Blurred Lines
❦ summary: a broken lock and a torrential downpour lead you to seek shelter in the apartment of your best friend's father. baelor targaryen has spent years cultivating a reputation of iron-clad honor and stoic restraint, but as the storm rages outside, the tension that has been simmering between you for years finally reaches its breaking point. some lines aren't just crossed — they are obliterated.
❦ pairing: modern!baelor targaryen x fem!reader
❦ content/tags: smut, age gap (baelor's in his 40s, reader's in her 20s), friend's father/son's friend trope, size difference, praise k!nk, oral fem!receiving, p in v, unprotected seggs (implied), heavy aftercare, emotional realization, modern westeros, baelor doens't have a wife (not mentioned if he is a widower or divorced), reader is valarr's bestfriend (she calls baelor by his name), reader is not described physically apart from having long hair (mentioned slightly once)
❦ word count: 2k+
other works
note: based on this request. actually, it wasnt in my plans to write something about modern!baelor, even if i enjoyed a lot of modern!baelor fics. i had soooo much fun writing it. i hope it will satisfy your request, my dear gentle anon. (that pic of bertie is my undoing btw)
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The sky over the city hadn't just opened; it had collapsed. A relentless, grey deluge turned the streetlights into blurry halos and made the stone steps of the apartment complex dangerously slick. You stood huddled under the narrow concrete overhag of the doorway, cursing under your breath as you fumbled with your keys.
Valarr was halfway across the country on a hiking trip and, like the loyal friend you were, you'd promised to water his plants and check his mail. But the lock on 4B was notoriously temperamental, and your fingers were shaking from the biting chill of the autumn rain.
"It needs a bit of a lift before you turn it. Valarr really should have called the locksmith months ago".
The voice was deep, resonant, and hit you right in the center of your chest. You didn't need to turn to know who it was. Valarr's father. Baelor Targaryen.
He stood a few feet away, holding a large black umbrella that seemed to create its own zone of absolute calm amidst the storm. He was dressed for a board meeting — a dark, three-piece suit that hugged his broad shoulders perfectly — but his tie was loosened, and his top button was undone. He looked less like the formidable public figure the city knew and more like a man weary from the weight of his own shadow.
"Baelor", you breathed, finally turning to face him. "I think the lock is frozen. Or it hates me".
He stepped closer, invading your personal space with the scent of rain, cedarwood, and something warm and masculine. He reached out, his large, calloused hand covering yours on the key. The heat of his skin was a shock against your frozen knuckles. With a deft, practiced flick of his wrist, the bolt clicked open.
"There", he murmured, but he didn't pull his hand away immediately. His thumb grazed your wrist for a second too long, a ghost of a touch that sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
"You're shivering", he noted, his brow furrowing with that characteristic protective instinct. He looked down at your soaked t-shirt, which had become a second skin, clinging to your curves in a way that suddenly felt very loud in the quiet hallway.
Baelor cleared his throat, his gaze snapping back to your eyes, though his pupils were slightly blown. "Valarr's heating is off while he's away. You'll catch your death in there. Come to my place. I'll put a kettle on, and I have a fire going".
"I don't want to intrude, Baelor. I know you're busy—".
"You are never an intrusion", he interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a quiet command.
He led you to his door, just a few paces down the hall. His apartment was the antithesis of Valarr's cluttered, youthful mess. It was a sanctuary of dark wood, leather-bound books, and low, amber lighting. The air was thick with the scent of his cologne and the crackle of a dying fire in the hearth.
"Go to the bathroom and get out of those wet clothes", Baelor said, heading toward a hallway closet. He emerged a moment later with a folded stack of charcoal-gray fabric. "Put these on. I'll have a drink waiting for you".
He handed you a pair of his own lounge pants and a heavy silk-cotton shirt. As your fingers brushed during the exchange, the air in the room seemed to vanish. You saw his jaw tighten, the muscle leaping under his skin as he fought to maintain his legendary composure.
"Thank you", you whispered, and he smile slightly.
Hurry, he thought to himself. Before I forget my manners entirely.
The transition from the cold, sterile hallway to the warmth of Baelor's living room felt like stepping into a different world.
The silk-cotton shirt was massive on you, the shoulder seams hanging halfway down your triceps and the hem grazing the tops of your thighs. It smelled overwhelmingly of him — crisp, expensive, and devastatingly masculine. You had rolled the sleeves up several times just to find your hands, and as you stepped back into the main room, the firelight caught the amber liquid in the two glasses on the low mahogany table.
Baelor was standing by the fireplace, his jacket discarded and his waistcoat unbuttoned. He looked up as you approached, and the breath hitched in his throat.
