Summary: “I did. Hiding in the middle of shrubbery. A small child. I thought it was—Well, I thought it was you at first. For he ran to me and I saw he had your eyes.” How Baelor would handle having a dreamer wife, even as she tries to hide it from him.
Tags: dreamer!reader, arranged marriages, falling in love, brief mentions of dysfunctional families, brief nsfw
A/N: this is how i cope with my insomnia
The marriage had been arranged, but your feelings for him were not.
You dream of him your first few nights in the Redkeep. A welcome change from your usual dreams. Not violent, not loud or bloody. You are walking behind him, the sun haloing the cropped dark hair atop his head. He turns his head towards you, just an inch, revealing mismatched eyes and a twice broken nose, and that is when you wake.
It is the few times you have had peace to yourself. You do not question it, you cherish it.
When you do meet the prince, it feels as though the air rushes out of the room. You realize then that the crown prince, Hand of the King, has been the same man in your dreams. You do not really know what it means.
You had expected him to be as arrogant and boorish as anyone in the proximity of power. Yet what met you was gentleness and kindness, a presence that levelled the room with that same mismatched gaze that has fixed you in your dreams.
You stare at him a little too much during feasts, or when you chanced upon him in the training yard, and when you had accompanied your father in the small council chamber, those eyes fixing men in their seats or persuading them with that voice of his that you finally chanced to hear. All this staring caught his eye, and Baelor, naturally curious, found a way to start a conversation.
You are quiet, yet observant, he notes. He’s heard the other lord’s remarks about you: your beauty accompanied by your eerily serene expression. So he pays closer attention, every reaction, no matter how miniscule and files it away. He sees when you decide to listen, when you decide to appear as if you aren’t listening but actually has a keen ear in the conversation. He sees it in your eyes that sweeps over a new room, as if turning every crevice, every important person in your palm. But even more so the way you stare at him, as if a little struck, as if you have seen him before.
You have been having vivid dreams since you were a child. Your mother has taught you to hide it, keeping the benefit of your future husband in mind, so much so that she fails to consider your wellbeing in the matter. You had hidden it well enough, had managed to rearrange your entire life around it, especially since the offer of betrothal to a Targaryen prince was presented to you during your time at the Keep.
The court sings praises of a wise match, of dowries and fleets, strategies and alliances, unaware of something that has been burning there steadily, unaware of your dreams.
He had chanced upon you by the balconies looking over the garden of the Keep. There were no other witnesses other than the crickets in the night and the wisps of the trees.
“I thought I was the only one awake at this hour.” His voice makes you jump and you know it is him before you’ve fully turned around.
“Your Grace.” You curtsy.
“My Lady.” He returns. His cloak is the color of the night, the familiar black and red of House Targaryen making him seem more formidable even in a chance encounter.
“Forgive me, your Grace, sleep does not come easy to me.” The stone wall is cold underneath your hands.
“There is nothing to forgive, I am the intruder here.” He bows his head, stepping forward to fall into step beside you. “Though it is a nice surprise, I usually work into the late hours and rarely see other living creatures at this hour. How are you faring, my Lady?”
“Quite well though… It is certainly an adjustment, though I have always been told I sleep at odd hours.” He casts you a sidelong glance. “I prefer the night, it seems more to yourself does it not? It is lonely but it is yours.”
When the betrothal is confirmed a few moons later, your mother makes note of talking to you after the ceremony, reminding you to maintain your secret. You return to the high table tense and you think you are hiding it well until your husband’s hands find yours under the table, giving a reassuring squeeze. It is then you realize after feeling displaced in your own home that you have finally found something you can call your own.
Later, in performing your duties, he is gentle as one can be. More than that, he learns what you like, and when you ask for more, he is not shy in giving it, as if it is the permission he has been waiting in bated breath all along. He memorizes the sound of your panting breaths, the twitch of your hips. He plucks the pleasure out of you like a skilled artist attuned to his instrument.
You’re basking in the afterglow of it all, laying side by side in attuned breaths. Your husband was handsome, and you were more than aware of the gossip that plagued the court. More Dornish than Targaryen. You never understood why that was such a terrible thing as you lay next to him, the firelight dancing along his features.
“I have seen you in my dreams.” You do not realize saying it out loud, a mere mindless mumble, until he laughs. Not mocking, not demeaning. He laughs as if flattered, and his cheeks go a little flushed, as if you had not just spent the past hour doing ungodly things to each other.
“There’s no need for you to woo me, sweet girl. We are already married.”
You return his smile then, moving to perch yourself upon his chest, the contact sending warmth through your whole body and causing him to make space for you in his. “And if it is not flattery, but truth?”
His hands find your hair then, winding his fingers mindlessly through them. “Then what sweet dreams you have.” If only he knew, you think. He is as you have dreamt of and that night is one of the few nights you have slept dreamlessly.
The moons turn and you settle into a peaceful routine, though your secrecy slowly mounts your chest with guilt. The visions are often in your dreams, so vivid and almost real that any threats in your unconsciousness are registered as real to your senses. So much so that you cannot help your reactions to them.
You are awoken one night to a form at the foot of your bed, like a terrible assassin, illuminated by the dozen candlelights in the room. You do not question why the candles are all lit when you have retreated to bed nearly an hour ago. You register the threat as real, yet when you shoot up from bed, he is not there, and the room is nothing but shadows.
Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you move to curl up against his side then, counting your breaths, eyes wide and searching the room for the assailant. But nothing comes. Baelor does not wake, merely wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you slither closer to him. He must think that you are simply seeking warmth, unaware of the war drums banging in your chest. You sit up then, simply to watch him, the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps half on his side. He looks good like this, unbothered and untethered. You wonder what he dreams of or if he dreams of anything at all.
He must be so tired, you think, more tired than I. You walk over to the dying hearth to tend to the embers, looking for something else to occupy your mind. Over the years, you’ve become familiar with the night.
You jump later when a hand brushes against your arm, and you look up to be met with your husband’s face, ladened with sleep yet amused at your reaction.
“What are you doing here?” He rasps, occupying the seat next to you.
“Night terrors.” The lie keeps him placated, though you did not fathom for how long.
Although now you cannot think of that, or anything else. His hair was ruffled from sleep, in a simple sleeping tunic, yet you found yourself unable to look up.
He is looking at you from where he sat, eyes bearing that same intensity.
“I apologize if I woke you.” You say just to say something, to stop him from looking at you as though he means to devour you whole. “I could suggest separate quarters to the maids. There are so many rooms, I’m sure no one would mind—”
“Is that what you would like?” He asks with an air of finality, a gentle end to your ceaseless string of words. He does not challenge, but when your eyes meet, his mismatched ones illuminated by the fire, it seems determined to draw an honest answer out of you.
“No, but if— I am quite a light sleeper and I don’t want to be a bother.” Another lie. You’d prefer to be alone in the chambers so if you woke, which you will, you will only have yourself to frighten.
“You’ve never bothered me.” He stands with a quiet grunt, offering a hand to you. “Save for when you decide to wander when I am searching for you in my sleep. Come, please.” You follow his movements, then save one last look to the hearth before you take his hand and follow him back into bed.
“I’m frightened.” You admit in a whisper, settling back against the pillows and tucking yourself underneath the covers. “I know it is so childish, to be frightened of one's dreams, but…” It is the closest truth you can give him. His hand finds a pattern on your hip.
He watches you. “Do you have them often?”
You nod. “Since I was a child.”
“Then you have nothing to apologize for. You’re safe here. This is your home.” He sees the worry on your face. He wishes he had the power to take it away, though he knows it is not that simple. “Why did you not wake me earlier, if it bothered you so?”
“I know how tired you are.” You cover his hand with yours, absent of any rings that adorned his fingers in the day. “You need your sleep.”
Wake me, he whispers, a kiss against your shoulder, if it gets worse. His tone does not leave room for arguments. His words remain with you as you get dragged into a fitful slumber, dreamless as you hope.
–
Fire blooms in the walls of your chamber, glowing coals etching itself into the cracks there. The crackling of it is vivid and real, orange glow consuming the stone walls. It sets the room alight on its own accord, casting its own shadows to dance along the wall as if they are their own living and breathing bodies. The smell is putrid, unlike woodsmoke or the rising of smoke from the hearth.
In your state, you had picked up a porcelain washing bowl and hurled it at the door. Exactly when Baelor had decided to come in. That is the moment you wake up. You do not know why you did it. Perhaps it was frustration coming to the surface, of no longer knowing what was real and what was not.
He ducks deftly, just in time so the pieces fall on his back and do no real harm. For a moment, the both of you stand there, frozen in shock.
“Stand down,” he responds to the Kingsguard’s inquiries almost immediately. “I’m fine.” When they try to come in, he shuts the door behind him, taking in the room, your state. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, cupping the apologies spilling from there.
“I’m sorry—I thought I—” You stutter, eyes welling with tears unconsciously. You had almost harmed him, someone that you cared about, that welcomed you into his home and made it yours after years of feeling displaced on your own. “I thought I saw—” There is no fire there, the room is intact and not engulfed in flames.
“What did you see?” He asks, taking a cautious step forward. His tone remains calm, as if he already had his own suspicions, but his heart is hammering in his chest. You feel it later when he takes you in his arms, attempting to soothe you, running a hand along your back.
He begins to reach for you, unsure if you’d like to be touched, and preparing for you to create some sort of distance between the two of you. But when you don’t, when you simply take his hand and let yourself be maneuvered to him, a relief wells in his chest.
You admit it to him that night, your secret that has been weighing on you, how horrible they get, how keeping it hidden was almost as worse as the dreams themselves. It is a relinquishing of sorts, of the burden of a secret, of your exhaustion. You expect the worst: anger, fear, disgust, caricatures of a man you’ve grown to know well enough to understand that he would never act like that towards you. Yet you expect it, and it doesn’t come. He understands, and a part of him has known, you think. All those nights you could not sleep through, twitching awake at the sensation of falling in your dreams, jerking awake.
Later in bed, he asks against your hair, “Have you ever had good dreams?” He sounds genuinely curious.
“I do,” you answer, fighting to keep your eyes open. For how much you dreaded sleep, you were only human, and you were exhausted. “I dreamt of you before I met you.”
From then on, he takes note of what calms you, and cultivates it without a word. If it is the gardens, a seat by the sea or a quiet nook in the Keep, it is yours without even having to ask for it. He makes a passing, yet calculated, request to a handmaid, a knight, a servant, and suddenly no one dares to pass by that part of the Keep. The space wordlessly becomes yours and you do not have to fight to keep it. Baelor had grown used to it rather quickly. You’ve suggested separate chambers on numerous occasions and he has turned it down all the same.
You’ve taken to writing your dreams down, sometimes in detail, sometimes in vague scrawls. But you learn to live with the dreaming, and you find that ceasing to fight it proves to be a better comfort than suppressing it these past few years.
In talks of politics, he will heed your warnings, but he does not like his wife to be used as a pawn. So, he keeps it hidden. The Red Keep had taken note of your habits. Night owls, they call the pair of you, though you’ve given them no other reason to gossip badly. There is little whisper of how the heir apparent’s wife is a dreamer. The little whisper dies down with no evidence, a flame with no kindling.
The lack of sleep is concerning for the both of you. He has been known to work until the late hours of the night. You’ve taken to accompanying him more often in the late nights in his solar and not complaining when you rose in the early mornings. Your body has learned to function on as much sleep as it can take. It is a refreshing change for Baelor, to find his lady wife already up before him.
Once, you had attended a feast with little to nothing but a nap and your head lolled to the side once, in the middle of a lord’s gratitude to King Daeron. At everyone’s applause, you jolted awake and he silently took your hand underneath the table, an amused smile on his lips you’ve come to know too well. You mumble your own gratitude against his cheek, stumbling down the hall towards your shared chambers, when he excused the both of you, needing to retire early with his lady wife.
Other than that, the Keep have whispered of heirs, of little princes and princesses running around the Keep once more. On more than one occasion this was announced in your presence, you have caught your husband’s eye across the room, an uptick of his lips then.
The confirmation comes to you first—in a dream. Baelor was more than happy to hear that you had a good night’s rest, but even more so if you had good dreams more than night terrors. In a way, he had seen it as his duty, that if the Realm, his responsibility was well-taken care of, so would your dreams.
“Baelor,” you whisper to him one night. The candles had burned low into their iron pots and the hearth had slowly died down into the night. You’re curled up against him for the sake of warmth. “I had a dream.”
“What was it about, dearest?” He hums awake, reaching for you even as his eyes remain closed.
“We were in the gardens of the Keep. ‘Twas a good, bright day out, like the ones you favor. And I was searching for someone.”
“Did you find them?”
“I did. Hiding in the middle of shrubbery. A small child. I thought it was—Well, I thought it was you at first. For he ran to me and I saw he had your eyes.”
He turns his face to you then, expression open. You had never seen that look on his face before. You realize then you had never seen the prince so well caught off-guard. “I think, perhaps, we should send for the maesters.” You whisper to him then, unsure, yet a smile has found your lips.
He sits up then, a rustle of sheets. “Are you certain?”
You nod and he cradles your head, pressing a kiss there. The maester had been sent for in the middle of the night, discreetly. The next day, the bells had been rung every hour of the day to welcome the news.
Ever since I saw Baelor spread his legs at the joust I've had this thought in my head. How about reader wanting so badly to please Baelor. Wants to learn what he likes. Wants him to teach her but then she learns she has no gag reflex. I need that man in my throat yesterday.
oh 😳
(nsfw)
—
Who knew that catching a glimpse of your husband’s widely spread legs during a banquet feast earlier that day, one that celebrated the newly forged treaty he had formed with a neighbouring house, would have dire, wanton effects on your psyche.
It had you bursting into his private library, late into the evening, to collapse between his parted legs and shamelessly beg him to teach you how to pleasure him.
After a beat of stunned silence, Baelor’s alarmed look slowly transformed into one of amusement. He moved forward to hold the sides of your face, the parchment he had been studying now abandoned on the floor.
“I wish to please you as you have pleased me.”
“You already do, my dear,” he assured you, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as his fingers mindlessly tucked loose strands of hair behind your ears.
“With my mouth upon your.. cock.” the sentence sounded foreign and clumsy on your tongue, but you refrained from allowing the embarrassment you felt to show on your features.
Baelor’s brows rose at the vulgar word but he did not comment on it. A contemplative look filled his eyes as they drifted over your form, taking in the eager twinkle in your stare and the way your fingers desperately clutched at his clothes.
More pleas left your lips, each one breaking down his resolute refusal to allow you to debase yourself until, finally, he permitted you to untie his breeches and free him to the open air.
“If you feel the slightest bit of unease,” he began, placing your shaky fingers at the base of his length, “stop immediately, I will not be upset.”
You placed several skittish licks over the swollen length before your lips parted to engulf the engorged, leaking tip of his thickness into your mouth.
“That’s it,” he sighed, head tilting to watch the way your cheeks hollowed around him, “don’t feel as though you must–,”
The abrupt groan that left Baelor’s lips was guttural and pathetic; his head fell backwards when, aside from the initial unfamiliar ache of having to open your mouth wide enough for him to slide past your lips, you showed no discomfort at having the entirety of his thick, pulsating cock down your throat.
“How–,” he sputtered, another ragged sound leaving his chest when the suction around his length tightened.
He had never been with someone who did not make it abundantly clear, either verbally or physically, that he was too large to properly orally pleasure. And yet, here you sat, the whole of his shaft encased in the velvety heat of your throat with your chin resting comfortably on his scrotum.
Startled, you moved back, frightened that you may have caused him pain, “Did I hurt you?”
“No, no, you’re.. wonderful,” was Baelor's uneven response, voice imbued with awe. He was certain you did not even know that what you had done was something not even the most gifted, well-trained courtesans were capable of.
He trembled when you moved back down his cock, a hand moving to loosely grasp the back of your neck. He could neither push you away nor pull you closer, helpless to the heavenly torture of your throat muscles pulling him deeper within.
Baelor offered praise in a sultry, hushed tone, deciding that you needed no further guidance. His eyelids lowered as he watched you move up and down his shaft, the candlelight reflecting in his one blue eye prettily.
“Gods–,” he reclined backwards, hips canting forward when you swallowed once more around his cock.
You could feel his spend dripping down your throat as the smell of his musk, body oils, and arousal filled your nose.
The heaviness that had weighed down on his shoulders the past few weeks was replaced with a lighter, satiated bliss as his release washed over him.
You moved away from his length with an obscenely loud pop and smiled up at him, lips swollen and tingly.
“Did I do well?” you knew the answer, but still, you wanted his praise.
Baelor sat back, staring at you for a long moment as his chest rose and fell in tandem with his racing heart, not speaking until he felt stable enough to.
“You were beyond perfect,” he murmured, sounding entranced and immensely pleased. It was followed by the low, nearly indiscernible muttering of, “made for me”.
The story follows Daena, Targaryen princess, cherished and sheltered by her royal family, whose orderly court routine is disrupted when a visit from her uncle Maekar, a serious and sullen forty-year-old prince, awakens in her a mischievous impulse and something more.
Content Warnings
The significant age difference (20 and 40 years) was presented as a central element of the romantic dynamic.
Targaryen incest
She had that bearing that septas teach for years but few manage to make their own: straight back without rigidity, chin raised without arrogance, hands always in the right place. A serene aura like still water. But everyone at court knew that beneath that calm lived a tenacious and sharp tongue, capable of dismantling a lord with three words spoken in an absolutely sweet voice. While your brother was educated at Dragonstone with your mother, you stayed with your father at court, the undisputed favorite of your grandparents. The kings had taken care of spoiling you with that particular tenderness that only the old know how to give, the kind that asks nothing in return. Even now, at nineteen years old, they had never forced you to marry, nor had they even subtly suggested it, as if the very idea of giving you away caused them pain.
Your only duty was to rise at dawn, when the air still smelled of cold stone and freshly baked bread, to take a walk with your grandmother toward the village ovens, making sure women and children had their breakfast before the sun finished rising. Then to serve as cupbearer in the council of lords, where you learned to read silences and glances as much as words. Lunch with your grandmother afterward, listening to her stories that mixed advice with memories. Spending the afternoon among ladies of different houses, embroidery threads and conversations that sometimes hid more politics than they showed. And at night, dining with your father and grandparents, with the fire crackling and the red wine gleaming in the cups.
You repeated this day after day, like the verses of a prayer known by heart. Without any disturbance in your routine, without jolts, without surprises.
Until a distraction arrived, a very very amusing one, and you decided that your reputation was solid enough to commit whatever mischief you pleased.
The dining hall was full of laughter that bounced off the stone walls and rose up to the hanging tapestries. The entire royal family had gathered that night, his four sons, their wives and grandchildren, a congregation that occurred so rarely that the servants did not quite know where to look. The long table gleamed with golden wax candelabras, overflowing plates and cups that emptied at an alarming rate. But the loudest, without any doubt, were the sons of your youngest uncle. Daeron could no longer hold his head steady, it fell to one side and then corrected itself clumsily, his cheeks red as ripe plum. Aerion delivered comments with that slow, satisfied cadence of someone who enjoys the damage they cause, words designed to burn, especially cruel toward his younger brother Aegon, who received them with a clenched jaw. The two younger girls did not stay quiet but responded to Aerion's comments with a ferocity disproportionate to their size, defending Aegon with the absolute loyalty of those who are not yet afraid of anything, though the youngest simply opted to throw food at him, a piece of bread that landed on Aerion's shoulder with notable precision.
Fortunately the adults on the other side of the hall ate in relative peace, conversing in low voices, trying to ignore as much as they could the chaos at the childish end of the table. And you were exactly in the middle, between the adults and the children, just after Maekar, at that uncomfortable point where noise arrived from both sides.
Today, after a full day of straightening your back, raising your chin, walking slowly and gracefully, endless protocols to receive the royal family, your responsibility and your duties as princess were beginning to falter like a flame in the wind. You only wanted some fun, something genuinely entertaining that would give you real satisfaction, not the polished pleasure of fulfilling what was expected. And watching your cousins so rowdy, some of that energy clung to you like gold dust, something that hummed in your fingers and made the corner of your lips threaten to lift.
That night Maekar was seated beside you. Forty years he had carried that presence that occupied space without asking for it, his perfectly shaved beard that did not quite manage to fully cover the marks that chickenpox had left on him as a child, small imperfections in his skin that somehow made him seem more real than the rest of the perfectly polished men at court. His size was so immense that you barely reached the top of his shoulders when standing, and sitting the difference was still evident, those broad shoulders that seemed made of rock. All of that plus his furrowed brow, the deep lines between his eyebrows, and his obvious displeasure at having to be there, at the gathering, at the noise, at the world in general that night.
Your grandmother brought you back to the hall with her warm and proud voice:
—Daena has begun practicing advanced equitation, her grandfather brought two Dornish coursers, how have you been getting on, dear?
The pride in your grandmother's voice was tangible as the heat of the fire, and her dazzling smile showed how happy it made her that her granddaughter was following Dornish traditions, that thread connecting to something ancient and hers.
You set your wine cup on the table with a slow and elegant gesture, and your hand rested on the tablecloth a moment before sliding, without hurry, without abruptness, a little further to the right. All the eyes at that end of the table were fixed on you, waiting for your answer.
—It is a beautiful horse —you said, with that voice of yours that always sounded as if you carried all the time in the world—, swift and with a very delicate temperament. But that makes riding it more challenging.
And just as your grandfather burst out in a proud laugh at his brave granddaughter, you let your hand fall with all the calm in the world onto Maekar's groin, squeezing.
—Shit!
Maekar's curse exploded in the hall like a stone in a still lake. He stood up abruptly, the weight of his body pushing the table forward with a screech of wood, his chair falling backward with a dry thud against the stone floor.
—Bloody hell!
The silence that followed was absolute. Every conversation cut short, every cup paused midway, every head turned toward him. The children, who never quieted for anything, stood open-mouthed. The servants approached cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal, trying to gather what had spilled and straighten what had fallen.
—Maekar! Do not say those words in front of your niece! —Your grandfather's voice thundered with that authority that needed no shouting to fill the hall.
—Are you all right, uncle?
You looked at him with the clearest and most detached eyes in your arsenal, and you had them well trained. Your voice emanated nothing but purity and genuine concern, the voice of someone who has done nothing in their life but embroider and pray.
Maekar returned a look that began as pure confusion, eyebrows drawn together, eyes searching for something in your face that would explain the inexplicable, and then that confusion mixed with a hot and controlled anger. But the anger lasted barely a second before the awareness of all the gazes upon him crushed it and transformed it into something that struggled to resemble composure.
—Yes… yes, I just need rest. The journey has brought me a great deal of stress.
He made a short bow toward the king, rigid and too quick to be entirely elegant. And as he walked toward the exit, he glanced at you sideways, with that careful distance someone adopts when they have just understood that something in their world has changed and are not sure whether to run or stay completely still.
At the corner of your lips a small smile formed, barely perceptible, that did not escape Maekar.
The dinner of the previous night, despite the scandal Maekar had caused in the hall, ended in calm. Time did its work, the wine helped, and toward the end of the evening everyone had returned to laughter and family stories, that particular warmth that exists only when people who have known each other all their lives reunite after a long time apart. A sweet and slightly melancholy satisfaction remained in everyone, of catching up, of remembering who they were to one another.
It was early in the small hours, that strange time when night has not quite finished leaving but the day already announces itself in the movements of servants, in the sound of water buckets and brooms dragging across stone corridors. The air was damp and cold, that cold that creeps up sleeves and climbs the neck, and the sky remained completely dark, barely crossed by the grey promise of dawn on the horizon.
You were already completely ready.
The dress was a pale rose that in the torchlight appeared almost white, almost nacre, with that delicate tone only achieved with fabric dyed twice in rose water. The outer silk fell in perfect folds from a fitted bodice that shaped the torso with precision, embroidered in golden thread with small intertwined dragons so fine they resembled lace from a distance. The sleeves were long and flared, falling from the elbow in a more vaporous fabric, almost transparent, that brushed the floor when you walked and made it whisper.
Your hair, platinum white with those copper highlights, was gathered in an elaborate braid interwoven with pink silk ribbons falling loosely between the strands. The diadem resting on your forehead was of fine gold. Your violet eyes, framed by nearly white lashes, held that quiet gleam of someone who knows exactly the effect they produce. Cheeks faintly rosy from the early morning cold, lips a shade darker than the dress.
A too-spoiled girl who had become something difficult to name. Too young to be ignored. Too cherished to be underestimated.
As you advanced down the corridor toward where your grandmother awaited, Sanda walked half a step behind you, her presence as habitual as your own shadow, and the soft sound of your steps on the stone was the loudest thing in that empty hallway.
It was then that you noticed.
Ahead, past the arch that led to the armory, a tall and robust man, almost hunched from the effort, practiced alone against a wooden dummy. His sword fell on the figure with a force that shook the support from its base, again and again, as if the dummy had done something unforgivable. The sound arrived rhythmic and heavy, wood against wood, the weight of an enormous body behind every blow.
Something new was born in you, something that started as mischief but had another component mixed in, a warm excitement without a clear name that you recognized all the same. The display of strength from that man made you imagine many things. The large hands gripping that hilt. The shoulders moving beneath the fabric of his shirt. You stood completely still watching him for a moment, and only then decided.
—Sanda —you called to your handmaid in a low voice, without taking your eyes off the man in the armory—. I am going to greet my uncle. Go ahead and let my grandmother know I will arrive a little late.
Sanda curtsied without asking questions, accustomed as she was to obeying your every whim and your every whisper with the same impeccable dedication. Her steps faded down the corridor and left you alone.
You approached slowly, with that deliberate calm you used when you wanted something to appear accidental. Your feet on the stone made almost no sound in your soft leather boots. You entered the armory, that place you rarely frequented and that smelled of cold metal and sword oil, and advanced without saying anything, studying his back.
But he noticed. He noticed before you understood he had noticed, because in a movement that left no time for anything he spun and leveled the sword at you, the point a few centimeters from your face, eyes narrowed and body taut as a bow.
When he recognized you, his face made the full journey. Confusion. Recognition. And then the memory of the previous night falling over him like cold water.
—You!
He looked at you as if you were a monster or his worst nightmare materialized in the small hours. It was the first time anyone had looked at you like that, with that genuine horror mixed with something resembling panic, and you discovered with some surprise that you liked it. You liked having a man like your grumpiest uncle, the most serious one, the one who never smiled in portraits, like this. You gave him a slow and playful smile, and brought a finger to your lips.
—You should not shout like that —you said softly, with that sweetness of yours that never promised anything good—. You will wake everyone.
Your finger moved from your lips to the blade of his sword, which he had not yet fully lowered. You rested it with studied delicacy on the cold spine of the steel and slid it slowly along the length of the blade, without taking your eyes off his, walking toward him centimeter by centimeter as you did.
—Why are you afraid of me, uncle? It seems something disturbed you last night.
Maekar lowered the sword and set it aside with a dry blow, and the sound of metal on stone echoed through the small space. He turned toward you with that extended finger and pressed lip, overflowing with a rage he had been cooking all morning.
—Your father will hear of this —he said in a low and dangerous voice, which was worse than shouting—. And he will know what kind of woman his daughter is. They have spoiled you far too much and you are shameless.
He advanced as he made his threats, finger pointing at your face, his immense body closing the distance with that storm energy that would have made anyone step back.
You took advantage of exactly that.
You closed the remaining distance at once, rose on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips so quickly and so chastely that perhaps it did not happen, so brief it was perhaps only the brush of air between two mouths that were too close. And before he finished processing what had occurred, you were already running. Running as you could not remember ever having run, not even as a girl escaping the septas, the soles of your leather boots striking the stone floor, the silk ribbons of your hair flying back, the laughter smothered in your throat because you could not let it out without betraying yourself.
—Good luck getting anyone to believe you, uncle! —you shouted without looking back.
And you left him there, turned to a statue in the middle of the armory, the sword forgotten on the floor, not yet finished reacting. It took a long moment. Several moments. And when his body belonged to him again, he slowly raised his hand to his lips, with an expression that did not know whether it was fury or stupefaction, and felt how a strange and not entirely unwelcome heat grew between his legs as he watched you disappear through the stone arch as if you had never been there at all.
When you reached your grandmother, still breathless, the smile on your face was so wide there was no human way to hide it. Your cheeks gleamed. Your eyes gleamed. You were, in that moment, the exact image of someone who has just done precisely what they wanted and does not regret it at all.
Your grandmother looked up at you with that expression of hers for reading people, the same one that had intimidated kings and lords for decades.
—You are glowing today, my love —she said with a tenderness that held, nonetheless, a note of curiosity—. Did something special happen?
You took your seat beside her with all the grace you had been taught, straightened your back, crossed your hands on your lap, and smiled with that still-water smile of yours.
—Nothing special. I just spoke a little with my uncle Maekar. He is very funny.
Your grandmother frowned for a second, the phrase too strange to ignore, the smile on your face too specific to be innocent. But you were her favorite granddaughter, and there were things a grandmother preferred not to finish understanding.
Maekar had spent two days turning it over.
The image returned on its own, uninvited: her fingers sliding along the blade of his sword with that deliberate calm, her violet eyes holding his gaze without blinking, and then that very brief instant, that brush that perhaps was nothing and yet remained there, pressed to his lips like an ember. He had repeated it to himself enough times to convince himself: he had to speak with Baelor. It was the right thing. It was necessary.
He knocked on the study door with his knuckles, entered without waiting too long, and stopped dead.
She was there.
Standing by the window, in that dark blue silk dress that made her white hair appear made of light, hands crossed with perfect composure, chin at the exact angle. As if she had been waiting for him. As if she had always been there.
Baelor looked up from his desk with a genuine and open smile, the smile he reserved only for his daughter.
—Maekar, what good timing. We were just wanting to speak with you.
We. Maekar noted the plural. He also noted his niece's smile, small and perfectly controlled, with that corner raised barely a millimeter that he had already learned to read.
—Daena has made a request of me this morning —Baelor continued, leaning back in his chair with the satisfaction of a man about to deliver good news—. She wants to learn advanced equitation. The horses that arrived from Dorne have a temperament that requires an expert hand, and she wants to rise to the occasion. —He paused, looking at his daughter with that pride he made no attempt to conceal—. And she has specifically asked that you be the one to teach her.
The silence lasted exactly as long as it took Maekar to find words.
—I…
—You are the finest rider in the family —said Baelor with an absolute naturalness, as if commenting on the weather—. No one better than you. —He rose and came around the desk, placing a hand on his shoulder with genuine affection—. This girl has fulfilled everything asked of her without ever complaining. Her duties, her commitments, the court. She has never asked for anything for herself. —Baelor's voice softened with a tenderness that had no defense against it—. She deserves whatever she asks for, Maekar. She has earned it.
Maekar looked at her.
She returned his gaze with an expression of innocence so complete, so absolutely impenetrable, that in that moment he understood with a painful and almost comical clarity that there was nothing he could say to his brother. No words. No accusation. Baelor would not believe him. Not because he was a naive man, but because his daughter was perfect and he knew it and she knew it and now Maekar knew it too.
At the corner of her lips that smile appeared. Only a second. Only for him.
Maekar clenched his jaw.
—Of course —he said in a voice that revealed absolutely nothing.
The morning stables had that particular smell of damp hay and clean leather, and the light came through the high windows drawing golden stripes across the packed-earth floor. The stable hands had discreetly withdrawn as soon as Maekar arrived, as they always did when the prince wanted to work in peace.
They had not counted on the company.
She arrived punctual, which was already in itself a declaration of intent. She dressed for riding, a divided skirt of soft tawny leather over dark hose, a fitted cream wool tunic with her hair gathered in a low and firm bun at the nape, secured with two silver pins. No diadem. No layers of silk. Reduced to the essential, and even so entirely herself.
—Good morning, uncle —she said in a voice of still water.
Maekar did not answer. He pointed to the courser with a dry gesture and began.
The lesson was, on its surface, perfectly normal. He explained the posture, the communication with the animal through legs and reins, the difference between guiding and controlling. She listened with genuine attention, asked the right questions, executed corrections with a swiftness that would have been satisfying in any other context.
The problem was everything else.
When he approached for the first time to correct the position of her elbows, his fingers wrapped around her forearm with the practical intention of repositioning it, and she did not move exactly as she should have but just a centimeter less, so that her shoulder ended up grazing his chest for a second longer than necessary. Maekar withdrew his hands.
When he showed her how to tighten the reins, she turned her head to look at him from atop the horse, and they were too close, her violet eyes directly over his, with that expression that promised nothing good and that was nevertheless difficult to stop looking at.
When she dismounted and he extended his arm to help her down, she took it without taking her eyes off him throughout the entire descent, and when her feet touched the ground she remained there, at a distance that was not that of a niece with her uncle.
Maekar said nothing. He did not step back either.
That was his mistake.
Because she noticed. She noticed with that precision of hers for reading what others tried not to show, and something in her expression changed, became quieter and more certain at the same time, like someone who has just confirmed something they suspected.
The lesson ended. The stable hands were still outside. The light had shifted angle and the stable was quieter than before.
Maekar gathered the courser's reins to lead him back to his place and she walked beside him, and when he stopped in front of the animal's box and turned to say something about the next lesson, she was too close again, and this time there was no sliding of fingers along swords nor excuse of correcting posture.
She rose on tiptoe and kissed him.
Not like the first time.
This time it was a kiss with weight, with intention, with her hands rising to his chest and her mouth claiming his with a determination that had nothing accidental about it. Maekar felt the impact as something physical, a second of absolute paralysis before his body reacted.
