Work Text:
TEACH ME
You tread carefully across the lecture hall, deliberately refusing to raise your gaze to the tall, eerily quiet, and handsome man who stood behind his desk. His eyes—one a striking violet, and the other a warm brown—penetrated the back of your head like the swing of a mace. You held your breath as you sat down, still refusing to meet his gaze.
You watched as the other students piled into the lecture hall. They retrieved their notebooks, laptops and tablets from their bags and placed them down on their tables where they began loading up numerous sites and writing tools in preparation for today's lecture.
A HISTORY OF WESTEROSI GREAT HOUSES: The Targaryen dynasty.
When you had first joined the class, it was him who had drew you in. Like a moth to a flame. Few people could say they had been taught history, particularly a subject you found most interesting, by a literal Targaryen—and from the heir, nonetheless.
Baelor Targaryen, sometimes known as Baelor Breakspear, though to everyone else in the room, no one dared to utter that title given how he obtained it, stood proudly at the front of the lecture hall. Though the Targaryen’s were one of the greatest families in all of Westeros with their colossal techno empire of constructing military fighter jets and planes, there were some who whispered that the Targaryen’s were also involved in numerous amounts of illicit behaviour behind closed doors. Some called them gangsters, involving themselves in every part of the upper elite social groups: politics, government, the banks, etc. But again, no one would dare utter that particular slice of his life in his presence.
His back was impossibly straight, as though he were more of a stone statue than a man. His face retained the calmest expression, and yet something sharp and cutting gleamed in his heterochromia eyes. It reminded you of a snake, coiled and poised—at any point, he would strike and no one would be the wiser to it.
It coaxed a chill to slither down your spine, like delicate fingers trailing down the sensitive bone one knot at a time, claiming and ensnaring.
A tremulous exhale of breath slipped from your lips. Your eyes widened into pennies as the sound echoed across the lecture hall, and Baelor Targaryen’s gaze darkened immensely.
For a moment, you gave yourself permission to stare back at him; it was brazened, stupid, and completely out of character for you, but you could not help yourself.
Your gaze fixated on him as though you were standing in a museum, admiring the most stunning piece of artwork your eyes had ever laid upon. He had a quality about him that made some minuscule dark part of you wished to go to him, reach out, and trail your finger over every line, wrinkle, and crease in his lightly tanned skin. You imagined yourself a sculptor and your finger the chisel, mapping out every inch of him, heeding every detail as though your life depended on it: the slight arch of his long nose, those thin pinkish lips you wanted to run your finger across and imagine it were your own lips, the prominent crow’s feet surrounding his eyes which were a testament to his maturity and age and a stark difference between your own. You often wondered what his beard felt like. Was it coarse and wiry? Or soft and unruly, something you could delve your fingers in and never want to leave the garden of black and silvery-white hairs.
Your mind drifted…
How would it feel against your inner thighs?
A piercing cough cut through the air. You blinked. And blinked again. Only then realising that he had commanded the room and the lesson had begun.
Baelor’s gaze remained fixed on you. Even as he talked, announcing today’s lecture and the objective, those piercing, unique set of eyes never once left yours. It was as if a paralysing venom had entered your bloodstream and you were incapable of moving an inch; you could feel the slight dampness growing between your legs though, which made sitting still impossible.
You shifted once. He caught it, eyes roaming down to your crossed legs and the tightness in your upper leg muscle through your black tights. He swallowed thickly before moving his attention elsewhere.
An hour went by and you tried to absorb as much of the lecture as you possibly could, but a tarnished mind was difficult to concentrate. Filthy thoughts—and there were a lot—raced through your head; you were helpless to catch even one and hold onto it, something to focus on. Then, when you caught the words That’ll be all, class, in his gravelly and low tone of voice that sent rivers of goosebumps shooting up your whole body, you shot up from your seat, grabbed your bag, and stormed down the stairs.
The door was almost in reach, one last step—
You heard your name from behind you.
You stopped instantly, ice coursing through your veins. Just the word—one word—from him was enough to send you to wanting like a rabid animal.
‘Come here,’ Baelor demanded softly. And it was a demand; you caught the slice of authority, as keen as a blade, in his serious tone. It was as though a bell chimed in your mind, a reminder of his power, his position, and his station in society. He was the most powerful person in the room, and here you were, being commanded to stay and indulge in any fascination he wished.
