Matt Smith reflects on Daemon Targaryen’s journey through House of the Dragon, revisiting the character’s most pivotal moments and looking ahead to what may come next.
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prompts: color, quote, character, hobby, accessory, song lyric, flower
Thank you @eilic for the tag.
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Summary: Showing Baelor how much you loved his happy trail.
Warning: (18+, nsfw, mdni)
You hadn't been able to explain it to Baelor properly when he'd asked about his grooming. Every time he complained about the discomfort of hair beneath his gambeson or spoke of having a servant trim it, you stopped him.
You forbade it with a passion that left him bewildered. He'd only laughed and asked why you cared so much. He didn't understand the craving, the visceral need to feel that roughness against your skin. It was primal. Something that bypassed logic entirely and reached straight into the darkest corners of your desire.
So you showed him instead.
You asked him to lie on his back, and he did so without hesitation - with both arms tucked behind his head, a curious smile lingering on his lips.
Your gaze traced the length of him: from his face, down the line of his jaw, to his chest where dark hair sprawled, then lower still, narrowing into a dark line that disappeared under his breeches.
How could he be completely unaware of the effect it had on you?
The mattress dipped as you climbed onto him. Baelor’s hands settled on your thighs, steadying you as you lowered yourself against his lower abdomen, caging him beneath you. The position placed that dark line exactly where you wanted it. Your eyes fluttered shut.
You could feel its faint texture against your skin, coarse strands brushing in a way that sent a sharp, unfamiliar signal through your senses. Every nerve seemed to respond at once, the sensation unlike anything else you had known - a stripe of ruggedness you found utterly intoxicating.
Slowly, you began to move. Drawing pleasure from every stroke. The roughness created a steady, simmering heat between your legs. Leaning forward, you rested your forehead against his - breath breaking in short, uneven bursts.
"Is this it?", he whispered. "Is this why you wouldn't let me trim here?". He watched you with open fascination, his gaze following the sway of your hips and the gradual unraveling of your composure.
A soft groan escaped you as you shifted your weight, moving in circles and savouring every sensation. Ensuring that every single hair of that happy trail rubbed against your slickness. You could feel yourself opening up for him, the natural lubrication of your arousal soaking into the coarse hair, making it slide and pull in a rhythmic, maddening cadence. The pleasure was intoxicating.
You couldn’t stop moving. Your motions creating a gradual vertical line along his lower abdomen. Each time that hair grazed the damp area at the base of your opening, it triggered another surge of warmth between your thighs.
Baelor's hands roamed upward, skimming along your ribs. His touch was light, almost teasing, a counterpoint to the increasing desperation of your movements.
"You have a strange obsession with this, darling," he whispered, pausing for a fraction of a second to look up at you. His eyes were dark, blown wide with lust, but his expression remained one of pure, unadulterated love.
Then your attention drifted to his chest, fingers sinking into the thick, dark hair that spread across his pectorals and tapered toward his sternum. It softened the hard lines of muscle beneath. You traced through it lazily, relishing the coarse strands against your skin.
The contrast of tanned muscle and untamed growth left you feeling small against him, enveloped by his scent and strength. It deepened the hunger already coiling within you. The sight of him alone left your mouth dry. You loved every inch of him.
"You're so wet for me." His eyes never left your face. The slickness between you had grown impossible to ignore, easing your movements while somehow heightening every sensation.
"Tell me what you're feeling." The amusement in his voice had softened into something far hungrier.
"Full." You rocked faster, chasing the feeling. "Even though you're not inside me. I feel so full."
Baelor continued to watch you with naked admiration. His hands never stopped their gentle guidance, never tried to rush you or take control. He simply held you while you used him, patient and attentive, those dark eyes drinking in every reaction.
The coil in your belly tightened. Your thighs trembled with the effort of maintaining the rhythm. And still, that trail provided the perfect friction, the perfect texture, everything you needed to spiral higher and higher.
When you started to feel the pressure build, a golden heat radiating from the centre of your being, his name was all you could manage.
“Baelor… Baelor… Baelor.” His name was a prayer on your lips now.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice steady and grounding. “Just let go.”
