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 — 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.

✦ 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]

Mayhaps, taking this brief position was the beginning of his acceptance of what had happened, that he could not change it but could learn to live again despite it.

Or, perhaps, it was you, with your ambitious inquiries and insightful theories, who sat attentively in the front row of his class every Friday morning, that wove the startling idea that it was time to let the past rest into his mind.

Initially, he hadn’t paid you any significant attention, that is, until every time he asked a question, it was your hand that was shooting up with enthusiasm to provide a response. It wouldn’t have been impressive if it weren’t for the fact that all of your answers were correct.

Adam wouldn’t even have to turn around to face the class to know that your arm was extended, the eager way your foot tapped against the carpeted flooring was all he needed to hear to know you had an answer and you were, quite literally, bouncing in your seat to disclose it.

To not appear unfair or as though he favoured you over your peers, he would have to occasionally ignore your hand to pick another student’s. 

At the sight of your disappointed expression, one that he could not help but compare to a puppy being denied a bone, a twinge of endeared fondness would twist within his chest.

He was too old; too riddled and consumed with guilt to willingly add another brick of complications to the weight his aging shoulders already bore. 

Yet, as the months passed, Adam found himself excited to read your papers and assignments, because they allowed him passage into a depth of yourself not many had access to, granting him entry over the threshold that held your surface-level reflections and moved further, into the inner thoughts that resided within the deepest recesses of your mind.

He felt truly degenerate when, whilst safe within the confines of his locked office, his calloused, trembling hand had unbuttoned his trousers to wrap around the base of his soft, pulsating cock before he finished reading the rest of your essay.

Adam would tell himself that it was your intelligence he was entranced by, certainly not the way you would tilt your head and squint when you were stumped by the findings of a crime scene, or the way his pulse would jump within his veins each time your smile would be directed at him, or how you would–

“Professor Dalgliesh?” your voice called into the empty space of the lecture room, “I hope this isn’t a bad time?”

With an audible swallow and erupt rise to his feet, Adam shook his head and motioned for you to enter.

“What can I do for you?” his voice was softer than usual; there was nothing he could do to prevent it from turning into a lighter timbre whenever he was addressing you, much to his dismay.

His arms instinctively crossed over his chest, as though he could hide the evidence that his heart was pounding harder and louder with every one of your approaching steps.

“I have a question,” you began, whipping out your booklet and flipping to the pages he had assigned for this week’s reading.

Against his will, Adam found his eyes drifting over the length of your throat, watching the way it moved with every breath you exhaled and word you spoke. 

Somehow, he managed to answer each one of your questions to the best of his ability, given the distracted state he was in.

“Thank you, sir.”

His stomach twisted at the sound of the last word leaving your lips, the trimmed tips of his fingernails digging into the expanse of his clothed arm as both a form of punishment and a way to ground himself.

“Of course.”

Adam sent a tight-lipped, polite smile your way just as you bid your final goodbye, turned around, and left the room with a soft snap of the door closing.

He walked over to lock it with a reverberating click before turning to the windows to pull the privacy blinds all the way down. Then, he returned to his desk, unzipped his trousers, and, for the first time in years, intentionally wrought a release from himself with a shaky, uneven groan.

He might have been able to forgive himself for it, if it weren’t for the fact that he had purposely finished across your paper; thick ropes of his cum were now covering your words. 

The lack of restraint he showed and the depravity of his actions should have evoked a new wave of self-loathing within himself–instead, he felt a satiated calmness pass over his form.

However, having watched you play with Maekar’s youngest children with a look of adoration and a nurturing, guiding hand, Baelor felt a tendril of longing wrap around his heart to witness you behave in a similar manner with children whose physical traits, as well as other attributes, were a perfect mixture of both yours and his.

“You mustn’t move,” he chided quietly, arm tightening around your waist to discourage squirming.

The soft fabric of his silken robe caressed the bare flesh of your stomach with every shift and rearrangement of your bodies, causing an eruption of goosebumps to rise over your flesh.

“It feels so–,” your words were cut off by a whimper escaping your throat, head lolling over his shoulder at the sensation of his pulsating appendage within your passage.

The dizzying sensation of being wholly engulfed by him, whilst enveloping his own fullness within your walls caused your eyes to become unfocused and watery.

