- SOUTHBOUND, iii.
the party continues, words are said, things are done, will Kiera ever look at you again after what you have done? southbound masterlist here.
asoiaf masterlist here. CW: porn with.. SO MUCH PLOT, you embarrass yourself once, commoner ahh reader, aerion in himself is a warning, smut18+, worship, kind of public sex, sex on a couch, slight choking, biting (nipping at skin) , slight hair pulling, fingering, stripping, baelor with a huge dick!!!! post nut-clarity/guilt, lots of petnames, baelor being a tease. - no physical attributes for reader aside from having female genitalia.
WC: 12.4k words (i wanted to make this really big for you guys) CRAVING PART THREE TOMORROW SORRY GUYS
Kiera glances at you, her brows drawing together slightly, concern clear enough that it makes you shift under it. “Hey, are you alright?” she asks, her voice softer now, and before you can brush it off she has already taken your hand, her fingers curling around yours as if to steady you where you stand. You nod, though it comes a touch too quickly to be convincing, your attention already pulled elsewhere.
The man standing just behind Baelor steps forward then, no longer content to linger at the edge, and with that single movement he seems to take up far more of the room than he should, his presence settling heavy and deliberate. “Kiera, my dear, it is such a pleasure to see you again.” His tone is smoother than before, polished in a way that does little to hide the same cocky edge you remember all too well, that faint lift at the end of his words that suggests he already knows exactly how he is being received.
He draws her into a hug without hesitation, and Kiera laughs, bright and easy, “Baelor!” she greets, returning the embrace with equal warmth, and you stand there watching, acutely aware of everything at once, the way Valarr’s gaze shifts toward you, narrowing just slightly as if he is trying to piece something together from your expression alone. They separate after a moment, and Baelor turns his attention to you fully, his eyes settling in a way that feels far too intent to be polite.
“And you must be… Kiera’s little cousin…” he says, the words slow, almost amused, and that grin spreads across his face again, sharp at the edges, something in it unmistakably wicked. It catches you off guard more than it should, the sight of it, the brief flash of pointed canines behind his lips, and there is an immediate, unwelcome heat that coils low in your stomach, irritating in its persistence.
“I–” you start, only to falter, your throat tightening just enough to force a small, polite cough before you try again, forcing your voice into something steadier, “I am her eldest and only cousin, sir.” The words come out mostly intact, though you are painfully aware of how close they were to failing you entirely, and you can feel the weight of Dyanna’s gaze lingering somewhere nearby, not unkind, but present enough to make you straighten slightly.
“Hm, well… it is nice to meet you. Please, call me Baelor.” The correction is gentle, almost casual, and before you can decide how to respond he is already stepping closer, closing the distance with an ease that leaves no room for refusal, his arms coming around you in a brief embrace that catches you entirely off guard. For a second you go still, your body slow to react as the awareness of being watched settles over you, and then you manage to return it, patting his back lightly in a gesture that feels far too formal for the way he holds you. You try not to breathe in, not to notice anything beyond the simple fact of the hug, but you fail, and the scent that lingers on him is unexpectedly sweet, something warm and clean that lingers just enough to be distracting. It makes your thoughts stutter, irritation and something else tangling together in a way you do not care to examine.
You pull back a moment later, putting a small but necessary distance between you, and he does not linger, already turning away as though nothing about that exchange had been out of the ordinary. He moves further into the room, greeting Dyanna with easy familiarity, then his brothers, his attention shifting seamlessly to his nieces and nephews, and you are left standing there, trying to reconcile the man in front of you now with the one who had handed you a ticket not so long ago, wondering how you had not seen it sooner, the resemblance, the way it all fits together far too neatly. Kiera excuses the both of you with a quick smile and something about needing to powder her nose, and before you can question it she is already tugging you along, her grip firm as she pulls you out into the hallway and down its length, her pace just shy of hurried, until she pushes open the door to a large, overly decorated bathroom and ushers you inside.
The door shuts behind you with a quiet click, and she turns the lock without hesitation, spinning back around so quickly that her lavender hair brushes across your face, the faint scent of it lingering as she fixes you with a sharp look. “What in the seven was that?” she hisses, her tone low but not unkind, more startled than anything, and it leaves you standing there for a second, your brows drawing together as you try to decide how best to answer her without making it sound worse than it already is.
You consider brushing it off, making some excuse that would satisfy her curiosity without inviting more questions, but this is Kiera, and she has never been someone you can lie to with any success, not when she knows you as well as she does, more sister than cousin in every way that matters, so you let out a small breath and give in. “Baelor is the… officer I was talking to you about…” you admit, your voice quieter now, your gaze dropping to the tiled floor as a faint sense of embarrassment settles over you.
Her reaction is immediate, sharp with recognition. “He’s the one who gave you the ticket?” she asks, her eyes widening slightly, and you feel a brief flicker of relief that this is the detail she clings to, not the rest of what you had told her before, not the parts you would rather pretend you had not said at all. You nod, lifting one shoulder in a half shrug. “Yeah… it’s not a big deal, but he came into my work yesterday, sat in the corner and stared at me for like an hour,” you say, the memory still strange enough to pull a slight frown from you as you glance up.
Kiera hums softly, her lips curving just a little as she turns toward the mirror, adjusting her earrings with practiced ease. “Odd, but this whole family is…” she trails off, her tone thoughtful rather than concerned, as if that explanation alone is enough to account for it.
She meets your eyes again through the reflection, her expression shifting into something more serious, more measured. “If he makes a move on you, tell me, yeah?” she says, her voice flattening in a way that suggests she is not entirely joking, and the look that follows, paired with the slight wince as she drags her fingers through her curls, leaves you at a loss for a response.
There are a dozen things you could say, none of them appropriate, none of them helpful, and they crowd at the front of your mind all at once, ridiculous and unfiltered. Hey, I want to climb your future father in law like a tree. Hey cousin, your future father in law was just making eye contact with my ass. The thoughts are so absurd that you almost laugh, but instead you let out a quiet sigh, turning toward the mirror beside her and smoothing your dress, grounding yourself in the simple motion.
“What is even happening?” you mutter, your tone flat as you catch her gaze in the reflection, and she smiles at you, softer now, something fond in it.
“Mayor Daeron is in a meeting at the moment, but at some point he and Myriah might come down to see everyone, and then we will have dinner together, they do this every few months,” she explains, her voice lightening again as she speaks, her attention drifting between you and her reflection. “They said I had to invite you after I kept talking about you.” She smiles at that, and something in your chest tightens, warm and unexpected, because she means it, because she always has.
“Aw, I hope you haven’t told them about the incident in high school…” you say, lifting a brow as you look at her, not needing to clarify which one you mean, and she snorts immediately, clapping a hand over her mouth in a way that does little to contain the sound, her shoulders shaking with barely restrained laughter.
“That will be a perfect tale for tonight,” she manages, grinning as she recovers, and you can only shake your head, exhaling slowly as you glance back at yourself in the mirror, making one last adjustment.
