in the depths of my being, She dances me to her call:
“come to me. I want all of you, my child. no part of you is too dark, too gritty, too cruel for me. I claim all of you.”
Māiyā! your waves carry your call and roll it against my chest. i seek you with my breath, eyes, hands, and knees. my lungs seek you like they seek air.
Ya Devī! soothing her tears,
Kṛṣṇa told Pāñcālī
that just as you, Śrī Gaṅgā, hold and wash all pollutions yet are ever-pristine,
so does the fallen empress remain untainted by her shame.
aches bathed in your luster,
i plead:
take all of me, Devī.
leave nothing of me behind.
establish me in knowing
that despite my wrongs, fears and corruptions, i, too,
your fragment in the microcosm,
remain unmarred.
may the holy flow of your untamed waters
sweeten the harshness i bear towards myself and the world
soften the rigid corners straining my being
loosen the knots hindering you from coursing within me.
Śrī Mātre Namaḥ.
photos: before & after bathing in the waters of Śrī Gaṅgā in the auspicious Gangotri. Śabda Yātra. the blessing of blessings.
Illustration of the Caboclo Arco-íris (of the Tenda de Umbanda Luz Serena) aka the Rainbow Caboclo shaman spirit of serene light, who is aligned with the Umbanda vibrational line of the holy waters (unknown artist, late 20th century to early 21st century).
baelor targaryen x male reader, in which Aerion brings a male whore to Baelor's chambers as a "joke" that ends in romance
note: As an author, I deserve to have my hands chopped off. Damn, why do these texts come out so long? Anyway, your requests are in my queue and I'll be working on them!
warnings: calling someone a whore; references to human trafficking in Essos, oral sex and mentions of anal sex, age gap
Baelor would give anything to make his headache go away. A lot, really. Today is a nightmare. Meetings with the council, trouble, riots at Flea Bottom, a heated argument with Aerion at dinner only added fuel to the fire. He wanted rest, he wanted peace. He wanted…
He hesitated when he saw that there were no guards at his chamber door. The corridor was empty, as it always was at this time of night. Surprised by the absence of guards, he opened the door to his chambers and entered. Ready for a trap, for an ambush, for assassins, but not for what he found.
"Who are you, how did you get here?" he asks, closing the door behind him.
The boy stands in the middle of the room, his back to the door, his arms wrapped around himself in some comforting imitation of a hug. He slowly turns around, as if expecting something bad. He's terrified, his eyes wide with terror, his mouth parted, and his breathing quick.
Baelor blinks. He's standing across from a male whore. He has a male whore in his chambers. A migraine intensifies in an instant. The boy doesn't need to say anything. His attire, his appearance… it's unmistakable.
"I… I was brought here," he says, and Baelor blinks. A foreign accent, not from Westeros.
Of course. He would never have come here himself. Taking it out on an innocent boy is pointless. The Prince just sighs, throws off his cloak, and goes straight for the wine. He feels the boy's uncertain gaze on him. He looks at him, sipping the wine. He's nervous. So different from the whores he's seen, different from what he might imagine when he hears "whore, man whore."
He knew there were men like that. He didn't hear much about them, dirty little secrets, one of the dirtiest. But hearing and seeing are different. Especially since he wasn't acting… whorishly. Quiet, nervous, calm, with his head down. He didn't even look at him directly. "Who brought you here?" he asks, feeling the question unnecessary. He has his suspicions.
"A prince, that's what he called himself, short, fair hair…" A moment of hesitation. Baelor wonders what the boy wants to say that made him hesitate. "He was quite… unpleasant." He says quietly.
Baelor laughs. "To say Aeiron is unpleasant is a gross understatement." A few more sips of wine. "Did he tell you why you're here?"
The boy nods. "I have to please… the prince." He says quietly, looking at him from under his lashes. He takes a breath. "The prince… Aerion ordered to be pleased Prince Baelor in every way possible."
Something slides down his spine. The words, the way he says names. His name sounds on his tongue… he's never heard anyone say his name like that. Strangled, with a sigh.