Baelor was reclining comfortably into the cushioned thickness of his armchair, the tie of his night robe undone, revealing his loosened silken trousers and thick torso to the heated space of your shared bedchamber.

He had you completely bared and sprawled atop him with your thighs hooked on the arms of the seat, mounted on the twitching, redden length of his cock.

“This is the best way,” Baelor moaned lowly when you wriggled your hips, “to guarantee success." 

You felt his voice as a physical sensation that entered your ears, trickled down your body and settled pleasantly at the base of your spine, level with where it felt like he was piercing you.

“I know, my love, I know,” the wanton raspiness that laced his words elicited another shiver out of your trembling form. 

It felt like he was residing within the deepest depths of your soul, the fat head of his cock pressing into a sacred part that resided deep within you, one that you had not even known existed until he discovered it.

“I feel–gods, I feel everything.” you confessed, turning your face to place kisses along the column of his flushed, damp neck, paying extra attention to the visible vein that ran along the length of it.

He had brought you to completion several times and had released inside of you three times in various positions, yet he remained fully, and more than readily, erect with an ever growing and desperate desire to ensure that his seed took. His dedication to seeing you swollen with his child appeared to have given him an insatiable hunger.

Every tiniest movement caused the short, coarse, dark and grey hairs dusted across his chest to ticklishly poke into the flesh of your back. 

The combination of your fluids had soaked into the cloth of his trousers and dripped down your inner thighs; each time you imagined the lewd scene the two of you had created, a new spread of heat would travel across your chest, neck, and face.

Baelor’s wide, calloused hands slid up your body, not stopping their upwards voyage until they cupped your breasts.

“Have you thought of a name?” 

You nodded in reply, fingers threading through the soft hair near his nape, “But, it’s a secret.”

He playfully nipped at the flesh of your earlobe, “Is it now?” his arms returned to their embrace around your torso, holding you firmly to him and the warmth he provided.

“Yes,” you sighed, tightening around him until he let out a quiet groan, “one that you will only learn when we are expecting.”

“Then,” Baelor began, moving his hands to support the underneath of your thighs as he rose from his seat, holding you wide open and split apart on the girth of his shaft, “I should make certain that you are with child after tonight.”

“I suppose you should,” was your cheeky response, a teasing grin etched into your face. 

 ↳ trailing a finger over the little grey tufts of hair sticking out the back of his suit’s collar, a smile breaking out over your face when they stick right back up at the slightest bit of movement.

 ↳ not wanting to let go of him because he’s your personal furnace, so now you’re following him to the fridge, to the sink, then back to the counter, and you know he finds it adorable despite his protests that you might get hurt because you can see how wide he’s smiling in the reflection of the microwave.

 ↳ he twists in your arms so your ear is resting right above his heart, leans back against the counter, and sips the coffee he had just spent a better part of twenty minutes perfecting, rubbing circles into the lower part of your back until his drink is finished.

 ↳ then, he’s pressing a kiss against your forehead, eyelids, and nose before mumbling something about going directly to the market as soon as he’s done at the office to restock the fridge and pantry, but you’re too occupied with peppering kisses along the column of his throat to focus on what he’s saying.

And here you were, nearly a decade after he had saved you that rainy afternoon, seated on a cushion near the hearth of his solar with your legs folded neatly by your side, watching your saviour fight to stay awake.

Baelor was opposite you, perched comfortably on his wide reading chair, scanning scrolls and various other letters that demanded his immediate attention, all while visibly battling not to succumb to sleep’s awaiting embrace. His eyelids gradually sank lower until the gaze he used to assess the parchment turned into narrowed slits; shadows coloured the skin beneath his eyes, their presence proving how tired he truly was despite his stubborn refusal to admit it.

You had long since abandoned your book, finding his struggle far more entertaining than “The History of the North”, the contents of which he had insisted he would quiz you on during breakfast the following day.

His hair had grown significantly greyer since you had first laid eyes on him all those years ago. 

He had been the first person your vision had settled upon once you had awoken from a two moon long slumber, the startling contrast of his one blue and one brown eye had your eyelids fluttering open and closed repeatedly, their unusual pairing, as well as his distinct features, had made you believe he was a figment of your imagination.

The soft, amused lines that often creased around his eyes when you would visibly convey your visceral loathing towards a particularly old-fashioned court custom had also deepened as he had aged. 

