you need a big god | maekar targaryen x fem!reader
read on ao3 / song recs / fics masterlist
summary: Maekar returns to his wife in Summerhall after the Ashford Meadow tourney.
author notes: Doing right by the first post I made on this blog
content notes/warnings: explicit sexual content, maekar targaryen x you, maekar targaryen x reader, reader is not dyanna, second wife!reader, established relationship, baelor lives (same universe as tbfby), spitting (I think? I was a bit unsure of how to describe this exactly. you'll see), alcohol, thigh riding, licking, oral sex, slapping (male receiving), hair-grabbing, pinv sex, sex on the floor, dom!reader but also dom!maekar, no beta read, no use of Y/N
word count: 1.8k words
dividers by @saradika-graphics and @strangergraphics
It had just been a day since you got that raven from Maekar.
In his letter, he told you that, despite the best efforts of the maesters, they were not sure how long Baelor still had. His words were but mere ink; you still felt his sorrow through them.
You remain the only one I have informed, but rumours spread like wildfire. By the time the Stranger comes for my brother, the whole realm will already know me as kinslayer.
So you prepared for the worst.
You called for the handmaids and ordered the discreet preparation of mourning clothes for Maekar and the children when they got back. The letter had just arrived, but it must have been days since your husband wrote it: Baelor might already be dead. It was strange to live in that space of not knowing.
Not even a full day had passed when there was another raven; you had just gotten back from praying at the sept. You expected it would be the one carrying the news of the crown prince's passing. It must have happened soon after Maekar wrote his first letter to you, then.
You took a deep breath before you opened the parchment...
...and almost dropped it when you saw: Prince Baelor lived. They'd stay in Ashford for as long as the maesters thought it was necessary, then make for Summerhall.
'The Mother is merciful!' you exhaled, holding the parchment to your chest.
Many weeks later, Maekar returned with the procession from Ashford.
Once you made sure Baelor and his wife were comfortable in the guest wing, you and your husband returned to your chambers. Maekar collapsed into the armchair the moment you closed the doors, like the weight of the past few weeks had finally caved him in.
'I should've listened to you,' he muttered.
You squeezed his shoulder as you stood next to him, reaching for the the wine carafe. You poured out two cups and handed him one.
'You warned me of Daeron and what he might do. None of this would've happened if I hadn't had to go looking for him. What a fucking disarray,' he grumbled, more to himself.
'This family is doomed,' he said after a moment of consideration, as he downed his cup.
You leaned against the table, watching him.
'You speak of doom–yet your sons live, and your brother too.'
'I have to send Aerion away,' he said, and you could see in his eyes that it grieved him. Aerion had caused him so much pain, and still, there was an unwavering fatherly affection in his heart.
'It is for the better. You will see,' you tried to console him. And you believed it; that this might yet set Aerion on a true path.
'Aegon's gone off, and I do not know where,' Maekar continued.
'He must be with the hedge knight. And from what your brother's told me, it sounds like he's in good hands. You will find him soon enough; he'll be right till then.'
Maekar looked at you, astonished.
'I'm stunned by you both. How can you think it's right for him to roam the country in rags, sleeping in ditches?'
'You wouldn't have been able to stop him,' you reached out to graze his cheek with your hand: an endearing gesture that you hoped would anchor him.
'Don't you remember? You just said you should've listened to me. You will see I'm right again,' smiling, you stroked the scars under his eyes that had already begun to heal. They were not there when he left, so they must be from the trial.
'Whatever you say, woman.'
'You will see,' you repeated as you lifted the goblet to your lips.
He pulled you closer then, still sitting, so that his forehead was resting against your abdomen.
'I should've had you there, too. Bad things happen when you're not there,' he whispered, closing his eyes as you brought your hand to caress his hair.
'Do not dwell on it,' you said softly, brushing his silver strands.
How things could change with time. When you first arrived at his court, you knew it was expected of you to be like a mother to his children and a lady of the house. The prince was famous for his prickliness, and you weren't sure exactly what to expect. But you weren't one to stand in an open field when it thundered, and soon realised that was something the stern prince admired in you.
With time, you saw something other than respect glint in Maekar's eyes when he met with your defiance. Each time you shot down one of his laments or held his gaze during a disagreement, you saw it. A split second, and you could've missed it, but there it was: like a spark in the shadow of your fire, waiting to meet it.
That's how he was looking up at you now; in the privacy of your chambers, his cold front peeled back, and you could see how everything weighed on him. With his eyes, reverent on you, he was asking for an answer only you could give.
You slowly raised your cup to your mouth, taking a sip and savouring the rich tang, as you held his gaze. You watched as his eyes flicked to your lips, still wet from the wine.
A small, wicked smile tugged at your lips.
'You want a taste?'
He nodded slowly as you slid into his lap to kiss him.
As his mouth met yours, he snuck his tongue against your lips, licking the remains of the wine with a contented hum. The alcoholic flavour, mixed with the taste of him on your tongue, sent a warm jolt into your stomach.
