The Portents Had It Wrong | Bonus Content - Stitchings
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Baelor Targaryen x f!reader fix it fic - Complete!
Masterlist
A bonus scene from the main story, takes place a couple months after the epilogue featuring a Baelor that needs to be distracted from returning to work too soon ;)
Content: Smut! Explicit sex, riding, some mild dirty talk, p in v unprotected sex. No physical descriptions of reader, but use of female coded language/terms.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
You come awake in the early morning hush, a soft waking that has become that has slowly become normal for you over the past two moons. Blinking a few times, you reach up and rub at your eyes and then roll over to have a look at the windows to check the time. Dawn's fine and gentle fingers have grasped the sill and are spilling over into the room through the slatted windows. It's later than you were expecting, but you're not surprised.
You turn to look over at the other side of the bed and frown when you find it's empty. You and Baelor were late to sleep last night, having found more interesting ways to spend your time together. He should still be abed with you. You reach out and touch the pillow next to yours and find it cool to the touch. He's been up for a while then.
He won't be far.
The two of you have been as discreet as you can be the past two months, but the fact of the matter is there likely are rumors circulating around. At the very least, the maids that look in on your rooms have definitely noticed that your bed is not slept in very often. You know Nym does what she can running interference for you, but servants learn all eventually. Still, despite that, Baelor has remained very protective of your reputation. When you're in his rooms, he requests that no one disturb him, and will refuse the help of his valet or chambermaids until you've left.
You slide out of bed, and then pad across the tile floor to peek through the open doorway that leads from the bedroom into the small sitting room. Beyond that, through some screened arches is Baelor's solar and sure enough, you can just make out the shape of him through the weave of the screen. He's at his desk of course, head bent reading something.
You roll your eyes a little. He's been feeling much better this past week, his appetite seems to have settled into an actual routine again, and he no longer gets sleepy in the afternoons. His strength has returned too, he's been sparring with the Kingsguard in the mornings and swimming with his sons in the afternoon. However, some things are still a struggle. Reading for long periods of time is the most problematic as it will give him terrible headaches. And if he's pushed himself in that way too much his light sensitivity returns with a vengeance. In that respect you know that it's overall a delicate sort of 'better'. You, his sons, and the Kingsguard all still have to keep a careful eye on him to ensure he's not overdoing his desk work.
Retreating from the doorway and back into the bedroom, you consider your options for a distraction. You don't know how long he's been up exactly. The sun is up, but it is still too early for any of his family to be up yet. You all are due to return to Sunspear at the end of the week, and you want to encourage Baelor to rest as much as possible while still here. Things will be busier in Sunspear, Baelor will likely return to attending official meetings, and take over responding to correspondence from Kings Landing rather than letting Valarr handle most of it.
All this to say, most of the others will still be asleep, so there's no hope of you dragging him off to a family breakfast. You could have him help you with some of your plans for your keep and planting, but that is just a different kind of work. He's been so helpful, but he takes it very seriously - not ideal for relaxing.
The cool morning breeze steals in from the slatted windows, brushing across your skin as you stand in the bedroom thinking. You notice your dress draped over a chair, your underdress half under the bed, and think your chemise is probably lost in the bedclothes.
Baelor's chemise from yesterday is also on the floor by the bed where you mindlessly threw it last night. His hands had gotten caught in the tied cuffs while rushing to take it off. The two of you laughed while untangling him. Learning the art of love with him has been joy after joy. Pleasure after pleasure.
Well, you think to yourself, making love can also be fun distraction.
Naked as the day you were born, you dart over and scoop up his abandoned garment. You pull it on, letting the cuffs hang over your hands, and the gape of the untied collar bare your neck and one shoulder. It's cut higher than the ones you wear usually, skimming the tops of your thighs and just barely covering your bum.
You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror that's propped up in the corner. You look indecent. You look like a temptation.
You look happy.