And you did.
Slowly, your turned to face him. The other students bled out of the room; sleep-deprived, depressed, and grouchy vessels, made mostly of coffee and overtly sugary foods showed no curiosity, least of all care as you took a few steps closer to Baelor. When the last student left, the deafening click of the door rang out like another bell.
Only this time, it was a warning.
The moment your eyes landed on his, you felt your heart drop like a stone in a pond. You were beginning to comprehend what it felt like to be prey in the presence of a predator. Only instead of a snarling mouth and a chorus of raspy growls reverberating at the back of the throat, Baelor was a towering frame of power and wealth and a calm face which seemed to be sculpted by gods. Still, he prowled towards you.
The closer he approached, the more you felt your bones stiffen, the anticipating to spring away, a rabbit jumping out of a wolf’s jaw. Except, this wasn’t a wolf before you. You saw the way his nostrils flared slightly, and his eyes blared, molten fire glazing across the violet and brown.
He was a dragon creeping towards his gold, ready to claim what was rightfully his.
‘Yes?’ you squeaked the moment you felt the soft linen white shirt graze against your plain black t-shirt. You swallowed thickly when you could feel the hardened press of his muscles underneath the material. The overwhelming scent of him filled your sinuses; rich black pepper and bergamot mixed with the softness of juniper and blackberries. You inhaled him in, deeply, only to feel suddenly lightheaded.
‘Yes, sir,’ he corrected in a murmur which transformed your bones into liquid—it was a miracle you were still standing.
He wore a black suit and white shirt, and without a tie, his collar was undone slightly, revealing a few black and grey hairs across smooth sun-kissed skin. His hands were in his pockets, and he regarded you with consideration.
The words tumbled out of your mouth: ‘Yes, sir.’
The corner of Baelor’s lips curled into a smirk. He was pleased you had so easily succumbed to his command, complaint, and submissive—entirely in the palm of his hand. Meanwhile, you just stood there, quaking, while your heart hammered inside your chest. It was as thought you'd been stuck down by lightning. Your feet were glued to the spot, and limbs were lead. There was a shift in the air, your eyes caught a flash of a large hand, and you almost cocked your head back instinctively.
Except you did not.
As always, you gave in—complaint and submissive, just how he liked.
Baelor grasped her chin. As his index finger curled under, faintly lifting her to look higher, it was his thumb that pulled you closer as though an invisible string tied you both together. Each strenuous stroke made your stomach flip. He focused solely on the small sketch of skin below your bottom lip, and each delicate swipe edged closer and closer to his intended target.
‘I read your email,’ Baelor murmured. ‘I found it most…’ His violet and brown eyes slid effortlessly from your gaze to your lips, where his thumb almost coupled. They shot back to your eyes, his pupils dilating like a cat who got the cream. ‘Fascinating.’
You inwardly winced, recalling the fragments of last night’s disaster and how badly you wished the ground would just gobble you up right now.
‘I-I had too much to d-drink. It w-was a mistake,’ you stammered, wrenching every word from your throat like pulling weeds from a rotten garden. A grimy acidic taste of bile lingered there, too, but you swallowed it down all the same. ‘It won't happen again—I-I'm sorry.’
Baelor’s eyes narrowed, the blackness of his engorged pupils filled the space, his violet and brown irises darkening into a void of pitch-black, and the white sclera was absorbed as quickly as an extinguished flame.
‘A mistake?’ His gruff voice reverberated like the sound of distance thunder.
As swift as the swipe of a whip, Baelor’s hand suddenly dropped from holding your chin and settled into his pocket once more. You watched as he turned on his heel and headed towards his desk, where he opened his laptop and read, ‘To Baelor Breakmyback Targaryen.’
You moved to storm over and slam your hand down on the laptop, but the moment his gaze flickered up to yours for a half a second, assessing your shocked expression and embarrassment, the colour of deep rouge tinged your cheeks and neck, you were locked in place. You watched as his gaze shifted to the laptop, and the end of your budding career in history was set on fire by his smooth and serene voice.