She tried to pull away. She tried to turn and run as the time before.
His hand found the bun at her nape before she managed a single step, fingers closing around the silver pins and the secured hair, stopping her with a firmness that did not hurt her but admitted no argument. He pulled her back and brought her close to his face, and when he spoke he did so with his teeth barely parted, his voice low and taut as a string about to snap.
—If you are not capable of behaving yourself —he said—, I will have to teach you how.
There was a silence.
She looked at him from that minimal distance, with flushed cheeks and altered breathing, and in her eyes there was something Maekar had not seen before, something that was not mischief but something deeper and more honest than that. She looked at him directly, without averting her eyes, and said in a voice that was softer than usual:
—Then teach me.
Without letting go of her hair bun, he led her to the back room, pulled her inside, and then followed her. She stood before him, in that riding dress, her hair bun undone by his hand. Without letting go of her hair bun, he led her to the back room, pulled her inside, and then followed her. She stood before him, in that riding dress, her hair bun undone by his hand, and for the first time
He sat down on a bench and held out his hand, pulling her onto his lap with his back straight. Maekar's hand first explored her buttocks with his fingers, then moved down to her groin, making her shudder and let out a moan at the firm pressure.
"Now do you understand how it feels? I'm going to teach you to respect your uncle." With that, his palm moved up and down her buttocks, repeating the motion three more times. His hand was heavy and large; her buttocks were still sensitive, but what truly ached was her throbbing center, and she felt herself becoming wet.
He helps you rise, and you sit on his lap; he cradles you as your head falls unconscious onto his chest. His hand gently strokes your cheeks, bringing you back to consciousness. "Are you alright?" You can only smile and nod, knowing your routine will never be the same again, not now that your new request to your father and grandparents is that they marry you off to Maekar, They were going to allow it even if he didn't want to.
there’s something about his rings. one day it becomes too much.
content: age gap, inexperienced! reader, fingering
wc: 2.3k
(a/n: i always intend for my works to not have specific appearances described so all can enjoy! but if you see anything, let me know!)
you’ve always had a fascination with baelor’s rings— often lacing your arm with his and spinning the cold bands. his palms always so warm, calloused but gentle.
it’d been this absentminded thing you’d started early into the betrothal to him, nervous to soon wed a prince of the realm but also finding comfort in his soothing presence. baelor had never failed to ensure your comfort as preparations were made. it wasn’t his first marriage, that much was known by everyone, but you were younger than him, and he understood why you would have fears. he was well experienced in courts and holding council, and he knew what it was like to have a wife sharing his chambers.
but years had passed since his bed was warmed by another, and as time soon approached to wed you, he couldn’t help but feel the heat rise to his face as he thought of his sweet young bride-to-be against the flesh of his palms, skin to skin.
the day had been exhausting, and for the hand of the king, that was expected; but it wasn’t caused by his duty to the realm. no, rather it was for the heavy thought of you. far too long had he gone without the touch of a woman, and that morning when you’d crossed paths when walking to attend your respective obligations, you’d reach to greet him, shaking slightly but calm when his warm hand covered yours. the look in your eyes as you sweetly said, “it’s a pleasure to see you, my prince,” had held what he could only read as desire. not the kind of desire that held heated passion, ready to take him then and there, but rather longing for too long. he felt it too— it wasn’t exactly a one sided affair.
since those early morning hours, as the night falls over the red keep, the information discussed during the day had merely came and went, but still lingering was the light in your eyes when they’d locked with his.
the final meeting of the day had ended, and baelor had set to return to his quarters, with the intent of sleeping off the desire, wishing to remain ever the honorable gentleman, though his thoughts raced of dishonoring you prior to the wedding.
his feet got the better of him, and before he knew it, he’d reach where your personal chambers resided. if he were anyone other than heir to the iron throne, he’s sure the guards would’ve hesitated before allowing him entrance. but surely, the prince wouldn’t do anything dishonorable, as this is his second marriage, after all.
they announced his visit, and you graciously accepted. as he entered, he saw you sitting back in a chair at the window, messing with some stray strings at the end of the embroidery you’d been working on. he knew much about you, and knew of your indifference of the craft, noting that you only did it, ‘because it is what is expected of me’.
you looked over your shoulder and greeted him, that sweet smile that held care and warmth. he’d returned the smile, walking over to your chair to place a hand on your shoulder.
“good evening, my prince. what’s brought you here so late?,” genuine curiosity laced your words, as baelor rarely ever came to see you late at night.
“is it so wrong of me to wish to see my wife?,” he questioned, though you both knew neither of you truly meant much more than a tease.
you laid the embroidery piece in your lap and raised a hand to lay over his, giving it a small squeeze and then immediately running the pad of your finger over the cool ring placed upon his own.
“you know it is never wrong, my betrothed. had it not been that the wedding is still weeks to come, i would want you here all the time. though, of course we’d share the same chambers, so you’d.. be there regardless.” the more you spoke, the more nervous you became as you lingered on that one word— wife. he said it so casually, like you’d already held the ceremony and been married for some time.
baelor noticed, a soft chuckle filling the otherwise silence of the room.
“do not be nervous, my love. everything will go accordingly, and before you know it we will be wed and the duties of each day will return to normal as they were before,” he said as he gave a small squeeze to your shoulder, then removing his hand out from under yours.
a small, almost inaudible grown of displeasure left you at the loss of touch. you felt the hear rise to your face, then stood up despite barely giving it thought.
“i am not nervous, my prince,” you started with a smile, then fading as you began speaking without care now. “well, perhaps a reasonable amount, but my thoughts have been racing as of recent. i cannot seem to keep them consistent or..”, you trailed off, quickly stopping yourself from telling him something you’d think he ought not know now. not until you are bound to one another.
“what is it? you know if you have any hardships you can always come to me, this much we have discussed before.” baelor was correct; you’d had concerns for what was to come for you as a future lady-wife of house targaryen, and how the world as you knew it would change for you. but he also knew you were not truthful in that being the only reason for your shaky voice.
and you knew too, but neither of you were allowed to act upon that until the next fortnight was over.
you looked away from the floor, then up to his eyes, which were already locked on you. subtlety, you bit your lip, and sighed slightly, turning to ask your ladies to leave as you ‘wished to discuss something with the prince.’
as the door closed, you walked over to baelor, the muscle memory to grab his hand returns and you twisted the cold ring round and round before speaking once again.
“i cannot take this anymore, my prince. it is too much, and too long from now.”
baelor felt his heart flutter with worry, as those words were not what he expected. you cannot take this anymore? the betrothal? perhaps he’d read you wrong, or you’d simply let your nerves get the best of you.
he looked at you with worry in his eyes, watching as you furrowed your eyebrows together in thought. he did not know what to say, thinking of how to comfort you, but you began to speak again.
“not like that, my love. i have had thoughts.. of you. and they have ran through my mind like rapids in a riverbed but i cannot take it anymore,” then you sighed, opening your mouth slightly then closing it, before huffing is annoyance at your own tone, “i need you, my prince. i yearn for your touch.”
your eyes slowly trailed up to his, which were dark with lust as they stared into your own. he yearned just the same for far too long now, and the moral decision now lay on him— to be an honorable man and wait for just a few weeks longer, or to take you on this night, and release the pent up desire that now is mutually announced.
“i.. i cannot take you on this night, my lady. you have honor about you, and i of myself, but when the night comes and i bed you, trust that i will love you right and take you properly.”
the fingers you had playing with his ring now gripped his hand. you pulled to place it upon your waist, letting your own hand stay above it.
“you’ve thought of it too, then. i.. i do not ask you to take my innocence on this night, my prince. but i do wish for your touch. nights have came and went that i could not sleep as i wished for your hands to caress me.”
and there it was, now in the open. you’d longed for his fingers, the touch of the gentle but battle-strengthened hand to please you. days you’d watched as he spared with matarys and valarr, watching as his hands fit perfectly on the weapons, then running his fingers alongside the blade as he taught his sons. days were you ran your fingertips along his hand, holding one of his fingers with several of your own. admiring in secret how long and beautiful they were.
he gave you a small smile and a slight nod, then with both his hands, he turned you around so your back was against his chest.
“tell me, my lady, you’ve not pleasured yourself during those lonesome nights, have you?” the tone of his voice now laced with sensualness, breath hot against your ear.
“n- no, my prince. i wished to wait for you but the days have grown to feel too far away.”
he hummed into your hair, vibrations faint against your ear.
his left hand gripped the fabric of your gown to pull it up, the cool air exposing your bare skin, as the right laid flat just above where you needed him most.
“a shame, that is— for you, of course. no one’s touched you here, not even yourself. your skin is so soft, more-so than i’d imagined, now that i’m finally feeling you.”
you closed your eyes, leaning your head back against him as you’re already growing drunk on the sultry rasp of his voice.
“baelor, please touch me,“ you cried, more pathetic then you’d intended but no care was given.
“hmm, touch you where, my dear? my hand is already placed upon you, i cannot touch you more than i am now.”
damn him, you thought, don’t make me say it.
“i tease you, sweet one. i know where you’d like me most. i saw it in those beautiful eyes of yours this morrow, and i feel it in every breath you take against me now.”
his hand slid down slowly, painfully slow, leaving a trail of cold tracks down as the pads of his fingers pushed gently between your folds, feeling the severity of how wet you were.
“all of this is for me? i was unaware that you would excite this quick.”
‘yes, all for you,’ you thought, though your throat betrayed you as the words tried to push through.
his middle finger teased the entrance of your cunt, rubbing just close enough to get you shaking. you hummed in content ridden with impatience.
finally he pushed his finger in, going deeper than you’d thought possible. you weren’t totally innocent, hearing of how men pleasured their wives through your ladies in waiting and from those gossiping in the garden, but to have it done to yourself was different than you’d always imagined. but truthfully in the best way you’d ever thought possible.
his palm now rested flat against your folds, now soaked with your wet slicked and that damn cold ring rested right against the entrance of your core as he settled there, sending cold chills all across your body.
baelor was a smart man, he caught on quick— the rings. that’s what began to drive you insane.
“my lady, pray tell, are the coldness of my rings enticing you? something so normal is so arousing to you?”
you could only muster up a nod and moan, core pulsing around as he rocked it gently in and out just barely.
pulling his middle finger out entirely, he rubbed your clit with the pads of it and his ring finger, then back into your entrance.
his speed was quicker now, each time he pushed them in they gained easier access inside your tight core. your breathing changing into airy moans, quiet and shy but embarrassingly sultry for simply having your future husband’s fingers inside you.
the pad of his thumb rubbed at your clit, aiding you none in holding back your pleasured sounds.
“that feels good, hmm? i believe this is about as exciting for you as it is myself, i must say. seeing you unravel so easily at the feeling of my fingers inside your beautiful body.”
the slick of your arousal and his quick fingers combined made a wet clicking sound, which grew closer together as he sped his actions up.
“baelor.. my love.. i feel something.. i’m not-“
“i know, sweet girl, i know. just let it go, release that pleasure for me. show me how good i’ve made you feel.”
a tear formed in your eye as the intensity heightened rapidly. now, with your knees shaking, you feared you’d collapse, but the hand holding your gown, with the fabrics still in the grip, slid across until his forearm rested on your stomach. with a tight hold, he pulled you somehow even closer to keep you upright as your release ran through your body.
your whimpered moans sounded faintly like praise of his name, somewhere between baelor and my love; it all ran together. you weren’t even sure of what you were saying, only that the sensation was something unmatched to anything you’d ever felt before in your life.
he held you as you calmed down, humming through the remaining waves of excitement. rubbing you a few more times, he removed his hand from your middle and brought it up to see the mess you made on his hand.
you opened your eyes and immediately felt your face turn hot from embarrassment, looking at how went his entire hand had became.
baelor laughed, letting go of your gown and walking towards the bucket of water and rags that were kept in the corner of your room.
“do not be ashamed, my dear. i find it endearing that you enjoy my hands so much. when we are wed, you will feel it every night, if you so desire.”
Includes: modern!Baelor x f!reader / modern!Maekar x f!reader
Warning(s): ModernAU, kind of a crack!fic really (i wish my dad kept bees)
GIF by @sakuraspoke
The thing about Valarr, sweet, naïve Valarr, was that he had absolutely no survival instincts.
"He's just reading," he said, from beside you on the kitchen counter, stealing grapes from the bowl between you with the casual ease of someone who had decided you were close enough friends that your food was his food. "It's not that interesting."
"He's got two pairs of glasses on," you said.
"He does that." Valarr ate another grape. "He loses one pair, so he puts on another and then he finds the first pair and instead of swapping them he just—" he gestured vaguely, "stacks them."
You looked back through the kitchen window into the living room where his father was arranged in the armchair by the lamp with the particular quality of a man who had achieved a level of comfort he intended to defend unto death. Dark hair, threads of white catching the warm lamplight. Two pairs of glasses. A book that appeared to be roughly the size of a brick, held with the careful reverence of someone deeply personally invested in its continued structural integrity.
He had a cup of tea on the side table that he had not touched in forty minutes because he kept forgetting it existed.
"What is he reading," you said.
"Something about Byzantine military strategy."
You stared.
"For fun," Valarr added. "He does it for fun."
Baelor turned a page. The lamplight shifted across the lines of his face — the strong bearded jaw, the particular set of his brow when he was concentrating, the slight movement of his lips because he occasionally read difficult passages quietly to himself without realising he was doing it, a habit Valarr had told you about once with the fond exasperation of someone who had grown up watching it and could no longer imagine its absence.
He reached for his tea without looking. Missed it by four inches. Patted the table twice, frowning faintly at his book, and then looked down with an expression of mild surprise at the existence of the cup, like he had genuinely forgotten he had made it.
"Oh no," you said quietly.
"Yeah," said Valarr.
Baelor took a sip of the tea, realised it was cold, made a face of profound personal betrayal directed at no one, set it back down, and returned to his book.
You were experiencing something you didn't have a clean word for. It sat somewhere in the vicinity of I would like to bring this man a fresh cup of tea every day for the rest of my natural life and considerably south of that as well, if you were being honest with yourself, which you were trying not to be.
He turned another page. Murmured something to himself. The lamplight caught the line of his jaw and the silver in his hair and the careful way his hands held the book, and you were, genuinely, a little embarrassed about yourself at realizing that you were, in fact, biting your lower lip.
"Valarr," you said.
"Mm."
"Your dad is—" You stopped. Tried to start again. Stopped again.
"Is…" Valarr prompted, with the patience of someone who had been watching this unfold for the better part of an hour and had popcorn, metaphorically speaking.
You watched Baelor reach for his tea again. Miss it again. The same four inches. The same faint frown. The same expression of mild existential surprise upon locating the cup.
Something in you gave way entirely.
"Valarr," you said. "I want to fuck your dad."
The grape Valarr had been eating went somewhere it was not supposed to go. He coughed. You waited. He held up a finger, collected himself, and turned to look at you with an expression that cycled through several distinct phases — shock, offence, processing, reluctant resignation — in the space of approximately four seconds.
"That's my father," he said.
"I know."
"You just said that about my father."
"I'm aware of what I said."
"He's reading about Byzantine military strategy."
"I know! But him being a nerd isn’t helping," you yelled-whispered to your friend.
You looked back through the window. Baelor had found his tea again, remembered it was cold, and was now looking at it with an expression of genuine philosophical sadness, as if looking at it would eventually warm its content again.
Valarr stared at you for a long moment. Then he looked at his father through the window. Then back at you. The reluctant resignation had settled into something that looked almost like the beginning of a plan.
"He needs a fresh cup of tea," he said slowly.
"He really does."
"Someone should bring it to him." A pause. "He likes it with a splash of milk. No sugar. He'll look up when you come in and forget what he was reading for a moment because he's polite like that, and when he takes his glasses off to look at you properly he'll probably—" Valarr stopped himself. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "I cannot believe I'm doing this."
"Valarr—"
"The kettle's right there," he said, getting off the counter and leaving the kitchen with the dignity of a man washing his hands of a situation while absolutely enabling it. "I'm going to be upstairs. Not hearing anything. For a very long time."
You were already filling the kettle.
GIF by @prettysharwood
You had come over to study.
That had been the plan. That was still, technically, the plan, in the same way that standing in Daeron's kitchen doorway staring into the back garden while your notes sat untouched on the kitchen table was still, technically, adjacent to studying.
"What are you looking at," said Daeron, from somewhere behind you, in the tone of someone who already knew and was choosing to witness it anyway.
"Nothing," you said.
"You've been looking at nothing for six minutes straight."
Through the kitchen window and the glass of the back door, Maekar was in the garden.
He was doing something to a raised bed that appeared to involve a great deal of focused activity — kneeling in the dirt in old jeans and a worn grey t-shirt that had not survived contact with the garden soil in any meaningful way, hands dark to the wrist, white hair shoved back from his face with what appeared to have been a forearm and was now sticking up at an angle that should have looked ridiculous and did not. He was frowning at the soil the way, Daeron had once told you, he frowned at everything that failed to immediately cooperate with his intentions.
He said what seemed like a profanity by the look on his face under his breath. Adjusted whatever he was doing. The frown deepened fractionally.
The t-shirt was doing a lot.
"He's been out there since eight," Daeron said, now beside you with a mug of coffee and the expression of a young man who had made his peace with his life. "Something about the drainage not being right."
"Does he garden a lot?"
"He acts like it's a tactical problem he's been assigned to solve." Daeron drank his coffee. "Last month he made an Excel spreadsheet."
"A spreadsheet."
"For the tomatoes." A pause. "It had conditional formatting."
Outside, Maekar sat back on his heels and looked at the raised bed with his arms resting on his knees and dirt on his beard and the particular expression of a man reassessing a situation and preparing a revised approach. The late afternoon light was doing something entirely unreasonable to the line of his shoulders. His forearms were right there. Existentially. Just present in the world, doing that to your composure.
You needed to get a grip.
"He looks like that when he's cooking too," Daeron said conversationally. You wondered if he wore an apron. "And when he's parallel parking. And when he's doing the crossword. Basically, whenever he's concentrating on anything he gets that—" a vague gesture toward the window— "face."
"The face," you repeated.
"You know the face."
You knew the face. The face was a problem. The face combined with the forearms combined with the dirt on his bearded jaw combined with the knowledge that he had made a colour-coded spreadsheet for his tomatoes was creating a situation inside your chest that you were not equipped to manage.
You did not get a grip.
"Daeron," you said.
"Mm."
The words were out before you made a decision about them. "I want to fuck your dad."
The silence that followed had genuine texture.
Daeron lowered his coffee mug with the slow care of a man buying himself time. He looked at you. You looked at the garden. Outside, Maekar was frowning at the soil again, entirely unaware that his drainage problem was the least of what was currently happening in his kitchen.
"That's—" Daeron started.
"I know."
"He's my dad."
"I know."
"You came over here to study."
"I am studying."
A long pause during which Daeron appeared to conduct an internal debate of some complexity. You watched Maekar stand, brush the dirt from his jeans, push his hair back from his face with one forearm, and survey his raised bed with his hands on his hips. The t-shirt. The forearms. The hair. The frown.
"He's going to be insufferable about the drainage for the rest of the evening," Daeron said finally. "He needs something to redirect his attention."
You said nothing. You let that sit.
"He doesn't know you're here," Daeron continued, in the tone of a man constructing a case for something he will deny constructing. "I could go tell him. He does this thing when he's surprised — not bad surprised, just caught off guard — where he kind of—" another vague gesture— "resets. Stops frowning. It's a good moment."
"Daeron."
"I'm just providing information."
"You're facilitating."
"I'm going to go tell my dad you're here," he said, setting his mug down and heading for the back door with the air of someone who has made peace with their choices. "And then I'm going to remember that I have somewhere else to be. Urgently." He paused with his hand on the door. "He likes it when people are direct, by the way. He has no patience for anything else."
"I know," you said.
Daeron looked at you with suspicious eyes, like how long has this woman been observing my father without me noticing kind of eyes. He preferred not to walk down that line of thought and went to open the back door instead.
"Dad," he called, "look who came to visit!"
Maekar looked up from his raised bed. Found you through the glass. The frown shifted into something else — not quite a smile, but the suggestion of one, that fractional movement at the corner of his mouth that you had learned was as much as you usually got and had discovered was entirely sufficient.
Daeron brushed past you back into the kitchen, collected his jacket from the chair, and pointed at you on his way to the hall.
"I want absolutely no details," he said. "Like ever. Under any circumstances."
"Obviously," you said.
"Not even a look. Not a grin. Nothing."
"Daeron."
"I mean it,” he directed one final look to you from the front door. He turned on his heels and, with that wicked smile he usually saved for when he wanted to get under your skin, said: "Go on, pup, go get your toy."
Your eyes widened at the audacity of the man. But, when the front door closed behind him and you looked back through the glass at Maekar, who was still watching you with that fractional almost-smile and the dirt on his jaw and the forearms, you smiled and decided, for maybe the first time in your friendship, to not argue with Daeron.
So, you opened the back door.
I am completely normal about these men. Yeah. Completely normal.
pairing: husband!baelor targaryen x reader
summary: soft morning cuddles with your husband turn into something much spicier as your husband can’t keep his hands off you ☀️
word count: 1,8k
WARNINGS: 18 + MDNI. no use of y/n, established relationship, husband!baelor, smut no plot, sleepy & lazy morning sex, morning wood, dry humping (sort of), pussyjob, just the tip, PiV, unprotected sex, cockwarming, slight size kink, praise kink, tiny but of overstimulation, creampie, breeding kink, pregnancy (mentioned).
A/N: divider by @/uzmacchiato, gif by @/ohmylul
The morning light came softly through the velvet curtains of your chambers, painting the room in a golden haze. You stirred slowly, still wrapped in the heavy silk sheets and the warmth of your husband’s body behind you.
Baelor had you tucked against his chest, one arm draped possessively over your waist while his large hand splayed across your belly.
You felt him shift when he woke. Baelor hummed as he nuzzled closer. His nose brushed just behind your ear and his lips followed, so he could press a lazy kiss to the sensitive skin of your neck.
“Morning, my love,” he murmured with voice rough with sleep and that rich timbre that always made your stomach flutter.
You sighed, still half-dreaming, then arched just a little into his touch. His hand slid lower and slipped beneath the thin shift you’d worn to bed. His fingertips traced lazy circles over your hip and the curve of your waist.
His hips rolled forward once, allowing you to feel the hard and heavy length of him pressing against your backside through the fabric.
Still drowsy with sleep, you let out a needy sound and tried to roll over to face him. Your arms reached for him, wanting to bury your face in his neck and curl into his body like you always did in the mornings.
Baelor only chuckled at your attempt and his arm tightened its hold, stopping you from fully turning.
“Shh… turn to the side for me, baby,” he murmured, tone raspy with sleep.
He pulled your back flush against his chest again and his hand slid down your thigh, lifting your top leg slightly so he could press even closer. The thick ridge of his cock rested perfectly between your clothed cheeks as he rolled his hips forward once more, letting you feel every inch of his hardening cock.
“That’s it… just like that,” he praised softly and a quiet groan escaped his mouth.
„Uh!” you squealed, pushing your butt towards him just to feel more of his arousal.
His hand moved to your breast, squeezing it, and pinching your nipples lightly through your nightgown while his hips kept up the rocking.
„You’re always so wet in the mornings,” he whispered, then gave a slightly harder thrust. The swollen head of his cock pressed right against the cleft of your ass, and held you there, letting you feel him throb.
“Mhhh—” a whimper slipped from your lips and you rocked back against your husband, seeking more. Warmth pooled low in your belly. Your thighs pressed together just to give yourself any friction.
„It’s okay…” Baelor muttered, and his palm slid down and caught the hem of your nightgown.
In one swift motion, he pulled it all the way up, bunching the silk around your waist. Then higher, until the fabric was gathered just beneath your breasts.
You felt the length of his cock slip free from his smallclothes as he shifted closer. He wrapped one large hand around himself, guiding the flushed head down between your legs.
He started rubbing it in slow strokes along your slit, barely even pressing it at all, so he could savor the moment first. The head of his cock parted your folds, coating himself in the wetness that was already gathering for him.
„Mghh… Baelor—”
„It’s alright, sweet girl—” Baelor coaxed, breathing heavy against your neck. „Just stay like this, I’m gonna make it good for you..”
Every lazy drag from your entrance up to your clit and back down again was torturously light just to tease you more. You ached from the lack of satisfaction, but also didn’t complain. Hearing your husband’s quiet little whimpers that he was trying to sustain so hard was quite enough to make you soak him anyway.
“Fuck…,” he cursed under his breath. “All that wetness from a little morning grinding?”
„Mhh— Please, Baelor… More—”
After hearing that, he pressed the head against your entrance for a short moment, holding it there and letting you feel it.
„Yeah? You want it right there, baby?” he teased, patting his cock against your hole twice.
„Yes! Please—”
Baelor let out an affectionate chuckle. “Anything for you, my love,” he whispered.
He moved his hips to position himself while his hand guided his cock toward your slick cunt. Then, began to push inside until only the swollen tip was buried inside you.
The stretch was delicious. You moaned audibly, and clenched the sheets with your fists.
„Baelor! Fuck—” you huffed, trying to take him deeper even though he stayed still, not allowing to let your experience more of him just yet. „Oh gods, that… that feels so good—”
He moved his hips in a shallow roll, fucking you with just the tip — each thrust made the head pop in and out of your tight pussy, teasing you mercilessly to the point where your toes curled at how good it felt.
„That’s it, sweetheart. You like it with just the tip, don’t you? You’re so small you can barely even take more, huh?” Baelor said, trying to talk you through it.
The chambers filled with obscene little sound as he continued. He kissed the back of your neck, then gently bit down on your shoulder, savoring the way your body clenched around him with every pump.
“Tell me how it feels, baby,” he murmured. “You want more already, don’t you?”
„Yes… please—” you whimpered, voice breaking into a plea. „It feels so so good, husband.”
Baelor still completely then, just to push fully inside you without any warning. His hips pressed forward until his entire length nestled inside you. He held it there, letting your walls flutter and squeeze around him.
You moaned out, clearly not prepared for him to fulfill your request that quickly. Your lower abdomen felt so warm all of the sudden, and gods, how you loved feeling him inside. You tried to adjust to his size, breathing heavily, while Baelor soothed behind you.
„I love you so much, wife,” he whispered those words full of devotion so tenderly it made your heart ache. You knew he meant it. Baelor was the best husband you could ever ask for, and he’d always prove it to you. Either in his actions or words.
His lips found the crook of your neck, and he pecked there gently, then sucked on the sensitive spot as if he could taste your heartbeat.
„Baelor—” you whimpered again, already wanting more than just him staying still and twitching inside you.
„Hmm?”
“Please… please, Baelor… more,” you begged, and tried to rock your hips back against him to take him deeper. “I’ll be good, I promise… please—”
„Oh, you poor thing, but you’re so warm it feels s’nice… Just let me enjoy it first. We don’t need to rush, do we?”
„N-no, Baelor…” you agreed quietly.
Baelor rolled his hips in the tiniest motion, giving you just a bit of him. „Is that better?” he muttered, placing another kiss your neck.
„Mhm—” You nodded through a whimper, making Baelor chuckle softly at the sound.
He kept you like this for what felt like forever. One hand around you, the other cupping your breast from underneath with his thumb brushing over your nipple in circles. Every so often he’d give the smallest roll of his hips, just enough to remind you he was still there stretching you open.
Finally, Baelor pulled his hips back and his cock left you completely, just to slam back in again, finally giving you what you wanted so much.
Baelor growled in his throat at the feeling of your walls parting for him, and he began to fuck you properly in deep but still unhurried thrusts.
You were nothing but a moaning mess, trying not to cry into your pillow as he slid almost all the way out before pressing back in until his hips met your ass. The pace didn’t fasten, Baelor wanted to make sure you felt every ridge and vein as he filled you completely.
His hand slid down from your breast to between your legs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in a way that matched the rhythm.
“Gods, you feel perfect around me,” he breathed against your ear.
You couldn’t hold back anymore. A broken moan tore from your throat followed by a soft cry as he sank deep again.
“Ah— Baelor—!”
“That’s it… fuck, listen to those pretty sounds,” he praised. “Such a good girl for me. You can be louder, baby. No need to hold back.”
His cock hit that sensitive spongy spot inside you, making you gasp. You cried out again, trembling in his arms, and he rewarded you with more praise, whispering sweet nothings into your ear.
„Look at you, falling apart on my cock” he said in voice full of adoration, and another deep thrust pulled a loud whimper out of you. “Yeah, just like that. Let me hear you, baby. You sound so lovely when you moan for me. Gods, I could stay buried inside you all morning…”
His words made the pleasure coil tighter in your belly, followed by slow drags of his cock that eventually made you come.
A cry tore out from your throats and your walls clenched around Baelor violently. Your entire body twitched and you squirmed helplessly in your husband’s arms with your back arching as wave of orgasm crashed through you.
Baelor drew out every second of your climax with those same thrusts.
“That’s it— fuck, yes,” he groaned. „Come for me, my sweet girl. Let it all out…”
He held you tighter, even as you writhed and whimpered uncontrollably, shaking from overstimulation. He continued sliding in and out of your spasming heat, fucking you through every pulse.
„Cryin’ on my cock like that, fuck—” Baelor’s thrusts grew sloppy, and his breathing got heavy and ragged. Your orgasm seemed to drag him right to the edge with you. „Fuck… I’m so close,” he rasped.
His hips stuttered, and a guttural moan vibrated through his chest. Baelor pushed in as deep as he could go and came inside you, spilling his thick and hot seed into your cunt until he emptied himself completely. He pressed his body tight to your ass, grinding in slow circles as he filled you up, making sure every drop stayed deep inside his wife.
“Take it all… that’s my good wife,” he panted. „Gonna get you pregnant. Make you have my baby, yeah? I know you’d love that.”
You giggled through the overwhelming pleasure, and nodded, unable to speak from exhaustion. Your body felt so sore you couldn’t even move a bit.
Baelor stayed buried inside you, cocwarming you again as the last weak twitches of his cock emptied the rest of his release. His arms wrapped around you protectively, and his hand gently stroke your belly while he kissed the back of your shoulder and neck with lazy but loving presses of his lips.
synopsis: A garden dinner was a rare occasion at Summerhall estate, either several of the children would be misbehaving usually resulting in one or two being sent to bed, or the weather would not allow for such outdoor activities. However on this occasion for Daeron’s nameday everything was running smoothly, until Aerion seemingly could not hold his tongue.
[based off of this amazing anon request]
word count: 5,588
warnings: 18+ mdni, female reader, no use of Y/N, readers looks are un-described (aside from being of House Dayne + having hair), teenage Aerion (you’ve been warned), a lot of the maekarlings, probably a lot of age inaccuracies for the kids but it works, SMUT (eventually), p in v, oral (f!receiving), fingering, (slight) breeding kink, woman + wife as terms of endearment, fluff (honestly quite a lot), kind of angst but not really. reader is a legal adult) REMEMBER - YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME
DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used in general and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms + elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold no rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.
✴︎
Little Rhae, scarcely half a year old, sat in your lap as you dined. Your husband, Maekar, and remaining five children sat scattered around the large outdoor dining table as you for once sat in a tranquil calm amongst the soon to be setting sun. A contented smile lingered on your face as you observed your family, the one that you had built with nothing but raw determination and a jealous husband.
You yourself were in your mid thirties. Scarcely. It was a fact that Maekar was subtly insecure about, he was older than you, that was no secret. Yet you had chosen him as your husband out of love not duty, you had chosen that old man and you loved him regardless of others opinions. Your eldest son that the pair of you shared, Daeron, was now seventeen, his nameday now here and a quiet celebration much to the King’s annoyance. He had wanted a grand affair to show his eldest grandson off to the women of the court, hoping to stake an alliance through marriage. Daeron however, had begged and pleaded practically on his knees for his seventeenth nameday to be a quiet affair. We should not even travel to Kings Landing, there is no need. He had said, his sad eyes boring into your own, tears welled in them. And you had caved, in turn pleading to Maekar not to force your son to suffer the event. Not that Maekar took much convincing, travelling to Kings Landing with a small army of children was no easy feat, and one he’d rather not do by dragging the boy of the hour against his will for something he did not care for. So you had remained in Summerhall, sharing a night in the gardens eating cake and watching your children tumble around in the grass.
“Were you content with your gifts, dearest?” You questioned, eyes falling onto your eldest son as he ate the rare meat from his plate. “Yes, thank you Mother.” He smiled. He looked tired, but then again he always did. He had the look of lacking sleep almost always present in his eyes and it pained you to know that was something you could not ease him of. Yet you smiled warmly in return, squeezing his hand gently. You loved all your children dearly, but Daeron would always hold a special place to you regardless of how he turned out because he was your first child. The boy who had been the start to your family, back then you were just three. Now, you were eight.
