FLO. @littlerequiem - Tumblr Blog

Aug 3

Hey Fern. I've been following you a few years now, since you've been writing about John Price and I absolutely love you're work. Is it possible to request a fic with Baelor and Maekar with reader for my birthday next week Wednesday? Also keep hydrated and get your rest. You've my favourite author on Tumblr. 🫶🏽🤍

Your Love Is King

Baelor Targaryen x fem!reader x Maekar Targaryen

✿ you've known the princes for many years now, and they always make sure to visit you any time they're in Dorne. ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 8k ✿ cw: fem!reader, noblewoman!reader, no y/n, reader is dornish but not described, reader is from an unnamed house (not martell either), reader can be read as plus-sized (mentions of curves/larger thighs/tummy) but is otherwise undefined, pre-established relationship, SMUT, oral (f!receiving), fingering (vag+anal), unprotected piv, threesome (NO targcest tho), double penetration, anal, multiple orgasms, praise!!, pet names (sweet girl, sweetheart, etc), these men are in loooove with you, strong language, alcohol consumption, use of medieval lube lmao, title from the sade song :)

a/n: first time writing after my hiatus so please spare me lol. and happy late birthday !! i so hope you enjoy <3 and gosh i love that gif lol they're so silly

The melodic plucking of a harp fills the warm, dry air as you lounge across your cushioned divan. It mimics birdsong as you recline, the heat of the Dornish summer clinging to your bare skin, your dress a mere bundle of sheer ribbons across the curves of your body. You reach for your strongwine, sipping lazily from the cup as a servant enters the open-air room and bows where he stands.

“My lady,” he greets quietly, eyes darting briefly around the empty room. Sweet smelling incense pools in a thin, white wisp from a golden thurible suspended overhead, and he politely bats the smoke away from his head as he speaks. “Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar have arrived.”

You spare a glance through the sheer curtains that billow lightly where they frame the paneless windows. The sun sits high in the sky, blazing hot. Taking a deep breath, you smell blanched sand and ryegrass beneath the flowery incense.

You turn back to your servant, licking strongwine from your lips. “Is it that time already? I was quite enjoying my solace.”

Your servant offers you a sympathetic smile. “Apologies, my lady.”

With a groan, you place your cup aside and get to your feet, smoothing down the layers of your dress. You gesture to your harpist, whose fingers freeze against the strings, before you follow your servant through your residence. Your skirts flutter around your ankles as you walk, kicking up a breeze that cools the backs of your calves and knees. The movement of your arms has the bracelets there jingling together, and with each window you pass and with each beam of sunlight you cross through, the metals glint and sparkle.

A pair of solid doors give way to the main reception hall, ceilings high, windows curved. Sunlight dances in mottled spheres along the smooth floor, heat churning with the bodies that move to accommodate the recently arrived princes. But such bodies freeze when you enter, dropping into polite bows and curtsies until ultimately, it is you dropping into a curtsy as you find yourself before Baelor and Maekar.

The airy fabric of your dress shifts across your body, moving with the bend of your knees and the swell of your breasts as you greet them individually. “Prince Baelor, Prince Maekar.”

Maekar grunts in acknowledgement, but his eyes are considerably more telling than his brothers as they drop down the curves of your body.

You ignore it, smiling softly at Baelor and extending a hand decorated in rings—which he takes in two of his, strong and rough and worn down through weeks on the road. He grasps your hand firmly before bringing it to his mouth and placing a chaste kiss to your knuckles.

“My lady,” he says, mismatched eyes gleaming. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“And you,” you reply, finally casting your eyes over Maekar, who stands idly with a hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His eyes raise when he realises your attention has shifted, and he offers you a curt nod. You smile in return. “I wasn’t expecting to see you both so soon.”

You slink up beside Baelor and take his riding cloak from him, noting the fine film of golden dust settled in the black fibres. Your hands slide over his shoulders.

“We left a few days ahead of schedule,” Baelor tells you as you remove his cloak and hand it off to a nearby servant. Both he and Maekar remain rooted to the spot as you glide behind them, the tips of your fingers dragging across his upper back before you settle behind Maekar and unlatch his cloak as well. Baelor clears his throat. “I hope our arrival hasn’t interrupted you too severely.”

“Not at all,” you say as you take Maekar’s cloak and hand it off, your fingers feathering over the back of his neck briefly before you move and stand before them once more. Both men stare at you, attention rapt. You smile. “It’s always a pleasure hosting you both.”

You crook a finger then, spinning on your heel. They follow obediently, and you lead them back through the grand double doors and down the long, open-air hall. Your combined footsteps echo through the solace of your castle, and you can’t help the heat that seems to transfer from the air around you to the pit of your stomach.

“When are you expected at Sunspear?” You throw the question over your shoulder as you walk, several nearby servants bowing as the three of you cross through a room lush with ornamental plants.

Maekar responds with a displeased huff. “Too soon.”

“What my brother means,” Baelor interjects, falling into stride with you. His hand brushes yours as you walk. “Is we are expected, but not by a certain time.”