‘I have attached my essay to this email, detailing a brief history of Daemon Blackfyre and how did his death after the Blackfyre Rebellion positively impact Westeros and help elevate the Targaryen dynasty. I apologise for the lateness of this submission, I completely forgot. With that apology, I have also attached another document which details all the reasons why I believe you are the hottest fucking man I have ever seen in my life and it's quite fucking annoying because you’re my teacher, as well as the literal heir to the largest and wealthiest family in all of Westeros. Nevertheless, allow me to expand my reasoning by conveying why I think I should be your controversial young wife.’
For that entire monologue of your own ruination, you stayed deathly still. You weren’t even breathing or blinking. This is it, you thought icily. You hadn’t even finished your first year at university and your career was over.
Baelor closed his laptop shut. Took a deep intake of breath. Then turned and met your gaze. You were prepared to see his temper; you had witnessed it before when students arrived late to class or if their essays weren’t up to his high standard. He never raised his voice, though. That was what you found strangely attractive about him. He always remained calm, as though nothing could break his cold exterior. He was a frozen statue not even a mace could crack.
Instead of facing his wrath, you were met with a mirthful glossy look over his mismatched eyes. It almost knocked your off your feet. Your lips parted, feeling like a fish out of water. Speechless.
‘You most definitely have a way with words,’ Baelor remarked, cracking another smirk, only this time you spotted a glimmer of a white sharp tooth—a fang.
Something dark and twisted coiled from deep, deep down inside of you. Your inner thighs clenched with an exquisite burn, and you wondered, perhaps he was a dragon.
‘Sir—’ you began only to be silenced with the lift of his finger.
‘I opened up the document you said detailed your reasoning’s for wanting to become my controversial young wife but found it was unfortunately blank,’ Baelor said, leisurely leaning against the edge of his desk. He crossed his arms and watched you like a hawk. ‘Go on then…’
Your eyes enlarged, nearing to popping out of your skull and dropping in your shaky hands which rested below your lower stomach.
‘I don’t understand, sir,’ you voiced nimbly.
‘Tell me why you believe you would make a good controversial young wife for me.’
You shook your head vehemently. ‘Sir, I was drunk. I-I had too much wine and I was tired, I shouldn’t have—’ You halted, words leaving you as though an invisible blade had sliced through the air.
Baelor had moved away from his desk and returned to stand closely opposite you. He invaded your personal space, taking up the proximity as though he were a conqueror come to claim land in name of king and country. His scent clogged your sinuses, the shadowy and musky aroma of a man twice your age and three times as dangerous who stood before you ready to sink his teeth, his fangs, and mark you. There was a fire in his eyes you’d never seen before. His breathing laboured as though he’d ran miles just to share in the same air as you. As though even being in the same room as you would be the highest honour he had ever achieved—and he hungered for more.
‘I'm starting to agree you’ll fill the position splendidly well,’ Baelor whispered, his hot breath, which smelled of tobacco and black coffee, fanned your temple, flustering your eyelashes but you refused to cower away.
‘What position, sir?’ you asked accompanied with a stifling breath.
‘My controversial young wife, of course,’ he answered, and there was a slither of lure to his tone that made you shoot a glance at his lips, just as he wet them with his tongue. Your lips parted, too, but they were bone-dry and trembling. ‘Is that what you want?’ His voice dropped tremendously low and softened deliciously, like sinking into a steaming hot bath.
He whispered your name again, lowering his head until his nose grazed your eyebrow, and his lips brushed across your flushed cheeks. Finally, you snapped back as if slapped. You took severely steps away from him, and a brief flash of hurt crossed Baelor’s face, hardening his expression; the mask returned, ice frosting over his exterior.
‘We can't,’ you whispered, averting your gaze to the floor. ‘You don’t mean it. It’s not fair—’
‘What’s not fair?’ he questioned. ‘My wanting you or your uncertainty with your own true feelings and desires?’
You felt a muscle in your jaw tick. Steadily, you lifted your gaze. ‘My feelings and desires don’t matter,’ you snapped back. ‘And when it comes to you wanting me’ —a brittle bark of a laugh exploded out of you— ‘it’s a foolish fantasy.’
Baelor raised an eyebrow. ‘It doesn't have to be a fantasy.’
You snorted. ‘Sure.’ Then, you turned your body away, nearing towards the lecture hall's door. ‘Anyways, I’m sorry for the email; it was highly inappropriate, and I won’t blame you if you kick me out of your lessons.’
‘The email was highly inappropriate, but I won’t expel you from my lessons,’ Baelor said firmly.
