avior's starlight

Now, jumping on to the links. I have decided to include the CW and time stamps in each of them so that you do not have to jump in blindly: this way you can know what the audio is about.

That being said, the complete list of this voice actor's works can be found here, because I have not heard every one of these audios and, even if I did, this is a personal favourite compilation. Another thing to have in mind: this list only includes script fills. There are also narrative works (which you can find in the complete list linked before), but their number is very reduced and mainly constricted to the SFW category of the OP of the audios. This is simply a matter of engaging with the content, as I feel personally more inclined to like these kind of audios over the other type.

NSFW audios (personal extra-favourites in purple)

Annoying Your Bookworm Boyfriend Until He Fucks Your Brains Out - 13:00 (this is absolutely modern!BFF's dad!Baelor and you cannot convince me otherwise) Summary: You decide that enough is enough, and your boyfriend has been actively ignoring you because of a book. So, you decide to take matters into your own hands and, lucky for you, it backfires CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [Msub to MDom] [Established relationship] [Praise Kink] [DILF] [Daddy] [Praise/Degradation] [Good Girl] [Possessive] [Ass Spanking] [Overstim] [Finish Inside]

Your Brother's Best Friend Proves His Point - 14:15 Summary: You've brought home yet another date and your Brother's Best Friend has some thoughts on the matter... CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [Fighting] [Brother's Best Friend] [MDom] [Oral] [Doggy Style] [Breeding] [Roommates to Lovers] [Pleasure Dom] [Creampie] [Jealousy]

Emptying My Pretty Girl’s Brain On The Kitchen Counter - 20:32 Summary: Life is fucking stressful nowadays. Luckily, your loving boyfriend is always ready to help you unwind when you get home. CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [Established Relationship] [Gentle MDom] [Playful Mocking] [Praise] [Eye Contact] [Pet Names] [Nipple Play] [Fingering] [Cunnilingus][Talking You Through It] [You Can Take It] [I know, I know] [Tongue-Fucking]

Your Pent-Up FWB Needs To Use You Like A Fleshlight - 20:15 Summary: Narrator has come back from a long trip where he didn't have the chance to masturbate even once. Luckily, his FWB is willing to be a good girl and a good fucktoy for him, and let him breed her CW: [M4F] [Friends With Benefits] [Mdom] [Fsub] [Three Listener Orgasms] [Two Speaker Orgasms] [Overstim] [Script Fill] [Creampie] [Breeding Kink] [Objectification] [Praise/Degradation] [Good Girl] [Fucktoy]

Trace the Veins, Love - 20:30 (hand fetish y'all) Summary: Do you know your girlfriend enough? Do you know her enough to know that she looks at your hands like they hold every unknown answer to the universe? Because you do, love. You hold all of them. The only thing left to do is to show and tell. CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [Mdom] [Fsub] [Hand Fetish] [Established relationship] [x2 Lovers] [L-bombs] [Mirror Sex] watch yourself get [Fingered] [Finger Sucking] [Blowjob] [Missionary] [Praise Kink] lots of [Good Girl] mentions [Intimate] [Kissing] [Grinding]

Did you really think anyone else could make you feel like this? - 17:16 Summary: It’s been a year since you hooked up with your roommate. You decided it was better to keep things platonic after that, but the guys you’ve been with since then have been…disappointing. After admitting this to your roommate, he wants to know - did you really think anyone else could make you feel like this? CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [light Mdom] [roommates to lovers] [breeding] [begging] [possessive] [praise] [mocking] [multiple listener orgasms] [overstimulation] [creampie]

(PT.1) Friend Fucked Your Boyfriend? Go Fuck Her Dad - 24:05 Summary: When your best friend sleeps with your boyfriend, it means you have free rein to bang her hot DILF dad, right? CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [DILF] [Switch] [Msub to MDom] [Best Friend’s Dad] [Banter] [Tension] [Oral] [Bent Over the Table] [Creampie] [From Behind] [Thumb in Butt] [Countdown] [Finish Inside] [2 Listener Orgasms] [Daddy] (PT.2) Go Fuck Her Dad...Again - 17:52 Summary: Your best friend fucked your boyfriend, so you fucked her dad... and now you're in the bathroom where he caught you masturbating, but this time he's running the shower and ready for round two CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [Sequel] [DILF] [Daddy] [MDom] [Best Friend’s Dad] [Older Man] [Shower] [Blowjob] [Coming Down Your Throat] [Swallowing] [Mutual Masturbation] [Showerhead] [Massage Setting] [Creampie] [Degradation] [Praise] [Slut] [Baby] [Aftercare]

Your New Daddy - 33:15 (BFF's dad, need I say more?) Summary: You arrive at your best friend's father's house just before he's about to head for bed. You have something very specific you want from him... CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [Best Friend’s Dad] [DD/lg] [Kink] [Long] [Slow Burn] [Banter] [A Little Meta] [Tension] [Chatty] [Discussion] [Check Ins] [Nipple Play] [Multiple Orgasms] [Toy play] [Fingering] [Overstim] [Big Cock Mention] [Creampie] [Sweet Aftercare]

Do you regret this marriage? - 19:48 (HISTORICAL) Summary: You married the prince, heir to the throne, and he's made no effort to have a fulfilling relationship. He's rude and doesn't care for you at all. You decide to give him the same attitude back and it's been testing his patience. Today he finally snaps... CW: [M4F] [Script Fill][MDom][Historical] A bit of [Enemies to Lovers] and later [Romantic][Arranged Marriage][Putting you in your place][Fingering][Cunnilingus][PiV] [Implied Size Difference][Rough Fuck] [Dirty Talk] [Slight Degradation] [Slight Praise]

Something to Write Home About - 20:20 Summary: Our student/listener is an aspiring GWA scriptwriter. She attempts to submit an assignment to her professor (speaker), but accidentally sends one of her GWA scripts instead. The speaker invites her to his office to discuss the mistake. Upon her explanation of the intricacies of a GWA script to him, he finds himself intrigued by the idea. He then demonstrates on her how he thinks her script could be improved. CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [MDom] [Professor/Student] [TREA Meta] [Scriptwriter Listener] [Lessons in Real World Sex] [Sapiosexual] [Sensual] [Kissing] [Fingering] [Caressing] [Clit Rubbing] [Praise] [Cunnilingus] [Face Sitting] [Blindfold] [Spanking] [Riding]

But You Are My Student - 18:04 Summary: You call your professor at night asking him for some help since you have an exam the next morning. He was hesitant at first but later agrees to sacrifice his sleep and help you over the phone. You two start the study session but after a while there's a sudden shift in topic and you know where it goes. Don't you? CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [ Professor/Student] [Cheating] [Phone Sex] [Masturbation] [JOI] [MSub] [Gentle MDom] [Switchy] [Confessions] [L-Bombs] [You Deserve Better] [I don't care about her] [Heavy Denial] [Desperation] [Giving in]

I Can’t Stop Thinking About You - 26:16 Sumamry: You’ve recently started dating the perfect guy, he’s handsome, sweet, kind, hilarious and fucking awesome at sex. After fucking for the first time on your last date, you both become consumed by desperation for each other so you agree to try and take it slow. However, that doesn’t last long at all… CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [Switchy] [Public] [Alleyway] [Car Sex] [Increasingly Desperate] [Passionate] [Hold The Moan] [Fingering] [Mention of breeding] [Hands-free Orgasm] [Multiple Orgasms] [Cum-Eating] [Fingering] [New lovers]

Your DILF Neighbour Unlocks Your Door And Your Breeding Kink - 19:57 Summary: You open the door to find your neighbour who locked herself out of her apartment, but you can help her, in more ways than one CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [MDom] [Fsub] [DILF] [Neighbours To Lovers] [Older Speaker] [Kitchen Sex] [Cunnilingus] [Standing Doggy] [Breeding] [Creampie] [Spanking] [Praise]

You Want a Baby? I'll Breed You Right Now - 20:23 Summary: According to your 10-year plan, you should already be settled and pregnant. You’re beginning to fear it might be too late before the DILF next door offers an alternate solution… CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [DILF] [Breeding] [Possessive] [Banter] [Neighbours to Lovers] [Multiple Orgasms] [Coming Twice Inside] [Impregnation] [Creampie] [Fucking the cum into you]

(PT.1) I Want to Ruin Our Friendship - 13:16 (this trilogy is very dear to me) Summary: Your childhood best friend comes to comfort you after a fight with your boyfriend, but a friendly cuddle devolves into something else entirely... CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [Childhood Best Friends] [Dry Humping] [Infidelity] [We Shouldn’t Be Doing This] [Friends to Lovers] [Grinding] [Desperate] [Coming in my Pants] [Mutual Orgasm] [No Penetration] [Forbidden Fruit] [Emotional] [Confession] [Cuddling] (PT.2) I Want To Forget Our Friendship - 19:03 Summary: You may be at his brother's wedding, but it's your first time seeing your childhood best friend since the night you spent grinding in his bedroom... CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [Friends to Lovers] [Mutual Masturbation][Edging][Watch me stroke for you][Complicated][Bitter][Argument][Emotional] [Tension][Infidelity][Desperate][Mutual Orgasm][Yearning][Bittersweet] [Best Friends] [Messy] (PT.3) I Want More Than Just Friendship - 24:20 Summary: We left things up in the air after masturbating together at my brother's wedding, but I'm here at your apartment because there are some things I need to say... CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [Confession] [Emotional] [Bug] [L-Bombs] [Romantic] [Passionate] [Possessive] [Oral] [Praise] [Penetration] [Riding] [Creampie] [Finish Inside] [Aftercare] [Cockwarming] [Meant to Be] [I'm Yours] [Friends to Lovers]

Craving Pain - 25:42 Summary: Your roommate walks in on you changing and can't help but notice the marks on you. Will you let him into your secret, and could he look after you better? CW: [M4F] [Script fill] [Roommates][Friends to Lovers][Walking in on you changing] [Lash marks and bruises][Masochist][Overprotective][Jealous][Sweet guy switch][Mdom][lesson in trust][Give yourself to me][Possessive][Ass and Pussy Spanking][Belt collar] [Choking][Slapping][Mutual orgasm]

Sexy DILF is Impressed With Your Taste in 90s Music so He Fucks You Into the Mattress - 27:24 (also very BFF's dad coded) Summary: Your roommate's dad comes by to pick up some of her furniture and things get a little heated when you start showing off your record collection CW: [M4F] [Script Fill] [DILF] [Touch Starved] [Divorced] [Awkward] [Shy] to [Mdom] [Switch] [Flirting] [Teasing] [Chemistry] [Kissing] [Titplay] [Lap Sitting] [Grinding] [Cunnilingus] [Head Down Ass Up]

I will most definitely add new audios over time because I know myself (sorry not sorry). Hope you enjoy all this filth, because I surely do.

The argument had started the way arguments with Maekar always started — not with a spark but with a pressure that had been building for days, the kind that found its outlet in something small and became immediately about everything else.

You could not even remember what had lit it. Some disagreement about the household, something that should have been resolved in three sentences and instead caught on the particular friction that existed between you and Maekar, the same current that made you magnificent together and catastrophic in opposition. You had pushed. He had pushed back. The words had escalated the way words did when two people knew each other completely and had therefore detailed maps of every vulnerable place.

That was when he had said it.

You had been mid-sentence when it left his mouth — something precise and deliberate and aimed with the accuracy of a man who knew exactly where to look to find the thing that would land hardest. Not a cruelty in the broad sense. Nothing that would read as monstrous to anyone standing outside the room. But he knew you. He had known you since childhood, had grown alongside you, had been given access over years to every private thing — and he had taken something from that private place and used it, quickly and efficiently, the way he used a blade.