His temples throb with pain, the pain spreads to the back of his neck. Aerion must always be so… problematic. He doesn't know how Maekar can stand this every day. He promised to keep an eye on his nephew, and he ends up with a man-whore in his chamber.
He leans his head back against the high chair and closes his eyes. Aerion is mean and petty, but Baelor can be that way too. Besides, sending the boy away now, when it's dark, could end badly for him. He doesn't want to have to bear the guilt of hurting him.
He opens his eyes and looks at the unexpected visitor. The boy stands in the same spot, looking like seven wretched things. Baelor's gaze roams over his body; the boy is objectively handsome. Dressed in something that's definitely not Westeros clothing. The robe, the garment tied at the waist, accentuates the waist.
"You're not from Westeros, are you? I can tell by your accent. Where are you from?" he asks, toying with the empty cup.
"Volantis."
He nods. He wants to say it's far from here, but a sudden pain shoots through his head. He curses softly. . Aerion has planned everything, there are no guards, no sign of servants coming. "Pour me some wine." He speaks quietly
The boy obediently approaches the table. His hips sway slightly. Maybe it's the outfit, Baelor doesn't know. He knows it looks nice. He's not blind, after all.
Boy grab the jug. "May I have a cup?" he asks, looking at the goblet in his hands. Wordlessly, he extends his hand, and you pour the wine carefully.
Baelor drinks the wine, taking a few sips. He prefers not to risk drinking too much with his head aching.
"You'll help me, since you're already here." He sets the goblet down on the table with a soft clatter and stands.
"My nephew wanted to spite me with your presence. Aerion is like that, he likes to make life difficult for others. Whatever he told you and ordered you to do – ignore it, if he was mean and unpleasant, ignore that too. As you can see, he doesn't spare even the heirs to the throne."
"I didn't know…" You begin, he silences you, beckoning you with a gesture.
"Relax, I won't blame you for his antics," he says softly. The boy is the biggest victim here. If he were unlucky enough to let anyone else into the chambers, they would probably be killed.
“Since you're here, and my nephew has dismissed my servants, will you help me?” You nod slowly. “Help me undress.”
Boy approach slowly, Baelor noticing that his feet are bare and he tiptoeing. You stand close to him and carefully begin to unbutton your shirt. You smell nice. Before he can think, he inhales your scent. Mint, exotic flowers. You smell like something… distant, old, wild.
“Volantis is the first city founded by Valyria, isn't it?” he says suddenly. He remembers it from old books. Studying the history of his heritage is still something he enjoys.
“Yes, they say it's the First Daughter of Valyria,” young man say, but he is completely focused on his work. He unbuttoned all the buttons.
Baelor hesitates only a moment before asking. The minty scent tickles his nose. “Do you know Valyrian?”
You raise your eyes and for a moment, a tiny moment, look into his eyes. "Issa ñuha dārilaros(yes my prince)."
His heart beats faster. It sounds beautiful, like you've been speaking this language your whole life. Maybe that's just how it was. He studied the language, but after the Dance of the Dragons, there weren't many books or teachers left. Baelor the Blessed burned everything, claiming it was blasphemy.
The boy's hands slowly approach his belt; he moves slowly, gracefully. The buckles clink softly as he unbuckles them. The belt falls easily from his hips, remaining in his hands. Baelor watches his back as he places it on the chair.
"Skore dīnagon dija ios gaomagon foros ao ñuha dārilaros? (What else can I please my prince with?) You say without even turning around.
Baelor's mouth goes dry.
"Nothing, I have no intention of taking advantage of you." He says, the words sounding like ash.
Even if… "My head hurts terribly, my muscles, my neck… so no…" He has to turn around. It sounded like if he weren't so tired and sore he might…
He goes to bed, taking off his shirt and pants along the way. He's left in only his thin, white cotton pants. He rests his head on the pillow with relief. Fuck, he can't leave you like this. He can't send you out of the castle, but maybe another room…
"I can help." He opens an eye. The boy stands by the bedpost, unsure, his head lowered again, his gaze wandering. "I can give you a massage, for your tense muscles," he says quietly.