The open neckline catches your attention. It looks nice as is: undone, ruffled, soft and welcome. But, rather than leaving it, you fix the high collar, and tie the ties closed. You take your time to arrange it into a perfect bow. It hides your collarbones and most of your neck. The incongruence of it with how little the chemise hides of your legs is exactly what you want. You push the sleeves up over your hands and tie each cuff around your wrist.
You put on nothing else.
You slip out of the bedroom and through the sitting room. The solar is small, only enough room for the desk, a bookshelf with writing supplies and a couple of chairs. But it sits at the corner of this tower side, and Baelor has the windows on both walls open, letting in the fresh morning air. You'd feel extremely self conscious, but he's kept the light linen curtains drawn to soften the light. They ripple in the wind, making the whole room feel like it's caught in a slow dance to music you just can't quite hear.
Baelor is engrossed in whatever he's reading, which suits you just fine for this moment. You enjoy the times you get to watch him without anyone else noticing. He's dressed down, in just a pair of soft braies and his doublet from yesterday only half done up. His hair is un-styled, still a wreck from your hands last night. His beard is also a little rough around the edges, and you can feel the skin of your thighs, your mouth, your neck, your entire body really - tingle in anticipation.
Now that you're close you can see that he's reading through a stack of correspondence that Valarr has already responded too. Baelor trusts his son explicitly, but he likes to stay informed so he can be ready to provide help or guidance should Valarr need it. You also know that despite Valarr's best attempts to keep Baelor from working, there are letters from the Bloodraven and the King that go to Baelor directly, sealed and encoded for his eyes only. There is no true escape for the Heir to the Iron Throne. You know this. You and Baelor have talked about it at length over the past weeks. But you also know, while there is not escape, there is reprieve. Times when you can hold the whole of his attention. Make him forget, just for a little while, the never ending tasks that turn over and over in his mind.
You steal into the room and you're halfway to the desk before Baelor looks up. You don't pause though, even when his eyes widen in surprise at your clothing choices. He pushes back his chair, automatically making to stand, as any knight would when a lady enters a room - but you reach his side before he can rise. You take advantage of the space he has made and drop sideways into his lap, grateful that the chair he's in is wide enough to accommodate you both comfortably. He rushes to catch you, one arm coming around your back easily, the other draping across your legs to cradle you close and keep you from sliding off. You hook the back of your knees over the arm rest, and loop your arms around his neck and shoulders.
He looks shocked and at the same time, oh so pleased. You revel in it, that even after weeks of learning each other as you have you can still surprise him.
"Good morning, your Grace," you whisper with a voice full of laughter, pressing your own pleasure to his cheek as you lean in to kiss him there.
He shudders, his hand tightening just for a second on your bare thigh. You kick your feet, delighted.
"Good morning, my lady," he says hoarsely back. He seems both at a loss, and yet somehow already plotting a response. It will be wonderfully devastating you know this from experience.
"How long have you been up?" you ask, bringing one hand up to play with his hair. It has gotten longer. He's been keeping the ends neatly trimmed, so it falls in gorgeous waves and frames his handsome face.
"Not long," he answers. You feel his eyes on taking in the little details of his chemise on you. The closed collar, how little it covers of your legs, your hips, where it has rucked up and where it hasn't.
"Hmm," you reply pressing your lips to the hinge of his jaw. "Liar. None of this is pressing, Valarr would have said so."
He huffs a laugh, and drags you half an inch closer and leans back fully in his chair.
"I couldn't sleep," he explains. "Might as well use the time to catch up on the news from the Capital, my love."
"We could have used the time in other ways," you point out.
"You were sleeping, I didn't want to wake you," he turns his face towards you, trying to find your lips with his. You tilt your face away so he misses, kissing your cheek instead. He turns it into a path of step stone kisses from your cheek to your ear where he sets his teeth gently to the lobe.
You don't hide your gasp, you always let him hear every noise that he draws from you.
"You can wake me up for anything, my Prince" you breathe. "For a kiss, to listen, to hold you, to distract you."
"What if I just miss you?" he asks, trying to kiss his way down your neck but the high collar of his chemise stymies him. Before he can reach for the tie, you pull away just enough that you can look at him directly, using your hand in his hair to grip and turn him to face you properly.