The sight of you — drowning in his clothes, your damp hair curling against the dark fabric of his collar — shattered the last of his professional composure. He didn't move, but his eyes tracked the way the silk clung to your hips.
"The shirt...suits you", he said, his voice reaching a register so low it was almost a vibration. "Better than it ever suited me".
"It's comfortable", you replied, your voice trembling. You took a step toward him, the distance between you feeling like a live wire. "Thank you, Baelor. For...everything".
"There's no need to thank me", he murmured.
He reached out, his hand hovering near your face before his fingers finally setted against your jaw. His skin was burning hot against your cool flesh. "I've spent years being the 'honorable' one. Three years watching you come and go with Valarr, pretending I didn't notice the way you laugh or the way you look in the sunlight".
He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"I am his father", he groaned, more to himself than to you. "I should tell you to go. I should be the man everyone thinks I am".
"Maybe I don't want that man right now", you whispered, reaching up to grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. "Maybe I want the man who's been looking at me like he wants to devour me for the last ten minutes".
That was the breaking point.
Baelor didn't hesitate anymore. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, his finger tangling in your damp hair as he crushed his lips against yours. It wasn't the tentative kiss of a first date; it was a collision. It was years of repressed hunger and silent observation exploding into a desperate, messy claim.
He tasted of bourbon and heat, his tongue sweeping against yours with a dominance that made your knees buckle. He caught you before you could fall, his other arm wrapping around your waist and hauling you flush against him. You could feel every hard line of his body — the broad chest, the solid thighs, and the undeniable proof of how much he wanted you.
He groaned into the kiss, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender, as he backed you toward the heavy leather sofa.
Baelor's restraint didn't just snap; it disintegrated. The man known for his iron will and unwaring stoicism was gone, replaced by someone driven by a raw, primal necessity. As he backed you against the arm of the leather sofa, his hands were everywhere — mapping your skin through the thin fabric of his own shirt as if he were trying to memorize you through touch alone.
He pulled back just an inch, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark with a hunger that made your blood sing. "I have imagined this...", he rasped, his voice a gravelly confession against your lips. "Every time you smiled at me, every time you walked through that door...I imagined exactly how you would taste".
He didn't wait for an answer. His mouth dropped to the sensitive curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp before his tongue soothed the spot. His hands slid down, catching the hem of the shirt and bunching the fabric upward. The cool air of the room hit your skin for a split second before the heat of his palm replaced it, sliding over your hips with a possessive grip.
Baelor sank to his knees on the plush rug, his movements fluid and purposeful. He didn't look up, but his fingers were busy, deft and urgent as they worked away the lounge pants he had lent you. When they pooled at you ankles, you stood before him in nothing but his shirt, the firelight casting long, flickering shadows over your trembling thighs.
He started with your inner thighs, his lips pressing soft, searing kisses against the tender skin, moving higher with agonizing slowness. You tangled your fingers in his dark hair, arching your back as the heat of his breath centered on the junction of your legs. When he finally nudged the fabric of your underwear aside, the first touch of his tongue was electric — a sharp, wet constrast to the friction of his stubble.
Baelor was a thorough in his pleasure as he was in his politics. He didn't rush. He used his thumbs to part you, exposing you to the amber glow of the fire and his own hooded gaze. He drank you in, his tongue sweeping over you in long, firm strokes that made your toes curl into the rug. He found your center with devastating precision, flicking against it until you were sobbing his name, your hips jolting instinctively against his mouth.
"Please, Baelor...please", you whimpered, your hands tightening in his hair.
He looked up then, his face flushed, a silver thread of your desire glistening on his lower lip. The sight was undoing.
"Not yet", he murmured, his voice a command. He returned to you with renewed intensity, his fingers sliding inside you to find the rhythm of his tongue. He watched you as he did it, watched the way your eyes rolled back and your chest heaved, taking a dark, visibile pride in the way he was shattering your composure.
When the climax finally hit, it was violent and all-consuming. You cried out, your body racking with tremors as Baelor held you firm, refusing to let you pull away, his mouth catching every drop of your surrender.
He didn't give you a moment to recover. He stood up, his height looming over you once more, and in one swift motion, he lifted you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms locked around his neck, feeling the frantic thrum of his pulse against your own. He carried you toward the bedroom, his stride heavy and determined. Honor had been left at the door; tonight, there was only the weight of the man and the girl who had finally broke him.
Before he could take the lead, you shifted, your hands sliding up his chest to push him back against the pillows. Baelor let out a low, suprised huff of breath, but he didn't resist. He went down like a falling oak, his mismatched eyes fixed on you with a mixture of shock and dawning heat.
