~ Save the Dragons, ride a Targaryen ~

“How’s that?” you murmured, admiring the way his tan skin glistened in the candlelight.

The tops of your fingers would occasionally trace over one of the many scars that had been etched into his body; the sizes and colours of the faded lesions varied, some the length of your forearm and a lighter hue, while others were as small as a quill tip and similar in tone to the surrounding skin.

Baelor hummed in reply before a muffled, “perfect,” left his parted lips. 

The right side of his face was pressed into a cushion below, providing you with the alluring image of his open mouth, flushed left cheekbone, and fluttering, dark lashes.

He made a content rumbling every time you worked out a stubborn lump, the hand he had resting around your calf tightening in appreciation of your efforts.

A raspy, dizzying moan left his throat in a long exhale when your hands kneaded at a particularly sensitive wound–one that, despite being eleven years old, would periodically still flare up and throb.

The sound made your legs constrict around him and eyelids flicker as arousal settled thickly at the base of your spine. You lingered around the edges of the aged laceration, evoking another low, unconstrained noise from deep within his chest.

Slowly, your fingers dragged upwards, leaving a trail of long, red welts that took their time to vanish, along the length of his shoulder blades. 

The dark grey and silvery hair that rested around the nape of his neck and ear was sleek from a coating of oil, darkened from when you had earlier threaded through the strands in a besotted manner. They had looked enticingly cute; their naturally curled shape too tempting for you to not reach up and twirl them around a single, slick digit.

“Turn around,” you commanded once you had managed to get all of the painful nodules out of his shoulders, your hips rising to provide him with room to flip over.

Once Baelor was comfortably facing you, you sat back down over his pelvis, legs tightening around his body once more when he peered up at you with a knowing smile.

This part wasn’t for him as much as it was for you.

He had gained a thickness over his muscles as the years passed, a supple, malleable layer of meat that easily surrendered to your ministrations. 

You poured more lotion over your palms, rubbing them together until the liquid was warm, and then placed them atop his torso.

The hair that was scattered over the stretch of his chest immediately darkened as the balm coated his skin; the glossy sheen that enhanced the bulkiness of his upper body caused heat to unfurl within your lower abdomen, drift up, and settle in blotchy, tingly patches over your throat and face.

Baelor’s own hands were resting over the upper part of your thighs, his new position supplying him more access to you.

His body jolted forward when one of your nails accidentally scraped his dusky nipple, eliciting a startled intake of air from the older man. You bit the inside of your cheek to refrain from remarking on how sensitive he was, despite knowing that he would never retaliate even if you were to do it again.

“Enjoying yourself?” Baelor inquired after several minutes of being thoroughly prodded, scraped, and tugged at. 

His scarred brow rose in response to the engrossed, fixated look on your face.

You hadn’t noticed how drastically your breathing had changed; immersed with the way his short, coarse hairs felt when you combed through them, and how every sinewy ridge of his flesh pliantly absorbed each stroke and squeeze you delivered.

ᝰ⋆.˚ from that day on he comes to the coffee shop almost every day, leaving tips so big they sometimes cover several of your shifts. he knows you’re working yourself to the bone just to pay for your life, so when you ask him not to spend so much, he just increases the amount, calling it “a little help.”

you smile at him, draw little cats and smiley faces on the cups, and every morning he finds himself wondering what it’s gonna be today.

but one tuesday everything changes: he sees you with tear-streaked cheeks, your eyes red and puffy. you brush it off, but he notices the angry manager who comes out after you. when the guy finally leaves, he quietly writes his number down and hands it to you.

“if you need help — and you do — call me. i’m always reachable.”

ᝰ⋆.˚ he invites you to one of those quiet, expensive restaurants with a panoramic view of the city when you finally call him after an exhausting shift and a fight with your boss. he watches you for a while as you look through the menu and tells you to order anything you want, no hesitation.

when it’s time for dessert and you’ve gotten used to him enough, he gently takes your hand into his warm palms and says he’d like to help you in any way he can, so you don’t have to wear yourself out with night shifts and constant exhaustion. when you ask if he does this kind of thing regularly, he just lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head, saying he heard about it from a friend recently and immediately thought of you.

ᝰ⋆.˚ for your first trip together, he takes you to new york because he has an important deal there, and he’s dead set on you accompanying him that evening. at receptions and formal meetings, he doesn’t leave you alone for a second, always keeping a hand on your waist and proudly introducing you to everyone as his girl. he catches every glance you give him, and when you get tired of all the small talk, he checks on you and quietly leans in to whisper praise in your ear, unnoticed by the others.