"Especially if you miss me," you say, looking into his beautiful eyes. He won't do it, you know. He loves you too much to disturb your sleep for anything less than the palace being on fire. He wants you happy, safe and content. You are learning again what it means to be loved. And you have never, even been loved quite like this. Baelor Targaryen is not a man that does anything by halves.
It is a heady and wonderful thing, being loved by him. You hope you make him feel the same. It isn't in you to love in parts or pieces either.
"You are always welcome to wake me if you miss me" you continue still breathless from the just way he looks at you, his heart, his desire so plain in his mismatched eyes. You let your desire, your love be equally plain on your face. Leaning forward to let your lips hover tantalizing over his you whisper: "Or even if you just miss being inside me."
"Is that so?" he asks in a rough voice. The hand on your thigh slides up and up under his chemise and he presses his thumb to the peak of your sex, drawing a single agonizingly slow circle around it. You let your right leg fall open, almost falling off the edge of the armrest.
"Yes, gods, yes." You mutter your voice breaking halfway on the second affirmation when he presses in tight on you before rubbing in a circle again and again.
"Would you like that?" he queries, his voice could almost be read as calmly curious but you can feel his heartbeat racing, the way his breathing is anything but measured.
"I'd love it," you confess. You arch your back a little, pressing more of your weight directly on top of his lap. You feel the shape of him growing hard against your ass.
"Maybe you catch me in the middle of a dream," you say, unspooling the thought as easily as you would thread. "Maybe I'd feel your touch in that dream. Maybe it blurs the edges of what is real and what isn't. I'd be so easy for you, my love. My Prince. Still open, still wet from earlier in the night."
He changes his grip on you, putting both hands on your waist to guide you off him, trying to turn you as he does. You know exactly what he wants without having to ask. You slide your knees off the arm rest, drop your feet to the floor so you can turn and climb into his lap facing him directly this time. He pulls you in close again, your chests pressed to each other. You are grateful once again for how wide the chair is, because it means you can kneel with a knee on either side of his hips. Your unbound hair falls forward over your shoulders as you lean over him.
"You'd let me," he pants, looking up at you, "You'd let me just have you like that. Half in dreams, half in my arms."
You kiss him properly, mouth open, desperate. He meets you with the same. You kiss, and kiss, and kiss scarcely breaking for air taking all you need from each other instead.
"There is no moment where I am not longing to be in your arms," you say. His grip on you goes tight, then both arms move and wrap around you.
"I want to live in you," he confesses, like it's a secret. "I want you to carry me around with you always. I want to carry you around with me. I want for every time someone looks at me, they see you."
"I do," you say unable to catch your breath. "I do carry you. Everywhere. Every when. I'll never set you down, Baelor. I will never want to."
One of his arms unwinds from your back and instead reaches down between you to find the center peak of your sex again. You're wet, easy, open, just like you said you would be. He rubs over your slit with his fingers, making sure, before dipping one, then two gently inside you. He uses his other hand to press to your lower back, guiding you in a rolling grind against those fingers. Your heart is racing, and you can scarcely keep from panting as he works your body with pleasure. He watches you, eyes searching your face, your heaving chest, the dip and dance of your hips.
"Baelor," you beg on a whine as his fingers crook in you sending you shuddering, and your hands gripping the back of the chair to try and stay upright. "Please, Baelor, please."
"You're so beautiful," he whispers. "I love this. I love seeing you in the daylight."
You look at him with the same amazement, realizing that he's right - seeing him in the warm light of dawn is an incredible sight. There is sweat gathering at his hairline, the longer strands catching there. In the daylight you can see every detail of how his eyes have dilated, the purple edge of his one lighter eye blazing such a bright and incredible lavender. It reminds you of the lighting that forks across the sky on stormy nights. The soft brown of his other eye is the color of good whiskey, the edge an even lighter amber that glows like the sunlight pooling on the floor by the desk.