The silence afterward was immediate and complete.

You looked at him. He looked back at you, and you watched the moment he registered what he had done — the faint shift in his expression, not regret yet, not quite, but the recognition of it. The knowledge arriving just slightly too late.

You said nothing. You turned and walked out.

He did not come after you.

That was Maekar. He did not chase. He stood in the aftermath of his own damage and let the distance open because some part of him always believed, when he had gone too far, that the distance was what was deserved — that following would be a presumption, that your space was the least he owed you.

What he did instead was spend the remainder of the day in a state that anyone who knew him well would have recognised as punishment. Not the productive severity of a man working through something — the other kind. The kind where he moved through the hours doing everything that was required of him with the mechanical competence of someone whose mind was entirely elsewhere, and the elsewhere was a single sentence said in a room he had already left.

He replayed it with the thoroughness he gave everything. He examined it from every angle. He arrived at the same conclusion each time.

By evening he could not stand himself.

He came to your chambers at the hour when the castle had quieted and the torches had burned to their second wind, the low amber light that meant most of the household had found their beds.

You had not locked the door. He had half expected you to.

You were at the window when he entered, standing with your back to the room, and you did not turn when he came in. He took that in — the set of your shoulders, the particular quality of your stillness, which was not the stillness of someone at peace — and said nothing for a moment.

Then he began.

He was not good at this. He had never been good at this. Maekar, who could draft a military strategy in his sleep, who could read terrain and weather and the disposition of men with a glance, who had opinions about everything and delivered them without hesitation — Maekar when faced with the specific requirement of saying I am sorry and here is why became someone considerably less articulate. The words came out in the wrong order. He started sentences and revised them midway. He explained the argument as though you had not been present for it, backtracked, tried again.

He was somewhere in the middle of a third attempt when he heard the door.

The latch. The quiet, definitive sound of it catching.

He stopped.

He turned.

You were standing at the closed door with your hand still resting on the latch, and you were looking at him — not the window, not the middle distance, but directly at him — and the expression on your face was not what he had expected. Not the cold anger of this morning. Not forgiveness either.

Something else entirely.

"You," you said quietly, "have been a very bad boy."

The silence that followed had a texture entirely unlike the one this morning.

Maekar stared at you. Every half-constructed apology he had been assembling for the past several hours evaporated simultaneously.

"I—" He stopped. The sentence he had been building had not been designed for this and could not locate its footing. "I was in the middle of—"

"I know what you were in the middle of." You moved away from the door with unhurried steps, crossing the room slowly, and the quality of your movement was something he had not seen from you today — not the wound of this morning, not the retreat. Something considerably more deliberate. "I heard you."

"Then—"

"I didn't say you could speak."

He closed his mouth.

You stopped a few feet from him and looked at him with that calm that was somehow more arresting than anger — the particular stillness of someone who has made a decision and is in no hurry about the execution of it.

"You know what you said," you said.

"Yes." Rough. Immediate.

"And you know what it did."

His jaw tightened. "Yes."

"Then you understand," you said, "that words are not going to be sufficient."

He looked at you. "What do you—"

"On your knees, Maekar."

The words landed in the quiet room with the simple certainty of a command that does not expect to be questioned.

Maekar went entirely still.

He was not a small man. He was not, in any context, a man who could be described as diminished — broad and certain and carrying at all times the particular gravity of someone who had never needed to announce his presence because rooms simply rearranged themselves around it. He had been on his knees before gods and before necessity and before the dead, and on no occasion had it resembled this.

"You are serious," he said. Not a challenge. Genuine reckoning.

"I am always serious." A pause. "I am waiting."

Something moved through his expression — complex and rapid and arriving at an answer he had not fully anticipated. Because the thing about Maekar, the thing you had known since long before tonight, was that he contained multitudes that his public severity worked very hard to keep orderly. And something in those multitudes was responding to this moment in a way that had very little to do with shame and quite a lot to do with something else entirely.

He sank to his knees.

Not with reluctance. Not performing it. With the same decisiveness he gave everything — the choice made and committed to, those violet eyes finding yours from below with an expression that was part contrition and increasingly, unmistakably, part something far warmer.

You looked down at him. The sight of it — all that size, all that contained authority, kneeling on the stone floor of your chambers and looking up at you — did something immediate and significant to your ability to remain entirely cold about this.

You let none of it show. Not yet.

"You know," you said, beginning to move — not toward him, around him, a slow deliberate circuit that made him track you with his eyes because he could not help it, had never been able to help it where you were concerned, "what it is that you said."

"Yes." Lower now.

"And you know that it was beneath you."

A pause in which the pride warred briefly with the truth. "Yes."

"And you came here tonight with a great deal of words," you continued, moving toward the chair beside the fire — high-backed, solid, positioned where the firelight fell warm and gold — "and none of them were quite right, were they."

He said nothing. Which was its own answer.

You reached the chair. You sat.

And then, holding his gaze, you gathered your gown — slowly, deliberately, the fabric whispering as it rose — and drew it to your waist.

Bare beneath it. Completely. The firelight warm across your skin.

The sound Maekar made was immediate and involuntary and nothing like the man who had said something cutting this morning with cold precision. Something that had bypassed dignity entirely.

He moved to rise.

"Stay."

One word. He froze.

The expression on his face was extraordinary — desire and frustration warring openly, his hands flat on his thighs, violet eyes dark and fixed on you with an intensity that had lost every pretence of composure.

"You do not get to simply walk to me," you said pleasantly. "You have not earned that yet."

His jaw tightened. "Then what—"

"I think you know."

The silence stretched.

"You are not serious," he said. His voice had gone rough.

You raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Which was, as he knew perfectly well, confirmation.

Maekar looked at you. He looked at the floor between you. He looked back at you. Every line of him radiating the strain of a man whose pride and his wanting were engaged in a conflict that was becoming increasingly one-sided.

And then, with the expression of a man making a decision he will never in his life admit to finding anything other than humiliating, he placed his hands on the floor.

And crawled to you.

Gods.

The sight of it nearly undid your composure entirely — that broad, certain body moving across the stone floor toward you with those violet eyes fixed on your face, the flush climbing his neck and jaw, the white hair falling forward. The evidence of what this was doing to him visible and undeniable where his breeches pulled taut.

He was halfway across the room and your thoughts had become extremely simple.

He reached you. Rose up onto his knees before the chair, between your parted thighs, close enough that the warmth of him reached you, and his eyes moved — helplessly, immediately — to where your gown pooled at your waist.

A sound left him that resonated somewhere at the base of your spine.

He reached for you.

Your foot met his shoulder. Not hard. Firm.

He stopped.

His eyes flew to your face with an expression of genuine anguish.

"Beg," you said softly.

"I—" The word came out entirely wrong, stripped of all its usual authority. "You cannot—"

"I can." You tilted your head. "Beg, Maekar. And mean it."

The flush had reached his ears. His hands were pressed flat against his thighs again and you could see the effort of keeping them there — all that coiled wanting held in check by the simple fact of your foot on his shoulder and your eyes on his face and the specific power of this moment that he had not anticipated and could not seem to locate an exit from and was increasingly, you suspected, not looking for one.

"Please." Rough. Immediate. Like it had been waiting just below the surface.

"Please what."

His eyes closed briefly. Opened. Found yours with a nakedness that had nothing to do with the physical. "Please. I am — gods — I am sorry. What I said was—" He stopped. His throat worked. "It was beneath me. It was beneath what you deserve. And I am asking you—" The words seemed to cost him in a way that the crawling, somehow, had not. "I am asking you to let me make it right."

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you lowered your foot from his shoulder.

He moved forward immediately, his hands finding your thighs with a reverence entirely at odds with the urgency behind it — spreading them wider, thumbs pressing into the soft inner flesh as though taking inventory, as though he intended to be thorough and was announcing that intention with his hands before his mouth had done anything at all.

He looked at you first. That was the thing that nearly broke your composure before he had even begun — Maekar, kneeling between your thighs with his white hair falling forward and his violet eyes dark, looking at you with the focused attention of a man who has been given a specific task and is conducting an assessment. Not tentative. Never tentative. Simply — taking stock. Learning the geography of what he had been given permission to address.

Then he leaned in and put his mouth on you and the sound you made echoed off the stone walls without apology.

He started slow. Deliberately slow, in the way that was not gentleness but control — the same control he applied to everything, here redirected entirely toward your undoing. His tongue moved in long, unhurried strokes, learning you, cataloguing what made your thighs tighten and what made your breath catch and what made your hand find his hair. He filed it all away. Maekar forgot nothing.

Your fingers tangled in his hair.

The sound he made when you gripped — low and rough and pulled from somewhere deep — vibrated against you and made your grip tighten further, reflexive, and he pressed closer in response, the groan that followed rolling through you like weather. His eyes lifted. Violet and blown wide and fixed on your face from below with an expression that had left dignity somewhere across the room.

He adjusted. Whatever the assessment had concluded, he acted on it now — mouth finding your clit with a precision that was almost unfair, working it with the flat of his tongue in a rhythm that was not varied or playful but relentless, the rhythm of a man who had identified the objective and intended to pursue it without deviation. The thoroughness of him. The specific, devastating attention of Maekar when properly directed — usually toward military strategy, toward the defence of something, toward the systematic resolution of a problem — applied here, to this, to you.

One hand moved. His thumb traced down and then pressed in, slow and deliberate, and the sound you made was nothing like composure.

He worked both at once with the same methodical certainty — mouth and hand, each informing the other, adjusting to every sound you made, every tightening of your thighs against his shoulders, every involuntary pull of his hair. There was no performance in it. There never was, with Maekar. Only the application of full attention to a thing he had decided to do well, and the full attention of Maekar was a devastating instrument.

Your grip tightened further. He groaned again — that sound, the particular helpless quality of it, the way being gripped and held and used seemed to travel through him like current — and his rhythm intensified, and you looked down at him and he looked up at you and beneath the contrition, beneath the wanting, beneath everything this evening had already been — what lived in those violet eyes was a promise. Patient and certain and entirely Maekar. The quiet authority that no amount of kneeling or crawling had actually touched, present still, simply redirected.

Later, those eyes said. But first.

Your grip tightened further.

The tension that had been coiling since the moment you latched the door gathered to a point that became unbearable and then broke entirely, your back arching and his name leaving your mouth in a way that was nothing like the cold distance of this morning — nothing like anything except this: the two of you, undone and specific and completely known to each other, in the firelit dark.

Maekar held you through every tremor, mouth and hand and the steady certain presence of him, unhurried, thorough to the last.

When you finally stilled, he pressed his lips to the inside of your thigh. Then another. Slow. The tenderness of it, after everything, nearly cracked your chest open.

He rose up from his knees.

Not crawling now. He rose to his full height in one movement and stood before you, flushed and dishevelled and looking down at you with those violet eyes still dark but the promise in them moved to the foreground now — patient no longer, the debt paid and something else entirely taking its place.

"Well," he said. His voice had not recovered. "Are we even?"

You looked at him.

"Almost," you said.

Something shifted in his expression. The last fragment of contrition dissolving into something that was considerably more familiar — that dark focused quality, the commanding certainty of a man who has been on his knees and is very thoroughly done with it.

"Almost," he repeated.

"You still have some making up to do."

His eyes moved over you — the gown pooled at your waist, the firelight, the expression on your face — and a sound left him that was not quite a laugh and considerably more than one.

"I think," he said, reaching for you, "that I can manage that."

The argument had not announced itself.

