Over the last couple of weeks me and some of my good friends from silcotwt and tumblr have been working on this collab to celebrate one year of community! Enjoy our Silco’s and all of their various crimes <3
(from left to right: @bethegusto, @mauvedraws, @rcntlydcccased, @skale93, @/doctorstrcnge, @/silcohuspat, @nxarrt, @/_abikore, @/_voodoodles, @olethrus-arts, @whiskikistudio, @/arty_the_ninth)
Over the last couple of weeks me and some of my good friends from silcotwt and tumblr have been working on this collab to celebrate one year of community! Enjoy our Silco’s and all of their various crimes <3
(from left to right: @bethegusto, @mauvedraws, @rcntlydcccased, @skale93, @/doctorstrcnge, @/silcohuspat, @nxarrt, @/_abikore, @/_voodoodles, @olethrus-arts, @whiskikistudio, @/arty_the_ninth)
Summary: King Baelor's young needy wife pushes his patience, and he takes it upon himself to handle her education.
Brat tamer, soft dom but still pretty soft Baelor.
Tags/content: explicit smut; hint of powerplay; brat taming; married couple; soft dom; edging
AO3
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low, steady, but threaded now with unmistakable lust. “All of this… for my attention.”
Your lips parted, ready to retort with something clever—something sharp—but nothing came.
Because he was right. And worse—you liked that he knew. He always knew.
“You interrupt me,” he continued, thumb grazing lightly along your jaw, “you toy with my patience… and still you expect to be rewarded for it.”
The words landed heavy, snaking into the warmth that was already running through your veins and filling you with heat. Your pulse fluttered.
“I thought—” you began, softer now, but he cut you off.
“No.”
His hand slipped from your jaw, only to settle at your waist, drawing you just a fraction closer—enough that you felt the shift in him, the restraint that stretched thin.
“You do not think,” he said quietly. “You ask.”
A pause, complete silence. Your throat tightened.
“And you ask properly.”
Fingers tapped listlessly along the stone windowsill in Baelor's solar, where you had lounged for most of the past hour, a weathered book on Old Valyrian customs forgotten on your lap. The sun was setting over Blackwater Bay, sending dappled light dancing across the waves and lighting up behind the sails of various ships and trade vessels that bobbed on the surface. It set the room alight in a warm glow.
Prince Baelor proved to be an attentive husband, eager to please his young wife and more than happy to make her one of his highest priorities—after the wellbeing of the realm, of course. Your anxious fears and concerns regarding your arranged marriage were quickly dashed once you became his second wife, and your relationship quickly evolved into a love match.
However, this evening was dragging on endlessly as you waited for him to conclude his work and finally give you his undivided attention. He'd had a rather trying day, and though he looked as polished as ever, you could see the tight line of tension in his posture and the purse of his lips.
You had attempted to focus on your book, but the words only blurred together until your eyes hurt. A half-complete embroidery frame was haphazardly hanging off the edge of an end table, loose sage-green threads lazily blowing in the cool air of the solar.
For all of your noble attempts at occupying yourself in something to pass the time, your gaze couldn't stop trailing over to your husband, who sat behind a large carved wooden desk, studiously reviewing ledgers and endless piles of missives.
He looked utterly delicious like this: dark brow furrowed in focus as he thumbed his way through stacks of documents, how the light shined off the scar in his left eyebrow, the way his tongue would poke out to wet his lips. Your gaze ran along the broad slope of his shoulders, the strong bridge of his twice-broken nose, the way his fingers gently pressed against the parchment.
A shiver of need rushed along your spine at the thought: his fingers, stroking along your scalp, skimming the sides of your body, dragging little whimpers from your lips as he curls them perfectly inside you.
One pleasant surprise of marriage was that your husband, older and much more experienced, knew exactly how to make you sing for him. And you had become quite demanding and inexhaustive in the marriage bed.
With a devious little curl of your lip, you snapped the book on your lap closed with a resounding thud, drawing your husband's mismatched gaze up towards you.
"Are you alright, my dove?" he asked with attentive concern, tilting his head ever so slightly at you.
You wordlessly rose from your seat, gauzy skirts falling around your legs, then sauntered to his desk with a purposeful little sway of your hips. You knew how much he loved the Dornish-styled dresses on you, the way they hugged your body and how the sheer fabrics ignited his imagination.