You turn and smile at the prince, wriggling your fingers into his. Visible relief passes across his face and his hand clamps down firmly, his rings clacking against yours.

“Good,” you reply, before turning to Maekar, who walks with his hands clasped behind his back and at least one step behind you. You offer him your other hand, bracelets coming together like chimes. “Why must you sulk, your grace?”

Maekar frowns at you, but takes your hand without protest. His hand is cooler than his brothers, but the sword callouses along his upper palm are more pronounced. His grip is tighter, too.

“I’m not sulking,” Maekar grumbles, lifting your hand to press the words against your skin. “It is too hot, and we have been riding for too long, and I am fucking annoyed.”

You laugh, and the sound floats up towards the ceiling as you lead the princes back into the portico where you had been prior to their arrival. The harpist perches quietly on her seat in the corner of the room, and you send a smile across to her. She returns it and begins her strumming, the sounds louder and more pronounced.

“You are far too Targaryen,” you comment humorously as you remove your hand from both men’s grasps, turning solely to Maekar now. Your fingers find the hem of his padded doublet, tugging it pointedly. “Your mother was Dornish. Where did that go, your grace?”

Maekar grumbles again as he raises his arms and allows you to lift the doublet from his torso. You toss it aside, then lift a hand to Maekar’s cheek, stroking a thumb against the pink-tinted skin marred with pox scars and coarse white hair. His grumbling ceases, and you turn to Baelor then, seeing him already ripping the thick doublet from his body.

“Baelor’s always been better in this wonderful Dornish heat,” you say to Maekar as you rest a hand at the base of his throat. You feel him swallow, feel the working of his throat as you press your palm there. You address Baelor then, hand running up his chest. “Isn’t that right?”

Baelor’s next blink comes at the same time as a particularly flourished strum of the harp.

He nods, gaze heavy as he traces the lines of your face while you slowly withdraw your hand from his chest. “Yes.”

You smile, then spin around, skirts fluttering, movements like the rolling of water. You settle yourself onto the cushioned divan then, beckoning them with a pat of your fingers either side of you as you recline like a cat. Maekar, despite the dip in his brow, is the first to relent: collapsing down beside you with a pained grunt. Baelor follows not long after, lowering himself more slowly, more gently to your other side, but you don’t miss the relieved exhale as he leans back into the cushions.

As the princes settle, resting their wings, you call for your servant, who enters the room not long after with a tray of cups and strongwine. He places it on the small table before you, and you thank him, insisting on pouring the cups yourself.

Maekar makes a face, complete with narrowed eyes and a curling of his upper lip as you uncork the decanter and pour the wine. “Strongwine? Of all wines?”

You gasp, feigning disappointment. “You insult your Dornish heritage, your grace.”

He rolls his eyes, but accepts the cup you offer him. You hand Baelor his cup too, and he thanks you quietly before taking a generous sip. With your own full cup in hand, you relax back into the cushions, listening to the harp.

As you sit, Maekar’s free hand shifts to one of the thin, silky layers of your skirt, fidgeting with the material, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. Much like this brother, Baelor’s unoccupied hand finds the bracelets that stack at your wrist, running the pad of his finger along the smooth metal and the bumps of gemstones he finds there.

“How long has it been since you were last here?” You ask after a while, eyes drawing through the slight haze over your head, each inhale smelling faintly of floral incense and sun-soaked earth.

Baelor removes his hand from your bracelets, instead placing his palm firmly on your knee. The pressure is warm, almost branding, even through the material of your dress.

“Many moons now,” he tells you, thumb touching lightly to the dip on the side of your knee. “We’ve both been waiting long enough to return—haven’t we, brother?”

Maekar makes a noise, wet with wine and deep from the back of his throat as he continues stroking his fingers along the material of your dress. But his hand has shifted higher now, touch sliding up and onto the soft mass of your thigh. It dips inwards too as he sips slowly from his cup, and you turn and meet his gaze as his touch drops, drops, and drops even more until he can press his fingers into the covered fat of your inner thigh.

“The last time you were here,” you recall, reclining further into the cushions and drawing your cup to your lips. You speak around the rim before taking a sip, “It took the better part of an hour before I could even get you to sit with me. Now look at you both…”

You place your strongwine aside then grasp both princes by the chin, fingers firm against their jaws. They both stare at you with the same gloss over their eyes, pupils swelling over the colour of their irises as you hold their attention.

“So what’s changed?” You continue with Baelor’s hand tight on your knee and Maekar’s inching further between the split of your thighs.

Baelor’s mismatched eyes glance down your body briefly. He notes his brother’s hand, then notes his own, before he looks at you once more.

“The heat does interesting things, doesn’t it?” He whispers, then presses forward, battling past the grip of your hand and planting his mouth squarely on your cheek.

It’s not quite a kiss. An intimate, nearly domestic touch. Lips softened by the sweet, well-ripened strongwine, peppering slow kisses along the warm skin of your cheek. You let go of his chin, sliding your hand down his throat then pushing your palm flat against his chest. You feel the beating of his heart. It thuds heavily beneath his thin black tunic, and you wonder if it’s beating in time with yours.

