shall I free you of me?

✦ baelor targaryen

touch — you’re infuriatingly infatuated with your betrothed’s hands, especially his long, thick fingers.

top — you seek out your husband’s touch after an argument.

teeth (part 1) — you and valarr have an agreement; he has kiera, and unbeknownst to him or anyone else, you have your filthy, depraved thoughts that revolve around his father.

tongue (part 2) — three moons had passed since your marriage to valarr had been annulled on the account of it not being consummated.

treat — your husband’s focus on his duties has made him much too neglectful of you, but you’ve found a way to remedy that.

thoughtless — thrust into a politically arranged marriage to the widowed heir to the throne, you spend your days desiring the attention of a man who views you only as a fulfilled duty.

transaction — he was the heir to the throne, hand to the king, a devoted husband to a remarkable wife, the father to two exceptional sons, and your father’s debt holder.

trickery — baelor is a widower who hasn’t been intimate with anyone in quite some time, that is, until you make it your purpose in life to unravel his restrained exterior.

taste (part 1) — baelor discovers you, the young daughter of a lord who had opposed him during a minor rebellion, with a slit throat and a faint pulse near a riverbed, and decides to grant you a second chance at life.

tender (part 2) — baelor finally accepts that you’re not the same young woman he saved all those years ago.

✦ maekar targaryen

thirst — maekar makes his new wife sit on his face. 

tease — maekar’s daughters are in need of a highborn governess, and who better suited the role than you?

tainted — you’re forced to live with your godfather, maekar targaryen, after a misfortunate accident results in the loss of your last blood relative. now, he must bear the responsibility of wedding you into a proper noble house.

tethered —  a walk through the gardens leads to irreparable consequences.

✦ collection of snippets

horse riding lessons [baelor]

face sitting [baelor]

domestic morning [baelor]

breeding + cock warming [baelor]

an unexpected helping hand [maekar]

prey x predator [maekar]

masturbation [adam dalgliesh]

a domestic moment [baelor and maekar]

massage [baelor]

mirror sex [baelor]

loss of virginity (backside) [baelor]

pussy drunk [baelor]

prostate milking [baelor]

assisted masturbation + blindfold [baelor]

✦ inbox extras

baelor winks

eye contact with baelor

dark baelor

wedding night with baelor

cock warming with baelor

baelor with pregnant reader

baelor disciplines reader

thoughtless [extra]

piss kink collection [one] [two] [three] [four]

no gag reflex with baelor

baelor reassuring reader that an orgasm is not shameful

car breaks down in the middle of nowhere with baelor

oral fixation with baelor

somnophilia with baelor

baelor being insecure about not being able to get it up all the time

“And what does ‘kepa’ mean?” the question is muffled against his attire; your face is pressing against his chest, directly above his heart, as he carries you to your shared chambers.

Baelor pauses before answering, making you wonder if perhaps he had not heard you, but when you open your mouth to repeat yourself, he speaks. “Father, or uncle.”

“Kepa,” you say slowly, noticing the way his step falters.

He’s quiet when he opens the door with a quick twist of the knob and a firm kick of his boot; when he enters, he places you at the end of the bed with a gentleness that makes your heart ache before he takes a step–or, rather, several steps–back.

“I quite like it.” your hand is outstretched in a silent request for his warmth. “Kepa.”

His hands clench at his sides and back straightens in a feeble effort to disguise the inward reaction he has to you addressing him as such.

“It is not, however, what one should ever use to call their husband,” he explains delicately, throat bobbing when he audibly swallows. His eyes are transfixed on a portion of the bedding to your left, glossy and slitted as they trace the embroidered design that had been sewn into its plush exterior with an unusual level of concentration.

“Kepa?” you croon, voice sultry smooth–beckoning him to heed your hum like a siren who lures fishermen to the edge of their ships before she pounces on their unguarded forms.

Baelor’s eyes snap to yours, heavy and lit with want; his jaw twitches below his beard and expression is contorted from his fraying restraint.

