Something I learned about my writing is that I simply cannot write the scene I imagine; I need to describe it to myself first.
When I visualize a scene and try to write it down, it looks very... theatrical.
She walks up to him and sits down. He stays there, already seated and waiting to see what's next.
When I write like that, it makes me feel like I'm writing a theater script.
That's why I get writer's block often, I try to write what I imagine, making it all look like a script instead of writing what I first describe in my head.
Instead, now, I try to describe the scene to myself in my head, and the word comes easier.
She dares to move and let her feet carry her closer to him with anxiousness that is barely concealed by her determination.
With a silent deep breath, she let herself plop down on the seat right in front of him, who is already seated.
He doesn't move and silently stares, waiting and wondering what's next.
Sweet Moth. (Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen x Reader)
SUMMARY: In the aftermath of battle, as soon as you left the pavilion — your prince, your old love, calls you into his own requesting you help him mend his wound OR Baelor, who's tired of your avoidance takes matters into his own hands and attempts to tempt you back into his arms again.
TAGS: 18+ MDNI, angst, fluff, warrior reader, idiots in love, childhood friends to lovers to strangers and back to lovers again, intense amounts of yearning, angst with a happy ending, reader is from house mori (my og house), a lotta petnames, porn with plot, too much plot i think, mutual ragebait, they love each other tho, feel free to imagine Baelor how you wish constantine corrino was the closest to how i imagined him, set during 196 AC.
CONTENT WARNINGS: Child abuse, insecurity, reader's father has one redeeming quality and it's feminism but it's horribly shown, emotional infidelity, self-inflicted wound unrelated to past tags, horrible seduction attempt, reader is explicitly implied to be battle-crazed, fingering, cunnilingus, handjobs, dirty talk, masturbation, first time for reader, no p-in-v sex for safety and practical reasons, badly betaread, online translated valyrian.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was supposed to be 3K words at most idk how it got away from me—anyways take this horny-angsty-fluffy self indulgent shit I got 3 projects to finish ahahahah, realized how reader and baelor got matching monikers... soulmates?
W.C. 8.36K
NAVIGATION — MASTERLIST
The cluttered disarray of noise and stench of blood around you overwhelm your senses whilst you traversed the sea of bodies, some bore the sigil of the Black Dragon, the sigil that marked them for death, deservedly so.
As a healer, you should be impartial on who you attend to, honor beseeches you to be — but you could not bring yourself to care.
Anyone that dares to hurt your Prince, your fire – is undeserving of mercy.
That was the axiom that you branded upon your heart and the impetus that empowered your every slash and hack that grew the mountains of broken swords you left behind in your wake – some yours, some not.
It was what earned your twin brother the moniker of Swordbreaker.
The lack of credit to your martial prowess did not bother you much, if any were to know you would be a pariah to the court. Because ladies did not comport themselves with such 'impropriety' — they do not swing swords nor clad themselves in armor to protect themselves, their families and people from traitorous pretenders.
You father was only supportive of your joining the fight was because it made your brother look good. Making his heir look like an unstoppable warrior was his only reason for being so permissive for so long, if it were any other lord, he would have threatened to send you away to become a septa or a silent sister.
Besides, It was not hard to deceive the others when you looked so alike, and the chaos of battle did not allow anyone the chance to think twice about how your brother lost an inch or two, or lacked the limp of a hurt leg they saw him with before he entered his pavilion – although your father was sure to give him that same impairment to keep the deception.
Nerves never touched you in the face of death. Your heart never quickened in worry for your life. Your hands never shook with fear of misstep, not for yourself—not even for your brother, you were sure your father would find some way to deny 'his' death, not even he could be cruel enough to kill your brother over this grand charade—they only shook for Baelor, in the beginning, but you could never forgive yourself if your fear cost you him. So you quickly learned to reign that fear in deep in the confines of your heart.
But in the anticipation of seeing him again—your beloved—face-to-face and unhidden by disguise, you found a flutter of butterflies spiraling around in your stomach and your heart felt like it could burst from how hard it beat in your chest, and you found your hands trembling no matter how hard you clutched at the straps of your satchel.
In all the nerves that threatened to topple you in, you refused to let them drown you. Baelor asked for you, he was hurt, he needed you. To pause and hesitate out of uncontrolled apprehension outside his pavilion was not an option.
So you stepped in without hesitation, your steps never faltered once. He was alone, topless and bleeding from a wound on his arm, and yet he smiled and greeted you by your name as if nothing was wrong. Like you were children again and you came to visit for a game of Cyvasse, like the decade of separation never happened, and you were not in a war.
You do not reply, your legs moved before you willed them to, guided by familiar instinct and urgency to protect him.
"It is better than it looks, do not worry yourself." He tells you as you remove the cloth he used to stop the bleeding to clean the wound and check for the extent of the damage. It does not seem like blood is actively streaming down, that was a good sign. It still needs to get stitched up, the war is not done, the healing must be expedited.
"How have you been?" Baelor asks, watching you as you swiftly laid out your tools on the table.
The question felt severely out of place, but it was good to keep him distracted from the pain so you answered but kept it short while you cleaned his wounds.
"I'm alright, considering." You reply calmly, referring to the war you were in.
He sucks in a breath at the burning sensation of wine.
"Good." Baelor says, voice strained with slight pain.
He does not waver at your meager response. "And your brother?"
"He was unharmed last I seen him, your grace." Truly, he was fine. Physically at least. He was waiting in his pavilion as the battle raged on with bated breath for you to get back safe and sound, no matter how neutral he kept his expression – you could tell from the mess of books strewn about that he was particularly consumed with anxiety this day. He only left when you were done washing the blood off you, and after you told him everything that happened. Partly to keep up the ruse but mostly to evaluate and efficiently strategize in the next war council meeting.
Your brother was the best strategist there ever was, if only your father recognized that and did not value skills of arms more than skills of mind. He would be unparalleled as Lord of Warrior's Den.
Silence passed and you believed that was the end of his questions.
Your grace? Baelor frowned.
It has been years since he's seen and spoke to you alone. He understood why you kept such distance, after what he's done — after leading you on and marrying another for the sake of the realm, for who the council dictated he marries.