ᝰ⋆.˚ when he finds out you’re preparing for a tough finals, he turns your studying into the most comfortable process possible: he sends his personal chef over to your place, drives you around all the time, and gives you advice whenever you talk to him about your lectures.

ᝰ⋆.˚ baelor sets one clear rule from the very first day: he’s never going to pressure you or push you into anything sexual.

and even if you’re grateful for it at first, now you’re practically losing your mind over how badly you want him.

i mean, he’s attractive, tall, rich, and built — who can blame you?

but he just smiles and shakes his head anyway, no matter how much you tease him.

ᝰ⋆.˚ sugardaddy! baelor who finally snaps when you come up to him in his home office and literally start rubbing against his thigh in those expensive pants, whimpering. "does my pretty girl need something?" he teases, moving your hips and literally making you ride his thigh until you come, leaving a wet spot.

"got so wet just from my leg, hm? what's gonna happen when my cock is inside you?" he spreads your knees wide, your skirt pushed up to your waist and your panties lying somewhere on the office floor as you come again, first on his huge fingers that barely fit inside you, and then on his heavy cock while he pounds into you balls deep. "is this what my baby wanted? for me to rip her sweet pussy apart?"

ᝰ⋆.˚ he absolutely loves spoiling you. for him, nothing matters more than your eyes lighting up when you get something you’ve wanted for a long time. it’s not always dresses or shoes, sometimes it’s the simplest things: a brand new coffee machine, a massage device because you once mentioned your back hurts from sitting all the time. he doesn’t know the word no when it comes to your comfort. if you look at something for more than five seconds, the next day it’s already yours.

ᝰ⋆.˚ sugardaddy! baelor who has you settled on his lap in the back room of a private jet, your legs spread wide over his, your back against his chest, while one hand holds you possessively as he’s in you up to his knuckles. his fingers are long and thick, pounding into you with smooth strokes, hitting that exact sensitive spot you could never reach on your own. "nngh! please, i need... please..." he just laughs and kisses your neck with open-mouthed kisses. "mmmh, good girls speak up about what they want."

your hips tremble and lift every time, but he pins you down with one hand. "come on, my baby, tell me what you want and i'll give it to you." "i wan— mmnh! please, i want to come, please please plea— ...haaaah!" "such a good girl for me, my sweetest baby, come on my fingers so i smell like you for a whole fucking week."

and when you come with a loud cry, he grabs your chin and turns your head toward him to pull you into a deep kiss.

ᝰ⋆.˚ baelor, who has to fly to singapore for work but can't go a day without seeing you. what starts as a normal chat turns into something entirely different when he switches to facetime. "put the phone lower... yeah, right there. now open those pretty legs and show me how much you missed me. use your fingers, baby."

he makes you say out loud how bad you want him inside you, how you miss his fingers and his mouth, making you blush and lose your breath in front of the camera.

he starts moving his hand faster, his cock is hard as fuck, breathing heavy while he watches you. he let out a low groan when you came, moaning his name. "fuccckk, you're not leaving the room once i get home."

ᝰ⋆.˚ he’s an eater. he claims it’s primarily for his pleasure, not yours. he loves leaving you naked on his silk sheets, slowly covering your thighs and stomach with a trail of kisses. he can spend hours worshiping you with his tongue, driving you to one orgasm after another until you start crying from the sensory overload, and then he just presses you against his hot chest, cradling you and whispering how lucky he is and how you make him the happiest man alive.

ᝰ⋆.˚ baelor, who seats you onto his cock, making you sit like that until he's finished with his reports. he loves the feeling — how your inner muscles stretch around him, trying to get used to his size, and how you squeeze him every time he moves even an inch. "can you sit still like this for me, princess?"

you start whimpering quietly from the fullness and the heat inside, trying to move just a little, but he only smirks and holds you tighter. "behave. you know good girls get whatever they ask for, right?"

you're literally dripping onto his dress pants, leaving a terribly awkward wet spot, but he doesn't give a shit. "look how you've messed me up, is being inside not enough for this little pussy? does it want more?" when you’ve turned into a complete mess, unable to do anything but moan and whimper, he tosses his pen aside and finally touches your swollen clit, slowly rolling it between his fingers. "okay, let's take care of my sweet baby."

ᝰ⋆.˚ maybe others think it's nasty, thinking you’re just fucking some old dude for money, but he treats you like a princess, spoils you to death, and fucks you until you're complete mess. and he's hot, so honestly, you couldn't care less.

masterlists.

It started, as things with Baelor often did, with something entirely innocent.

He had texted you a photo of a page from a book — a passage he had found and thought you would find interesting, which he did occasionally now, with the easy frequency of someone who had stopped managing the impulse to share things with you — and you had responded and a conversation had started and it had been a perfectly normal Tuesday evening exchange about the historiography of late Byzantine administrative structures until—

Until you had not been able to help yourself.