Whilst you had had your lessons on etiquette, history, and embroidery since you were young, there were many things you did not have the chance to learn before entering the court’s watchful eye, and it was the older prince who took the time to educate you with patience and guidance.

He had confessed to you one spring evening, after two years of being under his care and guidance, that he had always wanted a daughter.

“How many chapters have you completed?” Baelor’s soft timbre wrought you out of your musings, his gaze moving from the words in front of him to your undivided, star-struck stare.

Your head whipped down, opening the book back to where a feather had held your place, and indicated with your fingers how far you had delved before becoming distracted.

“Six?” his brows furrowed, a hand rising to absentmindedly stroke his beard. It was a habit, you had learned long ago, that he did when he was unsatisfied with your progress, “I imagined you would be nearly done by now.”

It was your turn to communicate your disapproval of his excessive expectations with a shrug of your shoulders and a jut of your lower lip. Feeling brave, you pointed at him, made a motion that represented sleeping, and fixed him with an accusatory look.

“My fatigue has no bearing on your studies,”  Baelor responded, his own reading long forgotten as he discarded the scroll on a nearby table. 

“I should confess,” he began suddenly, appearing uneasy, “that there have been some discussions amongst my council concerning your best interests.”

You placed the book beside you, uncaring that you hadn’t marked your place, and leaned forward.

“You are,” Baelor’s fingers tightened around the arms of his chair, his digits pressing so harshly into the soft fabric that you were certain there would be residual indents long after he had released his hold on them, “at an age where it would no longer be appropriate for you to remain under my care.”

As though you had eaten expired food, your stomach churned violently; the overwhelming lightheadedness that assaulted your senses made you grateful you were already seated on the floor.

“I have found quite a few amiable suitors, all of which you will have the opportunity to get to know before you make your final decision to.. marry one of them.”

You moved to a kneeling position, the majority of your weight resting on your calves, as you stared at the older man with a betrayed, anguished look on your face.

A desperate wish to speak once more filled your heart, it had been your sole prayer for years, one that you hadn’t silently begged for since the day Baelor told you that you did not need an audible voice to relay a message worthy of being heard. Now, as you were subjugated to his decree, you wished for your voice to return to you with a quiet sob.

“You will be happy,” he spoke gently, “as well as generously taken care of.”

You wanted to confess to him that you longed to remain by his side until the end of your days, listening to his mild complaints concerning the realm all the while gladly completing the reading he would assign you.

Of course, you could send him letters outlining your opinions on the novels you had finished, which would not be much different from how you communicated your thoughts to him presently, but you did not want to be away from him. 

Baelor refused to look at you, his jaw clenching beneath his beard as he revealed that arrangements for you to meet each one of your suitors would be made in the upcoming days.

Distraught, you moved forward, skirts tripping you as you closed the distance between yourself and the man whose decisions you had once obeyed blindly.

When Baelor’s gaze finally returned to yours, your vision was too blurry to notice the glossiness to his own eyes–he was not unaffected by your uncharacteristic outburst.

Desperately, both of your hands grasped at one of his hands, a tingling of sparks traversing up your limbs and settling heavily over your heart at the feel of his calloused, large hand cradled within yours. You could count on one hand the number of times you had touched him since he had found you, most of which had been accidental.

“I will not allow anything to befall you, if that is what burdens your heart,” was Baelor’s strained reply to your hushed cries.

Frantically, you shook your head and bowed your face to kiss the top of his hand, your hold tightening.

“Rise,” Baelor ordered and for the first time since your heart had opened to the older man, you refused to follow his command.

His knuckles against your lips suppressed the sound of your cries; your warm tears flowed freely onto his limb, running down the length of his fingers to collect at the tip of his digits before falling into the chaotic mess of your skirts below.

Baelor spoke your name in a low, pained tone, his available hand moving to push your chin upwards until your tear-stained, puffy face was visible to him once more.

“Do not be afraid, sweet girl,” he offered you a kind smile, one that once would have had your heart racing and stomach fluttering pleasantly.

Now, it evoked unwanted, distressing thoughts.

What if you never saw it again?

“On the morrow, after you have slept on it, you will see that–,”

The older man was cut off by the abrupt collision of your mouth against his parted lips.