“Seeing as you are old now, brother.” Aerion begun, you watched as almost all of your children and your husband showed at least some sign of distain at the tone of Aerion’s voice, yet you offered him kind eyes as you cut in, “Your brother is not old, Aerion. Be kind.” Aerion huffed lightly, the boy was fourteen, the size of a twelve year old with the pent up energy of a dog that had spent its entire life in a kennel. The attitude that came out of his mouth more often than not was obscene and he seemed to lack the understanding of watching his words, more-so adopting the mentality of speak now, consequences later. And seemingly for the pale haired boy his tongue always found him consequences later. “Should you not be betrothed already? Mother married Father a year earlier than your age.” Daeron sighed. It was no secret the boy lacked betrothal options, in part due to his lack of presence in court and the fact he chose to hide himself away entirely when in Kings Landing. He had done it to himself, he knew, yet he did not wish for some poor girl to have to put up with the secret state that he was. “Darling, your brother will choose his own path in his own time, as will you. You have expressed not wishing for a wife yourself, instead being a great dragon riding to battle and we have not judged your decision.” Your kindness came with ease towards Aerion, the boy was internally hot like a furnace and the anger that bestowed upon him for seemingly no given reason meant he did not often see kindness from anyone but you. Yes he was a little shit, as Maekar liked to put it, but he was not evil. He was your boy, and like Daeron you would love him regardless. Aerion scoffed, flinging a potato in Aemon’s direction, earning him a swat on the arm from his Father who was sat to his left. “Aemon said I can’t breathe fire so I wouldn’t make a very good dragon, I would call that judgemental.” Aemon was eleven, and far too intelligent for his age, he corrected politely more often than not yet with Aerion everything was a personal offence if it could be taken as criticism. “Actually what I said was you wouldn’t make a very successful dragon, seeing as the fire breathing aspect is what makes them so deadly.” Aemon chided, a childish grin plastered on his face as he taunted his elder brother, “Unless you meant it as a metaphor.”
“What the fuck is a metaphor?”
“Aerion!”
“Mind your tongue!”
Both yourself and Maekar called almost in sync, your voices merging as your son ‘accidentally’ slipped another expletive. “If you cannot watch your words and be polite to your brother on his nameday, you will be removed from the table up to your bedchamber. Am I clear? Aerion?” Maekar scolded, raising an eyebrow in his second son’s direction as Aerion continued to eat his bloodied steak. “It was an honest question.” He raised his hands now in mock defence as blood slipped down his fork from the cut of steak stabbed messily onto it. “Aerion you are flinging blood everywhere, please put your hands down nobody here intends on shooting you.”
“I’d beg to differ.” Daella scoffed. You had to purse your lips to suppress a smirk at the girls attitude. Her appearance was entirely, ethereally, you. But that was the attitude of Maekar Targaryen at its finest. She was seven, and a force to be reckoned with. She was quiet and calculating, a beauty in the eye of all with the foul mouth of her Father stuck onto her like an afterthought. She was perfect, to you, to her Father and to almost all but her siblings who more often than not ended up on the receiving end of her cheeky ploys and attitude. It was also widely known that she had her Father completely and utterly wrapped around her finger, at her mercy, point being actively proven as Maekar cut up her steak for her, removing the fatty bits she refused to touch because they made her teeth feel funny. You couldn’t even be mad at him for coddling her, you knew one thing and that was your girl knew how to stand up for herself and put a man in his place, she could protect herself just fine and that made you feel all the more better about raising girls in this wretched world. However, with three older brother’s and a Father who would go to war for her if she asked, she had no need to defend herself currently, and she definitely used it to her advantage. Because she was your smart girl. You adored her always. “And what is that supposed to mean my darling?” Maekar questioned, pushing her plate back in front of her as a three year old Aegon slingshotted several peas in Aerion’s direction, clearly coached by Daella as there was absolutely no way your three year old had successfully loaded his slingshot with such an abundance of peas. You tried your best with Aerion, there was no doubt in that, to the courts you defended him endlessly but he was disciplined fairly at home for his wrongdoings, he got away with very little except for the foul mouth. But due to this, Daella and Aemon had seemingly formed an alliance against their elder brother, now recruiting young Egg who was still learning his way in the world. It would be adorable if it didn’t cause such problems.
“Oi! Mother you cannot let him get away with that! Control the thing!” Aerion shouted, pushing his chair back and standing as little Aegon giggled in delight at the smushed peas on Aerion’s tunic. “That thing is your brother, and you did worse Aerion, you flung a knife at your Father when you were three. He’s still got the scar to prove it.” You shook your head gently, standing and passing little Rhae over to Maekar who took her with a glad smile as she pulled at his beard and shook with excitement at the familiar face of her Father. You stood in front of your son, brushing the pea residue from his tunic and pushing him back down into his chair, before rounding the table and picking up Aegon and taking him back to your seat, Daeron passing the young boy’s plate across so that is sat in front of you. You fed him quietly as the chatter resumed. He was more than capable, yes, but he made too much mess almost on purpose as if he knew you or his Father would just do it for him. And one of you almost always gave in. So yes, you were both technically being bested by a three year old. “Why did you leave knives lying around then?” He smirked sarcastically, as if he had won. As if you didn’t know the nature of your own boy. “We didn’t, Aerion.” Maekar started, eyes casting over to the boy, “You broke into Uncle Baelor’s solar, into his desk drawer and tried to fend me off from taking you for a bath. I’d show you the scar but I am sure you would not like to see me shirtless at the table.” Aerion grimaced at the thought and shook his head, “Absolutely not.” Maekar nodded his head, “Alright then. Shut up and eat your dinner.”
It was when you were all lounging at the table eating cake when Aerion seemingly could not hold his tongue. The order of the children had chaotically all switched around, Daella had decided to perch herself in your lap, playing with your hair and plaiting it, telling you how good you would look if you just let her do it now. “Maybe later, my angel, we do not want to get hair in our cake- or cake in our hair rather, do we?” You smiled, she giggled in response, “You’re silly mummy.” You nuzzled your nose into her shoulder, tickling her inadvertently causing more giggles to erupt from the girl as she picked at her cake.
“Father.”
“Aerion.”
“You were old when you got married.” The sigh that escaped Maekar was not a quiet one, he anchored his head to eye Aerion, to gage where yet again this conversation could possibly be going. Somehow he had Aemon with a chair pulled directly next to his, the boy nestled into his side under his arm, Rhae now resided in Daeron’s embrace as he doted on her quietly, and Aegon perched atop both of Maekar’s knees, eating from both his and his Father’s plates. “I was older, yes.” He strained. He hated the topic of conversation, he loved you, and how he met you, yet he knew he was considered older than most men when he decided to wed you. You were young and full of life- you still very much were, but he had overheard many women of the court offering you their sympathies when they initially heard of the betrothal. Oh how far from the truth they had been.
“But you’re older than Mother.” Aerion prodded, causing Maekar’s eyes to clench shut, he already knew where this conversation was headed. “Surely Mother could have had any man she wished, she’s beautiful. And she chose an old man. A fourth son at that, claim to nothing. A bit of wasted beauty no? It’s rumoured even the Prince of Dorne vied for her hand and she turned him down, for what? A life in the Storm Lands? Couldn’t say I would do the same- what?Why are you all looking at me like that, it’s an honest question. I am sure I’m not the first to ask.”
Your gaze found Aerion’s with a singular stern look, no words left your mouth. Gently you shifted off of the seat, propping Daella onto it. Grasping Aerion by the shoulder, taking full advantage of his small stature for his age, you pulled him “Get up.” You grunted, he stumbled to his feet as you hauled him up the patio steps into the house, up to his bedchambers. You passed many maids and guards along the way, all looking rather surprised, more often than not it was Maekar dealing with Aerion’s behaviour, not you.
As the door slammed shut behind you, you released your grip on your son, brows furrowed “What, you will punish me for speaking what is in my mind!” Your seething was silent, eerily silent. Never did you see the day you would have to be defending your marriage, your own husband, to the son that you both shared. “Do you truly have no idea the love I have for your Father? Truly do you see none of it?” You questioned, voice painfully quiet as your words flowed freely, willing your son for one more supposed truth tonight. “I mean you have six children so maybe there’s something.” Aerion shrugged. You laughed, physically laughed, fingers pressing into your temples, “Maybe there’s something.” You repeated, another laugh escaping you as it settled into a simmering rage. “If you think, Aerion, what your Father and I share is just something, the world is going to chew you up and spit you out. I was advised against everyone who loved me not to marry your Father, because seemingly he was cold, unlovable, lacks the adoration to be a doting husband was actually a direct quote from one of my previous maids. She was removed from my service for that comment. Regardless, I married your Father because I learned him, and I learned that he was not actually so unlovable because I was actively doing it. And he protested. He said I was too young, too full of life, I needed a Lord my age. But I insisted I wanted him. Being a fourth son? What does it matter, I did not lose him to the courts, you have a more present Father because his status gives him respect and he is entitled to things such as this yet he is not required where he does not will. You should be grateful. The the day he relented and pledged himself to me was the best day of my life. Look at where I am Aerion, I am a proud Mother to six wonderful children, whom I chose to have, I was not forced nor coerced. I chose to have six of you. And because your Father loved me so deeply we had another, and another. I choose his clothing, I speak to the tailors and deal with all that because the faffing irritates him, the same as it does you, I do that for him because I love him as I love you. This house do you think its colours were always purple and gold? No. They were once red and black, yet when I married your Father he had the entire house repainted and decorated so that I would feel more welcome so far from my own family as we begun our own. So don’t you dare ever, ever, suggest that there is no amount of love between your Father and I. Your Father is a great man, great men make mistakes and I know you feel he has done you some injustice by punishing you for your bad behaviour but when you learn one day what some children have to endure at their Father’s hand you will be grateful yours loved you enough not to. You dare speak of him in such a way again Aerion, you dare.” You shook your head, eyes boring into his own violet ones as he stared up at you, ears pink as be chewed at the inside of his lip. You hated feeling anger towards any of your children, but eventually Aerion was going to need to hear it sooner or later.
“You will not leave this bedchamber tonight. You will have some water, have a bath and go to bed. Tomorrow morning at breakfast you will be the first one there and you will apologise to your Father alone and sincerely. Do you understand?” You raised an eyebrow, pulling his hands apart so that he would not pick his nails. “Yes mother.” You nodded, “Good. Do not pick your nails it causes more damage than you’d think. Goodnight Aerion.” You pressed a quick, gentle kiss to the top of his head before departing, closing the door behind you and politely asking a maid to draw Aerion a bath.
You had not realised quite how long you had spent in that bedchamber, for Maekar had managed to put the rest of the young children to bed. You found him in Daeron’s bedchamber, sat in the armchair by the fire as Daeron lounged on the end of the bed. You took a seat next to him silently, “Did you hit him?” Daeron questioned, you couldn’t quite work out which answer he was looking for. You knew he thought Aerion deserved a good smack from time to time, but you also knew he felt guilty for thinking as such because at the end of the day Aerion was his brother, and the Septons say we must love our brothers. “Have I ever hit any of you?” You teased, squeezing his arm. “No, but none of us are Aerion.” Daeron answered, a cheeky grin on his tired face. “I apologise for ruing your nameday dinner, Dae.” You stroked some of his tousled sandy hair back from his face gently as he shrugged. “M’not bothered. Really. This has been a thousand times better than it would have in Kings Landing. So thank you.” You pursed your lips into a weak smile as he leant down so you could hug him tightly, “Happy nameday sweet boy.” You kissed his forehead softly before rising, Maekar too standing and pressing a gentle kiss to Daeron’s forehead, his palm cupping Daeron’s cheek. He admired momentarily. He was now adorning more features of a man than child, no longer was he the chubby cheeked babe that had come into the world singing a gale. “Happy name day, son.” Daeron smiled gently in reciprocation, “Thank you, Dad.” With a nod, Maekar followed to where you had been waiting in the doorway, a lazy smile on your face as your lip quivered lightly. You found every nameday of each child slightly emotional, but Daeron most-so as he was the first of your children to reach any milestone, any age, and any maturity.
The door clicked shut behind Maekar, as he gazed down to find your eyes. Gently he reached for your face, pulling you into a silent yet entirely devoted kiss. He was entirely yours, and he would make it known your defence of him had meant more than anything, just as it had all those years ago.
“Eugh!”
Both your heads snapped to the direction of the sound, finding Daella stood in her purple nightgown in the centre of the corridor, completely and utterly disgusted at the sight of affection between her own Mother and Father. A hearty laugh escaped the pare of you, your hand coming to rest on Maekar’s clothed chest as Daella’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “Don’t you have a bedchamber! Why must my eyes be subjected to this torture! Eugh! Miss Melinda where is the soap I need to wash my eyes!” Daella’s night nurse Melinda hurried out of her bedchamber, feigning dramatics “Oh my darling Princess what is it that has caused you such strife.” You had to burrow your head, stifling giggles, into Maekar’s chest so you did not seemingly offend your daughter further. “Unfortunately, Melinda, my dearest daughter was subjected to seeing me show some affection toward my wife.” The grin of amusement on his face was unmistakable, as was the twinkle within his eye as Melinda played along with a wink. “Oh you poor thing! No little girl should have to see such things!” Daella’s giggles could be heard all throughout the corridor as she allowed Melinda to carry her back to her bedchamber, “Goodnight mummy! Goodnight daddy!”
“Goodnight Daella.” Maekar called as you made sure to blow her a kiss as she disappeared into her own room. You were giddy like children. “I’ll race you to the bedchamber.” You spoke, unclasping Maekar’s cloak from his shoulders and chucking it onto one of the standing tables of the corridor. “But I’ve already chased Aegon- Wife!” You were already gone, sprinting down the corridors of Summerhall as your Husband chased, paces behind following your giggles that entirely mirrored Daella’s own. Servants and staff alike only watched with amused grins from afar, it was rare they saw the Prince so happy again. They knew he was contented, but with so many children he was tired more often than not, it brought a smile to all to see the great Prince Maekar, The Anvil, chasing his Wife through the corridors of his estate, a childish grin plastered on the pair of your faces.
Slamming your hand into the door you called, “I win!” He stopped, now towering over you. “You only won, woman, because you are a cheat.” You feigned offence, “What a vile accusation! A Lady never cheats, she simply outsmarts the beast that is man!” He pinched your side causing another giggle to escape you as you tried to manoeuvre away from him, “Beast?” He grinned, “Beast? Who are you calling a beast, wife?” A shriek escaped you as he cornered you into the bedchamber, door swinging shut as his fingers didn’t leave your side “Maekar! Don’t tickle me- I’ve had six children I can’t take being tickled!” He stopped with a laugh, a soft smack to your arse as he turned you over on the bed to being undoing the laces of your dress.
When you were bare before him you turned over, his hands ran over your soft stomach gently, settling above your hips to keep ahold of you. “Perhaps a bath?” You asked, cupping his jaw and pulling him lower into a hungry kiss. “You defended me.” He spoke softly, his voice only being capable of going so low made it rasp against your skin. You frowned “Why would I not?” You helped him undress himself, when he too was bare he lifted you further up the bed to settle against the pillows. “Maekar.” You spoke softly, fingers caressing his cheek. “He is not wrong.” He admitted painfully, pressing his cheek against your breasts, his beard prickly against your supple skin, his hands grounding themselves at the sides of your ribs as he allowed for once, his entire weight to rest upon you as the lower half of him was lying between your legs. You wrapped your arms around him gently, tilting your head forward to bring your lips against the top of his head. “He is so unbelievably wrong. He is our spoiled little boy who we’ve practically coddled near every day of his life, he does not seem to understand that what we have is love because he has nought to compare it to. Baelor and Jena are more than content, your parents are the image of love. When compared to them yes we are less flashy, but anyone who understands us understands what we are. And Aerion will, in time.” You felt your chest dampen, you adjusted your head so that you could see his face, his eyes cast downward as silent tears fell down his face, onto your breasts.
“I have spent my entire life in Baelor’s shadow. The fourth son, claim to nothing. Not desired in court, never supposed to have a woman like yourself as my bride. I’ve never not heard the whispers. My home is my home and I became content with that. The staff care for us, not the rumours. I select who works in my service. And yet it was not a stranger, but rather my own son.” You bit your lip to still its quivering, your heart hurt for him. You had heard the admission before but it had been from strangers, for your own son to haphazardly admit he thought his own father unworthy of you was a stab to the gut for Maekar. The court could think it all they liked but for his own son felt like a cruel jest by the God’s. That he was doomed to be forever reminded by the boy he had helped create that even he could see he was not worthy of your love. “Do not let our son. Our son. The boy we created out of love, who has turned out angry at the word since the day he came. Make you feel any less than what you are. You are everything to me, Maekar. Without you I would not be so loved, so cherished. I would be childless, because God’s be damned if I’d put myself through one pregnancy let alone six, for any man but you. You are a loving husband, a devoted Father, a good man. Do you know how many women pray to the God’s for a man like you? Yet I had to beg for you because you thought I was too good for you? That is what makes you so whole Maekar. You are good, you love me, you love our children, you are kind. I just wish sometimes you could love yourself the way that I love you.” You held him tighter, if that could even be possible, legs coming to wind around his waist and cross at the based of his spine. “You love me.” It wasn’t a question, it was an affirmation, as if he was trying to engrave into his very being the truth your words carried what they meant to him.
“I do. And nothing anyone says can change that.”
He pressed his face against your chest, you felt his tongue glide up the valley between your breasts, “You love me.” He panted, his mouth descended upon one of your breasts, his tongue circling the peak of your nipple before sucking against it, beard scratching the skin around your breast. “I love you.” You panted back, becoming breathless as each kiss he lay tickled against your skin, lower and lower until he reached the top of your mound. He layered a kiss to the skin there before delving lower, another grunt escaping him, “I love you.” He parted your folds hungrily with his tongue before lapping up your growing wetness, a languid mewl escaped you at the feeling as you rested the backs of your knees against his shoulders. “That’s it.” He hummed, the vibrations sending shivers through you causing your back to involuntarily arch. “Give your weight to me, wife. Give your everything to me.” A moan escaped you again, longer and louder this time as he delved deeper, his nose bumping with your swollen clit in rhythm with his tongue lapping at your weeping hole. “M-Maekar, I should be making you f-feel better, my love.” You opened your mouth yet no sound came out, your head flinging back into the pillows as your eyes rolled back. He had increased his pace feverishly, gripping you as close to his face as he could possibly get, he pulled back only briefly “This is for me, sweet wife.” He pressed as sloppy kiss to your inner thigh, sucking until it bruised before digging his teeth in bluntly. “Having you, having all of you at my mercy. This is what I desire more than anything. No other man of my Father’s court has ever seen such a sight, nor will he ever know one as beautiful as mine.” He burrowed himself back in, his fingers joining the ever growing sequence as your legs begun to shake. He wanted this, so you held on as desperately as you could, until you were cumming without realisation. The combination of his rough padded fingers inside of you as his soft tongue lapped and sucked at your clit had forced your orgasm to overtake near every nerve that consumed you, a defeated whimper left your lips as you released you grip on his hair and panted for breath quietly. Your eyes took a moment to adjust back to the light from the darkness and speckles of colour from how truly tight you had clenched them shut. “You still with me sweetheart?” Maekar lifted his head, he knew he had pushed you, but now you were near passed out from overstimulation and pliant to his will. He kissed up from your mound to your navel, before following the path up to your jaw.
You smiled lazily, “Hi.” Pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Are you alright?” He questioned, running his hands over you as you nuzzled into his neck “More than okay, my love.” You pressed your lips against his forehead. “Are you going to fuck me now?” He laughed against your skin, lapping and sucking at the crevice of your collarbone, “Still not satisfied? Some might call that gluttony.” You whined lightly, palms pressing against his chest “I’m asking you to fuck me husband, do you need more direction?” Finally giving in, not that it took much convincing, he lined his cock up to your already dripping hole. He thrust in harshly, knocking the air from your lungs in one swift movement. Nothing came out of you save for an incoherent mumble as you pressed your face into the crook of his neck. Maekar Targaryen did nothing half bothered, everything was done perfect and proper. Which was why pleasuring his wife was one of the utmost serious matters to him.
He flipped the pair of you, his back now rested against the plush pillows, your thighs caging his waist as he kept his knees spread and bent, giving you all the more access and freedom of movement. “Show me how much you love me.” He commanded, kneading the fat of your arse before smacking it, coaxing a moan from you as you begun to ride his cock. He could not escape the noises tearing from his lips, his head thrown back in bliss as you rode him. He could not release his grip from you, he was utterly enchanted by how entirely you were giving yourself to him, like you didn’t already share six children and had been married over a decade. You clenched your walls around him, coaxing an unrestrained groan from his lips as you joined them to your own, slipping letting your tongues dance with one another as you drew closer to your peak. He pulled his hand free reluctantly to press his finger against your clit, rubbing slow circles as you jolted up and down on his thick cock. “S’too much.” You whined, head falling back as your hair cascaded down your spine entirely free. “Cum for me, wife. Come on my cock, I’ll give you another child if you tell me what I need to know.” He rasped, picking up his thrusts to continue your faltering rhythm. “I love you.” Your voice was breathless, skin sticky, your nails clawing at his skin as you fought against him for your own pleasure. “I know you do. Let go f’me.” Unable to fight back any longer you came with an unruly moan, he grunted, pulling your chest until it pressed against his own, head collapsing under his jaw as he released his seed deep inside of you.
You both remained entirely unmoving, entirely obsessed with one another as you silently willed to never part. “Another girl.” He mumbled against your hair, “Hm?” You lifted your head lightly, your nose pressing to his jaw. “When this one takes. Another girl.“ You just nodded, no room for argument as you surrendered entirely to him, pliant against the hard planes that adorned his body, muscles contracting under you lightly with every breath.
“I love you.”
✴︎
The following morning was a quiet one. You remained curled into Maekar, covered by the thin bedsheets resting in the breezed from the window as you nuzzled against his chest. The knock at the door was so quiet you might not have even heard it had you been truly resting. Adjusting the quilts so that you were both appropriately covered, Maekar called “Enter.” Inside came Aerion, a small envelope in hand. He placed it on Maekar’s bedside table before turning, “I am sorry, Father.” Maekar gave a small nod, “Thank you Aerion.” Aerion wasted no time in exiting the room, slamming the door behind him with a thud.
Tearing the envelope softly, Maekar pulled out a surprisingly neat piece of folded parchment, Aerion’s recognisable scrawl adorning the yellowed page. A small smile rested upon your pouted lips, Maekar letting out a small chuckle of amusement at the heading of the paper.
Reasons that I am grateful for my Father
A/N: this might be my favourite piece i’ve written, the anon request was perfect, it took me a while to start but it just started flowing and i am so so happy, i write my best when im writing about maekar and the maekarlings i swear so if anyone has any other requests for them pls pls pleaseeee send them i adore the entire dynamic
anyway, as always: requests are open, likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions at all are always always appreciated - take care everyone!!
synopsis: A garden dinner was a rare occasion at Summerhall estate, either several of the children would be misbehaving usually resulting in one or two being sent to bed, or the weather would not allow for such outdoor activities. However on this occasion for Daeron’s nameday everything was running smoothly, until Aerion seemingly could not hold his tongue.
[based off of this amazing anon request]
word count: 5,588
warnings: 18+ mdni, female reader, no use of Y/N, readers looks are un-described (aside from being of House Dayne + having hair), teenage Aerion (you’ve been warned), a lot of the maekarlings, probably a lot of age inaccuracies for the kids but it works, SMUT (eventually), p in v, oral (f!receiving), fingering, (slight) breeding kink, woman + wife as terms of endearment, fluff (honestly quite a lot), kind of angst but not really. reader is a legal adult) REMEMBER - YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME
DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used in general and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms + elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold no rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.
✴︎
Little Rhae, scarcely half a year old, sat in your lap as you dined. Your husband, Maekar, and remaining five children sat scattered around the large outdoor dining table as you for once sat in a tranquil calm amongst the soon to be setting sun. A contented smile lingered on your face as you observed your family, the one that you had built with nothing but raw determination and a jealous husband.
You yourself were in your mid thirties. Scarcely. It was a fact that Maekar was subtly insecure about, he was older than you, that was no secret. Yet you had chosen him as your husband out of love not duty, you had chosen that old man and you loved him regardless of others opinions. Your eldest son that the pair of you shared, Daeron, was now seventeen, his nameday now here and a quiet celebration much to the King’s annoyance. He had wanted a grand affair to show his eldest grandson off to the women of the court, hoping to stake an alliance through marriage. Daeron however, had begged and pleaded practically on his knees for his seventeenth nameday to be a quiet affair. We should not even travel to Kings Landing, there is no need. He had said, his sad eyes boring into your own, tears welled in them. And you had caved, in turn pleading to Maekar not to force your son to suffer the event. Not that Maekar took much convincing, travelling to Kings Landing with a small army of children was no easy feat, and one he’d rather not do by dragging the boy of the hour against his will for something he did not care for. So you had remained in Summerhall, sharing a night in the gardens eating cake and watching your children tumble around in the grass.
“Were you content with your gifts, dearest?” You questioned, eyes falling onto your eldest son as he ate the rare meat from his plate. “Yes, thank you Mother.” He smiled. He looked tired, but then again he always did. He had the look of lacking sleep almost always present in his eyes and it pained you to know that was something you could not ease him of. Yet you smiled warmly in return, squeezing his hand gently. You loved all your children dearly, but Daeron would always hold a special place to you regardless of how he turned out because he was your first child. The boy who had been the start to your family, back then you were just three. Now, you were eight.
“Seeing as you are old now, brother.” Aerion begun, you watched as almost all of your children and your husband showed at least some sign of distain at the tone of Aerion’s voice, yet you offered him kind eyes as you cut in, “Your brother is not old, Aerion. Be kind.” Aerion huffed lightly, the boy was fourteen, the size of a twelve year old with the pent up energy of a dog that had spent its entire life in a kennel. The attitude that came out of his mouth more often than not was obscene and he seemed to lack the understanding of watching his words, more-so adopting the mentality of speak now, consequences later. And seemingly for the pale haired boy his tongue always found him consequences later. “Should you not be betrothed already? Mother married Father a year earlier than your age.” Daeron sighed. It was no secret the boy lacked betrothal options, in part due to his lack of presence in court and the fact he chose to hide himself away entirely when in Kings Landing. He had done it to himself, he knew, yet he did not wish for some poor girl to have to put up with the secret state that he was. “Darling, your brother will choose his own path in his own time, as will you. You have expressed not wishing for a wife yourself, instead being a great dragon riding to battle and we have not judged your decision.” Your kindness came with ease towards Aerion, the boy was internally hot like a furnace and the anger that bestowed upon him for seemingly no given reason meant he did not often see kindness from anyone but you. Yes he was a little shit, as Maekar liked to put it, but he was not evil. He was your boy, and like Daeron you would love him regardless. Aerion scoffed, flinging a potato in Aemon’s direction, earning him a swat on the arm from his Father who was sat to his left. “Aemon said I can’t breathe fire so I wouldn’t make a very good dragon, I would call that judgemental.” Aemon was eleven, and far too intelligent for his age, he corrected politely more often than not yet with Aerion everything was a personal offence if it could be taken as criticism. “Actually what I said was you wouldn’t make a very successful dragon, seeing as the fire breathing aspect is what makes them so deadly.” Aemon chided, a childish grin plastered on his face as he taunted his elder brother, “Unless you meant it as a metaphor.”
“What the fuck is a metaphor?”
“Aerion!”
“Mind your tongue!”
Both yourself and Maekar called almost in sync, your voices merging as your son ‘accidentally’ slipped another expletive. “If you cannot watch your words and be polite to your brother on his nameday, you will be removed from the table up to your bedchamber. Am I clear? Aerion?” Maekar scolded, raising an eyebrow in his second son’s direction as Aerion continued to eat his bloodied steak. “It was an honest question.” He raised his hands now in mock defence as blood slipped down his fork from the cut of steak stabbed messily onto it. “Aerion you are flinging blood everywhere, please put your hands down nobody here intends on shooting you.”
“I’d beg to differ.” Daella scoffed. You had to purse your lips to suppress a smirk at the girls attitude. Her appearance was entirely, ethereally, you. But that was the attitude of Maekar Targaryen at its finest. She was seven, and a force to be reckoned with. She was quiet and calculating, a beauty in the eye of all with the foul mouth of her Father stuck onto her like an afterthought. She was perfect, to you, to her Father and to almost all but her siblings who more often than not ended up on the receiving end of her cheeky ploys and attitude. It was also widely known that she had her Father completely and utterly wrapped around her finger, at her mercy, point being actively proven as Maekar cut up her steak for her, removing the fatty bits she refused to touch because they made her teeth feel funny. You couldn’t even be mad at him for coddling her, you knew one thing and that was your girl knew how to stand up for herself and put a man in his place, she could protect herself just fine and that made you feel all the more better about raising girls in this wretched world. However, with three older brother’s and a Father who would go to war for her if she asked, she had no need to defend herself currently, and she definitely used it to her advantage. Because she was your smart girl. You adored her always. “And what is that supposed to mean my darling?” Maekar questioned, pushing her plate back in front of her as a three year old Aegon slingshotted several peas in Aerion’s direction, clearly coached by Daella as there was absolutely no way your three year old had successfully loaded his slingshot with such an abundance of peas. You tried your best with Aerion, there was no doubt in that, to the courts you defended him endlessly but he was disciplined fairly at home for his wrongdoings, he got away with very little except for the foul mouth. But due to this, Daella and Aemon had seemingly formed an alliance against their elder brother, now recruiting young Egg who was still learning his way in the world. It would be adorable if it didn’t cause such problems.
“Oi! Mother you cannot let him get away with that! Control the thing!” Aerion shouted, pushing his chair back and standing as little Aegon giggled in delight at the smushed peas on Aerion’s tunic. “That thing is your brother, and you did worse Aerion, you flung a knife at your Father when you were three. He’s still got the scar to prove it.” You shook your head gently, standing and passing little Rhae over to Maekar who took her with a glad smile as she pulled at his beard and shook with excitement at the familiar face of her Father. You stood in front of your son, brushing the pea residue from his tunic and pushing him back down into his chair, before rounding the table and picking up Aegon and taking him back to your seat, Daeron passing the young boy’s plate across so that is sat in front of you. You fed him quietly as the chatter resumed. He was more than capable, yes, but he made too much mess almost on purpose as if he knew you or his Father would just do it for him. And one of you almost always gave in. So yes, you were both technically being bested by a three year old. “Why did you leave knives lying around then?” He smirked sarcastically, as if he had won. As if you didn’t know the nature of your own boy. “We didn’t, Aerion.” Maekar started, eyes casting over to the boy, “You broke into Uncle Baelor’s solar, into his desk drawer and tried to fend me off from taking you for a bath. I’d show you the scar but I am sure you would not like to see me shirtless at the table.” Aerion grimaced at the thought and shook his head, “Absolutely not.” Maekar nodded his head, “Alright then. Shut up and eat your dinner.”
It was when you were all lounging at the table eating cake when Aerion seemingly could not hold his tongue. The order of the children had chaotically all switched around, Daella had decided to perch herself in your lap, playing with your hair and plaiting it, telling you how good you would look if you just let her do it now. “Maybe later, my angel, we do not want to get hair in our cake- or cake in our hair rather, do we?” You smiled, she giggled in response, “You’re silly mummy.” You nuzzled your nose into her shoulder, tickling her inadvertently causing more giggles to erupt from the girl as she picked at her cake.
“Father.”
“Aerion.”
“You were old when you got married.” The sigh that escaped Maekar was not a quiet one, he anchored his head to eye Aerion, to gage where yet again this conversation could possibly be going. Somehow he had Aemon with a chair pulled directly next to his, the boy nestled into his side under his arm, Rhae now resided in Daeron’s embrace as he doted on her quietly, and Aegon perched atop both of Maekar’s knees, eating from both his and his Father’s plates. “I was older, yes.” He strained. He hated the topic of conversation, he loved you, and how he met you, yet he knew he was considered older than most men when he decided to wed you. You were young and full of life- you still very much were, but he had overheard many women of the court offering you their sympathies when they initially heard of the betrothal. Oh how far from the truth they had been.
“But you’re older than Mother.” Aerion prodded, causing Maekar’s eyes to clench shut, he already knew where this conversation was headed. “Surely Mother could have had any man she wished, she’s beautiful. And she chose an old man. A fourth son at that, claim to nothing. A bit of wasted beauty no? It’s rumoured even the Prince of Dorne vied for her hand and she turned him down, for what? A life in the Storm Lands? Couldn’t say I would do the same- what?Why are you all looking at me like that, it’s an honest question. I am sure I’m not the first to ask.”
Your gaze found Aerion’s with a singular stern look, no words left your mouth. Gently you shifted off of the seat, propping Daella onto it. Grasping Aerion by the shoulder, taking full advantage of his small stature for his age, you pulled him “Get up.” You grunted, he stumbled to his feet as you hauled him up the patio steps into the house, up to his bedchambers. You passed many maids and guards along the way, all looking rather surprised, more often than not it was Maekar dealing with Aerion’s behaviour, not you.