He kissed you hungrily, and when you broke away from him, he chased your mouth with such eagerness that you had to push at him until his back met the armchair with a dull thud. One hand on his heaving chest, the other reaching for your goblet, you kept your eyes on him as you took a small sip from your cup–this time, holding the wine in your mouth instead of swallowing.
After placing the cup down carefully, you reached for his face and leaned over him, lips meeting his. You dribbled the wine into his waiting mouth and felt him harden under you as he took it. Some dripped onto your jaw and neck, and he was on it immediately, not wasting a single drop, licking your skin greedily.
'Did you miss me?' you asked breathlessly as you clung to his shoulders.
'What kind of question is that?' he grunted as he covered your throat with his mouth, 'I lay sleeplessly thinking of you. How you should be there with me...'
He grabbed your hair to bring your face to his. You smirked at the sensation of his fingers tangling with your strands at your nape. The pleasant feeling went straight into your groin; he spoke the next words against your lips, hot breath mixing with yours:
'How I should be fucking you instead...'
Taking your jaw between his thumb and index finger, he tilted your head so he could lick up a stray drop of wine running down your jaw.
'I'm never leaving your side again,' he grumbled against your skin.
'Whose idea was it, I wonder...to spare me from this miserable circus...' you panted, feeling yourself get wetter with each kiss he planted on you. You began to rub against his thigh, and the feeling of your briefs sliding against your slick centre made you lightheaded.
'Shut me up next time I get ideas like that,' Maekar said, and you felt his hands at the back of your dress, untying the knots with fast moves and stripping you.
You moved to help him out of his shirt and trousers, and pulled him with you to the floor. You felt a thrill as he hiked your chemise up and stared at the dark spot on your underwear.
He hooked his fingers and slid it off, throwing it to the side. Then, wasting no time, he buried his face between your legs and took a deep inhale of your pussy.
'Maekar...' you sighed, head thrown back, waiting for his tongue. He gave it to you, with his hands holding your thighs in place on his shoulders as he licked you.
He was unyielding. Even when you started to whine and shake, when the feeling started to become too much, and your hips unintentionally began to buck away from his mouth from the overstimulation, he held your legs tighter around him. Nowhere to withdraw, you just took it; until he made you come on his tongue, while you cried out his name, writhing on the bedroom floor.
Once your breathing settled a bit, you pushed yourself up and guided Maekar to lie down on the tiles. With your hand on his wide chest, you could feel his heartbeat against your own skin, and you thought of how you'd missed him. You were rarely apart this long, but when everything at the trial went awry, he had to stay away for many more weeks than initially planned. Thank the Gods, it was all over now.
You climbed on top of him, and then, before you could react, his hands tore your thin chemise in one swift move; the sharp sound of the fabric filled the room.
'Maekar!' you cried, but he was already fondling your now free breasts. The tattered silk hung on your shoulders.
'What? I'll get you new ones,' an inviting glint in his eyes.
Smug bastard.
You knew what he was trying to do. His eyes were on you, with an anticipatory look, questioning you. What will you do now?
You raised your hand, and the next moment, a stinging pain burned your palm as it connected with his cheek.
'Argh...' he groaned, as he snapped his face to the side from the impact.
He turned back to look at you, but you landed another slap as soon as his eyes met yours.
Chest heaving, he grabbed your hips and drove into you without hesitation. He got you so wet with his mouth, but you still had to adjust to his size as he began to fuck up into you.
Sweat covered your skin as the sound of your ass meeting his groin filled the room.
'Do it again,' he hissed between his teeth. It wasn't an ask, but a command.
So you did, delivering another smack across his cheeks as you rode him. Pain mixed with pleasure; his and yours. The skin on your hand was on fire now, but each time you landed another slap, his cock got harder inside you until he couldn't hold it back anymore and came, filling you to the brink.
You lay on the stone floor, tangled in each other for who knows how long. The fire in your bodies had long cooled against the cold touch of the marble, and you still refused to let go of each other.
Summary: You remain at Valarr's side exactly as he always wanted. But every passing day steals another piece of the woman he loved, until all that's left is a beautiful ghost wearing your face.
CW: RAPE/NON-CON, coercion, implications of infidelity and child abandonment (false; Valarr's machinations), depersonalization as a response to trauma, apathy, poor professional ethics, obsession, denial, family problems, mommy issues, masochism?, unilateral joy.
WC: 10.1 K
AN: This one's dedicated to @rakiroad, thanks for the idea. @mei-vis wanted to be included here.
Part 1 | Part 2
Dinner had been arranged with more care than usual, although no one had said aloud that there was any particular reason for it.
No anniversary was being celebrated, no birthday, nor any date marked in bright red on the family calendar. Nevertheless, for several weeks your eldest son had spoken of that April evening with a mixture of excitement and nervousness that was impossible not to notice. He had insisted on repeated occasions that there was no need for a grand display, that "I only want to introduce you to someone important to me," words that failed to convince anyone.