“Let’s get back before they think we escaped through the window,” you say, pushing away from the counter, and she nods, unlocking the door and stepping out with you back into the hallway.
When you return to the room, the noise settles around you again, and your attention is drawn almost immediately to Valarr, now seated beside Daeron and Aerion, a controller in his hands as he watches the screen with mild concentration, not quite following whatever game they are playing but clearly entertained all the same, his laughter quiet as he reacts a second too late to something that happens on screen.
Dyanna sits with quiet patience, fingers working through Daella’s hair as she parts and rebraids it with careful precision, the girl leaning into her touch while Rhae squirms restlessly in her lap, small hands fidgeting as she tries to twist around and watch everything at once, and across the room Egg trails after his father with stubborn persistence, never quite leaving his side.
Kiera’s fingers find your upper arm without warning, pinching just enough to make you flinch before she nudges you forward, subtle in appearance but firm in intent, steering you in Baelor’s direction as if there is no room for argument. You let out a quiet sigh, because you understand what she is doing and why, and even if you would rather avoid it entirely, you cannot bring yourself to refuse her, not here, not now, so you shoot her a brief, mocking glare over your shoulder before turning away, smoothing a hand down the front of your dress as you move.
Baelor stands near the edge of the room, slightly apart from the others, his attention fixed on his son as the boy moves between his cousins, and there is something almost watchful in the way he stands there, arms loose at his sides, posture relaxed but deliberate. It strikes you as odd, the way he is positioned, present but not entirely involved, and for a fleeting moment you remember that Valarr has a younger brother as well, though he is nowhere to be seen among the cluster of children, and the thought passes just as quickly as it came.
You slow as you near him, drawing in a small breath before you tilt your head up to meet his gaze, acutely aware of the difference in height, of the way he seems to occupy more space simply by standing there. “So, more than just an officer, hm?” you say, your tone carefully measured, aiming for something neutral, something that does not betray the irritation still lingering beneath the surface, though you are not entirely certain you succeed.
A smirk pulls at his mouth almost immediately, his head tilting slightly as if amused by the attempt. “Did Kiera put you up to the idea of talking to me?” he asks, a low chuckle following the words, and it catches you off guard enough that you hesitate, your composure slipping just slightly as you feel a faint heat rise along your neck.
“No,” you answer, a touch too quick, and even to your own ears it lacks conviction, thin in a way that does not quite hold under scrutiny.
“Hm,” he hums, the sound quiet, thoughtful in a way that suggests he does not believe you, and when you look up at him again you catch the shift in his gaze, the way it drifts, slow and deliberate, not quite where it should be. You know it immediately, without needing to question it, the path his eyes take before they settle again, and when they do meet yours it feels almost like an afterthought, as if he had simply remembered that he should.
“I knew… that you were Kiera’s cousin when I ran a check on your license…” he adds, the words coming with a faint exhale, and he blinks once, sharply, as though pulling himself back into the present, back into the room.
You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself, the reaction instinctive, because of course he did, of course he would look, and the realization sits somewhere between irritating and faintly unsettling in a way you do not care to examine too closely.
Your gaze drifts away from him then, seeking something easier, something familiar, and it lands on Kiera almost immediately, already watching you with open interest, and beside her Valarr’s attention has shifted as well, his expression unreadable from this distance.
You can only assume she has said something, that the pieces have already been put together without your involvement, and the whole situation settles into something unnecessarily complicated, a tangle of connections that you had no intention of walking into when you agreed to come here. “Well, it would have been nice to know that you were… Valarr’s father,” you say, the words slipping out tighter than intended, pressed through teeth that have not quite unclenched since you walked over here, and the moment they land he turns to you more sharply, his attention settling in full as if you have finally said something worth hearing.
“And how is it that you are so close to my son, aside from being Kiera’s cousin,” he asks, his tone measured, almost conversational, though there is a quiet edge beneath it that you cannot quite place, something that lingers in his gaze and makes you feel as though he is not simply asking, but assessing, and it forces you to hold his eye a second longer than you might have otherwise.
“He and I shared classes at university, I’m the one who introduced them,” you reply, your voice evening out as you speak, the explanation simple, familiar, something you have said before without needing to think too hard about it, and yet the memory it pulls up is softer than you expect, settling in your chest with a quiet sort of warmth that eases some of the tension in your shoulders.
You allow yourself a small smile at the thought, brief but genuine, because it had been easy back then, uncomplicated in a way that feels distant now, and you remember the first time you saw them together, the way it had just made sense, the way it had felt right without needing explanation. It had always been enough for you, seeing the people you care about happy, even if it meant standing slightly to the side of it, content in a way that never quite asked for more.
Baelor notices it, the shift in your expression, and something in his own face softens in response, a quiet hum of amusement leaving him as he lets out a low breath that turns into the faintest laugh. “Well, thank you then,” he says, and for a moment it almost sounds sincere, uncomplicated, though it does not last long before something else settles in its place. “I haven’t seen Valarr this happy since…” he trails off, his gaze drifting away from you, pulled back toward the couch where Valarr and Kiera sit together, their heads inclined toward one another in easy conversation.
“Since his mother’s passing,” he finishes after a beat, the words quieter now, weighed down in a way that alters the space between you, and you feel it settle, the shift from something light into something far more delicate, something that demands a different sort of response.
You nod, your expression softening as you follow his gaze briefly before returning it to him. “I’m sorry for your loss, Valarr speaks of her often,” you say, your voice careful, because you know enough of the story to understand that it is not something easily spoken about, not even now, not even after all this time. It has been years, nearly a decade, and yet the absence still lingers in ways, in the things Valarr says, in the way he carries certain memories like they have not faded at all. You also know, though you would not say it here, that the subject of his father moving on had never sat well with him, that there had been a distance formed there, subtle but present, something that had never quite resolved itself.
“Yes…” Baelor murmurs, the word trailing off as his attention drifts again, not quite focused on anything in particular, and for a moment the silence between you stretches just enough to become uncomfortable, the weight of it pressing in until you find yourself shifting slightly, unsure of what to say next, unsure if anything should be said at all.
Thankfully, he seems to come to the same conclusion, drawing himself back with a small breath as his posture straightens, the moment passing as quickly as it had arrived. “Well, other than working at a cafe, do you have anything going for you?” he asks, turning his attention back to you with a raised brow, the question abrupt enough to catch you off guard.
“No, I think I am doomed to work forever in the cafe,” you reply with a sigh, the dryness of your tone almost convincing even to yourself, and his reaction is immediate, his eyes widening just slightly before you let out a small huff of amusement. “I am joking, gods,” you add quickly, shaking your head. “I did have temporary dreams of being a model, but my parents didn’t really support it, which is fine,” you continue, the last part spoken plainly, because it is, because you have already made your peace with it in the as one frequently does with things that never quite came to fruition.