He supposes your unresponsiveness and informal demeanor towards him was his punishment—and what a punishment it was. It would be far merciful if you yelled and screamed instead, you would look him in the eyes then.
You did not bother responding to his prodding. Instead holding up a potion he's come to see often these past moons. Milk of the poppy.
"No."
Your brows furrowed in confusion. Has he went mad? What the fuck does he mean no?
"I cannot continue unless you're numb to the pain, your grace."
"Baelor." He corrects. You pay him no mind, raising the potion to him again.
"Drink it." To order him around was out of line but you could give a shit about that right now. He was acting like a child—you were about to sew him up like a piece of embroidery and he wants you to call him by his name?
He takes it from your hands only to set it aside on the table.
"If it please you, I'd rather be without it."
I want to make sure you're real.
"As you wish," you respond, masterfully threading the silk through the needle like you've done it countless times before. "should it be too much, tell me to stop."
Take your time. Baelor nods in understanding.
"I will." He lies with a reassuring smile.
The moment the needle pierced his skin, he grit his teeth and hissed in pain – but he endures and does not even give the pain numbing potion a glance.
His eyes were fixed on you the whole time. Burning your focused expression into memory. It was reminiscent of the one you had whenever you thought too hard in your discussions or games, always so serious, so endearing.
That face was as beautiful as he saw it last. Halfway through the stitch-up he was sure the relentless rush of his heart at your touch numbed up the pain the way it did in the battlefield.
When all was done you carefully wrapped his arm with clean bandages and discarded the bloodied linen cloth he had pressed to his arm earlier.
You couldn't help but think. How could he have been wounded? His armor was far too durable to be slashed through so easily, unless the assaulting weapon was of valyrian steel, in which case it would've had no issue cutting through like hot knife to butter.
But when was this? You kept your eyes on him so closely, you had his back. How could you have missed this? How could you have let it happen? Was he attacked by a backstabber in your midst after he shed his armor?
It couldn't be helped — you needed to know.
The words slipped past your lips before you could think twice about them. "Who did this?"
Baelor grinned, his smile frustrated and worried you both, you have never seen a man so happy about being injured. "Does it matter?"
"Yes." You said firmly and without thinking.
His grin grew wider, alarming you further. "Why?"
"There were no wielders of valyrian steel in this battle other than you and my brother." You pressed.
"You mean other than you and me?"
Your heart drops and you turn your gaze at the open flap of the tent, when you look back he was standing so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. You couldn't help but step back, realizing how inappropriate the proximity was in his state of undress.
"What are you talking about!?" You hiss at him, knowing exactly what he was talking about.
Your father lent you the ancestral sword of your house—Cyclone—on account of the growing heap of swords you bent and broke. It's useless in your brother's hands. He'd tell you. And as much as you felt for him, you were grateful—not to your father of course—but for the opportunity to protect your prince better.
"My father would never allow me in the field, I'm only a healer—you know that!"
"Do I?" He says as he walks to the entrance of the pavilion to close it shut, the only light source left within was from the candlelight—if it weren't for the situation at hand you'd wonder to yourself why he'd have candles lit in broad daylight—your eyes rake over his back, broad and covered with scars.
Baelor turns to find your wandering eyes right where he wanted them — all over him. The plan is unfolding exactly as he intended.
He walks up to you, albeit not as close as he was.
"What a wonderful fighter your brother is," he steps forward, you step back. "that's what everyone seems to go on about when the fighting was done." he steps forward again, you step back again.
"But he couldn't possibly be as good as you."
There was no more room for you to back off to, you stumble into the chair he was sat in and it almost topples backwards at your fall, but he holds it in place by the arms and all but cages you in.
Heat courses through your whole body. He's so fucking beautiful, a voice in your head screamed. He had his head tilted at an angle and dark curls fell upon his face hiding his only valyrian trait, his pale lilac eye — and yet he still looked every bit the dragon they all denied he was, with the way he had you trapped with a fanged smirk as if you were his prey.
You turned your eyes away from his heated gaze, they fall on the bandaged arm and you realize— could the wound have festered? Is this why he's been acting so brazen and unconcerned? Why he's accusing you of these things? Even if he was correct it is beyond you how he could have realized it was you.
"Baelor are you alright?"
There it is, you finally said it. Baelor's grip tightens around the wooden armrests without quite meaning to, his nails dig into the wood at the strength of his hold.
When he does not respond you press your palm to his forehead, you do not detect the blazing heat of fever. You let your hand fall to his cheek, he responds to your touch immediately, kneeling down and melting into your hand.
"It's been so long since you touched me like this," he breathes reverently.
Your mind blanks as you watch him press your hand harder into his face and kiss it in a gentleness that contrasted his demeanor mere moments ago.
The puzzle pieces finally begin to fall into place. Memories of your youth flood your mind, of all the times Baelor came to you complaining of calluses borne from weapon-handling, calluses that you tended to with the proficiency of a maester, considering your close and personal familiarity with them. Often times he came to you complaining of razor burns, and needless to say you became his personal apothecary.
You turn to the lit candles situated around you and you feel a squeeze on your hand, calling your attention back to the kneeling prince.
"What are you thinking of?" He asks you.
Your tone is humorless. "Baelor."
Getting the sense that he was in trouble with the familiar stern look you gave him, Baelor's smile falls and he ceases the thumb-strokes on the back of your hand, but he does not let go, even when you stood up—the action terrified Baelor, he thought you were going to walk out on him, but to his relief you lowered yourself to your knees instead.
You take his hand in yours, squeezing it – and if that was not enough you spoke up again. "Baelor."
"Did you do this to yourself?"
Baelor avoids your gaze, shame coloring his ears red. He did not need to respond for you to know the answer.
"Are you mad?" You ask calmly, but he's never seen you angrier. It was not the time at all but he felt aroused at the low and firm tone you took with him.
He couldn't open his lips to sputter out any words in defense before you started again, voice full of fury.
"You must be," you add angrily whilst you stood and jerked your hand from his grip. "to risk dying just so you can drag me in here–"
Baelor goes to speak, but again you interrupt him. "Shut your mouth."