"I'll find you in the daytime again," you promise. "I'll sneak into you solar one afternoon after your meetings are done. Tell The Captain to not let anyone in. Have each other across your desk, so that you can never be there without thinking of me."
"I'm always thinking of you," he says.
"Like this?" you ask with a sly twist to your hips. He presses his thumb against your peak again just to watch you lose the rest of whatever you were going to say on a moan.
"Like this," he agrees. "Like this, like how you are in my bed, like you are laughing with my family, like you are when stand in your river - a blessing the gods made just for me."
"Rivers," you swear at him as he keeps working you over with his fingers, his words, his eyes.
"Ask me," he says, his voice half entreaty, half order. "I'll give you anything you want, all you have to do is ask me."
You lean forward and kiss him, taking the taste of his promise from his mouth. When you break apart to breathe you kiss his cheek, his nose, his forehead. You cradle his head in your hands.
"In me?" you beg. "I want you in me."
He pulls his hand free of you and you mourn the loss. He frantically opens the placket of his braies and pulls his cock free of his clothing. You need no other encouragement or guidance, he holds himself still and you drop onto him as slowly as your shaking knees and thighs will let you. You try to draw it out, but once the head of him slips past the opening of your cunt the breach feels too good to go slow. He seems to agree because his hands are on your hips pulling you down. You have to let your knees fall over the edge of the chair on either side, the stretch isn't an easy one for you, but gods is it worth it.
Like this you can feel every inch of him pressed up in you, the curve of his cock firm against your inner walls, especially against your belly. You don't have much leverage to move beyond a shallow rocking, but at present you think anything more than that would be so overwhelming it might drive you to madness.
Pressed close like this, if feels as if you're sharing everything, body, soul, the depths of your heart. Pressed close like this while in the warm daylight feels like a sacred rite, a hushed and precious secret. You feel as though you could stay like this for hours, holding him close, and being held in return.
He reaches up with one shaking hand to touch the bow you've tied the ties of the shirt shut with. You feel him take the end of the tie and pull it just enough that the collar goes taunt around your neck. That tiny bit of tension, barely there, just a teasing touch makes you feel as if every stitch of your body pulls tight too. You can scarcely take in a full breath. He watches, his eyes fixed on your face while he draws the tie free of its bow. You can hear the fibers whispering against one another and it holds you in place, as though you were the one tied in knots.
When the loop finally passes through the knot the taunt press of the collar loosens just a little. You feel one of his fingers pass under the last of the cross and when he draws on that last bit of the knot he draws you in for a kiss at the same time. You fall into it. Your cunt pulses around his shaft and he groans into the kiss. He slides his hand under the collar pressing it back, pulling it away from your neck. Breaking free of your kiss, he scrapes his mouth against your jaw, your neck, letting the rough texture of his beard leave you gasping.
You hang on as best you can, but spread as you are over his lap you've given up any leverage or height you had previously. You keep one hand on the chairback and the other you return to clutch at his hair. Your back bends over his arm as he tips you just a little so he can continue to press kisses down your neck, across the top of your chest as he impatiently pulls the chemise down as far as it will go. Meant for his larger frame it gapes obligingly for him, almost uncovering your breasts.
"Touch yourself," he murmurers in a heady voice. His free hand rubs at one of your nipples, using the rough texture of the linen to scrape and tease the sensitive skin into a stiff bud he can then bite through the shirt. There is no holding back the moan that draws from you. You follow his order, mindless with the pleasure he's already brought to you, letting go of his hair to dip your own fingers to your clit.
You can feel him too, where he's thrusting into you in shallow, tight thrusts. Each one raises you up on the chair a few centimeters, the skin of your inner thighs scraping deliciously against the edge of the chair. You rub your clit in slow, hard circles, just as he did earlier, because gods you want this to last forever. Every pass of your fingers at the top causes your cunt to clench and pulse, and he pants open mouthed against your skin in reply.
It's a slow build from an already lofty height the pleasure the two of you are making together, and you both enjoy every inch of the climb. He drops his free hand to the armrest and uses it to press you both up a little on each thrust, giving himself just a little more room to fuck you as deeply as possible in this position.