Baelor’s startled form remained still when you awkwardly enclosed his upper lip between both of yours, inexperience evident in the clumsiness of your movements.

Less than a beat later, Baelor had moved you backwards with a firm hold on your shoulders, his breath leaving him in quick huffs as the gravity of what you had done hit both him and yourself like a bolt of lightning.

His alarmed expression caused a wave of dread and humiliation to cascade over you, an ice cold pit of regret now replaced the frightened swirl that had afflicted you only moments prior. 

In a flurry of movements, you twisted out of his light grip and fled.

The following weeks were torturous, to say the least.

You silently endured the distance Baelor had created between the two of you, his solar and private library no longer welcoming sanctuaries that you could seek peaceful solitude and warmth within.

Suitors met you and, once you ignored them thoroughly enough, disclosed their reluctance to move forward. 

Initially, each one was more determined than the last to be the one who, if they could not steal your affections, would earn your respect and willingness to form a strategic alliance with their house.

Of course, there were some suitors who believed themself above you, reiterating words you had heard countless times.

“A traitor’s daughter is provided refuge by the very man whose life her father had plotted and treasoned against,” one had said during a stroll of the gardens, “how ironic.”

“If I were the prince, you would not have been shown mercy, of that, I am certain,” another had mumbled underneath a tree after you had accepted his offer to watch the sunset.

The final suitor you would grant your precious time had been the most filthy of his vulgar predecessors.

“Has he tasted you? Is that why he kept you to himself all these years? A silent mouth to fuck?” 

Before you had the time to process his crude allegations, he pressed his unpleasant mouth hard against yours, inciting a startled sound from deep within your chest.

Of its own accord, your hand rose and firmly struck his cheek.

Days later, when you refused to meet another suitor, despite the desperate pleas of your lady’s maids and chaperone, Baelor himself was forced to take matters into his own hands.

“You must be willing,” were the first words he had spoken to you in weeks, exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders and heaviness of each step he took, “I had expected you to behave more mature regarding this subject.”

You moved to your desk to scribble several sentences, occasionally stopping to glare up at his patiently waiting form, before holding it out for him to retrieve.

“I do not wish to be married, especially not to a man who is incapable of behaving like a gentleman.” 

Baelor read your words aloud, a grimace tugging at the side of his mouth as he looked at you pointedly, “Who has behaved ungentlemanly towards you?”

You motioned for him to continue reading.

"He kissed me without permission, that is why I struck him."

A livid look passed over Baelor's face before he schooled his expression back into a mask of composed neutrality.

"I was not informed that he behaved in such a manner towards you, but I assure you he will be dealt with."

You reached for a fresh piece of paper to jot down another message before you held it up for him to read from where he stood.

“I will take meeting each suitor more seriously if, and only if, you offer your assistance in the teachings of one, final subject of my choosing.”

“Very well,” Baelor agreed with a tilt of his head, a weight settling over his shoulders as he watched you continue to write.

You hesitated once you finished, placing the stiff quill down firmly as an onslaught of thoughts plagued your mind. Finally, you turned over the note to his outstretched hand, the tip of your finger tingling pleasantly when it brushed against his heated palm.

“I will not marry until you have taught me how to properly and thoroughly–,”

Baelor’s voice cut off, his figure stiffening until you could nearly feel the flustered indignation rolling off of him in waves.

“You cannot be serious.”

When you made no movement to reveal you were jesting, Baelor gave a firm, disapproving shake of his head.

“No,” was his adamant reply.

Immediately, your hand returned to the quill, a hurriedness to each stroke you wrote.

“I have never asked anything of you, except this. I ask for your guidance one last time, on a subject that I wish to be better acquainted with. It is merely a peck that I wish for.”

The look of disbelief and then contemplation that reflected within Baelor’s eyes told you that he was truly considering it.

“A peck?” he questioned, taking a seat on the cushioned chair in the corner of your bedchamber, “Then, you will return to your suitors?"

You could have dislocated your neck from how enthusiastically you nodded, your hands rising to press over your chest as a silent vow to uphold your end of the deal.

He sighed frustratedly, a hand moving to pat the short hairs atop his head downwards.

“Very well,” he held out a ring adorned hand when you bounced over to him, “but as soon as I say stop, you will stop.”

Once more, you nodded your agreement and moved to hunch over his frame.