But you turn your head when you hear Maekar grumble something beside you. Baelor lets the contact slip, his mouth drawing down the column of your neck as you face his brother. Maekar takes hold of your wrist, guiding your hand to his mouth. The heel of your palm receives touch first, and you quell the giggle that threatens to leave you as you watch him stamp the pink stain of wine from his lips to your hand. You watch him closely, Baelor nosing the pulse thrumming hot beneath your ear, as he traces the lines of your palm until he kisses around the side of your hand and cups it to his cheek.

Maekar has you cradling the side of his face as he gazes at you. “I have missed you.”

“I can tell,” you reply with a small, airy laugh.

A dip forms in his brow, the beginnings of a frown, but you pull him to you before it can grow. Gently, your mouth finds his, and the sound that leaves him is a deep groan of relief. You taste the intense berry-sweetness of the strongwine as he opens for you, tongue flat to yours. The hand on your thigh digs deeper like a hand to clay, pawing at the flesh like he means to tear you apart.

The lulling strum of the harp blurs with distant birdsong as Baelor’s mouth slides down the slope of your neck and finds the junction of your shoulder. His teeth scrape, ivory along the intricately stitched hemline of your dress, as his hand slides up from your knee, gathering beneath your skirts. You draw in a breath, mouth still moving with Maekar’s, as Baelor’s hand draws higher and higher, bundling your skirts near the top of your thighs.

You pull yourself away from Maekar just as Baelor lifts his head. He leans in first, and you meet him halfway, mouth sliding to his effortlessly. Maekar takes your hand back into his, and you feel his mouth begin a trail from the bump of your wrist towards your elbow as Baelor’s tongue shoves heavily against yours, desperate and searching. Like his brother’s, a film of strongwine clings to it, drawing little gasps from the back of your throat as he licks across the points of your teeth.

But after a moment, sweat gathering at the back of your neck, you pull away. Maekar mouths at the pulse in the crook of your elbow, dark violet eyes watching you as you pant. Two large hands, each belonging to a prince of the realm, sit heavily on your thighs. Made of steel, they anchor you to the divan as an involuntary tremor racks through you.

You offer both men a coy smile. “I don’t suppose you’d both join me in my chambers?”

Maekar peers at you like you’ve insulted him. He places one last kiss to the inside of your elbow, muttering, “What kind of question is that, woman?”

And then he’s getting to his feet, his cup long discarded and long forgotten as he urges you to stand. You can’t help the smile that clings to your face as you let him move you, and Baelor follows immediately after, movements aligning with the final strums of the harp. As both princes lead you towards the door, you smile at your harpist, mouthing your thanks and nodding to the remaining bottle of strongwine on the low table. She smiles back, sending you off with a knowing wink.

—✿—

Your chambers are cool where fresh coastal air flows through the windows, sheer plum-coloured curtains fluttering softly with the movement. You draw the prince’s inside, with Maekar fisting one of the layers of your skirts, while Baelor wraps his fingers around your forearm. Once inside, you wriggle yourself free from their grasps and spin around, arms already working their way out of your flowing sleeves.

Maekar is undoing his tunic, eyes following where your dress drops away from your shoulders and slips past your elbows, the fabric falling away from your breasts. He groans, pleased, and shucks his tunic off. His abdomen is pale and well-stocked, both pox and battle scars mapping across the skin.

“Our sweet girl,” he mutters, more to himself than you as he steps closer. But you step back, smiling still as you push your dress over the curve of your hips and arse. It drops to the floor and pools at your ankles. Maekar groans, his hands finding the ties of his trousers as he stares at you. “Oh, gods above…”

You kick the garment away, now completely bare. Your eyes find Baelor then, who has managed to rid himself of his shoes, linen chausses, and now his tunic. Both princes’ clothing was scattered across the floor of your chambers.

“We’ve missed you,” Baelor admits as his brother closes the gap between you.

Maekar’s arms circle you tightly, and you let him press you firmly to his front. His trousers hang open but sit loosely on his hips. The imprint of him sits snug against the curve of your thigh and you moan loudly before his mouth melds to yours.

The kiss is forceful. It’s a continuous push, a forcing of dominance as his tongue swipes hot against yours. His hands are stone-solid on your hips, and he gently ruts against you as you kiss the taste of strongwine from each other. The Dornish summer heat seems to accumulate in the base of your stomach, spreading wide across your womb as Maekar backs you towards your bed.

That is, until you step backwards into the solid heat of another body. Baelor’s hands feather lightly across your ribs as he leans into you, his mouth dropping straight to your ear. You whine into Maekar’s mouth, hands tightening at the back of his neck, as Baelor’s bare abdomen plasters hot and sweat-slick to your back.

“Our prettiest girl,” Baelor whispers, lips dragging over the shell of your ear.