Baelor is silent for a moment. The offer is tempting. "Fine." He gives in. The massage sounds fine. Otherwise, he would have had to call the massage therapist, explain the boy's presence, and convince him there was no need to send him away; he had no desire to do that. None.
To talk to anyone, to explain, and to drink milk of the poppy. Especially after the wine.
Your presence is definitely… nicer.
"Turn onto your stomach, ñuha dārilaros." He hears your footsteps as you approach even closer.
He obediently turns and lies on his stomach. He really doesn't know what possessed him to agree. But at the same time, he wants… he definitely want; your soothing, quiet presence is a welcome change. The boy sits down on the bed, the mattress dipping next to Baelor's hips.
He shivers, a shiver runs through his body when the boy's hand touches his shoulder blade. Fingers gently run over his skin, down the back of his neck, along his spine.
"What's your name?" he asks quietly.
"[Name]"
Baelor just murmurs softly, a name definitely not from Westeros. It sounds… "Valyrian?"
"Yes."
The boy—[Name]—begins to massage his neck. Slowly, carefully, but gently, he presses the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He focuses solely on this; he doesn't think the boy wants to kill him or harm him in any way. He closes his eyes and lets [Name] do his work.
It's been a long time… no one has touched him like this. He feels, softly. Gently. He and his wife… they respected each other, but still – this is a purely political relationship.
[Name]'s hands move down to his shoulders. He carefully massages the muscles in his right shoulder, then his left. Baelor opens his eyes; the boy is close, leaning in, the scent of mint and sharp flowers tickling his nose and filling his senses. He leans over his back, his breath tickling his skin.
Closes his eyes and relishes this small pleasure. He doesn't know how long it lasts, how long exactly. He hears only the rustle of fabric, and then something spills onto his back. Something pleasantly warm and heavy, like honey. A pleasant scent, spicy, heavy, woody. It smells a bit like smoke, burning wood, and something… pleasant.
“It’s just oil, ñuha dārilaros. And I need to sit differently; the massage will be better.”
He doesn’t have time to respond; the distribution of his weight on the mattress shifts. Before he can react, he feels weight on his thighs. He opens his mouth, but says nothing. A faint, barely audible sigh escapes him. The warm oil on skin heated by the massage is a wonderful feeling. Your weight… Baelor closes his eyes tightly. He should… forbid it, order you to get off, throw you off, call the guard. He doesn’t. He allows you to sit on him and massage his back.
Slowly, the pain subsides. [Name] runs his fingers, wet with his oil, over his entire skin, his back, his arms, his ribs, his waist, massaging it into his tired, aching body. Even his headache subsides.
He wants to ask about the oil.. His thoughts wander in directions they shouldn't.
"Is this oil…?"
"It can be used for massage and sex."
He doesn't answer. He buries his face in the pillow and tries not to think about it. Of course [Name] had the oil with him, after all, what could he expect? He tries to think intensely about something else, not about the hands on his body, not about the weight on his thighs, the rolled-up material of his clothes, strewn across the bed. Think about something else…
How Aerion found him. Did he know what brothel they had a boyfriend at? Did Aerion…? And if so, did Aerion go with him…? It didn't seem like he knew him before.
Minutes pass in silence. [Name]'s hands on his back are like a gateway to hell. Baelor begins to think about things he shouldn't be thinking about. Is sex between men… pleasurable? Is there any difference, besides anatomy, of course. Is it just about satisfying a perverse need, or is there something more? Can one kiss those lips, can one kiss a man's lips, and feel something… something more than just desire.
He doesn't know how long he lay there, doesn't know… doesn't know when he fell asleep.
He's awakened by a commotion outside the door. He opens his eyes and lies staring at the ceiling. Baelor takes a deep breath; his back doesn't ache, his neck doesn't hurt, his headache is gone. He looks out the window; the sun shines in, the servants haven't closed the curtains.
He lies in silence, and suddenly freezes when he hears breathing. He turns his head, and the entirety of last night comes rushing back to him. Memories hit him like falling stones. On the bed, curled up next to him, lies [Name]. He's covered waist-deep in the covers, his clothes off, and Baelor can admire the boy's skin. He feels the warmth radiating from the other body.