That was the thing about Baelor — the thing you had known for years and understood intellectually and still managed to be caught off guard by, because the form his damage took was so much quieter than Maekar's. Maekar came at you like weather. You could see him building, read the pressure in the set of his jaw and the clipped precision of his sentences, and brace accordingly. There was a violence to it that was at least honest.

Baelor simply… withdrew the warmth.

It had been a disagreement about something political — a decision he had made without consulting you, something that touched your family's interests, something that warranted discussion and had not received it. You had raised it. Reasonably, you thought. With the specific calm you employed when you wanted to be heard rather than dismissed.

And Baelor, who was patient with everyone, who was diplomatic to the bone, who had never once in his life spoken to you without the quality of his full attention — had looked up from his correspondence and said, without heat, without cruelty, with the mild tone of a man addressing something that does not require much of him:

"I've handled it. You needn't concern yourself."

The silence that followed was not dramatic. He had already looked back down at his letters.

You needn't concern yourself. As though you were— as though the matter, which concerned your own kin, your own blood, was outside your competence or your purview. As though the three of you did not govern together, sleep together, build everything together. As though you were someone to be managed.

He had not even noticed the silence. That was the part that made something go cold and precise behind your sternum. He had not noticed, because some part of him had meant it — had, in the press of whatever he was managing that week, filed you under not requiring attention and moved on.

You had left the room without a word. He had not looked up.

You told him that evening.

Not with raised voices — that was never how it worked between you and Baelor, who had the diplomat's gift for keeping rooms from becoming fires. You told him quietly, standing in your shared chamber while he stood at the window with that particular stillness that meant he was listening completely, the stillness that normally meant everything and tonight felt like performance.

You told him what it had done. What you needn't concern yourself meant, spoken in that mild tone, about that specific matter. You were precise. You gave him the full architecture of it.

He listened. He turned from the window. He said, with the careful, considered tone of a man who has assembled his response thoughtfully and believes it to be correct: "I didn't mean it the way you've taken it."

Which was perhaps true. And was not, in any sense that mattered, an apology.

"When you can do better than that," you said, "you can touch me."

He blinked. Something shifted in his expression — the first crack in the composure. "What?"

"You heard me."

"You cannot be—"

"Until you understand what you said and why it was wrong and you can tell me that — genuinely, not diplomatically — you don't get to put your hands on me. You don't get to come to my bed. You don't get to reach across the table and touch my hand." You held his gaze. "And you don't get to touch yourself either. I'll know."

The expression on his face completed some internal journey that ended at a place he had not anticipated arriving.

"That is—" He stopped. Reorganised. "That is not a reasonable—"

"Goodnight, Baelor."

He lasted ten days.

You knew, because you counted — not with satisfaction, not cruelly, but with the careful attention of someone who understood exactly what was being waited out. Baelor's particular stubbornness was not Maekar's hot refusal. It was the stubbornness of a man who was accustomed to understanding things, to processing them and arriving at resolution through the application of sufficient thought. He had turned the argument over in his mind — you could see it in him, the way you had always been able to read him, in the slight distraction behind his eyes at dinner, in the way he sometimes stopped mid-sentence with his mouth slightly open as though arriving somewhere unexpected.

He was working on it. Baelor solved things. He would solve this.

What he could not account for was the body.

Four days in, he was distracted in council. You happened to be present; you said nothing, did nothing, simply sat across the room in your place and watched him with the mild attentiveness of a woman with no particular agenda, and you watched him not look at you with the sustained effort of a man who had lost the ability to look at anything else.

Six days in, he came to your chamber — not to your bed, not with that purpose, to talk, he said. He had things to say. Important things. And he sat across from you and said several things that were close to what was needed and none of them quite arrived, like a man reaching for a word in a language he almost spoke, and you listened to all of it with your hands folded in your lap and said, when he finished: "Almost." And he left.

Eight days in, you passed him in the corridor and his hand lifted — automatic, entirely involuntary, the gesture of a decade of habit reaching for your arm — and stopped itself a half-inch from your sleeve. You both looked at the suspended hand. You looked up at his face. He was flushed, and composed, and miserable.

"Almost," you said again. And walked on.

Day ten: you received a message requesting your presence at the Tower of the Hand at your earliest convenience. The handwriting was impeccable and slightly too controlled, the phrasing formally correct in the way of a man who has burned through several drafts.

You went at the evening hour, when the castle had quieted.

He was at his desk.

The Tower of the Hand's study was Baelor's most fully inhabited room — not the bedchamber you shared, not the great hall, but here, where the books were stacked in the particular ordered disorder of a mind that worked constantly, where the candles had burned to different lengths because he replaced them at different intervals rather than all at once, where the whole space carried the specific atmosphere of someone who had been here a long time and thought well within it. His domain. His competence made visible and spatial.

He was writing when you entered, or had been. The quill was in his hand but still when you came through the door, and he looked up at you with mismatched eyes — one brown, one blue, both exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep — and set it down.

He looked, you noted, like a man who had been having a difficult ten days. The composure was present but maintained at a cost. The dark hair with its threads of white was slightly less ordered than usual. There was a quality to his stillness that was not his normal stillness, not the deep settled patience of a man at peace with himself but the stillness of a man holding himself together through the application of will.

He rose when you entered. Stood behind his desk.

"You came," he said.

"You asked." You crossed the room without hurrying. Took the chair across from his desk — not the formal visitor's chair but the smaller one at an angle to it, the one that occupied the warmer quadrant of the room near the brazier, and settled into it with the ease of someone who had all evening. "Sit down, Baelor. You look like you're about to receive a delegation."

Something moved through his face. He sat.

For a moment he said nothing. You watched him locate his prepared opening and lose it, and locate another and find it also insufficient, and the particular pain of watching Baelor — who spoke so well, always, who chose words the way a craftsman chose tools — sit in silence with too many wrong ones was something you allowed yourself to feel.

"I have been thinking," he began.

"Mm."

"About what I said."

"I hope so."

His jaw tightened slightly. "You might allow me to—"

"I am allowing you." You tilted your head. "I am listening. I have been listening for ten days."

The flush that moved up his throat was slow and thorough and entirely at odds with his composure. "What I said was— dismissive. In a way that went past the specific disagreement. In a way that suggested your judgment was— subordinate. Manageable." He stopped. His hands, flat on the desk, pressed briefly harder against the wood. "That is not what I believe. And it is not how we function. And I said it because I was pressed and careless and I— I used your patience against you, in a way. The assumption that you would absorb it." A pause. His eyes found yours, direct, that quality they had in private that was nothing like the diplomatic face: stripped and specific. "I have not been able to stop thinking about your face when you left the room."

The room held the quiet.

"Did you mean any of that?"

"Every word."

"Not diplomatically constructed?"

Something in his expression — raw, suddenly. "I have spent ten days trying to construct it diplomatically and none of it was right. That is what I actually have."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"Alright," you said. His breath released slightly. "That was the apology." You held his gaze. "Now comes the rest of it."

He stilled. "The rest—"

"Stand up. Come around the desk."

He came around the desk. Stood before you, and you looked up at him from the chair — all of him, the height and the breadth of him, the dishevelment of ten careful days, the mismatched eyes — and let the looking be its own thing for a moment.

"Ten days," you said.

"Yes." His voice had changed register.

"You've been very obedient."

A breath. "Not— entirely at ease with it."

"I know, that was the point." You kept your voice pleasant. "Take your breeches off."

The expression that moved through his face then — complex and rapid, landing somewhere between relief and a specific kind of exposed apprehension — was extraordinary on him. Baelor, who was looked at constantly and read nothing to anyone he didn't intend to, suddenly readable.

"Here," he said. Not a challenge. Something more unsteady.

"You are the Hand of the King. I imagine you can lock the door."

He locked the door. He came back. He held your gaze for a moment — something in him assembling and then releasing — and undid the laces and pushed the breeches down and stepped out of them, and stood before you, and he was already hard, flushed and full and aching with ten days of it, and the sight of it hit you somewhere immediate and south and you kept every bit of that off your face.

"Your shirt."

He removed it. The candlelight caught the angles of him, the breadth of his chest, the dark hair, the slight flush that had reached further than his throat now.

He stood before you and the word, the only accurate word, was exposed. Baelor, who attended to everything, who was always watching, always composing, always so carefully attending to you — standing in his study undone and watching your face for something and finding it carefully withheld.

"Touch yourself," you said.

The sound he made was almost imperceptible. Almost. His hand moved to himself — not with the practised ease of a man at leisure but with the tension of someone who had been waiting ten days for any relief at all, and it showed, the way his breath changed immediately on contact, the way his head dropped slightly and then corrected.

"Look at me," you said.

His eyes found yours.

Gods.

The expression on his face — the openness of it, the exposed wanting, those mismatched eyes dark and fixed on you while his hand moved in a slow stroke and his chest rose and fell with the effort of maintaining eye contact while every part of him was pulling toward the release he'd been denied — it went directly through every composed layer of you and landed somewhere purely physical.

You watched him.

He watched you watching him, which was its own unbearable thing — you could see it on his face, the specific quality of being seen doing this, and it was doing something to him that the physical alone hadn't, some additional unravelling.

"Tell me what it's been like," you said. Pleasantly. "The ten days."

A broken sound. His rhythm stuttered. "That is — you cannot expect me to—"

"I can." You settled back slightly in the chair. "Tell me."

His jaw worked. The flush was everywhere now, neck and chest and face. "Unbearable." The word came out like he'd dragged it. "Every — every time you were in the room. Every time you sat at dinner and did not — and I could not—" He stopped. His hand kept moving and his voice had gone rough in a way it almost never was. "I dreamed about you. Every night. And woke up and could not—"

"Couldn't what."

The look he gave you. "You know what."

"I want to hear it."

"Couldn't do anything about it." His control was leaving him in real time, the diplomat dissolving word by word into someone far less managed. "Have been in a state of — sustained — I thought I could wait you out. That was what I told myself. I thought—" He made a sound that was not entirely dignified. "I was wrong."

"Yes," you said. "You were."

You watched the tension climb in him — the rhythm of his hand around his cock, his breathing, the particular tightening around his eyes that you knew very well, had been reading for years — and let it climb, and let it climb, and when he was close enough that the slight hitch in his breathing told you precisely where he was, you said:

"Stop."

He immediately came to a halt.

The sound he made was involuntary and wrecked and all the composure of the past ten days disintegrated into a single, devastated exhale. His hand stilled. He stood very still, chest heaving, flushed from forehead to chest, eyes closed.

"Baelor."

He opened them.

"Look at me."

He looked. The expression on his face — the absolute, specific suffering of a man held one breath from the edge — went through you like heat.

You stood.

He watched you — those wrecked mismatched eyes tracking every movement with the fixed attention of a man who has run out of composure entirely and is operating on something far more fundamental. You reached for the lacing of your gown. Undid it without haste. Let it fall.

Baelor's breath left him audibly.

You crossed to him. He reached for you immediately and you caught his wrist — gently, just a touch — and his eyes flew to your face.

"Sit," you said. "In the chair."

He sat. He looked up at you from it with those eyes and that expression and you stood before him for a moment and let yourself be looked at — let him have it, the looking, the full undivided wanting that he'd been rationing for ten days — and then you moved forward and placed your knee on the chair beside his hip and swung your other knee to his other side and settled over him, and the sound he made when you reached down and positioned him against your dripping cunt and sank onto him was the most unguarded thing you had ever heard from his mouth.