He studies you for a moment after that, his gaze lingering in a way that feels more deliberate now, less wandering, and then he grins, something almost approving settling into his expression. “You definitely could be a model,” he says, as if the thought is obvious, and before you can respond he is already reaching into his pocket, pulling out his wallet with an ease that suggests he has done this sort of thing before. He slips a card free and holds it out to you. “Call this number tonight, when you get home, tell the secretary that Baelor Targaryen recommended you, yeah?”
You hesitate only a second before taking it, your fingers brushing against his as you do, and the contact is brief but enough to send a small, unexpected warmth up your arm, settling somewhere inconvenient as you look down at the card and then back up at him.
“I… thank you, Baelor,” you manage, the words coming a touch uneven, your composure slipping just enough to betray you as the heat that started at your neck begins to creep higher, settling faintly at the tips of your ears.
He dismisses it with a small wave of his hand, as if it is nothing, though the look he gives you suggests otherwise. “Don’t thank me yet,” he says, a smile pulling at his mouth, and there is something about it that catches you off guard entirely, something in the way it settles on his face, in the way his features shift with it, that makes it difficult to look away.
You find yourself staring for a moment longer than you should, taking in details you had not allowed yourself to notice before, the shape of his mouth beneath the neat line of his moustache, the way his eyes seem sharper in this light, clearer, and it takes you a second too long to realize that he has noticed.
“What, do I have something on my face?” he asks, his tone light, teasing, and it pulls you back just enough to regain a fraction of your composure, though the irritation that follows is just as immediate, sharp and familiar. You have always disliked when men are aware of the effect they have, when they lean into it so easily, as if it is something earned rather than given.
“Just your face,” you reply flatly, your expression smoothing into something deliberately unimpressed, though the slight flutter of your lashes betrays the edge of amusement beneath it. “Which is rather… nice to look at,” you whisper, the words slipping out with a touch more boldness than you intended, though you do not take them back.
His reaction is immediate, a low laugh breaking from him, fuller this time, and the sound of it sends a faint shiver down your spine that you do your best to ignore. He steps closer then, not by much, just enough to shift the space between you, but it is noticeable, enough that you become acutely aware of it, of him.
“Well, that was bold of you,” he says, his grin returning, sharper now, and there is something in it that makes your breath catch just slightly, something in the way he looks at you that feels far too knowing.
You tell yourself to hold your ground, to keep your expression steady, but your body betrays you in smaller ways, subtle enough that you hope they go unnoticed, though the shift in his gaze suggests otherwise. You press your thighs together just slightly, an instinctive reaction you cannot quite control, and the moment you realize it, you curse yourself for it.
He sees it - of course he does.
That grin of his shifts, sharpening at the edges of it. He leans in slightly, close enough that you can tell he is about to say something, his attention fixed on you in a way that feels deliberate, but the moment breaks before it can form, cut clean by the sound of a door opening somewhere behind you, the shift in the room immediate, subtle but noticeable, and whatever he had been about to say is abandoned just as quickly. His posture changes, his focus pulling away from you without hesitation as something like recognition crosses his face, and then he is stepping back, already turning, leaving you standing there with the echo of it.
You follow his gaze without thinking, your attention drawn in the same direction, and before you can place what has caused the shift, Kiera is already there, her lavender hair a blur as she moves quickly toward you, her expression tight in a way that does not match her usual ease. “So, what happened?” she asks, the words coming fast, her tone insistent, though there is something held back in her eyes, something that makes you pause.
“Huh?” you blink, caught off guard by both the question and the urgency behind it, your thoughts still half elsewhere as you try to gather them quickly. “Oh, um, we spoke about Valarr, about you, and about… Jena… and modelling,” you manage, the explanation pieced together as you go, your voice evening out by the end, a small smile forming out of habit more than anything else. It falters almost immediately when you realize she is not mirroring it, her expression unchanged, her focus still fixed on you in a way that feels heavier than it should.
“What happened?” you ask in return, your tone shifting as concern settles in, your hand moving to take hers without thinking, your fingers closing around it in a quiet attempt to steady her.
“Nothing, nothing… I’m just nervous… I haven’t been feeling well,” she says, the words quick, almost dismissive, though the breath she takes after betrays her, a slow inhale followed by an exhale that does little to settle whatever is building beneath the surface.
The room begins to fill more rapidly then, voices rising and overlapping as more people filter in, the noise swelling in a way that makes you glance around, trying to take it all in, and for a brief moment the sheer number of them feels almost overwhelming, enough that the thought crosses your mind without restraint, how many people are actually in this family.
“Here comes Daeron, Myriah, Aerys, and Rhaegel,” Kiera says, her voice lifting slightly as she gestures subtly with her gaze, guiding yours toward the entrance as the new arrivals make their way in. “Baelor and Maekar’s parents and brothers,” she adds, her smile returning, though it does not quite reach her eyes in the same way as before. “Rhaegel’s nice… when he takes his meds. Aerys is… well, you’ll see.”
You follow where she is looking, your attention settling on the group as they move further into the room, and your gaze catches first on Baelor, now standing beside a fair-haired man who stands in quiet contrast to him. The man is dressed in a striking shade of orange, his hair pushed back from his face in a way that seems more practical than styled, a large book held firmly in his hands as though it belongs there. He glances up briefly to acknowledge those around him, offering a few quiet greetings before his eyes drop back to the page, his attention returning to it with ease, and though he does not resemble Baelor in any obvious way at first glance, there is something faint there, something subtle in the shape of his features that links them.
He carries himself differently, more reserved, more contained, and you find yourself assuming things about him without meaning to, that he is well read, that he prefers observation to participation, and the thought passes through your mind simply, without much weight.
Your focus shifts again as another figure moves forward, Rhaegel closing the distance between himself and Baelor with little regard for space, pulling him into a rough, almost overwhelming embrace, his arm coming around him in a tight hold as he claps him firmly on the back. The gesture is loud in its affection, unrestrained in a way that draws attention, and you cannot help but notice the contrast between them, not just in their manner but in the way they carry themselves.
It strikes you then, briefly, how young they all appear, how little age seems to settle on any of them in the way you might expect, especially Baelor, who you know to be the eldest and yet does not look it, and you wonder idly if it is simply the way they are, or something else entirely, though the thought does not linger long enough to form into anything concrete.
Rhaegel’s hair is darker, longer, falling loosely in a way that feels less controlled than Baelor’s, lacking the faint traces of grey that you had noticed before, and for a moment you catch yourself comparing them again, drawing lines between features, between expressions, between things that do not need to be measured, and you let out a quiet breath, pushing the thought aside before it can settle.
Your attention is pulled back as the man steps away from Baelor and moves toward Kiera, his expression brightening as he approaches, his energy shifting into something softer, more contained. “Sweetheart,” he greets, his voice warm as he wraps his arms around her, the embrace gentler than the last, though no less familiar, and she leans into it easily, allowing herself to be pulled from your side, leaving your hand empty where it had been holding hers only moments before.