Promptly, your hands fly out to pull him into your embrace with a harsh, unsuspected yank at the sashes draped around his waist. He catches himself before he collapses on top of you, hands forming dents in the padded bedding below as he braces his weight above your wriggling figure.

“How obvious you are, dear husband,” is rasped against the coarse hairs along his chin, causing his breath to hitch–it blends into a ragged sigh when you nibble on the bobbing lump of his throat. “Or should I say, kepa?”

Baelor’s hips immediately propel forward, seeking the sweltering centre of your spread legs. He knows this is wrong, not even in his family’s history of strange customs did parent and child ever establish a martial union, and yet, hearing that word from you, in the manner and circumstance in which you spoke it, undid something in him. 

The sizzling, wanton repetition of, “Kepa,” leaves your throat in a melodic slur, entering his ears from where your teeth drag against his lobe, and settles at the base of his spine. A growing pool of lust accumulates within his lower abdomen, threatening to drown him in its lapping waves.

“Gods,” Baelor bites out, chest heaving as the air leaves his lungs in unsteady pants. “You should not call me that.”

“Kep–,” the term falls flat because he’s twisting to lay on his back, pulling you atop him. 

His hands move to hastily unbuckle the belts around his waist, as well as the laces keeping his breeches from coming undone under the tension of the taut tent that’s formed. 

“Ride me.” he commands, voice laden with a desperate urgency.

His cock is a dark, flushed hue when it escapes its confines; it slaps against the fabric covering his abdomen, leaving a clear string of fluid that keeps it connected to the garment when it jumps up. Before you can move, he’s pulling your skirts and smallclothes to the side, tearing whatever does not submit to his tugs with a feverish forcefulness. 

“Please,” Baelor begs, lips parting and cheeks flushing as he peers up at you. “Ride me.”

As if something switches in your head, you grasp his blistering length with a tight grip, align it with the opening of your dripping entrance, and slide down until he’s fully sheathed within your constricting passage.

An unrestrained, guttural groan escapes him when you tighten around him like a vice, followed by a garbled pleading. “Gods, yes, ride me, take whatever you want–take it all.”

Your hips unsteadily slide against his; there is no elegance or gentility in your union. The frantic, desperate pace conveys that this is a primal coupling, an unbridled, selfish act in which the both of you take what you need from the other.

“Kepa, oh.”

Baelor’s hands are latched around your waist with a bruising strength. “That’s it, ride your kepa.”

A bolt of arousal shoots up your abdomen before it trickles down the length of your limbs. Gods, he loves it, you realize with a gasp, taking in the debauched look plastered across his face and furrowed brows.

His drooping eyelids make it difficult for you to hold his gaze, especially when paired with the bewitching black of his blown pupils; the thin, circular slithers of his irises have practically vanished, giving him a predatory appearance.

The obscene sound of you repeatedly slamming down onto him, enthusiastically meeting every one of his vigorous upward cants, reverberates in the chamber. 

Two of your fingers use the opportunity his ajar mouth creates to press against his tongue, startling both him and yourself. Surprise swiftly turns into excitement when his lips enclose around the digits to suck them further into the wet, suctioned cavern of his mouth. A whimper escapes your throat at the sensation of his tongue wrapping around the digits, sending a new flood of slick that coats his cock and smears against the inner flesh of your thighs.

The air is humid with the mixed scent of sex, sweat, and indecency.

Another husky wail of, “Kepa,” fills the space, followed by the action of your unoccupied hand sliding up the expanse of his chest to loosely wrap around the column of his throat.

Baelor purrs–actually purrs–deep within his chest, sending the vibrations of the muffled sound up the length of your arms. His fingertips scrabble at your hips in an effort to distract himself from releasing too soon; it’s a futile attempt, you can feel the telltale signs that his climax is rapidly approaching, which catapults you into your own.

Your body goes slack above him, clit flush with the short hairs around the base of his cock; every tiny shift sends a burst of molten pleasure throughout your trembling frame.