‘Fine,’ you huffed. ‘I’ll just leave myself.’
‘No, you will not.’ The words left his mouth like acid rain. You don’t flinch, but something stiffened inside of you like wax hardening. ‘I plan to have you graduate this class with the highest honours any history student has ever accomplished in the history of this university. Then, I will help you to meet with fellow historians within my inner circles, those who can evolve your career. Think of any museum in Westeros, I’ll get it for you. Or if you would prefer to do it without my help, then I will respect that. But either way, I have watched you for months and discovered you know more about these lessons than the rest of your class combined. You hand in your essays and presentations on time, even when you’d missed an entire week of lessons because you had a sinus infection, you still handed in a ten-thousand-word essay without asking for any help and still you received the highest score in the whole class. In addition, you write extraordinarily well. Too well, if I say so, for someone of your age; you write as though you have experienced history through your own eyes, detailing every point with conviction, and weaving your own individual opinions without overwhelming the reader or forcing it down their throats. You will do remarkable things one day, and I can only hope I will be privileged enough to stand by your side.’
Every word in your vocabulary vanished as quickly as steam from a kettle. You stood there, mouth wide open, heavy-limbed as if hung to dry. A dizzying amount of questions whirled around in your mind, but you had no energy to muster and formulate them into actual dialogue. All you could do was just stand there, speechless, hoping that whatever he would say next would coax the words back into your mouth.
But Baelor didn’t utter a single word. He stayed still, eyes secure on your own.
So, you did the next best thing your frazzled mind could possibly think of: you ran to him.
He was a couple of inches taller than you, and when you were close enough, your arms wrapped over his shoulders, giving you something to hold onto as you crashed into him. One of Baelor’s hands connected to your waist, his fingers grasping tightly onto you as though he never wanted to let you go, whilst the other seized your cheek. Shivers rippled through you as you felt his fingers weave through your hair, and he gave a slight tug that only shattered whatever hesitancy lingered within you. You were close enough to smell his aftershave. You were close enough to—Baelor’s lips smashed into yours.
A firework of emotions exploded inside of you.
His lips were impossibly soft, yet he kissed you as though he were ravenous. A low growl emitted from the back of his throat as tried to pull, tug, tear apart your lips, anything so he could consume you fully. When you felt his teeth clench onto your lower lip, a shuddering moan slipped through, and your eyes snapped open just as his did. It was as though you were watching a predator finally drink a droplet of blood; Baelor’s pupils dilated, consuming his irises until his orbs were a black hole of lust and unholy passion.
He pulled away, and for a split moment, you thought you'd disappointed him. But he then smirked, ‘Seven Hells, you sound perfect.’ His voice was raspy, reminding you of the handful of men you’d spent the night with and how husky their voices sounded in the morning, except none of them were Baelor Targaryen. His voice drilled through you relentlessly; it transformed you bones into liquid, your mind grew dizzy, and all the blood in your veins burned like molten lava. ‘Don't stop now,’ he murmured, lips snaking down your throat. He took particular interest in one sensitive part, just below your earlobe, and when your mouth opened and another guttural moan cascaded out of you, you watched as Baelor’s eyes glinted like jewels.
You found yourself grasping at his shoulder blades as though you were scrambling up a wall, which compelled Baelor to lift you onto his desk. The dark mahogany wood was cold beneath you, but it gave you a moment of clarity as he gently manoeuvred himself to stand between your parted legs.
Taking a deep breath, you absorbed every detail from him as though you were planning on painting it from memory. He looked so naturally confident, while you were shy and jittery. It made you nervous, and a deep crease formed between your brows.
‘Is this, okay?’ he whispered, peering down at you with concern.
You hiccupped an apology. ‘I’m sorry, I-I’ve just never…’ You swallowed a fat knot of worries, tasting its bitterness like a sour sweet.
Baelor’s hands cupped both of your cheeks, lifting your gaze to look deeply into his eyes. As though he never wanted you to miss a second from his clear question: ‘Do you want this?’ he asked; his voice conveyed a strict tone, reminding you once more than he was an educator—and more importantly, your educator—but you also detected in it a warmth, like a consoling lover.
‘I…’ The words escaped you. You opened your mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. It wasn't as though you hadn't slept with someone before, you had on many occasions, but they were other students—nobodies. Like you. It wasn’t every day you were caught in the arms of Baelor fucking Targaryen. But you wanted him, more than you had ever in your entire life. Not only was he physically attractive, but it was also his intellect that beguiled you more.