You are left standing there, your fingers drifting to the clasp of your clutch as you fidget with it absentmindedly, your gaze moving between them and the rest of the room, trying to place yourself within it again, to find some steady point in the middle of the noise and the movement and the unfamiliar weight of it all.
“Oh, you must be the cousin, how delighted I am to finally meet you, I thoroughly enjoyed the fish story!” the man exclaims, his voice bright and animated, and it takes you a second to catch up to what he has said, your brows drawing together as you turn instinctively toward Kiera.
“She told everyone about the fish story?” you ask, your tone edged with disbelief, though there is no real heat behind it, just the quiet horror of knowing exactly which story he means, and before you can say anything else he is already pulling you into a hug, warm and enthusiastic in a way that leaves little room for protest.
“Yes, and the boating accident and th–” he begins, his words spilling out without pause, only to be cut short by a low laugh from somewhere beside you.
“I think Kiera has embarrassed the girl enough, gel,” Baelor says, his voice carrying a note of amusement as he steps back into your space as though he had never left it, his presence settling beside you again with ease, and before you can shift away his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, warm and steady, the contact drawing your attention to it immediately, unwelcome in its familiarity.
You resist the urge to shrug him off, though the instinct is there, sharp and immediate, and instead you remain still, your focus flicking briefly to Kiera, who is watching the interaction with an expression that borders on mischievous, her eyes moving from his hand to your face and back again with far too much interest.
She says nothing, only smiles, that knowing look lingering just long enough before she steps back, excusing herself with a casual ease that feels entirely deliberate. “I better go and see Valarr,” she says, though the glance she gives you suggests she is leaving you here on purpose, and then she is gone, slipping away into the crowd before you can stop her.
“Oh, I better go and see my nephews,” Rhaegel adds, his attention already elsewhere as he moves off in the opposite direction, his energy shifting as he makes his way toward Egg, scooping the boy up into an enthusiastic embrace that is only barely controlled, while Maekar watches nearby with a tight expression, his eyes tracking every movement as though ready to intervene should anything go wrong.
You let out a small hum, your attention returning to the man beside you, the one who has yet to remove his hand from your shoulder, the weight of it still present as you tilt your head up to look at him. “What a sweet family you have,” you say, the words coming easily enough, though they carry a quiet sincerity, because despite everything, despite the chaos of it all, there is something undeniably warm about the way they exist together.
He is already looking at you when you meet his gaze, as though he had not looked away at all, and the smile that follows is quick, almost pleased. “Come meet my parents,” he says, and before you can form any sort of response, before you can even consider declining, his hand shifts from your shoulder to guide you forward, pulling you along with a confidence that leaves little room for hesitation.
You barely have time to gather yourself before you are standing in front of them, your attention catching immediately on the woman before you, and for a brief moment everything else fades.
“Oh, hello, Baelor, is this your guest?” she asks, stepping forward with an ease that draws the eye, and you recognize her at once, not from here, not from this moment, but from every image, every article, every quiet admiration you had held at a distance. Myriah.
She is beautiful, a woman so talented stands before you - you cannot help feeling an intense feeling to just gawp. But you force it down quickly, pushing past the instinct to stare, replacing it with something more appropriate, something controlled. “No, ma’am, I’m here as Kiera’s emotional support,” you reply, your tone polite, your expression settling into something neutral as you offer a small smile.
Her gaze moves over you then, slow and assessing, not unkind, but thorough in a way that makes you straighten slightly under it, and then she smiles, something genuine lighting her expression. “You are stunning,” she says, the compliment delivered without hesitation, her eyes flicking briefly toward Baelor as if to tell him something.
Before you can respond, another presence steps forward, Daeron moving to her side with quiet confidence, his hand settling at her waist in a gesture that speaks of long familiarity. “Ah, yes, you must be the cousin who–” he begins, and the moment the words leave his mouth you feel a flicker of dread, your mind already racing ahead to whatever story might follow, to whichever memory Kiera has decided to share.
You tense slightly, bracing for it, but the sentence never finishes.
“Let us not chase off our guest, father,” Baelor cuts in smoothly, his tone light but firm, and before you can fully register it his hand has shifted again, no longer at your shoulder but at your waist, the placement more deliberate now, more forward, and it catches you off guard just enough to still you where you stand.
Daeron pauses, then nods, the hint of a smile touching his mouth as he reaches for your hand instead, taking it gently in his own. “It is an honor to see you at last, my dear, any family of Kiera’s is ours,” he says, his tone warm, the gesture almost grandfatherly as he pats your hand lightly, and the sincerity in it eases some of the tension that had settled in your chest.
You cannot help but smile in return, offering a quiet thanks, the moment brief but genuine, and when it ends you take the first opportunity to step back, creating a small but necessary distance before excusing yourself.
Your gaze searches for Kiera almost immediately, finding her without too much difficulty, and you make your way back to her side, the familiar comfort of it grounding in a way that the rest of the room has yet to be. “Are you okay?” you ask, and she nods a little too quickly, “I’m fine, it’s just nerves, swear,” she says, holding out her pinky, and you do not hesitate, looping yours with hers, thumbs pressing together as you seal it. “Okay, if you need anything, I can have Tanselle do a distress call to get us out of here, just give me the signal,” you murmur, tipping her a quick wink, t hen Valarr is back at her side with a glass of juice, pressing it into her hand with a care that feels practiced, his attention flicking to you once he is certain she has taken it.
“Well, finally away from the grips of my father?” he muses, lifting his own glass as if to punctuate it, and you roll your eyes before you can stop yourself, the motion easy, familiar, “I still can’t believe your father is the officer that gave me a ticket,” you say, the disbelief settling back into your voice as if it had never quite left, and you feel it then, that shift behind you.
“Well, you definitely ran the red light,” he says, the words low, almost idle, hands tucked into his pockets as if he has been there all along, and before you can turn fully he is already reaching past you, fingers catching briefly in Valarr’s hair in a passing ruffle that is more habit than thought, “Dinner’s ready, do you want to escort your guests to the dining room?” he adds, tone turning lighter, directed at his son though you can feel the edge of it tilt back toward you.
You do turn then, just enough to look at him properly, and the irritation comes quick,“On second thought, Kiera, I will take your cousin,” he continues, nodding once as if the decision is already made, ushering them forward with a small motion of his hand, and you catch the way Kiera hesitates, her gaze flicking between you and him, Valarr no better, lingering half a second too long before he lets himself be guided away, leaving you where you stand.
For a brief stretch it is only you and him left lingering in the far too large lounge room, the noise of the others having drifted ahead, and before you can quite decide whether to follow or pretend you have somewhere else to be, he gestures you forward and begins leading you down the hall toward the dining room, his pace unhurried, his presence steady at your side, “I do hope you enjoy the afternoon,” he says, and his hand remains at the small of your back as though it had settled there without thought, though you are far too aware of it to believe that, every step measured against the warmth of his palm through the fabric of your dress, close enough to notice, not quite enough to call out.