His hands find the sides of your breasts, palming at the flesh before the roughened pads of his fingers swipe slowly across your nipples. You whine again, trying to pull from Maekar’s mouth, but he doesn’t let you—dipping his head lower to kiss you harder, the coarse hair of his beard scraping against your skin.

You’re pinned between them. Three bodies burning hot in the middle of your chambers.

Sweat sits damp at Baelor’s temples as he kisses down the side of your neck, and Maekar breathes hard when he breaks the kiss, sliding his mouth over the curve of your jaw. You crane your neck, head lolling back onto Baelor’s shoulder, allowing both men to trace red-hot lines down either side of your throat. You can barely keep your eyes open, blurred sunlight catching in your eyelashes as you blink through the rush of pleasure that grows hot within the confines of your skull.

You’re dizzy with it. Sick, feverish with need. Your core beats with your heart, aching between your thighs, and Maekar’s hands on your hips and Baelor’s hands on your tits—and both of their covered cocks pressing against you—threatens to pull you apart. And their words fan the flames inside you. Baelor mutters, all sweet and lilting, as he kneads your breasts and rolls his hips against the curve of your arse: sweet girl, our sweet girl, gods we’ve missed you. And Maekar’s hissing out between clenched teeth, hands trawling from your hips to the bottom of your arse, squeezing the flesh as he bites down the desire to sink his teeth into your shoulder: fuck, you’re beautiful—gods, just look at you, sweetheart. Un-fucking-believable.

And they bundle you towards the bed beneath a flurry of moving hands. Baelor sits on the edge of the feather-stuffed mattress, far enough that he can spread his legs wide and settle you between them. Maekar detaches from you as Baelor pulls you down, perching you on the lip of the bed, caught between the mass of his thighs.

A few strands of white hair fall across Maekar’s forehead as he huffs and lowers himself to his knees. He groans, joints popping as he hits the thickly spun carpet. You bite your lip, holding back a whine as two hands find your knees and spread you apart.

One of Baelor’s hands is still pawing at your tits, while the other slides up and wraps gently around your throat. He guides your head to the side, sliding your mouth to his—and the kiss is deep. Slow. Barely even moving as he palms your thundering pulse.

Carefully, Maekar begins trailing a line of kisses from your inner knee towards your core. His beard scratches along the skin as he moves up your thigh. Your stomach clenches in anticipation, muscles in your thighs jumping as you whine into Baelor’s mouth.

Baelor pulls away just a centimetre or two. You’re connected by a thin string of spit, and his pupils are wide, eyes nearly appearing the same colour. He holds you like this, holds the eye contact, as his brother kisses further and further up the inside of your thigh.

“More?” Baelor whispers, the string snapping.

His tone is hoarse, nearly a whimper.

The nod you give him is small, but he sees it. Slowly, he dips his head and slots his mouth back to yours in a rolling kiss that draws the breath from your lungs. And as that happens, Maekar groans: a rattling sound from behind his sternum as his mouth finds the split of your cunt.

He kisses you once, twice where the warmth of you grows hotter, wetter, before he’s hefting his hands below your knees and pushing your legs up. You gasp out of the kiss, head spinning in Baelor’s grasp as Maekar hoists your legs onto his broad shoulders, pinning you even further into the dark-haired prince.

Maekar doesn’t say anything as he wraps his arms around your thighs and presses his face between them. His mouth opens against your slit, tongue sliding down, then up; a long, continuous stroke until his lips find the bead of your clit and he can taste you in the back of his throat. Another groan escapes him. It’s harsher, more leonine, and his eyes fall closed as he angles back down to repeat the motions again.

A few seconds pass before Baelor gently coaxes your attention back to him. His palm rests against your throat still, his thumb stroking the tendon down the side. His eyes flit down to his brother for a moment, before he looks at you.

“He’s missed you,” Baelor mutters, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth. You whine, and he shushes you with a scattering of kisses to your warm cheek. “He has, sweet girl. We both have.”

Something tugs deep in the pit of your womb as Maekar’s tongue works inside you: it’s a thick, blunt push of muscle, paired with the press of his nose against your clit. And the sound of it is obscene: wet and vulgar, the sucking of nectar from ripened fruit. He moans with it, the vibrations cutting right through you and tearing a sob from your throat.

Baelor continues to work his hand across your chest, alternating in rolling your nipples between two fingers. He holds your throat still too, clutching you, helping you watch as Maekar rocks his head between your thighs.

“Listen to that,” Baelor says against your ear, hips bucking almost involuntarily. You can feel the hard press of his cock through his trousers against the small of your back. He hums, low in his throat, listening to the sounds Maekar pulls from your cunt and the little whimpers escaping your parted lips. “So wet, hm? You’ve missed us too, haven’t you, sweet girl?”

You nod. A hushed yeah finds the warm air, but you’re not sure you even said it as your vision seems to white at the edges as the pressure in your womb stretches through your pelvis. It’s hot and heavy as Maekar’s tongue curls inside you, his groans pushing vibration after vibration through every single one of your nerves. You mewl, and his eyes open, finding where you lean back against Maekar, one of your hands gripping Baelor’s thigh.