The house had understood, even before any of you had, that something was changing.
When the young woman arrived, she was welcomed with the impeccable courtesy that characterized the Targaryen family. She greeted Valarr first, shaking his hand with a politeness that seemed almost rehearsed, before turning to you with a smile that was slightly more timid. She could not have been more than eighteen. It was evident that an electoral war lasting at least two hours had taken place to choose the dress she was wearing and that, despite her efforts to project confidence, her nerves still revealed themselves through small, involuntary gestures.
The way she intertwined her fingers in front of her body, how she absentmindedly smoothed the fabric of her skirt every few minutes, or the quick glances she cast toward your son in search of reassurance that she only seemed to find whenever he smiled at her encouragingly.
"Breathe," he whispered as he guided her toward the dining room, leaning down just enough for her to hear. "I promise everything is going to be alright."
She let out a small laugh, born more from nervousness than from the mask of confidence she was wearing.
"That's easy for you to say. They're your parents."
"Precisely because they are." That answer managed to calm her nerves a little.
The table had already been prepared by the time everyone took their seats. The enormous windows overlooked gardens wrapped in the golden light of dusk, while the warm glow of the chandeliers spilled over the porcelain, crystal, and silver, creating an almost unreal setting. Everything had been arranged with the silent perfection that had always defined that house. Not a single piece of cutlery out of place. Not a single napkin folded incorrectly. Not a single detail neglected.
It was, in every definition of the word, a perfect setting.
The conversation began cautiously. Valarr asked his questions with the calm confidence he had always known how to use to put those around him at ease. He asked about her studies (Economics), about the university she hoped to attend the following year (King's Landing University. A good choice.), about her parents (a surname noble enough), and about the books she enjoyed (a bit of mystery. Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie).
There was no harshness in his voice, nor any intention of intimidating her. Quite the opposite. He listened to every answer with genuine attention, only intervening to ask another question or offer another observation that gradually eased the young woman's visible tension.
Barely twenty minutes had passed before she already seemed to be breathing much more naturally, encouraged by the occasional kiss her boyfriend would press against her cheek.
At one side of the table, your daughter watched the scene with an outrageously amused expression. "This is unbearable."
Her brother raised an eyebrow without looking up from his plate, the white streak he had inherited from his father standing out more than ever. "Who?"
"You," she insisted, pointing at him with her fork.
"What did I do now?"
She made an exaggerated gesture with the utensil toward the young woman sitting beside him. "You keep looking at her as if you're starring in The Notebook."
"Because I'm in love." The answer came so immediately that it provoked a wave of laughter around the table.
"Gross," she muttered, hiding her face behind her hands.
"You're just jealous."
"I'm traumatized."
The other brother joined in almost instantly.
"Give it a few months. Then they'll start arguing about where to have dinner, and she won't think he's so perfect anymore."
His brother turned toward him. "Don't project your failed love attempts onto me."
"I wouldn't call them 'failed love attempts.'"
"They were."
"Once."
"Three times."
"Twice."
The argument continued with exactly the same rhythm it had carried throughout their entire childhood. They interrupted one another constantly, exaggerated every detail, corrected things that were completely irrelevant, and eventually forgot what the conversation had been about in the first place. Even now, standing on the threshold of university, they still behaved exactly as they had when they were ten years old.
Val slowly shook his head as he lifted his cup to his lips. "I actually believed age would make you all a little wiser."
"They'll never change," your daughter declared before taking another bite.
"Thank you for the optimism, sweetie."
"Anytime"
Laughter filled the dining room once again.
The young woman relaxed completely. She was now participating in the conversation, asking questions of her own and even daring to joke with the boys. Little by little, she stopped feeling like a guest and began, if only for a few hours, to feel like part of that table.
Only then did she begin to notice you.
Not immediately. As dinner went on, she started picking up on small details, almost insignificant and difficult to explain. It made no sense.
You remained seated where you always sat beside your husband, your back perfectly straight and your movements so measured they seemed rehearsed. You ate slowly. You smiled whenever someone addressed you. You always answered politely. You never interrupted anyone. You never raised your voice. You did not seem uncomfortable.
And yet, something felt out of place.
There was something strange, something that escaped any logical explanation.
It was as though your reactions arrived a fraction of a second too late. The others would laugh for what felt like the hundredth time; first you would watch everyone else enjoying themselves, and only then would you smile. Whenever someone asked you a question, there was a noticeable pause before you answered, as though you needed to search for the appropriate reaction before offering it.
It did not seem like shyness. Nor sadness, something nameless.
Perhaps you simply had not liked her?
The young woman tried to ignore the feeling. She couldn't.
It happened during a brief lull in the conversation, while your children were animatedly discussing the universities they hoped to attend the following year, that she finally turned toward you.
"Your son talks about you all the time."
The conversation quieted for a moment.