The hand around his neck tightens a fraction in the midst of your blissful release, hips still moving in small, circular motions between the chorus of mewls that exit your throat. “I need your seed.”

His teeth graze your knuckles, piercing the hard ridges until small dents appear. A deeper wrinkle forms between his brows; he can feel the pull of your cunt, it mimics your words, begging for him to fill you as it continuously compresses his cock. 

“You were so handsome today,” you reveal, thinking back to how he had conducted himself during the banquet. “I wanted to pleasure you where you sat–with my hands and mouth–for all to see.”

A low, needy groan escapes him as he recalls the way you had stared at him from across the hall for a majority of the feast. 

“Watching you be such a good kepa with Matarys,” your walls clench around him when you replay the way he had affectionately guided his youngest son through the court. “Invoked me to ask the Gods for a babe of our own.”

Baelor’s eyes roll back at your words.

One final, hard plunge up into your core, followed by another light squeeze around his windpipe, sends him over the edge. 

His balls tighten, pulling taut to his body as he releases inside of you. Thick, seemingly neverending, pumps of cum spurt against your insides, continuing even as it drips out to seep into the cloth still covering a majority of his lower half.

You bend to kiss the faint bruises along his neck as you remove your fingers from his mouth, cunt spasming around his softening length when a thick trail of saliva keeps the digits attached to his lower lip. 

Baelor releases a light, incredulous laugh as he basks in the buzz trailing throughout his body. His palms glide up your figure to cup your cheeks just as his head rises to meld your mouth against his in a tender kiss. 

Withdrawing from your heat requires too much effort; it’s something neither one of you are willing to do as the euphoric tingles of your coupling simmer along the span of your limbs.

“You must not call me that around others,” he murmurs between your kisses, words soaked in shame.

“But, when it is only the two of us,” you start, petting the underside of his beard with your thumbs. “May I call you so?”

You feel his pulse jump; his pupils shrink and grow under your playful scrutiny, alternating the size of the blue and brown they reside within. 

you don’t even appear to notice that he’s some mere steps in front of your seated form, watching with a starstruck focus the way your teeth leave small indents on the flesh of your finger, new ones appearing every time you move along the digit to suckle or bite on an unmarred patch of skin. when your tongue dips out to soothe the marks you made, he nearly groans aloud, but he's quick to catch himself with a clench of his fists and an abrupt shake of his head.

the movement seems to dislodge you from your musings because you’re looking up at him, with a soft smile and an outstretched hand–the same hand you had been chewing on that now glistens with your saliva.

—

several days later, baelor finds you in the courtyard, cross-legged, with a book in your lap and the end of a sugar cane stick in your mouth. the tip of it pokes at the side of your cheek suggestively, creating a vulgar bulge. promptly, an unfurling of heat erupts within his lower abdomen and a streak of colour paints his face at the image.

he wonders, as you remove the candy from your mouth to swirl it with your tongue, if you are aware of just how provocative you appear. his mind is conjuring thoughts, vivid and detailed, of you lapping at something else in a similar manner, keeping a different kind of stick warm within the wet, heated passage of your throat.

his breeches tighten when your cheeks hollow around the cane, certain that he’s able to catch the sound of your actions from where he stood some distance away.

baelor knows he should make himself known, approach you delicately about how your behaviour could be misconstrued for something he knows it’s not, but he finds himself unable to move. 

he hates it because he doesn’t get to spend that short time between duty and rest discussing how your day went, whether you enjoyed your supper, or if you had read anything interesting.

he loves it because it means when he does slip into your shared chambers, he can climb beneath the covers, remove your sheer nightgown, spread your legs, bring you to completion on his fingers and mouth, and then, finally, slide his aching cock into your relaxed, wet cunt.