As the door slammed shut behind you, you released your grip on your son, brows furrowed “What, you will punish me for speaking what is in my mind!” Your seething was silent, eerily silent. Never did you see the day you would have to be defending your marriage, your own husband, to the son that you both shared. “Do you truly have no idea the love I have for your Father? Truly do you see none of it?” You questioned, voice painfully quiet as your words flowed freely, willing your son for one more supposed truth tonight. “I mean you have six children so maybe there’s something.” Aerion shrugged. You laughed, physically laughed, fingers pressing into your temples, “Maybe there’s something.” You repeated, another laugh escaping you as it settled into a simmering rage. “If you think, Aerion, what your Father and I share is just something, the world is going to chew you up and spit you out. I was advised against everyone who loved me not to marry your Father, because seemingly he was cold, unlovable, lacks the adoration to be a doting husband was actually a direct quote from one of my previous maids. She was removed from my service for that comment. Regardless, I married your Father because I learned him, and I learned that he was not actually so unlovable because I was actively doing it. And he protested. He said I was too young, too full of life, I needed a Lord my age. But I insisted I wanted him. Being a fourth son? What does it matter, I did not lose him to the courts, you have a more present Father because his status gives him respect and he is entitled to things such as this yet he is not required where he does not will. You should be grateful. The the day he relented and pledged himself to me was the best day of my life. Look at where I am Aerion, I am a proud Mother to six wonderful children, whom I chose to have, I was not forced nor coerced. I chose to have six of you. And because your Father loved me so deeply we had another, and another. I choose his clothing, I speak to the tailors and deal with all that because the faffing irritates him, the same as it does you, I do that for him because I love him as I love you. This house do you think its colours were always purple and gold? No. They were once red and black, yet when I married your Father he had the entire house repainted and decorated so that I would feel more welcome so far from my own family as we begun our own. So don’t you dare ever, ever, suggest that there is no amount of love between your Father and I. Your Father is a great man, great men make mistakes and I know you feel he has done you some injustice by punishing you for your bad behaviour but when you learn one day what some children have to endure at their Father’s hand you will be grateful yours loved you enough not to. You dare speak of him in such a way again Aerion, you dare.” You shook your head, eyes boring into his own violet ones as he stared up at you, ears pink as be chewed at the inside of his lip. You hated feeling anger towards any of your children, but eventually Aerion was going to need to hear it sooner or later.
“You will not leave this bedchamber tonight. You will have some water, have a bath and go to bed. Tomorrow morning at breakfast you will be the first one there and you will apologise to your Father alone and sincerely. Do you understand?” You raised an eyebrow, pulling his hands apart so that he would not pick his nails. “Yes mother.” You nodded, “Good. Do not pick your nails it causes more damage than you’d think. Goodnight Aerion.” You pressed a quick, gentle kiss to the top of his head before departing, closing the door behind you and politely asking a maid to draw Aerion a bath.
You had not realised quite how long you had spent in that bedchamber, for Maekar had managed to put the rest of the young children to bed. You found him in Daeron’s bedchamber, sat in the armchair by the fire as Daeron lounged on the end of the bed. You took a seat next to him silently, “Did you hit him?” Daeron questioned, you couldn’t quite work out which answer he was looking for. You knew he thought Aerion deserved a good smack from time to time, but you also knew he felt guilty for thinking as such because at the end of the day Aerion was his brother, and the Septons say we must love our brothers. “Have I ever hit any of you?” You teased, squeezing his arm. “No, but none of us are Aerion.” Daeron answered, a cheeky grin on his tired face. “I apologise for ruing your nameday dinner, Dae.” You stroked some of his tousled sandy hair back from his face gently as he shrugged. “M’not bothered. Really. This has been a thousand times better than it would have in Kings Landing. So thank you.” You pursed your lips into a weak smile as he leant down so you could hug him tightly, “Happy nameday sweet boy.” You kissed his forehead softly before rising, Maekar too standing and pressing a gentle kiss to Daeron’s forehead, his palm cupping Daeron’s cheek. He admired momentarily. He was now adorning more features of a man than child, no longer was he the chubby cheeked babe that had come into the world singing a gale. “Happy name day, son.” Daeron smiled gently in reciprocation, “Thank you, Dad.” With a nod, Maekar followed to where you had been waiting in the doorway, a lazy smile on your face as your lip quivered lightly. You found every nameday of each child slightly emotional, but Daeron most-so as he was the first of your children to reach any milestone, any age, and any maturity.
The door clicked shut behind Maekar, as he gazed down to find your eyes. Gently he reached for your face, pulling you into a silent yet entirely devoted kiss. He was entirely yours, and he would make it known your defence of him had meant more than anything, just as it had all those years ago.
“Eugh!”
Both your heads snapped to the direction of the sound, finding Daella stood in her purple nightgown in the centre of the corridor, completely and utterly disgusted at the sight of affection between her own Mother and Father. A hearty laugh escaped the pare of you, your hand coming to rest on Maekar’s clothed chest as Daella’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “Don’t you have a bedchamber! Why must my eyes be subjected to this torture! Eugh! Miss Melinda where is the soap I need to wash my eyes!” Daella’s night nurse Melinda hurried out of her bedchamber, feigning dramatics “Oh my darling Princess what is it that has caused you such strife.” You had to burrow your head, stifling giggles, into Maekar’s chest so you did not seemingly offend your daughter further. “Unfortunately, Melinda, my dearest daughter was subjected to seeing me show some affection toward my wife.” The grin of amusement on his face was unmistakable, as was the twinkle within his eye as Melinda played along with a wink. “Oh you poor thing! No little girl should have to see such things!” Daella’s giggles could be heard all throughout the corridor as she allowed Melinda to carry her back to her bedchamber, “Goodnight mummy! Goodnight daddy!”
“Goodnight Daella.” Maekar called as you made sure to blow her a kiss as she disappeared into her own room. You were giddy like children. “I’ll race you to the bedchamber.” You spoke, unclasping Maekar’s cloak from his shoulders and chucking it onto one of the standing tables of the corridor. “But I’ve already chased Aegon- Wife!” You were already gone, sprinting down the corridors of Summerhall as your Husband chased, paces behind following your giggles that entirely mirrored Daella’s own. Servants and staff alike only watched with amused grins from afar, it was rare they saw the Prince so happy again. They knew he was contented, but with so many children he was tired more often than not, it brought a smile to all to see the great Prince Maekar, The Anvil, chasing his Wife through the corridors of his estate, a childish grin plastered on the pair of your faces.
Slamming your hand into the door you called, “I win!” He stopped, now towering over you. “You only won, woman, because you are a cheat.” You feigned offence, “What a vile accusation! A Lady never cheats, she simply outsmarts the beast that is man!” He pinched your side causing another giggle to escape you as you tried to manoeuvre away from him, “Beast?” He grinned, “Beast? Who are you calling a beast, wife?” A shriek escaped you as he cornered you into the bedchamber, door swinging shut as his fingers didn’t leave your side “Maekar! Don’t tickle me- I’ve had six children I can’t take being tickled!” He stopped with a laugh, a soft smack to your arse as he turned you over on the bed to being undoing the laces of your dress.
When you were bare before him you turned over, his hands ran over your soft stomach gently, settling above your hips to keep ahold of you. “Perhaps a bath?” You asked, cupping his jaw and pulling him lower into a hungry kiss. “You defended me.” He spoke softly, his voice only being capable of going so low made it rasp against your skin. You frowned “Why would I not?” You helped him undress himself, when he too was bare he lifted you further up the bed to settle against the pillows. “Maekar.” You spoke softly, fingers caressing his cheek. “He is not wrong.” He admitted painfully, pressing his cheek against your breasts, his beard prickly against your supple skin, his hands grounding themselves at the sides of your ribs as he allowed for once, his entire weight to rest upon you as the lower half of him was lying between your legs. You wrapped your arms around him gently, tilting your head forward to bring your lips against the top of his head. “He is so unbelievably wrong. He is our spoiled little boy who we’ve practically coddled near every day of his life, he does not seem to understand that what we have is love because he has nought to compare it to. Baelor and Jena are more than content, your parents are the image of love. When compared to them yes we are less flashy, but anyone who understands us understands what we are. And Aerion will, in time.” You felt your chest dampen, you adjusted your head so that you could see his face, his eyes cast downward as silent tears fell down his face, onto your breasts.
“I have spent my entire life in Baelor’s shadow. The fourth son, claim to nothing. Not desired in court, never supposed to have a woman like yourself as my bride. I’ve never not heard the whispers. My home is my home and I became content with that. The staff care for us, not the rumours. I select who works in my service. And yet it was not a stranger, but rather my own son.” You bit your lip to still its quivering, your heart hurt for him. You had heard the admission before but it had been from strangers, for your own son to haphazardly admit he thought his own father unworthy of you was a stab to the gut for Maekar. The court could think it all they liked but for his own son felt like a cruel jest by the God’s. That he was doomed to be forever reminded by the boy he had helped create that even he could see he was not worthy of your love. “Do not let our son. Our son. The boy we created out of love, who has turned out angry at the word since the day he came. Make you feel any less than what you are. You are everything to me, Maekar. Without you I would not be so loved, so cherished. I would be childless, because God’s be damned if I’d put myself through one pregnancy let alone six, for any man but you. You are a loving husband, a devoted Father, a good man. Do you know how many women pray to the God’s for a man like you? Yet I had to beg for you because you thought I was too good for you? That is what makes you so whole Maekar. You are good, you love me, you love our children, you are kind. I just wish sometimes you could love yourself the way that I love you.” You held him tighter, if that could even be possible, legs coming to wind around his waist and cross at the based of his spine. “You love me.” It wasn’t a question, it was an affirmation, as if he was trying to engrave into his very being the truth your words carried what they meant to him.
“I do. And nothing anyone says can change that.”
He pressed his face against your chest, you felt his tongue glide up the valley between your breasts, “You love me.” He panted, his mouth descended upon one of your breasts, his tongue circling the peak of your nipple before sucking against it, beard scratching the skin around your breast. “I love you.” You panted back, becoming breathless as each kiss he lay tickled against your skin, lower and lower until he reached the top of your mound. He layered a kiss to the skin there before delving lower, another grunt escaping him, “I love you.” He parted your folds hungrily with his tongue before lapping up your growing wetness, a languid mewl escaped you at the feeling as you rested the backs of your knees against his shoulders. “That’s it.” He hummed, the vibrations sending shivers through you causing your back to involuntarily arch. “Give your weight to me, wife. Give your everything to me.” A moan escaped you again, longer and louder this time as he delved deeper, his nose bumping with your swollen clit in rhythm with his tongue lapping at your weeping hole. “M-Maekar, I should be making you f-feel better, my love.” You opened your mouth yet no sound came out, your head flinging back into the pillows as your eyes rolled back. He had increased his pace feverishly, gripping you as close to his face as he could possibly get, he pulled back only briefly “This is for me, sweet wife.” He pressed as sloppy kiss to your inner thigh, sucking until it bruised before digging his teeth in bluntly. “Having you, having all of you at my mercy. This is what I desire more than anything. No other man of my Father’s court has ever seen such a sight, nor will he ever know one as beautiful as mine.” He burrowed himself back in, his fingers joining the ever growing sequence as your legs begun to shake. He wanted this, so you held on as desperately as you could, until you were cumming without realisation. The combination of his rough padded fingers inside of you as his soft tongue lapped and sucked at your clit had forced your orgasm to overtake near every nerve that consumed you, a defeated whimper left your lips as you released you grip on his hair and panted for breath quietly. Your eyes took a moment to adjust back to the light from the darkness and speckles of colour from how truly tight you had clenched them shut. “You still with me sweetheart?” Maekar lifted his head, he knew he had pushed you, but now you were near passed out from overstimulation and pliant to his will. He kissed up from your mound to your navel, before following the path up to your jaw.
You smiled lazily, “Hi.” Pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Are you alright?” He questioned, running his hands over you as you nuzzled into his neck “More than okay, my love.” You pressed your lips against his forehead. “Are you going to fuck me now?” He laughed against your skin, lapping and sucking at the crevice of your collarbone, “Still not satisfied? Some might call that gluttony.” You whined lightly, palms pressing against his chest “I’m asking you to fuck me husband, do you need more direction?” Finally giving in, not that it took much convincing, he lined his cock up to your already dripping hole. He thrust in harshly, knocking the air from your lungs in one swift movement. Nothing came out of you save for an incoherent mumble as you pressed your face into the crook of his neck. Maekar Targaryen did nothing half bothered, everything was done perfect and proper. Which was why pleasuring his wife was one of the utmost serious matters to him.
He flipped the pair of you, his back now rested against the plush pillows, your thighs caging his waist as he kept his knees spread and bent, giving you all the more access and freedom of movement. “Show me how much you love me.” He commanded, kneading the fat of your arse before smacking it, coaxing a moan from you as you begun to ride his cock. He could not escape the noises tearing from his lips, his head thrown back in bliss as you rode him. He could not release his grip from you, he was utterly enchanted by how entirely you were giving yourself to him, like you didn’t already share six children and had been married over a decade. You clenched your walls around him, coaxing an unrestrained groan from his lips as you joined them to your own, slipping letting your tongues dance with one another as you drew closer to your peak. He pulled his hand free reluctantly to press his finger against your clit, rubbing slow circles as you jolted up and down on his thick cock. “S’too much.” You whined, head falling back as your hair cascaded down your spine entirely free. “Cum for me, wife. Come on my cock, I’ll give you another child if you tell me what I need to know.” He rasped, picking up his thrusts to continue your faltering rhythm. “I love you.” Your voice was breathless, skin sticky, your nails clawing at his skin as you fought against him for your own pleasure. “I know you do. Let go f’me.” Unable to fight back any longer you came with an unruly moan, he grunted, pulling your chest until it pressed against his own, head collapsing under his jaw as he released his seed deep inside of you.
You both remained entirely unmoving, entirely obsessed with one another as you silently willed to never part. “Another girl.” He mumbled against your hair, “Hm?” You lifted your head lightly, your nose pressing to his jaw. “When this one takes. Another girl.“ You just nodded, no room for argument as you surrendered entirely to him, pliant against the hard planes that adorned his body, muscles contracting under you lightly with every breath.
“I love you.”
✴︎
The following morning was a quiet one. You remained curled into Maekar, covered by the thin bedsheets resting in the breezed from the window as you nuzzled against his chest. The knock at the door was so quiet you might not have even heard it had you been truly resting. Adjusting the quilts so that you were both appropriately covered, Maekar called “Enter.” Inside came Aerion, a small envelope in hand. He placed it on Maekar’s bedside table before turning, “I am sorry, Father.” Maekar gave a small nod, “Thank you Aerion.” Aerion wasted no time in exiting the room, slamming the door behind him with a thud.
Tearing the envelope softly, Maekar pulled out a surprisingly neat piece of folded parchment, Aerion’s recognisable scrawl adorning the yellowed page. A small smile rested upon your pouted lips, Maekar letting out a small chuckle of amusement at the heading of the paper.
Reasons that I am grateful for my Father
A/N: this might be my favourite piece i’ve written, the anon request was perfect, it took me a while to start but it just started flowing and i am so so happy, i write my best when im writing about maekar and the maekarlings i swear so if anyone has any other requests for them pls pls pleaseeee send them i adore the entire dynamic
anyway, as always: requests are open, likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions at all are always always appreciated - take care everyone!!
a servant struggles with some kind of physical labour in the yard, and maekar goes "you imbecile, i will do it" and does it easily because he's STRONG. and reader is just standing there, drooling over her husband (and perhaps suggests that maekar show her that same strength in the bedroom later)
MY STRONG HUSBAND—Maekar Targaryen
Maekar Taragryen x wife!reader
content: You like watching your strong husband demonstrate his strength
words: 800
cw: MDNI 18+ sexual themes & references
A walk in the gardens with your lord husband took place daily like clockwork. It was routine. It was some of the only peace the pair of you had each day. A moment away from duties, from children, and you could bask in the other’s company.
But in typical fashion your small moments of blissful peace never did truly last. You both stood watching as one of the servants attempted to lift something from the ground, but it reminded you of Aegon.
He grunted trying to lift the wooden box that was much too big for himself. He looked like the young boy when he would play with his brother trying to carry around fake swords that were double his swords.
“Oh, for fucks sake,” your husband grunted from beside you.
“It is too large for him. It is not his fault,” you told him, patting his arm gently.
He grunted in reply, before finally his composure snapped, “Oh, I will fucking do it you imbecile!”
He unlaced himself from you, stomping forward, “And he wonders where Aerion gets it,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
You looked up watching him, as he pushed the young servant away, bending down to pick up the crate with ease. Your mouth practically watered at the sight.
Your husband was a warrior, a strong man. You had seen the scars and the muscles that laid beneath the clothes thousands of times, but watching him demonstrate this strength away did something to you.
You watched his biceps strain against his doublet, threatening to burst through the streams you almost wished they would just to bear witness to them. He stood to his full height as your eyes trailed down admiring his strong legs and ass with a grin
“Maekar, mayhaps you should move the one beside it too! For sage measure of course!” you called out, biting your cheek to prevent yourself from laughing.
He grunted in reply, taking your suggestion and doing the very same. You watched him with the same intent, now imaging your large arm wrapped around your throat as he fucked into you from beside.
He set the other out of the way, muttering something to the servant that you did not hear, but it did not matter as you stared only at him. He finally turned toward you, but paused, noticing the look on your face.
“Wife?” he questioned.
“Husband,” you replied, in a sultry tone, moving toward him. He stopped allowing you to meet him, your hand moving to rest against his chest as you looked up at him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
You shrugged, “Like what?: you asked innocently, smiling at him slightly.
“Like you are going to jump my bones,” he replied honestly, causing you to bark out a laugh.
Neither of you moved, staring at the other. You dragged your eyes across his form slowly, at an agonizing slowness causing goose bumps to fill his skin as if you were touching him. For a moment he swore he could feel you, pressed against him as he thrust into you, but you were still half a foot away from him.
‘What are you thinking of?” he asked, you moved forward your eyes acting as if you were undressing him from where you stood, before you finally were in arms reach.
You pressed your lips together as if you were truly in deep thought, but he knew you well enough to know exactly what you were thinking, but he wanted to hear you say it. He wanted to know exactly what you wanted.
He would give it to you.
He would give you anything and everything in his power he just needed to
You tilted your head back and forth, “Mayhaps you should handle me the same way you did those crates tonight,” you suggested, your eyes trailing up from his chest to meet his eyes.
He raised a brow, "Tonight?"
“Or now,” you said with a shrug, taking another step forward pressing yourself into him.
He nodded as if he was thinking about it, before he reached down, hauling you off your feet into his arm causing you to let out a loud laugh, “What will the staff say when they see their Prince throwing his wife around like a sack.”
“Just think of what they will say when they hear their Princess screaming out mid day in a moment,” he replied, a smile pulling at your lips.
You let out a laugh, “You talk big.”
“Oh, I plan to follow through,” he assured you.
You grinned, reaching forward to press your mouth to his, causing his fingers to dig into you as his grip tightened causing anticipation to fill you, “Take me to bed, husband.”
Baelor discovers his wife's personal reading material and it's very different from the books he's used to.
Pairing : Baelor Targaryen x wife!reader
Warnings : explicit language
Word Count/read time : 1.3k / 6 minute approx
a/n : In an effort to take a more "post it anyway" attitude I'm sharing this, it's basically a first draft/concept piece, it's not finished but should be mostly readable. My plan would be to develop the concept further, create more of the "wife" character and have them working their way through a variety of spicy scenes but idk
The stack of books had been inconspicuous enough, piled next to his wife's dressing table, in the shadowy space between it and the wall. They were haphazardly stacked a foot high, some with their spines facing out and others with their spines toward the wall. He had only noticed them after the top one had slipped off the stack and hit the floor with a soft thwack. Intrigued, he had left his small desk by the window and gone to replace whatever had fallen, the book now splayed open on the floor was a little larger than his palm and would be less than half an inch thick when closed, hardly a book at all.
Baelor picked it up, skimming over the text, stopping suddenly, his eyes caught by a phrase
"The princes tongue slipped between the wet folds of her cunt, lapping at her like a man parched. She gripped at his dark hair, drawing him in closer, forcing his tongue deeper."
His brow furrowed, what manner of thing had he stumbled on? What was his wife keeping squirrelled away in this dark corner of their room. Intrigued he flipped the book closed and studied the front.
The cover was dark in colour and flimsy, and was barely any more substantial than the thin pages between. The corners were curling up and the spine was cracked in several places showing it had been well thumbed. Even the ink on the pages was a paling grey rather than the strong black used in the library books he was more used to. The whole thing had a temporary quality to it, like too much rough handling and it would disintegrate.
There was no information on the cover, but after leafing through a few pages he found what appeared to be the title page. It read simply "The Dark Prince", it had no author or any further information about where it had come from or what it was about.
Perplexed he sat down on the edge of the bed, opening the book to its first page and he started to read.
It was unlike anything he had ever read before and Baelor devoured the pages. It told the story of a prince with dark hair and dark eyes and the wooing of his second wife, initially it seemed as if the pair despised one another, but Baelor found that didn't stop them succumbing to their lusts on almost every page. He couldn't help but laugh to himself each time the two apparent enemies found themselves alone in a dark corridor or hidden away behind a conveniently placed rose bush and where able to rid themselves of their clothes in seconds.
As he read, Baelor forgot about the missives he was supposed to be replying too and became engrossed in the story in front of him, he didn't mind at all that the plot was nothing more than a way to move the two characters from one illicit tryst to another and he soon settled back against the pillows, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his feet crossed at the ankles.
He was almost at the climax of the story (and yet another climax for the characters) when the door to the bedroom opened and his wife walked in, closing it quickly behind her with a soft groan. With closed eyes she pressed her hands into the small of her back and stretched, her chest thrusting forward as her head fell back.
"I thought I'd never get away,' she said softly, her eyes still closed.
She had spent most of her afternoon in the great sept, praying with the other women of the court in celebration of the Mother. Baelor knew his wife's devotion was mostly for appearances and she'd have hated the hours lost in the draughty sept, kneeling for hours in mock piety.
"All the kneeling and praying and kneeling and praying, gods, it's utter murder," she continued, having not noticed her husbands silence.
She finally turned her attention to him, her eyes inquisitive as she took in his prone position on the bed and the small object in his large hands. She smiled as she took a step toward him.
"I see you've found my personal library," she said softly.
"It's been a most enlightening afternoon actually," he replied, "I had no idea such reading material was available,".
She couldn't help but grin, moving toward him again, the distance between them quickly shrinking.
"You don't have the right people in your employ then, my love," she purred as she started to climb onto the bed with him, her hands pulling at the skirts of her dress so she could kneel beside him.
"These are courtesy of one of your ladies then?" he asked.
"One of the maids, she told me about a house on the street of silk that deals in more than just flesh, she's been bringing them to me whenever she learns of a new one,".
"Which one are you enjoying?" she asked, prowling up the length of his body on her hands and knees.
"Ah, The Dark Prince," she purred, "he cuts a rather familiar figure don't you think?".
Baelor's eyebrows quirked upward, inviting her to say more and she just grinned at him.
"A dark haired prince with a mysterious gaze, next in line to the throne who needs a new wife?" she explained, "doesn't he sound a bit like you?".
Baelor laughed, reaching out to his wife and stroking her cheek.
"Nothing like me,".
"Entirely like you," she replied, letting herself be drawn closer to him by his gentle touch on her cheek, "even the way you like to fuck first thing in the morning," she teased, her lips now just a breath away from his.
"Are you suggesting the author of this text has intimate knowledge of me?" Baelor asked softly , feeling the heat of her body rolling over him like a wave. She shrugged, a grin still on her lips.
"Perhaps she just made a good assessment of your more… personal tastes?" she replied as she placed one hand on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath.
Baelor placed his hand over hers.
"You know I've taken no lovers since we married?" he asked solemnly.
"I know," she said, her heart swelling with love.
She lowered her head and kissed the back of his hand where it covered her own. She looked up at him through her lashes, mischief in her eyes.
"But you were a young prince once, and I presume you sowed your wild oats from Dorne to the Wall? Perhaps she's a lover from years gone by?".
Baelor laughed again and shook his head.
"I learned too hard a lesson about wild oats," he said softly.
"She's just someone with a wild imagination then," she replied, lowering herself onto her hip and curling against her husband, their hands still joined and resting on his chest. She lay her head on his shoulder and sighed.
"Have you read the bit in the bath?" she asked, "that's a particular favourite of mine,".
"Yes, I have," Baelor replied, lifting the book up and using his free hand to flip the pages back a few to a very detailed section in which the characters couple in large, copper bathtub.
"Sounded a little impractical to me," he added, a playful grin turning up the corners of his lips, "not to mention, messy,".
"Shall I call for a bath? We can discover together how impractical and messy it really is,".
Baelor laughed again, lifting her hand up from his chest and kissing the inside of her wrist.
"Is that what you want? Do you want to reenact your favourite parts?" he teased, his tongue flicking out and tasting the skin of her wrist.
She lifted her head and looked into his eyes, he was thrilled to see them alight with excitement.
"Would you? Can we?".
"There is nothing I wouldn't do for you, my love,".
summary: where your betrothed takes you to meet his dragon.
pairing: maekar targaryen x betrothed!reader
warning(s): just fluff, maekar being a little shit, dragons live au!!
a/n: this is the maekar version of the baelor drabble!! and i did give maekar meleys because they’re my babies thank you
You were uncertain of it all. Not only the predicament you had found yourself in, but that if your betrothed.
He’d hardly spoken to you more than mere niceties amongst others and the courtesy of greeting you, and yet he insisted to watch you carefully. Studying almost, so much so it looked as if it aggravated him. You were unsure if he had been content with your union at all. Of course it was strange to you both, the marriage for the youngest Prince did not warrant nearly as much fanfare, but it was a celebration.
The good King Daeron was as welcoming as was his wife, Queen Myriah, and even his eldest brother the Crown Prince Baelor encouraged you both with small smiles and harmless jest.
But he had only stood at your side.
Close, dutiful, and quiet.
And now suddenly he had taken you here. Right in the very mouth of the Dragonpit facing the Red Queen herself.
Meleys, he had called her, though you supposed it had long been her name from the legends of her previous riders. A beautiful ruby red she was, with horned crowns of three at either sides of her head, beautiful indeed, in the most terrifying way.
“She cannot reach you from there you do realise.”
He muttered whilst tugging his gloves away, shoving them into the pocket of his doublet as he glanced your way. Maekar had stepped out into the walkway, lit only by the open mouth of the cave, hundreds of feet into the air, just below the sky. And though he had asked to escort you, you had hoped it would be a turn about the gardens, or something rather placid and gentle, not this.
Your fingers remained curled around the brick of the archway into the cave, sand and grit planting at your slippers where you pressed the tightly to the ground. Smoke filled your nostrils just as it consumed the air, dragon smoke.
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
He tutted, deep and nonsensical at your sarcasm, though it was the truth, none of it had felt safe, not when you saw the great figure behind him.
“Come here.”
He called incredulously, though careful, extending his hand out as he stepped once toward you, as if to reach the large gap at once. Anxiety swirled in your head, your eyes focusing onto the silhouette moving through the darkness when a hesitant laugh escaped your throat. You stuck your hand out anyway on shaky breath stepping into the dim light.
He caught yours before you could fully reach, tugging you closer gently, just into his shoulder as violet eyes pierced yours, properly this time, and somewhat tenderly.
“She will not harm you.. I wouldn’t let that happen.”
You believed him, even in his gruff straight words, the look had had given you was nothing short of meaning. A screech rippled the air, low and eager, as he moved you in front of him, patterning your steps as he walked you every step closer toward the edge of the rock and toward the beast.
Your steps failed you, slowing every inch you closed in, your eyes squeezing shut as you attempted to fall back into the heavy press of muscle at your back. He stayed vigilant, huffing as he continued on, rather you both.
“Like this..”
Long fingers curled around yours, spreading them wide beneath his own as your arm extended with his. Tough crimson scale met your fingertips, jagged where you flattened your palm, feeling just above the curve of her mouth.
“Breathe.. unless you want to get eaten?”
“What?” Your hand retracted nearly as fast as your head spun, but he caught it, pressing it back as not to alert her.
“Seven.. it was a jest.. but you must calm, else she’ll startle. She may be a crone but she is still a battle worn one.”
Meleys huffed at that, just as he did it back, the remnants of a laugh escaping his throat as his eyes shut for a moment. You had caught it, just by a glance int your own panic, and the way his features seemed to ease even for a minute, his brow fell, his lips flattened, and for once the stern prince seemed.. relaxed.
As if their connection was stronger than what you knew it to be, it was communication.
“It seems she’s ready now.”
“Ready for what?” Your head snapped up, warmth spreading fast at your fingertips along her skin.
“To ride. She accepts you. Come on..” He pulled you with him, just as you protested the words circling in your ears. A ride.. in the sky, with him?
Nonsense.
But he gripped you all the way, fingers curled around your hip and the long fastened ropes that bound her body to the saddle. You eventually relented, stepping up every rig and knot of the wrappings until you had settled your legs either side, draping down to the endless cavern below.
She was warm, a deep rumble sounding throughout her body as a deeper warmth carefully slotted at your back.
“Are you certain this is safe?”
“I wouldn’t bring you if it meant danger.. I intend to keep you safe.” He replied, wrapping both arms at either of your sides and in front of you, where your hands tightly gripped the saddle.
Intends to.
His eyes fluttered as he blinked at you blankly, reading more than what he let on. And you wondered just exactly what.
But to Maekar he had already decided, even if he had not pronounced every vow and chivalry in the book like many would have, having you in his arms meant much more.
And were you, by the gods, to survive such a journey, he intended to keep just that.
Afraid to Feel (Sex Therapist!Baelor Targaryen x Reader)
A/N: Virgin Island is actually good for inspiration whaaaaa…
(Goes without saying but pls do not take any sex therapy/intimacy counselling advice from this. All my knowledge is from Virgin Island and even then it’s probably all unethical so just… yeah. Also, I googled it, and usually surrogate partner therapy requires three people but we’re going to pretend that it’s ok that the therapist IS the surrogate partner…)
Summary: After your therapist recommends that you seek intimacy counselling, you find yourself in Baelor’s office, pouring your heart out about your fears and inexperience. You’ve just started dating someone new and you want to be comfortable getting intimate. Baelor is committed to getting you comfortable experiencing intimacy, even as the lines begin to blur…
Word count: 22.1k (ummm… sorry)
Tags: 18+/MDNI, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (of legal age), virgin!reader, very inexperienced!reader, probably unethical practices, discussions on fear of intimacy, personal insecurity (particularly around body image and one’s self perception - while it is not specified that it is a curvy/chubby/plus-size reader, there is mentions of worry of being too heavy), discussion of mental health (i.e. having bad mental health but no details), SMUT: oral (f!receiving), fingering, PinV sex, kind of cheating in a way (reader has a boyfriend but is getting down with Baelor in the name of therapy), never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
The waiting room was… normal. You weren’t sure what you had been expecting. Of course it was normal. Why would this office be any different to the other waiting rooms and offices you had been in? Just because it was a… yeah, ok. You still couldn’t quite admit it, couldn’t quite get yourself to say it, to even believe that you were doing this. How had you been convinced into doing this? No, no, this was a good thing, Vivian had said so, and you trusted Vivian.
The chairs were soft and comfortable, which was the most surprising thing about the waiting room, you supposed. The lighting was low and comfortable, warm yellow lamps on the little corner tables. The receptionist had checked you in, but this space was after her desk so you felt quite alone. The walls were painted a dark colour, and the wood accents were all dark as well. You felt rather cozy now that you thought about it, snug and protected. There was something to be said about the dark actually being good for comfort and vulnerability.
You were dressed comfortably, soft trousers and a full sleeve top, trainers on, light jacket for the cooler weather (despite it being springtime), and your usual bag on your arm. You resisted the urge to keep checking your phone, to use it as your safety net as you usually did. You and Vivian had been working on that too, a sort of side bit of homework to help you become more comfortable being in your own skin, of being on your own.
There was art on the walls, and you turned your eyes to it. It was all beautiful, the kind of paintings you yourself enjoyed, a mix of impressionist and renaissance style, either blurred or hyperrealistic, glossy and shadowed in the lamplight. There was one of a dragon, black and sharp, tall and imposing, looking down at a singular man standing on a beach. It was stormy around them, and the man was a miniscule thing next to the beast. But there was a connection between them, something soft and unspoken, mutual respect perhaps, or even care. It was a rather simple picture on the face of it, but you fell in love with it at that moment.
There was only one door going off from the waiting room, and it had been shut since the moment you had arrived, but now it opened, a little swiftly, and a man stepped out just enough so that his feet were over the threshold but he was still holding onto the doorknob with one hand. In the other was a clipboard, held up a little so he could read from it, then he turned up to look at you and smiled gently.
“Hello, Y/n, is it?” You nodded quickly, eyes a little wide, lips parted. “Am I pronouncing that right?” He asked kindly, frowning a little and mouthing it again.
“Yes! Yes, perfectly, thank you,” you jumped in, nodding and clutching tightly onto your bag strap.
He paused for a moment, looked you over, then with that same soft smile he stepped back a little into the doorway and nudged his head into the room.
“Would you like to come in?” He asked, and you nodded quickly, eyes still a little wide as you jumped up and hurried into the room, like a little mouse scurrying around when the cat has finally found them.
You could not quite absorb what he looked like. It felt… too good. That was an odd thing to say. You shouldn’t be describing an intimacy therapist like that… But it was also true.
He wore a dark turtleneck, black and rolled up at the sleeves to display strong tanned forearms. He had little freckles on the skin there, dark but fine hairs, and big hands, long fingers and veins. He had a beard, a little scruffy but well-looked after, and wavy hair that had gone grey and was now scattered with white. It was a bit messy too, rather like the beard. He seemed to run his hand through it in thought, ruining whatever combing he might have done in the morning, but you liked it that way. It made him more human. He had a soft set to his face when he smiled, deep lines creasing between his cheeks and his mouth, and he had one blue eye and one brown eye.
That was a little jarring at first, the stark difference, and you sort of wanted to compliment him on them, but he probably heard it a million times over, and you didn’t have the confidence to say anything like that to him just yet. Perhaps after working with him for a while you might do, but not yet.