“Thank you, Baelor, I am enjoying it so far,” you answer, the words coming a touch more careful than you intend, and you allow yourself a small, polite smile, though it feels thin under the weight of his attention, because the touch lingers, and for a moment it almost feels hesitant, as though he is aware of it too, as though he is choosing not to remove it until the last possible second, and then, just as you approach the heavy wooden doors, he withdraws it entirely, tucking both hands into the pockets of his dress trousers in a motion that is far too composed to be accidental.
The dining room opens before you in a way that makes you pause for half a breath, larger than you had expected even after everything else, the cream walls broken by tall pillars edged in gold, silk curtains falling in heavy folds beside the windows, a chandelier overhead casting light that feels almost too deliberate, too bright against the polished table that stretches the length of the room, Daeron already seated at the head with Myriah at the opposite end, their presence anchoring the rest of the family as they settle into place, voices low but constant, overlapping just enough to fill the space.
There are only two seats left, positioned between Myriah and Maekar, directly across from Kiera and Valarr, and you feel the weight of their attention the moment you step in, Valarr’s gaze flicking between you and his father in a way that is not subtle, not even slightly, and it leaves you with the distinct impression that something has already been said in your absence, or perhaps simply understood.
You move first, because standing there any longer would only draw more notice, slipping into your seat with a quickness that borders on abrupt, smoothing your hands over your lap as though that might steady something, anything, and Kiera leans in almost immediately, her presence familiar and grounding, her voice soft as she murmurs something inconsequential that you latch onto purely for the sake of it, grateful for the distraction even as you remain aware of the chair beside you being pulled out a second later.
Baelor sits at your side with an ease that suggests he had expected the place to be his all along, leaning back slightly, one ankle crossing over the other as he rolls one of his rings between his fingers, the small movement repetitive, almost idle, though the tension in his hand gives it away if you look too closely, and you do not, not directly, though you are aware of it all the same.
“Cousin, please, tell them the high school incident,” Kiera says suddenly, her tone far too bright, her smile barely contained as she glances at you, and you turn to her with a look that you hope is enough to silence her, widening your eyes in a clear warning, though she only sighs dramatically in response, as though you have denied her something vital.
“Fine,” she mutters, though the look she gives you promises she is not done with it.
“What could be so bad about it?” Aerion’s voice cuts in from further down the table, quiet but pointed, his attention shifting toward you with a faint curiosity that feels less like interest and more like an opportunity, and you exhale slowly, already regretting the direction this is taking.
“The mere embarrassment of it is horrific,” you reply, keeping your tone level, though you can feel the heat creeping up your neck regardless, and he smiles at that, just enough to be irritating. “All the more reason to tell it, no?” he says, and there is a glint in his expression that suggests he will not let it go easily.
You glance down at your hands instead, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of your dress, grounding yourself in the feel of it as you try to decide whether refusing outright would draw more attention than simply enduring it, and it is then you notice, from the corner of your eye, the way Baelor’s hand has tightened slightly, his fist resting against the table, the veins along it more pronounced than they had been a moment ago, the ring no longer moving between his fingers.
“It seriously isn’t that bad, I am sure it happens to plenty of people,” Kiera insists, lowering her voice as though that makes it any less public, her hands moving as she speaks, exaggerating every word, and you let out a quiet breath through your nose.
“Is this the one about the assembly?” Valarr asks, his tone lighter, almost amused, and that is enough to make you drop your head slightly, the memory settling in whether you like it or not.
You had been meant to give a speech, something simple on paper, something about safety in Fleabottom, first period, nothing that should have warranted the level of dread that had settled in your chest that morning, and yet it had, thick and unrelenting, until the thought of standing in front of that many people had driven you somewhere far less reasonable, somewhere small and hidden and entirely impractical, an abandoned maintenance closet you had slipped into with the intent of taking a moment to breathe, to collect yourself, only to find the door refusing to open again once it had closed behind you.
You had waited at first, convinced someone would notice – you felt foolish for forgetting your phone, you thought perhaps it would be a matter of minutes, then an hour, then several, the panic building slowly into something far less controlled as the school day stretched on without you, your absence turning into a problem that no one could quite explain, staff searching, your parents called, the situation escalating in a way that felt almost unreal by the time someone finally forced the door open long after the building should have been empty, nearly eleven hours later, and you had stepped out of that closet with shaking hands and a face you could not quite control, greeted by a level of relief that had only made the humiliation worse.
Kiera had laughed about it then, and she laughs about it now, though she spares you the full retelling for the moment, perhaps sensing that you are already close enough to retreating into yourself without further encouragement.
You focus instead on the table, on the low hum of conversation shifting toward safer topics, trade and policy and matters that do not concern you directly, letting the words wash past without really settling, your attention drifting in spite of yourself, catching on small details, the clink of cutlery, the murmur of voices, the weight of the room as it fills.
Dinner is served not long after, plates set down in front of each of you, and you fall into the rhythm of it easily enough, eating, responding when spoken to, offering polite conversation mostly to Myriah and Rhaegel, who seems more than content to engage you in whatever comes to mind, his manner open.
Wine and mead follow soon after, glasses passed along, though not all partake, the table dividing quietly between those who drink and those who abstain, and you notice, without meaning to, that Baelor’s glass remains untouched, his attention shifting between conversations with a controlled ease that makes it difficult to tell where his focus truly lies.
Daeron, Maekars son, by contrast, seems to favour his drink more openly, his voice carrying a little further as the minutes pass.
As dessert comes, wine refilled and plates removed; the conversation begins to loosen, voices overlapping, the hum of it filling the high ceiling of the dining room, and it is Daeron who draws the conversation in, answering something Aerys had asked calmly whilst speaking of trade that was already in motion, something about increased movement through the ports, agreements with the Free Cities, the strength of Dorne’s exports, how stability comes from connections.
He does not speak loudly, yet the table bends toward him regardless, the quiet authority of a man used to being listened to settling into every word, and you find yourself listening too, despite yourself, because it is not entirely wrong, not entirely dismissible, the logic of it clear even if it sits uncomfortably against what you know.
Myriah hums softly from her end of the table, one hand lifting her glass with an ease that feels practiced, “You must hardly have a moment to yourself, with all of that, my love,” she remarks lightly, there is something almost amused in the way she watches him, as though she has heard it all before and still finds it worth hearing again.
“It keeps the city moving,” Daeron replies, simple, measured, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to suggest satisfaction, “and movement keeps people fed.”
That is where it slips out of you, not enough to interrupt, just enough to exist in the space between words, “Not all of them.”
It is quiet, almost lost beneath the clink of cutlery, and for a moment you think it has gone unnoticed, that you might be able to let it pass, but then Daeron’s gaze shifts, not sharp, nor offended, but simply curious, and it lands on you with a weight that makes your spine straighten without thinking.
“And what do you mean by that?” he asks, and there is no bite in it, no challenge, just a question, open, leaving you the space to answer or retreat.