Memories of a massage, warm oil, fingers sliding down his spine. The faint scent still lingers in the air.
He lies there, with the boy sleeping beside him. Man whore can't get past his throat. The boy sleeps peacefully, deeply, his chest rising slowly. It's barely noticeable, because he sleeps curled up like a frightened animal. Baelor allows himself to watch him. Just a moment.
He thinks about how he got from Volantis to King's Landing. How he became a whore. Or… Something falls loudly in the hallway. It sounds like someone's helmet falling.
Someone knocks cautiously on the door, and then it opens.
"Prince?" Duncan cautiously steps inside. The knight freezes, his face turning red.
Baelor puts a finger to his lips for silence. He carefully sits down on the bed and motions for Duncan to approach. The knight approaches the bed as if it were a dangerous monster.
"Forgive me, my lord," Duncan whispers, his face flushed and doing his best not to look at the sleeping boy. "Prince Aerion forbade anyone to come here and disturb him. I was afraid… I came to see if everything was alright."
"Alright." Baelor nods. "Listen, tell the kitchen to prepare something for breakfast. Something… light, and have them add something sweet. And bring it yourself. Don't let anyone in."
Duncan nods vigorously. "What about…"
"Don't say anything to Aerion. I'll take care of it." He says with a smile. A small, mischievous smile. "Prepare the carriage as well. Later, you will take… my guest."
Dunk says nothing. He nods. Baelor doesn't get up. He allows himself to lie there, his bones warmed by the warm sheets. The body next to him is warm with sleep; he feels his presence. It's nice, he thinks. It's a nice, quiet presence.
The knight returns as quietly as he can. He even looks like he left his sword outside the door. He places the tray on the table, bows, and leaves. Baelor tells him to come back in about 30 minutes.
Baelor slowly touches the boy's shoulder. His eyelashes flutter. He blinks a few times, stretching like a cat, muscles and skin moving sluggishly and stretching under the covers.
[Name]'s sleep-drenched eyes look straight at him. "Dārilaros." He speaks sleepily, tenderly, softly. The word is like honey and sounds like a sigh. Prince. He calls him prince in Valyrian. Baelor feels his mouth dry again. It doesn't sound artificial, he doesn't say it to curry favor, he doesn't whine like the cheap whores he passes on the streets.
"Get up, breakfast has been brought."
The boy gets out of bed. He's naked, almost. Baelor watches him carefully as the boy walks to the table. He's wearing only short, silk shorts. The silk drapes softly over the curve of his buttocks, the material trimmed with delicate embroidery; lace from Essos.
"How did you sleep?" he asks, lying back on the pillows, the ones [Name] slept on still smelling of mint, burnt wood, and flowers. He watches [Name] stuff the cookies into your mouth like a chipmunk.
"It's as if the you have never been fed." He snorts softly.
"Because they don't feed me. Lady Cecila forbade me to eat more than once a day, she's making me eat light food. She says I can't gain any more weight, then no one will pay for me. No one wants an ugly whore. That's what she says." You devour a sweet roll and wash it down with fresh fruit juice.
Baelor's skin crawls. He remains silent and stares at young man. Something tightens around his heart. His heart feels heavy when he thinks about this, about you. About… who you are.
"Have you been in Westeros long?"
"Two weeks, ñuha dārilaros…"
Baelor can't believe it. He looks at the boy as if he were crazy. "You mastered the language in two weeks?" He's surprised.
The boy swallows the piece of apple, a small smile appearing on his handsome face. "I knew the language before. I know several."
"You're well-educated for…" He bites his tongue. He wanted to say whore. Except when he looks at the boy, he doesn't see a whore, he sees a young man, a boy who has somehow stumbled into his bedroom.
"I never considered a career in brothels. I was sold after my father's death; he was a well-incentivized merchant in Volantis. My uncle—my father's brother—was supposed to care for me until I finished my education. I studied history, languages, music, and art. After my father's death, my uncle took over his estate, losing it all in two months. He was in big debt, so he sold me. And that's how I ended up in Westeros. Bought from hand to hand."