“so warm and willing, my dear,” he murmurs against your ear, lightly nipping at the lobe as he rocks his hips forward, not stopping until he’s sheathed himself entirely within your warm, clenching passage. 

when you mewl at the sensation, baelor’s quick to softly croon, “I’ll take care of you, sweet girl–gods, yes–it’s all right,” as he runs the back of his fingers over the plush flesh of your cheek.

even in your state of unconsciousness, your skin heats beneath his touch in a way that makes his heart jump and cock twitch.

he can manipulate you easier like this, when you’re not tense from embarrassment or shying away from his curious eyes and inquisitive touch; his tongue has access to every part of you, from your toes to your armpits, licking at you as though only you can satiate the hunger his late supper could not.

“always so wet for me, sweetness,” he mumbles against your throat, voice velvety and subdued as his words mix with the filthy, squelching sound of his cock repeatedly splitting you apart before withdrawing until only the tip of his length is keeping you spread.

he freezes when you let out a quiet, “baelor,” that blends into a needy sigh, only resuming his movements when your lashes cease fluttering and breathing returns to a deep, steady rhythm.

“gods,” he bites out, lowering his hand to rub your clit in tandem with the speed of his tender thrusts, continuing even when he feels you clench around him as he brings you to completion. “that’s it, my dear.”

you’re arching up into him, thighs quivering and lips parting to whimper before your body relaxes back into the silken sheets, a content expression etching itself onto your slumbering face in the aftermath of your third release.

“yes, sweet girl.”

a handful of thrusts later, he’s pausing to spill his seed deep within you, hands squeezing the pillow your head rests upon as he lets out a low, guttural moan of his own into the crook of your neck.

baelor remains sheathed within you for several moments, reluctant to leave your heat.

when he catches his breath, he languidly pulls out, lowering himself until his face is level with your cunt to watch the way his cum slowly drips down your slit; he uses two fingers to push his release back inside of you before it’s able to seep into the bedding below, eyes glinting when he notices how desperate your hole is to lure him back in.

“baelor?” his name is slurred on your sleepy tongue, but he responds to it immediately–rising on his hands and knees to press a kiss against your forehead.

“you must be exhausted, my dear,” is his response against your heated skin; he gathers you in his arms and then moves to lay on his back, dragging you atop his chest in the process. “do not awaken for my sake, please.”

baelor’s hands massage circles into your bare back after he pulls the covers over your sated forms.

barely a beat passes before your hips are moving against the partially softened length of his cock, using your wetness and his escaping cum to easily slide it within your folds until you’re shaking in his hold as another release shoots through you.

heat spreads over your body in patches as baelor coos against your hair and cants his hips upwards to assist you with riding it out.

in truth, he wanted his court to catch a glimpse of your twitching form or stumble upon a muffled whimper of yours as he wrought a release from you.

it was more so for himself as much as it was for you; he loved attending to his duties and meetings with the remnants of your taste on his tongue and your smell on his beard, but he also enjoyed knowing that only he was allowed to and capable of engulfing you in such pleasures.

baelor also wanted to ensure that any prying onlookers, especially those who might have offhandedly commented on the whether or not he was even competent enough to keep you satisfied at his age, knew that he was more than proficient at doing so.

“baelor, oh, please,” your whines bounce off the walls of the corridor, fingers entangling in his cropped strands to alternate between tugging and scratching at his scalp in encouragement.

“only I–,” baelor’s huffing against your heat, the tops of his cheeks flushed, “only I can bring you such pleasure.” 

it sounds more like a question than a statement–one that you’re answering with a frantic nod before he’s even finished speaking, “only you, dear husband.”

your lips part as a loud moan escapes, fingers moving from his short hair to his coarse beard. 

