am thankful for your loyal service.”
Dunk straightens. “It was an honour, your grace.”
“I trust he behaved himself?” Maekar asks, looking around the hedge knight to where Daeron smiles at you as you speak to him in a hushed whisper.
Dunk spares a look over his shoulder. He turns back to Maekar.
“Mostly,” Dunk answers. “M’lady kept him in line.”
You try not to roll your eyes, the memories of how you were awoken that very morning—with Daeron’s head between your legs and one of Dunk’s rough fingers on your clit—heavy in your memory as the prince looks up as Dunk turns again.
They exchange a knowing smile.
———
genuinely the longest one shot i’ve ever written lmao sorry for any mistakes
There’s a big moment pre-main story LTPtLPT where TY loses control of his werewolf form in broad daylight, risking exposing Magic Folk to the world. It’s why he’s isolated himself on the ranch during the main story, and why he panics so much with Doc’s threat making him lose control.
Inversely, it’s the beginning of Dylan realizing how good her lasso-magic is for combat as she’s the one who stops him. Maybe she CAN be a badass witch! It kickstarts her redemption and self-worth arc.
——
I’m pretty proud of TY’s painful snarl! And I’m not much of a gore artist but it was interesting to attempt it with TY’s werewolf form - I’d love to show how painful and scary it is, emerging from beneath his skin and tearing flesh as it expands his form
——
Process stuff below the cut:
Sketched out TY and Dylan with references from Pinterest of werewolf attacks. Lots of Magic the Gathering cards, a bit of Van Helsing, some comic panels to help me think about the angle. I used Sketchfab for a werewolf skull, the gas station, and the cars in the right perspectives. And Magic Poser helped with Dylan’s complicated pose
Thought it was interesting to see a few stages of a cropped section of the illustration:
The lineart phase! All the fur on TY killed me…
In hindsight I should’ve gone back to this phase and done some more anatomical gore rather than my slapped-on-top method, but I decided to do the raw skin last minute and didn’t know how it would land. I still think it feels a little flat, but something I’ll keep in mind when I draw TY’s werewolf in the future to integrate it more!
19) getting turned on by their partner’s new uniform for work and then roleplaying a bit
+ Officer K!!!
(Reader is a nurse??? 👀)
oh this man with a housewife kink would definitely be into that. thank you salty
| i am still taking a prompts + geese from this list |
prompt: getting turned on by their partner’s new uniform for work and then roleplaying a bit
tags: sexual situations obvs so 18+ only please, i will not be taking notes on k's housewife kink, a little bit of nurse/patient roleplay, k is very handsy, but no real smut i am warming up okay
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You didn't like the hospital's new rules when it came to scrubs. Scrub tops must come down to the tips of your fingers. Scrub tops must be fitted to the body so as to remove any hindrance. Plus, the new rules meant that you had to spend part of the money you were going to spend on food on a few new tops.
Who needed to eat anyway?
Before your early morning shift, the world still a haze of light grey clouds and fog, you stood in front of the mirror and smoothed your hands over your new scrubs.
You looked like some bygone era field nurse. The ones your mom told you about. When women had to wear skirts below the knee, stockings, and heels in order to do their job. It felt demeaning, this return. But the memo you got from the hospital stated clearly: This is an order from Wallace Industries, the proud owner of your medical facility.
What Wallace wanted, Wallace got.
K stepped up behind you in the mirror holding a steaming cup of coffee. "You look nice."
You rolled your eyes as you turned and stole the mug from his hand, the metal warm enough to wake you up the rest of the way. But the caffiene was still a must.
"Of course you think I look nice like this," you said as you moved into the kitchen to stir the oats on the stove.
K followed you soundlessly. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I've seen the way you look at me when I wear a dress." You smiled when you felt him at your back, his broad hands on your hips. "Or an apron."
He squeezed your hips once, like a warning, as he pulled you back further into him. Ass grinding into his front. He let out a huff as he skimmed the tip of his nose along the side of your neck, you craned with a grin so he could have full access. You took a sip of your coffee.