And so you did. You ground down hard one final time, pressing yourself against that trail, against his navel, riding out the waves until they finally began to subside. Your body went lax, and you slumped forward. Baelor’s large arms catching you before you could collapse fully onto his chest.
A few moments passed before he cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to his. “My heart,” he whispered, planting a kiss on your lips.
“I’m definitely never trimming now,” he said quietly, his eyes bright with amused disbelief.
“Good.” You laughed weakly, fingers returning to his chest. You spread your hands across him as though trying to absorb every part of him at once. “Because I never wanted you to. Ever.”
thinking about baelor being forced to marry once more to a younger maiden from a wealthy house, and being made to have a bedding ceremony. he'd never had to have one before, but now, the lords seem worried that he will refuse to consummate his marriage with her.
thinking of baelor instructing her through their first time together, his words low for only her to hear, guiding her through each movement as she looks up at him, frightened every time a noise comes from behind the sheer curtains, reminding her of the eyes watching them.
"settle yourself like this" "lower your hips for me" "relax into it" "let me in just a little more, darling"
thinking of how even if it's not a night born from love, he's kind to her, helping his new wife through what is an unpleasant experience for them both, but especially for her.
and mostly, i'm thinking of baelor returning to his chambers the next night and finding his new wife waiting for him on his bed, all dolled up in a silky nightgown, and her timidly asking him,
"how would you like me, husband?"
gods, he should send her back to her room; he knows that, but he finds himself inching towards her, tugging at the laces of his doublet.
"on your back... so i might see your face," he commands.
thinking of baelor who hasn't felt a woman's touch in years, and now his pretty young wife is trembling in his arms, her nails scratching at his sides as he slides himself inside of her once more, filling her up so much that he can see her brows pinching at the stretch he gives her, her mouth parting in a strained gasp.
"you can take it, darling. breathe into it... let me in"
he's all about the praise too, telling her she's a good girl for him, and that she's doing well, and baelor quickly learns that his praise helps her loosen up, but it also makes her wetter, her wetness coating his cock more with every kiss and word of praise.
and at the end of it all, once he's spilt inside of her and lies panting beside her?
"you've done very well, darling. you've pleased me greatly on this night"
she's flushing under his attention, and quietly she asks,
"would you like me to return tomorrow night as well, husband?"
he's pausing for a moment, and then nodding. he needed to carry out his duties, did he not?
just can't get enough of these men ugh. also sorry for the format, i didn't know how to make it seem a proper chat conversation (any tips will be most welcome)
Includes: modern!Baelor x f!reader // modern!Maekar x f!reader
Warning(s): modernAU, +18 MDNI, sexting,
It started, as things with Baelor often did, with something entirely innocent.
He had texted you a photo of a page from a book — a passage he had found and thought you would find interesting, which he did occasionally now, with the easy frequency of someone who had stopped managing the impulse to share things with you — and you had responded and a conversation had started and it had been a perfectly normal Tuesday evening exchange about the historiography of late Byzantine administrative structures until—
Until you had not been able to help yourself.
I keep thinking about last week, you sent. Specifically the kitchen counter.
A pause.
Longer than his usual response time.
I think about it also, he sent back. Frequently.
You smiled at your phone.
How frequently, you sent.
Another pause.
More than is probably productive, he sent. I was in a meeting this afternoon and spent approximately ten minutes thinking about the sound you made when I— and then it stopped and you could see the three dots and then they disappeared and then appeared again and then: that was not a sentence I intended to finish in a text message.
Finish it, you sent.
That seems inadvisable, he sent.
Baelor, you sent.
A pause.
The sound you made, he sent, when I put my mouth on your throat. I have been thinking about that specifically.
You stared at your phone.
Just that? you sent.
No, he sent back, and the single word had a quality to it even in text. Not just that.
Tell me, you sent.
The three dots appeared and stayed for longer than usual this time, which meant he was writing something and reconsidering and rewriting, which was so Baelor that you smiled at the ceiling of your flat while you waited.
I think about the way you felt, he sent finally. Specifically the way you felt when I was inside you. The sounds you made. The way you said my name. A pause and then another message immediately after: I think about what you look like when you come. I have replayed that in considerable detail.