You should retreat. You know you should, you can see Kiera shift slightly infront of you, the smallest movement, a warning you do not need spoken, but the words have already formed, sitting too close to the surface to swallow down again, “Prices are rising,” you say instead, keeping your tone even, careful, “especially in Fleabottom. Things people need– not luxuries, just… basic things. They are harder to afford now than they were two years ago.”
There is a heavy pause, though it isn't long; just enough for your words to register, for a few glances to be exchanged, for someone further down the table to nod faintly, though whether in agreement or simple acknowledgement you cannot tell.
Aerion’s voice cuts through it next. “What exactly are you suggesting?” he asks, not unkindly at first, though there is a thread beneath it, something that leans toward dismissal before you have even answered.
You turn your head slightly toward him, meeting his gaze with more steadiness than you feel, “I-I am not suggesting anything,” you reply, “just pointing out that the people in Fleabottom are not seeing the benefits of these changes. If anything, it is getting harder for them.”
He studies you for a moment, then leans back in his chair, one arm draped loosely along the backrest, his expression shifting into something faintly amused, faintly incredulous, “Fleabottom has always been that way,” he says, as though it should end there, as though that is explanation enough, “it is not exactly known for thriving.”
A few soft chuckles follow, not loud, not cruel, but enough to grate.
“That does not mean it should stay that way,” you answer before you can stop yourself, the words coming quicker now, less measured, “people live there. They work there. They are not just… part of the scenery.”
“And it is the responsibility of the city to carry them?” Aerion presses, his tone sharpening just slightly, enough to edge into something less polite, “to pour resources into those who cannot seem to rise above it? There is only so much to go around..”
The air shifts.
It does not happen all at once, there is no sudden silence, no dramatic halt, but it settles slowly, like something heavy being placed at the centre of the table, drawing attention without asking for it, conversations tapering off, cutlery slowing, the awareness of it spreading until it becomes impossible to ignore.
“They are not something to be carried,” you say, and your voice is quieter now, but firmer for it, “they are people. Struggling people..”
He exhales through his nose, a faint scoff, “They are commoners,” he replies, the word landing a little too hard, a little too carelessly for a room like this, “they live how they live because that is where they belong.” Maekar struggles to silence his petulant son.
Something tightens in your chest.
“I am a commoner,” you return with a hint of a snarl, the words come before you can soften them, before you can reform them into something more appropriate, more careful, “I have lived there – I work there. It is not theoretical to me.”
That is when it stills - truly stills.
The room does not erupt, no one raises their voice, but the quiet that follows is absolute, the kind that presses in at your ears, that makes you suddenly aware of every movement, every breath, every pair of eyes that has turned toward you without you seeing them do it.
You feel it all at once.
The weight of where you are, who you are speaking to, the difference between your seat at the table and theirs, the fact that you have crossed something unseen and cannot quite step back over it.
And yet you do not look away, not immediately, not until you feel it.
A hand, firm and steady, settling against your thigh beneath the table. You do not react, you cannot. Not with the room watching. However, he does not look at you.
Baelor’s gaze remains forward, his posture unchanged, as though nothing has shifted at all, and yet when he speaks, it is into that silence, his voice low, controlled, carrying just enough to reach the far end of the table without rising above it.
“There is truth in what she is saying,” he remarks, and it is not a challenge, not a contradiction, simply a statement, placed carefully, deliberately, “trade strengthens the city, but it does not reach everyone evenly. It never has.”
Aerion’s attention flicks toward him, something unreadable passing through his expression, though he does not interrupt. Baelor continues, just as measured, “Ignoring that does not make it untrue.” He does not elaborate further, nor does he start a debate/
All eyes turn, slowly, toward Daeron - he considers it.
Truly considers it, his fingers resting lightly against the table, his gaze moving from Baelor to you and back again, and there is no immediate dismissal, no irritation, thankfully, only thought.
“Trade is not the only matter being handled,” he says at last, his tone even, thoughtful, “but it is the one that requires the most attention at present. There are… limitations to what can be addressed at once.”
It is not agreement, but it is not rejection either – you can only curse yourself for even speaking.
Conversation resumes, slowly at first, as though testing whether it is safe to move forward, then gradually returning to something resembling normalcy, voices rising, cutlery resuming, the moment slipping back into the flow of the evening as though it had not happened at all.
Only it has - and you feel it.
Your shoulders have drawn in slightly, in the heat that has settled along your neck and ears, in the awareness of every glance that lingers a second too long before looking away.
Kiera leans toward you then, her voice low, tight, meant only for you, “Stop,” she murmurs, the word clipped, strained, “you are embarrassing me.” It lands harder than Aerion’s words ever could.
You swallow, the edge of your confidence folding in on itself as quickly as it had risen, the reality of the situation settling in with uncomfortable clarity, and you nod faintly, your gaze dropping to your plate as you force your voice to remain steady.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, not to her, not entirely, but to the table, to the space, to the moment you had disrupted, “I did not mean to overstep.” She huffs, turning back to fuss at Valarr.
Now that the noise of conversation has returned, that low hum of voices and cutlery and shifting chairs filling the room again, you become aware of where his hand is in a way that is immediate and impossible to ignore, the weight of his hand where it rests against your thigh beneath the table, not something that could be mistaken for accidental, and for a moment you do not move at all, your breath catching somewhere shallow as if your body has decided to pause before your mind can catch up, and then he seems to notice it too, or perhaps he always had, because there is a subtle shift in the pressure, a fraction lighter, the beginning of withdrawal as though he intends to remove it.
You move before he can.
It is not something you think through, not something measured or careful, your hand slipping down to his with a quiet certainty that surprises even you, fingers brushing first, then settling, folding through his in a way that feels far more familiar than it should, far more natural than makes any sense considering you had only learnt his name hours ago, only met him yesterday, and yet you do not pull away.
Dinner ends not long after, conversation thinning into smaller pockets before dissolving entirely as people begin to stand, chairs scraping softly against the polished floor, voices drifting toward other rooms, and you remain seated for a moment longer than most, unsure where to place yourself now that the structure of the table has broken, your gaze flicking briefly toward Kiera only to find her already rising with Valarr at her side, their heads bent toward one another in quiet conversation, and when she turns to you it is quick, a tight smile, a hug that lingers just enough to feel like apology without words, her lips brushing your cheek before she is gone again, pulled away by the flow of the evening, leaving you standing there with your own thoughts and the echo of everything that had just unfolded.
You do not follow her.
You do not think she would want you to, not yet, not when the tension still sits so close to the surface, and before you can decide what to do instead, he is there again, close enough that you feel it before you properly see him, that same quiet presence that has become far too easy to recognise, “Come,” he says, not demanding in tone though there is something in it that suggests he does not expect refusal, and you glance up at him, hesitating only a second before nodding, because there is little else to do, because leaving now would feel more like failure.