Unguarded. That was the word. Every version of Baelor — the diplomat, the Crown Prince, the patient careful man who attended to everything — was entirely absent. What was present was only this: flushed and wrecked and buried in you and looking up at your face with those mismatched eyes like the sight of you was the only coherent thing in the room.

You didn't move immediately. You sat. You held him there and watched him experience it, and the sound he made — low and sustained and desperate — reverberated at the base of your spine.

"Please." The word left him without any of the consideration he usually applied to speech. Raw and immediate and already unravelled. "Please — gods — please—"

You began to move.

Whatever composure had survived until that moment did not survive this. His head dropped to your shoulder, his hands found your hips with the reverence that was specific to him and the urgency that was specific to tonight and the particular quality of ten days' waiting that made all of it—

He was gone.

You rode him in the firelit study of the Tower of the Hand with his face pressed to your neck and his hands gripping you like anchor points and the sounds he was making against your skin entirely unlike anything any council had ever heard from him, entirely unlike anything he was anywhere except here, entirely his. The rhythm built and you felt him gathering — felt the tension in him, the almost, the held breath — and this time you gave him no instruction.

This time you moved harder, and faster, and his hands tightened on your hips and his voice broke open against your shoulder in a sound that had no diplomacy in it at all and he shuddered beneath you, and held you, and spent himself with his whole body and his whole attention and every bit of the ten days.

You followed him. Not gently.

For a long while afterward neither of you moved. His face still against your neck, your hands in his hair, the fire burned low and amber around you. The study quiet. The castle quiet.

His breathing slowed.

"Well," he said, into your neck. His voice was demolished. "How have I managed it?"

You considered.

"You came very close to begging," you observed.

A pause. "I actually did beg."

"Yes. That part was very good."

Another pause, in which you could feel against your skin the specific quality of Baelor trying to locate his dignity and finding it somewhat mislaid. "I am choosing to take that as a compliment."

"You should." You drew back slightly to see his face — the flushed, dishevelled, entirely undone face of the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, looking up at you from the wreckage of his composure with those mismatched eyes. "It was extremely persuasive."

Something moved through his expression — the dry, hidden warmth of him, showing through the cracks of the evening. "I will have that in mind," he said, "the next time I am inclined to be dismissive."

"See that you do."

He turned his head. Pressed his lips to the inside of your wrist, where the pulse was. The gesture slow and exact and entirely, specifically his.

"Ten days," he said quietly, against your skin.

"Ten days," you confirmed.

"I do not recommend it."

"Then you know what to do to avoid it."

His eyes lifted to yours. That particular quality in them, the one that had nothing to do with crowns or councils — the one that had been present since childhood and had never once changed — private and exact and undivided.

"Yes," he said. "I do."

Taglist: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @princessphilly @shyravenns @loveslide

“is it safe?”

“it is harmless, my lady, it can only intensify feelings of.. affection. I obtained it from a maester within the castle,” she lowered her voice as she leaned in, “he said many wives of the court seek him out for it.”

a mischievous smile erupted over your face.

“excellent.”

with a huff, you slumped further into the cushioned chaise, raising your feet to rest on the same table that you had placed the vial on. 

you had been staring at it for hours now, contemplating every possible outcome, whilst questioning your own morals.

it wasn’t entirely your fault. 

your husband hadn’t laid with you for several weeks, selfishly leaving you to travel across the countryside with a, “I promise to make it up to you as soon as I’ve returned,” yet, his foot would scarcely be over the threshold of your home before he was being whisked away by a member of his council. 

baelor appeared to have time for everyone but you. 

a tendril of worry twisted through your stomach, you were certain he hadn’t had an ounce of proper sleep in several days and was skipping his meals.

you shook your concern for his wellbeing with a shrug of your shoulders, redirecting your focus back to the true victim of the matter: you, his neglected wife.

it was cruel of him, especially now that you had grown accustomed to his generously given and frequently delivered pleasure. too long had passed since he had spent an entire day with his face buried between your legs, his eyes fixated with a hunter-like focus on every expression and shiver he wrought out of you.

he had to be held accountable.

you called for your attendant.

“yes, my lady?”

“inform my husband’s attendant that I require his presence,” you paused, knowing that he was in the middle of another meeting, “and that it is urgent.”

“of course, my lady.”

a quarter of an hour passed before your husband was softly knocking on your chamber door.

“enter.”

“sweetness,” baelor greeted, hesitating at the sight of you lounging in your loveliest nightgown, “are you well? has something occurred?”

you felt guilty for the way his tired eyes accessed your form for any sign of discomfort; his worn body approaching and then descending into a crouch to face you levelly.

“no, I merely–I was concerned after learning that you had been missing meals,” you began, moving a cup of lukewarm tea in his direction, “so, I requested for a maester to prepare a tonic to restore your health.”

baelor’s eyes softened, a tender smile replacing the weary expression he had been wearing seconds prior. 

“that was very thoughtful of you, my dear,” 

your hand cupped his bearded cheek, noting that it was thicker since you had last touched it two days ago. your heart lurched when he affectionately pressed back into your caress, turning his face to place a kiss against your palm.

“unfortunately, I cannot stay, but I promise to make it up to you.” he spoke as he rose, lifting the cup to his lips to take a large gulp.

he paused.

“this–,” baelor stared down at the liquid, having only swallowed half, “who did you say prepared this?”

you remained quiet as his expression twisted into a look of confusion.

“why, does it taste strange?” you asked in return after a moment, struggling to keep your voice neutral.

a distant look passed over his eyes, “I vaguely remember the taste..”

he paced, bringing the cup to his nose.

“my brothers and I had snuck into our old maester’s pantry,” he began, “in search of an elixir that would make us stronger,” his lip curled at the memory, “but we had mistaken it for another..” 

baelor’s gaze snapped to yours, intense and clear with recognition.

“have you given me an aphrodisiac?”

the room stilled, even the crackling from the fire seemed to subdue.

“why?” he bit out after a moment of stunned silence, the lines between his brows deepening as he frowned down at you.

“what else was I to do?” you questioned back with a shrug, one of your fingers rising to tap against your bottom lip.

baelor let out a scoff of disbelief.

“discuss it with me or–,” he paused, eyes closing as his body temperature began to rise, the emptiness of his belly allowing for the stimulant to take affect more hastily than the previous time.

“is it uncomfortable?” you asked once he returned his gaze to you, greedily eyeing the sheen of sweat over his tanned skin and the flush beginning to spread across his cheeks.

his throat bobbed in quiet confirmation that said yes, it is uncomfortable, and soon it would be painful.

“I–,” baelor struggled to collect his thoughts, a hand rising to his brow, “I have to return, I am being waited upon..” yet, he made no move to exit the room. 

he remained planted, staring down at you with a glossy, disoriented look.

you stood on shaky legs, observing the way his eyes followed your every move with a hyper focused awareness.

“kneel for me.”

baelor’s form was frozen.

“what?” was his meek rebuttal.

“I said,” you took a step forward, having to crane your neck upwards to maintain contact with his own stare, “kneel.” 

up close, you could see that the blacks of his pupils had almost entirely swallowed the mismatched colouring of his irises, leaving only a sliver of blue and brown.

with perhaps too much confidence, you pointed at the ground, ignoring the way your heart hammered within your chest.

a beat passed.

then, slowly, baelor lowered his knees to the thick rug below.

adrenaline surged through your veins as the headiness of making a man like your husband submit settled over you. you pressed a stocking-clad foot against his growing arousal, wetness pooling between your own legs at the sound of his guttural moan.

“what would the members of your council think,” you lilted, delivering a hard nudge to his length, “if they could see you now?”

immediately, it produced the effect you had desired.

baelor doubled over, a pained, breathless groan leaving his lips. 

“I must return..”

despite his words, his hands wrapped around your ankle, the heat from his palms seeping through the thin stocking, burning into your skin. he did not push you away nor did he stop your ministrations, his loose grasp simply rested around your limb.

“what was it you had said? something about..” you trailed off, recalling the prior day’s morning, when you had watched your husband discipline an unruly stable hound, “good boys knowing their place?”

his face shot up, shoulders stiffening as the familiarity of your words washed over him.

“what–,” baelor rasped softly, his bent legs instinctively spreading wider to make room when you stepped closer.

you cut him off, fingers gripping the short, greying hair atop his head with a sudden and, to both his enjoyment and undoing, excessively harsh tug.

“good boys know their place,” you repeated his exact words, “only then do they get a treat.”

baelor’s hands unlatched themselves from around your ankle to rest atop his thighs, palms splayed downwards.

“are you a good boy who knows his place?” 

“yes.” he murmured without flinching, soft huffs of air leaving his parted lips. it appeared all thoughts pertaining to returning to his council had left his mind.

you withdrew from between his legs to admire the image before you. 

a man who spent his time commanding others, was now patiently awaiting your instructions. 

you were certain that he had never looked as the handsome as he did just then, face contorting from a mixture of want and restraint. his heated, lower-lidded gaze was a sight that would plague your dreams for many months to come.

“that’s not what I believe,” you started, sitting back against the cushioned chaise in front of his kneeling form, “a good boy would not leave his wife unattended to.”

baelor’s jaw clenched beneath his thick beard, eyes drifting from your sprawled position to the ground in a silent admittance of his guilt.

“does it not work as it should?” you crooned, a laugh escaping your throat at the sharp look he sent your way. 

“that must be it.” you continued viciously.

your leg lifted as you rested your foot against his chest, giving him a direct view of your bare, glistening core. 

“I had presumed you would have several years remaining, but it appears I was mistaken.”

“you know very well it works,” baelor said quietly, the creases around his eyes and mouth deepening at your harsh insinuation.

“a good boy doesn’t speak unless given permission to.” you reprimanded, foot sliding down his tense torso to stop above the crude bulge pressing taunt against the fabric of his breeches. 

“I should ensure that it does work, of course,” your voice was light, as though you were discussing the weather, not examining your husband’s ability to fulfill his duties in the marital bed.

before baelor could respond, your foot had returned to its place against his front. he bucked forward at the sudden onslaught of pleasure and pain from your movements, head dropping to watch the way you cruelly jabbed at the tip of his cock.

“oh!” you exclaimed with mock surprise, eyes gleaming at the sight of his nails digging into his thighs, “there may still be a chance that it is functional.”

the growing patch from his precum had begun to seep into your own stocking, creating a slicker slide with every drag and nudge against him.

“good boy.”

baelor’s head involuntarily perked up, the hue of red across his cheeks creating a remarkable contrast against the grey and dark hair of his beard.

you noticed–of course you did–the way his eyes darkened at your mockery and demeaning words. another gush of wetness dripped down your leg at the realization that he enjoyed being spoken to in such a manner.

“are you my good boy?”

he mumbled a response, words inaudible with the combined crackling of the logs in the hearth and your foot continuing its bustling assault against his front.

“what was that?”

“yes.”

“yes, what?” 

a deep groan escaped his chest as you applied more pressure. 

“I–gods, please–I am your good boy.” baelor’s voice was breathless from both embarrassment and unbridled desire, looking wretched as his hips rose to grind against you.

suddenly, you withdrew your foot. 

“wait–,” he started. 

you leaned back and spread your thighs slowly.

“good boys get a treat,” you stated simply, the invitation sending him jostling toward you with a crawl.

your hand shot out to grip his jaw before his tongue could make contact with your dripping core, the look on his face making you tut tauntingly.

“what do you say?”

“thank you.” 

you threaded your fingers through his cropped hair, guiding his mouth to your opening as though you were leading a horse along with its reins.

“you may have one lick,”

the sound of his wet tongue broadly swiping against your damp lower lips echoed lewdly.

he was panting against your opening, the essence of your arousal filling his tastebuds.