He obeys, silently looking up at you from his position on the ground, waiting on your next reprimanding words.
"This is the most dimwitted, thoughtless, foolish thing you've ever done," you point at his bandaged arm.
"I did not mean to slash so deep, and I'm quite certain I've done more foolish things." He retorts quietly, causing you to drop back onto the chair exasperatedly and throw your head back with a much needed deep grounding breath. "Like what?" You question, tone weary.
"Not getting to you sooner."
The quiet and sincere admission drains the smoldering rage that consumed your heart from the inside out – replacing it with the all too familiar cold ache that made you feel like your ribs were choking out your heart.
Lowering yourself back on your knees again, you take his hands in yours looking at him with the softest of eyes and a sad smile. "Regrets won't take back the years lost, Baelor."
"And we both know I could never be a good queen." You shrug bitterly.
"That is not true." He interjects gripping your hands hard as if it would change your mind.
"Of course it is, everyone in the Red Keep knew how much I adored you but I was not even an option—what with me being the daughter of a second-son at the time—not even you considered me seriously–" your voice wavered and you broke into a sob.
Baelor pulls you into a crushing embrace—swallowing back the screaming pain in his wounded arm and in his aching heart—rocking you back and forth while he apologized over and over in your hair.
He ran his fingers through your hair, the way he used to do whenever you came to him crying. This was all his fault, he could have been faster, he could have done better.
"I did consider you," he said quietly when your sobs died down into little gasps for air. "I wanted to find you that day the betrothal was announced and tell you that I could never agree to marry anyone but you, that I did and will not care what the King or his Hand decided for me."
"But he.." he trailed off with barely contained venom. "he sent you back to Warrior's End and said you were to be betrothed to some lord. However, when we got reports from the Riverlands, not a single one of them included your name."
Oh. Of course your father ruined everything over his damned pride.
"I wanted to take you away with me to Dragonstone and marry you before they could get their hands on either one of us."
That would have had severe repercussions; tensions with the marcher lords were bad enough as they were — to insult them like that and break the betrothal… that would have been an unwise move. They already dislike him (even if in a discreet way) for his dornish ancestry, passing over a marcher lord's daughter for the daughter of a second-son lord in the Riverlands to be their future queen could've boiled up the discontent into a rebellion.
Although a rebellion was inevitable—you were in one right now—that could have brought it on quicker, and many would find the bastard preferable to the weak book-loving king that couldn't control nor keep his lovesick heir from breaking the promise made to them, even if the promise wasn't uttered from his own lips nor pen.
You suppose it was for the best things turned out this way, but even then—if you went back in time knowing this, and Baelor came to you in time with his plans, you knew, from the bottom of your heart and in the deepest parts of your soul you would run away with him, he was irresistible like that.
And you would rather die than be away from him again for that long. Wondering if you've done something wrong. Doubting him and yourself; if he ever loved you in the first place, if you were misinterpreting things to be more serious than they were. You came to the conclusion that whether he loved you or not meant nothing, he wasn't your husband and you weren't his wife.
He was a prince, the future king — and you were only a royal subject, nothing more and nothing less. What happened in your youth means nothing, you were incompatible. The years will pass and what was in the past should remain in it, that's what you told yourself.
Yet even then you couldn't help yourself from dreaming of what could have been. Hells, all you've done was compare your suitors to him.
You'd watch their behavior and scrutinize; Baelor wouldn't have humiliated that servant over a spill of wine – too repulsive. Baelor wouldn't have acted so immature and giggled so much over his own inappropriate jokes, he wouldn't have said an inappropriate joke to begin with – too childish. Baelor wouldn't have been so condescending and assumed you didn't know the simple rules of Cyvasse, he wouldn't have thrown a tantrum about losing either – too much of a whiny piece of shit.
Baelor. Baelor. Baelor.
That name tormented you, made you remember too much of what you lost, and for that reason you tried to draw distance by referring to him with titles, but even that did not last. It seems that not even a logical person like yourself could stay indifferent, your heart longed for him too much.
'The prince' slowly turned into 'my prince', and calling him 'Breakspear' only reminded you of how feverishly he kissed you the day he earned that title. It didn't help that it was the name you lovingly called him thereafter.
At one point in time you gave up, accepting that you will never stop wanting him, that your love for him was a flame that would keep your heart ablaze forever, you felt much like the navy-blue moth ablaze with azure fires on the white banners of your house, difference was that the moth was delighted to burn, the grin of the crescent moon and the laughing eyes on it's wings told you as much.
When you were but a girl you were confused at the sigil as it contrasted with the ideology of your house. For a member of house Mori, a death in battle is the most honorable kind — to have a puny bug as your sigil was strange and unfitting, it was only when you shed your first drop of blood that you understood, that you knew the true elation of a good fight in the rush of invigorating energy that coursed through your veins like wildfire—you wished for it to consume you.
Two things can be true at once though, you can delight in the heat of battle and the flames of his love, you just didn't think you'd have both again — it was thrilling.
"That would've been.. a stupid thing to do." You say with a fond smile, eyes trailing down to his lips.
"Would you rather I just let them–" you interrupt his distressed speech by leaping at him and kissing him like you've longed for all these years. He melts into you instantly and pulls you down slowly with him on the ground.
When his hands trail down on your body and he groans against your mouth at the strain of his pants on his manhood, suddenly you remember where you were and pull away.
He looked like a mess, sprawled out on the ground like that – hair disheveled, body shirtless, sweaty and flushed all over. As much you wanted to take things further and devour him whole, he was injured and you needed him alive.
"What wrong?" He asks with heavy breaths, staring up at you with wanton eyes and laying his strong hands on top of yours, the ones you had anchored on his chiseled stomach under the guise of keeping your balance.
"I cannot let your wound get worse, Baelor. What kind of healer would I be if I let that happen under my watch?"
"I suppose you're right." He says, yielding to your will. There would be time for that, he'll make sure of it.
Baelor sat up and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you even closer on his lap. "When all of this is done – will you be my wife?" He asks lowly, eyes looking at you intensely.
What a stupid question. You grin and answer him with a chaste kiss. "Who else would I be marrying?"