Baelor uttered your name again, and you felt your stomach do a somersault. You gaze focused on him waiting for your reply.
‘Teach me,’ you whispered.
‘What?’ he said, cocking his head back.
A foreign sense of boldness overtook you; you tugged both your hands down from his shoulders and ran them down his chest. Muscles hardening under your touch, you heard him release a sharp exhale of breath and it flustered your eyelashes. As your eyes remained locked on his, Baelor preyed upon your wandering hands, appearing like a man possessed. His pupils were slow to dilate once your hands reached the buckle on his belt.
You slid off the edge of the desk, turned him around to take your place, and then fall to your knees. Baelor’s lips parted, an illicitly, delicious, throaty gasp slipped out. Peering up at him through your eyelashes, you tilted your head.
‘Teach me,’ you whispered, unclasping the buckle and pulling his zipper down.
His hands came to rest on your face; one cupped your cheek, his thumb delicately brushing across your bottom lip, and the other rested tenderly on the back of your head, but you can feel a slight pull. It wasn’t forceful in any way, only a man who desired you just as much as you desired him. Who needed you—one way or another.
You could see how large he was before you had even pulled him out of his black cotton briefs. It was understandable given the sheer stature and aura of him. His cock weighed heavily in your palm, and you felt your mouth water. There was a pearly-white bead which decorated the cherry tip of his member.
‘Oh, my beautiful girl,’ Baelor purred from above, his two hands curled around the back of your head, claiming your hair in a tight fist. ‘Teach you? Is that what you want?’
You leaned forward, tongue slipping out from your mouth, and nodded. It spurred a low and throat groan from him.
‘Open wide for me,’ Baelor instructed you, softening his voice—the mask of teacher fell upon his face. You obeyed his order swiftly, feeling a slight tinge of pain in your jaw as you stretched wide. ‘That’s it,’ he encouraged. ‘Good girl.’
You took that as permission to continue; leaning closer until you felt the faint masculine scent of him, and then, welding your gaze to his, you irreversibly took him in your mouth.
A rumble reverberated deep within Baelor’s chest. One hand tenderly stroked the nape of your neck whilst the other held tightly onto your hair as though it were a lifeline. You watched in awe as Baelor’s eyes fluttered closed, his soft brown eyelashes as delicate as butterfly wings against his sun-kissed light brown skin. His bottom lip was pulled open by a gravelly moan.
Breathing deeply through your nostrils, you slowly took more and more and more of him in by each torturous inch. The taste of salt and his natural sweat came alive on your tastebuds, increasing a deep ache in your belly boosting you to keep going.
‘You’re taking me so good, my love,’ Baelor whispered, his hand left the nape of your neck and came to settle on your cheek. He stroked the muscle in your jaw with his thumb, as if he had read your mind and knew it was already starting to burn with strain. ‘Just breathe, breathe…’
You breathed as he said, salvia oozing in the corners of your mouth. Once you reached the coarse black and silvery-grey hairs, tickling your nose, you returned your gaze back to Baelor’s and saw a glossy look of pride gleaming in his mismatched eyes. His lips were ajar, revealing the two fanged teeth in all their glory. You salivated more. His throbbing cock rested heavily in your mouth, hitting the back of your throat like the peck of a kiss.
An invisible and inaudible conversation occurred between you two from the sheer looks in your eyes.
Alright? He asked.
Use me, you begged.
Baelor moved meticulously fast. His thumb, which had been continuously stroking the pain in your jaw, left that sensitive spot and travelled to cupping your whole jaw in the palm of his hand. Then, with a tender tug, his fingers pressed into your jawbone, widening you further to take him. Your eyes enlarged into pennies.
‘Keep breathing,’ Baelor coached you.
You blinked—Yes.
Baelor pulled his cock out of you only to slam it straight back inside your snug throat. His thrusts were wild, almost erratic, as if he never thought in all his wildest dreams that this would ever happen. To be honest, neither did you. Nor did you expect to love it as much as you did: seeing him through your eyelashes as his face hardened, eyes narrowing into slits, his groans muffled and raspy. You might’ve been the one on your knees, but it was Baelor who was wholly submissive to the pleasure.