You looked up at her and smiled. That curve of your lips was beautiful, serene, your teeth perfectly white, and still an ominous absence lived within it.
"Oh, does he?"
The young woman nodded enthusiastically. "He says you always find a way to help everyone. That when he was little, you were the one who explained history to him because you somehow managed to turn even the most ordinary dates into unforgettable stories."
Your son smiled with an almost childlike blush spreading across his face. He waited. They all did.
Three pairs of mismatched masculine eyes, all fixed upon you—those darkened shades of brown watching expectantly, those dark stones submerged beneath an indigo sea stretching endlessly before you. All three of them—your sons and your husband alike—were like identical drops of water that had once stirred violent waves inside you.
Now, they barely managed to provoke a reaction.
The appropriate response to what she had just said would have been some silly anecdote, a joke about those years, some story that only a mother could tell.
You remained silent for a few seconds. Then you slowly nodded, accepting the information.
"That's very kind of you to say." Nothing more.
The conversation quickly moved on. One of the boys changed the subject. Your middle son immediately started another ridiculous argument with his brother. The young woman laughed again.
Valarr never took his eyes off you. He noticed the pause.
He remembered that years ago, you would have seized that question as an excuse to tell three different stories, leave the entire table in stitches, and lovingly embarrass your son in front of his girlfriend before the evening was over.
Now... You had only smiled.
While the family continued eating between bursts of laughter, he felt with disturbing clarity that the silence that had been growing inside you for years had finally become visible to someone else.
Valarr had also noticed the change in the young woman's expression. A blink that lasted just a little too long. A slight tilt of her head. That almost imperceptible hesitation that appears when someone realizes something does not fit, even though they still cannot put a name to it.
He recognized it.
He had spent years seeing it reflected on other people's faces.
In psychologists who, during your sessions, would ask you a personal question and then furrow their brows when you answered with a polite smile that said absolutely nothing.
In old acquaintances who happened to meet you at some event and, after speaking with you for a few minutes, walked away carrying a strange sense of unease they could never quite explain.
In members of the household staff who had been there since the children were small and who, every now and then, found themselves watching you from afar with a quiet, unspoken nostalgia.
Everyone noticed that something was wrong, no one understood what it was, and no one ever dared to ask.
Your eldest son chattered excitedly about the university they would both be attending the following year, describing the grandeur of King's Landing thanks to the countless visits he had made to the campus during its summer programs. His brother was quick to interrupt him, listing the innumerable reasons why that choice was terrible, sparking yet another argument that drew exaggerated protests from your daughter and inevitable laughter from the young woman.
You remained there, listening, joining in every now and then, like a presence around whom everything else continued to revolve.
She tried again.
"And what about you?" The question came so naturally that, at first, no one paid it much attention.
"Me?"
"Yes," she smiled shyly. "Your son told me you studied at the same university as Mr. Targaryen."
You nodded slowly. "I did."
"What did you study?" she pressed gently, hoping to earn an answer longer than two words.
"International Business."
The young woman's eyes lit up immediately.
"Really?" She leaned forward slightly, completely forgetting the carefully rehearsed manners she had arrived with that evening. "I want to study Economics too."
Since dinner had begun, something resembling a genuine, youthful emotion briefly crossed your face so briefly it almost went unnoticed. Almost.
"It's a beautiful field," you said.
She smiled eagerly. "Did you ever work in it?" she asked innocently.
The young woman continued smiling as she waited for your answer, completely unaware that she had just pushed open a dusty door that had remained closed for far too many years.
Your husband reacted first.
It was not obvious. Anyone who did not know him well would never have noticed the change. He simply stopped moving his cutlery. His hands remained still beside his plate, his wedding band catching the light from the chandelier, while his attention abandoned the boys' argument entirely and settled on you.
He never looked away. He couldn't. He already knew the answer before you uttered a single word.
Your daughter absentmindedly held her glass of water while your son's girlfriend waited for a response, convinced she had shot at the perfect target to win your sympathy.
Only Valarr understood that she hadn't.
He watched your fingers slowly wrap themselves around the base of your glass. He saw the brief moment your eyes dropped to the table, the tiny silence you needed before answering, and felt something tighten painfully beneath his ribs, stealing the air from his lungs.
"No."
A single word, gentle. Without bitterness. Without resentment, the tone you would use while merely commenting on the weather.
She blinked. "Never?"
You offered the serene smile you had learned to wear for everything, the same smile that left even experts of the psyche unable to find the truth hidden beneath your emotional disguise.
"No," you repeated. "Life simply took another path."
She wasn't satisfied with the answer, but she accepted it without questioning you further, unconvinced that this could possibly be the whole story.
Valarr remained perfectly still, his gaze never leaving you.
He remembered.
He remembered the young woman who devoted her mornings to studying theory only to spend her nights putting it into practice. He remembered the lover of ancient civilizations. He remembered the beautiful girl hopelessly addicted to coffee with almond milk, a pinch of cinnamon, and two cubes of sugar.