“no one else could ever make me come undone as you do,” you continue, back arching when he groans into your cunt. “oh–only you–gods, yes.”

his softened cock twitches against his leg, pre-cum dribbling down the length of his thigh, but he’s unconcerned. 

baelor’s mind and efforts are preoccupied with wringing another release from you, and then another and another, not stopping even when you’re pleading that it’s too much–despite the way your thighs are wrapped around his head and hands clutch him closer to you.

he loves when you use him to distract yourself from your monthly discomfort–to ease the pain of your cramps–muffling his groans into the crook of your neck as your cunt repeatedly tightens and loosens around his appendage. 

you were sat atop him, arms enclosed around his shoulders as he gently rocked you forward and back, every slight movement allowing a fresh wave of both slick and blood to drip down his cock, seeping into the thick towel he had taken the time to lay atop the silken bedding prior to your coupling.

he’s cooing and rasping comforting words in your ear; one of his arms is sturdily wrapped around your waist as his hand kneads at the flesh of your belly. 

“it hurts,” you mumble against his neck, fingers tugging at the greying hair near his nape.

he raises the hand on your lower abdomen to his mouth, warming the flesh of his palm up before it returns to where you need it most, “I know, sweet girl, I’m sorry,” he croons, littering kisses along your hairline.

he bites down on his inner cheek to suppress the loud groan he nearly releases when your cunt constricts around him at his words.

finally, baelor lets out a wrecked, “gods,” when you latch your mouth onto the meaty column of his throat–the pressure of your suckling on his salty skin varying depending on the intensity of your cramps.

feeling emboldened, you move upwards, ignoring his objections, before you glide all the way back down onto his blood-coated cock.

“feels so good,” you mumble against his scruffy cheek, “so big and–,”

baelor cuts you off when he turns his head to lick at your mouth, nipping at the swollen, bitten flesh until you’re opening for him.

“don’t leave me, please,” you whisper between his kisses.

he had made sure to free his schedule for the entire day, deeming your need of his presence as more important than his duties as the hand.

The richness that coats his voice is audible despite his words being mostly muffled by the thick, oak door, “My brother finds himself preoccupied with his second son as well as the youngest two of his offspring,” there’s a brief pause, then, “it has left him unable to find a suitable match for his eldest son.” 

“I understand, your grace,” is all you are able to hear because two servants are passing by with a loud, wobbling cart that drowns out the last portion of the conversation. 

Just as they’ve rounded the corner, dousing the corridor in silence once more, the handle of your father’s study twists and you’re spinning on your heels to hide behind the nearest stone column.

Your breath catches when you see him exit.

He’s draped in black and dark red silks that accentuate the width of his shoulders and tapered waist, and dons two rings, a pin in the shape of a hand atop his left shoulder, and a heavy weariness that nearly makes you wish you could relieve him of his burdens. 

Though, it’s the dark hair atop his head, heavily sprinkled with strands of silver and grey, and the mesmerizing dual-toned colour of his eyes that captures your attention, causing you to freeze like an ensnared rabbit the moment his stare settles on you.

“Come, come.” your father calls, beckoning you to approach their towering forms with a fond smile, “Your grace, allow me to introduce my only daughter.”

Baelor’s expression falters the tiniest bit–his brows raise and head tilts as he studies you with a slow blink and a fixed, assessing look. 

A soft, “Hello,” leaves his lips, sending an array of chills over your skin despite the syrupy, hushed tone that is used to speak it.

You bow, “Your grace,” and your voice cracks in spite of the effort you put in to disguise the fact that you are, quite evidently, intimidated by the older man.

Your palms dampen and nape begins to buzz under the weight that shrouds his gaze; an unsettling warmth rises over your chest and throat, drifting upwards until it burns the flesh of your cheeks.

“Forgive me, I will take my leave. It was a pleasure to meet you, your grace.” with another low bow, you await their dismissal and then retreat to somewhere you can catch your breath. 

You halt only when the reason behind your heart’s erratic rhythm is exertion, not a pair of odd-coloured eyes.

You are informed, three moons later, that your house and House Targaryen would be a formidable match–one that will soon be united through marriage.

Surprisingly, you find yourself at ease with the decision, it is not entirely unexpected given what you had overheard. What is unexpected is who you are betrothed to; you had been certain the heir had been negotiating the terms for your hand in his nephew's place, only for him to end up as your betrothed.