Baelor's hold tightens ever so slightly as you continue pressing small kisses on his mouth. He pulls his head back to look at you. You look back at him with confusion. "I heard you were well acquainted with that Royce man." He says, searching your face for something, a change of expression. A denial from your lips. You give nothing but confusion.
You were honestly unsure which one he was referring—ohhh!!
Harris Royce? Yes you suppose you were acquainted. He was a suitor—and emphasis on was—he is now a friend you enjoyed the company of whenever he deigned to visit your family's seat. The courtship at this point was a front and an excuse for lords to leave you be.
Your father knew of that arrangement and could not care less whether you married or not. His main concern was your brother anyways, you were not the heir.
"Oh?" You grin impishly. "I did not know the Prince of Dragonstone held so much interest on the marital affairs of the Riverlands?"
Baelor peers down at you with a frown. "I am meant to know these things, why are you so surprised?" You laugh as you push his hair out of his face, he preens under your touch.
Wanting to change the subject you look around you at the lit candles and incense that drowned out the metallic scent of blood.
You could not help it at all, you had to mess with him. "So your plan was; to get me alone under the pretense of needing me to mend your self-inflicted wound, woo me into bed and then propose? You couldn't do the latter alone like a normal person?"
Baelor scoffs. Suddenly he leans forward and pushes you down on the floor, startled at the sudden shift you had your legs instinctively wrapped around him. The Baelor you knew in your younger years wouldn't have been so shameless like this—yes, you may have shared kisses back then but he never went this far. Maybe you shouldn't have riled him up.
"You want me to be a normal person?" He asks you as if what you told him was such an unattainable and absurd request
He leans down low, his lips hovering along your jaw, feathering against your skin but never kissing it. "I spent years—long and miserable years far away from you."
You should not have riled him up at all — and with the pressure and heat at your core you truly do not trust yourself at all not to pounce on him if he kept on speaking to you like that, if he kept on teasing you with those almost kisses any longer.
"And when this war finally brought us together," he said against the base of your jaw. "I was given the opportunity to speak to you again, but you did your utmost to avoid me."
Baelor pushed himself up with one arm and looked deep into your eyes, his pupils blown. "You always made sure to fight by my side in each and every battle, but despite that you refused to speak to me," he held his hurt arm up to you "I had to wound myself for you to do that, yet even then you could not bring yourself to speak freely or say my name the way you used to — so tell me.."
"How was I ever meant to act normal?"
You should probably say something, but your mind drew a blank. How do you even respond to something like that? Your body spoke for you instead. A groan rumbled through his chest as you squeezed your legs and grinded yourself against him. Baelor breathed out a laugh that was akin to a whimper.
"What happened to 'I cannot let your wound get worse'?" He told you tauntingly, meeting your movements with equal fervor and lowering himself close to see your face clearly. "Do you want me that badly that you would risk it?" Now, Baelor knew the answer, but he wants—needs to hear it from your lips.
You felt too ashamed to say it, so you responded wordlessly, arching your back with a moan and pulling him down to your lips. He chuckles into your mouth and carefully stands up, there was no issue in carrying you as you did most of the work anyways, considering your strength and stamina.
The strength that had his heart singing with pride and cock throbbing with want. When he regains his health back. When the war was over and you were his. He swears to test the full extent of that stamina.
Baelor lays you down on the bed after nearly knocking over everything on his way to it, not wanting to separate his tongue from yours. He laughs again into your mouth when you refuse to loosen your grip on him. He taps on your interlocked arms on the back of his neck and you snap out of it, pulling away after a moment. Your hazy eyes follow his fingers as they moved to wipe away the string of saliva connecting your mouths.
"I've missed this, sweet moth," your breath hitches at the fond nickname. "you taste as good as I remember." His hands caress their way down your inner thigh and pause right before they touch you right where you need him most. There he goes again with the almost touches.
"I can think of a way or two for us both to enjoy ourselves without worry," of a growing babe or of an open wound. As much as he wanted to have a little prince or princess off you — he cannot allow your first child together to risk your life nor let it bear the scrutiny of bastardy, nor would he let those cruel whisperers besmirch your reputation. "If you would let me show you, that is."
You think you have an idea of what he meant. You think. He could be talking about anything really. Who knows what he's been planning on doing.
"Okay," you say breathlessly, spreading your legs apart for him. Baelor settles himself between your legs when they loosened their hold around him, his eyes find yours and the way you looked up at him was maddening.
Baelor's hand moves along your hot skin in an unhurried pace that betrayed his eagerness, he'd rather not overwhelm you. He lets out a breath he did not know he was holding when his fingers press against your clothed cunt, the cotton cloth keeping him from it was warm and soaked with your arousal.
He slides a finger beneath the hem of your smallclothes and traces a line on your skin, smiling at the shiver it got out of you. "Can I help you out of those clothes, moth?"
You give him your approval by sitting up and turning around, silently requesting he helps you unlace, his nimble fingers undo them with ease. When you finally lift the hem of your plain dress over your head and throw it to off to the side, Baelor presses himself against your back and wraps his arms around your waist. He plants urgent kisses to the side of your neck, breathing you in between each kiss—and each one was placed higher than the one before it.
"You're extremely maddening you know that?" He says lowly against your ear, fingers trailing up and down your front snd squeezing your breast from underneath the thin cover of cotton.
The wandering touches of his hand, the feeling of his clothed cock hard against your behind, his labored breathing—all of it together sets your skin ablaze, it almost makes you yield to your temptations and pin him to the bed and have your way with him. So much for not wanting to overwhelm you, and he says you were maddening.
You knew exactly how to make him give you what you want – with your head tilted back you press a kiss to his temple. "My fire," you breathe out in desperation. His fingers still their movements at the name you called him by, but the beat of his heart quickens against his ribs. "please… stop teasing."
"As you wish." Baelor promises.
In swift but careful movements he laid you back on the bed and removed what little cover you had on your body. Despite his promise of not teasing you, Baelor takes his sweet time staring hungrily at your nude body — practically caressing your soft and supple skin with his eyes. As much as you loved seeing Baelor Breakspear be put into a trance by the simple sight of you stripped of all clothing, you were tired of waiting.