Your mouth had gone slightly dry.
Considerable detail, you sent.
I have a good memory, he sent. It is currently working against me.
How so, you sent.
I am sitting in my study, he sent, trying to read, and instead I am thinking about putting you on this desk.
You put your phone down and screeched.
Picked it up again.
Tell me what you'd do, you sent.
The three dots.
I would start, he sent, with your throat. Specifically the place where your neck meets your shoulder. I have been thinking about that place with a frequency that I find somewhat consuming. Another message: Then lower. I would take my time. I was not thorough enough last week and I intend to correct that.
Not thorough enough, you sent. Baelor you made me come twice.
I'm aware, he sent. I have specific intentions regarding three.
You made a sound in the privacy of your flat that you were glad no one could hear.
You can't just say that, you sent.
I just did, he sent, with a composure that translated remarkably well into text. You feel extraordinary, he sent, and the shift in tense — present, immediate — made something clench low in your stomach. I think about how you feel around me and I lose significant portions of whatever I was doing. This afternoon it was a budget meeting. I cannot tell you what was decided.
What were you thinking specifically, you sent.
Specifically, he sent, how tight you are. How wet you were. The sounds you make when I go deep. A pause. I think about your hands in my hair. I think about the marks you left on my throat. I think about the way you said my name when you came the second time. Another pause, shorter. I think about it and I am hard and I am sitting in my study trying to read Procopius and it is not going well.
Touch yourself, you sent.
A longer pause than any of the others.
That is, he sent, not something I have done while texting someone before.
First time for everything, you sent.
You are a terrible influence, he sent. And then, after a brief pause: I am touching myself. I want you to know that I find this situation faintly absurd and also that I cannot currently bring myself to stop.
You laughed and then immediately stopped laughing because the image of Baelor in his study with Procopius open on his desk and his hand in his lap because of your text messages was doing things to you that you needed to address.
Tell me what you're thinking, you sent.
You, he sent. Specifically you on this desk. Specifically the sounds you would make. A longer pause — you figured how difficult it'd be for him to reply while he was pumping his cock in his hand. Specifically what your face looks like when you come. Another long pause: I think about that most. Your face. The way you look at me. A longer pause and then: I think about the way you said my name. I think about it constantly. You have no idea what your voice does to me.
Baelor, you sent.
There, he sent immediately. Exactly that. God.
Are you close, you sent.
Yes, he sent. Tell me something.
I think about your hands, you sent. I think about how large they are. I think about the tattoo on your ribs. I think about the sounds you make and the fact that nobody else has ever heard them.
A pause.
Nobody else, he sent back, rough even in text, something stripped in it.
Nobody, you sent. They're mine.
The pause that followed was brief.
Yes, he sent. And then nothing for two minutes and then: that was somewhat more intense than I anticipated for a Tuesday evening.
You laughed properly this time while looking at your phone like an idiot.
Good? you sent.
Come over, he sent. Please.
Baelor it's eleven pm, you sent.
I'm aware, he sent. Come over anyway. A pause. I have specific intentions and a desk and considerably more patience than I demonstrated last week.
You were already looking for your keys.
I'll be there in twenty, you sent.
I'll make tea, he sent, and you could feel the composure returning in real time and found you did not mind because the composure was never really the point, the point was what was underneath it, and you had standing access to that now.
Baelor, you sent, at the door.
Yes, he sent.
The desk, you sent. Don't change your mind about the desk.
A pause.
I have a very good memory, he sent. I don't change my mind about things I've thought about in considerable detail.
You jumped in the place you stood a few times and locked your door behind you.
It started with a photo.
Not an explicit one. Just — you, at a friend's birthday, in a dress that you had purchased with complete innocence and had worn with complete innocence and had sent to Maekar because he had asked what you were doing that evening and you had said out, here's proof and attached the photo without thinking about it.
His response took four minutes.
When are you home
You stared at the message with the incipient smile of someone who had got exactly what they were looking for.
Why???, you decided to play oblivious.
When are you home, he sent again.