Baelor watched you approach, at first with mild curiosity—then realization.
There it was. That look. He knew it well enough by now.
“Come here,” he said gently, though his tone carried a touch of quiet suspicion.
You stopped just short of the desk, tilting your head as though considering the command rather than obeying it outright. Your fingers trailed idly along the carved edge of the wood, smooth and cold.
“I was hoping, my husband,” you said sweetly, “that you might take a break.”
His jaw tightened, ever so slightly.
“I am working, but I should be done soon,” he replied, patiently, gently with an apologetic smile.
You hummed, unconvinced, and leaned forward just enough that the candlelight flooding his work area caught the sheer drape of your gown. “You’ve been working,” you corrected, your voice dipping softer, “for hours now.”
His gaze flickered—traitorously towards the dip of your low neckline, the soft curve of your breasts that he was so fond of—for just a second.
Then back to your face.
“Sit, my love,” he said again, more firmly this time. "I will be done in due time, and will be all yours."
You smiled, but did not move. Instead, you reached for one of the papers on his desk, lifting it between two fingers as if inspecting it, though your attention was very clearly elsewhere.
“Is this truly so urgent,” you murmured, “that it cannot wait until morning?”
Baelor exhaled slowly through his nose. “I'm quite sure, my darling.”
You turned it slightly, as if reading the script scrawled across it, then let it fall back to the desk carelessly—your hand lingered there where it dropped, too close to his. You then picked up one of his quills, dragging the soft feathered end along his jawline with a teasing laugh.
“You’ve been neglecting me, my King,” you added lightly, as though it were a harmless jest.
That did it. His hand closed over yours in an instant, gripping it tightly but not roughly. The quill clattered to the table.
“Enough, my dove. You test my patience, which I may have an endless amount for you, but you may find there is a limit after all.”
His voice was low, but no longer gentle. A thrill shuddered through you and your breath caught in anticipation. Victory.
“There is a difference,” Baelor continued silkily, rising slowly from his chair, his height and presence suddenly overwhelming in the small space between you, “between asking for my attention…”
His fingers tightened just slightly around your bare wrist as he guided your hand away from the tabletop.
“…and demanding it like a spoiled girl.”
Your pulse fluttered. You lifted your chin proudly, stubborn to the end. “And if I am a spoiled girl?”
A dangerous question, from the way his eyes darkened—truly darkened this time, that constant softness reserved for you edged now with something far more commanding.
“Then you will be reminded,” he answered quietly, “how a queen is meant to behave.”
Baelor stepped closer, and instinctively—finally—you stepped back, cornering yourself against his desk.
One step, two. Until the edge of it pressed into the small of your back.
Your breath had already begun to quicken, though you did your best to mask it with that same defiant lift of your chin,. eyes sparkling in challenge.
His hand released your wrist only to rise upward. His fingers brushed softly beneath your chin, and held you there.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low, steady, but threaded now with unmistakable lust. “All of this… for my attention.”
Your lips parted, ready to retort with something clever—something sharp—but nothing came.
Because he was right. And worse—you liked that he knew. He always knew.
“You interrupt me,” he continued, thumb grazing lightly along your jaw, “you toy with my patience… and still you expect to be rewarded for it.”
The words landed heavy, snaking into the warmth that was already running through your veins and filling you with heat. Your pulse fluttered.
“I thought—” you began, softer now, but he cut you off.
“No.”
His hand slipped from your jaw, only to settle at your waist, drawing you just a fraction closer—enough that you felt the shift in him, the restraint that stretched thin.
“You do not think,” he said quietly. “You ask.”
A pause, complete silence. Your throat tightened.
“And you ask properly.”
You could feel it—his expectation, waiting for you to obey. His patience. The way he would wait you out if he had to, never one to back down.
You swallowed, teeth biting into your tongue—always stubborn, still resisting.
"And if I don’t?” you tried, eyes meeting his and holding his gaze.
Baelor’s expression didn’t change, but a small, almost cruel smile pulled at his lips.
“Then I shall return to my work,” he said simply, already beginning to step back from you, already withdrawing his touch.
The absence of his touch hit you instantly. Your hand caught his sleeve before you could think better of it.
“Wait, husband.”