You snap him out of his trance with a call of his name – which you had to repeat twice. You do not say anything but he gets the idea from the impatient look you give him. Baelor shuffles off the bed, gently but firmly pulling you to the edge of it.
He kneels and lifts the underside of your knees, he starts kissing down your inner thighs — slowly.
"Baelor," you raise your head to look at him impatiently, the name uttered almost a groan. "you promised not to tease! just fuck me."
Baelor laughs against your skin, the sound affects you more than it should–no it affects you just like it should, the throbbing at your core matches the rhythm of your heart.
"I am not teasing," he sinks his teeth into your thigh, the bite sends a pleasant combination of pain and pleasure through you; some have said that those two sensations were two sides of the same coin, now you understand what they meant. "and I am not fucking you, I am making love to you."
"That said," his hot breath fans against your folds and you hold your breath. "I have no plans to rush this."
Baelor plants a reverent kiss against your wet folds — drawing a long exhale out of you — then another, then another, until he was practically devouring you like a starving—thirsty man lost in a vast desert and only your cunt would satiate and quench him. His tongue was incessant, it had your legs quivering and your tongue tied-up with mewling his name, albeit incoherently.
Since the moment you've won your very first spar, you've had a taste of euphoria. Back then when you were a child—to you, there was nothing better than the rush of victory in a melee or joust, not even the sugary taste of the sweetest cakes.
That was your thinking well after you were a woman grown, you simply turned your nose up when the squires–thinking you were your brother–spoke to you of brothels and sex. Sure, sex was good but surely it was no better than a hard-won victory? How could it match the invigorating sight of your opponent yielding to your hand, all while the sound of your heart beats hard through your ears?
Sure, you've thought of Baelor in that light — but at that age, you would much rather clash swords with him in a friendly spar, that felt much more romantic, even if he didn't know. Not to mention the sweet kisses and nights you spent gazing at the stars together, his eyelashes tickling your neck while you rambled on about something you could no longer remember; that was far better than the obscenity of sex, and you doubted you could ever change your feelings on that.
You were horribly wrong.
This was far better than any of that — and he was holding back on you.
"My fire," you barely manage to articulate—your hips jolt up against your will at the blinding pressure coiling inside you that threatened to shatter your mind to pieces at any second. Baelor does not even part from your cunt, he just locks an arm around your hips and pins you down. "please I—mmh–"
That hot tongue of his laps hard against your clit. Those fingers leave their place of anchor on your hip and take the place of your tongue, rubbing and prodding at your sensitive cunt. Just when you were about to tell him to, he slides a finger inside you.
Your walls take it in hungrily and easily, squeezing tight and coating it with your wetness.
You clutch at a handful of his hair. "Fuck—Baelor, that feels so good–" at your praise he adds another and curls them at an angle that has your moans and whines reach a dangerous volume, you had no choice but to bite at your lip and stifle them lest you invite unwanted rumors.
Baelor replaces his tongue with a thumb, drawing back to look at you clearly, and you lock eyes with him. He looked thoroughly debauched, mouth covered in your wetness, his eyes blown with lust, and his hair tangled up and unkempt unlike its usual neat style.
There was a certain pleasure to be had from knowing you made him—reduced him, the great and honorable prince and heir to the throne to this – all without much effort.
Your wondered what else you could do to him if you tried.
"I cannot wait until this is all over," Baelor holds your thigh and presses open mouthed kisses against the bite-mark, soothing the angry skin with his tongue. "then I could make you my princess and you would not have to hide your beautiful sounds from me."
Baelor stares through you, as if in a distant dream. "Then I could bury my cock into you without any judgment from these petulant fools."
His hand leaves your thigh to free his aching cock from the suffocating breeches that caged it in, he removes a ring with his teeth and spits it to the side. His jaw drops slack in a satisfied sigh when he wraps his fist around it and strokes.
Baelor presses his cheek against your thigh, eyes glazed over. "Your warm walls feel like they would fit around me so well. I can already imagine it, sweet moth—can you?"
You can, it has your back arching just thinking of him pushing and pulling his cock inside you.
"Yes–I can, I can..." You say breathless and almost incoherent.
"There's nothing I want more than filling you to the brim with my seed–" Baelor groans against your thigh, trying his best to emulate the squeezes of your tight walls with his hand. "have you milk me for every last drop of it."
"Look at me," the order was more of a plead. You obey your prince and raise your head to hold his eyes, the eyes glistening with pleasured tears.
"I promise—" Baelor vows, head dropping and voice breaking with a moan, his eyes find yours again. "No one would ever separate us again. I'm yours—always."
You want to say something. Anything. Give him a promise of your own, say you were his, that you would kill all his bastard uncles to be his wife, put their heads on spikes—end this farce of a rebellion before the break of dawn.
But that rope of pressure in your stomach coiled so tight it could not keep on going—you could not keep on going. It snaps along with your control over your body, the hot waves of pleasure coursing through your body numbs your mind to reason, your awareness of your surroundings.
Only thing you can think of is him. His fingers that refuse to stop their assault on your quivering insides. His warm cheek pressed to your thigh. His erratic hot breaths against your cunt as he thrust into his hand, the stroke of his hand not proving enough. His name. His whole being—His name.
Baelor… Baelor… Baelor!
That was the only word you had on your mind and tongue as he finally pushes you to the edge. You quiver and tremble as he lets you ride through your peak on his fingers still. Your back arches for the last time and you drop onto the bed, exhausted, satisfied, and still not done yet.
Raising your head, you find Baelor's face buried on your thigh, trying to reach his own release to no avail.
You sit up and take his face in hand. He tries his best to keep his eyes open and look at you but he surrenders to the soft caress of your thumb and gives the tenderest smile you ever seen, lips twitching as if he could not help it from forming. An overwhelming amount of adoration floods your heart and you dive down to kiss him.
The taste of him—the taste of you and him fills your tongue, pushing you to try and tangle your tongue with his for more. As if reading your mind, he raises himself onto his knees and tilts his head for a better angle. It does not work. Not without his hands pressing you to him.