“such a good boy,” you praised, giving him a degrading pat on the head. 

“gods,” baelor muttered, cheek resting against the flesh of your thigh. his length pulsed in tandem with his racing heart, leaving him unsteady and aching. 

“I suppose you should return now.” you mumbled, absentmindedly twirling a finger through the grey hairs at his temple.

he remained quiet, odd-coloured eyes staring up at your face with equal parts exhaustion and deprivation. 

“they will–,” baelor cleared his throat as he shut his eyes tightly, appearing as though he were pulling himself out of a delirious trance, “they will manage without me.”

“oh, is that so?”

the coarse hair of his beard scratched the delicate skin of your thigh as he gave a nod. 

“in that case,” you spoke sweetly, foot nudging his thighs open wider to resume its motion against his hardened flesh, “you may have your treat.”

with the hand not pressed to his face, you spread yourself open. 

swiftly, baelor was lapping at you with desperate enthusiasm, hooded eyes staring up at your face as he messily replaced your wetness with his own.

“good boy,”

his eyes rolled back, hips jerking harder into your foot until groans were continuously falling from his lips. the vibrations against your sensitive clit had you teetering closer to the edge of your release.

a sudden, cruel thought crossed your mind.

you removed your foot from against his breeches, knowing that he was nearing his own release. 

“I wonder if you could achieve completion untouched,” you mused aloud, nails dragging harshly against his scalp.

baelor nodded against your core, incoherent mumbles spoken against the heated flesh.

a satisfied gasp left your lips as stars floated across your vision, limbs going lax as a contented bliss fell over you.

once the waves of your release had passed, you looked down to find baelor staring up at you; the nearby candlelight filthily highlighting your slick in his beard.

you shoved him hard, sending him tumbling backwards into a wide legged sprawl. he rested on his forearms, keeping himself propped up to focus on your face.

mercilessly, your foot prodded at his neglected cock, teeth nibbling on your bottom lip to stop yourself from making a sound in response to his gravelly groan. 

baelor’s body trembled as his own release cascaded over him, sending his head back with a throaty moan as he thrusted against you.

“look at that,” you cooed, “it appears it does work.” your eyes twinkled at the sight of his twitching cock spurting within the constraints of his own breeches.

baelor struggled to collect himself, his climax taking more of a toll on him than usual.

you settled yourself atop his still hardened length and circled your hips.

“I’m going to take what I want,” you announced, tone leaving no room for refusal, and gently swiped your thumbs across the creases of his eyes, “and then, you will return to your meeting.”

you leaned forward to give him an open mouthed kiss, pulling on his lip as you reclined back into his lap.

“is that clear?”

baelor nodded, lips parted and wet as he gazed at you with a mixed look of adoration and awe.

he’s not gentle.

it had started gentle, as it usually did, but after pulling you apart on the flat of his tongue, followed by the stretch of two thick fingers, he knew exactly what he wanted and how he was going to get it. good thing you liked it like that.

maekar curls you over the edge of the bed, your body completely bare as you bend and lay amongst the silks and furs. a strong, calloused hand holds the back of your neck, anchoring you to the feathered mattress as he stretches your pussy open around the thick of his cock.

he groans, feeling your pussy pull tight around him as he ruts in. silk walls draw inwards, heavy against the ridges along his shaft and the vein, pumping hot with blood, that runs along the underside. his other hand is a vice on your hip, dimpling the flesh as he forces you back onto him, the slapping sounds of skin-on-skin loud in the evening silence of your chambers.

you mewl into the sheets beneath you, a string of saliva already catching out the side of your mouth as your husband thrusts into you, the movements deep and far-reaching. heavy balls nudge against the swollen pearl of your clit, and you mewl again, startled, when the head of his cock punches up towards the plug of your cervix.

“don’t fuss,” maekar grumbles, rutting into you, eyes trailing down the line of your spine and over the curve of your arse as he holds you down by the nape. your pussy drools around him, his flushed shaft slick as he pulls out, then shoves back in. he groans, “fuck, you always take me so well, don’t you?”

he doesn’t really want a response when he questions you like this, cock splitting you open as he pins you to your shared bed. you gape, breathy moans falling free of your throat as your fingers tangle in the silken sheets and sweat builds tacky down your back and thighs. he listens to you gasp and mewl, a crooked smile on his face as he kneads the fat at your hip.

“how many times…” maekar begins, sentence breaking momentarily as the wet squelch of your cunt becomes audible in the flame-soaked silence, the open hearth flickering nearby. you whimper, and your husband groans. “will i have to spill in this tight cunt before you’re full, huh? how many times will she have to take me before you’re round with my child?”

you let out a pathetic sound, some mix of a gasp and a moan, the syllables showing some semblance of his name, but it’s lost in the heat of your pleasure. a third orgasm sparks at the ends of your nerves, flames flickering across the walls of your womb, deep in your pelvis.

maekar grunts, strands of white hair falling loose over his forehead, cheeks hued with pink beneath the candlelight. he palms the flesh of your arse now as the hand on your neck pushes you deeper against the bed.

“is that what you want, little dove?” he asks as his hips rock, the leaking head of his cock pushing right up against that perfect spot inside you. your back arches and you cry out his name, pussy fluttering as heat fills the base of your tummy. he grunts, continuing as you squirm. “you want me to fill you? spill deep inside this tight cunt ‘til she makes a right mess of herself, yeah?”

“maekar,” you manage out, and it’s low and tense and strung across a high-pitched moan. you fist the silks and furs for support as he rocks against you, bed creaking.

“i’m right here,” he whispers, barely audible over his hips slamming against your arse. the fingers on your neck give you a gentle squeeze, and you suck in a shallow breath. then, he groans, the thick of his cock sucked in tight as your pussy flutters around him. “oh, she wants it, little dove. wants me to fill her—wants me to make you a mother.”

you cry out at his words, your release strung taut across your sparking nerves. it’s right there, your entire body growing rigid beneath him as he spears you apart on his cock. you grow hot, and hotter still, tension deep through the lines of your pelvis as you angle your hips to meet his thrusts, heartbeat heavy in your clit.

maekar huffs and grunts behind you, his voice breaking across a poorly hidden whine. “fuck, fu-uh-ck, oh, little dove, here we go, here we go…”

he coaxes you through your orgasm as it ignites and overwhelms you. your body shakes, trembles like a picked flower, as heat bursts through your pelvis and the depths of your womb, your pussy squeezing tight around him. you moan, his name and his title up in the air around you, as stars burst behind your lowering lids and your legs threaten to give out.

but he’s not far behind you—as you come, he groans his praises, guiding you through the fissuring of pleasure with “that’s it, there we go” and “good girl, just like that” as he ruts his cock towards the base of your womb. with each thrust into you, slick dribbles out around his shaft, and he feels it along the seam of his balls as they draw up, visions of you fat with his child at the forefront of his mind.

maekar groans loudly. “gods, you’ll look perfect round with my child—fuck, i’ll be good to you, little dove, an’ i’ll keep you full all—the—fucking—time—” thrust, thrust, thrust, with each word, before he’s letting out a hoarse moan of your name and shoving himself to the hilt inside you.

he rolls his hips, sliding against you in lazy movements as he spills right against your cervix. still fizzling down from your own orgasm, you let out a shaky moan as he fills you, seed too warm in the base of your pelvis. his cock twitches, jerks inside you as your walls flutter, then pull him in even tighter as his seed fills you, fills you still, then settles.

he doesn’t pull out, but he collapses half way on top of you—the hand on your neck moving to bracket your head. you shift a little, panting as he plants a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth. you whine, turning your head to slide your lips to his. he grunts into your mouth as your tongues meet, and you taste yourself on him as your heart begins to slow beneath your ribs. he pulls away, resting his dewy forehead against your temple.

“it’ll take,” he says like he’s sure of it. like he knows it will.

“and if it doesn’t?” you counter through a mumble, limbs lax as you melt into the silks and furs, his body a firm press atop yours.

maekar chuckles. it’s a deep, low sound that vibrates through his chest, and it makes a little whine slip past your lips.

“then we keep trying,” he mutters, rolling his hips and nudging his cock deeper. you whimper, a shudder racking through you in response. he kisses your warm cheek. “i’ll fill you again and again, every fucking night, until you’re too full to even move… understood?”

you nod, words evading you as he noses your cheekbone, kissing you softly there too as his cock twitches where it sits deep, plugging you full of him.

———

me next

30 seconds - another chrollo soulmate au!! imagine finding out that your soulmate is a murderer and on top of that, he’s the phantom troupe leader! (@uvobreakmylegs)

sixth floor game - ok soo i never knew i needed demon shalnark until this came… a must read! (@uvobreakmylegs)

biting people you like - i’m such a sucker for vampire fics,, like just come over and bite me shalnark(@hypnoswrites)

mu heart is in my hand - a feitan soulmate au!! give me a soulmate au and my heart is yours (@after-witch)

chained veils - forced marriage with pariston?! 🤤(@envy-of-the-apple)

── .✦ CORIOLANUS SNOW

the driven snow - my first yandere snow fic that i’ve read! the horror that mc felt when she found out that she’s staying at the capitol (@after-witch)

NDA - hands down the best! poor livia :( her own son doesn’t even recognize her. “no one leaves the president.” trust me, i won’t. snow using mcs brother as a leverage for her to behave. dirty dirty snow (@perlelune)

no body, no crime - all time fav. please read thiss! 😛 (@perlelune)

── .✦ A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS

caged - the BEST dark valarr!! i love love long chapters <3 control freak valarr. i eat up all ur writing (@valarrtheyoungprince)

the favorite - omg aerion and valarr together!? gimme boaf! no words on how amazing this piece is! aerion being the asshole he is and lying to valarr about mc. from ‘valarr’ to its ‘your grace’ after he found out about the betrayal 😳 (@perlelune)

suprise - mmm daddy maekar… and he’s delusional too… this kind of troupe is like my guilty pleasure lol like hihihi, we all love egg! (@mrsdarkandyandere7)

picture-perfect - i wholeheartedly believe that there’s something dark hiding underneath valarr’s picture perfect facade! i mean, look at that man! he’s just better at hiding it than the others (@mrsdarkandyandere7)

distrust - so so good! like yes, valarr, just keep interrogating me like that ughsh. i love your dark valarr fics sssm, you keep me alive 🥺 (@mrsdarkandyandere7)

aerion targaryen - that dick corrupt me 🤤😔 (@beentainted)

valarr baby trapping - ughh ughhh yes! "i don't want any highborn lady, i love you," ok then, im easy, i give you permission to impregnate me! 😂 (@beentainted)

marked up - so what if we all a little into spanking!! let me take care of that for you, valarr 😋 who said thattt?? (@musingsofheaven)

thou shalt not covet - oh yes, daddy baelor and his son!!! baelors so fucking hot that i turn into a river every time i see him. valarrs hatred towards his step-mommy is not because she replaced jena, but something more scary ooooo shiver me timbers (@perlelune)

darling big sister - HELLO?? aerion being creepy as always, selecting whores that looks just like his sister :(( that man fr have a mommy kink anyone who disagrees is wrong (@imeow33)

a starved man is no laughing matter - who doesn’t love a reverse harem 😳 (@valarrswhitestreak)

dragons caught in the storm - honestly, this brings me back to my fifth grade wherein i tried to make a love potion for my crush ugh!! putting that aside, aerion taking the drink from mc that contains the love potion that was meant for valarr cuz yk typical aerion behavior and the horror that mc, daella, and rhae felt!! (@catbayunthestoryteller)

chosen - he hit me and it felt like a kiss 😔 me love love this, very very much!!! im like a wife that waits for her husband to arrive after work, but instead of that, its me on my toes waiting for the next banger of an update (°ロ°) (@loveobx)

── .✦ ROMAN GODFREY

bite marks and bruises - legit cried tears of joy when i saw this! who likes being chased and period sex anyways… its not like, i like it or something! may zeus himself strike me (@cherienymphe)

─── NOTE

legit if i added more like jjk, batfam, hsr, marvel, tua, outer banks, twst, dune, etc.. this would have surpassed hamilton’s essay.

to all authors out there, i love you all 🥺 your writings are all deeply appreciated by us readers and never ever doubt yourself and let the haters get to your mind. ❤︎⁠ ❤︎⁠ ❤︎⁠

This has never been Baelor’s typical Saturday night. 