Where is she?
Beside him remained the skin of the woman who had once dominated the entire campus, the female phenomenon who had captivated professors and students alike through the brilliance of her work, the girl who cried after midnight because a 99% on an exam convinced her she simply wasn't good enough, the one who mocked his pretentious attempts to sound sophisticated, the one who laughed at him, the one who argued.
Now, instead, beside him was the other one.
The one who no longer teased his disastrous attempts at cooking, nor corrected his historical quotations out of sheer pride, nor disappeared for hours beneath mountains of books only to return carrying a new theory she could hardly wait to share. The one who smiled exactly the same way every time, nodded with the same quiet composure, and accepted every decision with a compliance that years ago would have seemed inconceivable. The one who no longer cried. The one who no longer laughed until she couldn't breathe. The one who seemed to have surrendered even the right to be angry.
A woman who still breathed, still walked, still occupied the same place beside him in bed every night, yet whose soul appeared to have quietly withdrawn from her own body long ago, leaving behind only a kind, silent, extraordinarily easy woman to love precisely because she no longer demanded anything at all.
'Life simply took another path.'
He was the other path, he had built this other path.
Valarr picked up his knife, cut a piece of meat, brought it to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. No one could hear the noise echoing inside his mind.
Where was that Y/N?
Where had the student gone who could never sleep the night before an exam because even an outstanding grade didn't seem good enough? Where was the woman who could turn any conversation into an endless debate simply because she enjoyed defending her ideas? The one who filled the margins of her books with tiny handwritten notes? The one who argued with him for hours for the sheer pleasure of proving she was right? The one who was incapable of remaining silent whenever something struck her as unfair?
Where was the woman who had made falling in love with her feel as inevitable as breathing?
He lifted his gaze once more.
There you are, sitting exactly where you had always been, everything he had wanted you to become, and, at the very same time, everything he had come to hate most.
—
Night had fully settled by the time they left the estate.
The garden lights faded behind them, spilling over the stone pathways as the chauffeur slowly guided the car away from the front entrance. For the first several minutes, neither of them spoke. She sat staring out the window, her hands folded neatly in her lap, mentally replaying every moment of dinner as though trying to determine exactly when she had made a mistake.
Eventually, she broke the silence.
“Your mother...”
He turned his head slightly. “What about her?”
She hesitated. “I think she didn't like me.”
His response came so quickly it almost sounded startled. “What are you talking about?”
“I don't know.” She lowered her gaze to her hands. “It's just a feeling. She was very kind, but—I don't know how to explain it. It felt like... like she wanted to be anywhere else except there with me.”
He remained quiet for a few seconds before letting out a slow, almost weary breath. “It wasn't you.”
She looked up. “No?”
He slowly shook his head. “My mother has been... like that since I was twelve.”
The words lingered between them like a bad omen. She frowned slightly. “Like that? What do you mean, ‘like that’?”
He rested his head against the seat, seeming to wrestle with himself for a few moments, as though deciding how much he was willing to tell her.
“She used to be different.” A faint smile crossed his face. It was an odd smile. Nostalgic.
“Everyone says she was brilliant.” He fell silent for a moment before continuing. “My father always says that back in university there wasn't a single professor who could keep up with her once she started arguing. She was one of those people who could spend hours talking about history without ever becoming boring, who filled the house with books and somehow convinced everyone around her to become fascinated by subjects they never even knew existed.”
His voice gradually faded as he spoke, like the flame of a candle slowly deprived of oxygen. “I barely remember her that way.”
She listened without interrupting, until he stopped. “What happened?”
A short laugh escaped him. There wasn't a trace of humor in it. “If you asked my father, he'd tell you nothing.” His eyes drifted toward the city lights sliding past the window.
“But I remember the exact moment she stopped being herself.” The car continued through the night in silence. “She disappeared for four months.”
She blinked. “Disappeared?”
“She left.” He said it with a coldness that seemed completely at odds with the weight of those words. “With another man.”
Silence settled over the car once more. “An... affair?”
He nodded slowly. “His name was Robert.” Even saying the name still tasted bitter. “I remember the day she walked out of the house perfectly. They had a huge argument after she asked my father for a divorce and he refused to give it to her. My little sister cried for weeks. My brothers and I barely understood what was happening. My father...” He paused. “My father looked like a ghost.”
She said nothing. Neither did he.
He still wasn't looking at her. “In the end, she came back.” The words sounded dry. “She crawled back to my father like a pathetic damsel in distress” There was no compassion in his voice. Only an old resentment. A deep one.
“He was kind enough to let her come home—we all pretended nothing had happened. Every single one of us. As though Mom hadn't spent almost half a year sleeping with another man while we, her children, cried ourselves to sleep because of what she'd done.” He slowly shook his head. “Ever since then...” His voice grew quieter. “It's like she never really came back.”
She remembered the smile from dinner. Perfect. Polite. Empty. Suddenly, she understood why it had unsettled her so deeply.