Baelor groans in frustration and envelops you in his arms, ignoring the ache at his groin at the lack of stimulation, releasing meant that you would have to leave him, it could wait. You did not share that view though. Since he pleased you so thoroughly he deserves to be rewarded for it.
A hand smaller but as callused as his own wraps around his cock, wet with the slickness that you gathered. He whimpers into your mouth at the sudden quick and hard rhythm you set. It was the same momentum you moved at and with same strength you put into the swing of your blade in the field.
Unwavering. Relentless. Firm.
This was far better than fucking into his own hand, than fucking into his pillows and deluding himself into believing it's you instead.
Baelor could feel you smile against his lips at the way he crumbled so easily at your touch, and if that wasn't enough, you put another hand to his shaft. Pulling and twisting in movements that forced him to pull away from your mouth to bury his face into the crook of your neck and muffle his sounds.
Where did you learn how to do all this so well? Did someone teach you? Or were you just so perfect for him you knew just how to bring him to the edge?
"Fuck," he curses lowly into your neck. Surrendering himself to you and your hands, he strained against the growing shakiness of his weakening legs. It was embarrassing how quickly you unraveled him.
"I can feel how close you are," you whisper into his ear. "are you not tired?"
Baelor had no words left to give, so he nodded shakily instead.
"What is stopping you?" You say, faux curiosity enlacing your questioning voice.
"I could use my tongue," you say casually like it was the most normal thing to offer, like the thought of your tongue lapping and wrapping around his cock did not keep him up at night since the moment he knew you were among your father's banner-men.
"Would you like that?" Your voice felt like an extra hand teasing him.
Fuck. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to nod — but just the thought of it had erased every coherent thought in his brain. It doesn't help that you graze your teeth at the rim of his ear and lick at it.
His brain goes blank as hot ropes of cum spill out of him in waves and splatter against your stomach. You don't stop your hand, making sure to have him spill every last drop. All while pressing kisses at his temple, and whispering the words he taught you all those years ago.
"Avy jorrāelan." You say fondly.
I love you. Those words sent cherished memories into the forefronts of his mind. Of each time he told it to you.
The first time, you didn't know what they meant, you didn't even hear him say it – because he told it to you in his heart. When he first saw you grin and laugh in triumph the first time you won against him in Cyvasse. The game that finally got you to pay him any attention.
In the very first year of your and your brother's time at court, Baelor was smitten with you. He's tried his best to impress you when you loomed above them all in the training yard, but no matter how many times he's beaten the others to the ground you just stared with a blank expression.
He assumed that was due to your brother being amongst his opponents — unbeknownst to him, you were impressed, it was only that you were burning everyone's move to memory for the next time you take your brother's place in the training, and humiliate Aegor for daring to speak that way to your brother.
From his hiding place behind a tree, he eavesdropped heard you complain about how you could never win against your brother, no matter what strategy you go with. It was later that he came to you, wondering if you wanted to play with him. It took you by surprise, but you relented after a moment of deliberation.
That day entwined your soul with his, he was sure of it.
He recalls another time, on the final day of his mother's name-day celebrations. It was the last match, the last tilt — you versus him.
Baelor knew it was you. How could he not? No matter how many times he wanted to ask for your favor in past tourneys, he could never find you in the stands. You who always spoke of your younger twin with nothing but love and respect, was always missing when it was your brother's turn to show himself
And It was always when your brother was performing his best. Then when he would find you, the calluses of your palms were always more inflamed than when he saw them last; he'd assumed it was from bow-handling, it made barely any sense but it was the only explanation possible to him then.
To know it was you beneath the armor all those times, besting your opponents with the might of a warrior – it filled him with pride. No matter how much it worried him. No matter how his heart ached at how you hid this from him all those years.
"Avy jorrāelan." He said to you under his breath, even if you were on the other side of the tilting grounds and it couldn't reach your ears, he vowed to give you his all. It was the only way to honor you. It was the only way for him to see that glow on your face – giving you a tough fight.
After ten tilts, your lances splintered for the last time and Baelor fell off his horse. The hard fall to the ground had him seeing stars in the daylight. An ethereal glow took shape around you when you came into view to lend him a hand, ignoring the cheers in the stands at the climax of the joust, along with the jeers calling for Baelor to get up and give them an encore with a bout on foot.
When the Grand-maester finally took him away, it appeared that you knocked him off so hard it gave him a concussion. It was not his first of course, but it was his favorite one. Because you gave it to him, it didn't hurt that you fussed over him afterwards. Apologizing on the behalf of your brother and massaging his temples awkwardly, unsure if it would actually help.
He only gave you a reassuring smile and commended your brother for his skills with the lance and horse-riding, stating that he had the strength and chivalry required of a true knight; that if he was a knight himself he'd knight him on the spot.
Despite his clouded sight and confused mind, he managed to etch your sweet and bashful reaction into the deepest crevices of his heart and soul.
It was the reaction that stopped him from killing your father for letting you enter the fray of this war, but he supposes he has him to thank for teaching you how the skills you needed to survive for so long, revolting as he was.
A tremendous amount of gladness and relief fills his heart, that you were safe and sound and his.
"Avy jorrāelan tolī.' He returns your loving admission, pouring all the love in his heart into it, as he had hundreds of time before, the words came as naturally as they did all those years ago.
Baelor gets up to seat himself by your side, taking your hands in his and calling you by your name with a serious look, causing you to look at him with full attention. "Can you promise me something, my love?"
"Anything," you answer, searching his eyes for a hint of what he could want.
"If you ever see Daemon, promise me to walk the other way." He implores you, he knows how you act to his uncle's foot soldiers, he doesn't want to know what you'd do if you saw that man.
A dark look crosses your face, eyes glinting with conviction. "You know I would die for you, right?" You say as if that was a reasonable excuse to fight the most protected man on the opposing side.
"Can you live for me instead?" He urges you, pleading with his eyes too, you get lost in them for a moment and sigh. You've been dreaming of killing Daemon yourself, but if your prince insists with his beautiful eyes.
"I suppose I can let someone else take him off my hands." You compromise calmly, despite the raging disappointment swirling in your gut. It calms too though when Baelor launches himself at you and pulls you onto your sides, peppering dozens of kisses that send you hurtling into a fit of giggles.