The white-haired prince lets go of one of your thighs and slides the hand higher. Moaning quietly, head resting back against Baelor’s shoulder, you get the hint. You drop your free hand into his and he clasps it firmly.

Baelor hums, pleased. “There we go, that’s it. Hold onto him, sweetheart.”

His hand shifts from your chest as he speaks. Rough with years hardened around the hilt of a sword, but still soft enough to raise goosebumps across your skin, he drags it between the valley of your breasts and over your belly. He feels you swallow beneath his palm as his hand ghosts over your mound before two fingers find your clit.

“Baelor,” you moan, head falling back now as your sounds reach the beautifully tiled ceiling.

Maekar squeezes your hand, peering at you through white lashes as his head moves. His tongue splits your pussy open, breath hot against you as he pants. He grunts too: muffled keens lost in the heat of your cunt, matching the fickle whimpers that leave you.

“Maekar,” you whisper as your thighs begin to tremble.

Baelor’s mouth finds the side of your head as he holds you against him, lips pressed open against your temple as he pants, his fingers moving in short, even circles across your clit. It’s the perfect pressure. The perfect speed.

The dark-haired prince smiles against you. He breathes you in, smelling the soap in your hair and the perfumed oil rubbed deep into your skin. As he holds you like this, this close, he feels you tremble, entire body shuddering with bottled pleasure.

You moan, and he’s answering you before the sound has completely left your mouth: “I know, I know, I can feel you, sweetheart, I can feel you.”

Maekar grunts as if acknowledging his brother’s words. His other hand moves from your thigh as your legs clench up around his shoulders, and he pushes his hand between his face and your core. He pulls back briefly, face wet, beard glistening, as he takes one finger and, without warning, pushes it into you. You gasp out, choking on a sob as a second follows not long after, before his mouth slides back against you.

It’s too hot. Too good.

Maekar’s fingers spread then curl, finding that perfect spot inside you straight away. No preamble, no search—the tips of the prince’s fingers are a blunt nudge against you, and the pressure in your womb pulls so tight that the shadow of a cramp passes through your calves as your toes curl.

Baelor’s fingers continue moving as he speaks lowly, “Give it to him, love.”

Your orgasm fissures through the base of your spine and the pit of your stomach like a crack through stone. It splits you apart, and you curl back into Baelor’s hold as a loud moan echoes around your chambers. Your cunt squeezes tight around Maekar’s fingers, clit thrumming hard and hot with blood beneath the rhythm of Baelor’s continual movements. It’s a hot, cloying release as a shudder racks through you, your thighs clamping tight around either side of Maekar’s head, and you feel the warmth that floods your stomach as real as the sun that streams through your open windows.

Maekar pulls his face from you first, wiping his wet beard along the inside of your thigh. You whine softly, limp where you lie against Baelor, whose fingers come to a stop but rest firm against your swollen clit.

“Brother,” Baelor warns, more tender than reprimanding, as the white-haired prince continues to pump his fingers into you.

In… out… slow, methodical movements as your pussy flutters around him lazily. You let out another whine, a dull ache settling deep in your core.

“Maekar,” Baelor says, louder this time. More stern.

Maekar huffs, but obeys, pulling his fingers from you with a satisfyingly wet schlick that makes his ears burn red. Something swoops low in your tummy when you hear it too.

Slowly, Baelor removes his hand from your throat. He pats you on the cheek before both of his hands find your sides, resting there. Maekar helps you settle your feet back onto the floor.

“You ready?” Baelor asks, touching along your ribs, then over your waist.

You open your mouth to reply, but your words are stolen from you: Maekar gets to his feet and surges forward, taking your chin with a sticky hand and slamming his mouth to yours. The kiss is hungry, almost angry with the force he moves against you, his tongue finding yours like a wave crashing onto rock. You taste yourself as you dissolve into it, a hand shooting up to thread through his hair.

Behind you, Baelor huffs out a laugh. “Come now, brother. Fetch the oil.”

Maekar grumbles when he parts from you. He kisses you once more before pulling back and shooting his brother an annoyed look. “You fetch the fucking oil.”

Shaking away the haze of your bliss, you pull yourself out of their grasps and teeter to your feet. There’s a light tremble in your knees as you right yourself, your hand sliding down Maekar’s chest as you look at Baelor over your shoulder, trying your best to ignore the obvious tent in the front of his trousers.

“It’s beside the basin,” you tell the dark-haired prince, then turn back to Maekar.

You lift your head and kiss him gently as your hands dip downwards to unthread what remains of the ties on his trousers. Baelor exhales a bemused laugh, and you hear movement as he gets off the bed and pads across your chambers towards the copper basin.

Maekar is practically purring as you let his trousers drop, then busy yourself with his breeches. The ties come apart easily, and you take his cock in hand as he kicks the garments away, a thick groan lodged in his throat. He’s warm and velvet-soft against your palm as you blindly wrap your fingers, jerking him lightly as you lead him towards the bed.