It wasn't a fake smile. It was a smile with no one left behind it.
“I'm sorry...”
He took several seconds before answering. “So am I.”
The car slowed as it approached her home. Finally, he turned to look at her.
All that bitterness vanished almost immediately, replaced by the same gentle eyes she had fallen for. He took one of her hands in both of his, his thumb slowly brushing across her skin with a tenderness completely unlike the anger he had shown only moments before.
“You won't become like that.” She held his gaze as he smiled with quiet warmth. “I know.” He lifted her hand and pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles. “I know I'll never wake up one morning and find that the woman I love has run away with someone else.”
He paused briefly, looking at his beloved's face, trying to erase his mother's from it.
“I know you won't be like her.”
—
The morning unfolded with the same carefully orchestrated quiet that had come to define every day of your life for years. Outside, a sky veiled in gray clouds filtered the light into a dull glow, turning the city into a procession of faded buildings and streets still slick from the rain that had fallen before dawn. Inside the residence, the household staff moved with their customary discretion, preparing breakfast, answering calls, and organizing a schedule that rarely suffered the slightest alteration. To any outsider, the house continued to function with the flawless precision of a perfectly maintained machine.
You descended the staircase a few minutes before the appointed time wearing a simple dress in soft, pale tones, your hair carefully pinned back, and an expression so serene that no one would have imagined this was anything other than an ordinary outing. You greeted the staff with your usual kindness, asked whether the children—though they had long since ceased to be children—had already left for university, if your daughter had already gone to school, and thanked one of the housekeepers for the black coffee she placed before you, taking only a couple of quiet sips.
Valarr was already waiting beside the front door.
He wore one of his customary dark suits, the car keys resting loosely between his fingers as he gazed absentmindedly toward the gardens. At the sound of your footsteps, he lifted his head and smiled with the effortless warmth that still came so naturally whenever his eyes found yours.
“Ready?”
You returned the exact same smile. “Yes.”
He stepped closer, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before leaning down to press a loving kiss against your forehead. “We'll only be gone for a little while.”
You nodded. “I know.”
You never asked where you were going anymore. There was no need. It was always the same place.
The drive passed with very little conversation. There was tension between you, nor because either of you was angry. It was a different kind of silence, one far older, one that had sat so naturally between you that it had become part of the way you communicated.
Valarr drove slowly, one hand resting on the steering wheel while the other occasionally lingered near the gearshift. Every so often, he glanced toward you for only a second, and each time he found exactly the same image: you gazing out the window at the passing city. You did not appear sad, nor happy. You simply watched, as though the pedestrians on the sidewalks, the buses idling at traffic lights, and the crowded cafés all belonged to a life that had never truly been yours.
“The boys called a few hours ago.”
You didn't look away from the glass. “Did they?”
“Our eldest asked if we're still having Friday dinner tonight.”
You nodded slowly. “That sounds wonderful.”
He waited for another response. A question, perhaps. A comment about how university was treating them, some curiosity about the exams they were preparing for that week.
None came.
“He also said his girlfriend will be joining us.”
You nodded once more. “It'll be delightful to see her.”
Everything and nothing at the same time again. The conversation died exactly where it had begun.
Valarr's jaw tightened ever so slightly before he returned his attention to the road. Years ago, that simple remark would have become a conversation lasting half an hour. You would have wanted to know which classes they were taking that semester, whether they were still planning the international exchange program, if she was still interested in economics, or whether they needed help with a project.
Now, you accepted every piece of information with the same quiet composure with which you accepted the weather forecast.
The office occupied the top floor of an unassuming building on a quiet street, far removed from the constant noise of the financial district. From the outside, it was impossible to distinguish it from any other professional practice. There were no large signs, no crowded waiting rooms—only a silent lobby, warm-colored walls, bookshelves overflowing with volumes, and the faint scent of freshly brewed coffee mingling with lavender.
She was the twenty-third psychologist.
Valarr knew the exact number.
He had personally interviewed every previous specialist before allowing them to meet you. He had requested international references, reviewed academic publications, and studied research on complex trauma, dissociative disorders, persistent depression, emotional apathy, and prolonged psychological grief.
The session began exactly like all the others. Simple questions. Conversations that seemed almost trivial.
The psychologist did not appear to be in any hurry. She took very few notes, never interrupted, and simply allowed the silences to breathe between one question and the next.
“How are you feeling today?”
“Fine.”
“Have you been sleeping well?”
“Yes.”
“How has your week been?”
“Quiet.”
“Have you done anything you've particularly enjoyed?”
You thought for a few moments. “I accompanied Valarr to two charity events.”
“Did you enjoy them?”
You smiled. “They were very well organized.”
The psychologist remained silent. You hadn't actually answered the question. She didn't press the matter.
“Your husband told me you were an exceptional student in university.”
Your fingers remained folded neatly in your lap. “That's what he says.”
“And what do you say?”