You can hardly get the words out, but he has to know, he has to know how makes you feel.
"I want you close like this always," you gasp, your voice pitching high as he pushes into you so hard on his next thrust you almost lose your balance. "Asleep, awake, it doesn't matter. This is where you belong, just like this."
"Then I'll keep you right here," he groans out. "Always right here. We'll scandalize everyone. My family. The court. I'll rule from my throne with you perched just like this."
A shudder wracks you from your toes to the tips of your hair at that harrowing and thrilling picture. You've never seen the Red Keep, but you try to picture it. You try to picture his solar in the Tower of the Hand, riding him in front of petitioners. The Great Hall, the steps up to the Iron Throne. The altar in the Sept that he shares a name with. Let everyone see. Let everyone see how he loves you. Let everyone see how you love him.
After so many years in hiding, of being forced to disappear, you let yourself be drawn into the fantasy of never having to hide a single thing about yourself ever again. Not your history, not your faith, not your loyalties, not your body, not your heart. To be free completely of anything and everyone - except him. Except your beloved Prince, who you have chosen for your own. You will never love another the way you have come to love him.
"I love you," you tell him, because it is oh so easy, and oh so true. Baelor smiles so sweetly at you, once again shocked and pleased. As though it's a surprise every time that you still love him.
His arm around you tightens and your hand that's pressed against your clit is trapped between his belly and yours. He holds you there, rolls his hips up into yours once, twice, thrice and that's all you can take. All the threads of you snap at once, and the stitching comes undone. You ride the rush of pleasure never taking your eyes off him.
"Gods, I love you," he rasps watching you come and rolling your tightening cunt on his cock while you tremble and shake through your peak. He manages just two more rough twists before you feel him come in you in turn. The two of you rock together back and forth, letting the last of your shared pleasure wash free of your bodies, draining away in tandem. He lets go of the armrest and settles, shaking in the chair. You ease up your grip on it too, and pull your other hand free. Your fingers are sticky. You wipe them on his chemise that you are still, somehow, mostly wearing. He watches you do it, his gaze still heavy with desire and hunger.
His attention is intoxicating, and even though you have both just come you find yourself unwilling to let this moment end. Inspired a little by his words and yours, you press back in his arms until you feel the edge of the desk against your mid back. Smirking just a little you rest against it, trusting it to hold up your weight. You close your eyes and stretch, dropping your arms on the desk top and scattered letters.
He has not pulled out of you. In fact he leaves his hands on your waist, keeping himself fully sheathed inside you. You feel him staring. Memorizing you. You let him.
He leans forward eventually, pressing his face to his chemise again. You pick up one hand and run it through his hair. He hums, content. You let the quiet aftermath rest on the two of you like a blanket. Let the breeze brush over you, cooling the sweat on your skin. He turns his face so he can lay his ear against your heart. You keep petting your fingers through his hair.
As your heartbeat slows, you can just barely make out the sound of the beach in the far, far distance. The papers on the desk catch in the wind some and it sends them fluttering drawing your attention.
"So what were you reading, anyways?" you ask, innocent and curious, but also a little smug.
He laughs and it shakes through you in delightful ways.
"Rivers take me, I have no idea."
You laugh too. He pulls you up and to his chest once more. You go happily back into his arms - it's where you belong after all.
So it starts with the pack in medieval times, the castle is surrounded by hunters and they know that there is no making it out of this. Stiles is determined to use every last bit of his magic protecting his loved ones and simply lets it flow through each person while curating a plan in his head.
The people all around him slowly start to drift into unconsciousness. As everyone lays on the floor asleep he steps over to his mate, the only one still awake, and gets to his knees so he can comb his fingers through his loves hair one last time.
"My love, I must go. I am the only one who can fix this. My magic flows through every one of our pack, putting them into a hibernate state. While in this state no harm will come to you," he pauses as he reads his mates eyes, pleading with him to stay.
"I will take care of the hunters for now and ensure that no one will find you. I will return one day and when I do, only then will you wake."