His office was similar to the waiting room in the sense that everything was dark in here as well. There was a desk in the back corner, with framed degrees and certificates and awards on the wall behind it. A cork noticeboard was on the adjacent wall, the one that the side of the desk touched, and it was pinned with lots of things, calendars and reminders and pictures and cards. The desk itself was fancy, dark wood and carved with designs, and the computer on it was all sleek lines and high-tech. There were papers and folders on the desk, pens and post-it notes, but it was all neatly organised and he even had picture frames facing toward him. That warmed your heart a little.
The main bit was right in front of you though, a black leather couch with end tables on either side facing an armchair with its own end tables. There were already pens and paper and notebooks on the end table by the armchair, and there were lamps on each of them too, low yellow light with coloured and patterned lampshades. There were cushions on the sofa which made you happy, something to grab, something to hide with. All of this on top of a dark rug that looked lovely and plush. The sofa faced a wall of windows, lovely and big but covered by blinds right now to keep the room all cool and dim.
He gestured you toward the sofa, waiting for you to sit down before taking his own seat, fiddling with his clipboard and all the pens and papers on the table beside him. As he did that, you took your bag off and put it to the side of the sofa, rocking back and forth a little in your seat, looking around, frankly anywhere but right at him. You felt far too awkward. You took one of the sofa cushions and brought it to sit on your lap, feeling a little more settled with it covering you, but then you felt rude for taking it without asking. Finally, he settled a little into his chair, slouching slightly and looking far more comfortable than you, and smiled directly in your direction.
“Did Marion have you sign all the paperwork when you came in?” He asked kindly, just getting the ball rolling, you supposed, and you nodded, pursing your lips a little. “Just to go over it again, I prefer being as transparent and open as possible, even if it’s a little tedious. Everything you say to me, whether that be in this room or over correspondence is private and completely confidential unless I perceive that you intend to cause real harm to yourself or another person. While I will not record anything, I do take notes during the session and of course there will be a record of any communication via phone, message, or email, but again, this is all protected under confidentiality. Is that alright?”
He had no judgement on his face, just a serene look, this spiel practiced by now. You nodded again, and then felt stupid for not having said anything yet.
“Yes, uh yes, of course, uh… Mr Martell? Is that what I call you? Sorry, that’s a stupid question,” you wanted to hide your face in your hands, to physically shut your mouth by pinching it with your fingers, but you just clenched them in the cushion and darted your eyes away from his face, feeling hot all over from embarrassment. But he was smiling, nodding, twisting his pen around in his hands.
“You can call me what you like. If you prefer Mr Martell, that’s alright, and if you’d prefer Baelor, that’s alright too,” his smile was far too kind, it made you more conscious somehow. You nodded and attempted a smile of your own, but you could bet it came out strained and stupid.
Baelor had been careful since the start of his career to use his mother’s last name. He did not need his family’s reputation following him into this office, not in the career he had truly curated for himself. He had become used to being Mr Martell in one room, and Mr Targaryen in another.
You couldn’t look at him for too long, it was too intimidating, which meant your eyes travelled a lot, especially to the covered windows behind him. He noticed, because of course he did, that was his job wasn’t it, and turned to glance at them as well.
“Would you like me to open the curtains?” He asked kindly, half-twisted in his seat and looking back at you. You felt hot with mortification again, for whatever reason, and instantly shook your head.
“Oh, no, it’s ok.” You waved it off, chewing on your lip and glancing down, clutching the cushion a little tighter.
“Are you sure? It’s rather a lovely view,” he added, smiling still and you smiled at that, this one a little more relaxed than before, and a quiet huff of a chuckle left you.
“Yeah, no, it’s alright, don’t worry. Maybe next time,” you answered, rubbing at your cheek a little to attempt hiding your smile. It went quiet again, that heavy silence that came with expectation.
“It’s alright if you’re nervous,” he said then, something softer coming into his eyes, as if he was keenly aware of how you were feeling, as if he had seen it a million times before and wanted to comfort you. “It’s natural to feel that way.”
You let out a breath, closing your eyes for a moment and nodding, smoothing your hands over the cushion then looking at it instead of him.
“I’m really nervous. I don’t even know why, I agreed to this, but… I don’t know, I just am.” You felt a bit pathetic, your lips drooping a little naturally, and you heard his pen being placed down on the notebook. When you glanced up, he had laced his fingers together and was nodding at you, the smallest frown creasing his brow, concern it seemed like.
“Well, why don’t we start with why you’ve come to see me?” He asked gently.
You settled into your seat, leaning back a little into the softness of the sofa, allowing yourself to get comfortable. You liked his voice. It was silky, soft but intentional in your ears, and you had the sneaking suspicion that he only spoke words he deemed necessary. You liked that, it made you feel comfortable trusting him. You had been preparing for this question too, but now you felt a bit blank in the head.
“Um, well, my therapist, Vivian, recommended I try this, coming to see you, I mean. I’ve been working with her for a while, on a lot of stuff, but recently… Hm, I feel really awkward saying this,” then you did actually put your head in your hands, shaking it a little as you felt overcome with nervousness again, but he didn’t say anything, just shifted in his seat a little and gave you the space to say it. You cleared your throat, brought your hands down, and spoke facing the cushion on your lap. “I’ve never really been with anyone in a relationship before. No one asked me out at school, no one asked me out at university, nothing’s ever really happened. It’s not even for a lack of trying, which sounds so pathetic. Like, I tried getting on a dating app but I just couldn’t take it seriously, and the guys I talked to were either weirdos or it just didn’t amount to anything. Which leads me here, never even having kissed someone, and terrified of ever doing anything with anyone. And it gets worse, because finally, finally, a guy has asked me out, and he’s… amazing. He’s literally everything I could want, kind, patient, handsome, and I just can’t get over myself. He’s happy to take things slow, to work at my speed, but… I just feel wrong. I feel like I can’t get over this fear, and until I get over that, I can’t be a good partner for him.”
You pressed a hand to your face as you felt the overwhelming rush of tears to your eyes. You didn’t want to cry in your first session with him, didn’t want to cry over just explaining this, but you had felt so bogged down by it recently, overwhelmed by your own inability, that it was constantly on your mind and constantly tiring you.
You heard some shuffling, and without saying a word, Baelor had stood, taken a box of tissues and brought it over to the sofa. He placed it down near you, then went back to his seat, crossing one leg over the other and twisting his pen around in his hands again. He nodded wordlessly at your quiet thank you, waited for you to dab at your eyes and take a few deep breaths in, to look at him again, before speaking.
“Let’s unpack some of what you said there. You’ve met someone recently, and you’d like to be able to be intimate with him?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling a little at the thought of him. “It’s still quite new, but I think he’s the kind of guy I could see myself marrying. But I feel like I can’t even imagine a future with him without addressing… this.” Baelor hummed and nodded, writing something down.
“And you spoke about your lack of experience. You mentioned that you haven’t really been in a relationship before?”
“Yeah,” you swallowed, grimacing a little. “I… All throughout school I watched my friends get boyfriends, or I watched people get partners and start having all these experiences that I just… never got. No one’s ever asked me out, no one’s ever seen me in that way. It’s embarrassing. I’ve confessed to my crush like three times and every single time I was rejected. I know it shouldn’t be, but it’s so demeaning and confidence killing. And then I’ve just never had the confidence to ever confess again. I got busy in the middle too, life and stuff, and my mental health was so bad for a while and just… I don’t know. I feel… I feel ugly, and unlovable.” You closed your eyes, swallowing harshly again, unable to look at him at the confession. You were opening your mouth too much, being too vulnerable too soon, you were sure of it. It was irrational, you knew that. You knew he wouldn’t get you up and throw you out and tell you all of this was true, but that irrational bit of your brain was rather annoying even at the best of times.
“I know it’s only your first time meeting me, but I can assure you with full confidence that you are neither ugly nor unloveable.” His voice was quiet when he said it, gentle but firm, and you blinked open your eyes, blurred with tears and stared right at him. He was not smiling now but serious, sure, firm in his belief. You licked your lips and nodded, eyes a little wide, and you wiped at them haphazardly, gathering yourself.
“We can take this slow as well, hm?” He asked then, gentle and smiling a little to comfort you. “We’ll start with just some more discussions, what you are comfortable with, what you actually want to achieve, and then I can make some other recommendations. Does that sound alright with you?” He tapped his pen against the notebook, punctuating his sentence with it, and you nodded quickly, smiling with relief.
And you felt it too, relieved. When you walked out of the session, there was already less of a weight on your shoulders. Instead it was replaced with the lightness of faith, of trusting that Baelor would help you, of trusting that you might actually be alright in the end.
“Why do you think there’s something wrong with being a virgin at your age?”
You were back in the office again, the same pillow on your lap. This time you had removed your shoes before stepping onto the plush rug. You had wanted to feel it a little closer, just under your socks, as soft as you had imagined, and you sat with your feet up on the sofa, curled around the cushion, chin on your knees.
“I don’t know,” was your first answer, automatic, too easy, and you knew by now that he wouldn’t let you get away with it. He stayed silent, waiting for you to actually think, to be honest. He always did that, you realised, stayed silent until you gave him something worth responding to. You would appreciate it more if it wasn’t so frustrating sometimes when you truly didn’t know how to respond.
He was wearing a button-up today, blue and white stripes, neat and ironed, unbuttoned at the collar so it was a little more casual. He had his smart trousers on, as he always did, with a dark belt that blended into the fabric, navy blue socks, and leather dress shoes. He was always smartly dressed, and though sometimes it made you feel a little insecure, underdressed, you also really liked it. It made him look lovely and clean, trustworthy.
“I feel left behind I guess. Like there’s something wrong with me because so many other people my age have already done this big milestone.” You picked at a corner of the pillow, almost mumbling as you spoke. “It’s not even just that I’m a virgin, it’s that I haven’t done anything. I haven’t even held hands with a boy let alone had sex with a guy.”
Baelor sighed and nodded, wrote something down then placed his pen flat on the paper, folding his hands on top of it. He looked you right in the eye, that serious and determined expression in them that always came with him saying something important that you should remember and pay particular attention to.
“I know it may feel odd, or wrong, but before anything else, you should know that there is nothing wrong with being experienced, whatever age you reach. It may not sound comforting, but unfortunately, sometimes that is the way life happens, with different experiences defining people differently. But again, there is nothing wrong with being inexperienced at your age.”
You nodded, but then stayed silent, chewing on your lip and glaring at the floor. Usually you would say something in response, would agree with him or repeat what he said to affirm it to yourself, but this time you remained lost in your own head.
“What is it?” Baelor asked, not allowing you to stew alone.
“It’s just… of course you would say that. Like… look at you. You probably never had to worry about this. You’re all… handsome and charming and older, like of course you would say that.” You said it with such confidence all of a sudden, like you believed it wholeheartedly, but when you finally absorbed the words that had slipped out of your own mouth, you instantly felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach. You could not believe you had actually said that. How could you have said that to him?? Just because it was true didn’t mean you should have said it! Oh gods, now he knew you thought he was handsome and charming. Oh gods, he would terminate this. He would say it’s inappropriate, that you had crossed a line, that you didn’t deserve to get help and that this stupidity was the obvious reason why you were still a virg-
He was chuckling. You looked up to find him smiling brightly, eyes squinted, shoulders moving up and down a little as he giggled at your words. You smiled too, couldn’t help it because his own was so contagious, and all the tension that had begun to build inside you slowly melted out of your bones.
“While I appreciate the sentiment,” he finally said, still smiling as if you had charmed him with your little moment of unfiltered yammering, “my words are still true. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s the truth.” You harrumphed a little, but nodded just the same, repeating it to yourself that you were normal, that this was normal.
You discussed a little more, spoke about how you should not feel shame, or should not take your lack of experience as a judgement of your worth and beauty, and you felt sufficiently exhausted by the end of the session. When there were about ten minutes remaining, Baelor paused and looked at you with that serious expression again.
“I’d like to propose something. I do not need your answer now, or even during the next session. Take as much time as you would like to deliberate, ask as many as you would wish, but please do consider it thoroughly. I think you may benefit from a more intimate approach to this. Your worries about your lack of experience seem to overshadow much of your other thoughts and I think it prevents you from moving on from some of your other insecurities. I would seriously advise you to consider surrogate partner therapy. I think it would allow you to gain some experience in a safe environment where you can ask questions and learn without feeling any possible judgement for your lack of experience.” He said it all with such a calm face, hands folded in his lap, and you nodded in response, chewing on your lip as you stared right at him, focused.
“Do some research of your own of course, to gain a better understanding of the concept, but essentially, you would have guided experiences with another person the same way you would with a romantic partner, and you would learn how to conduct it in a real-world scenario. Do you understand?”
“Um, I think so,” you answered quietly, nodding and chewing on your lip with a small frown as you flicked your eyes back up to meet his. “So… I would like… practice kissing with this person?” He hummed and nodded.
“You could. You would only do what you are comfortable doing, would go only as far as you wish to go. You could stop at hugging or hand-holding if you wished. It’s meant to be a comfortable environment to help you push past the physical elements holding you back.” You nodded again, glancing up at him with wary eyes.
“Who… would you be… who would… would it be with you?” You finally got out, heart clenching in your chest. He hummed and nodded, then moved his head side to side a little.
“It could be. While I am trained, I do not conduct it myself often. I haven’t in many years, and you should be aware of that. There are professionals we could find for you if you would prefer to do it with someone else, but I would be comfortable providing that experience for you if you are comfortable to have me do it.” He nodded again and placed his palms on his thighs, moving to stand up as he looked at the clock and realised the time.
“Ok,” you sighed quietly, standing up as well and moving to put your shoes back on, slinging your bag over your arm and heading for the door. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”
“Of course,” he replied kindly, smiling at you as he waited for you to head for the door before reaching out and opening it for you. “I would hope you do. Take all the time you need. I’ll ask again during our next session but do not worry if you have not come to a decision.”
You nodded once more, smiled kindly at him, then bid him a quick goodbye before hurrying out of the office, popping your headphones into your ears and trying to sort through the million thoughts running through your head.
Baelor closed the door behind you, gathered up his notebooks and went to sit at his desk. He began typing up the notes he had taken during the session, adding anything he hadn’t thought of before. He paused for a moment, staring off into space. He hoped this would help you. He hoped you would say yes.
The weather had gotten a bit warmer, so you ditched the jacket for only a t-shirt during the session. You wore one of those pretty white cotton skirts, the tiered ones that everyone had nowadays and you thought sort of looked like a wedding cake, but again, you wanted to take advantage of the warm weather while it lasted.
You took your shoes off again before walking on his carpet, this time feeling the plushness between your bare toes, and you sat with your legs folded up and tucked beside you, making sure to keep the skirt appropriately covering you. You wrung your hands in your lap, fiddling with the fabric of your skirt, and only looked up at Baelor in short glances.
Baelor was a little dressed down too, a plain white undershirt peeking out at his chest under a vibrant electric blue button-down, his usual smart trousers in navy and his shiny dress shoes still making an appearance. He sat down with a quiet huff, bringing his notebook to his lap and tapping his pen on it as he smiled at you.
“You look rather more nervous than usual. Is everything alright?” He watched you carefully but without expectation and without judgement. You nodded quickly, an innate reaction, then paused, chewing on your lip before looking up and meeting his eyes.
“I- yeah, I’m fine, but it’s just… I think I’ve come to a decision about… what we talked about last time,” you finally broke out, smiling nervously and letting out a pathetic little chuckle.
“Oh? That’s good to hear. What is it?” He asked, settling a little more comfortably in his seat.
“I… think I’d like to give it a go. I trust you, and if you think it could help me then I’ll do it. But…”
“But?” He asked, raising one eyebrow as he watched you look down to the pillow you clutched in your lap again, picking at a thread by the zipper.
“I want it to be with you,” you mumbled, looking like a shy, scolded, child. You couldn’t meet his eye as you said it, couldn’t face your own decision despite making it. You knew he had said he would, that he felt comfortable doing it, but you didn’t want it to be that he had suddenly decided that he actually wouldn’t do it, and you would be embarrassed for asking. You didn’t want to see any sympathy in his eyes as he decided to let you down gently.
“Of course,” he answered gently, and when you looked up, he had that small serene smile on again. “Like I said last week, I haven’t done it myself in many years but I would be willing as long as you were comfortable.” You let out a long breath, sighing and smiling again, nodding quickly in response.
“Yes, yes, I am. Thank you,” you breathed out, smoothing your hands over the pillow in your lap and finally looking at him properly once more.
“Right, we don’t have to start right away if that was a worry for you. I won’t force you to jump into anything yet. We can just talk some more today, continue with what we discussed before,” he explained, gesturing with his hands and pen. You smiled again, nodding as you breathed deeply to calm any last jitters you had been feeling before. “But I would like to make one change if you are comfortable with that.” You looked at him with wide eyes, blinking slowly as you waited for him to expand, suddenly feeling tense all over again. “Would it be alright if I came and sat on the sofa with you? Just on the other end.”
“Oh,” you let out, blinking quickly before shifting so you were right on one end of the sofa then glancing at the other end, the spot he wanted to take up. “Yeah, yes, of course, if you want.”
He smiled kindly at that then stood up. He was tall. You had noticed it before of course, but now you were sitting down, sunken in a little into the plush cushions, and it made him seem even more imposing. He walked over and sat down on the other end of the sofa, relaxed and without worry. You felt it move under you, shift a little with his weight, and you curled up just a tad more, making sure your feet were tucked under your skirt and wouldn’t go near him. He sighed, slumping comfortably into the pillows, and crossed one leg over the other, ensuring he was at an angle so he could still speak facing you. His legs were quite close to you, and if you reached out with your hand you could place it on his knee. It was odd that you wanted to.
“Is this alright?” He finally asked, eyes flicking all over your face as you swallowed and nodded, your heart pounding a little.
“Mhm,” you assented, but your voice was a little higher pitched than usual and he could see you clutching the cushion on your lap a little tighter, but he decided not to comment.
“Does this make you nervous?”
“A little, yeah,” you whispered, fluttering your eyelashes at him. Baelor felt a pang of something in his chest but chose not to focus on it, looking instead at the way you settled further back into the cushions and watched him in return.
“What about this makes you nervous?” He asked quietly.
“I don’t know. You’re just… very close, and I’m worried that I’ll do something wrong.”
“What could you do wrong if we’re just sitting together?” He asked without an ounce of judgement. It pointed you toward the absurdity of your thoughts without making you feel bad for it.
“I don’t know. I guess that’s a good point. I don’t know, I guess I feel like I would sit weird or touch you accidentally when you don’t want me to and you would just instantly be repulsed by me.” You spoke quickly, as if suddenly desperate to tell him everything you were thinking, and he hummed and nodded. “Like, if you were the guy I have a crush on, and you came and sat like this, I would be freaking out. I am freaking out.”
“What would sitting weird do? Or accidentally touching me? What do you think would happen?” He asked gently, tapping his pen against the notebook in his lap.
“Realistically, nothing. In my crazy head? You would be repulsed by me and never want to come near me ever again and you would tell everyone that and I would die alone.” Baelor raised an eyebrow at you and you pursed your lips, nodding for a moment before sighing and giggling a little, hot with bashfulness. “I know. I know that’s unrealistic.”
“Good,” was his simple answer. Then he reached down and patted the side of his thigh. “Stretch out your leg, and imagine you’ve accidentally kicked me.” You looked at him, both eyebrows raising.
“Really?”
“Yes. Let’s play out the scenario. Reach out and tap my leg as if it was an accident,” he patted the side of his thigh again, face all seriousness, and waited for you to comply. He looked away to give the illusion of this being anywhere outside of a therapist’s office, and waited.
You reached out, gentle and hesitant, and lightly tapped the side of his thigh with your big toe. It was barely a touch, just enough to be felt, and he reached down and lightly tickled the sole of your foot. You squealed, jumped a little, and instantly curled your foot back into yourself, staring at him with wide eyes as he attempted to hide a smirk behind his hand.
“Baelor!” You squealed, mouth dropping open as a shocked laugh punched out of you.
“Is that not something you would have expected to happen?” He asked teasingly, and you giggled freely, perhaps for the first time since he had met you. He watched the way your face lit up, the way you rocked back and forth a little as you laughed. His chest felt warm at the sight. He was happy to see you happy.
When you finally caught your breath again, you leaned your elbow on the arm of the sofa and rested your cheek in your hand, looking at him from under slightly hooded eyes. “Weirdly effective strategy Mister,” you responded teasingly, and he hummed and nodded, smiling brightly.
You spoke for a little while. He asked how you were feeling over the past week, if you had seen your guy again, and you told him how you had been a bit busy with work, how you and him had been texting back and forth but you had been hesitant to accept any invitation to meet up. You still felt too nervous.
“Why don’t we try something else until the end of the session?” Baelor prompted after a moment, putting his pen down and shifting to sit up a little. You nodded, clutching the pillow to you. “Would you like to hold my hand?” He asked, leaning forward to rest his hand palm up on the seat between you. You glanced down to it, swallowing harshly, then nodded. You reached out, hesitant, and placed your palm on top of his.
His hand was warm, the comforting sort, like the kind of heat that emanated from a hot water bottle. His palm was soft, but he had callouses here and there, like he used his hands for more than just writing. Did he play sports over the weekends? Did he have a manual labour job at some point? Did he do a lot of DIY at home? You wanted to know all of these things all of a sudden, wanted to know how his hands became the way they were the moment you first held them.
He didn’t say anything, just watched you carefully place your hand in his. Yours was smaller than his, soft in the way that hands became when one was diligent about moisturising them. Gently, he threaded his fingers through yours, turning your joined hands over so his was atop yours, then turning them back over. He caressed the back of your hand with his thumb, slow strokes, and dragged his eyes up your arm then to your face.
“How does this feel?” He asked quietly, voice hushed to match the new heaviness in the air.
“Lovely,” you sighed, holding his hand a little tighter. You had gotten used to it far too quickly. You did not want to let go now. It felt safe, right. “I like this. It makes me feel good. Makes me feel… chosen.”
The two of you sat there together in silence just like that. You held his hand, and he held yours right back. He softly caressed the back of your hand with his fingertips, watching you shiver occasionally at the silky touches, at the teasing little drags. You could not say anything, and he chose not to. You were hit with the sudden urge to lift your hands and kiss his. You wanted it so much you were blindsided by it. The embarrassment at your own feelings burned in your cheeks and you tightened your grip on him as if he could read your mind and would throw you off in an instant.
The two of you sat like that until the end of the session, absorbed in your own thoughts, softly feeling each other’s palms. When the clock struck the final possible minute, you quickly pulled your hand back, breathing in deeply and looking anywhere but at him. Baelor smiled, soft and kind, and reached over to gently pat you on the back of the shoulder.
“I’m very proud of you for taking these first steps,” he said simply, fully sincere. He stood and waited for you to pull your sandals on before opening the door for you. You were still hearing his words in your ears, still feeling all warm and mushy inside because he was proud of you. You had made progress, done something scary and made him proud in the process.
“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly, but your face couldn’t help breaking into a smile. “See you next time.”
“See you next time,” Baelor waved once then shut the door when you had disappeared around the corner. He was smiling too.
“Might I hold your hand again?” Baelor asked, slumped comfortably on the other side of the sofa. He had sat there at the start of the session rather than taking up his seat in the armchair, and you were all tucked up on the other side, watching him.
“Mhm,” you answered softly, reaching out without hesitance this time and threading your fingers through his. This was the third session where he had asked this, and you were beginning to expect it now. You sat a little closer to him than before, bringing his hand to your lap so you could hold it there, fiddle with his fingers and his rings as you spoke. You hadn’t realised how comforting it actually was to be holding his hand during the session, to have that warm presence just there that somehow made it easier to delve into the darkest and saddest parts of your mind.
It was a couple sessions later when you initiated for the first time. The two of you sat down, and before he could ask, you gently reached out and said, “would you… would you hold my hand?” Baelor smiled, the kind that shined in his eyes too, and he nodded, reaching out and gripping your hand firmly.
He wore a dark brown, almost maroon, shirt today, with white buttons. It looked soft, thick like a jumper, but you didn’t think it was wool. You wanted to feel it. Another thought you batted away quickly.
“Have you become more comfortable with this action, do you think?” He asked, caressing your hand gently with his thumb as he readied his pen to write on his notebook atop his leg.
“Yeah, I think so. It doesn’t feel so daunting now that I’ve done it,” you answered honestly, smiling shyly at him.
“That’s good to hear,” he responded, “I’m proud of you for taking initiative.” You beamed again, body alight with the praise, then he slowly unthreaded his fingers from yours and put his notebook and pen onto the table beside the sofa on his side. “Why don’t we move it along again? Why don’t you come and sit right here?” He patted the spot directly beside him, “Right by me.”
You gulped and nodded, swift and shaky, then slowly began shuffling over the sofa seats. He was smiling softly, encouragingly, and you moved until the side of your thigh pressed to his and you could feel the warmth of his body gently emanating against your side. Your breaths were shallow, too light in your chest, and you attempted to focus on anything but how nervous you felt.
You could smell his cologne, something cool scented that you enjoyed, that inadvertently soothed you. You kept your arms tucked close to you, your hands clasped tightly together and pressed to your stomach. He was looking down at you, watching you situate yourself back against the sofa, and then he carefully raised up his arm and lay it along the back of the sofa behind you.
“Would you be alright with me wrapping my arm over you?” He asked then, his voice almost a whisper, and you turned to look up at him. You could see the peppering of white in his beard closer here, could see the occasional little freckle on his skin and the flecks in his eyes that added so much dimension and beauty to them. You nodded because your throat was too thick for words. He nodded in return before moving his arm to come rest along your shoulders, his hand curling around your upper arm lightly.
His arm was a little heavy, but it was the comforting sort, the kind of weight that made everything feel real and secure. He tucked you up close to him, bringing you in even further so your shoulder pressed into his ribs under his arm and you were practically leaning your entire body into his side.
You were hesitant to allow it, worried you would somehow make him uncomfortable or put him off, but he seemed determined to tuck you against him, to wrap his arm tight and snuggle you into his side. You brought your legs up, bending them and tucking them against you on the other side to where he sat, and it leaned you even further into him. He hummed a little and you felt the rumble in his chest, the transfer of it into you.
You breathed slowly, sucking in lungfuls of his cologne, shivering into his warmth. You wondered if he ran hot. He must do with how warm he was. You brought up the hand not tucked against him and carefully splayed it onto his chest, a bold move but one that felt right despite the tremble in your arm. You tipped your head back a little so you could look up at him, and he pressed his chin down to ensure your gazes met.
“Is this alright?” You whispered, allowing your hand to spread over the soft material of his shirt just above his heart. He nodded, the smallest motion.
“Of course,” he answered kindly, voice as low as yours, then his free hand came up and began caressing your hair. You hummed softly with pleasure, your eyes fluttering a little. His hand was big and his fingers were careful, threading through your hair and caressing along your scalp. You shivered, full body, and he felt it, smiling a little to himself at the way you began snuggling a little further into him, your limbs beginning to fully relax. You allowed your head to rest against the place where his shoulder joined his chest, your cheek pressing into the material of his shirt and the thick muscle there. Your eyes had closed now and you just rested there in his arms. Eventually he rested his cheek on top of your head, taking soft breaths that ruffled your hair a little. He smelt your shampoo, the lovely scent of it, and allowed his own eyes to be closed.
“How does this feel?” He asked, the smallest whisper, and you only hummed in response at first, far too busy enjoying the closeness, the softness and the warmth of being in his arms.
“Really good,” you finally breathed out. “I could fall asleep right here.” He chuckled, low and soft and the motion of it in his body moved through you too, like a baby being gently rocked.
Then Baelor lifted his head a little before leaning down so he was a bit closer to your face and said, “would you like to sit on my lap?”
He felt you tense against him, threaded through with steel all over again. He felt you shift back, sit up a little so you weren’t as cradled against him, and your hair brushed against his chin as you tipped your head back, muttering a quiet, “what…”.
“You can refuse if you do not wish to. I don’t want to push you farther than you are ready for. But if you would like, then why don’t you try sitting in my lap for a little while.” He had that soft patient look in his eyes again, the one that showed gentleness, care, trust, and not one ounce of expectation or judgement. You sometimes wish you could take that look from his eyes and wrap it around yourself like a safety blanket, carrying it with you everywhere you go.
You chewed on your lip a little, instinctively fiddling with the fingers on his hand, twisting his rings around as you mumbled, “are you sure? I… I might be too heavy.” Baelor’s face softened even further at that, and he gently caressed the back of your shoulder, a warm and comforting pet.
“Well, why don’t you sit on my lap and we’ll find out? If you are, I’ll tell you.” He paused then, stopping his comforting caress, and he gently brought his hand around to nudge the underside of your chin until you were looking up into his eyes. “Even if you are, that is not a judgement on anything. It does not somehow take away from you, nor signify anything about you. You remain a beautiful young woman.” He could see your eyes go glassy, the way you chewed on your lower lip as it naturally began to pout a little more with your tears. You breathed shakily and nodded hesitantly, shifting forward to get on your knees.
Baelor placed one hand carefully on your waist, shifting towards where you had sat before to give you a bit more space to bring your knee over. You slotted it into the space between his thigh and the arm of the sofa. When you were straddling him, both his hands spanning on either side of your waist, he looked up at you. You looked concerned, chewing on your lip, a furrow to your brow. Your hands had naturally come to rest on his shoulders, your fingers clutching the strong muscles there a little tightly. You could tell he worked out even through the shirt.
“Just sit back on my knees for now, hm?” He prompted quietly, watching you nod quickly then rest yourself down onto his thighs. He resisted the urge to caress up your body, to run his hands over your sides and cup your face the way he would do a lover. You licked your lips and glanced up at his face, the worry clear in your eyes. “Is this alright?”
“Yes,” you breathed out quickly, hurriedly, as if to appease him, and he just raised an eyebrow while waiting for your real response. “It is, I promise. I’m just nervous. I don’t want to do anything wrong.” He nodded, caressing his thumb back and forth over your waist. Your mind honed in on the motion. You prayed he would never stop.
“What could you do wrong?” He asked, so similar to all those sessions ago, and you almost smiled. Actually, you did, just a little one.
“Not sure, knee you in the groin?” He chuckled at that, squeezing your waist a little, and shook his head.
“Hm, realistic, but as long as you try not to, then I think we’re safe. And even if you do, then I’ll know it was an accident, and it won’t change anything. Right?” He nudged, nodding as if to guide your answer.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Good. It’s alright to be nervous,” he continued, tilting his head back to look into your eyes. “Even in a real situation, many people are nervous when conducting actions like that. It’s perfectly normal. But communication and trust are very important, and the more experiences you have with your partner, the more comfortable you’ll become.” You nodded, blinking quickly as you met his eyes and the small smile he offered you again.
“Can… Can I hug you?” You asked hesitantly, feeling hot with bashfulness. Why in the world were you so nervous just to ask for things? You wanted to berate yourself, to swallow the words back, but when his smile brightened, as if he was proud of you for taking the initiative again, your brain instantly quieted.
“Of course, come here,” he slid his hands around to your back, waiting for you to lean forward and tuck yourself against his chest. You shuffled your hips down a little then snuggled up against his chest, fluttering your eyes shut as you took long slow breaths. You tucked your face into the side of his neck, wrapping your arms over his shoulders and pressing yourself right against him.
You loved everything about this moment. If you were to die now, you could be sure you at least died happy. He was so lovely and warm. Truly, like having the heating on in winter, cozy and soft and… perfect. His smell was lovely too, his cologne something cool-scented. You imagined if water had a smell, that’s what it would be like, clean and smooth. He was strong and muscular, a firm presence under you. His thighs and hips forced your own open wide, and his stomach, chest, shoulders, were all expansive and perfect for you to find refuge in. The place where you tucked your face now, the soft stretch of his neck, was warm and his cologne was stronger there, probably sprayed there just before he left this morning.
You could feel his beard brush against your ear when you shifted, and you couldn’t help yourself from letting out a little sigh of pleasure. You snuggled a little further into him, eyes fluttering a little but remaining closed as you somehow relaxed even further into his grip. Baelor ran a palm up your back, gently caressing you along your spine, his large hand spanning far. He sighed too, the soft breath rustling through your hair, and allowed himself to rest his cheek against the side of your head comfortably.
“Mmm, this is nice, isn’t it?” He said quietly, and you gave a small nod, humming softly again. “While I do not claim to speak for all men, I cannot imagine that many would complain at having the comforting weight of a pretty young woman on their lap.”
You felt your entire body go hot. The flush crept through you, pulsing in your stomach and core, then gently reaching its warmth into your legs and arms, all the way up to your cheeks and ears and down into your toes. You held onto him a little tighter, swallowing down the whimper that wanted to tremble out of you. Hearing him call you pretty might be everything you needed in your life and more.
The two of you sat like that for a long while, just enjoying your shared warmth and softness. He would occasionally murmur something in your ear, something to speak about or something to remember if this ever comes up in a relationship. The two of you would shift sometimes, just to get a little more comfortable, but it was relatively still and silent.
When the session was nearing its end, he rubbed his hand up and down your back again and murmured, “you’re a good girl. I’m proud of you for taking these steps for yourself.” Your hands clenched into his shirt, your entire body feeling ready to tremble. Your legs tightened around him, a strong pulse clenching in your core. You felt it searing your insides, in your chest and right through to your nipples. This time a breathy sound left your lips, like a strong exhale, and you were instantly filled with embarrassment at it, curling in on yourself even further.