Another pause. “I don't remember it very well.”
“Do you still keep in touch with any friends from that time?”
“No.”
“Do you miss them?”
“I don't know.”
The woman tilted her head slightly. She wasn't writing. She was watching, waiting for something to emerge naturally from the silence.
“Tell me about a happy memory.”
You spent much longer thinking this time. Finally, you answered.
“The birth of my children.”
“What did you feel?”
Your lips remained perfectly still. “Happiness.”
“Describe it.”
The silence stretched on for many long seconds.
Your eyes remained fixed on some indistinct point in the carpet. “It was... important.”
Nothing more.
The psychologist understood immediately what had just happened. You weren't incapable of remembering the events themselves.
You were incapable of reaching the emotions attached to them, as though someone had carefully archived your entire life, separating every memory from the feelings that had once accompanied it.
The session ended an hour later.
When you stepped out of the office, Valarr immediately rose from the sofa where he had been waiting the entire time. He didn't ask any questions in front of you. He simply kissed your forehead with the same familiar tenderness as always.
“Would you mind waiting for me for a moment?”
You obeyed. “Of course.”
You walked toward the small terrace overlooking the street while he remained behind with the psychologist.
Neither of them spoke for several seconds. Valarr was the first to speak.
“Has there been any progress?”
The woman didn't answer immediately, she looked through the window.
You were sitting beside one of the planters, absentmindedly watching the leaves sway in the breeze. You looked completely at peace—that same permanent, tranquil stillness.
“Yes.”
That single word made Valarr's heart race.
“Yes?”
She slowly shook her head. “Not the kind you were hoping for.”
He felt hope disappear almost as quickly as it had arrived. The psychologist rested both hands atop the folder she was holding. “I've spent more than twenty years working with people who have endured extraordinarily complex trauma. I've treated patients who couldn't speak for months, people who lost entire years of their memories, and survivors forced to relive the very experiences they were trying to escape.”
Her voice softened.
“Your wife's case is different. She isn't avoiding her memories. She isn't repressing emotions. And she certainly isn't pretending.”
She drew a slow breath before continuing. “I believe that, at some point, she learned that feeling had become unbearably expensive, so she gradually built a version of herself capable of living... without doing so.”
“Can she come back?” The question was barely more than a whisper. Pure desperation.
The psychologist remained silent for several long seconds. “I can't promise you that. Nor can I tell you it's impossible. Today, when I mentioned university, something happened for less than a second. Her pupils changed. It wasn't conscious. It wasn't a smile. It was recognition.”
She offered him a careful, almost scientific smile. “There's still someone in there.”
She looked back toward the terrace. “The problem is that she's been hiding for so many years... she may no longer remember the way back.”
Valarr watched your figure for a long time.
You remained seated, quietly watching the plants bend beneath the wind with that same familiar serenity. So beautiful. So peaceful. So impossibly close. So unbearably far away.
—
The bedroom lay wrapped in a quiet half-light.
Only a single lamp beside the bed cast a warm glow across the furniture, stretching long shadows over the walls. Outside, the rain had begun again, tapping softly against the tall windows with an almost hypnotic steadiness. Everything was silent. Too silent.
You sat on the edge of the bed, your hands resting neatly in your lap, your gaze fixed on some indistinct corner of the room. Had just finished brushing your hair, and wore the pale nightgown you slipped into almost every evening. You looked peaceful.
As always.
Valarr stood beside the window.
He had remained there for several minutes without moving, one hand resting against the cold glass while the other slowly curled into a fist.
He had tried to convince himself to wait. To let time continue doing its work. To give time more time.
He had spent years doing exactly that, years taking you to specialists, years reading books he had never imagined he would one day need, years searching for an explanation capable of telling him how to bring back the woman he had lost without her ever truly leaving the house.
That night... He simply couldn't bear it anymore. He couldn't sleep beside the shell.
He turned toward you. "Do you know what I miss?"
You didn't answer. Your eyes met his with that same quiet serenity they always carried.
He took a step toward you. "I miss you arguing with me." Silence. "I miss you telling me I'm wrong." Another step. "I miss us fighting over the most ridiculous things."
Nothing.
His breathing became uneven.
"Do you remember when we'd spend an entire hour arguing because you insisted Napoleon Bonaparte made that decision for political reasons, and I kept saying it was driven by pride?"
He waited. He waited for anything: a smile, a flicker of recognition, an automatic correction.
Nothing.
Only that calm, empty gaze, like the surface of a windless lake.
Valarr swallowed hard. "I hated it whenever you won." A quiet laugh escaped him. It broke apart before it had fully left his lips. "And you always won." He kept walking until he stood directly in front of you. "Do you remember how you used to make fun of my French?"
Silence.
"You said it was a crime against humanity." He waited again. Nothing. "Never missed an opportunity to tell me my pronunciation was awful."
Nothing.
"You laughed at my speeches."
Nothing.
"You called me pretentious."