You break the kiss and let go of his cock as you climb up onto the mattress. But you catch a finger beneath his chin, grinning as you urge the prince onto the bed, watching proudly as his pupils swell even wider and he crawls to you on his hands and knees.

You kneel against your multicoloured bed linens as he drags himself up to you, mouth finding yours again. You kiss him for a moment, before turning your head. The white-haired prince groans and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the pulse beneath your ear as you watch Baelor return to the bed with a bottle of oil.

Your hand finds Maekar’s cock again, the tip red and flushed and leaking as you give it a firm squeeze while you address Baelor: “And how exactly do you want me, your grace?”

The smile on Baelor’s face is knowing. Amused, even, as he, with one hand, undoes the clasps and ties of his own trousers before shucking them down his legs. He does the same with his breeches, and he doesn’t answer you until he’s bare before you and the silence has stretched long enough to have you whining at him.

“Like that is fine, my lady,” he says, and the title is just as mocking as the way you had addressed him just moments ago.

Maekar lifts his head as Baelor clambers onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His hands draw around your body as your hand leaves his cock, and he situates you in front of him, your chest flushing against his.

And then he’s kissing you again. Cock heavy against your thigh, he holds you close as his tongue splits your lips apart for him to slide deeper. His hands are on your hips, holding you tightly against him, and you give into it with a small moan, your hands wrapping around his shoulders.

Baelor falls into place behind you, and something sparks in your core hearing the popping of a cork. You kiss Maekar, and your body moves without much thought—you’ve done this before, many times, and you shift your hips, lifting yourself slightly as your back arches and your arse pushes out towards the dark-haired prince.

Thick oil, warmed by the temperature of the room, pours out around two of Baelor’s fingers. He watches it seep like honey, a similar colour too, slightly earthy in smell as he slips the cork back into place and places the bottle aside. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss between your shoulder blades as his fingers feather down the split of your arse before finding your hole.

Anticipation rolls in your gut as you break the kiss and shift your head. Baelor catches the movement, tipping forward to replace the absence of Maekar, kissing you at a slightly awkward angle as one finger pushes past the tight ring of your hole. A small, breathy sound escapes you as your head rolls back onto his shoulder, and he levels a kiss to your temple.

“It’s alright,” Baelor whispers, other hand massaging the fat of your arse as he holds you open. He kisses your temple again. “You know what to do, sweetheart. Just let me in.”

He lures the tension from your muscles with the softness of his words. You relax into him as Maekar’s hands trace the curves of your body.

The press of Baelor’s finger inside you is not foreign, but the initial sensation will always be strange. His movement is slow and methodical, and the oil smoothens it out until he’s working himself into the first knuckle, then the second. An airy moan, consonants lost, leaves your throat as his finger crooks, then pushes, then pulls, then crooks again.

You feel the second take its place and push in beside the other just as Maekar grabs your face, impatient, and slams your mouth back to his. He kisses you as his brother works two fingers into your arse, and he guides one of your hands back onto his cock.

His hand is over yours as he moves it up and down, mumbling against your lips, “That’s it, just like that—y’such a good girl, aren’t you? Prettiest girl, too…”

You moan, scorching hot.

Maekar kisses you again and you feel like you’re drunk off of it. Your chambers swelter around you, smelling faintly of incense and oil and the press of bodies. Heat swims low in your belly, the ghost of that familiar pressure lingering in the base of your spine, curling through the marrow of your bones as you’re pressed between both princes.

As you slowly stroke Maekar’s cock, his other hand dips between your thighs and finds your puffy clit. He taps it once, then draws a tight circle, and you sob into his mouth as your cunt pulls tight around nothing. Behind you, Baelor groans, your hole clenching around his rucking fingers.

Then, Baelor’s fingers leave you. You moan loudly, the emptiness jarring as your head rolls out of Maekar’s kiss. You hear the pop of a cork, then the pouring of oil, and a few beats of your heart pass before Baelor is shushing you, three fingers now slowly, slowly pushing inside you.

“I know, I know,” Baelor mutters, kissing along your shoulder as you sob out in pleasure, nails digging crescents into Maekar’s bicep, which you grip tightly for support. The dark-haired prince curls his three fingers, and suddenly you feel impossibly full. He kisses up the side of your neck as your sobs devolve into impatient whines. He tuts. “We’re almost there, sweet girl—come on, don’t start that. You’re doing so well. M’just opening her up a little more, okay?”

You can’t reply. Maekar’s drawing rough shapes on your clit and Baelor’s fingers are rubbing deep inside you and another orgasm is brewing inside you. It churns like the sea, and you rock with its wake as it builds and builds. Maekar holds you steady, panting as he watches you begin to shake, chest shuddering with your laboured breathing.

“You like that?” He asks quietly, dipping his head to talk to you. You’ve tipped forward, eyes barely open.

But you manage to nod, whispering a timid “y–yeah, Maekar.”