Baelor stared up at you pensively, his lips tightly pressed together as he waited for you to get this urge out of your system.

As though he were a sacred gift sent directly from the Gods to you, you carefully cradled his face in your hands and leaned forward to plant a light kiss over his tense mouth.

For a moment, neither one of you moved, the cool exhale of his breath tickling the top of your lip. 

You had kept your eyes open because he had, but soon enough your lashes were fluttering until you could no longer hold the heavy weight of your eyelids up.

A low sound left his throat in response to your sigh, his eyes drooping when you cautiously pulled at the flesh of his bottom lip.

Baelor’s mouth parted, wide enough to allow you access to lick the front of his teeth. 

You had spent countless evenings watching them appear and disappear as he read to you; equally having imagined what his tongue would taste and feel like against your own each time it had swiped across his lips to moisten them.

“Stop,” Baelor’s raspy voice entered your ears and settled heavily between your legs, a visible tremor moving across your limbs as he shifted beneath your hold.

Urgently, you held him in place, a secure loop of your arms around his neck as your head turned sideways to press a kiss below his right eye.

“You appear to be–,” you cut him off, tongue swiping at his temple to taste the saltiness of his skin.

A mewl left your throat when you returned to his lips, the messy melding of your mouth against his was unpracticed but willing and desperate to please. 

You were certain he had had past lovers whose skill when it came to something as simple as kissing would put your experience, or rather, lack-of, to shame. However, it did not matter, not now that you had finally fed your desire to know what he tasted like.

A deep noise rumbled through Baelor’s chest, scattering your thoughts into nothing except how he felt.

When you pulled back to regard his face you found his darkened, mismatched eyes already on you, his lips moistened from your spit and reddened from your nibbles.

“Have you had your fill?”

His cropped, dark grey and silvery hair stood in messy clumps atop his head, courtesy of your fingers and their ceaseless tugging. Though, it was the dusky pink hue that coloured the tops of his ears and cheeks that fascinated you.

A sharp intake of air filled Baelor’s lungs when you drew closer, your thumbs caressing the sides of his eyes before you bent to place kisses against the heated flesh of his cheekbones. He exhaled your name unevenly, the huskiness to his voice made it sound like a plea and a prayer mixed into one word.

Would he be upset if you marked his flesh?

Determined to leave a remembrance of this encounter into his skin, you suckled a large, colourful spot into his throat. 

Baelor’s subtle shift of his head, his body instinctively submitting to your ministrations, was all the permission you needed to continue. With a newfound hunger, you returned to his mouth to suck on the wet muscle of his tongue, the suction of your cheeks slipping it further past your lips.

In a lapse of momentary judgement, Baelor pulled you over him, your knees resting comfortably on the cushion below, a calf pressed to either side of his thighs.

The sound of teeth clashing, saliva obscenely mixing, low sighs and deep moans filled the chamber; the lewd combination of noises created a swirl of arousal within your abdomen. 

Baelor’s reluctance to view you as the woman you had gradually grown into under his tutelage was now forgotten as your hips bucked against his thigh, fingers grasping roughly at the coarse hair of his beard to angle his head how you wanted it.

Unthinking, you unlatched your lips from around his tongue and leaned backwards, pulling his face to your neck. 

Baelor’s tongue swiped across the scar that horizontally marked your throat, the sensitive flesh tingling under his attention.

“Sweetling,” he rasped, panting against the marred skin that had once been your most painful insecurity.

His affections were laved heavily over the length of your neck, the stifled murmuring of “I would have never,” was followed by an array of kisses and light nips, and then, “let this happen.”

The underlying insinuation of his words had you pulling him back upwards, your open mouth fitting against his with a frenzied neediness. 

It felt like you could kiss him for days and not feel an ounce of hunger or fatigue.

“Wait–,”

You scarcely heard him over your loud whimpers.

“Sweet girl,” Baelor called, gently pushing you backwards to examine your features and took a shuddering breath at the sight that greeted him; his widened pupils dragged down to lock on the string of spit that still connected your mouth to his, “this has gone on far enough.”

A look of hurt passed over your face, an embarrassed whine bubbling up in your chest when he turned his head to the side when you attempted to kiss him once more.

“You are more than proficient at..” he trailed off, his throat bobbing as he leaned further back, “well, you know.”