There it was. The crack in composure, like clockwork. He knew you better than you'd ever admit, knew your playbook like the back of his hand.
He stilled, but did not turn back to you immediately. He let you feel it—your own hesitation, your selfish need at odds, up against your pride. And you felt it, viciously.
“…Baelor,” you tried again, quieter now.
He turned his head just enough for you to see the edge of his expression.
You hesitated. Then—
“…please.”
The word was soft. Uncertain. And not enough for your husband.
You saw it in the slight lift of his brow, felt it in the way he didn’t budge.
Your fingers tightened against his sleeve, and you exhaled, the last of your defiance slipping through your grasp.
“Please,” you said again, steadier this time, though your voice dipped, warm need creeping into it, “I want you, now.”
Still not quite right, his silence told you as much. Heat rose to your cheeks and your breath stuttered.
Gods.
“…my king,” you added, the title falling from your lips like a quiet surrender. He was never one for the frippery and titles, but you found early on in your marriage that he had a liking for powerplay in the bedroom. “Remind me how a queen is meant to behave.”
His hand lifted, ink-stained fingers wrapping around your jaw and tilting your face toward his.
“This is what I expect of you,” he affirmed quietly. “Not games. Not defiance for the sake of it.”
His thumb then pressed lightly beneath your lip, forcing your attention fully onto him.
“If you wish to be indulged,” he continued, voice like velvet, “you will come to me as you just did, asking me politely to relieve you.”
“Yes… my king,” you managed.
This time, his expression shifted—just slightly. Your breath hitched, lips parting easily as he dipped a finger between them.
“Good.” The word was quieter now, edged with something warmer, perhaps pride and approval.
His grip eased, his thumb brushing once along your lower lip as it withdrew from your mouth. His hand then slid to the back of your neck, pulling you forward towards him.
“You push,” he murmured, forehead resting briefly against yours, “and push, until you find the limits.”
His other arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you flush against him at last. You sighed in happiness at the solid press of his body, the warmth that radiated from him, the shroud of his familiar citrus-musk curling around you.
“And then you expect me to catch you when you are too near to the edge.”
Your hands came up to his chest again, weaker now, the fight gone from them.
“Hmm, and you always do catch me, the merciful king that you are,” you breathed.
“I do,” he agreed quietly. And there it was.
Baelor lowered his chin, eyes piercing into yours with no attempt to conceal the lust-filled, dark intent that now clouded them.
“But do not mistake that,” he added, voice low against your temple, “for permission to behave as you please. I will not tolerate it.”
You shouldn’t have smiled.
Baelor’s hand stilled against your back.
Then—
“You think this is amusing, my dove.”
Your breath caught, but you didn’t dare answer.
Because there it was again—that flicker in his eyes, molten and darker now, with much less patience.
His hand slid from your back to your arm, fingers closing around it, firmer this time.
Your pulse jumped, and you knew you should stop.
But you can't help it, never one to temper your sharp tongue when it came to your husband.
"I like you like this, you know,” you murmured.
That did it. Whatever restraint he’d been holding onto snapped.
His grip tightened, and in one smooth motion he turned you, pressing your front against the desk with a force that stole the air from your lungs. An exhilarated laugh escaped you, breathlessly.
His hand slid from your jaw to your neck, keeping you from lifting your body off the table. A whisper of warm breath fanned across your shoulder, bared now with the sleeve pushed down your arms.
Baelor's lips worked a heated, slow trail across your skin, along your shoulder and the column of your neck, before the hand on your neck moved against your cheek to tilt your head to the side.
His tongue gently traced your parted lips, drinking in the quiet gasp that he elicited from you, before kissing you deeply.
“You will remember,” he murmured, voice rough against your lips, “not to toy with me like that again.”
But there was no real expectation in it. Because you both knew that you would do this again and he would answer you like this every time. Your favorite little game.
His other hand moved along your side slowly, tracing goosebumps underneath the silk and gauze.
“You are impossible,” he added, the edge softening just slightly. "How will I ever temper my sweet, needy, naughty little wife?"
A shaky breath left you, your hands clutching the edge of the desk as your back arched against him, chasing the heat of his body.
"But you like me that way,” you managed, teeth biting into the plush of your lower lip. He loved when you did that.