That's not an answer to my question, you sent.
Couple of hours tops, he sent. And keep that dress.
You looked at your phone with a full smile now.
What about the dress???, you sent.
Don't, he sent.
Don't what, you sent.
You know what, he sent.
You did know what. You smiled at your phone in the middle of your friend's birthday party and sent back: I genuinely don't know what you mean.
A pause that felt pointed even through a screen.
The dress, he sent, is a problem.
How so, you sent.
I've been looking at that photo, he sent, for four minutes.
And? you sent.
And I'm going to be thinking about taking it off you, he sent, for the next couple of hours.
You excused yourself from the conversation you had been having and went to find somewhere slightly more private. Daeron looked at you somewhat confused, but when he noticed the way you were biting your lip, he just rolled his eyes and laughed.
Just thinking about it? you sent.
For now, he sent.
Tell me more, you sent.
A pause.
You first, he sent.
You looked at that for a moment.
I think about your hands, you sent. Specifically how they feel on my hips.
The response came fast: yeah
I think about your mouth, you sent.
Where, he sent.
Everywhere, you sent. Specifically my throat.
I left a mark last time, he sent.
I know, you sent. I liked it.
A pause that felt like him recalibrating.
How much, he sent.
Enough that I wore my hair up the next day so people could see it, you sent.
The pause was longer this time.
Christ, he sent.
Your turn, you sent.
The dress, he sent. Specifically what's under it.
What do you think is under it, you sent.
Not my mouth, he sent, and the three words landed with the flat certainty of everything he said and did things to you that three words had no business doing.
Maekar, you sent.
Come home, he sent.
I'm at a party, you sent.
I know, he sent. Come home anyway.
That's very demanding, you sent.
Yes, he sent.
You laughed.
Tell me what you're going to do when I get there, you sent.
A pause.
The dress comes off first, he sent. Slowly. I'm going to take my time. And then immediately: Last time I didn't take enough time. Another message: I've been thinking about that.
What specifically, you sent.
Tasting you, he sent, four words, blunt and direct and landing like a physical thing. Properly. Without the wall and the edging. A pause. Just you on my bed and my mouth on your pussy and nowhere to be.
You were gripping your phone considerably harder than the situation strictly required.
That's very specific, you sent.
I think specifically, he sent.
What else, you sent.
You on top, he sent. Like last time. I keep thinking about that. A pause that felt like him deciding something. The way you looked. The sounds you made. I think about that when I'm trying to sleep.
Does it work? you sent. For sleeping?
No, he sent. The opposite.
Are you hard, you sent.
Yes, he sent, as if it were an obvious question. Have been since the photo.
Touch yourself, you sent.
A pause.
I'm not doing that over text, he sent.
Why not, you sent.
Because, he sent, when I come I want to feel your pussy around me. I'm not settling for my own hand when I can have you.
You stopped, put your phone down for a second, looked at the sky above you, took a deep breath and tried not to scream in public.
Maekar, you sent.
Come home, he sent. I'll be here.
I have to say goodbye to a few people, you sent.
Fine, he sent. And then: wear the dress.
You being you, decided to rile Maekar a bit more just because he hadn't comply with your request of touching himself. Also because it was terribly fun to imagine him fuming at home, hard and not able to reprimand you for now.
You attached another photograph, one that a friend had taken that same day of Daeron and you laughing together earlier that afternoon, his arm around your waist in a friendly manner.
Maekar didn't answer for a whole minute. Then:
Tell Daeron to move his hand, he sent.
You laughed. Why??? He's your son.
I know who the fuck he is, he sent. Tell him to move his hand.
We were just— you did not get time to finish the message.
You're mine. He knows that. Get your coat and come here.
You would have screamed if you remembered how to breathe, which you did not.
Already getting my coat, you sent.
Good, he sent. I am having some words with Daeron tomorrow.
A pause.
And then one more message, sent with the flat directness of a man who said what he meant and meant what he said:
I'm going to make you forget your own name.
You said goodbye to approximately four people simultaneously, Daeron included, and left.
Yeah, so maybe there's a bit of personal projection here. Can you blame me tho?
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