But Baelor didn’t say anything, just paused his rubbing and pressed his palm a little harder into your back. You pulled back a little, suddenly feeling too hot, and you blinked quickly at him, your eyes still a little dazed and lost. Your lips were parted, and his own were open just so, soft but quick breaths falling from him. You looked right into his eyes, trembling properly now. His hand came up, caressing over your shoulder, his fingers grazing your neck before he cupped your cheek. His thumb stroked over the side of your face, along your cheekbone and just grazed the corner of your mouth. His fingers were threaded through your hair, splayed along your scalp, and you felt engulfed by him, totally in his control.
You licked your lips, the quickest flick of your tongue. You would have kissed him if you had any confidence. He watched the motion, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes. He would have kissed you if he had any less propriety and control.
The ticking of the clock signifying the end of session pulled you both out of whatever trance you had fallen into. He glanced in its direction, head tilting to the side and giving you a lovely view of his jaw, and you quickly slid off his lap, falling back onto the sofa beside him before standing and beginning to smooth out your hair and clothes. You felt like you had been caught doing something wrong. You weren’t quite sure why.
Baelor cleared his throat a little, smoothed his hands down his thighs then stood as well, gathering up his notebook and pen from the table beside the sofa and holding it close to himself. He smiled at you, attempting a comforting look, though it came out a little strained.
“I would usually sit and debrief with you for a bit but I’m afraid we got a bit distracted. We’ll continue next time, alright?” He asked kindly, watching you nod hurriedly, a bit of a panicked look in your eyes. You had pulled your shoes on again and were clutching the strap of your bag tightly. “Y/n,” he called to you, gathering your attention once more. He reached out and gently patted the back of your shoulder, his smile a little softer now. “Well done.”
You smiled in return, taking a deep breath and nodding. You looked into his eyes once more, blue and brown, but both soft and comforting. One look there and you could feel your entire chest become smooth and soft and relaxed. You nodded once more and headed out the door, knowing you would be thinking about that moment for a long time to come.
“I didn’t feel very good yesterday,” you murmured to Baelor, chewing on your lip as you sat curled up in your corner of the sofa. He sat on the other end again, one leg crossed over the other, slouched down as he usually was, notebook on his lap and pen scrawling away.
When you had entered that day, he could tell you needed to speak. He didn’t attempt to initiate anything, just smiled and gestured for you to sit then sat down himself and waited. You were wearing jogger bottoms and a hoodie today, grey and black, far more colourless than you would usually be. You had toed off your shoes and curled yourself up into the corner of the sofa, barely even looking at him.
“How are you?” He had asked once you had both settled in, voice quiet and silky in your ear, and you had shrugged at first.
“I didn’t feel very good yesterday is all,” you murmured, like it was nothing, but he nodded without saying a word. After a moment of silence, you continued. “Some of my friends were going to the beach and I was just feeling like crap about myself. I was so scared of having to wear a swimsuit, of having to be so open with my body that I couldn’t… I didn’t even go.” You shook your head and brought your knees up close to you, chewing lightly at your fingernail and keeping your eyes focused on the floor. You curled your arms around your shins and just kept yourself tucked up, safe, hidden.
Baelor watched you carefully, the picture of despair before him made his chest hurt. He wanted to reach out and pet your head again, to grip your chin and force you to meet his eyes, to kiss lightly at your face and- no. No he didn’t want to do any of that. He knew that just telling someone they were beautiful didn’t necessarily do anything. You need to learn to believe it yourself.
“I don’t know, it feels worse somehow. I thought I was doing better. That insecurity hasn’t been that bad in a while. I’ve been swimming and to the beach, but… I don’t know. Yesterday I just felt horrible and I couldn’t… could barely look at myself in the mirror.”
Baelor placed his pen down and moved to put the notebook on the table beside the sofa. His chest felt a little too tight, and he took a moment to breathe before sitting up properly and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He looked at you for a long while, waiting for your face to smooth out from the pained expression and for you to open your eyes to look at him again.
“Before I tell you anything else, I want you to know I only see a beautiful person in front of me. Inside and out.” His voice was quiet but full of conviction, and you felt it right in your chest. You blinked quickly, the tears overflowing, wet streaks down your cheeks. You nodded quickly, the hot lump in your throat rendering you incapable of speech, and swiped haphazardly at your cheeks and eyes. You opened your mouth as if to say something then shut it again, pursing your lips and licking your tears off them.
Baelor took the box of tissues and placed it between you, nudging it gently in your direction. You nodded in thanks and quickly grabbed one to dab at your face and eyes. Baelor cleared his throat and leaned back into his seat once more.
“I have some homework for you,” he began quietly once more when you looked a bit more settled and your breaths did not rattle through you.
“Ok,” you whispered, nodding and looking at him with wide, innocent, eyes.
“I want you to think of at least three things you like about yourself. Real things, things that you can see in yourself. And I want you to tell yourself about those things. Say that you like those things about yourself, at least once every morning and evening until our next session. Alright?” His eyes were firm again, his mouth set in a straight line, and he waited to see you nod before going on. You were hesitant, chewing on your lip and tugging on the strings of your hoodie, but you did eventually nod, glancing up at him in quick little flicks.
“Right, good. I have more though,” he continued, and you smiled a little to yourself. Of course he wouldn’t let it be that easy. “I want you to take some time in the evening, whether it be tonight or tomorrow, to strip down naked, and look at yourself in the mirror.”
You reared back a little, snapping your head to the side to stare at him with wide eyes. His expression did not change save for the slightest raise of his eyebrows. You spluttered a little, curling your hands close to your chest.
“I don’t think I can do that,” you told him quickly, shaking your head and chewing on your lip again.
“You can, and you will,” he affirmed, and his tone left no room for argument. You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him you truly couldn’t, but he shot you one look, hard and steely, and you snapped your lips closed once more. You were sure that with that look he could make the entire world listen to what he had to say. So you bit your lip and nodded, and he nodded in return. “Good.”
You wore a pretty dress this time. Baelor felt… bowled over by it. He had not seen you in a dress yet. Though it did not show on his face, at least he hoped it didn’t, he felt his breath catch in his throat a little. Your hair was mostly loose, a cascade over your shoulders, a few strands from the front pulled back to keep it clear of your face. You looked better than last time, healthier, smilier. You wore something of soft cotton or linen, a wonderful pastel butter yellow, soft and beautiful on your skin. It was a simple summer dress, something pretty and easy to run errands in, and you wore matching ankle socks which made him smile.
“How are you today?” He asked, resting his arm casually along the back of the sofa.
He wore a plain white shirt under a black cardigan today, simple and soft. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows giving you a wonderful view of his strong forearms. You felt like a demure Victorian maiden getting hot at the sight of them.
“Good. Really good. I went out for dinner with him a couple nights ago,” you told Baelor with a bright smile, hiding it a little behind your hand. He smiled too, nodding happily at your pure joy. It was lovely to see again. “And, you know what, if you tell yourself something enough times, you start believing it.”
“Ah, so you’ve been following through on your homework. That’s good to hear,” he perked up at that, picking up his pen once more and writing something in his notebook swiftly without even looking down at the paper.
“Mostly,” you told him hesitantly, looking a little embarrassed once more. You fiddled with a strand of your own hair, curling it around your finger and tugging on it gently.
“Mostly?” He prompted, raising one eyebrow in question.
“I’ve been doing what you said, picking out three things that I like about myself and telling myself that I like them every night. It’s been good. But…” you cleared your throat then, looking down at your lap as you mumbled, “I couldn’t get myself to do the other thing.” He paused, nodded once, wrote something in his notebook then looked at you again.
“Did you attempt it?” He asked.
“Sort of,” you nodded, “I stood in front of the mirror. And I looked at myself. I couldn’t… I couldn’t get naked. And I felt like crying every time I tried to say the words. I did eventually. But I couldn’t look at myself for very long.” You kept your head bowed, staring at your own lap rather than at him. You didn’t want to see his disappointment. You didn’t want to see his brow furrowed, his head shaking, a tut falling from his lips. He of course did none of those things.
“That’s alright,” he finally spoke, his voice quiet and comforting. He offered you a small smile when you glanced up to his face. “It’s a good start, I’d say.” You nodded in response but found you had nothing else to say.
Baelor stood up and walked over to the wall of windows. You followed him with your eyes, frowning a little when you noticed the thing he walked toward. It leaned against the wall but was covered in a brown cloth, and when he whipped it off, you realised it was a full length standing mirror. He brought it over to the open space between the windows and his armchair, standing it securely before turning to you.
“Come,” he beckoned, waving you over with one hand as the other sat comfortably in his pocket. You gaped at him, standing only because your body innately followed his orders. You padded over to him, hands sliding into the pockets over your dress and clenching into fists there to stop the trembling in your limbs. Despite your wariness, you still stood close to him, your arm brushing against his. You were careful not to tuck any closer despite how much you wanted to.
Baelor walked behind you, carefully placing his hands on your upper arms. His palms were warm and dry against your skin. He looked into your eyes in the mirror, waiting for you to nod to say you were comfortable before continuing. He walked you forward until you were in the centre of the mirror, reaching around to nudge your chin slightly to make sure you kept your head up and your eyes on the reflection. Your face felt too hot. Then he let go of you, not stepping back but not holding on either. The smell of his cologne stayed in your nostrils though, something hot and a little spicy today.
“Right, look at yourself,” he guided quietly. He watched on carefully, making sure you followed his instructions. He watched you peruse your eyes up and down yourself, something hesitant and a little pained in them. “Good,” he whispered, before carefully dragging his fingertips down your arms. You felt them touch the curves of your elbows, felt the whisper of them on your forearms, and you shivered. He grasped your wrists and pulled your hands from your pockets, placing them at your sides before removing his grip and putting his own hands into his pockets.
“I want you to look yourself in the eye, and I want you to say, ‘I am beautiful’. Can you do that?” He was patient, so so patient, you thought, and you wanted to do this for him. He probably would have told you to do it for yourself if you had voiced the thought, but you felt it anyway. You gulped, a harsh movement in your throat, and nodded. You met your own gaze in the mirror and trembling said, “I am beautiful.”
Your voice came out a whisper, hesitant and stilted, but the words were out in the air now. You glanced up in the mirror and he was nodding, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes, and you wanted to bathe in it.
“Wonderful,” he murmured, “once more.”
“I am beautiful.” Your voice was more confident now, more firm, and you even nodded a little, standing up straighter. Perhaps if you pretended it was true, it might feel like it. Again he nodded, pacing a little behind you.
“If you feel comfortable, and only if, you could try taking off your dress,” he broached. He stood just behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. You couldn’t feel him per se, just his presence at your shoulder, and you blinked quickly up at his reflection. You wrung your hands together, looking down as you contemplated it. You could do it. You knew you could. You could.
You glanced up again, nodded, then reached back to grasp at your zipper. Your fingers were a little clumsy, slipping off the small thing, but eventually you managed to grasp on with a blush burning in your cheeks and pulled it down. You slid your arms out of the off-the-shoulder straps and then pushed the dress down until it fell at your feet.
Your eyes were clenched shut. You couldn’t look in the mirror knowing he was looking at you. You didn’t want to see anything akin to disappointment, to disgust and repulsion, on his face. You did not want to see pity, to see that look that said, “oh poor thing. No wonder no one wants her.”
You shivered a little at the cool air and crossed your arms tightly over yourself. You were wearing a pair of skin-coloured safety shorts, and your favourite go-to bra. You were not naked, but you felt it. Your breaths shook through you.
“Will you open your eyes?” Baelor whispered, and you felt him closer now, this gentle warmth at your back. You wanted to shake your head. You wanted to tell him no, that you could not, that you would put your dress back on and sit on the sofa and cry as much as you wanted. But you didn’t. You nodded, and carefully pried your eyes open.
You looked at his reflection before your own, and he was… he was smiling. His face was open, bright, proud. His eyes crinkled at the corners and his smile was breathtaking. You wanted to hug him. Rather, you wanted him to hug you, to wrap you up in his arms and tell you you were safe and beautiful and everything was going to be alright.
You shivered once more then looked at yourself. You ran your eyes down your neck, over the slopes of your shoulders and arms. You looked at your bra straps and the cups holding onto your chest, the expanse of your stomach and thighs, the waistband of your shorts and the crinkles of your knees. You looked over it all, and before he could prompt you, you swallowed and murmured, “I am beautiful.”
He sucked in a breath and nodded, whispering a “good” as you chewed on your lip and nodded too, the tears filling your eyes. Your face crumpled, and you felt a bit stuck. You could not look away, but you wanted to. You could not believe the words you had said, but oh how you wanted to.
Baelor stood just behind you, this young woman who could not see what he saw, and he felt this desperate sense of urgency inside of him. He wanted to hold your face in his hands, to curl you close and look into your eyes and tell you how beautiful you were. He wanted to whisper it right into your brain, to say it right to the source, to press it into your mind so you were forced to believe him. His breath was too thick in his chest as he looked at the tear tracks begin to shine on your cheeks. He… he wanted to kiss you. Yes, he wanted to turn you around, to wrap his arm around your back and hoist you to him, to cup your cheek and kiss you until you were breathless, until he was breathless.
Baelor blinked quickly, rubbing a hand over his mouth and looking away. No, he did not want those things. He did not want those things because wanting them was wrong, was unprofessional, was inappropriate, was unethical. You trusted him. You came to him for help and guidance, and he could not want that without betraying everything else. He should… he should separate from this. He should tell you that this could no longer continue, that he was too emotionally invested and it was not healthy for either of you. He should refer you to someone, perhaps pass you along to Rowan in the offices near Ashford or that new therapist from Lys. He should… he should let you g-
You turned away from the mirror, your hands clutched tight to your chest. Your face had well and truly crumpled now, and you were shaking with your sobs. Without a word, you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his torso and pressing your face to his chest. You cried into the warm shirt there, eyes shut as you shook with your tears. He shushed you gently, his own pain at the sight clenching in his chest. He instantly wrapped his arms around you, bands over your back and shoulders. He tucked you close, his voice whispering softly against the top of your head, his lips pressing gently to your hair.
“It’s alright,” he soothed, “it’s alright.” You trembled in his grip. “Well done, darling. I’m very proud of you. Well done.”
Baelor held you tight and continued murmuring softly to you, rubbing one hand up and down your spine as the other kept you tucked up against him. He rested his head against yours softly, feeling you slowly quiet down, allowing his own heart to settle with yours. But when he glanced back up, when he met his own eyes in the mirror behind you, he only saw himself on the edge of a precipice, teetering far too close to the edge, only the gentlest push away from falling off…
You were sitting in his lap again, sideways on this time, leaning back against the arm of the sofa. You wore a white tank top and a pair of flowy black linen trousers, your fingers fiddling with the drawstrings.
“Is kissing really that good?” You asked quietly, your shoulders curled in a little. He rested one arm over your knees and caressed the outer side of your leg just so, his thumb running back and forth on your thigh.
“What do you mean?” He asked, brows furrowing a little as he turned to look at your face.
“I mean like… is it really that good? People are always making out and stuff… is it really that nice?” You chewed on your lip as you looked up at him, truly seeking an honest answer, and he smiled and nodded.
“Kissing can be wonderful. Done right, it can be extremely pleasurable,” he informed you, not stopping in his caresses. You nodded, still chewing on your lip, and he waited patiently for whatever it was you clearly wanted to say.
“The guy I’ve been seeing… he tried to kiss me last night.” You finally blurted it out, looking up at him with wide worried eyes. “We were on his sofa watching a film, and it was really nice. We even cuddled for a bit, and I felt… I felt so good. We were talking about something that happened in the movie, and he was smiling and looking at me, and then he started leaning in, and I just- I panicked, and I turned my head so he kissed my cheek. Then I pretended like I thought that was what he meant to do and just sort of cooed about how sweet he was. I kissed his cheek in return and like ten minutes later I made some pathetic excuse to leave and ran.” You groaned loudly and pressed your face into your hands, shaking your head in despair. “I can’t believe I did that. I must look so crazy and pathetic to him. For the first time in my life I have a guy who actually wants to kiss me and I can’t even do it.”
“Sh, do not say things like that. We do not call ourselves mean things in this office, hm?” He nudged quickly, grasping one of your wrists and tugging your hand down so he could look at your face. You kept the other hand up for a moment before dropping it too and meeting his eyes. You nodded but didn’t take back your words and he sighed. “There is nothing wrong with what you did. It may have been better for you to communicate openly, to tell him that you weren’t comfortable, or perhaps you didn’t know what you were doing, but there is nothing wrong with avoiding a situation you did not feel ready for. I do not want to hear you berate yourself for it any further.”
You nodded, sighing and allowing your shoulders to slump a little as you relaxed back against the arm of the sofa. You returned to fiddling with your drawstrings, glancing back up to Baelor’s face every now again.
“I’m just scared I’ll fuck it up. I have zero clue on what to do. Like, zero.” You looked him right in the eye as you said it, nodding your head as if to emphasise the point. “I know you put your mouths together but after that… nothing.” Baelor hummed in acknowledgment and turned back to you. His notebook and pen were on his other side, carefully out of your view, and he put his pen down once more. He looked up at you, smoothing a hand over your knee as he said,
“Would you like to practice?”
You blinked quickly, excitement surging in your chest. You bit your lip, hands tightening into fists as your insides began to flutter. Perhaps it was stupid and manipulative, desperate and naive, to have wished for this. You had wanted him to suggest this, had wanted him to want to teach you. You trusted him more than anyone, you had quickly realised, and the evening before had cemented it. You could only tell him these things, could only hope that he would help you with these things.
“Yes please,” you whispered, the smallest smile on your face as you reached out and softly traced the collar of his shirt. He was wearing another button-up, this one in pale blue, and it was impossibly smooth under your hands.
“Right, why don’t you straddle me again, like before, hm?” He prompted, shifting a little as you nodded and moved off. You stood just in front of him, your knees brushing his, and you looked down on him. His head tilted back to meet your eyes, and one of his hands automatically came up to rest on your hip. Your breath hitched a little in your throat, that simple touch searing, and you felt everything inside you tighten.
Baelor’s eyes drifted down over your body as you moved forward, bringing your knee up and into the space between his thigh and the sofa. His eyes traced down over your breasts, heaving a little with your quick breaths. Your nipples had hardened, and he could see them poking out through your bra and the thin tanktop. His mouth watered. He wanted to lean forward and press his mouth right there, to close his eyes and focus on the sounds that you may let out.
He gulped harshly, forcing his eyes away, and ran his hand down the side of your leg as you brought the other up and settled down on his lap. You sighed softly, running your hands along his shoulders, back and forth, before finally settling them on either side of his neck. You looked right at him now, not bashful little glances but an unabashed stare that traced over his salt and pepper beard, over the strong bridge of his nose, the small freckles that decorated his skin like kisses from the sun. You wanted to kiss each one, to press your mouth more places than just his lips.
His eyes were bright, colourful, and you looked right into them as you leaned a little closer, moving purely on instinct. His palms traced up your sides, one settling on your hip, the other continuing up and to your neck, then cupping the side of your jaw. You gasped, his grip was firm and tipped your head back just a little. His lips parted as he flicked his eyes down to your mouth. Your fingertips traversed up from his collar and gently touched the warm skin of his neck, the lightest trace, and he shivered a little. You felt it through you, in the places where your thighs touched his ribs, and you sighed breathily, leaning in even closer until your chest touched his and the tip of your nose whispered against his.
“Will you kiss me, please?” You asked, your voice barely a breath. You were trembling in his grip, and he let go of your hip to wrap his arm around your waist and hoist you even closer, until your core pressed right into his stomach. A small gasp left you. You felt hot all over, tingles turning to flurries in your stomach and chest. He was firm there, and you tilted your hips a little to press your core even harder there.
“Close your eyes,” he murmured, and you felt the barest hint of his lips against yours. You breathed shakily again, a small sound falling from your mouth, and his arm around you tightened, his grip on your face became firmer, and as your eyelids fluttered shut, he fully pressed his mouth to yours.
You hadn’t expected to be so… aware. You could feel everything. The tip of his nose pressed into the crease of your cheek. His face was warm and you could feel it against your own skin. You could feel his lashes brush the high points of your cheeks. His hands were searing on your body, somehow hotter now that his mouth had joined yours. His lips were wet, hot, moving gently against yours, coaxing your mouth in small suctioning motions. His beard was rough against your face, ticklish at your chin and cheeks and upper lip, and you almost felt overstimulated by it, torn between pulling away to make it stop and pressing harder into it. You chose the latter.
A small moan left your mouth and Baelor groaned a little, the sound rumbling through you and triggering another little sigh. Your fingers curled at the nap of his neck, clenching a little in his hair. Your body rolled a little against him, your breasts pressing into his chest and your nipples rubbing into the fabric of your bra. Baelor’s hand slid further back and into the hair at the base of your neck, his fingers clenching a little as a high pitched sound left your mouth.
He pulled back for a second, not far, just enough for him to be able to push back in again, a little more hurried, a little more fervent. He coaxed your mouth open with his lips, and you gasped, twitching against him at the feeling of his tongue slowly licking into you. Your nails pressed into his scalp, scraping there, and he shivered, groaning harshly into your mouth.
You pulled back quickly, huffing and heaving in his lap. Your eyes fluttered but you didn’t want to open them fully just yet. You were… overwhelmed. Your heart raced and your hands trembled and you so desperately wanted to dive back in again, to taste his mouth until you died from lack of oxygen. He tasted like the green Extra gum, sweet spearmint, and you hoped you tasted half as good to him in return.
Baelor looked at you with heavy eyes. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He felt… wild. Yes, that was the word. He felt like a wild animal. He wanted to grasp you by the back of your neck and pull you in again, to devour your mouth, to lick your tongue like a lion with a kill. He wanted to thrust his hands under your shirt and feel along your skin, warm and smooth and simply perfect under his palms. He wanted to know the weight of your breasts, to feel the ripple of your arse against him. He wanted to know how soft the skin of your inner thighs was and how wet your core could get. He wanted to run his fingers there, to press against your clit until you shook. He wanted to taste everything.
“That was…” you panted, eyes shining and sparkling. He had never seen your eyes like that. They were full of wonder and joy and made him want to kiss you again.
“That was very good,” he finally broke out, licking his lips and nodding, attempting to recapture a professional tone as he looked up at you. You shifted on his lap, not back or forward, just pressing down a little, and his breath hitched. He hoped you couldn’t feel the situation brewing…
“Yeah,” you sighed, blinking slowly but still looking into his eyes. “Yeah, it-it felt good.”
“Kissing can be quite instinctual sometimes,” he told you softly, allowing himself to relax into the sofa as you softened in his arms and nodded, brushing your nose against his without thinking. He caressed your cheek with his thumb, feeling the soft skin there. “You follow each other, listen to what seems to pleasure the other person. It is give and take.” You nodded again, glancing between his eyes and his mouth. Now that you had caught your breath, you wanted to kiss him again.
“Can we do it again?” you asked quickly, heat burning under your skin as you bit your lip and curled in on yourself a little.
“Yes,” Baelor sighed out just as hurriedly, and then he was leaning in once more.
Baelor sipped slowly from the crystal glass, his eyes unfocused where he looked out of the windows. He had pulled the curtains back after you left from another session, as if a vampire punishing himself with the sun. But the view was lovely at sunset, and he needed something to look at as he contemplated. He did not usually indulge at the office, but it had seemed necessary and the decanter was calling his name.
The clinks were satisfying, the stopper, the pour, the stopper again. It was a lovely amber in the glass, expensive even in its colour, and it slipped down his throat like water, hot and smooth. He drank the first glass quickly, one throw back, but was now savouring the second. He rested his elbows on the desk, slumped forward a little as he thought back to your session.
He was getting far too used to you crawling over to him now, to your sweet eyes as you batted your lashes at him and asked if you could sit in his lap again. He should have started saying no to you. He should have started building that separation back up again. You said you felt comfortable in his lap now, that you really liked it, it made you feel safe and honest. He should have stopped it right then when you had carefully admitted that in a whisper against his neck as you snuggled into him. He should not have wrapped his arms around you and hugged you a little tighter. He should not have pressed his mouth to your hair in a silent kiss and allowed his eyes to flutter shut.
You were becoming too close, too dependent, and it would not do. It was his duty as a professional to stop this at once and pull away, to refer you to someone else. Not just because you were too dependent, but because his own mind was straying. He looked at you sometimes and found it impossible not to smile. He felt things in his chest that he should not have been feeling as an objective professional. His hands were always tight with the need to reach out and touch you. His lips were always tingling with the need to kiss you.
Baelor sighed, clenched his eyes shut, and shook his head. He took another long sip from the glass, rubbing a hand over his face. He was not viewing you as a client anymore, and that was the most dangerous part of it all.
He thought back to the session earlier, to your face, the way your eyes lit up as you spoke about this man you were seeing.
“It’s been really good, Baelor! Really! We went out for dinner the other night, and he held my hand, and we went for a stroll after and he wrapped his arm around me and I didn’t even flinch. And… and he even kissed me goodbye. It was small and soft but it was a real kiss!” You giggled then, clenching your hand in the lapel of his blazer as you told him all the news excitedly. How odd that he should be happy and sad hearing this at the same time. Your excitement was beautiful, infectious, and he felt proud that you had come so far since your sessions began. He felt proud at having had even the smallest part in building your confidence. But he also felt shamefully jealous of this man, whoever he was, and how he got to do all these things with you.
“That’s wonderful news,” he had told you, softly caressing a strand of your hair, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Yeah… yeah it is,” and you smiled so brightly, giggling a little with your giddiness, and it took an otherworldly sort of strength to stop him from leaning in and kissing you. “I think things are getting serious. I can’t really believe it but… he likes me. Like, he really likes me. I guess I never thought it would happen.” Tears had gathered in your eyes and he had simply held you as you cried, daintily wiping one from your cheek before you pressed your face to his neck again and sighed softly.
There were a million things he had wanted to say in that moment. He had wanted to tell you that you deserved all the love there was to be given. He had wanted to say that he believed it, that he believed everyone was in love with you, because how could they not be? He had wanted to tell you that… that he loved you.
Baelor clenched his eyes shut again and drank what remained of his glass before gulping down another. He picked up his pen and quickly wrote at the bottom of the page, “SEND FOR REFERRAL”. He underlined it three times, then slammed the notebook shut.
You were wearing a red dress. Perhaps it was to torture Baelor, a punishment for not following through and referring you on to another therapist. It was another summer dress, vibrantly red, softly flowing around your shins. You seemed to favour off the shoulder straps, this one having lovely puffy and ruched short sleeves, and he could almost imagine the dress sliding down your body, piling on the floor at your feet.
You were back to your old positions, you curled up in the corner of the sofa, and him in his armchair, attempting some form of separation lest he get too lost again. But this felt worse somehow, because now he had a clear view of you. He could see your ankles and smooth shins where the dress had ridden up. He could see the goosebumps on your arms and the place where your earring was stuck in your hair. And he could see the way you chewed at your lip, looking at him nervously as if there was something on the tip of your tongue that you were attempting to gather the courage to say.
“I-” you began, then swiftly stopped. You glanced up at him and then shook your head, bringing your hand up and chewing at the side of your finger. “Nothing,” you murmured, waving your other hand in the air and looking back down to the floor.
Baelor put his pen down and cleared his throat, waiting until you were looking at him before raising his eyebrows to prompt you into speaking. It was that look, the expectant one, the one that would have even the most disciplined of monks crumbling in their vows of silence.
“Stop looking at me like that, it makes me want to tell you everything,” you grumbled, scowling a little. Baelor chuckled, shaking his head and sliding his hand over his mouth before resting it there, leaning into it on the arm of his chair as he watched you.
“You should attempt to do so then,” he answered wryly, raising his eyebrow again as he waited for you to finally become forthcoming during this session.
“Why are you sitting over there again?” You asked instead, looking back to the spot he usually took up then back to him. He paused a moment, jaw clenching for the smallest second (though hidden well behind the cover of his beard).
“So I can see you better,” he finally answered, shrugging as if it meant nothing. You nodded, earnest, and he felt a twinge of guilt for the lie. Then you snorted a chuckle.
“You know what? That makes you sound like the wolf from red riding hood,” you giggled, hiding your laugh behind your hand and looking at him with sparkling eyes. He smirked, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly but unable to hold off his smile at your joy. He much preferred seeing you like this, especially compared to the nervous wreck from moments before.
You chewed on your lip again when your laughs subsided. You rubbed a hand down your face, shook your head, then looked up at him from under your lashes as you said, “can you come sit here again? I like it better that way.”
He didn’t move instantly. It was a war inside him, the desperate desire to do as you asked, and the weaker, sensible, side of him that told him to stay put, to tell you that it would be better to remain this way. He could see worry begin to descend in your eyes at his inaction, could see the gnawing at your lip become harsher, and that sensible side of him failed once more.
Baelor stood and moved over to the sofa, sitting down on the other end and settling his notebook in his lap. Perhaps if he kept his notebook there this time, and didn't allow you to settle on his lap, then everything would end up alright. You smiled a little once he was sat, and he felt it like a kiss on his heart.
You pulled your knees up close to your chest and he could see your toes poking out from under your dress. You fiddled with your fingers on your lap and glanced up at him one more time before you blurted,
“I think he wants to sleep with me.”
Baelor paused where he had been twisting his ring around, eyebrows raising and eyes widening as he met your eyes.
“Oh,” he breathed out, nodding, pausing to pick up his pen and twirl it around once.
“I… I think so. Last night, I went over to his place again. We watched a movie, had a cuddle, it was… it was amazing, as usual.” Your eyes were off in the distance, a distracted but warm smile on your mouth. “We kissed, for a while. Like, properly. Like, his mouth went places other than mine.” You felt heat burn through you as you told him, glancing back to Baelor as you pressed a hand to your hot cheek. “He… he kissed down my neck and his hands started moving around, you know, like-like he started feeling me up and it was really nice. He asked me if I wanted to go to his room to get more comfortable. I panicked and said I had an early morning so I had to leave. He’s so nice. He’s like, the absolute sweetest guy ever. I don’t know why I keep lying to him about this stuff but I just feel like if I tell him how scared I am, he won’t want me anymore.”
Baelor pursed his lips and nodded, writing in the notebook again before looking at you. Your eyes were hesitant, looking to him for guidance, assurance, anything really.
“Is someone who would be angry about their partner being inexperienced the kind of person you would want to be with?” He asked after a while, carefully enunciating each word. Your eyes widened a fraction, lips parting, and you lifted your head to look at him properly. It should not have been such an epiphany but it still felt groundbreaking.
“I mean, of course not,” you answered, shaking your head and pursing your lips for a moment. “But I don’t think it’s about that either. In my head, I know he wouldn’t dump me. Honestly, I think it would be the opposite. I think he would be really kind about it all. But the anxious irrational side of my head feels like I just can’t. It’s not about him being nice or not, it’s about me not being able to do it. I don’t want to have the experience with him like that.”
You glanced up at Baelor with worried eyes. It felt wrong to admit that somehow, that you wanted to be picky and choosy about this when you should just be grateful that someone wanted to be with you in the first place.
Baelor hummed and nodded again, brows furrowing a little in thought, and you scooted down in your seat a little to watch him. His hair was a little neater today despite his habit of running his hand through it. His beard had been trimmed recently, you could tell now, and the intense desire to feel it against your own cheek hit you so suddenly you went breathless. His lashes fluttered prettily when he blinked, and those eyes, blue and brown, warm and cold, were the perfect reflections of the balance that seemed to live within him.
“Hm, that is rather tricky. I suppose you need to decide if you want to eventually push through this, obviously not pressuring yourself but working on it until you feel comfortable, to have the experience with him. Or if you wish to break it off and try with someone else.” Though his tone was careful, not unkind, you felt as if it was so final.
You nodded first, pursing your lips and then pressing them tight together as tears began to burn at your eyes. Your face crumpled slowly and you pressed it to the backs of your knees, shaking your head as you sucked in a wet, crackling, breath. Then you lifted your head and shifted, slowly crawling closer to him until you were kneeling right beside him on the sofa.
“Can I please have a hug?” You asked, your voice small and watery as the tears continued to pour. You sniffled as you waited and Baelor’s face contorted with pain. He nodded quickly and pushed his notebook to the side, bringing you into his arms. He hushed you quietly, wrapping both arms around you, one hand softly petting the back of your head as you burrowed your face into his neck and shoulder and cried quietly.
He kept you there until your sniffling quieted and the hand that had clenched at the collar of his button-up loosened a little. You pulled back to look him in the eye, but your faces were impossibly close. You could feel his breaths brushing lightly against your nose and mouth. You reached up with one trembling hand and wiped at your cheek and undereye. Your nose brushed against his lightly, and you blinked once, slow and long.
“Would you… would you do it with me?” You asked, voice hushed and small. Baelor stiffened a little under you as he attempted to comprehend what you were truly asking. His eyes flicked up from your lips and to your own. His hand stilled on your back.
“Y/n…” he said your name as a warning, but it sounded far too lovely from his mouth for you to heed it. You rolled your lips against one another and shifted a little in his lap, pressing impossibly closer, until your face was all he could see.
“Please, Baelor,” you begged, voice soft and breathy. He could feel it almost against his lips, and his eyes fluttered closed at the sound, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed harshly. You begged far too prettily for it to be anything other than seductive, anything other than a punishment. “I trust you more than anyone, especially for this.”
Baelor’s eyes clenched a little where they had shut, his breaths harsher now. His throat moved again, and you followed it greedily with your eyes, suddenly desperate for it all. Gods, you were hot with want. It was a fire in your core, pulsing hot at the apex of your thighs and in tingling sparks in your breasts. You shifted your hips again, not thinking, not knowing how it dragged you right over his cock, hard and pulsing under his trousers and underwear, how it made him want to bite down on the naked skin of your shoulder.