You continued. "You get all glassy eyed. Handsy."
"Like right now?" he grumbled into the junction of your shoulder.
"Precisely." You turned off the stove and turned in his arms. His pupils were blown wide. What a fun game this would be. "Where does it hurt, sir? Can you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?"
He pulled away slightly, lips pursed. "Don't make fun of me."
"I'm not," you reassured, coiling your arms around his neck. "Where does it hurt?"
He looked at you, eyes narrowed, for a moment. Calculating. Running through every scenario. Like a good Replicant. But he wasn't just any Replicant. K was yours. And he was all you would ever need.
His fingers rose and tapped at his lips. "Right here."
"Do you need your nurse to kiss it? Make it better?"
He pulled you closer with a grunt, breathing heavy. "Please."
You wanted to kiss him gentle, a little tease. But K wasn't having that. As soon as your lips touched his, he claimed you with them. Tugged you infinitely closer. Groped and explored you anywhere he could reach. His tongue pushed inside your mouth and you were practically dizzy, a gasp falling from you when he thumbed at your nipples through your scrub top.
He stepped back only a fraction as he whispered hoarsely, "When do you have to go to work?"
"AND THEN SHE SMILED, THAT'S WHAT I'M AFTER. THE SMILE IN HER EYES, THE SOUND OF HER LAUGHTER"
HE'S YEARNING!!!!!!!! HE ONLY KNOWS HOW TO BE FUNNY!!!! ANNIE!!!!!!
You see the vision you trust the vision yes yes
“my job is fool”
It is the only logical place for him to be. Now I need him in an all pink jesters outfit with the classic Barbie silhouette on it.
edit: i had to write it a little bit
"" Ken finished his routine, down on one knee, lit torches in hand, panting from excursion. The rest of the court cheered, but he didn't care. He only looked at you. Queen Barbie. Up on your throne, pink dress sparkling in the light. You were so beautiful.
As he rose to his feet, you smiled. Demure, polite. But after years of study, he knew what that smile meant. You were delighted, but the rules of royalty didn't allow you to show it completely. With a nod, Ken scrambled to snuff the torches and ascend the dias to your throne. No one else would be able to see it. But he did. He always did when it came to you.
He knelt at your feet, hands twitching at his sides.
"You endanger yourself with fire, jester," you said, "It brings me to worry."
"Do not worry, Your Highness. I have been practicing fire juggling for many moons."
You smiled again. "Then your performance was riveting. Come, relax on my knee."
Ken melted into you once you opened your arms to him. Curled around your leg, he rested his head in your lap. It was pathetic and demeaning and it was everything to Ken. You pet his head like a dog, but he didn't care.
He would be your pet if that was what you wished. ""
Lovebug has been working as a hero since she was a teenager.
She graduated from Godolkin with a BA in journalism. Her roommate at the time committed suicide.
Lovebug became a member of the Friend Force Five shortly after graduating, alongside Hammerspace, Splashmaster, Brother Nature and Jumping Juniper. The team never fully recovered after Jumping Juniper took her own life; several members went their own way.
Lovebug quit being a hero altogether to grieve her friend and pursue a career in journalism, abandoning the mantle in favour of her civilian name: Daisy Dumont.
Her time as an investigative reporter was fruitful, uncovering many of Vought's scandals. She returned triumphantly to supe life to help reshape the company as Tek Knight's newest sidekick. This only lasted a brief time before his sudden passing.
Since then, Lovebug's been a real asset for Vought. A rising star, helping to spread love and positivity to those who deserve it (and unmasking Starlighters wherever they may try to hide).