"Mmm, or perhaps I fuck you into submission," he returned with a short, deep laugh. The way his eyes lingered on your lip sent pure need crashing through you.
Your breath hitched as his fingers caught the delicate fabric at your hip, silk and gauze whisper-thin beneath his hand and tore it.
The sound was a sharp, sudden rip of delicate fabric that echoed far louder in the quiet room than you'd think. You stilled and so did he, as though even he had not expected to do that.
His hand remained there, fingers still curled in the ruined fabric, your skin now bare beneath his touch. The candlelight caught where the dress had given way, revealing more of you to his hungry gaze.
Baelor exhaled slowly.
“I—” he began, then stopped, his jaw tightening faintly.
This was not his way. Not the typical patience and care he showed you, even when you played your little games.
This was something else, deeply buried beneath his control and pose, something you had drawn out of him. A new level to your game.
His gaze lifted to yours, darker now, searching for your reaction.
But the shiver that ran through you was not fear, it was something that made your fingers tighten against the desk instead of pulling away, stoking a fire deep in your stomach.
"Baelor,” you breathed, eyes half-lidded and voice dripping with need, knowing that the switch to his given name would give him that last little nudge to indulge in his desires.
An invitation.
His lips crashed into yours with a near animalistic greed, breaths clashing and hands moving to grip his jaw, to press hard into the soft skin of your hips.
"You minx," Baelor hissed, his tongue tracing down your throat and teeth worrying possessive bites into the skin of your shoulders. "Insatiable, needy woman that you are."
A breathless moan left you as his hands tugged down the rest of your dress, baring your skin to the cool air of the room. The prickling heat that engulfed you negated the chill, and you only felt hotter and more wound up as his large hands came to your breasts, stroking the underside then cupping them, teasingly circling your nipples with a low growl in your ear.
You turned in his hold, circling so that your back now pushed against the desk and allowing him freedom to drop kisses along the heaving tops of your breasts, his tongue flicking against the sensitive peaks. Baelor grabbed your hips roughly and pushed you onto the tabletop, hands moving to your inner thighs and pushing them open before letting his mouth travel down your navel, licking a trail down your chest and burying his face into the your apex of curls with a groan.
A cry cut the heavy air in the room as his mouth closed over your clit, with a hum of approval at how unbelievably soaked you already were for him. He ate you like a man starved, unforgivingly, tongue dragging along your folds in long stripes and flicking against your clit as his fingers alternated perfect circles along that bundle of nerves.
Tension knotted in your lower stomach, hips canting towards his mouth with need as you abandoned all control and focused on chasing your pleasure. Your hands gripped his short salt and pepper locks harshly, short breathy gasps leaving your lips like a little melody, one that he took as encouragement as his fingers then dipped into you roughly.
The sudden intrusion pulled a loud moan from you, sure to reach the ears of any servant or courtier that was passing by the solar doors, and you clenched around him tightly. One hand flew to your mouth, suddenly aware of the world that existed outside the room, but Baelor pulled your hand away quickly.
"Let them hear you, let them hear their Queen be taught a lesson," Baelor commanded, his voice a rumble against your clit between langorous licks and harsh nips.
And you, the good girl you are, took his command to heart, freely allowing your whimpers to fill the room as he worked you closer and closer to release, your legs tightening around his head as he pumped his fingers in and out of you perfectly, tongue and mouth working in tandem, greedily tasting and feeling you.
Unbeknownst to you, several pairs of feet out in the corridor scurried quickly away upon realization that the King and Queen were…occupied.
They had only meant to pass by—some poor courier with an armful of scrolls, then a lady’s maid sent on an errand—but the sound that carried through the heavy oak doors stopped them in their tracks. A telling, long moan and a harsh cry of "Baelor!" from behind the heavy doors lit a fire underneath them as they quickly moved along, wide eyes and blushes heating faces.
As your release thundered toward you promisingly, your breaths grew shorter and harsher, eyes falling shut in anticipation of your orgasm, so close and near that your legs began to tremble—then, it stopped.
"Baelor," you cried in indignation, as he pulled away completely, leaving you empty and incredibly disappointed at the sudden denial.
“You do not finish,” he said quietly, "until I allow you to."
The words landed heavy, harsh.
Your breath caught, disbelief flickering across your face. “You can’t—”
“Oh, I can.”