“It would not be right,” he finally managed to grit out, his hands coming down to settle on either side of your waist. You worried he would push you away, but his grip on you only tightened, neither pushing nor pulling.
“You would be helping me, please,” you begged again, your breaths shuddering along his mouth and chin. He wanted to open his lips and suck them in, wanted to swallow everything you had to give.
“I…” but he could not continue because somehow your mouths were joined together. Somehow his tongue was pressed past your lips, licking strong and wet into the heat there, tasting the fruit flavoured gum you had been chewing on just before the session.
You moaned into his mouth, small and quiet, but it made everything from his neck down pulse hot and had him dragging you even closer to him. He tried not to hurry as he kissed you, tried to maintain a steady pace, deep and dragging with each movement of his lips, but it became increasingly difficult.
You felt hot all over, like your skin was touched by the sun, and everything inside you was electrified, sensitive to every breath and graze. His arm was strong where it wrapped around your waist to drag you closer. You were straddling him, the dress ridden up to expose your knees, and the motion of him moving you closer dragged your core right over where his cock had hardened along his leg. You were wet under your panties, slick in a way that moved your lips against each other and lightly teased your clit. Your cunt pressed right into the seams over his zipper and you let out a high-pitched keen, your mouth falling open against his. The drag of it, the pressure right there, it was electric.
He did it again, grasped your hips in his hands and dragged you back then forward again, pressing down a little more. Again that feeling, that lovely clenching inside you, the wet pulsing and rubbing feeling. He felt your moan against him, your hot damp breath over his lips, and he kissed you again until you were breathless and tingling from the rub of his beard.
“If we are going to do this,” he finally panted out, pulling away from your mouth to reach up and begin pushing your hair out of your face. “We are going to do it properly, hm?” He nudged your nose with his, making sure you were looking in his eyes when you nodded frantically. “I’m going to teach you, and you’re going to communicate. You’re going to tell me if something feels good, if something feels bad, if something hurts or you want to do it differently. Understood?” You nodded once more and licked your lips.
“Yes, yes I will,” you hurried out, sitting up and resting your hands on his shoulders. He groaned softly, hands flexing on you, and nodded once.
“Right, stand up,” he ordered, patting you on the side and watching you quickly scramble off him, huffing and puffing as if you had run a mile. The movement of your chest made your breasts push against the dress and it took significant willpower not to reach out and grasp them.
Baelor followed after you, standing up to his full height and gazing down at you. Your hair was dishevelled now, your eyes and lips glossy, and your dress had become rumpled and wrinkled. But when you looked up at him with such trusting and expectant eyes, he could not help himself from leaning down and giving you a quick, chaste, kiss on the lips before pulling back and refocusing.
“Depending on the situation, you may undress yourself, or your partner may undress you. It happens in the moment, and can depend on how fast or slow you are going, but it does not hurt to communicate here either.” As Baelor spoke, his hands went up to his own shirt, slowly beginning to unbutton and exposing the white vest he wore underneath. You stepped closer to him then, licking your lips and reaching out to caress the backs of his hands.
“Can- can I do that?” You asked, hesitant and small, but he smiled appreciatively and nodded, removing his own hands and instead busying them in caressing the skin of your upper arms and shoulders. You shivered at the feeling.
Carefully, you undid each button, moving all the way down to his waistband and pulling up to untuck the shirt. You pushed the sides open and carefully touched along his chest and stomach over the vest, feeling the soft material and the firm muscle underneath. He shrugged the shirt off and tossed it onto the sofa, leaving you to gawp at his arms. They were big, thicker than you were expecting and was belied by his shirts. You carefully splayed your palm on one, feeling the soft skin there, and squeezed a little, blushing hot when he chuckled.
Baelor reached down and undid his belt, pulling it from the loops and tossing it where his shirt was. You gulped at the motion, eyes dragging down his abdomen and to the place where you could see something pushing against his trousers. You reached out and pulled his vest from his waistband as well, gathering the white material up and up until it was bunched in your hands and you could begin pulling it up his torso. You dragged your knuckles up the lines of his stomach, up to the definition of his chest, and held your arms aloft so he could grip the vest and take it fully off. When that too was tossed on the sofa, you allowed yourself free reign, pressing your palms to his chest, to the scraggly hairs there that were the same mix of dark brown and grey.
You could see freckles here and there too, how his skin had gone softer as he had aged, and you carefully dragged your nails along his stomach. He shivered, huffing out a breath as he felt the scratching down over his stomach and toward his waistband. You followed his happy trail. You had finally felt a happy trail, you thought giddily, and you just allowed yourself to rub back and forth along the hair there until he was reaching down to grip your wrists.
You glanced up at him then, a new openness and almost-smiling quality to your mouth. You blinked quickly and flipped your hands so you could loosen his grip from your wrists and grab his instead. You brought his hands to your body, gulping as you placed them on your waist.
“Will you take off my dress please?” you asked, and he nodded, slowly dragging his palms up your sides, taking a moment to just cup your breasts over the dress. Your nipples rubbed against the inside of your bra as he did it, and you let out a shaky breath.
Baelor hooked his fingers into the neckline of your dress, sliding his fingers out to the side and stretching the elastic so you could pull first one arm out then the other. He held onto the neckline and brought it down, stretching it over your breasts then dragging it down your stomach, over the curves of your hips and arse and then down your legs. Each new inch of skin exposed was another he ate with his eyes, absorbing the details of pores or freckles or marks or hairs. When the dress was at your feet, you stepped out of it and he picked it up, gently draping it on the sofa beside his own clothes.
He looked back to you, to the white bandeau bra and panties, to the wet spot he could see there that made his mouth salivate. He reached out and placed his palms on your waist again, flat to bare skin, and you shivered at the searing warmth. He dragged his hands up and down your sides, feeling along the skin, heating you up further, and your shaky breaths left from parted lips.
Baelor leaned down and kissed you once more, that same soft chaste style, then pulled away to nudge his head in the direction of the floor.
“Lie down,” he ordered, pulling away from you to grab a cushion from the sofa and drop it on the floor for your head. You nodded, getting down on your knees first. You looked up at him, gulping at the angle. He looked impossibly taller like this. You paused there, watching his hands go to the button of his trousers, flicking it open before pinching the zipper and dragging it down. You were fluttering, in your stomach, in your veins. He paused there to toe off his shoes, nudging them off to the side before gripping the waistband of his trousers and pushing them off.
You watched him as he had watched you, greedily. He wore black underwear, the tight shorts kind that had seams around the bulge area. You could see that he was hard under them, could see his cock pressing harshly against the fabric. You licked your lips, trembling, and watched him bend a little to cup your cheek with his hand. You tilted your head back to look at him, but he bent at the waist and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. You preened at it, going warm in the chest, and shuddered with pleasure.
He stepped back and held up a finger to you, then moved around the sofa towards his desk. You watched him as much as you could from where you leaned, but you only got a lovely view of the tan skin sprawled along his back and his firm buttocks under the black fabric. He opened a desk drawer, rummaged around, grabbed something, then shut it and walked back over. You traced his legs with your eyes this time, the strong muscles of his thighs, the tight lines that moved up and down from his knees, the black hairs that dusted him all over.
Baelor placed the thing down on the edge of the sofa and you realised it was a condom, the foil wrapper crinkling a little. You hadn’t even thought about that in your desperation, and you felt a zap of embarrassment through you. Baelor kneeled down in front of you then, cupping your neck on either side and kissing you, licking into your mouth and emptying the thoughts from your head. You ran your hands down his chest, taking comfort from the warm skin. He pulled back, flicking his eyes down to your bra then tracing the band that lay just under your breasts.
“Do you want to take this off?” he asked, running his thumb over the curve of it, over where your nipple was firm under the fabric and you let out a breathy sound as you nodded. He hooked his fingers under it and dragged it over your breasts, watching them as he raised it up and over your outstretched arms. You shivered, the cool air brushing places no man had ever seen before, and you raised your hands quickly to hide behind them. Baelor didn’t say anything, just reached up and caressed your cheek as you clenched your eyes shut.
You felt scared suddenly, scared at him seeing such intimate parts of you, parts that you worried would disappoint him. He leaned forward, a soft kiss to your forehead, to your left cheek, to your right, to the bridge of your nose, and when your eyes fluttered open again, he nudged your nose with his.
“You do not have to do anything. You can put your clothes back on and leave. You can leave the bra on and continue. Tell me how you’re feeling.” You gulped and nodded, slowly moving your hands away and resting them on his shoulders instead.
“I want to continue. Please. I just… Do you think I’m ugly?” Your eyes were a little teary as you asked it, your lower lip trembling, and his hands tightened on you. His eyes flashed, his brow creasing with concern, and he traced your bottom lip with his thumb.
“I think you are beyond beautiful. I think you are stunning, and sexy. But I want you to think that too.” He traced his thumb down, watching your lip bounce back into place before moving it down your chin, to the underside of it and down the middle of your neck. Down it went, over your chest and to the space between your breasts, the flat of your sternum. Then the thumb followed the curve of your left breast, pressing into the underside before pushing up and simply feeling the soft flesh there. “Anyone would be lucky to see you in this way,” he murmured, and you shivered.
Baelor leant down and pressed a feather-light kiss to your jaw. His lips pressed another and another along it until he reached your ear. He kissed under the lobe, a soft spot just behind it that reacted to his hot breath like water on hot coals. He kissed down your neck, big, open-mouthed, kisses that had his tongue pressing out and licking the skin. His teeth gently caught some skin between them, rolling it back and forth before letting it go and kissing down.
You allowed him to push you back until you were slowly being laid down, your head settled comfortably against the cushion. Your eyes fluttered closed as you focused on the sensation of his hot mouth on the plush skin of your breasts and his beard rubbing. You felt his lips close around your nipple, wet, the tightening feeling of the skin there puckering with desire. You felt his teeth tease it, felt his tongue lap against it, felt the air begin to cool the saliva there when he pulled away and did the same to your other nipple.
Baelor kissed down your stomach, light presses of his mouth to the fluttering skin, and you cracked your eyes open and pushed your head up to watch him. He rubbed his big hands along the sides of your thighs, groping your behind a little, before he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties.
“Off?” He asked quietly, looking up at you from between your legs. The sight of it, of his blue and brown eye, of his beard, of his mussed hair, all situated comfortably between your thighs and peering up at you had you gulping and pulsing once more. You could feel the slick pouring out of you, hot and slippery, and you felt the cold air there like a kiss.
He dragged your panties down to your ankles then pulled them off, tossing them onto the sofa with everything else. Carefully, he had you bend your knees, then reached between them to splay his hands on the insides of your thighs, thick fingers spanning the sensitive skin before he began pushing them apart. You shivered and licked your lips but allowed it, following the press of his hands until your legs fell naturally open.
He gazed down at you, eyes fixating on the flushed and wet skin. You looked soft and damp, dewy and puffy in a way that called to him like nothing else. He could see your clit where your lips pulled apart a little, the swollen little nub begging for his tongue and touch. He could see your hole, fluttering a little where you clenched and unclenched with every pulse inside you, the slick and shiny wetness that coated you. He rubbed your inner thighs once before he looked back up at you.
“As it is your first time, it’s always best to have some preparation. We’ll start with my tongue, maybe a finger or two before we attempt anything, alright?” He watched you lick your lips, eyes lighting up, and nod quickly. “This goes for the future as well. Foreplay and preparation are essential to having a pleasant time. Some can handle penetration without preparation once they become regularly sexually active, but others need preparation every single time. It all depends on how you feel and what you communicate with your partner.”
You nodded eagerly once more. Your mouth was full of saliva no matter how much you swallowed, and your skin tingled everywhere. You wanted to tell him to hurry, that you were desperate to feel him now, but that would not do. He was trying to teach you something. It was not his fault that he was also the reason you were so riled up you couldn’t focus.
Baelor nodded once then sighed as he shuffled down and lay his stomach on the carpet in front of you. He caressed a finger up the back of one of your thighs and you shivered, your leg twitching at the ticklish sensation. He smiled a little and began moving you around, taking one of your legs and draping it over his shoulder before doing the same with the other. Once they were secure, he shuffled forward until suddenly you could feel him breathing against your core.
You clenched your eyes shut, your thighs tightening around his head, but he just shushed you gently and began blowing softly along your hot skin. You shivered, the cold air caressing your hot slick. He curved one arm around and splayed his hand over your stomach, carefully holding you there. The other hand slithered up and his thumb began touching the soft lips of your cunt. He rubbed the slick into the skin, then separated the lips so he could look properly at your clit.
He breathed in your small, warm and dewy, and his eyes fluttered shut. He moaned low in his throat then pressed forward, lightly touching the tip of his tongue to your clit.
He mouthed at you there until you couldn’t tell your body apart from a series of electric sensations. You felt his tongue licking at you, hot rough drags that pushed and pulled at your clit, that made something that was already on fire burn like an inferno. You felt each touch inside you, felt the sparks and the zaps and the tingles like someone was playing the triangle right inside you, hitting the thing that reverberated within you over and over.
He groaned against you, his rough beard overstimulating the skin of your thighs. He pressed his tongue into your core and the feeling of it breaching your hole sent you into your first orgasm, built too quickly and crashing fast. You clenched your hands into the carpet beside you and twitched, legs stretching and pressing into the floor beside his ribs. He licked you until you were whining then brought the tip of his index finger to where he had just pulled his tongue from. He looked up at you then, lifting a little between your legs to meet your eyes.
His beard was wet. It shined in the light. The sight of it was orgasmic in itself. His lips were shiny too, and he licked them like he had indulged in a delicacy, like he needed to savour it, and you would have twitched into another orgasm right then.
“I’m going to push my finger in now. Tell me if it hurts or you wish to stop at any time,” he ordered, and you nodded, your lips parting as you panted.
Baelor touched your clit softly with his index finger and your hips jerked harshly, a strangled sound falling from your mouth. You would have whined at him that it was sensitive if you didn’t think he did it for that exact reaction. He pressed the back of his middle finger between your lips and dragged up and down, making sure it was wet with your slick before he brought it down to your hole and began pressing in.
You closed your eyes again and allowed yourself just to feel the sensation. It was an intrusion, and you clenched and unclenched around it. You were warm and wet on the inside too, but it was ten times as much, like a perfect furnace. The texture of your walls was soft and fleshy, pushing and pulling and pulsing, and he pushed his finger to the hilt then dragged it back and forth.
You felt that hot sparkle inside you again, those waves that increased in frequency until it was a frantic up and down. He held your hips steady with his other hand as you writhed and humped against his hand. In and out, in and out. His thumb moved up and dragged against your clit, taking your wetness and smearing it along the swollen nub until you were whining and moaning from your tight throat, calling his name. He pressed another finger in with the first, watching you writhe a little more at the stretch and burn. He pushed and pulled, panted as he watched you twitch and stretch and cum against his hand.
This one had been even more intense. It left you splayed out and trembling, melted into the carpet and spinning in the head. You focused on the shadows behind your eyelids, panting and slowly loosening. Baelor caressed your legs, the outside of your thigh and the expanse of your stomach. He watched you carefully, waited patiently until your eyes fluttered open and you were looking at him with amazement. He tilted his head and kissed the inside of your knee.
“Would you like to continue or stop here?” He asked quietly, his voice a murmur against your skin. You gulped and wet your lips.
“Continue, please,” you breathed out, and he nodded, bringing your knees from his shoulders and placing your feet on the carpet either side of him.
He rose onto his knees and pulled down the waistband of his underwear. He dragged it down his thighs then under one knee and then the other. You blinked at the sight of his cock, flushed red at the tip and ready. Perhaps that was your biggest vote of confidence, that he was already hard. Surely that meant you did something right, that he found you even a little attractive. The sight had you both tensing and melting further into the carpet.
His cock was flushed red and thick, just the right size all over you guessed. It was shiny with precum and as he reached over for the condom, his other hand dragged over it, rubbing up and down once or twice as he shivered. With shaking arms, you pushed yourself up, leaning back onto one palm as the other began reaching out for his cock.
“Can I touch it?” You asked in a ragged whisper, flicking your eyes up to his. You watched him rip the packet of the condom open with his teeth, and you almost threw yourself at him. Why was such a simple sight so frenzy inducing?
“Of course,” he answered, shivering when your fingers gently wrapped around his appendage. He was hot to the touch, damp with cum, and softer than you had expected. You weren’t quite sure what you had been expecting, but it was nice. You kept your grip relatively loose, not realising how teasing that felt when you traversed it up and down him. His breathing became ragged, his chest heaving at the light touches you dragged along his cock and down to his balls. You touched the skin there too, fascinated by the tightness there, and he huffed and puffed from his mouth, not wishing to stop you but becoming more and more desperate to be inside you.
When you had had your fill, you pulled back and leaned on both hands to watch him roll the condom down onto his cock. He did it with practiced ease, slipping it over the head and rolling it down securely. Once it was done, he was quick to lean over you, pressing his mouth to yours. He kissed you, laved his tongue between your lips, rubbed his beard to your chin and cheeks as he pushed forward until you were laying back down and he was hovering over you, his hips encased between your thighs. You could taste yourself on him and his beard, could taste that dewiness as he smashed his mouth to yours until you couldn’t breathe.
He pressed his weight down on you, your chest to his, your nipples rubbing against his skin and chest hair. Your stomach rubbed his with every heaving breath, and you could feel his cock just touching your cunt. He caressed your cheek with one hand and looked into your eyes.
“You can say no at any point. You can ask me to stop whenever you wish, to end everything without any consequences or questions. Understood?” You nodded hurriedly in response but you were so close now, so desperate despite your fear and hesitance.
Baelor nodded once then kissed you as he reached down with his hand and notched his cock at your entrance. He began to push in, groaning into your mouth as your wet heat enveloped him. You felt it press through you, separate places that had always been together. You felt it all the way inside you, heavy and hot and rubbing against those spots that pulsed electricity into the rest of you. He kept a steady pace and kissed you to distract from the discomfort and stinging at your entrance. Your muscles were too spent from the previous orgasms to fight against his cock too much.
He paused at the end, panting against your mouth. He felt your hands splay against his back, your nails curling into the skin at his ribs. He felt every shift of your hips, the tightening of your thighs over his waist. The place just above his cock pushed at your cunt and rubbed against your clit, forcing it to pulse frantically and send your brain reeling.
He waited for the contortions on your face to loosen a little, for your panting breaths to slow and the way you clenched your cunt around him to become more steady and deliberate. You ran your hand down his back and cupped his waist, just feeling his skin and muscles. He kissed you again, pressed his tongue past your lips, then began to move. You felt it drag through you, as if pulling the pleasure and then pushing it back in.
You whined against his lips, head dropping back as your body went weak. One of his hands threaded under your arm and then up to cup the back of your neck, holding you tight to his body as he sped up his thrusts. His other hand held tight to your waist, pulling you up against his thrusts.
Every motion your body made felt instinctual, involuntary. Every twitch was wrought from the fiery pleasure that pulsed from the drag of your clit against his skin. Every moan was punched from your throat as he thrust his cock back into you, a little harder than before. You pressed your mouth to his shoulder, biting a little when the drags began to push you higher onto the precipice.
“Baelor,” you moaned, turning your head to begin mouthing at the skin of his neck, kissing and sucking at it.
He groaned loudly, a low and rough sound in your hair, and his grip on you tightened. His thrusts became quicker, the sound of skin slapping and wet squelching unmistakable now. You whined. The pleasure was a pulse between your thighs. Everything was electric. Your ears were dull thumping rushes. Your fingertips were blunt and twitching. Your nipples taut, rubbing against his chest and zapping your insides with heat. You panted, clenched, pressed into his thrusts. Your fingernails dug into his back, your arms trembling. You trembled entirely.
And then the wave washed over, your mouth dropping open on a long moan. It covered you from head to toe, warmth and throbbing and weakness. You were spent, a mass of flesh and skin and pulsing warmth.
He bit down on the side of your neck when he came, groaning loudly and huffing and puffing. He held you tightly as his hips twitched, the last drags of his own pleasure swimming out of him. He attempted to roll off of you, but you whined and wrapped your arms around him, whimpering a ‘stay here please’ at the pleasant weight of him there. He hesitated a fraction, blinked quickly to try and look down at your face, ask if you were sure, but you whined again and pulled him back down and he went with it.
He hummed softly as you caressed his back, pressing gentle kisses to your shoulder. He murmured little words of praise, how you did so well, how you looked beautiful, how you were utterly perfect. It felt almost like another orgasm, a soft wave of warmth over you, stemming from the whispers that entered your ears.
When you had finally caught your breath enough to deem your mind coherent, you caressed a hand through his hair and pressed your lips to his cheek for a chaste kiss before dragging them up to his ear and whispering, “thank you.”
Baelor hummed quietly to himself as he quickly sliced an entire cucumber. ‘Here Comes The Sun’ by the Beatles played softly in the background just over the boiling of the pasta and the hum of the oven. It would be a late lunch, he thought, as he looked out onto the back garden through the sliding doors, to the lovely sunshine on the green grass and the little table set with plates and cutlery and glasses.
He was in a particularly good mood that day. He woke up rather late, slowly and without an alarm blaring to the bright sunshine streaming through the sheer white curtains. He had rolled out of bed, ambled his way to the bathroom and carefully examined the now slowly fading marks of your teeth on his shoulder, the one purplish bruise just above his collarbone. He pressed lightly on them, thought back to how he had been wearing collared shirts and turtlenecks for the past week, and smiled slightly, shaking his head as he hopped in the shower.
He was dressed casually, a black polo that Matarys deemed his most ‘dad’ shirt, and a loose pair of jogger bottoms. He ate a quick breakfast over the counter as he put on the tv in the background, and now here he was, finishing off lunch just in time for his sons to arrive. He had more than one reason to be happy today. He loved Saturdays, because they meant family lunch with Valarr and Matarys, and you had a session booked in for Monday which meant he would get to see you very soon. He was almost scared by how much he longed for it…
“Daaaad!” The door opened and then a long call, surely Matarys returning from his hockey practice if the rustling and banging by the door was anything to go by. “Val’s here too!”
Baelor smiled brightly, wiping his hands on the dish towel and walking around the counter to head in the direction of the entryway. It was a particularly big day for another reason: Valarr was bringing his girlfriend home for the first time.
Baelor rounded the corner, a warm smile already pulling at his lips as he spotted his youngest son, his hair a sweaty mop as he toed off his shoes and turned back to speak quickly to his elder brother. Then Valarr, sunglasses pushed up onto his head, wearing a navy blue button down casually opened at the top and a pair of jeans, smiling softly at the girl beside hi-
There you were, standing in a beautiful navy blue dress, lips parted and staring at him like a deer in headlights. Baelor felt his heart stop beating. Your hair was neatly pinned in a half-up half-down style, the dress was respectfully modest, and you clutched a bouquet of flowers and a candle politely in front of you. Baelor couldn’t get his body to cooperate. Your hands began to shake, your lips parting as you stared up into his mismatched eyes. Valarr rubbed the small of your back gently looking between you and Baelor, his smile a picture of restrained excitement. He had been telling you non-stop how excited he was for you to meet his father.
✧ Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x female reader (no use of y/n or any form of physical descriptors).
✧ Content warning: oral stimulation (male receiving), a reserved and out-of-practice Baelor is pursued by an overeager and scheming reader, cock warming via throat, overall detailed filth.
✦ — Baelor is a widower who hasn’t been intimate with anyone in quite some time, that is, until you make it your purpose in life to unravel his restrained exterior.
When you arrive at the Red Keep, along with your parents and several other families of the realm, you quickly discover that Prince Baelor is nothing like you had anticipated he would be.
You had expected someone colder, which was foolish as all you had ever heard of the heir was of his generous and compassionate nature.
The older prince’s attentive eyes, kind smiles, and gentle mannerisms, as well as the soft lines of age that bordered his gaze and mouth, only amplified his handsomeness, adding a distinguished elegance to his face that no other man you had ever come across had been able to pull off.
Still, a part of you had entertained the notion that those favourable rumors could have been distorted, intentionally spread embellishments of his true, wicked nature, and found yourself both relieved and disappointed when he portrayed himself to be the very representative of nobility and grace.
I would not have minded being ravished by him, you had mused mindlessly, gaze following his figure as he moved around the hall to greet each guest, regardless of their class, with equal civility and warmth.
As the days passed, you found yourself pleasantly surprised to classify Baelor’s demeanour as mellow and his humour, which he rarely exhibited, as neither cruel or demeaning. The prince had a particularly delicate way of sharing his wisdoms and decrees without coming across as arrogantly entitled; it was an advantageous trait that not many men were gifted with.
By the second week of being in his presence you were enraptured by him, from the way his mouth moved when he spoke, to how he would sit back and listen, without judgement, whilst fiddling with his rings.
Baelor’s eyes would relentlessly analyze his surroundings, occasionally falling on you for a beat or two before moving along, never pushing past the barrier of what propriety allowed.
And Gods, did those odd-coloured eyes of his pique your interest, just as his long, thick fingers did–digits that you had spent every night since you arrived envisioning touching you in places that a proper lady shouldn’t even have knowledge about.
You had your vulgar novels to thank for your ability to conjure up lewd images at your whim, and it was his grace’s face that you dreamt of looking up at from where you would kneel on the ground, unconcerned with how debauched that desire would make you appear if you could have him fall apart from your touch.
How pretty would he look on the precipice of release?
It was then that you decided you wanted him, his heaviness on your tongue, his fingers in your hair, his mismatched gaze on your face as you pleasured him.
Your plan to capture the older prince’s heart began small.
You would frequently idle within the halls he would regularly pass, periodically showing up when your father was discussing politics with the prince under the pretense that you had a very important message to disclose to him from your mother.
Of course, your father played his part equally well once he learned of your aspirations for the heir’s affections.
Eventually, Baelor became expectant of you, gradually appearing more lively when you would predictably show up each time to shower him in your undivided attention.
“You look remarkably well rested this morning, your grace,” you would casually say, ignoring the disapproving glances from the nobles loitering, eyes solely focused on the way the older prince would stiffen at your words.
“Thank you, my lady, you are most kind,” Baelor had replied after a moment of flustered silence, seemingly having difficulty maintaining your direct stare.
After weeks of bringing him handmade gifts, paying him extravagant compliments, “accidentally” bumping into him in isolated places you should not have been visiting in the first place, your hard work is proven to be successful when he finally asks you, and then your father, for your hand in marriage.
Now, as his betrothed, you conclude that you are allowed to touch him as often and intimately as you please.
“Your hands are so large, your grace,” you praised, a finger ticklishly trailing over his wide palm, “they were made to wield a big, heavy sword.”
The corner of Baelor’s mouth twitches, a modest smile beginning to form as he glances away with a shake of his head.
“You are too generous with your words,” he murmured, a colouring of red painting the tops of his ears and scruffy cheeks, "unfortunately, I have a meeting to attend, but I look forward to seeing you on the morrow.”
“As do I, your grace,” your voice was sultry, lashes fluttering as you gazed up at his rising form whilst nibbling on your bottom lip.
It produced the result you had hoped it would, the flush dusted across his face darkening as he swallowed.
“Until then, my lady.” he said to you after a moment, eyes glancing behind you to acknowledge your chaperone with a nod of his head before he moved to leave.
You watched gleefully as he strolled away, heart leaping within your chest when he turned to glance back at you once more just as he turned the corner.
For a man considerably older and more knowledgeable than you, both of the world and when it came to intimacy, he certainly appeared easily affected by your teasing.
How delightful.
You were content with how slowly things were moving until one night, when you happened across a stable boy singing about “Prince Baelor” and a “giant, veiny.. host of Dornish spearmen”, that you knew you could no longer wait for the marriage ceremony to take place before you saw all of your betrothed’s well-endowed traits.
“I must admit there is a topic I find myself often pondering, your grace,” you began nonchalantly one evening during a stroll of the grounds, hand tucked into the crevice of Baelor’s elbow as he guided you back towards his tower.
The sky’s pink and orange dusk highlighted his silvery-grey hairs and one blue eye prettily, the lack of sunlight darkening his brown eye until it appeared as black as the majority of the short strands atop his head.
Baelor’s head turned towards you as he waited for you to continue, the muscles in his arms flexing under your hold; you had him as affected by your presence as you needed him to be for you to proceed with the next step of your plan.
“However,” you leaned closer, purposely invading his space until the tip of your nose is brushing against his throat, “I cannot speak of it where the wrong ears may hear.”
The hitch of his breath and clearing of his throat have you suppressing a knowing smile, opting to instead gaze up at him innocuously as you wait for him to invite you inside his solar for privacy.
Which is exactly what he does.
“I apologize for the mess,” Baelor says quietly, sitting across from where he had motioned for you to settle yourself comfortably only a moment ago.
Your eyes drift across the space, taking in his scroll-covered desk as well as the many shelves that lined the walls, all of which were filled to the brim with books pertaining to every kind of law, topic, and custom that the heir to the throne ought to have immediate access to.
“You may speak freely here,” his tongue swiped across his lips to moisten them, back rigid as he patiently waited for you to finish your earlier thoughts.
“I heard a stable boy singing a tune I find myself unable to forget,” you start harmlessly, fingers tightening in your skirts as you fix your face into a look of innocent curiosity.
“A stable boy?” Baelor repeats, brows furrowing as he contemplates all the possible things you might have overheard, none of them befitting of a lady’s ears.
“Yes, your grace,” you continued, “it was a catchy song, one about a giant, veiny–,”
Baelor’s quick to cut you off, “You must not concern yourself with such songs, my lady,” his tone is laced with embarrassment, a dark hue traveling up his neck as he offers you a tight smile that he hopes, you’re certain, will deter you from probing further.
Unsurprisingly, it has the opposite effect.
“My prince,” you urge, standing up to peer down at him, “I must know.”
“There is nothing to know, my dear girl,” he offered another, more forced smile up at you, “I shall accompany you back to the dining hall.”
“Please, your grace,” you’re kneeling between his legs, ignoring his look of alarm, “I wish to see it,”
“Gods–see what?”
“Your giant, veiny host of Dornish spearmen, of course,” you reply matter-of-factly, hands rising to rest on his tense thighs.
Baelor’s mouth is agape and eyes are wide as he struggles to formulate a response in his stunned state.
“I must know, my prince,” you pushed his doublet up to access the ties of his breeches easier, “it is my right, is it not?” your fingers undid the secure knot with little trouble before tugging them open.
“You cannot possibly–,”
“Oh!” you interrupted, mouth watering at the sight of his soft, dangling appendage. It was nearly exactly as you had imagined it would be, albeit thicker, but you were close enough.
Without thinking, you grasped it in your hand, carelessly pushing the velvety skin back to reveal his tip to the cool air and your greedy gaze, ignoring the older man’s sputtering.
“This is not right,” Baelor finally bit out, his hands enclosing around your wrists to stop you from touching him further. Unluckily for him, your mouth was unrestricted and more than willing to join in.
Clumsily, you opened your lips just wide enough to engulf the soft head of his length within your warm, wet mouth, eyes watering as you stared up at him.
The guttural moan that escaped him had you slipping further down his twitching thickness, encouraged by the crack in his composure.
Gods, you wanted to witness him completely undone.
“I want to see it,” you declared aloud, words muffled.
You release him with an obscene pop to eagerly suckle at the sides of his half-hardened cock, saliva messily dripping down the length as his brows remain raised in a mixture of dumbfounded shock and pleasure.
Unintentionally, his hands tightened around your wrists, but you were unconcerned as you moved backwards to take in the size of him now that he was properly aroused.
“You wished to withhold this from me, your grace?” you ask accusingly before returning to his burning flesh, tongue dipping out to deliver light licks along the underneath of it.
“Please,” Baelor’s voice is so soft you nearly don’t hear his pleas over the sounds of you sloppily lapping at him, “please..” a clear substance is now steadily oozing out of his twitching cockhead.
Your legs press tighter together at the desperate neediness in his tone, cunt dripping in response to his helpless begging.
“Do not go so deep–oh, Gods,”
The noises that filled his solar were filthy, they belonged to a pleasure house courtesy of a talented whore, not the hand’s solar who was being brought to ruin by his highborn betrothed.
One of his hands released its hold on you to slide behind your neck, grasping loosely as you continued to force more of his length within your mouth, tears streaming down your cheeks as you fought the urge to gag at the dull pressure against the back of your throat.
“Do not force it–,” Baelor starts, his lower-lidded gaze focused on the way half of his cock was engulfed by your swollen lips, “do not injure yourself.”
His words did nothing but feed your desire to take him entirely, to swallow his length until your throat took its shape, to feel the outline of it in your neck long after he had withdrawn from the heated, tight passage of your mouth.
You withdrew to mumble determinedly, “I will take all of it,” before swallowing him down again, moaning loudly in response to his deep groan.
You reached down to cup the hefty sacs tightening below, fingers kneading them until Baelor was twitching in your hold and mouth.
“I cannot hold back any longer,” a mortified groan accompanied his hushed words, “please, I cannot–,”
Suddenly, he’s bending forward at the waist just as thick ropes of cum hit the back of your throat, a pathetic moan leaving his lips when you persist with your enthusiastic swallowing.
“Sweet girl,” Baelor begs shakily, trembling as his hips move backwards to escape your sucking, “please, that’s enough.”
You ignore him and the attempts he makes to dislodge your mouth from his appendage, continuing to suck until the entirety of his soft, bulky cock is snug within your mouth.