"You can hold my hand" + Holland March (+ overstimulated at a casino?) 🪿
overstimulated at a casino....salty your mind.....i'm combining this with another prompt i received for holland that i also think fits this scenario nicely
|| i am no longer taking prompts ||
prompt(s): "You can hold my hand." + "I'm going to ask you how you are and I would like you to answer me honestly."
tags: this is in the same universe as this, murder she wrote!reader, smoking and drinking mention, description of being overstimulated, holland being sweet as pie
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The case was fairly straightforward. Find a missing son, heir to a massive engineering company, before his father’s will was read. The time limit was difficult, the reading was in three days' time when Holland called you to come help. After a bit of asking around and Healy physically assaulting a bartender, you had a strong lead of where this guy was.
Las Vegas.
Drowning his sorrows about being a millionaire in craps and women.
You didn’t like Vegas. From the moment you stepped off the bus with Holland and Healy at your heel, you knew you were never coming back unless forced. It was nothing like your small, quiet life in Maine. Flashing neon lights and crowded streets. Loud music bursting from every door. The smell of booze and cigarettes seemed to be ingrained into the very air. Even inside wasn’t a respite. The slot machines beamed and beeped and sang. The people gambling cursed and shouted and laughed uproarisouly.
Additionally: it was fucking hot.
Sweat prickled your skin everywhere you went and made you feel groudy. No matter if you were outside or not. A spring chill still clung to the Northeast, but not in the desert. You wanted to curse every long sleeve shirt that you brought with you.
Holland didn’t seem to notice. Seemed to love everything that Vegas had to offer. The noise. The people. The risk. The abundant amount of alcohol. He grooved along to every tune and smiled when he walked into a room like he belonged there. But, as you sat next to him at a poker table waiting for your guy to appear, your short time in the silver city was starting to get to you.
Your felt dirty. Your clothes heavy. The smoke was creating a headache behind your temples. The man sitting across the table kept looking at you in a way you didn’t like. Your leg began to bounce as your chest tightened. That familiar feeling of wanting to crawl out of your skin sank in like a heavy weight inside you. You rolled your neck as you tried to fight it off. For the sake of the case.
But you couldn’t stop shaking your leg. No matter how hard you tried to breath evenly, it didn’t work. Your breaths came erratic and hard. You wanted to leave. You wanted the noise to stop. You wanted the idiot sitting next to you to stop rubbing his chips together or you would scream.
Then you felt Holland’s hand brush your leg. You looked up at him, probaby too quickly, and he looked…Distraught. Concerned was maybe the more proper word. Eyebrows pulled together and lips downturned. Taking a deep breath, you tried to smile at him, but you knew it came across forced. Your cheeks too tight and eyes too squinted. Another slot machine went off and you didn’t even notice that his hand never legt your thigh.
He leaned across the small distance between you and whispered, “I’m going to ask you how you are and I would like you to answer me honestly.”
“I’m fine —” you started.
“Ah. I said honestly.”
You laid your cards down to signal you folded, immediately wrapping your arms around yourself to try to keep whatever was inside you in. “I…I don’t know. It’s just — just so loud in here. And this skirt is itchy. And my head hurts.”
His hand moved on your thigh and you looked down to see it palm up, fingers relaxed. The ring on his pinky finger glinted in the light. Your heart skipped a beat for a completely different reason at the sight.
“You can hold my hand,” he said as the dealer took up all the cards for the next round. “If you want. Might help.”
Unfurling your arms from around yourself, you looked down at his hand again. It practically eclipsed your entire thigh. And for a moment, as you watched, you couldn’t hear the slot machines as well. So maybe, just maybe, this would work. Ever so slowly, you placed your hand in his. Threaded your fingers between his own. Clutched the warmth of him like a lifeline. He held back. His thumb occasionally dragged over the back of your hand as you played another hand of poker.
And it worked. The world slowly became quieter. Your clothes less noticeable against your skin. The smell in the air receded into nothing. The only thing you could feel was him, his hand in yours. The only thing you could hear was him, his quiet shit when he realized his hand was bad again. The only thing you could smell was him, his cologne and cigarette smoke.
So when the guy you were looking for walked right past your table, neither of you noticed.
titsay
tangentwithtanner
yousharknotpass
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2087
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