He leads you from the dining room without hurry, guiding you through the halls with a familiarity that makes the place seem smaller, though it does nothing to diminish the scale of it all, the walls lined with tapestries and framed portraits, the soft glow of lighting catching on gold and glass and polished wood, everything carefully curated, everything very deliberate, and he speaks as you walk, to keep you from drifting too far into your own thoughts, explaining pieces here and there, names, histories, fragments of stories that feel half remembered and half inherited, and you listen, or you try to, though your attention does not always hold, slipping instead to the way he moves beside you, the way his voice shifts when it lowers, the way your awareness of him does not seem to lessen no matter how much time passes.
At some point, your hands find each other again.
You do not notice when it happens, not at first, only becoming aware of it when his pinkie hooks loosely with yours, neither of you pull away, and it remains like that as he leads you further through the castle, past rooms you only half take in, past doors left slightly ajar, past quiet corners where the noise of the rest of the family fades into something distant and indistinct.
He stops eventually before a large painting, one that dominates the wall it rests upon, and you follow his gaze to it, taking in the figures captured there, the richness of the colours, the weight of history pressed into canvas, “This is my great great grandmother, Rhaenyra, and her uncle-husband, Daemon,” he says, and there is a slight shift in his tone; something that carries a hint of shame - it is widely known that the old Targaryens that governed this land use to embrace… certain traditions. You glance at him briefly before looking back to the painting, studying the woman at its centre, the way she is positioned, the way she is painted, not just as a figure but as something more deliberate, more significant.
“She is beautiful,” you murmur, almost to yourself, though you know he hears it, and he hums softly in response, your eyes tracing the details of the piece, “She lost her claim, didn’t she?” you add after a moment, voice shaky, before realising your mistake. “–Not lost, really, moreso stolen...”
“That must have changed everything after, not just for her, for all of it,” you glance at him then, a small smile tugging at your lips, “history tends to remember the outcome more kindly than the fight.”
He is watching you when you look back.
Not the painting, not the room, you, and there is something in his expression that stills you for a fraction of a second, something more focused than before, more deliberate, and he steps closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that the space between you narrows into something more noticeable, more present, “You are unlike anyone I have met,” he says quietly, the words not dramatic, not exaggerated, simply stated, and you feel the shift of them settle somewhere beneath your ribs, unexpected in the way they land.
“You are not what I expected either,” you reply, softer now, your voice not quite as steady as you would prefer, and it feels as though the room has drawn in around you, the rest of the house distant, the noise gone entirely, leaving only this moment, this space, this awareness that has been building slowly all evening now pressing into something more defined.
His gaze drops.
Not far, not obvious, but enough that you feel it, enough that your breath catches again when it lifts back to meet yours, and then his hand is at your cheek, the touch careful, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as though testing whether you will pull away, whether you will stop him, and you do not, you remain where you are, held in place by something you do not quite want to examine too closely.
“Tell me if you do not want this,” he murmurs, and there is something different in his voice now, quieter, stripped of the earlier ease, something that feels more honest, more uncertain than you would have expected from him, and it does something to you that you are not prepared for, something that settles low and sharp and impossible to ignore.
You meet his eyes.
You hold them for a second, maybe less, before you nod, the movement small but certain, and your voice follows a moment later, softer than you intended, “I do,” you breathe, and it feels like a confession, like something given rather than offered, and he exhales, a slight shift of tension leaving him as his thumb brushes your cheek once more.
“I need to hear it,” he says, quieter still, and you swallow, your thoughts slipping, your usual sharpness dulled by the way he is looking at you, by the way your body has already decided something before you have fully caught up.
“I want this,” you say, the words catching slightly, “I want you,” and it feels unreal even as you say it, unfamiliar and yet not unwelcome, and the effect it has on him is immediate, subtle but there, a tightening, a shift, his glasses slipping slightly as he leans in.
The kiss is not hesitant.
His lips meeting yours with a pressure that feels restrained, as though he is holding something back even as he gives in to it, and you respond without thinking, your hand lifting to his hand on your cheek, fingers curling there as if to steady yourself, though it does little to ground you when everything else feels as though it has shifted out of place.
It is close, too close, and not close enough.
His mouth moves against yours with a growing hunger, the restraint fraying at the edges as your lips part and his tongue slips in, tasting you deeply, drawing a soft sound from your throat that he swallows with a low hum. Your fingers tighten on his hand, pulling him closer, and he shifts, his body pressing into yours until there's no space left between you, the heat of him seeping through your dress and making your skin prickle with need. You break the kiss just enough to catch your breath, your forehead resting against his, and he watches you with those eyes that seem to see everything, his thumb still tracing your cheek. "You're beautiful," he whispers, the words rough around the edges, and before you can respond, his hand slides down, fingers hooking into the straps of your dress. He tugs gently at first, then with more insistence, and you lift your arms without a word, letting the fabric slide off your shoulders and pool at your feet in a whisper of lace. You worry for a moment about cameras; but there are none visible – and you doubt Baelor would place himself in such a compromising position.
The air feels cool against your exposed skin, but his gaze warms you, roaming over the curves barely contained by your bra and panties. He steps back just a fraction, his fingers lingering on your hips, and you feel exposed, vulnerable, but the way he looks at you – like you're something precious – chases away any doubt. Slowly, he reaches up and slips his glasses off, folding them with deliberate care before bringing the wing to his lips, holding it between his teeth as he admires you, his eyes darkening with want.
The sight of him like that, so composed yet unraveling, sends a rush through you, your core tightening. You reach for him, fingers brushing his shirt, but he catches your wrist, guiding your hand to his chest instead, letting you feel the steady thump of his heart. "Come here, love," he murmurs around the glasses, and he leads you toward the large couch in the center of the room, the historical pieces fading into irrelevance as the world narrows to just the two of you.
He sits first, pulling you down onto his lap, your thighs straddling his, and his free hand cups the back of your neck, drawing you in for another kiss. This one is deeper, more urgent, his tongue exploring as his fingers thread into your hair, tugging lightly to tilt your head back, exposing your throat. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his moustache brushing your skin in a way that makes you shiver.
"That's it, sweetheart," he breathes against your lips, releasing the glasses to set them aside on the low table nearby. His hands are on you now, both of them, one sliding up your back to unhook your bra with practiced ease, the lace falling away as he peels it off and tosses it forgotten. Your breasts spill free, nipples hardening in the air, and he groans softly, his palms cupping them, thumbs circling the peaks until you're arching into his touch.
You rock against him instinctively, feeling the hard length of him through his pants, thick and insistent, pressing up against your panties. The friction makes you whimper, and he smiles against your mouth, layering kisses along your jaw, down to your collarbone, each one soft and reverent. "So responsive," he praises, his voice low and warm. "I love how you feel in my hands, baby." You are boneless in his hands, wordless too, it seems.
His mouth follows his hands, lips closing around one nipple, sucking gently while his tongue flicks over it, sending sparks straight to your core. You thread your fingers into his hair, the dark strands with their streaks of grey soft under your touch, and he hums in approval, switching to the other side, worshipping you with his mouth until you're panting, your core damp with arousal.