Baelor looks at himself as if he'd seen something… unusual. As a father, he can't imagine it. The sadness in those eyes is so profound, but at the same time…
"You speak of it… so calmly." He watches as [Name] carefully places the plate on a silver tray on the table.
The boy shrugs. "Crying won't change anything," he says, walking over to the bed and standing opposite him. He looks down at Baelor, something soft in his eyes, a tender, tiny smile playing on his face. [Name] leans in a little.
"Still, I'm glad you were my first official client, ñuha dārilaros."
Fifteen minutes later, the chamber is empty. All that remains of the boy are his scent and the traces of his lips on the chalice. The echo of his fingers against Baelor's back. The scent of massage oil on the prince's skin, and the scent of mint on the pillows. Baelor lies there, inhaling the scent.
Duncan promised to keep [Name] safe. He still thinks about him. About what he said, how he acted. So soft, so gentle. He was his first client, even though they hadn't even had sex. Baelor hadn't even considered it, at least not at first. No one had a boyfriend, he was pure, untainted by hundreds of hands…
The door bursts open. Aerion bursts in, followed by a guard. Baelor dismisses the guard and is left alone with his nephew.
"Uncle, did you like the gift? It's for apology." Aerion's cheeky smile and his words don't damage Baelor's good mood. Quite the opposite. He wants to play a game, tease Aerion until he tucks his tail between his legs and regrets his actions.
Aerion expects to shame Baelor, to think that whoring is something unbecoming of a prince. A man's whore should be even worse for him. According to Aerion, he should deny it, hush up the whole thing.
Instead, he smiles and stretches on the bed. "As you can see, your gift was wonderful."
Aerion's brows furrow, his gaze warily sweeping the room, traces of lips on the goblet. He takes a step forward and his gaze falls on the bed, the sheets a complete mess, Baelor naked, or at least that's how Aerion sees him.
"You…" The words catch in his nephew's throat. "You slept with him?"
He can be mean, just now, just this once, one of the few times in his life he's allowed himself to be petty and be to Aerion what Aerion is to everyone else. Baelor looks him in the eye.
"Yes, all night. He let me fuck him. And he moaned, in Valyrian. You gave me a whore from Volantis, he knows Valyrian." Aerion pales. "I fuck him all night, with breaks to get drunk on wine so he could lick the wine off my body."
Aerion looks at him as if he were something disgusting. Still pale, he leaves the chambers.
Baelor should be smarter, but sometimes he just can't.
He thinks for the rest of the day. About that boy. Bile rises in his throat at the thought of you being with someone else. He doesn't know why, where such feelings come from. This shouldn't be happening.
In his heart… He's never desired men. Never like this. He's never thought about it. He's never had… someone like that boy by his side.
He knew how it worked, what male intercourse was like. As a young adolescent, he'd found various books in the library, but reading about something and experiencing it are two different things.
Finally, he loses it. He calls Duncan over and tells him to bring you. The knight says nothing, looking as if he's not particularly moved. It's curious that Aerion has been hanging around Dunk since morning. Strange…
Baelor sees Dunk enter the gate, watching the courtyard from the balcony. It's still light, though the sun has set. Dunk is leading the horse the boy is riding.
Dunk brings you back moments later. A knock on the door, followed by the clang of the lock. The knight lets the boy through and then goes, as per the agreement, to ensure the corridors are clear.
"ñuha dārilaros," [Name] bows gently. "Shall I also take care of Your Highness's back today?"
Baloer smiles. "No, play cyvasse with me."
Baelor loses track of how many times [Name] has been to the castle. He's lost his grip, how many nights, even days, he's spent with this young boy. After another time, he's no longer particularly concerned with hiding it. If anyone in the Keep has a problem with it, they keep quiet; no one has said anything to his face.
The boy accompanies him to the gardens, on rides through the forest, serves him wine—and only to him—at the small council meeting. If any of the council members expected that an affair with the Volantis Boy would provoke a conflict with his son, that Valarr would be furious with him—they were disappointed.
He spends nights with him, sometimes days with him. He thinks of the soft body sleeping next to him. They didn't make love. Baelor doesn't want to press the issue; he doesn't know what [Name] endured on his way to Westeros, he doesn't ask. He doesn't know if he wants to know the answers.