You straddled him, the friction of your skin against his thighs sending a fresh jolt of electricity through your core. Baelor's hands immediately found your waist, his large fingers digging into your flesh as if to anchor himself.
"You want to be in control?", he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel under a heavy boot. "Show me then. Show me exactly what you want".
You took him in your hand, guiding his heat to your entrance. He was impossibly thick, a daunting weight that made you catch your breath as you slowly lowered yourself down. You watched his face — the way his jaw locked, the way his eyes squeezed shut as you took him, inch by agonizing inch. The sensation was overwhelming; he felt like a pillar of salt and fire, stretching you open until you were completely consumed by him.
When you were fully seated, buried to the root, Baelor let out a long, shuddering exhale. His hands slid from your waist to your hips, his thumbs tracing the bones with a possessive intensity.
"Gods...", he choked out, his eyes opening to find yours. "You feel...incredible".
You began to move, tentatively at first, lifting and dropping in a slow, grinding rhythm. The friction was exquisite. Every time you sank back down, his depth hit your center with a blunt force that made your head swim. You leaned forward, your hair falling around the two of you like a curtain, and Baelor reached up to catch your lips in a searing, desperate kiss.
As the pace quickened, you arched your back, your hand resting on his broad chest for balance. You could feel the frantic thud of his heart beneath your palms. Baelor began to help you, his hips bucking upward to meet every one of your descents, his grip on your thighs tightening until his knuckles were white.
"Faster", he groaned, his voice breaking. "Don't stop".
You obeyed, your movements becoming more frantic, more primal. The sound of your bodies colliding — the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin — filled the room, drowned out only by your ragged gasps and his low, guttural encouragement. You were riding him into the ground, and Baelor looked like a man being broken on the rack, his head tossing back, his cords of neck muscle standing out in sharp relief.
The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter until it was a screaming wire. You saw the moment he hit his limit; his eyes blew wide, his hands moved from your hips to your back, puling you down hard against him so he could bury his face in the crook of your neck.
"Everything...", he hissed, a final command. "Take everything".
With a violent surge of his hips, he drove deep as you collapsed into a shattering, white-hot climax. The world narrowed down to the feeling of him pulsing inside you, a relentless rhythm that didn't stop until you were both gasping for air, slick with sweat, and hopelessly entwined in the quiet aftermath of the storm.
The silence that followed was heavy, but no longer tense. It was the thick, languid quiet of a room where the air had finally been cleared by a storm.
Baelor didn't let you move. His arms, thick and heavy with exhaustion, remained locked around you, pulling you down until your head rested on his shoulder and your bodies were a tangle of cooling skin and damp sheets. He reached for the discarded duvet at the foot of the bed, dragging it over both of you with a slow, protective sweep of his arm.
For several minutes, the only sound was the synchronized rhythm of your breathing and the rain still drumming against the windowpane. Baelor's hand, usually so firm and commanding, moved with surprising tenderness as he traced the line of your spine. His fingers were light, almost hesitant, as if he were trying to memorize the texture of your skin in the dark. He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a long, quiet moment.
"Are you alright?", he whispered, his voice still rough from the exertion, but softened by a vulnerability you had never heard before.
"Yes", you breathed, tracing the contours of his chest with your fingertips. "More than alright".
He let out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to vibrate through both your chests. He shifted slightly, pulling you closer until there wasn't a sliver of air between you. The honorable man facade was gone; in the dim light, he just looked like a man who had finally laid down a burden he'd been carrying for far too long.
But then, the stillness changed. You felt the subtle shift in him — the way his hand stilled on your back and his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his brow furrowing in the way it did when he was weighing a difficult political move.
"What is it?", you asked softly.
Baelor stayed silent for a moment, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "I was just thinking...", he began, his voice low and heavy with realization. "About Valarr. About the fact that he's likely tucked into a sleeping bag ten miles from a cell tower, completely unaware that the world has shifted on its axis while he was gone".
He turned his head to look at you, his mismatched eyes searching yours.
"I've spent my entire life being the man people could rely on", he murmured, a bittersweet smile touching his lips. "The steady hand. The honorable father. And yet, here I am...unable to regret a single second of this".
He reached up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek. "It's a strange thing, isnt't it? To realize that the one thing that could truly break my reputation is the only thing that's made me feel alive in years. I should be thinking about how to explain this — how to fix it — but all I can think about is how much I don't want you to leave this bed".
He pulled you in even tighter, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "We've crossed a line tonight, haven't we? And I think...I think I'm perfectly fine with staying on this side of it".