I keep thinking about last week, you sent. Specifically the kitchen counter.

A pause.

Longer than his usual response time.

I think about it also, he sent back. Frequently.

You smiled at your phone.

How frequently, you sent.

Another pause.

More than is probably productive, he sent. I was in a meeting this afternoon and spent approximately ten minutes thinking about the sound you made when I— and then it stopped and you could see the three dots and then they disappeared and then appeared again and then: that was not a sentence I intended to finish in a text message.

Finish it, you sent.

That seems inadvisable, he sent.

Baelor, you sent.

A pause.

The sound you made, he sent, when I put my mouth on your throat. I have been thinking about that specifically.

You stared at your phone.

Just that? you sent.

No, he sent back, and the single word had a quality to it even in text. Not just that.

Tell me, you sent.

The three dots appeared and stayed for longer than usual this time, which meant he was writing something and reconsidering and rewriting, which was so Baelor that you smiled at the ceiling of your flat while you waited.

I think about the way you felt, he sent finally. Specifically the way you felt when I was inside you. The sounds you made. The way you said my name. A pause and then another message immediately after: I think about what you look like when you come. I have replayed that in considerable detail.

Your mouth had gone slightly dry.

Considerable detail, you sent.

I have a good memory, he sent. It is currently working against me.

How so, you sent.

I am sitting in my study, he sent, trying to read, and instead I am thinking about putting you on this desk.

You put your phone down and screeched.

Picked it up again.

Tell me what you'd do, you sent.

The three dots.

I would start, he sent, with your throat. Specifically the place where your neck meets your shoulder. I have been thinking about that place with a frequency that I find somewhat consuming. Another message: Then lower. I would take my time. I was not thorough enough last week and I intend to correct that.

Not thorough enough, you sent. Baelor you made me come twice.

I'm aware, he sent. I have specific intentions regarding three.

You made a sound in the privacy of your flat that you were glad no one could hear.

You can't just say that, you sent.

I just did, he sent, with a composure that translated remarkably well into text. You feel extraordinary, he sent, and the shift in tense — present, immediate — made something clench low in your stomach. I think about how you feel around me and I lose significant portions of whatever I was doing. This afternoon it was a budget meeting. I cannot tell you what was decided.

What were you thinking specifically, you sent.

Specifically, he sent, how tight you are. How wet you were. The sounds you make when I go deep. A pause. I think about your hands in my hair. I think about the marks you left on my throat. I think about the way you said my name when you came the second time. Another pause, shorter. I think about it and I am hard and I am sitting in my study trying to read Procopius and it is not going well.

Touch yourself, you sent.

A longer pause than any of the others.

That is, he sent, not something I have done while texting someone before.

First time for everything, you sent.

You are a terrible influence, he sent. And then, after a brief pause: I am touching myself. I want you to know that I find this situation faintly absurd and also that I cannot currently bring myself to stop.

You laughed and then immediately stopped laughing because the image of Baelor in his study with Procopius open on his desk and his hand in his lap because of your text messages was doing things to you that you needed to address.

Tell me what you're thinking, you sent.

You, he sent. Specifically you on this desk. Specifically the sounds you would make. A longer pause — you figured how difficult it'd be for him to reply while he was pumping his cock in his hand. Specifically what your face looks like when you come. Another long pause: I think about that most. Your face. The way you look at me. A longer pause and then: I think about the way you said my name. I think about it constantly. You have no idea what your voice does to me.

Baelor, you sent.

There, he sent immediately. Exactly that. God.

Are you close, you sent.

Yes, he sent. Tell me something.

I think about your hands, you sent. I think about how large they are. I think about the tattoo on your ribs. I think about the sounds you make and the fact that nobody else has ever heard them.

A pause.

Nobody else, he sent back, rough even in text, something stripped in it.

Nobody, you sent. They're mine.

The pause that followed was brief.

Yes, he sent. And then nothing for two minutes and then: that was somewhat more intense than I anticipated for a Tuesday evening.

You laughed properly this time while looking at your phone like an idiot.

Good? you sent.

Come over, he sent. Please.

Baelor it's eleven pm, you sent.

I'm aware, he sent. Come over anyway. A pause. I have specific intentions and a desk and considerably more patience than I demonstrated last week.

You were already looking for your keys.

I'll be there in twenty, you sent.

I'll make tea, he sent, and you could feel the composure returning in real time and found you did not mind because the composure was never really the point, the point was what was underneath it, and you had standing access to that now.

Baelor, you sent, at the door.

Yes, he sent.

The desk, you sent. Don't change your mind about the desk.

A pause.