Nudging closer, your mouth made contact with his again, a twist of your torso releasing his already loosened hold on your arms.

Baelor’s quiet complaints fell on deaf ears, his lips moving against yours even as he repeatedly assured you that you did not require any more of his teachings.

Haphazardly, your hips continued to shift against his firm thigh, the feeling of your wet core dragging against the heat of his limb proved to be too much when you felt the quickly approaching tendrils of a release begin to wash over you. The scorching temperature of his leg somehow seeped through the layers that separated the both of you, his hands moving to help you find your completion despite the occasional murmurs of protests he exhaled against the skin of your burning cheeks, extended throat, and swollen lips.

“Baelor,” you struggled to stutter aloud, his name was barely discernible and strange on your heavy tongue, but his head snapped up at the sound of it regardless.

An indecipherable look spanned across his face, his heated, wide hands rising to cradle your face. 

Baelor leaned forward, his hesitancy forgotten as he assisted you with reaching your peak. 

He lifted his solid thigh to press more snugly between your legs, the strength of it sending wisps of pleasure that began at your core and dispersed throughout each of your limbs left you malleable above him.

During the onslaught of pleasure, you would later recall your lips returning to his, the depth of his open mouth swallowing your cries of ecstasy to replace them with guttural groans of his own.

Baelor’s lips moved down to your throat a final time, licking at it over and over again until the skin felt raw and tender beneath his care; he lapped at it as though he could replace the large scar that rested there with an even more noticeable one of his own making.

Dark spots danced around the edges of your peripheral, their size growing until your vision was rapidly tunneling. 

Your hips ceased their movements as a blanket of satiated bliss enveloped you; your limbs weightless and tingly in the aftermath of your release.

undoubtedly, he did it on purpose, his intention to rattle you until you could no longer form a thought that did not revolve around him or utter a sentence that did not relate back to him. 

“your eyes are quite intense,” you had explained the first time he questioned your timid behaviour.

and gods, they were. 

his brown eye, while the colour gave him a softer appearance than its vibrant companion, held your attention with equal fascination, especially when it would catch the last remnants of the sun’s golden hue, giving it a honeyed tint. 

his blue eye was capable of penetrating your soul, efficiently piercing every rule, custom, and law that had been indoctrinated into you since you were a young girl until you were pliant, moldable putty in his hands.

baelor, although he would never admit it aloud, held a fond adoration for your inability to maintain his gaze.

an affectionate bloom of heat and love would blossom within his chest with each sharp turn of your head at the possibility of his undivided attention descending upon you, a faint crinkle at the corner of his eyes at your sudden interest in everything but his knowing glances.

“my shy, sweet wife,” he had teased you one quiet evening with his fingers in your hair.

the rare times you initiated eye contact with him were the moments when baelor felt as though he would collapse on the spot, right then and there.

his voice is as soft and melodic as it had always been, but now there’s a shadowy haze that lurks behind his gaze, one that has you incapable of maintaining contact with his mismatched stare for more than a few seconds before you’re forced to glance away.

a heated flush travelled up your neck each time his attention was focused intently on you, which seemed to occur every time you were even in the same vicinity as him.

finally, one evening, when you’re reading to him within the private space of his solar, he pounces.

baelor’s tongue forces its way within the wet passage of your mouth, hands threading through your hair as his fingers pulled out the pins that held it in place, the sound of them hitting the stone floor blending in with his low growls and deep sighs.

your mouth had opened to his willingly, the shock you felt and the uncharacteristic passion he displayed made you easily compliant under his ministrations. 

“your grace, please, we must wait,” you tried to reason with him when his lips moved south, his hands roughly tugging the neckline of your modest gown down until your breasts were visible to the cool air.

baelor ignored your warning, his tongue hungrily lapping at your pebbled nipples until you were wriggling; he was quiet apart from the soft rumbles that escaped his chest every now and then.

the coarse, grey hair that covered his chin rubbed over your tender breasts, his eyes gleaming with a depraved sort of satisfaction when you squirmed at the painfully pleasurable sensation it wrought.

you had arrived only several minutes prior, in your nightgown, to keep him company through the hours of the evening that he would often spend assessing scrolls or writing correspondences.

baelor gave an assured nod of his head, his hips canting upwards as you moved closer towards him.