He’s the dating type. He always has been, spending money like it’s nothing on dates and treating them so well that there is no way they are going to deny him in the end. Wine and dine, and have their panties down their ankles by the end of the dinner— sometimes even in the middle of it, he’s just that good. Women in his age bracket, he’s never seen the appeal in women half his age. 

And yet here he is, after hours in the office, door locked and his phone the only source of light in the dark room. The clock beside him reads 21:43, he should have been out of here hours ago, toying with some pretty divorcee over an expensive bottle of wine. Instead he’s scrolling through a faceless porn account, watching some pretty young thing struggle to take a dildo. 

You’re dripping, perched on your feet with the toy planted to the ground beneath you. You bend your knees a bit more, the tip of the purple dildo splitting you open and you whimper. Fuck. Girls his age have never done that. It’s lewd and he actually sees tears slide down the column of your neck. 

He knows it hurts, and you still attempt to take it in. You lift yourself off it, slowly and the tip slips out of you with delicious pop that makes the strain in his trousers unbearable. 

He should be balls deep in some women right now, not fondling his cock over a faceless girl that can barely fit a dildo into her cunt. He’s fascinated though, watching your thighs tremble as you go for another attempt, and cry at the harsh sting it’s giving you. He can’t help himself, one hand wrapped around his dick as he watches you cry and fuck yourself on the toy. 

Baelor’s so fascinated he times his strokes with you. Every time the blunt head of the dildo splits you open, his hand comes down on his sticky tip and slowly drags itself down. It stops when you stop, only going as far as you can go, till you manage to take it all. 

When Baelor cums, it’s nothing like he’s used to. Hot ropes of cum spill out of him, making a mess of his hand and his suit. He has to bite down on his tongue just to muffle the grunt that escapes him. He’s used to spilling quickly with a sigh, to rolling over to the side and jumping out of the bed. Not like this, still hard in his hands and twitching like he wants more. 

He could go again. 

He doesn’t, he locks the screen and sits in the dark a bit longer before heading home. 

The date isn’t going well. 

It’s unusual. 

Baelor rearranged after realising he was going to need to stay in the office into the night and just for that, he felt the need to apologise. He’s brought her to the nicest restaurant, paying extra to get a reservation at such short notice, even slipping the waitress an extra hundred dollar bill for a more secluded area. 

Conversation is fine— good even. There’s not even anything wrong with the woman, she’s undeniably attractive, smiling over at him like he’s a meal she’s desperate to have. She’s age, his type but he can’t stop eyeing up the pretty waitress that’s been serving them. 

She’s cute, trying so hard to be so attentive to both of them without coming across as over bearing. She’s probably some college student and now she’s seen how much money he’s willing to offer for a favour and is hoping for more. 

It’s your fault. She looks like you, same skin tone and figure. He’s picturing what it’d be like to follow her into restroom and fuck her over the toilet. Whether she’d be dripping so much her panties would cling to her. Whether she’d cry just like you did as he splits her open. 

Fuck. 

The woman narrows her eyes at him over the table, then to the helpless waitress that is pouring them another glass of wine each. She presses her tongue against her cheek and rolls her eyes at him before muttering something under her breath. 

“Typical.” 

Baelor offers to get the bill after that, realising the date is going poorly and isn’t surprised when the date practically jumps to get in her uber. 

He’s never screwed up a date before and it’s all your fucking fault. A faceless girl he’s jerked off to once. 

The clicking of shoes snaps him out of his daze and he snaps his head around to find the waitress chasing after him with his wallet in her hands.

He thanks her, taking it out of her grip before letting his eyes run over her. 

She’s not you but he can pretend. 

He’s probably going to get the poor girl into trouble but he doesn’t exactly care. He’s paid for this, slipping the girl some more money before bunching her slutty skirt at her waist and bending her over the bonnet of his car. 

She doesn’t cry like you do when he splits her open, nor does he find her dripping like he hoped but there is something delicious about the way his cock has to forcefully split her open. She takes it like a champ, biting down her moans as he thrusts himself into her. He only wished she’d been slightly more resilient. 

He’s glad for the darkness, how it hides the both of them from any on lookers and how as he presses her face down into the cold metal of his bonnet, he can pretend it’s you. 

He pulls out before he cums, the liquid dripping out onto the floor and her pretty lace panties. He thinks about how she’ll have to wear them back inside, how bits of him will stick to her for the rest of the night. 

How he wishes she was you. His cum stuck to the inside of your panties, dripping down your legs until you reach your home and are finally able to wash it off. 

He barely makes it home before he’s scrolling through your account again. He doesn’t care what video it is, he just needs to hear your pathetic whimpers before you make yourself cum. 

Once he’s in the privacy of his own room, he finds something. 

You sprawled out on your single bed, tits spilling out of your bra and fingers pushing your panties to the side just for him to see. You’ve soaked the material, partly dripping out onto your thighs and your clit is swollen, begging for him to touch it. 

That’s what you do, in that sultry sweet voice. You beg. 

You plead with him to let you cum. You ask for permission to touch yourself and you tell him just how badly you need it. 

He listens, replying like you can hear him on the other side of the pre-recorded video like you’re obeying his every command. He cums when you do and heaves out a sigh when he’s finally finished. 

He leaves a generous tip on your page this time. 

Baelor doesn’t expect to wake up to a message the next morning. 

He’s never used the app before, didn’t even realise there is a messaging option. 

Good morning, you start with like it’s casual. Like you might know each other. 

Saw you really liked my video last night and thought you deserved something to help you with your morning wood when you wake up. 

Then a video, a few minutes long of you teasing yourself in your bed. There’s nothing like this on your page. Is this a personalised video? He hits play, already wrapping his cock in his hand at the sight of you positioning the camera to get a good angle of you before slipping back into your bed. 

You’re wearing your pyjamas, a small top and tight matching shorts that hug your body. You angle yourself on your side, using your hands to guide over your body. First your chest, rubbing over your hardening nipples through the thin top, then over your shorts pressing your fingers against your clothed pussy. 

He can see the damp spot as you spread your thighs, see the way it grows wetter as you tease yourself over the material. You just get so easily wet and he wonders how wet you really would be after hours of fucking you. 

He thrusts his hips up into his hand and realises he might need to buy himself some lubricant just to replicate the feeling of your wet cunt. His dry hand will have to do for now. 

He pushes his hips up, in his gentle rhythm like you’re teasing him. Once, twice—

His phone rings, a pretty picture of his daughter lighting up the screen. You. 

Fuck. You never call this early, maybe he can let the call go to the answer machine. Call you back an hour later, once he’s got the picture of this minx fucking teasing herself out of his mind. 

He does exactly that, the phone rings a few times before cutting off. But only a second later it rings again. 

He huffs out a sigh, putting his cock back into his boxers and sitting up in his bed. He’s not one to ignore his children’s calls and he wouldn’t be able to focus on the video in front of him without worrying about you in the back of his mind. 

“What is it?” 

“Excuse you,” you snap back on the other end. “Can I not call to check on my own dad?” 

“Sorry hun,” he sighs, he never meant to sound so harsh. 

“You didn’t call yesterday. I got worried but don’t worry, I’ll make sure not to do that again.” 

“Honey, I’m sorry.” 

You’re stubborn, just like your mother and he knows he’s going to have to do better than that to get you to forgive him. 

“You best be sorry,” you say, voice whiny and wet. You’ve always been so emotional, especially when it comes to him. He’s never quite understood it. 

“So sorry.” 

“Yeah?”

You’re always so needy, half quiet as you wait for his reassurance and his cock twitches at that. 

It makes him feel sick. He can’t put the phone down though, he couldn’t do that when he’s already upset you. 

“Really sorry, you know that,” he tells you, with a slightly strained voice. 

“You okay?” You catch onto it but he hopes you fully haven’t caught on. “You don’t sound too good.” 

“Fine,” he mutters quickly, too quick it almost sounds like he’s snapping at you again. “Just tired, hun.” 

“I can call you back, if you want?” 

He should say yes, should end this call and take a long cold shower and pretend this never happened. But he doesn’t, he presses the duvet over his hard cock and prays for it to go down. “No, it’s okay.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He adjusts himself and bites on the inside of his mouth as his cock rubs against his hand. This is fucking disgusting. “How’s everything at college?” 

“Good, dad. Really good.” 

You don’t talk for long and Baelor’s certain it’s because of his short and abrupt replies, he can only hope he hasn’t upset you. 

But he can’t think too much about that, pulling the duvet from his body and finding his cock leaking with precum and still undeniably hard. He can’t touch himself though, he can’t even stomach it, not with the thought of you still heavy on his mind. He couldn’t do that to the image of his precious daughter. 

Instead he takes a long cold shower, the water icy as it pours down his body and softens his cock. It’s punishment, some sort of way to absolve him of his sins. Only for him to pretend like it never happened hours later. 

His phone lights up in the afternoon, another message. 

Minx ➤ Didn’t like my video? Made it just for you. 

He opens the app, realising he never even finished it. His fingers hover over the keypad taking a moment to think of a reply before typing. 

➤ I’m sorry baby, it’s just been a long morning. 

Minx ➤ Need me to make it better? 

He swallows, cock straining against his boxers again. 

➤ you would do that for me? 

You take a few seconds to reply and he’s anxious for it, watching the three dots obsessively in the corner of the screen. 

Minx ➤ anything for someone so generous. Just tell me how you want it. 

He forgot about the money and reality sinks in at your message. He doesn’t even take a second, presses the tip button, double the amount he sent last night. 

➤ need you to beg for it. 

Minx ➤  anything for you. 

Baelor never realised how addicting this damned app could be in the first place. He sort of wishes it came with a caution before he poured so much money into it. He’s got enough to spare anyway and so long as you keep messaging and sending him those personal videos, he’ll keep pressing that tip button like it’s nothing. 

Your latest video starts off similar to the last one, toys spread out on your bed and you kneeling in front of the camera wearing his lingerie. It’s light yellow, complimenting the colour of your skin just like he knew it would. 

You’re his girl now, following his every request so much as keeps pouring funds into your account. 

Today is different though, the camera angle is higher, just enough for him to be able to see the bottom half of your face. Like he requested. 

You take the dildo up to your mouth, licking up along the shaft, painfully slowly like you’re purposely teasing him. You kiss the tip, like the dildo’s real like you need to be gentle with it and then you sink your mouth over it, running your tongue around it before pulling back up. 

“Want to make you feel good,” you tell him, in that whiney tone he’s always so desperate for. “Let me make you feel good.” 

You push the dildo in between your lips, getting it nice and wet before popping it back out. 

“Going to put it inside me,” you say, saliva dripping from the corners of your lips. “Need it inside me.” 

“Yeah, going to do that for me, pretty girl,” he replies back like you’re listening to him. 