But the excitement grows. Kisses aren't enough.
The wine roars in his head, he feels it flowing through his blood, fueled by [Name]'s smiles, sweet giggles, and the scent of mint.
"Beating you is hard." He snorts, in the middle of another round. He can barely concentrate. Beating [Name] at this game was difficult. The game itself originated in Volantis; he recounted how his father taught him to play as a child. Slowly, Baelor began to build an image and a story of [Name] in his mind.
The young man leans over the table, his skin visible, warmed by the wine and the warmth of the fireplace.
"Maybe my Prince needs some motivation…" [Name] mutters quietly, tapping the game board with his fingernail. "If the Prince wins, he'll get a reward from me."
"What reward?" He asks and swears, something tightening in the pit of his stomach. Blood rushes against his will to his groin.
"It's a surprise. The Prince won't know until he wins," [Name] says quietly, moving marshmallows across the board.
"Call me by my name. We're alone, call me by my name, [Name]."
"Baelor," the boy says with a smile. "Baelor…"
Fuck, Baelor think he's lost.
"You won."
Baelor is pleased with himself. He watches [Name] stare at the boards in disbelief, a smile playing across his face despite his shock.
"So what about my reward?" He asks indifferently. Even under torture, he wouldn't admit he's reached the heights of his abilities; he's fighting this round as if he were fighting the Blackfyres for a kingdom.
Baelor watches you rise from your chair. Slowly, carefully, barefoot again, you walk towards him. He can't tear his eyes away. [Name] stands before him. From this perspective, he has a perfect view of the boy's waist and stomach.
His breath catches when the boy sits on his lap and carefully strokes his cheek with his finger. The kiss is gentle, tender, like everything in him. Like a butterfly, or the touch of an exotic bird's feather.
Baelor doesn't know how it happened; when [Name] kissed him, with fire and passion, his hands finding their way to his body. He couldn't control it, he could only surrender. He didn't protest when [Name] knelt between his legs, unlaced his pants, and… Baelor closes his eyes as the warmth of his lips envelops his cock. He feels like everything has flown out of his head. There's only the minty-smelling boy between his knees, his fingertips caressing his thighs and his tongue teasing his cock.
Then, when he finally climax in the boy's mouth, he stands up, pauses, and, later he'll never know if it's was the wine or the post-orgasmic haze. But then he stands up and takes [Name] in his arms and throws his on the bed. Baelor quickly shed their clothes, and in the pocket of [Name]'s clothes searches oil.
And takes him. He can't hold back a moan as he enters the [Name]'s hot, tight core. [Name] moans softly, whispers his name, repeatedly, whispers in Valyrian, curses in Dotharack, orders him to move faster.
Baelor especially likes it when [Name] whispers his name, moments before orgasm.
“Did my brother really keep him here? In the Keep?” Maekar doesn’t even hide his shock.
“Yes.” Valarr nods. “As he said, slavery isn’t legal in Westeros, so…”
“I understand that part, but… what is it about him, besides his beauty, that attracts my brother so much? It’s not even that he was sold as a whore; Baelor could have been honorable and legal in exposing him, but, ah.” Maekar sighs.
“[Name] is kind,” Valarr says, leaning against the marble balustrade. “He’s educated, composed, articulate, and knows languages. And his presence is a constant reminder that Aerion has failed and must see him daily.”
Maekar snorts. He looks at his nephew. “And you? How do you cope?”
"Fine. I can't forbid my father from having a relationship with anyone, regardless of whether it's a woman or a man. Besides, I see the upside of my father's lover being a man. He won't bear him any other children." Valarr smiles broadly at his uncle. "Other lords don't push their daughters to his bed."
Maekar rolls his eyes. "You're taking it surprisingly well. The boy your father is fucking is young, older than you? Or younger? And you don't find that strange?"
Now Valarr rolls his eyes and shrugs. "I feel like I have another brother… Although that might sound strange, since I consider him a brother and he has sex with my father…"
"Valarr, please…"
The prince laughs. "Come on, Uncle. I'm glad my father is happy. That's all."