A fortnight later, Baelor returns, but not empty handed–an array of beautifully crafted wooden cases accompany him, all filled to the brim with expensive oils, muslins and silks, spices, and jewels in the form of matching sets.

During the celebratory feast, he goes out of his way to make you feel at ease, querying how you enjoy spending your days, what preferences you have when it comes to sweet or savory delicacies, if you prefer horseback riding in the mornings or evenings. 

He is maddeningly attentive in a way that is, quite frankly, dizzying. 

Despite enthusiastically answering each one of his questions, and occasionally asking one of your own in return, you could scarcely meet his eyes and you did not have to, to know that they did not leave your face for the remainder of the festivity. 

There was a physical weight that accompanied his scrutiny–you had dug your nails into the meaty flesh of your palms to refrain from passing out.

The wedding takes place a moon after he returns to King’s Landing, with you by his side.

The ceremony is a combination of both of your houses’ traditions; bleeding lips meet, the fingers of bound hands interlace, a chaste kiss is pressed against your skin–leaving a residual mark and the evidence of your union on your forehead.

Baelor leads you to the banquet hall, past boisterous hollers, which the both of you spend barely a quarter of an hour within before he’s leading you down the main hallway, to a wing of the castle you were not given access to prior.

He turns to assess you, “Are you well?” the fluttering in your belly intensifies at the sound of his raspy timbre.

“I am well, your grace.” your reply is almost too soft to hear.

Baelor’s eyes slip, for the smallest fraction of a beat, to your chest before swiftly returning to your face as he outlines your schedule for the next two moons, “If there’s anything you wish to add or remove, please, tell me.”

Then, he’s pushing open a beautifully carved door–one that was unlike anything you had ever seen before–and beckons you inside with a gentle smile and raised hand.

Quivering legs carry you into the chamber, continuing until you are close enough to perch yourself upon the silken bedding. Your intertwined fingers rest atop your lap as you sit with a stillness that mimics the carved statues that line the corridors, and a growing warmth that swells over your face.

Baelor is quiet for a long beat, head tilting as he remains near the door; it goes unsaid that he stands between you and the only route of exit. He’s watching you with a strange glint within the blue and brown of his eyes–it makes your stomach churn from a combination of awareness and uncertainty. 

“What have you been told of tonight?”

The hammering in your chest increases until it’s a deafening rumble that makes it difficult for you to hear your own response, “Forgive my crude language, your grace, I was informed that you will.. slide against me, and then I will be with child.”

The faint creases bordering his eyes deepen, following the pattern of his dark, long lashes. 

Baelor moves to crouch in front of your seated form, hands rising with a deliberate leisureliness so as to not startle you when he begins unlacing your gown.

He’s so close and so incredibly warm.

“Thank you, your grace,” your words are breathy when they hit the air, ignoring the sensation that arises when his exhale fans against your bare shoulder, “you have been so kind.”

There’s an indescribable expression marring his face as he quickens his pace until, a mere moment later, he’s freeing you of the fabrics that cover your shuddering figure.

Did he mean to take you with the blood smeared across your faces? 

“There’s more to it than sliding against one another,” Baelor explains, studying your features with a ferocity that has your face burning hotter and eyes focusing on the line of dried blood that splits his bottom lip, “have you ever touched yourself?"

The casual way he inquires sends a spike of shock up your back, “No!” your fingers clutch at the bedding below as you quickly add, “Your grace.”

His fingers begin unbuttoning his own ceremonial attire, making a show of slowly unlatching every clasp and tugging at strings. Once the final lace is loosened, he murmurs, “Touch yourself,” and takes a step closer to your sprawled form.

You freeze, the speed of your breathing fills the gap between his expectant stature and your flustered expression. When you meet his gaze, your throat tightens as though it means to suffocate you.

“Where, your grace?”

“Between your legs.” he answers as a hand rises to comb through his beard, reminding you of what it had felt like when he had kissed your forehead; the hairs had been softened by oils–a mixed blend that you recognized as jasmine, amber, and saffron. 