His fingers work and work, as does his brother’s, and some long, sun-bleached seconds later, you’re toppling into your second orgasm. It seems harsher than the first: piercing through you sharply, your legs twitching hard where you kneel. Your pussy clamps around nothing, but you feel the muscles of your hole pull around Baelor’s fingers as you release. Maekar eases you through it, and only removes his fingers when you hiccup his name, your tremors subsiding as the warmth of pleasure dissipates once more.

Maekar looks at his brother over your shoulder as you slump into his arms. “Have you finished, or are you just wasting my time?”

Baelor smiles in return, shaking his head slightly as he pulls his fingers from you. His cock twitches against his thigh at your small, breathy whine. Then, he gives his brother a nod as he’s pouring more oil out of the bottle—dripping it over the length of his cock, watching it drool across the head as Maekar settles you higher on your knees.

You whine again, tired, your hands finding Maekar’s shoulders. He has one hand on your side, holding you against his chest, while the other guides his cock between your legs. Your eyes snap open when you feel him, the warmth of his head, slick and bruising with heat, slide through your folds. Up, down, a torturous glide.

Baelor shuffles in close behind you, and you exhale a shaky breath as you’re pinned between both princes. The air around you swelters, hot and sticky and smelling of sweat and rose water as they close in on you.

“Missed this,” Maekar grumbles first when the silence becomes stifling. You spread your thighs, whimpering quietly as he bullies the tip of his cock into your cunt.

“Missed you,” Baelor adds as his own cock finds your hole and slowly pushes in.

Your head tips back, falling onto Baelor’s shoulder as both men enter you at the same time. Both slow. Both gentle as they split you apart, nerve by nerve, the thick stretch of their cocks pulling you apart from the inside out. Maekar groans loudly as your pussy wraps tight around him, and the feeling of Baelor’s cock sliding into you, separated only by a thin wall of muscle, has him groaning again.

Baelor dips and presses his mouth against your neck, panting like a dog as he slides into you. The stretch settles a dull ache deep inside you, like the press of a thumb to an old bruise. But you rock back into him anyway, your body craving. The need that circulates is near constricting as your nails draw crescents on Maekar’s shoulder, sweat sliding down your spine and over the hairs on Baelor’s chest and abdomen.

“That’s it, fuck—gods, you’re tight,” Maekar mutters when he bottoms out. The walls of your cunt flutter as he rests up against the base of your cervix, a meager sting shooting through you before it settles, his hand coaxing across your ribs. He presses forward for a second, kissing you tenderly. “I love it when you take us like this.”

You breathe out, not realising you had been holding your breath. “Maekar.”

He shushes you, kissing you once more on the lips before pulling away.

He peers again at his brother, brows furrowing. “Can I move?”

“No,” Baelor replies quickly. He’s still slowly, slowly feeding his cock into you. His brows pinch together, and a thin sheen of sweat has gathered high on his forehead. “Not yet.”

Maekar huffs, but doesn’t say anything else. He busies himself instead with a hand across your chest, palming the mounds of your breasts as you shudder, body relaxing into their combined touch.

Another minute passes before Baelor is seated comfortably inside you, and he gives an experimental roll of his hips. Air fills your lungs too quickly as you gasp, feeling the way both princes rub against one another. So close.

Baelor kisses your cheek. “Our sweet girl. So patient, hm?”

You nod, eyes barely open. You don’t know where you begin and they end. You’re so impossibly full and it never gets old: feeling their combined mass in your tummy, confining you between their strong, battle-hardened bodies.

“Now can we fucking move?” Maekar grits out, the muscles in his jaw jumping.

Baelor doesn’t reply with words, but he pulls out, then shoves back in.

And that gives Maekar his answer.

You cry out, too empty, and then too full, as the dark-haired prince ruts his cock into you in one deep, rolling thrust. And then those thrusts don’t relent: his hips slamming against your arse, flesh rippling, the feather mattress groaning with the movements as he thrusts into you.

Maekar doesn’t want to get left behind. With his hands firmly on your hips, he drags his cock out of you—sparing a glance down to watch the way his cock slips from you, wet and glistening in a way that hits him straight in the gut—then rucks back in. It’s forceful, not nearly as gentle as Baelor, and the tip slams up towards the plug of your womb like he means to brand you. The bed shakes when he and his brother fall into the same rhythm, an uncanny level of unison, and the groan that leaves his throat has you clenching around both of them.

“Fuck, you were made for this,” Maekar utters, hair falling across his forehead. His cheeks are pink, and the same colour crawls up his bare chest. Vice-like hands knead the flesh above your hips. “Made for us. The gods have—oh, fuck—”

He moans when your pussy tightens around him again, drawing him deeper.

But Baelor finishes his sentence. “The gods have made you for us, haven’t they, sweetheart? Why else would—uh, uh—w–would you take us like this?”

The dark-haired prince stutters through his pleasure as he holds you up. The oil drips down the length of his cock, runs along the seam of his balls as he thrusts into you. It’s messy and loud and he’s missed this feeling more than anything.