I have a very good memory, he sent. I don't change my mind about things I've thought about in considerable detail.

You jumped in the place you stood a few times and locked your door behind you.

It started with a photo.

Not an explicit one. Just — you, at a friend's birthday, in a dress that you had purchased with complete innocence and had worn with complete innocence and had sent to Maekar because he had asked what you were doing that evening and you had said out, here's proof and attached the photo without thinking about it.

His response took four minutes.

When are you home

You stared at the message with the incipient smile of someone who had got exactly what they were looking for.

Why???, you decided to play oblivious.

When are you home, he sent again.

That's not an answer to my question, you sent.

Couple of hours tops, he sent. And keep that dress.

You looked at your phone with a full smile now.

What about the dress???, you sent.

Don't, he sent.

Don't what, you sent.

You know what, he sent.

You did know what. You smiled at your phone in the middle of your friend's birthday party and sent back: I genuinely don't know what you mean.

A pause that felt pointed even through a screen.

The dress, he sent, is a problem.

How so, you sent.

I've been looking at that photo, he sent, for four minutes.

And? you sent.

And I'm going to be thinking about taking it off you, he sent, for the next couple of hours.

You excused yourself from the conversation you had been having and went to find somewhere slightly more private. Daeron looked at you somewhat confused, but when he noticed the way you were biting your lip, he just rolled his eyes and laughed.

Just thinking about it? you sent.

For now, he sent.

Tell me more, you sent.

A pause.

You first, he sent.

You looked at that for a moment.

I think about your hands, you sent. Specifically how they feel on my hips.

The response came fast: yeah

I think about your mouth, you sent.

Where, he sent.

Everywhere, you sent. Specifically my throat.

I left a mark last time, he sent.

I know, you sent. I liked it.

A pause that felt like him recalibrating.

How much, he sent.

Enough that I wore my hair up the next day so people could see it, you sent.

The pause was longer this time.

Christ, he sent.

Your turn, you sent.

The dress, he sent. Specifically what's under it.

What do you think is under it, you sent.

Not my mouth, he sent, and the three words landed with the flat certainty of everything he said and did things to you that three words had no business doing.

Maekar, you sent.

Come home, he sent.

I'm at a party, you sent.

I know, he sent. Come home anyway.

That's very demanding, you sent.

Yes, he sent.

You laughed.

Tell me what you're going to do when I get there, you sent.

A pause.

The dress comes off first, he sent. Slowly. I'm going to take my time. And then immediately: Last time I didn't take enough time. Another message: I've been thinking about that.

What specifically, you sent.

Tasting you, he sent, four words, blunt and direct and landing like a physical thing. Properly. Without the wall and the edging. A pause. Just you on my bed and my mouth on your pussy and nowhere to be.

You were gripping your phone considerably harder than the situation strictly required.

That's very specific, you sent.

I think specifically, he sent.

What else, you sent.

You on top, he sent. Like last time. I keep thinking about that. A pause that felt like him deciding something. The way you looked. The sounds you made. I think about that when I'm trying to sleep.

Does it work? you sent. For sleeping?

No, he sent. The opposite.

Are you hard, you sent.

Yes, he sent, as if it were an obvious question. Have been since the photo.

Touch yourself, you sent.

A pause.

I'm not doing that over text, he sent.

Why not, you sent.

Because, he sent, when I come I want to feel your pussy around me. I'm not settling for my own hand when I can have you.

You stopped, put your phone down for a second, looked at the sky above you, took a deep breath and tried not to scream in public.

Maekar, you sent.

Come home, he sent. I'll be here.

I have to say goodbye to a few people, you sent.

Fine, he sent. And then: wear the dress.

You being you, decided to rile Maekar a bit more just because he hadn't comply with your request of touching himself. Also because it was terribly fun to imagine him fuming at home, hard and not able to reprimand you for now.

You attached another photograph, one that a friend had taken that same day of Daeron and you laughing together earlier that afternoon, his arm around your waist in a friendly manner.

Maekar didn't answer for a whole minute. Then:

Tell Daeron to move his hand, he sent.

You laughed. Why??? He's your son.

I know who the fuck he is, he sent. Tell him to move his hand.

We were just— you did not get time to finish the message.

You're mine. He knows that. Get your coat and come here.

You would have screamed if you remembered how to breathe, which you did not.

Already getting my coat, you sent.

Good, he sent. I am having some words with Daeron tomorrow.

A pause.

And then one more message, sent with the flat directness of a man who said what he meant and meant what he said:

I'm going to make you forget your own name.

You said goodbye to approximately four people simultaneously, Daeron included, and left.

Yeah, so maybe there's a bit of personal projection here. Can you blame me tho?

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