Without another word, Baelor grasped your hips and flipped you onto the table, chest pressing against the stacks of parchment and ink, completely at his mercy. You heard him carelessly loosening his belt, the sound of heavy fabric falling to the floor, then the blunt head of his cock gliding against your entrance.
"Naughty wives don't deserve to finish," he breathed against your ear, then he bit the shell of it gently as he pushed himself into your waiting heat roughly, chuckling at the sharp keen that came from you with satisfaction.
Your walls fought to make room for him, every bit of rough pleasure shooting sparks through your entire body, reveling in the way he pressed a hand into the small of your back, into the table. The lewd sounds of your wetness filled your ears, a symphony accompanied by the groans leaving Baelor, and your jaw slackened at the sensation of his generous, veined girth working into you mercilessly, the praise he whispered into your ear as you gradually took more and more of him.
He paused the moment he bottomed out in you, a satisfied groan mingling with your victorious little gasp as the tip of him tapped against your cervix.
"Fuck me," you whispered wildly, hands seeking behind you for him, for any part of him.
Baelor gripped both of your wrists in hand and with them in his grasp, pushed back onto the small of your back, before beginning to set a brutal pace rocking into you. Wetness gathered at the corners of your eyes, gasps of delight being pushed out of you forcefully with each slam of his pelvis against your hips, the table scraping against the stone floors loudly.
Each drag in and out of you was perfectly filling, so forceful, pulling the breath out of you with each thrust. You quickly regained focus on the tension that bloomed again deep within, each groan that came from him and every messy kiss he peppered onto any bit of skin he could find only stoking the raging fire that threatened to consume you.
You were so keenly aware of every sound, every sensation, feeling both out of body but so connected at the same time. The brush of his beard against your soft skin, the way you could feel the veins on the underside of his cock dragging along your wet heat, the little ridge and bump of the head of him now angling up to perfectly push against that inner bundle of nerves, sending lightning sparking across your vision as your back arched violently into him.
Baelor twisted his hand into your hair, firmly gripping at the base of your scalp to pull your head bacl, so he could see your face when you came. His lips were parted, blue and brown eyes clouded in a lust-filled frenzied look as he took you in, so entranced by the way your mouth parted perfectly and your eyes began to lose focus. He fucked you hard, nearly into the table at this point, your moans coming out of you in silent, harsh yelps.
"Baelor, I'm close—so, so—" you gasped, nearly begging him to allow you to finish. "Please let me come."
Unable to refuse you when you begged like that, in your vulnerable voice and the fucked out state you were in, Baelor let one of his hands drift to your clit, pressing against it skillfully and working it in time with the way he pounded you into the surface of the table.
One single sharp, drawn out cry of relief, then blinding whiteness and stars as you were finally granted release, your body slackening against the table as your orgasm crested in violent waves. He pressed kisses into your hair, continuing to fuck you with a heavy, purposeful pace through your orgasm, his breathing growing more and more erratic as the way you squeezed around him over and over sent him hurdling towards his own climax.
Baelor gripped one of your thighs, pushing it higher up the table, opening you up further and causing you to shudder in overstimulation—but he was not merciful, and only continued to chase his release with renewed vigor.
"You can take it," he praised, "such a good girl, taking everything I give you."
"Yes, yes, give it to me, husband," you agreed readily, feeling as if you had transcended this plane of existence as he quickly set you on course to your second orgasm, your head falling to the tabletop and grinding backward onto him greedily.
A beastly groan resounded in your ears as his head dropped to your shoulder, teeth sinking into your flesh painfully as Baelor met his release, spurts of warm heat flooding inside you as a smile spread across your lips at the sensation of him claiming you, joining him in falling over the edge the moment his canines broke skin.
Baelor's weight settled over you as his hands went to gently grab your cheeks, pulling your face to his and gently kissing you on your lips, forehead, the tip of your nose.
“You make it very difficult to get work done,” he murmured, fondness flooding his tone.
You gave a small, breathless smile, lazily kissing him.
“You really don’t seem to mind.”
A beat of silence, and then an amused sound from your husband.
Then the faintest curve of his lips, before an exhausted admittance.
jacobvanloon
baratheonpilled
areudirty
theartofmadeline
tangentwithtanner