He pulls back slightly, his mismatched eyes locking onto yours - one blue, one brown – twinkling with a mix of tenderness and fire. "Let me touch you," he says, not a question but a plea wrapped in command, and you nod, shifting to give him access. His hand trails down your stomach, fingers dipping under the waistband of your panties, and he pauses, waiting for your permission.
"Please," you finally whisper, and that's all he needs. He slides the fabric aside, his fingers finding your slick folds, parting them to circle your clit with slow, deliberate strokes. You moan, head falling back, and he watches your face, drinking in every reaction as he presses one finger inside you, then two, stretching you gently.
"Gods, you're so wet for me already," he murmurs, his thumb rubbing your clit while his fingers curl, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. He pumps them slowly at first, building a rhythm, his free hand holding your hip to keep you steady. The fullness is exquisite, his fingers thick and knowing, scissoring slightly to prepare you, and you clench around him, chasing the pleasure.
"That's my girl," he says, voice husky with admiration. "Taking my fingers so well. I want you ready for me, love – want you to feel every inch." He adds a twist to his movements, his palm grinding against your clit, and the pressure builds fast, your breaths coming in short gasps as he works you higher.
You grind down on his hand, lost in the sensation, and he tugs your hair again, just enough to make you look at him. "Open for me," he instructs softly, and when your lips part, he slips his pointer and middle fingers - still slick from you - into your mouth. The taste of yourself on him is intimate, and you suck on them instinctively, tongue swirling as he watches with hooded eyes.
"Good girl," he praises, thrusting his fingers deeper into your mouth in time with the ones between your legs. The dual sensation overwhelms you, your body trembling as the coil tightens. He removes his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, trailing saliva down your chin before capturing your lips in a messy kiss, sharing your taste.
The orgasm crashes over you without warning, your walls fluttering around his fingers as you cry out, soaking his hand. He doesn't stop, drawing it out until you're boneless, whispering, "Beautiful, sweetheart. So perfect when you come for me."
He eases his fingers out, bringing them to his lips to taste you himself, eyes never leaving yours. Then he's shifting you, guiding you off his lap and onto the couch, turning you so you're on your stomach, the soft cushions cradling your body. You hear the rustle of fabric as he undoes his belt, the zipper of his pants, and then he's behind you, his hands on your hips, tugging your panties down and off.
"Lift up for me, baby," he says, and you do, arching your back as he positions himself. The head of his cock nudges your entrance, thick and curved – from what you can feel – promising to fill you completely. He rubs it along your slit, coating himself in your wetness, and you push back, eager.
"Patience, sweet girl," he chuckles softly, but there's no real tease in it - just affection. He presses in slowly, inch by inch, the stretch intense, his size making you gasp as he bottoms out, the curve hitting deep inside you. It feels like he's everywhere, pressing against your walls in a way that leaves you breathless, already cock-drunk from the sheer fullness. “Oh–” you breathe out.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," he groans, hands gripping your hips as he stills, letting you adjust. "So tight around me, sweetheart.” He layers kisses along your spine, soft and adoring, before pulling back and thrusting in again, slow and deep.
You moan into the cushions, fingers clutching the fabric as he sets a rhythm, each stroke deliberate, building the heat between you. His hands roam your body, one sliding up to cup your breast, pinching your nipple lightly, the other tangling in your hair, pulling your head back gently to expose your neck.
He leans over you, chest to your back, his breath hot against your skin. "You're doing so well," he whispers, nipping at the curve of your neck, teeth grazing just enough to leave a faint mark. You shiver, the sting mixing with pleasure, and he soothes it with his tongue, sucking lightly to bloom another bruise.
"My beautiful girl," he continues, voice rough with restraint as he thrusts harder, the slap of skin echoing softly. "Taking me so deep – love how you squeeze around my cock." He nips again, lower this time, marking you as his, each bite followed by a kiss that worships the spot.
The pace quickens, his hips snapping forward, driving into you with a force that makes you see stars, that curved length hitting that perfect angle over and over. You're lost in it, the world reduced to the stretch, the fullness, the way he fills you so completely it feels like he'll never leave. "Baelor," you gasp, and he tugs your hair tighter, pulling your head up with his whole hand cradling your throat and chin, fingers splayed wide – his palm so large it covers you easily – forcing you to arch as he brings his mouth to your ear.
"I've got you, love," he whispers, breath ragged, lips brushing your lobe. "Let go for me again – come on my cock, baby." His words are a command wrapped in praise, and they push you over the edge, your body clenching around him as you shatter, waves of pleasure ripping through you.
He doesn't stop, fucking you through it, his own control fraying as he groans into your ear, nipping the shell before releasing your throat, letting your head drop back to the cushions. His hands return to your hips, pulling you back onto him with each thrust, deeper, harder, chasing his release.
"So good," he pants, layering more kisses along your shoulder, your neck, wherever he can reach. "C-can't get enough of you– Fuck, sweetheart, I'm close." One hand slips around to rub your clit, prolonging your high, and you whimper, oversensitive but craving more.
With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he comes, hot spurts filling you, marking you from the inside. He holds you there, grinding slowly as he rides it out, whispering praises against your skin. "Perfect, love. So perfect."
He settles over you with care, lowering himself just enough that you feel him there without being pressed into the cushions, his breath still uneven, yours not much better, the quiet between you filled only by the slow effort of it, the room seeming smaller now, softer somehow. His arms come around you without hesitation, drawing you in close, and there is something almost instinctive in the way you fit there, his mouth finding your neck again, a quiet press of his lips against your skin where he has already left his mark, his voice low when he speaks, close enough that you feel it more than hear it.
“Stay with me like this for a while?”
You nod before you answer, your voice barely above a whisper when it comes. “Of course..”
And you do, you stay, longer than you should, longer than you had planned, wrapped up in him on that couch as though the rest of the world has been pushed somewhere distant and unimportant, his hand moving in slow, absent circles against your hip, grounding, steady, his voice slipping in and out of soft conversation you only half follow, your mind not quite able to keep hold of anything for long, not when everything still feels so close to the surface.
He pulls you a fraction closer when you move, not questioning it, not loosening his hold, his hand continuing that slow, thoughtless motion as if nothing has changed, as if nothing needs to be said, and for a moment you let yourself stay there, let yourself lean into it despite everything, because it is easier than pulling away, easier than facing what comes after.
But the knot does not ease - It tightens.
And you stare past him, unfocused, your thoughts turning sharper, clearer in a way that makes your chest feel too tight, because this is not just some man, not just some mistake you can fold away and forget by morning, he is tied into something larger, something messier, something that will not stay contained to this room no matter how much you might wish it would.
Fuck. taglist: @fushigurosbabygirl @hungry-d0ll @sgmwester @blue-aconite @qardasngan @emneedshelp @risefallrise @immauperfreak @twizzlelutz