Baelor is quiet when you stare up at his heaving form, his hands tightly clutching at the cushions below as he struggles to collect his thoughts.
You move to make yourself more comfortable; your knees turning to put your weight on one leg, chest leaning forward to rest your head against his solid, tense thigh as your chin nudges upwards to keep his cock encased between your puffy, spit-slicked lips.
Once comfortable, you resume your light suckling, jaw aching from the unfamiliar stretch, throat burning from his fat cockhead repeatedly nudging against its sensitive walls.
“Gods, what have I done,” Baelor finally gets out, hands rising to cover his feverish face.
“Thank you, your grace,” your words are muffled as you speak around his length, cheekily squinting up at him when he visibly shivers from the vibrations that shoot up his body from where you remained enclosed around him.
Summary: You attempted to embroider a handkerchief for Maekar as a gift for the first nameday he would celebrate as your husband. It did not go exactly as planned.
Word count: 1.9K
Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, second-wife reader, unspecified age-gap, fluff, silly, quiet intimacy, English is my second language, proof read once
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.
A/N: It all started as a silly idea for Baelor, but then I could not stop myself from writing about Maekar as well. Thank you as always for all your likes, reblogs, comments and follows! I do appreciate each and every single one of them!!
You wanted to make something nice for Maekar. His first nameday since you got married was approaching fast, and you wanted him to have something special from you. Your husband did not lack gifts, but none of them ever seemed personal.
Wishing to rectify that, you thought embroidering a handkerchief for him would be the perfect solution. It was small, useful and something he might actually like. Although embroidery was never your strongest skill, you spent a fortnight working on it slowly.
The cream linen itself was lovely, soft beneath your fingers. You had stitched the edges carefully in black thread. But then you made the mistake of attempting to add the Targaryen sigil.
And now, a few days before his nameday, you sat by the window of your chamber, the despair growing in your chest as you stared at the disaster in your lap.
“You were supposed to be ferocious.” You informed the dragon accusingly.
Maekar was not cruel, but he was proud. A severe warrior prince. You could not imagine presenting him with this crooked little monstrosity without dying of shame the moment he looked at it.
But, you wanted him to have something from you. Something made because you thought of him while making it.
The sound of boots outside your chambers startled you from your thoughts. Your heart lurched and too late, you tried to hide the handkerchief as the door opened.
Maekar stepped inside still dressed from training, silver hair damp at the temples, shirt opened at the neck. There was always something imposing and beautiful about him after sparring. His gaze landed immediately on you, then narrowed at the linen in your lap.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Nothing.” You said, standing and hiding the cloth instinctively around your back.
“It does not look like nothing.” He said, coming closer.
“It is an ugly, unfinished project, my love.” You attempted to dissuade him.
Heat crawled up your neck as you felt his gaze on you like a touch. You could still save yourself, you thought. You could say that it was practice, a gift for one of his children.
You hesitated too long, and his eyes sharpened immediately.
“It is for you…” You admitted finally, sighing. “I… tried to make something for your nameday.”
His expression shifted into something more attentive and somewhat warmer. You suddenly wished even more desperately that the dragon did not resemble a dying bird.
“It was supposed to be better than this.” You rambled quickly. “I wanted to make something nice, but halfway through I realized it looked ridiculous and I thought perhaps it would offend you! So I decided not to-”
Maekar simply held out his hand.
You blinked, confused. “What?”
“The handkerchief.” He stated simply. “Give it to me.”
“No!” You said, mortification washed over you instantly.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because you will look at it.”
“That is generally what one does with things, wife.”
“But it is terrible! Simply dreadful! I cannot give it to you.”
“I have survived worse.” He grunted. “Now give it here.”
You stared at him suspiciously for a long moment before finally surrendering the linen.
Maekar unfolded it carefully. There was silence, absolute, unbearable silence as his eyes moved slowly across the embroidery. Once, twice, then again, his brows furrowing deeper with every passing second. The shape made very little sense to him. It was clearly something, or perhaps several somethings in red thread.
He turned the handkerchief slightly sideways. There was a neck, he was sure of it, curved at such an unnatural angle it looked broken. And there were leaves, or flames, he was not certain. Then, he turned it upside down, which somehow made it worse because now it looked like a damned crab.
Gods, a battlefield map might have been easier to decipher.
“What in Seven Hells is this?” He finally asked.
Mortification flooded through you like a crashing wave.
“It is supposed to be a dragon…” You mumbled weakly. “I tried to stitch the sigil of your house, my love.”
At that, Maekar looked back down at the embroidery. Then back at you, and slowly back at the embroidery again. Now that he knew what to look for, he recognised the shape. One of the heads was noticeably larger than the others, while the other appeared to be stuck in permanent outrage. The third looked exhausted by the entire situation. If he were truly honest, the three heads of the Targaryen dragon resembled three deeply offended snakes.
Maekar continued staring, and then, to your absolute horror, a sharp snort escaped him.
“Oh, you are cruel.” You gasped in betrayal.
“I did not say anything.” He attempted to regain some composure and control of the situation.
“But you laughed!” You groaned, covering your face with your hands.
Scoffing, he looked back at the dragon once more. “Becuase the heads look personally insulted by their own existence."
“Or maybe it is because the dragon knows you are mocking it!” You said dramatically, glaring at the offending fabric through your fingers.
Another snort escaped him before he could stop it.
“Maekar!” Your eyes widened in scandalised outrage, before declaring miserably. “It is horrible! I know it! And now you know it too!”
“I did not fucking say anything like that.” Maekar replied, sounding truly exasperated now.
“But you looked at it in silence for nearly a minute! And then you laughed!”
“I did it because it required examination.”
“It is an embroidery, not a strategy for the battlefield.”
That finally broke him and a real laugh escaped him this time. You looked at him in utter betrayal. His gaze dropped back to the dragon, thumb brushing once over the crooked red stitching.
“You made this yourself…” It was not a question.
You nodded reluctantly, warmth settling in your chest at his somewhat soft tone.
“For me.” Maekar looked at you then and something unreadable lingered in his expression. It was not softness, but it was dangerously close.
“No one has ever made me a dragon before.” He said quietly.
Your throat tightened, the words landing heavier than anything else in the room.
“It is still a bad one.” You whispered. “It is not what you deserve, my love.”
“But it is mine.” He said firmly. “Just as you are mine, wife.”
Before you could respond, he stepped closer, finger warm against your jaw as he tilted your chin upward. You barely had time to breathe before he kissed you.
Maekar kissed like he did everything else, deliberate and thorough. His warmth surrounded you completely, as he drew you closer, hand tightened gently against your jaw and hips firm against yours. When a low moan escaped you, something in him shifted. He wrapped his other arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him, the kiss deepening at once.
It was possessive in that devastating way that made your heart stumble painfully in your chest.
His thumb brushed slowly along your jaw and neck, as though soothing you even while he kissed you harder. And the contrast nearly undid you entirely. You could feel the restraint in him, the effort to remain under control. Yet the unmistakable hunger and affection lived underneath, wrapped tightly beneath all that iron self-control.
When he finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead against yours. Your annoyance dissolved completely, leaving only warmth and the dizzy awareness of how closely he was still holding you.
“You did not need to hesitate to give me your gift…” He said quietly.
You sighed. “I thought you might be offended...”
“I am not easily offended.”
Maekar’s thumb brushed once against your cheek before he released you entirely. He looked down at the handkerchief again. Then, with a finality that brooked no argument, he folded it carefully and gave it back to you.
“You will finish it.” He said simply.
“Even if it looks like that?”
“Yes.” He grunted. “I intend to keep it.”
And this time, when he looked at you again, there was something quieter in his gaze. Something that suggested he meant more than just the dragon.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
You hoped, perhaps foolishly, that Maekar would keep the handkerchief privately. Maybe tucked away in a chest somewhere, or hidden among his things. Instead, he carried it with him. Not openly or proudly, afterall Maekar was not the sort of man who displayed sentiment for the world to admire. But it was constant enough that you began noticing flashes of cream linen and crooked red stitching everywhere.
And it was not just you.
No one dared question him directly at first, because your husband’s presence discouraged any foolishness naturally. Unfortunately, that did not apply to every knight. When one squinted openly at the fabric and remarked if it actually was a dragon, Maekar looked sharply at him.
“Concern yourself with your swordsmanship. Leave dragons to House Targaryen.” He said threateningly.
You wanted simultaneously to kiss him and disappear into the floor.
When a courtier, one of those men who thrived on false smiles and subtle mockery, remarked lightly that it was an “unusual interpretation” of the royal sigil, humiliation rose instantly in your throat. But Maekar looked at him, with a cold anger that suddenly made the air feel thinner.
“Careful.” The single word cut through like a blade. The courtier paled immediately.
“It was made by my wife.” Maekar said evenly. “And I would advise you to be careful how amusing you find that.”
The courtier attempted a weak smile. “I intended no insult, your Grace.”
“And yet you continue insulting me with your presence. Fuck off!” He growled.
You stared at him, and for a brief moment, his hand grasped yours firmly. The warmth of it lingered long after.
Then came Aegon, who unlike others, did not mock your little dragon. When he wandered one evening into Maekar’s solar, he noticed the handkerchief beside the candlelight, and picked it up curiously.
“Father, why does it look like that?” He asked bluntly.
You nearly choked on your own spit, from where you sat nearby with your book.
“That is because it is a dragon.” Maekar deadpanned.
“It looks like one head wants to bite the other ones.”
“They can be angry creatures.”
The boy considered this carefully, before nodding solemnly and accepting this explanation completely with the seriousness it deserved.
“You carry it everywhere.”
Maekar’s expression did not change, but something gentler settled beneath the severity.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His answer came without hesitation. “Because it was made for me.”
That was all. It was nothing poetic or elaborate, but the words settled warm and heavy in your chest. It became impossible not to understand what he was truly defending.
It was never the dragon, because even he understood that the creature looked mildly cursed.
It was you.
And the fact you wanted to make something for him badly enough to sit for nights stabbing your fingers raw with needles.
Maekar was not a gentle man, he was fire and iron sharpened by duty. But everyday, he carried your ridiculous little dragon as though it were something precious. And he never once hid it away. And he defended it every single time.
That realisation changed everything. The embarrassment remained and you suspected it always would whenever someone stared too hard at the linen. But beneath all that, something softer began blooming. Pure love and affection for your husband, especially when you caught him later at night absentmindedly smoothing his thumb once across the red stitching before joining you in bed.
And when Maekar looked at you afterwards, quietly and impossibly warm, you thought every crooked stitch was worth it after all.
From the same universe as: That Is Not My Baby, You Heathen
Pairing: Prince Valarr x Reader ( "You" referred)
Summary:
Prince Baelor takes both of his grandsons on a cheerful tour of Summerhall and promptly discovers that the younger one is built like a royal loaf. After one near-disaster on the stairs, he earns the ire of his daughter-in-law. Valarr is left pleading “Father, please” for the sake of his marriage and his life, and Aerion makes everything worse by calling the baby chonky.
Warnings:
Baelor lives. Duncan and Aerion are on better terms. Humor. Family fluff. Aerion suffering.Body shaming a baby?! He is chonky though. It is a very chill, feel good, everyone is alive and safe.
The morning had ripened fair and bright over Summerhall, all pale gold sun and long clean banners stirring lazily from tower and parapet. The keep seemed gentler in such hours, before the day’s petitions gathered, before men began bringing their grievances and ambitions into its halls. Servants moved through the corridors with baskets of linen and polished flagons, maids with ribbons at their belts and boys carrying logs for hearths not yet in need of them. Through the open windows the scent of rosemary and warm stone drifted in from the gardens below, mingled with the faint sweetness of crushed grass and the distant, dusty smell of the yard where squires had already begun their morning’s bruising labor.
It ought to have been a peaceful hour.
It might even have remained one, had Prince Baelor not come striding into the family solar with the bright, dangerous confidence of a grandsire who loved his descendants dearly and therefore believed himself equal to every task involving them.
Your elder son had gone to him gladly enough, for he adored his grandsire with that easy, unquestioning devotion children gave to men who laughed readily and made the world feel broad and exciting. He had been perched already upon the carved window seat, half listening while Ser Duncan told him some account of horses from years past, when Baelor entered and opened his arms.
“There is my young prince,” Baelor had said, and the boy was across the room at once.
The younger one had been in your lap, drowsy with milk and recent sleep, all soft cheeks and milk-white hair and stubborn little fists. He was heavy even at rest. Not merely well-grown, but substantial. He had the serene, treacherous weight of a babe who appeared all softness until one attempted to lift him and discovered, too late, that he had been made out of lead and cream.
Baelor, seeing one grandson already in his arms and the other blinking up from your lap, had smiled with fatal confidence.
“Well,” he said, “I cannot walk the keep with only half my pride in hand.”
You had laughed then, because the day was bright, because Baelor looked so pleased with himself, and because it had not yet occurred to you that the gods were about to be amused.
Valarr, who had been standing near the hearth fastening one dark leather glove about his wrist, glanced over at once. “Father,” he said, and there was the faintest note in his voice, no more than the first warning tremor before a bridge gives way, “perhaps take them one at a time.”
Baelor waved him off.
“Nonsense. Have I gone soft, that I cannot manage my grandsons?”
Prince Maekar, seated not far off with a cup of watered wine in hand, watched over the rim with the sort of expression he reserved for tourneys, council sessions, and Aerion. It was not disapproval exactly, but a grave expectation that foolishness was imminent and that he would somehow be made to suffer it merely by witnessing it.
Aerion, lounging by the open archway with his shoulder against the stone and his arms folded, said nothing. Yet a certain stillness came into him, a particular brightness about the eyes that suggested he, too, sensed some coming entertainment and meant to enjoy it as long as none of the consequences touched him.
Baelor bent and gathered the babe from your lap with every appearance of ease.
For a single, glorious heartbeat, all was well.
Then the baby settled fully into his arms.
Baelor’s brows rose.
It was a very small movement, but those who knew him saw it at once. The slight hitch in breath. The abrupt tightening through the shoulders. The near-imperceptible shift of stance as he adjusted his footing like a man who had expected a cushion and instead found himself handed a sack of wet grain in embroidered swaddling.
Your elder son, already balanced happily upon Baelor’s other arm, turned his head and looked at his baby brother with keen interest, then back to his grandsire.
“He is heavy,” he observed.
Baelor, who had far too much pride to retreat while observed by half his family, let out a short laugh. “Only because he is thriving.”
“Thriving,” Aerion murmured under his breath, not quite softly enough, “like a castle-fed piglet.”
Maekar’s head turned.
Not sharply. That would have wasted energy. He merely looked at Aerion.
It was enough.
Aerion lifted one shoulder, as if to say he had spoken no falsehood and saw little reason to repent of accuracy merely because it had offended decorum.
Valarr, who knew his cousin too well, shut his eyes for one brief moment and then opened them again.
Baelor, determined now, resettled the child higher against his chest. The babe, delighted by motion and utterly trusting, gave a pleased little hum and seized a fold of Baelor’s sleeve in one plump fist. His white head gleamed in the sunlight. One blue eye and one brown fixed solemnly upon the room as if he were already judging it.
“There,” Baelor said, more to reassure his audience than himself. “You see? Perfectly manageable.”
“No one said otherwise,” Valarr answered, which was princely speech for put him down before you embarrass yourself.
But Baelor had already committed. That was always the danger of him. Once some bright notion seized his heart, he carried it forward with all the vigor of a man half his age and twice the confidence.
“I shall show them the eastern gallery,” he declared. “And the painted shields. And the old dragon carvings on the stair. A prince ought to know his home.”
“Both of them?” you asked, smiling despite yourself.
Baelor looked almost offended. “What, would you have me deprive one grandson for the comfort of my own arms?”
That was noble enough in sentiment, if not in wisdom.
So off he went, one boy riding easily upon his left arm, the younger clutched upon the right, and a small procession trailing after in varying states of fondness, alarm, and morbid curiosity. You rose and followed. Valarr came too, though with the resigned pace of a man already anticipating disaster. Duncan, drawn perhaps by the same instinct that led large dogs toward kitchen mishaps, came behind him. Egg slipped after them with bright eyes. Maekar set down his cup with the dignity of a man accepting punishment from the gods and followed as well. Aerion lingered last, because he would rather die than appear eager, though he came all the same.
The first part went well enough.
Baelor carried the boys through the sunlit passage above the inner court, speaking to them as though both were already of an age to understand. He pointed out old tapestries browned at the edges with time, told your elder son which king had built which tower, and informed the babe, with complete seriousness, that one day he must learn the difference between a dragon worked in red thread and one done in black. The elder listened earnestly. The younger gnawed upon his own fist and drooled onto Baelor’s collar.
Servants smiled as they passed. Guards bowed their heads. One old woman in the laundry gallery made the sign for luck when she saw the little princes borne along so proudly, as if Summerhall itself had decided to soften and grow domestic for an hour.
Then they came to the turning stair.
It was broad enough and shallow enough, with carved stone dragons crouched along the banister, their wings curled and their teeth worn smooth by generations of childish hands. Baelor paused there, perhaps intending some grand gesture, perhaps merely shifting the baby’s weight before continuing.
That was the moment the child chose to lean.
He did it with all the cheerful conviction of infancy, sudden and absolute, one plump leg kicking, one arm flinging outward toward the carved dragon on the post as if he had decided, in that instant, that he must possess it.
Baelor, taken unawares, adjusted too late.
The babe slipped.
Not far.
But enough.
Enough that Baelor’s grip lurched. Enough that the child’s weight tipped heavily downward. Enough that every soul upon that stair felt the bottom drop out of the morning.
“Oh—whoa, whoa—”
The words came from half a dozen mouths at once.
You made a sound that did not belong in princely corridors at all.
Valarr moved so fast the leather of his boots bit the stone. One hand shot out beneath the baby before he had dropped more than an inch, the other bracing Baelor’s arm. Duncan lunged forward behind him on pure instinct. Egg nearly collided with Duncan’s back in his own haste to see. Your elder son clutched at Baelor’s shoulder, eyes wide. Even the nearest guard stepped forward before remembering that to lay hands upon princes unbidden was its own kind of madness.
Prince Maekar, standing two steps below, flinched visibly.
It was not dramatic. He did not cry out. Yet the wince crossed his face plain as daylight, brief and sharp and unhidden, the expression of a man who had seen tourney lances splinter and sons thrown from horseback and who had no wish to add dropped royal infants to the tally of things he must endure before death.
By the time the moment had finished unfolding, the baby was safe.
Very safe.
Safe in that absurd way children sometimes were, where seven adults had nearly died of fright and he himself only blinked, offended by the interruption of his adventure.
Valarr had him now, one strong hand under his son’s bottom, the other firm across his back. The child stared up at him for a moment, surprised, then gave a happy little noise as if this had all been an elaborate game staged for his amusement.
Silence fell.
Baelor stood empty-armed on one side and your elder son still upon his other arm, blinking with all the sober concern of a boy not yet old enough to hide his feelings.
Valarr looked at his father.
He said nothing for one beat too long.
Then, very mildly, very clearly, he said, “Father. Please. If my wife had seen that cleanly, she would have had both our heads.”
For a moment there was nothing.
Then you heard Egg choke.
Duncan coughed into his fist.
Baelor, to his credit, had the grace to look ashamed for perhaps the length of half a heartbeat. After that, his pride reassembled itself quickly enough.
“Well,” he said, drawing himself up while your elder son still clung to him, “I am sorry. I did not think he would be this big.”
The words hung in the stairwell.
Valarr shut his eyes for the briefest moment. One could almost see the thought pass across his face: Father, why would you say that aloud?
Your own eyes widened at once, sharp with offended astonishment, as though for a heartbeat you could scarcely believe what you had just heard.
And from behind them all, low under his breath but not low enough, came Aerion’s voice:
“Because he is a chonky thing.”
Every head turned.
It happened as one motion. Duncan. Egg. You. Valarr. Even Baelor. Maekar last of all, but his was the look that mattered.
Aerion, caught squarely in the full regard of his kin, did not retreat. He merely lifted his chin the smallest fraction, as if prepared to defend himself in single combat over the right to describe the obvious.
Maekar stared at him with the cold weariness of a father whom the gods had cursed with a son both handsome and determined to be himself at every opportunity.
“Do not,” Maekar said, each word clipped clean as a blade, “call your kinsman a chonky thing.”
The word sounded profoundly unnatural in Maekar’s mouth. Even the guards had to lower their eyes and bite at the insides of their cheeks, for the whole of it had become too strange and too ridiculous to bear with proper dignity.
Aerion’s mouth twitched. That was the worst part. He was trying not to smile.
“I was speaking quietly.”
“Yes,” Egg said weakly, already beginning to fold in on himself, “that was the problem. We all heard it.”
That finished it.
You laughed first, because the fright had to go somewhere and laughter was kinder than tears. It came out breathless and bright, half relief, half scolding, half the sheer ridiculousness of seeing princes and heirs and great lords brought low by one very plump infant.
Baelor laughed next, loud and easy, because shame never held him long and the child was safe and the world had not ended. Your elder son, seeing that all was well, began to giggle too, burying his face against Baelor’s shoulder. Duncan let out one helpless bark of laughter before attempting to strangle it into something respectable and failing utterly. Egg leaned against the stair rail, one hand over his eyes, shoulders shaking.
Even Valarr gave in at last, enough that the stern line of his mouth softened and the light returned to his eyes as he looked down at the baby in his arms.
The baby, as if sensing triumph, patted his father’s jaw and crowed.
Baelor peered at him, then at Valarr, then at the babe again. “I swear he weighs more than your elder son did at twice that age.”
“You forget,” Maekar said dryly, “that your other grandson did not spend his infancy being admired into fatness.”
“He is not fat,” you said at once.
“He is well beloved,” Duncan offered, with the solemn diplomacy of a man trying to save everyone.
“Which is another way,” Aerion muttered, “of saying chon—”
“Aerion,” said Maekar.
Aerion looked almost wounded by the interruption. “I was going to say comfortable.”
“You were not,” said Egg.
“I might have.”
“You absolutely were not,” your elder son informed him, still laughing. “You said chonky.”
Traitorous child.
Aerion stared at him as if personally betrayed by blood.
Valarr shifted the baby higher and pressed a kiss against the fine white hair atop his son’s head. “You hear what they call you,” he murmured, low enough only those nearest could catch it. “And after your mother works so hard to keep you splendid.”
The baby blinked up at him, one fist still wrapped in dark cloth, with all the grave serenity of a prince secure in his own importance.
Baelor reached over then, more cautiously this time, and smoothed one broad hand over the child’s back. There was laughter still in him, but also something softer, something older. Love sat very plainly upon his face in that moment.
“He is a fine boy,” he said.
Valarr’s expression eased fully then. “He is.”
“And a heavier one than he looks,” Baelor added, which sent Egg into another fit and Duncan into a fresh cough and you into helpless laughter all over again.
Maekar closed his eyes once, very briefly, like a man beseeching the Seven for patience. When he opened them, though, even he was less severe than before. Not smiling, precisely. That would have been too much to ask of him before noon. But gentled.
“Next time,” he said to Baelor, “take one grandson and leave the other to his parents.”
Baelor sighed as though this were tyranny of the blackest sort. “You would strip an old man of joy.”
“I would spare the rest of us heart failure.”
“That too,” said Aerion.
Maekar gave him a look.
Aerion, who had apparently decided one reprimand per hour was his limit, raised both hands in surrender and leaned back against the carved dragon post.
Your elder son twisted round in Baelor’s arm to look at his baby brother, then asked very seriously, “May I still show him the painted shields later? When he is bigger?”
Valarr smiled at that. “You may show him everything.”
The boy nodded, satisfied.
And so the little procession re-formed, though with rather more care than before. Baelor kept only the elder this time and bore the change with noble resignation. Valarr carried the younger against his chest, where the child seemed entirely pleased to remain, warm and sturdy and adored. You walked beside them with your hand resting once upon the babe’s back just because you could. Duncan and Egg followed, still exchanging looks of disbelief whenever someone said the word heavy. Aerion came after with the lazy air of a man who wished it known he had not enjoyed himself, though the mutinous curve at one corner of his mouth betrayed him. Maekar brought up the rear like a stern shadow over all of it.
And Summerhall, bright under the morning sun, seemed to gather the sound of their laughter into its old stones and keep it there.
For all its towers, its blood, its pride, its dragons carved and living, it was in such moments that the place felt richest.
Not in ceremony.
Not in power.
But in the absurd, whole-hearted tenderness of one family nearly undone by the weight of a very beloved baby.
The torches in the outer passages had burned low, their light gone soft and golden against the stone, and the great keep seemed to breathe more slowly once the household had retired behind carved doors and heavy curtains. Somewhere far below, in the dark belly of the castle, a servant shut a distant door with careful hands. The sound traveled faintly upward and was gone. Outside, the wind moved warm through the gardens and set the cypresses whispering. From the stables there came now and then the muted shift of horses in straw.
Valarr found his father in the long gallery outside the family apartments, standing beside one of the arched windows with a cup in hand and the moonlight silvering one side of his face. Baelor had shed the greater weight of the day from his shoulders. Without court around him, without petitioners and retainers and watchful eyes, he looked only what he had always been beneath the dignity of his rank: a man of easy warmth, broad feeling, and occasional ruinous confidence.
He glanced over at the sound of footsteps and smiled at once.
“There you are. I thought you’d gone to bed.”
“I had meant to.”
Baelor’s smile widened. “Ah.”
Valarr came to stand beside him, one hand resting briefly on the stone sill. Beyond the window, the courtyard lay washed in pale light, banners stirring faintly above the roofs and towers. He was quiet for a moment, as if considering how best to begin.
Baelor, being Baelor, ruined that silence almost at once.
“If you have come to scold me again,” he said, “I remind you that the child did not fall.”
Valarr let out a slow breath through his nose.
“No,” he said. “He did not. By the mercy of the gods and the speed of my reflexes.”
Baelor gave a low laugh into his cup. “You are beginning to sound like your grandsire.”
“I should hope not.”
“You do when you are vexed.”
Valarr turned his head and looked at him then, pale-eyed and patient in the way that meant he was not patient at all.
“Father.”
Baelor’s laughter softened, though the amusement still lingered in his face. “Very well. I admit it. I misjudged him.”
“That is a graceful way of saying you nearly dropped my son on a stair.”
“I nearly did no such thing.”
Valarr’s brow lifted.
Baelor paused, reconsidered, then amended with dignity, “I came nearer to mishap than I had intended.”
“That,” said Valarr, “is not as reassuring as you seem to think.”
For a moment Baelor looked as though he might laugh again, but something in his son’s face held him back. He lowered the cup a little.
“You are truly angry with me, then.”
Valarr was silent.
Not angry, exactly. Not in the hot and fleeting way of boys and cousins and foolish court frictions. What sat in him now was older than that, heavier, shaped by marriage and fatherhood and the strange terror of loving something so small that one could imagine losing it in a single breath.
“At the stair,” he said at last, “I thought only that if he slipped—” He stopped there, jaw tightening a little. “And after, I thought of my wife.”
Baelor’s expression changed.
The jesting ease in him gentled, then receded.
Valarr looked back out across the moonlit court rather than at his father. “She was frightened enough already. You saw her.”
“I did.”
“And then everyone laughed.”
Baelor made a faint sound. “He was safe.”
“He was,” Valarr agreed. “That is why they laughed.” His mouth quirked once, without much humor. “And I laughed too, in the end. I know how it looked. I know no cruelty was meant. But she has been strange of late where the babe is concerned.”
Baelor listened without interruption now.
Valarr continued more quietly, “She thinks he is too large.”
Baelor blinked once. “Too large?”
“Yes.”
“He is a babe.”
“I am aware of that.”
Baelor’s mouth twitched.
Valarr gave him a warning look.
“I am trying,” Baelor said, with some effort, “not to say anything unhelpful.”
“That would be a first.”
Baelor huffed a laugh despite himself, then grew sober again. “Go on.”
Valarr folded his arms. “She frets over everything. Whether he feeds too much. Whether he is too heavy when she carries him. Whether the nurses notice. Whether the maids talk. Whether everyone thinks she has indulged him too much, held him too much, loved him too much.” He glanced aside then, and there was something weary and tender in him both at once. “As though a child may be ruined by being cherished.”
Baelor’s face softened fully then.
“Ah,” he said, and this time there was no laughter in it at all.
For a while neither spoke.
The wind moved lightly through the open arch and stirred the edge of Valarr’s sleeve.
At last Baelor said, “And I made it worse.”
Valarr looked at him. “Not gravely. Not beyond mending. But yes.”
His father exhaled.
“I only meant that he is a healthy little thing.”
“I know.”
“And he is somewhat…” Baelor paused, searching perhaps for a word less dangerous than the ones used earlier that day.
Valarr looked at him steadily.
Baelor tried again. “Round.”
Against his will, some fragment of amusement returned to Valarr’s face. “Father.”
“Well, he is.”
“I know he is.”
Baelor spread one hand helplessly. “Then what would you have me do? Pretend I have not got eyes?”
“No. Only do not say it before my wife.”
Baelor stared at him for a moment, then barked a laugh before he could stop himself.
Valarr closed his eyes.
“Come now,” Baelor said, still half laughing. “He is chubby.”
“I know.”
“And very much so.”
“I know.”
“And built like a—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
Baelor had the grace to look somewhat ashamed, though not ashamed enough to cease being amused. “You cannot blame me overmuch. The boy is magnificent.”
“He is,” Valarr said at once, and with enough feeling that Baelor’s mirth quieted again.
The words had come too quickly to be anything but true.
Valarr’s gaze had gone distant now, as if seeing not the gallery but the bedchamber beyond, where the fire had burned low and the curtains breathed softly with the night air. His wife would be there, perhaps asleep at last, perhaps not. Perhaps lying wakeful as she often did now, one hand against the cradle and some needless worry turning over in her mind.
“I would not change a thing about him,” Valarr said. “Not his cheeks. Not his hands. Not the weight of him. Not the way he goes heavy and warm when he sleeps against her shoulder. He is exactly as he ought to be.”
Baelor said nothing.
Valarr’s mouth softened then, and despite the late hour and the quiet there came into him that unmistakable look of a man in love beyond all dignity or cure.
“And if she is troubled,” he added, “then I must spend half my time persuading her he is perfect, and the other half persuading her she is.”
Baelor watched him, something warm and knowing passing over his face.
“That,” he said, “sounds like marriage.”
Valarr let out a faint breath that might have been a laugh.
“It is exhausting.”
“It seems to suit you.”
“It does,” Valarr said.
Then, after the briefest pause, he added with perfect seriousness, “Which is why I would prefer not to spend my evenings repairing damage done by my father when I might instead be back in bed with my wife.”
Baelor stared at him.
Then he threw back his head and laughed outright, warm and booming in the moonlit hush of the gallery, so that Valarr had to glance once down the corridor in case some poor soul had been woken by it.
“Oh, that is the truth of it, is it?” Baelor said.
“Yes.”
“You did not come here only out of concern for the child.”
“I came here out of concern for my peace.”
Baelor laughed harder. “Gods preserve me.”
Valarr endured it with long-suffering dignity.
“At least you are honest.”
“I am married. Honesty is cheaper than failure.”
That seemed only to amuse Baelor the more. He wiped once at the corner of his eye and shook his head.
“You are very far gone.”
“I have children. That is usually a sign.”
“No,” Baelor said, still smiling. “I mean with her.”
And there it was, said plainly, without mockery.
Valarr did not answer at once. He looked again into the courtyard, where the moonlight lay white across the stone and the shadows of the towers stretched long and black.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I am.”
Baelor’s smile gentled into something deeper then, something touched perhaps by memory. “Good.”
The word sat softly between them.
After a moment Baelor lifted his cup, then thought better of it and set it aside upon the sill instead.
“I will be more careful,” he said. “With the babe. And with my tongue.”
Valarr glanced at him. “Truly?”
“I said I would.”
“You also said this morning that you could carry both boys without issue.”
Baelor drew himself up. “And for most of the morning, I did.”
Valarr looked at him for one long beat, then laughed despite himself.
It was quiet laughter, worn down by the hour and the day and all that fatherhood had made of him, but real. Baelor smiled to hear it.
“I shall apologize to her properly tomorrow,” Baelor said. “Not in a way that makes matters worse.”
“That last condition matters most.”
“I know how to speak to women, boy.”
“Do you?”
Baelor gave him an affronted look. “I managed your mother.”
Valarr’s mouth curved. “That is not the same as success.”
Baelor made a noise of theatrical offense.
Then, because tenderness always sat very near the surface in him, he reached out and clasped Valarr once at the shoulder.
“He is a fine child,” he said. “And she is a good mother. Better than she knows.”
Valarr’s expression eased.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I only need her to know it too.”
For a little while longer they stood there, father and son, with the hush of Summerhall all around them and the moon keeping silver watch over stone and garden and sleeping towers. Then Baelor gave his shoulder a final squeeze and stepped back.
“Go on, then.”
Valarr glanced at him.
“To bed,” Baelor said, with a wicked glint returning at last to his eyes. “Before your wife decides your absence is my fault too.”
Valarr shook his head once, though there was laughter in him now.
“It usually is.”
“Ungrateful boy.”
“Good night, Father.”
“Good night, son.”
Valarr turned then and went back down the quiet corridor toward his chambers, where warmth waited, and the cradle, and the soft-breathed stillness of the woman he loved. And Baelor, left alone in the moonlit gallery, smiled to himself and murmured into the dark:
romaincrisis
areudirty
jacobvanloon
stormborns
dededos
gummygunk
izzy806