You nod, like you hear him before slipping the wet dildo between your folds. 

“Feels good,” you hum, pushing your panties to the side and letting him see the full picture. 

Your face comes into frame then, blurred out, keeping your identity hidden from him and although he understands your desire to keep yourself hidden, he wishes he could see your face just once. 

“Want to put it in,” you whimper and he just knows you’re pouting. 

You buck your hips up, the tip of the dildo lining up at your entrance and you hesitate, like you’re waiting for his permission. 

“Nice and slow,” he hisses, fisting his cock just like that as you push the dildo inside. 

You’ve gotten better at it, yet your hips still wriggle ever so slightly at the struggle and he just wonders how tight your walls really are. How after two months of training you over videos to take dildos that don’t even mount up to his size, you’re still not fully adjusting. 

If he was with you, it’d be better. He’d take his time, pet you over the material of your underwear, before he began stretching you out of his fingers. He’d take it so slow that by the time you got to his cock, there wouldn’t be much resilience left to you. You might struggle a bit and it might hurt, but eventually you feel so full of him it would fill to fucking good to deny. 

➤ Video is even better than the last one.  

Minx ➤ knew you’d like it. Did you see how wet you made me?

➤ you’re always soaked. Needy thing, aren’t you? 

Minx ➤ just for you. 

Baelor has only been to his daughter’s college twice. The first time he’d been kind enough to accompany you to the open day, and then the second time had been when you moved in. He can’t believe it’s been a semester since he’d seen you and he feels a little guilty for letting work get in the way that he’s neglected his fatherly duties. 

Your room is smaller than he imagined, especially since he’s been paying a hefty check just for you to get your own dorm. It’s somewhat what he expected, different to your bedroom at home with a somewhat more grown up theme, but still familiar. 

He can’t quite pinpoint it, furrowing his brows at your single bed and the oddly placed tripod that overlooks it all. 

“Are you doing youtube now?” He questions, pointing to the camera plugged into your computer. 

“Do you mean vlogging?” You answer. 

“You know what I mean,” he says, raising his brows. 

You stifle a nervous laugh and shrug. “Something like that.” 

Something like that. He tries not to ponder on it but he catches the way your cheeks flush and you bend your head down like you’re dodging the question. 

“So where are you taking me then?” 

Dinner is supposed to be a normal occasion. You haven’t seen each other in months and yet Baelor can’t ignore the flashing lights going off in his head. 

His mind has been screaming at him all day, since the moment he heard your sweet voice and couldn't deny the familiarity. 

You're his daughter, of course he recognises your voice but there’s something else to it. 

Your lips wrap around your spoon when you get dessert, slow and sensual as you lick the ice chocolate from your glossy lips. 

“Can’t believe you haven’t seen me in months,” you say, voice falling quiet as you play around with the food on your plate. “Sometimes it feels like you don’t want to see me.” 

“You know that’s not true,” he says, furrowing his brows at you. 

You push your hair behind your ear, turning to look away from him. He doesn’t miss the way tears well up in your eyes though. 

He calls out your name then, hand reaching over to you only for you to push him away. 

“You don’t call for weeks and when you do, you're snappy with me.” Your voice cracks, a tear sliding down your cheek that you’re quick to wipe away. 

“Honey–” 

“No.” You snap your head around to look at him, cheeks wet and eyes flooding. “It’s not fair. It always feels like you’re punishing me.” 

“It’s just work—” 

“Cut the bullshit.” 

Your lips tremble and he falls silent. 

“You visit Valarr and Matarys.” You throw your hands up in defeat. “And you know it’s not like I can just come visit you over the holidays.” 

“That’s not true, you’re always welcome at home.” 

“I know your parents hate me.” 

“They don’t—” 

You’re sobbing now, a hand falling over your face to cover yourself from onlookers. 

“Hey,” Baelor tries to soothe you, arms reaching out as he steps around the table. 

You try to push him away, try to stop him but he yanks your trembling body to his chest and holds you against him. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, holding you so tightly you think you might snap. “So sorry. I didn’t.” 

It takes a while for you to calm down, chest still trembling as you come to look at him. You’re pouting, wet lips sticking out and the familiarity is a sick recognition as he realises. 

Fuck. 

“Do you love me?” You ask, voice still choked up. 

It’s sickening. He’s frozen as everything seemingly falls together. Your voice, your soft lips, the way you cry. 

“Dad,” you say a bit louder, eyes wide and face screwed up. 

“I love you.” 

He pulls you to his chest, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. 

“Of course, I love you.” 

“Want you.” 

Back at the hotel he can’t stop flicking through your videos, playing over the endless material he has at his hands. He needs to know, needs to be hundred percent certain that it is really you on the other side of the screen. 

It is. 

He can’t deny it. The tiny bedroom he’s paying thousands in rent for each semester. Your body dressed up in the different sets of lingerie he’d bought you and your voice telling him just how badly you’re dripping for him. 

His fucking daughter. 

He’s sick to his stomach, months he’s spent masturbating to videos of you. Not even just that but talking to you like you’re some pretty girl he’s dating. 

He’s sick because even knowing this he’s hard rewatching the videos, dick twitching and straining in his pants. 

He touches himself for what he swears will be the last time, harsh as he fists himself, not even timing himself to your thrusts like he usually does. He wants to get it over and done with. 

When Baelor cums, he’s disgusted by it, turning the phone off and getting the hell out of there. 

He shoots you a text before his flight, not being able to muster the courage to look at you right now. 

Something short and sweet, he’ll need to think about a proper apology when he gets the chance. 

*

He doesn’t call when he gets home. Your texts go unanswered and Baelor tries to go back to his old routine. 

Dates with women his age. 

Only each and everyone fail miserably, even when he fucks them, he still goes home and wraps his hand around his dick to another video of you. He promises it’ll be the last time. He always does. 

But it never is. 

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he thinks there’s a part of him that always kind of knew. He doesn’t want to fully acknowledge it but the similarities were screaming at him for a while. Your body, your hair, your skin tone and your voice. 

He knows that waitress he fucked months before oddly resembled you. He just never wanted to admit to it before. 

Maybe that’s why he was silent with you, barely answering your calls and being oddly snappy with you before. His own guilt had been eating up at him; he just had been too sick to confess to it. 

He’ll confess to it now. In the darkness of his room, with his cock twitching underneath his hand as he palms himself through his boxers. 

Baelor wants you. 

He wants to watch you struggle to take him, to whine for him and tell him how badly you need him. 

Weeks pass since his visit to your college and he doesn’t even realise it. He knows he’s been slow to get around to your texts and letting his phone ring out whenever you called, but he never really knows how bad it is. He’s so lost in fighting his own feelings for you that he doesn’t even realise he’s completely forgotten to pay you any attention.

It’s Valarr that reminds him. 

“What the fuck are you playing at?” 

His son’s voice is hot and seething on the other end, Valarr’s never been one to be quick to temper. Yet he can hear his son spitting out his words, not letting him get a word in edge ways. 

Valarr says your name, and he realises what this is all about. 

“Her friends called me, she’s been apparently drinking almost every night that they thought it best to call me. They were so worried—” 

“Valarr please—” he tries to interject, to make sense of what his son is saying. 

“ —No, you’re going to fucking hear this.” 

Baelor falls silent and takes it. 

“She hasn’t left her room in days and when I got there she wouldn’t stop sobbing. And you know what she said to me—” Valarr pauses then like he half expects an answer. “ —she said you fucking left her after your visit. Some shitty excuse about work and you haven’t answered your texts or calls to her since. It’s been two months, Dad. Two months.” 

Has it really been that long? 

“You know she’s failing her midterms. I spoke to one of the advisors at the school and they’re expecting her to retake the whole year, or she has to completely drop out. All because she’s so hung up on the fact she thinks you don’t care for her.” 

Valarr heaves out a shaky sigh, and he thinks he can hear his son crying. 

“She’s a fucking mess. Had to force her out of the shoe box of a bedroom even then she’s a complete shell of herself. You need to fix this.” 

He doesn’t even wait for his dad to answer, hanging up and leaving Baelor to wallow in his guilt. 

How could he do this to you?

He’s been entirely selfish and he’s not exactly surprised at how you avoid him when you come home for spring break. 

Valarr was right, you’re a complete shell of yourself. Your eyes are puffy from the endless crying and you barely come out of your bedroom. 

He’s tried talking to you, knocking on the door at all kinds of hours to try and get you to come out. He’s been buying your favourite treats in hopes he can bribe you out, each one of them being left untouched and eventually spoiling. 

Bad turns into awful and hours not leaving your bedroom, turns into a whole day.

He doesn’t even knock on the door this time, he enters. 

You’re buried underneath the thick sheets, curled up into a ball, complexion ruined from all the crying you’ve been doing. It has him completely torn up. His hand brushes your hair out your face and you don’t even fight against him, you just stare out at the wall in front of you. 

“Please, don’t do this to me,” he whispers, the back of his hand rubbing soothingly over your cheek. His voice cracks and it makes you open your eyes slightly wider. “Please, get up. Talk to me.” 

Your face screws up then and he’s quick to wipe away your tears. 

“We can talk about it,” he pleads with you, voice softer than it’s ever been. 

You get up after a while, jumping into the shower like he asks while he does your laundry. He takes your sheets and the pile of clothes in your hamper, separating each item into lights and darks when he reaches the washing machine. Then he finds them, the lacy yellow panties mixed in with your other bits of clothing. 

He should restrain himself and he tries, holding the material inches from his face before finally burying his nose against it. 

He’s ruined. You’ve ruined him. 

He sniffs it, licks it and even cums all over it before putting the ruined material in with the rest of your washing. 

He changes your bedding like he didn’t just fist himself with your panties, places out a pretty tiny pyjama set he’s certain he’s seen from one of your videos on the edge of your bed and waits for you to get out of the bathroom. 

You look better, you still won’t meet his eyes but it’s some sort of improvement. 

Your fingers play with the set and then you finally look at him. 

“Can you?” You awkwardly motion to the door with your head. 

“Of course,” he says, getting up and walking out of the room.

You visit him that night, pushing the door open and creeping in the dark room. You don’t even hear the muffled noises of your own moans as you enter the room or notice the way Baelor turns his phone off and throws it under his pillow. 

“Can I stay here tonight?” 

You stand at the edge of his bed wearing the set he left out for you, the material clinging to every part of your body and who is he to deny you, especially when you’re looking at him like you need him. 

He pulls the covers up and lets you slide under the covers next to him. You lie against the edge, a space between you that he closes, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him. He just hopes you can’t feel his stiff cock pressed against your ass cheeks. 

Baelor wakes in the early hours of the morning, hard and wanting against you. 

He knows he shouldn’t and yet his hands slip under the covers anyway. 

You sleep so soundly, not even flinching when his hands fondle your breasts, kneading them softly till he’s pulling them out the restraints of your top. He’s half amused at how your nipples harden so quickly and he can’t help but pinch them, earning a low hum from you in your sleep. His dick twitches at that and he can’t help as his hands run down lower and lower, till they’re parting your thighs. 

He’s not at all surprised to find you wet. Just like in your videos, you’re so easily turned on. 

He doesn’t even need to push his fingers into the material of your shorts to know, not when you’re already soaking the cotton material. He drags his fingers against it, taking his time before applying pressure. Then his fingers finally breach inside, pulling the tight material down your thighs slightly enough to make room for his hand. 

He can’t believe he’s actually doing this. Can’t believe his fingers are sliding against your wet cunt, and touching you. Not just watching you through the video on his screen but actually touching you —fingering you to be exact. Two fingers slide up and down your folds, dragging your slick up to your clit, flicking over it before sliding back down. He does this a few times, noticing how slick oozes from your wall with his teasing and how even in your sleep you can’t help but lean into his touch. 