It took a minute or two of half-hearted resistance before you pushed him off of you. "What's gotten into you?" You tell him while he walks off to look into the drawers.
"You know exactly what," he retorts with a grin in his voice, revealing himself from behind the dresser with a small box in hand.
"What's that?" You ask him when he sat down next to you.
"This is yours," he states, opening the box to reveal a pendant.
The chain was made of silver, just as you preferred – the pendant hanging off it was in the shape of a ring containing a thoroughly detailed moth, the grinning crescent and smiling four-eyes was as unnerving as it should be. You turn the moth to find the other face encrusted and divided with an amethyst and a smoky quartz, your favorite gemstones – you wondered if he realized that was because they had the same shades of his mismatched eyes.
Baelor watches your reaction with a pleased smile. "I meant to gift you this when I sent the letter vying for your hand moons ago, but you know what happened."
Yeah, maybe you should not have promised to leave Daemon be. As if sensing your thoughts, Baelor presses a chaste kiss to your lips.
"Don't you worry, sweet moth," he reassures you with a fond smile and a caress at the side of your face. "all tastes sweeter with time."
You know every show that the premise is like “people find out ghosts/monsters/demons are real and are charged with stopping them” appeal to me way more now as a post-graduate not because I believe in ghosts more or whatever but because can you IMAGINE just being handed a job that you don’t even need to apply for? Like just being told “basically there’s this bad thing and all you do is make sure it doesn’t do what it wants” that’s just customer service baby and I worked that for 6 goddamn years! Just TRY getting past “I have a job to offer you” before I can jump down your throat agreeing.
some idiot with a dumb ghost-hunting name who joined the Cause because they love the paranormal: oh fuck oh shit this is really scary guys I’m having second thoughts
me, who knows that if we run away I have to apply to like, a real actual Jobbe again: wakey wakey demons it’s this or retail so guess who’s got nothing to lose
summary: robbs family are obsessed with his wife to the point he can’t get a moment alone with her
content: fluff, robb going insane, no war au!!
notes: this fic gave me an unmatched sense of joy. I love house stark!! I’m actually sansa starks biggest fan on my editing account I’ve posted 128 edits with her in. I saw we dub me head sansa stan. Also I will do a THOUSAND of these happy house stark fics w robb x reader it’s my fav
Robb should have known this would happen.
He married you in the godswood beneath the heart tree, snow drifting softly through the air, his entire family watching with shining eyes. It had been perfect. Quiet. Sacred.
He had thought, foolishly, that marriage would mean more time with you.
Instead, it has meant that the entire Stark family has decided you belong to them.
It begins before breakfast.
Robb wakes with you tucked against his chest, your hair a mess across his shoulder. For once, the castle is quiet. Pale morning light creeps through the shutters.
He presses a kiss to your temple.
“This,” he murmurs, half-asleep, “is what I imagined marriage would be.”
You hum sleepily. “You imagined me drooling on your shoulder?”
“I did not say it was dignified.”
You laugh softly, and he feels victorious already.
Then the door bursts open.
“Robb!”
Arya’s voice.
No knocking.
No hesitation.
He doesn’t even move at first. Surely this is a dream. Surely..
“Robb, Ghost stole my boot again and Jon won’t help because he says it builds character! oh.”
There is a pause.
You pull the blankets up instinctively. Robb stares at the ceiling.
In the doorway stands Arya, hands on her hips, entirely unrepentant.
Behind her, Jon leans casually against the frame, smirking.
“You’re married,” Arya says flatly. “Not dead.”
“Out,” Robb says, voice muffled in the pillow.
Jon grins. “Father says breakfast waits for no man.”
“I am not just any man.”
“You are when you’re late.”
You are trying very hard not to laugh.
Robb finally turns his head to glare at them. “This is my chamber.”
Arya shrugs. “It’s our castle.”
And just like that, they leave, satisfied.
Robb groans.
“It is too early for this,” he mutters.
You kiss his cheek. “Your family loves you.”
“They love you,” he corrects darkly.
Breakfast is worse.
You barely make it to the table before you are intercepted.
Sansa is immediately beside you, discussing fabric choices for a new gown. Bran wants you to hear about something he saw from the battlements. Rickon climbs into your lap without permission.
Across the hall, Theon raises an eyebrow at Robb.
“You look troubled, Stark.”
“My wife has not sat beside me once,” Robb replies.
Theon glances toward you, currently laughing as Bran animatedly gestures about something involving ravens.
“She did marry into a large family.”
“She married me not them.”
“And yet she appears to be preferring their company over yours. Shame.”
Robb shoots him a look that promises violence.
At the head of the table, Ned watches the scene with quiet amusement.
Catelyn leans slightly toward him. “He is sulking.”
“He is learning,” Ned replies mildly.
Robb finally manages to reach you… only for Jon to clap a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re needed in the yard.”
“I am needed here.”
Jon looks pointedly at you being tugged away by Sansa and Arya simultaneously.
“I think you’ve lost this battle.”
The yard offers no relief.
Grey Wind bounds toward you the moment you step outside later that morning, nearly knocking you off balance. You laugh, dropping to your knees to bury your hands in his fur.
“Traitor,” Robb mutters.
Ghost appears at your side as well, serene and watchful. Even the wolves have chosen you.
Shaggydog barrels past, chasing Rickon, who is shrieking in delight.
“See?” Theon says, nudging Robb with his elbow. “Even the direwolves adore her.”
“They are my wolves.”
“They are her wolves now.”
Robb watches as you rise, brushing snow from your skirts, only to be immediately handed a practice sword by Arya.
“She said she’d spar,” Arya announces.
“You said you were terrible,” Robb protests.
“I am,” you reply cheerfully. “But she insists.”
Arya grins wickedly.
You take a stance.
Jon folds his arms, intrigued. “This should be interesting.”
You swing too wide. Arya disarms you in seconds.
You laugh.
Robb does not.
He is watching the way your cheeks flush from the cold, the way you push hair from your face, the way you beam at his sister like you have always belonged here.
He loves that they love you.
He does.
But he would also like to hold his wife without an audience.
You finally slip away from Arya, cheeks flushed, hair slightly wild.