Your brows furrow, confusion licks at every ounce of your being, unraveling every lesson you have been taught, “But, you are..”

When your hands do not move from their hold on the clumped silks you rest upon, he removes the dark red sash that had been tied around his waist that morning, then wraps it around your eyes before securing it in place with a firm, but undoable, knot behind your head. 

“Your grace?” worry replaces the confusion you feel.

Baelor’s response is a low-pitched murmur, “It would please me,” you hear him take a step closer until the soft fabric of his breeches are brushing against your thin skirt, “if you pleasured yourself.”

A nervous tremor passes over you–a prickling feeling that climbs up your arms, burrowing itself beneath blood and sinew to reside within bone.

“Spread your legs,” he quietly commands and your throat snags on a shallow, tremulous breath, betraying the traitorous heat unfurling within you despite your mortified stillness.

You recall the little guidance your mother had offered you, “Lie back,” and, “it will end quickly,” but especially, “do not disobey his grace.”

Trembling fingers lift your sheer skirt to settle between the slick-smeared centre of your legs, “Oh,” you whimper; the lack of vision combined with the heightening of sensations and an eagerness to please has you jolting the instant your digit makes contact with your heated flesh.

“Lower,” Baelor instructs, “yes–one finger, slowly,” your skin burns as though it may ignite any moment now.

Once again, his pleasing baritone wraps itself around you, weaving through your senses until all that remains is the way he enunciates every word that leaves his lips–the crisp sharpness in the way select letters are formed on his tongue.

“Gently, like that, yes–very good,” Baelor’s voice is low and hoarse, making him sound almost.. angry.

Your finger follows his instructions, collecting the wetness that you had produced, separating your puffy folds, massaging the bud at the top in small, circular motions until your limbs are spasming and your movements are jerky and desperate.

“I cannot–,” you pause your ministrations, chest heaving as you listen to the sound of his ragged breathing reverberate over the stone walls, “please, I do not..”

In a flash, he’s above you, descending to lick at the vein thrumming wildly over the length of your throat, and all remnants of propriety leaves your quivering form. The low groans he lets out in tandem with your own mewls produces a wetter, noisier slick between your legs. 

He smells so good.

A calloused, heated hand grasps your nape as a pair of lips press against your own; his tongue swipes along the seam of your mouth and, when you gasp, he takes advantage of the parting to taste you. 

The residual blood that coats both of your lips fills your tastebuds, eliciting an embarrassed whine from your throat.

The invasion of the muscle is quick and unrelenting, stroking against yours in a way that makes your stomach flip pleasantly. His hand ascends to tangle in your hair–angling your head exactly how he wants it whilst tilting your face to reach even the deepest crevices of your mouth.

You had never conjured that such intimacies could exist, especially ones as overwhelming and possessive as this. 

Baelor pulls your final layer of garment upwards until the entirety of your body is on display, then, slots his knuckle alongside your finger to languidly move over the arousal smeared between your folds. 

“Does that feel good, pretty girl?” he croons, rubbing at your swollen, heated flesh with practiced touches as you struggle to form a coherent reply.

“Oh, ple–please,” you’re sobbing, fingers clutching at the ivory cuff around his wrist; you're releasing over his hand with a high-pitched cry and uncontrollable convulsions.

His mouth trails down your chest to lick at the sheen of sweat coating your skin; his sharp teeth tug at your nipples, alternating between suckling and biting until another release is trickling down your legs. 

“Sweet girl,” Baelor rasps, his touch transforms from precise and unrelenting to featherlight as his hand ascends to caress the skin below your navel. 

Once you catch your breath, he withdraws. 

Through the thundering of your own heart in your ears, you hear the jostling of clothes, boots being carelessly kicked to the side, and the sound, as well as the physical sensation, of the bed creaking as it dips under his weight.

“I want you to follow my instructions,” Baelor begins with a lilt, his nose nudges at your jaw and your lashes flutter against the sash hindering you from seeing, “can you do that for me, my dear?”