He imagines you’re awake, that you’re just pretending even though he knows you're not. That you’re trying so hard to keep your eyes closed as you let your dad take care of you. Unable to stop the little moans that slip between your lips as he pushes the first finger in— fuck, you really are just that tight. 

He imagines you waking up, wide eyes and startled expression, asking him what he’s doing. Only for you to whimper when he slides another finger in you, hand pushing against his arm to fight against it, but only finding yourself succumbing to it as you cum against him. 

He doesn’t slip a second finger in, he wants you to be awake when he stretches you out, wants to see your legs quiver and your wriggle against him as you struggle to adjust to his size. 

“Like letting your dad take care of you,” he can’t help but whisper, lips falling over the shell of your ear. “It’s okay honey, I got you.” 

He fists himself with your slick, tip of his dick presses against your cheeks as he cums. It spills all over you, such a sticky mess that he can’t help but play with it, toying it between his fingers before cleaning you up. 

He adjusts your top and shorts, but leaves you wet and wanting, wondering all the emotions that’ll be running through your head when you wake in the morning. 

Things start getting better for the both of you. 

You come out more, joining him for breakfast and sometimes finding yourself both cuddling by tv watching one of his “boring old movies”. It’s sweet normality that you’ve clearly been yearning for, only under the cover of each night, you’re slipping under his bed and falling asleep next to him, none the wiser when he takes what he needs. 

You fall into a little habit of sneaking off as soon as you wake, lifting his arm from around you as you rush to find some privacy. He knows exactly why, knows how wet you’re when you wake, knows how needy you must be in the morning. He doesn’t make you cum when you’re asleep, doesn’t let you. He prefers you dripping in need, whining between breathless sighs as rubs teasing circles into your clit. 

He thinks about how you make yourself cum when you get yourself into the comforts of your bedroom. How you try to replicate the feel of his fingers as you fuck yourself, how you try to reach a certain spot inside of you but you’re unable. It’s not like you can use your toys, not after you forgot to bring them with you. He imagines you using something else, maybe the end of your hair brush pushing the wooden end into your tight hole till you tremble. 

He doesn't ever go to listen though, and doesn't want to find himself disappointed. Instead he finds his phone, and finds one of your saved videos. 

It’s like a routine that he can’t seem to snap himself out of. 

Every time he finds you curled up on the couch, or cooking in the kitchen, it’s like a reaction, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Sometimes when he’s daring it’s your shoulder, your neck and your cheek. 

Now he brushes your hair behind your ear, letting his lips brush against the shell of it before kissing just underneath it. 

He doesn’t miss the way you tense at the suddenness of it, how you swallow when he presses his body against yours. But you’re so starved of affection from him, you take it. 

“Make me a coffee,” he mutters in your ear. 

You nod, before he slowly slips out from behind you. 

When he comes back, the last thing he expects is to find you with his phone in your hands. 

Your moans fill the silent room, loud and lewd and he knows exactly what video he’s playing out, just from the things you’re saying. You click pause when you notice him standing in the doorway, backing yourself into the corner of the room as your wet eyes look at him. 

You don’t look as shocked as you thought you would and that’s why he finds it okay to approach you slowly, placing his arms in front of you like you're some frightened animal. 

“I can explain.” 

Your brows scrunch up at that, eyes narrowing at him before asking, “What do you mean—” The tension falls from your face in realisation and your eyes widen at him. “You know.”

You look exactly how he imagined, wet eyes wide as they stare back at him, body frozen like a deer in the headlights not knowing whether you should run. He 

He approaches, slow and steady as you begin to shake your head. 

“Don’t,” you shout, placing your arm between you. “Stop.” 

He doesn’t listen and when you brace to run, he snatches you in then, grabbing you by your hips and holding you against the counter top. 

“Get off—” 

“I didn’t always know, okay.” He presses his head against yours, one hand coming to cup your cheek. 

You twist away from it but he’s firm, wrapping his fingers into the hairs at the nape of your hair and pulling you to look at him. 

“I’ve been struggling with it and it’s the reason I stopped calling and texting, I was so ashamed about it when I found out months ago.” 

Your stomach twists at that and tears spill out against your cheek as you mouth the word back to him. “Months.” 

“Some part of me knew, I guess.” It’s honest. The first time he’s actually confessing it out loud and it feels good. “And I thought it was wrong but I couldn’t stop myself. It doesn’t feel wrong, not when I’m pressed up against you on the couch or in my bed.” 

“It is wrong,” you hiss, hands falling around his wrist trying to pull him away. “You’re my—” you don’t even have the stomach to say it, wet eyes meeting his darkened gaze, still trying to process that this is really happening. 

“Is it?” His voice deepens, low and rough as he presses his nose against your own. “Going to pretend like you haven’t felt me against you?” He raises his brows, questioning you and he sees the conflict in your face. He knows he’s right. “Like it doesn’t feel good to slip into my bed at night?” 

“Just wanted to feel like you loved me,” you confess, between a broken sob. 

He kisses your wet lips then, soft and slow, not expecting anything in return as his lips work against yours, only pulling away when you’re muttering something again. 

“You’re sick.” 

“I know, baby.” He nods in agreement before kissing you again, gentle like he’s desperately trying to coax you into it. It doesn’t work and resorts to something else, something he knows will work, doing something he knows he shouldn’t. 

His lips trail against the column of your throat before his hand comes across it, holding you there. He doesn’t want to do this but he feels like he has to, pressing his forehead against yours before he gives your throat a gentle squeeze. 

“Let me love you,” he hums, kissing your lips till you’re opening your eyes again. “It’s what you want, isn’t it?” 

You hesitate for a second, thick tears rolling down your eyes until you nod your head. 

“Good girl.” It’s all you need to hear, parting your thighs for him and letting him press his hardened cock against you. You're wet, he can already feel it and he just knows how much he’s going to enjoy it— how much you’re both going to enjoy him fucking you. “Going to make you feel real good, I promise.” 

You sob at that and Baelor rolls his hips against yours, making you feel just how hard you’ve made him. He brushes away your tears, kissing your lips again and humming unexpectedly when you finally kiss him back. 

You’re unsure at first, lips moving against his like they’re being forced to. Only when he bites against your bottom lip, gently tugging at it, do you relax into it more, opening your mouth and letting him do all the work. 

You still tense up when his fingers trail over your body, still go to catch his wrist as it falls between you but Baelor doesn’t mind. He gets it. He fought against this so hard at first, tried desperately hard to keep his needs at bay. You’ll come around. 

Your body does anyway, finding you leaking out of your shorts when he pushes his hand into your panties. Your thighs clamp around his hand, a gasp falling from your lips as he presses his hand flush against your soaked folds. He doesn’t pry your thighs apart but instead lets you trap him between them, rubbing your soaked thighs together to ease the tension, and unintentionally rubbing yourself against his hand. 

“It’s okay,” he coos, saliva dripping from your lips as he pulls away. “It’s okay.” 

“Shouldn’t,” you whine, scrunching your face up, only to relax and separate your thighs. 

“I know.” His tongue slips into your mouth again, slow and teasing just as one of his fingers breaches your hole. “I know.” 

Sometime between the second and the third finger you stop sobbing against him and while your stomach still tenses in disgust at what you’re doing, you can’t help at the way you’re moaning pitifully against him. 

This must be what you deserve for wanting him to love you. 

You tense when he finally has you underneath him, body falling rigid as you lie naked on top of his bed. Your eyes are hazy from all the crying and you can’t make up your mind whether you’re glad or upset that you can’t see him all that clearly as he hovers over you. 

After all, you can’t make out his face when his tip presses against you… 

...But that also meant for a few seconds you can pretend it isn’t actually him on top of you— that it isn’t your dad, breathing heavily as he slips the tip of his cock in and out of you. 

You wanted to be loved, but you don’t think you meant this. 

Your thighs tremble when he thrusts himself in you, walls almost clenching to push him out. He’s too big and although he’s spent the better half an hour of stretching your walls around his fingers in the kitchen, you’re still struggling pathetically to adjust to him. 

He sinks down further, eyes caught at the sight of where his cock is slipping in and out of your walls. He’s barely managing to get an inch past the tip till you’re hissing at the intrusion, grounding your hips as if to escape him. It’s painful and you think it’s your body telling you this isn’t right, that you shouldn’t do this but Baelor is still going to try. 

Try he does, seeing as he’s been practically drooling over the idea since he saw your first video, imagining it was his cock instead of that silicone dildo. Now it is, your thighs trembling in the same way, hips wriggling around as if to ease the pain. It doesn’t though and his cock slips in another full inch, stretching you all wrong till you're sniffling from the pain. 

“It’ll feel good soon,” Baelor promises, kissing your cheeks again. “Promise.” 

While it takes a while at first, the fourth inch making you gasp out and claw your nails at his shoulders from the pain, your walls finally ease up around him. Then it feels good— much too good. 

The fullness being blissful as he plunges himself repeatedly in your walls, over and over again until your thighs quiver from the intensity. You’re still so tight, clenching at every purposefully harsh thrust and disgusting word that drips from his lips. 

You cry out for completely different reasons, feeling your walls dripping so much that you’ve made a puddle on the bed and when you twist yourself away, unable to look at him, he pinches your chin so you’re forced too. 

“Don’t look away from me,” he pleads with you, leaning closer till his hot breath falls over your face again. “Please, need you to look at me.” 

“I can’t,” you choke out, shaking your head as he kisses you again. Your hands fall to his hips, as if to push him away, or to steady him but it doesn’t work. “I think—” You gasp sharply at a cruel thrust, pussy clenching as he brushes at something inside of you. You don’t want to admit it but you don’t think you need to as he sees the way your mouth falls open, the way you shake your head again and again like you’re trying to fight against it. “Can’t.” 

“You can,” he whispers, head lifting from yours to look at you. His eyes rake over your body, flickering between where his cock gets lost between your folds and your face contorts as you fight against the feeling. 

You squeeze him hard, and more slick oozes out of you as he fucks into you deeper and faster like he’s chasing it. Like he can’t a moment longer for you to come undone underneath him. 

You do exactly that, sobbing when the feeling in your stomach finally snaps and hot thick pleasure takes over. You don’t even realise the mess you’re making, unable to feel the way you tighten as you drip around him, or the way your climax finally brings him to his own. But you do feel the way he fills you, how his cum spills into you, thick and nasty as he carries on fucking you through it. 

He doesn’t fall next to you when he’s done like you imagine he should, doesn’t roll over to his side with a heavy sigh. He pulls you into him instead, coaxes you again with kisses and presses his cock deeper into you. 

He tells you it’s fine, tells you how’ll eventually get used to it. 

Before you feel him hardening inside of you again, already thrusting his cum sloppily back into your messy walls. 

It’s gross. So disgusting and your stomach clenches in a way that makes you want to vomit. 

He sees it all across your face, sees the way you’re scrunching your face up as you come down from your own high falling into a sick realisation. 

He knows that feeling and thinks he knows the best solution to stop you from wallowing in self pity, to hide yourself away from him again. He pushes into you again, sloppier than the last time and you hate the way you clench around him again, still so sensitive from your orgasm. 

“It’s better you don’t think,” he hums against you, pressing the full weight of his bare body down against yours as he lets you in on his plan. “Better I keep fucking you until you can’t think anymore.” 

You know it’s wrong and yet you nod in agreement, closing your eyes and letting yourself fall back into the pleasure.