‘Seven Hells,’ he moaned, followed by your name. Seconds bled into minutes, and your mouth ached with each jilt of his hips. ‘I’m going to come if I don’t stop.’ His eyelids were droopy, and he slurred his words.
You raised your hands to hold his own, which captured your jaw gently, and Baelor halted immediately, following your quiet instruction. As his hand released your hair, the other aided in opening your jaw and sliding his cock from your mouth. A long, thick string of salvia drew from her, connected to the rosy-red tip of him. Baelor’s breath hitched in his throat.
‘Fuck,’ he growled, grasping your armpits and hoisting you from the floor. ‘I’ll never tire of this. Never.’
Baelor spun you around, so your bottom hit the edge of the desk. You slipped on when rough hands tore your thighs apart, fingers carving into your skin. An illicit gasp slipped from you as Baelor ripped a large hole in your black tights, allowing entry into the tight heat that hid beneath your soaked knickers.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered against the shell of your ear, and you caught a glimmer of mirth in his eyes. ‘I’ll buy you enough tights to last you a lifetime.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ you laughed.
A chorus of praise slipped from his mouth as Baelor’s hand slipped into the tear, seeking that dripping spot you had felt growing the moment you entered the lecture hall. ‘Gods, you’re soaked for me,’ he moaned. His fingers teased you; two fingers glided across your wet folds, keeping the barrier between your underwear and his playful digits. ‘Look at you,’ he keened, ‘it’s going to be so easy when I slide inside of you.’
Your mouth opened as a loud moan echoed around the hall like the chime of a bell. Immediately, one of your hands slapped over your mouth, eyes widening. Baelor’s eyes met yours.
‘Is that what you want, sweet girl?’ He lowered his chin, so his lips brushed against your quivering ones. ‘Are you on protection?’ he asked, sliding his fingers around your knickers and sinking them inside you. Without any barriers, skin on skin. But the question was pushed aside, ignored, as Baelor’s eyes snapped wider. He looked down to where your tight hole sucked in his two digits. ‘Seven Hells, you’ll fit me like a glove.’
You feel as though you were on cloud nine as his fingers stretch your insides, burrowing deeper until they finally curl, hitting that spot inside of you that makes stars explode across your vision. Then, the question he had posed returned to you: Are you on protection?
‘Yes,’ you answered. Baelor’s gaze landed on you; he quirked a brow. ‘Yes, I’m on birth control.’
‘Ah, good,’ he breathed. ‘I want to feel all of you.’
Then the sensations of his tongue licking at your lips, and that spot his two fingers had been stroking all this time suddenly hit you like a tidal wave. It was as though he’d set your skin on fire—everything within you exploded in pleasure. Your body shook with a fury. Head sinking back, you grew almost limp in his arms and were grateful to find he’d already wormed his arm around your waist, drawing you closer, wringing your orgasm out of you as though he was a man starved for it.
‘Baelor,’ you moaned shakily, grasping at the edges of his shirt collar. ‘I need you—need you.’
He chuckled deeply, the sound vibrating under your palms. ‘You have me,’ he assured softly, fingers stroking along your spine whilst the other gently pulled out of your wet channel. It was a moment of emptiness, and you whined. ‘You’ll have all of me,’ Baelor hushed, before pressing the tip of his cock at your entrance. He looked at you; a profound sense of shock and excitement flashed across his violent and brown eyes. ‘Take it.’
Your jaw went slack as Baelor slammed into you. A mixture of a yelp and a scream rose within you but he clamped his palm over your mouth, silencing it completely. You could feel his large cock inside of you, throbbing against your clenching walls.
‘Next time,’ he said, groaning softly against your ear. ‘Next time you can be as loud as you want. Now, you need to be quiet, alright?’
Your nod was wobbly, but Baelor caught it.
‘Good girl,’ he whispered, and your lower belly spasmed as his cock twitched, prodding against your womb. ‘Seven Hells, you’re so fucking tight.’ You felt yourself clench once more, maybe as way of showing him how well-fitting you both were; it worked because Bealor then slipped out of you, that unbearable ache of emptiness washing over you, only to be assaulted once more by the sheer strength and power of him slamming into your snug wetness.
You welcomed it all. Falling limp, jaw going slack, breathing in deeply through your nostrils. He pounded into you, repeatedly. Unstoppable and unrelentless.