Robb finds you in the library.
Alone.
Reading.
Hope surges.
He shuts the door behind him quietly.
You glance up, surprised, and smile.
“There you are.”
He crosses the room in three strides.
“You vanished.”
“You were sparring.”
“I would have stopped.”
You tilt your head. “Would you?”
“Yes.”
He reaches for your hand…
The door opens.
“Ah!” says Sansa brightly. “I thought you might be here.”
Robb’s shoulders drop.
Sansa steps inside with a stack of fabrics.
“I need help choosing trims.”
You blink between them.
Robb says very evenly, “Now?”
“Yes,” Sansa replies innocently. “It will only take a moment.”
It takes an hour.
Robb sits in the corner like a storm cloud while the two of you debate silks.
By midday you are seated beside Jon at lunch, discussing archery techniques you learned watching him.
Robb sits across from you.
Again.
Again.
Theon leans over. “You’ve spoken to her… what, twice?”
Robb counts silently.
“…something like that.”
Jon is demonstrating hand placement using your fingers.
Robb nearly inhales a bone.
“That is enough,” he mutters.
You look up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
But he doesn’t stop staring.
After lunch you all find yourselves in the yard again. Snow crunches beneath your boots as you cross to where Robb is.
Robb is sparring with Theon, wooden swords clashing sharply.
You pause to watch.
Theon spots you first.
“Ah,” he says, ducking a swing. “The true ruler of the North arrives.”
Robb rolls his eyes. “Ignore him.”
You laugh softly and lean against the fence.
Within minutes, Arya Stark appears at your side.
“Bet on Robb,” she mutters. “He sulks if he loses in front of you.”
“I do not sulk!” Robb calls.
“You do!” Arya shouts back.
Theon grins wickedly. “He fights worse when you watch.”
Robb lunges at him.
You clap when Robb finally disarms Theon.
He looks immediately toward you.
Victorious.
Breathless.
Snow in his hair.
You smile at him like he’s done something extraordinary.
He forgets entirely that Theon is still speaking.
Then Bran tugs your sleeve. “Come. You promised.”
Robb’s expression falls.
“For what?”
“She said she’d read me all the books and fairytales she brought from home.”
Robb lowers his sword slowly. “You promised?”
You hesitate. “Briefly.”
“How long is briefly?”
Bran answers for you. “Long enough.”
And just like that…
You’re gone again.
Jon steps beside Robb.
“You look wounded.”
“I just want my wife.”
“She will return.”
“She said that yesterday.”
From the tower above, your laughter drifts down.
He softens instantly.
“Gods,” he sighs. “I cannot even be angry.”
Late afternoon.
Robb finally corners you in the corridor.
“You are avoiding me.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I have been busy.”
“With everyone except me.”
You soften. “Robb,”
“Reader!” calls Sansa’s voice from the stairwell. “Oh!! there you are! I was hoping,”
Robb goes very still.
Sansa approaches sweetly.
“Could you walk with me? I wanted to ask you about court etiquette.”
Robb stares at his sister like she’s declared war.
You hesitate.
He sees it.
He sighs through his nose. “Go.”
You squeeze his hand before leaving.
“Not as if she had time with you before.” He mumbled under his breath.
He stands alone in the corridor.
Again.
It’s nearly evening when you finally return to your chambers.
Robb is there.
Sitting on the edge of the bed.
Waiting.
You close the door gently.
“Are you angry?”
He shakes his head once.
“No.”
“Robb.”
He stands slowly.
“I woke with you this morning.”
“Yes.”
“And since then I have seen you in passing.”
Your chest tightens a little.
“They love you,” you say softly.
“I know.”
“And you love them.”
“I do.”
He steps closer.
“But I married you.”
The words are quiet.
Honest.
And for a moment, it feels like the world narrows back down to just the two of you…
A horn sounds.
Dinner.
Robb closes his eyes.
You almost laugh.
The Great Hall is loud.
Warm.
Full.
You are seated between Arya and Sansa.
Robb is three seats away.
Three.
You’re laughing at something Arya says.
You haven’t noticed him staring for several minutes now.
Theon leans in. “This is painful.”
Jon adds, “I almost pity you.”
Robb stands.
The bench scrapes loudly against stone.
Conversation dies down.
He walks around the table deliberately.
Stops behind your chair.
Places both hands on it.
“My lady.”
You look up, smiling. “Yes?”
“I require you.”
“For what?”
“For my sanity.”
Laughter ripples.
You open your mouth…
And he doesn’t wait.
He lifts you straight from the bench.
The hall erupts.
“Robb Stark!” Catelyn scolds, though she’s smiling.
“You have all had her since dawn,” he declares. “I am reclaiming my wife.”
Grey Wind barks.
Theon laughs.
Jon shakes his head.
Arya shouts, “That’s unfair!”
Robb ignores them all.
He carries you out of the hall, up the stairs, down the corridor.
Into your chamber.
He shuts the door.
Turns the key.
Leans back against it, breathing out like he’s just survived battle.
You’re laughing in his arms.
“You’re dramatic.”
“I am patient,” he corrects.
“Since when?”
“Since this morning.”
You wrap your arms around his neck.
“And now?”
He presses his forehead to yours.
“Now,” he murmurs, voice warm and low, “they can knock all they like because I am not stopping.”
reader that isn’t a bimbo? Reader that is put together and likes dressing up? Reader that’s older than 18-20? Reader that’s not white-coded??? Reader who doesn’t have daddy issues? Reader who does have daddy issues in a “man hater” way? Reader who’s taller than 4’11-5’0?? Reader who’s quiet and reserved and not in a robotic way or stuttering way? Reader who’s Tina Belcher coded? Reader who gives off the vibe of a creepy barn owl but somehow it’s endearing? Reader who’s charismatic and charming? Reader who’s-
The stereotype of the nerd girl taking her glasses off and suddenly she's beautiful, but in reverse. A cold tough mean office lady who glares at everyone until she gets glasses and suddenly becomes sweet, approachable and friendly since she no longer has a constant headache over not being able to fucking see, doesn't need to squint at everything, and actually remembers individual people by name now that she can tell them apart at all.
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