Your tits bounce as they heft you between them, speared across both. A human scabbard draped in jewels and littered with bite-marks, skin slick with sweat and spit. You moan loudly as Maekar hits that perfect spot, made even more euphoric by the rub of Baelor against the posterior wall inside you.

One hand still anchored to Maekar’s shoulder, you reach behind you and curl your fingers against the back of Baelor’s head, fisting the short, dark hair and catching his head beneath the crook of your elbow. His chin rests near your shoulder as he rolls his hips against you, cock hitting deep, the angle battling the air from your lungs.

He moans softly, right by your ear as one of his arms wraps around you. His hand rests between you and his brother, resting over your stomach.

“Tell me how full you are,” he whispers. His hand presses down.

You mewl, and the words that leave you don’t even sound like they belong to you. “M–M’so… m’full, Baelor, s’just—oh, gods.”

Baelor’s head moves and his lips draw against your neck, sucking briefly before he speaks again. His hand bears down, palm over your navel. “D’you feel us here?”

Us.

Maekar grunts, obviously pleased. The word has you moaning too, and it sets a spark across the burning-hot pressure seeping back into your womb. Another orgasm crawls from the ashes of the second, fanning out across the base of your pelvis as both princes fuck into you hard and fast.

You feel dizzy as you manage to mutter out a pathetic, “Yeah…”

Baelor grins lazily against the side of your neck as he continues his even thrusts. But Maekar’s, on the other hand, are growing more and more erratic. He huffs above you, hands near white-knuckled at your hips as he pulls you onto his cock over and over, hips snapping to meet the movements with such force that the bed creaks with each motion.

“Need to feel you,” the white-haired prince is muttering as he fucks you, eyes on your face. He looks down at you like you’re the prettiest thing in the entire world.

“M’so—” You cut yourself off with a whine, but continue, fighting through the pleasure stretching taut beneath the press of Baelor’s hand. “M’so close. Maekar, I just—please.”

“I’m here,” Maekar utters, surprisingly tender as his cock splits you apart. Baelor mumbles something against your neck, and you miss the subtle roll of the eyes Maekar gives him. He relents for his older brother, “We’re here.”

You’re caught between the hammer and the anvil; wedged between both the tail and maw of the serpent ouroboros, and you’re falling apart. Heat simmers, then flares, burning hot in your belly as your third release grows. And it grows, soaking through the marrow of your bones as you shake and tremble. You’re not a weak woman, but they have you boneless between them, and there’s no place you’d rather be.

So you call for them when the heat peaks and the pressure snaps inside you. You moan for Maekar as you come, body rivalling the tautness of a bowstring. Your pussy tightens around the thick of his cock as he fucks you through it, and you swear you see stars dancing across the mosaic on your ceiling. And you’re sobbing Baelor too when the release keeps coursing through you, unrelenting as your muscles tighten. He groans into the side of your neck as his thrusts turn to rolls, the soft, velvet ridges of his cock rubbing perfectly against you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Maekar rambles as he thrusts. It’s messy and uneven and you can feel his cock twitch inside you just as you begin to fizzle down from your high. Your breathing is laboured as he leans forward to mouth at the dewy skin of your forehead. “Oh, fuck, fuck, sweet—my sweet girl, oh f–uh–ck.”

Just like the last time you were together like this, Maekar comes first. He bullies his cock right up against the plug of your womb and comes deep. Every time without fail. He moans your name, breathing more hound-like than man, as his cock jerks and his balls draw up and his cum fills you thick and warm.

And Baelor feels the shift inside you. Feels the added heat, the fluttering of your muscles as you take his brother so well.

He doesn’t spit out a mocking jibe of lasting longer. He doesn’t comment on the way Maekar completely unravels with his cock inside you, his mouth proving faster than his brain.

“Are you going to take me all in here?” He asks you instead, nose rounding the shell of your ear. His hand pushes against your tummy, and both you and Maekar share a soft moan. Baelor huffs, too tired to smile as his own release finds him willingly. “‘Course you are, sweet girl.”

Then, he’s coming, hips snug against your arse. He fills you just the way Maekar had: with his cock deep inside you, jerking with the effort. The sensation has your hips bucking away involuntarily, but both men hold you still, sitting you down until there is nothing you can do but sit there and take it.

Baelor empties himself with a moan, and when he twitches, milked dry, he stays inside you, plugging you full.

You puff, heart racing. “Ha… gods…”

Both princes kiss you at the same time: Baelor twisting your head to kiss you squarely on the mouth, and Maekar dipping down to lick the sweat from the lower portion of your neck.

“You’re so good to us,” Baelor says when he parts from you, taking your chin and holding you still so his mismatched eyes can trace the lines of your face. “So good, sweet girl.”

You smile, small and tired.

Maekar agrees, humming as his nose and beard drag up your neck, over your jaw and cheek, until he can steal a kiss from the corner of your mouth. “Our best girl.”

———

i want to go to there

tags 🌿 @svnbleachdflies @breakspearz @targlocket @sem-ra @ghostlybfgf @sweetplea @breakspeur @pearlessance @julez-5 @littlerequiem @pinkdoeweirdo