‘Gods, you feel fucking incredible,’ he groaned, coaxing your own reprise of moans, groans, and whines.
A feeling, like your insides twisting, increased with each forceful thrust, and his pubic bone grated against your clit which made your eyelids flutter closed.
‘Hey,’ Baelor’s voice bled through your ecstasy. ‘Keep your eyes open,’ he ordered gently. And when you obeyed him, vision focusing on solely his piercing gaze, you absorbed every inch of him. There was the dark line of a crease between his eyebrows, it cast a shadow over his eyes, darkening the violet into a deep plum colour and his brown eye into almost black. His mouth was agape, waves of groans pouring out of him like water. ‘Touch yourself,’ you almost didn’t catch it. Too enamoured by the physicality of him. He repeated himself a second time, followed by, ‘Show me how you touch yourself.’
Your stomach flipped as though you were on a rollercoaster. Slowly, your hand skimmed down your body, finding the small bundle of nerves you had only touched in the privacy of your own room. You hadn’t slept with anyone who implored you to touch yourself as eagerly as Baelor, they had just assumed you would seek your pleasure from the penetration. With two fingers, you rubbed yourself, sensing your vagina walls clench harder.
‘Fuck,’ growled Baelor. He had his cheek rested against your forehead and every low moan or grunt he released landed directly in your eardrum—a symphony of desire. You wanted to be drunk from it. ‘I’m close,’ he rasped, his thrusting was ecstatic, hitting that spongey part inside of you that made your eyes roll to the back of your skull.
Bolts of electricity shot through your body, and you hummed loudly when you felt your own orgasm approaching.
Clutching the back of Baelor’s head, your fingers weaved into the soft short hairs. You found yourself tugging them until his lips grazed his own hand, which was clasped over your mouth, silencing your vulgar moans. Baelor’s gaze landed on yours; desire and a possessive gleam shone in them, matching your own. Slowly, he removed his hand. Though it took every part of you to not scream out from his relentless thrusting and the sparks of nerves happening on your clit, you kept silent as his mouth claimed yours once more.
‘Come with me,’ Baelor told you in between filthy kisses, teeth, tongue, teeth clashing. ‘I want to feel you come on my cock.’
He allowed the odd few guttural moans and low whines from you, but nothing more, his lips were smothering enough.
Both of you panted into each other’s mouths as the last few powerful thrusts came to a shuddering end, and your whole body twitched like a leaf caught in a storm from another orgasm. When Baelor came, he went slack into your neck. Pulses jolted through you as both your arms wrapped around his back, clutching him tightly—you never wanted to let go.
Baelor carefully pulled away; his chest heaved as your hands slid down, toying with the buttons obliviously. He watched you play with them with a smirk.
‘I’ve never been a religious man, but I think I just experienced something holy,’ he whispered, and a puff of laughter escaped you. Large hands cupped your cheeks; his thumb was drawn to your bottom lip like a moth to a flame, and you unconsciously parted your lips faintly, allowing the pad of his thumb to graze against your bottom set of teeth. ‘Gods, you’re perfect…’ he breathed. ‘You were right.’
You frowned. ‘What for?’
‘You would make an exceptional controversially young wife.’
A loud snort exploded out of you. Quickly, you slapped your hands over your mouth and nose, and it made even the great Baelor Breakspear chuckle.
'So, do you accept?’ he questioned, tilting his head, his eyes dropped to where he gently pulled out of you and a thick creamy-white stripe leaked out of you.
Words were knots in your mouth, all you could do was nod frantically.
‘Good,’ Baelor whispered. He moved his thumb from your bottom lip and tenderly dragged it up your soaked slit, drawing up his seed back into you. Your sensitive hole engulfed Baelor’s thumb—and remnants of his cock inside of you and the aching emptiness you felt after he slid out returned—and not even his thumb could sedate that feeling. ‘Because…’ His voice lowered profoundly, ‘if you wish to be my wife, I endeavour to keep you forever satisfied and completely full.’ Then the palm of his hand pressed down, hard, on your overtly sensitive clit and you saw stars shoot across your vision.
As he wrung orgasm over orgasm from you, you recalled the hazy memories of last night. The two bottles of white wine you had drank before realising you had an essay due before midnight. And you thought to yourself, thank fuck I sent that stupid email.