“but,” you began, a wave of heat spreading across your face, “what if I suffocate you?” concern was woven into your tone as you kneeled beside him.

“then, I will have passed a pleased man,” was his reply, evoking a humiliated gasp from you.

“husband.”

“come.” baelor persisted, a hand rising to hold yours. 

your skin buzzed when it came in contact with his, the nervous jittering within your belly turning into an excited swirl as you pulled your sheer skirt up before you sat atop his abdomen, your thighs pressing into either side of his torso.

“there, that was not so difficult,” he murmured, the colouring of his mismatched gaze nearly entirely absorbed by his widened pupils, all that remained of their hue was a thin circle of blue and brown.

you began to rise, “I cannot–,”

“I promise,” baelor interrupted, hands rubbing soothing circles into the expanse of your waist, “I will notify you the moment I feel discomfort.”

you stared down at him, deciding to accept his vow despite not believing his words in the slightest.

distractedly, you noted the length of his beard and the shininess of the hair; he must have trimmed it shorter than usual that morning as well as have oiled it before you had arrived.

was it in preparation of this request, you wondered, a fond affection filling your chest at the reminder of the consideration he held towards you and your comfort at all times.

“are you truly sure?” you question again, hands gliding up his torso until your fingers were combing through his greying beard. 

“yes, my dear.”

he had freshly oiled it, you mused bashfully, the usually coarse strands were now much softer to the touch. your breath quickened at the realization that your husband never decided anything on a whim, and so this must have been a fantasy he had been entertaining for quite some time.

“absolutely certain?”

“oh, most definitely,” baelor relayed once more, the rumbling from his chest vibrating between your legs as his hands dragged you further up. 

he paused, allowing you to close the remaining distance, not only as confirmation that this was something you were willing to try, but to ensure you were aware of the control you had in this position.

after several beats of stillness, you lifted your hips until your bare core was directly above his mouth, your head hanging low to observe his next move.

immediately, baelor’s head sprang forward, mouth opening wide to swipe at your cunt as his odd-coloured eyes remained attached to yours. messily, he dipped his tongue within you, the wet appendage exploring with a familiarity that had you nearly toppling over.

you were already dripping onto him, the smell of your arousal filling the solar.

“baelor, it’s–gods, it’s too much,” you squirmed, accidentally rubbing your swollen clit against the tip of his sharp, twice-broken nose, eliciting a startled moan from deep within your throat.

“like that,” he mumbled against your wet flesh, his hands rising to grip your hips, pulling you harder against his face, “take what you need, anything–all of it.”

your first release hit you embarrassingly quickly, a flood of wetness gushing against his face and down the expanse of your inner thighs. your eyes rolled into the back of your head as pure ecstasy shot up your spine, settling at the base of your neck as your inner walls repeatedly clenched around nothing except for the tip of his nose.

your hips moved frantically back and forth, fingers tugging painfully at the short, greying strands atop his head with a surprising amount of strength. 

yet, baelor did not complain; he remained focused on your body, his hands kneading into the flesh of your backside as he assisted you with your frantic rocking movements. 

instinctively, your thighs tightened around his head when he continued to sloppily lap at your sensitive clit, a shiver passing through you when his lips enclosed around the enlarged bud.

“baelor, please..”

he ignored your pleas, languidly licking at your cunt until you were on the edge of another, more intense release.

“oh!” you cried, an embarrassed flush travelling up your chest as you felt a stream of fluid escape your convulsing passage, a loud moan leaving your body at the same time the liquid did.

baelor’s arms moved to wrap around your waist, holding you in place as your body convulsed pleasurably on top of him.

he mumbled incoherent words against your heated flesh, his low-lidded eyes fixated on the little of your face he could see as you continued to tremble and shiver from the force of your orgasm.

once you had come down from your second release, and finally stopped quivering, you flung yourself backwards, landing clumsily atop his stomach.

“you–,” you were breathless, fingers tightening over his clothes as you struggled to breathe properly, “that was..”

you trailed off, attention drifting to the wetness that dripped down the side of his face; most of his beard was drenched in your scent and arousal.

baelor’s hands moved to help you stay upright even as his eyes remained glued on your swollen core, his tongue swiping against the remnants of you on his lips.

“how was that, my love?” he asked quietly, his mismatched eyes twinkling like he already knew the answer.