He smiles down at his husband's face for a moment before getting up and heading toward the big doors that protect them from the assault outside. As he opens the doors he turns back one last time and looks into his lover's beautiful eyes. "Until we meet again, moja bratnia dusza."
It takes longer for Derek to fall asleep and before he does he feels his mating bond snap at the death of his mate. He feels his eyes glow red and his teeth elongate as his vocal chords ready themselves for what is sure to be a terrifying roar. He's asleep before he can let it out.
Cut to centuries later when a modern day Stiles Stilinski is roaming around the woods.
He had overheard his dad talking about a body in the woods and was in immediate pursuit. He had tried to convince his best friend, Scott, to come with but he was too worried about school in the morning and refused to come with.
He had gotten a pretty strong lead on the deputies, as he knew which areas they would be searching first and had gone ahead of them to scope out the woods.
It was only when they brought out the canines that he regretted his decision. A few of the canines were starting to sniff towards his direction so he ran.
He ran further and further into the woods until he couldn't see the lights in the deputies hands or hear the dogs barking. And he ran for an extra five minutes after that just to be on the safe side.
Unfortunately for him he has no idea where he is at currently. So he just picks a direction and starts walking, he only stops when a strange pulling sensation begins in his chest.
He doesn't know what it is but he knows he has to follow it. He doesn't expect to stumble across a half buried tower in the middle of California. Nor does he expect the window to be opened so easily.
When he makes his way inside he realizes that it's not just a tower but an entire castle hidden under the dirt. He walks the empty halls balking at everything. He starts to call Scott to tell him of this discovery but quickly hangs up the call on the second ring after seeing a beautifully intricate door just to his left.
He slowly pushes it open to reveal multiple bodies that seem frozen in time. He gasps and tries to scream but can't without the wind in his lungs. That pulling feeling in his chest had magnified ten fold and he felt it like it was an oppressive weight on chest, pressing down and leaving no room for air.
He trips down the hall, careful not to disturb any of the bodies, until his foot gets caught on a rug and he crashes hard onto the floor. He had let go of his phone on the way down and couldn't see too well without it. He crouched onto his knees slowly feeling around the floor for it.
He feels his right hand brush against it and his left sleeve got caught on a piece of metal. It's only when he turns the flashlight on his phone on and points it toward where he was caught that he sees the metal he was caught on was a crown. A crown that was on someone's head.
He turns his flashlight to the person whose crown he was debating stealing, and he feels all the oppressive weight on his chest drift away. He feels everything drift away as every ounce of his attention is solely poured into studying the man's face.
The man was beautiful with long dark eyelashes, thick expressive brows, and a slight frown on his face. Stiles can't help it and he reaches out to test if the man's face is as soft as it looks.
His hand is only just barely grazing the man's cheek when all hell breaks loose. The man's eyes pop open to reveal a crimson stare as he threw his head back and roared. Stiles caught a glimpse of sharp glimmering teeth before he launched himself away. The other occupants of the hall were waking up as well and he booked it.
He ran through the halls and climbed out the way he came. Then he sprinted through the woods hoping he would end up somewhere familiar and very far away from the scary guy with the big pointy teeth. Luckily he wound up back in the place where the deputies were only without them there. Judging from the skid marks in the dirt they seemed to have heard that roar as well and took off in terror.
His jeep was parked a little bit away from the where he was so he calmly walked back to it and drove home.
Ensue many shenanigans of Derek finding Stiles and Stiles trying to teach an ancient pack how to speak modern English and how to dress properly, all while hiding everything from his sheriff dad and his oblivious best friend. Though somehow his friends boss is able to lend a hand in helping Stiles figure out what the hell is happening.
Stiles learns three things, 1. He apparently is attractive to at least one gay(?) guy, 2. He himself is also attracted to gay guys, and 3. He may or may not be the reincarnation of some kind of all-powerful being???
His life is fucked.
And hopefully he will also be fucked in the next few months as he navigates his past?future?current? relationship with an ancient alpha werewolf.