Nothing.
His voice began to crack. "Get angry!" The words echoed through the bedroom, louder than he intended.
For a moment, even the rain seemed to stop.
"Call me an idiot!" His chest rose and fell violently. "Tell me I ruined your life!" Another step. "Hit me if you have to!" His voice shattered completely. "But do something!"
You continued looking at him. There was no fear. No anger. No sadness. Only that peaceful expression that seemed capable of surviving any storm.
He slowly shook his head. "No..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't look at me like that."
That calm felt infinitely worse than any scream. He could have endured hatred. Accusations. Contempt. Even silence laced with fury.
But not this.
Not this peace that belonged to someone who had stopped expecting anything from the world.
"Where are you?" The question barely escaped his lips. "Where did you hide yourself?" His eyes filled with tears. "Please..."
He was no longer speaking to the woman sitting before him, he was speaking to a memory.
"Just come back once." His breathing broke. "Insult me." Another tear slipped down his cheek. "Correct me." Another. "Laugh at me."
His voice dissolved completely. "Just... come back to me."
His legs finally gave out beneath him. He collapsed to his knees before you as though every ounce of strength that had sustained him through those years had abandoned him all at once.
He buried his face against your lap.
And he cried.
He made no attempt to suppress the sobs. He made no effort to preserve his dignity. He wept with the exhaustion of a man who had spent far too many years carrying a hope that grew heavier with every passing one.
His shoulders trembled beneath your hands. His breathing was ragged. Painful. Desperate. You remained still for several seconds.
Then, with the same calm you might have used to tuck a blanket around a sick child, you slowly lifted one hand. Your fingers slipped gently into his hair. You stroked it slowly. Carefully with infinite tenderness.
Once, then again, and again without saying a single word. Only that quiet, almost mechanical gesture, seeking to soothe a pain you no longer fully understood.
Valarr felt the caress. That was what finally broke him.
The movement was exactly the same one you had made hundreds of times throughout your marriage. But it no longer came from the woman he had loved. It was only a learned gesture. A kind response. The echo of an affection whose origin seemed to have been lost long ago.
Even so, he did not pull away.
He remained there, his forehead resting against your lap while your fingers continued gliding slowly through his hair, clinging to that tiny fragment of tenderness like a shipwrecked man who, even knowing the rescue ship will never come, cannot bring himself to let go of the last piece of driftwood still keeping him afloat.
—
Over the following months, the routine settled over your lives with such unwavering consistency that it eventually ceased to feel like an attempt at recovery and became something far closer to ritual. Every Tuesday morning, at precisely ten o'clock, Valarr drove you across King's Landing following the exact same route, as though repetition itself possessed the power to repair what neither time nor love had managed to restore. Outside, the seasons continued changing with quiet indifference: trees shed their leaves before blooming once more, storefronts replaced their displays, construction projects rose where abandoned lots had once stood, and strangers hurried through streets that no longer felt connected to your own life. Inside the car, however, nothing ever truly changed. You always occupied the passenger seat with your hands folded neatly over your lap, your gaze resting beyond the window without truly seeing the city drifting past.
At first, Valarr always tried to speak because silence frightened him now.
"The twins passed another round of interviews this morning."
You turned your head just enough to acknowledge him, offering the same gentle smile that had become your answer to almost everything.
"I'm happy for them."
A few minutes later he tried again.
"Our daughter is thinking about changing school."
You nodded thoughtfully, as though carefully considering the information.
"I hope she chooses whatever makes her happiest."
The conversation dissolved once more, yet he refused to surrender.
"The roses finally bloomed in the east garden. You should see them."
"I'm glad."
Nothing else followed.
Years earlier, those same remarks would have carried the two of you through half the journey. You would have asked which companies had interviewed the twins, whether they were nervous, whether your daughter still intended to study abroad, or whether the roses had survived the late frost after all. Every ordinary detail had once become an excuse to spend hours talking together.
Each exchange arrived complete, polite, perfectly formed, somehow incapable of giving birth to another sentence. It was like throwing pebbles into an ocean so impossibly calm that not even the smallest ripple ever returned to shore.
The appointments themselves soon adopted that same quiet predictability. The psychologist experimented tirelessly with different therapeutic approaches, refusing to let routine become surrender. Some mornings she guided the conversation toward childhood memories, inviting you to speak about your parents, your school years, or the ambitions you had once nurtured. Other sessions revolved around identity, grief, purpose, emotional attachment, or the quiet rhythms of everyday life. Occasionally she abandoned every structured technique altogether, brewed tea for the two of you, and simply allowed the hour to unfold naturally while discussing novels, newspaper articles, or whatever happened to occupy the world beyond the office walls.
She never interrupted you, never hurried your thoughts, and never filled the silences merely because they became uncomfortable. Instead, she allowed each pause to breathe, believing that some words required space rather than pressure before they could emerge.
"How have you been sleeping lately?"
"Quite well."
"Have you been reading anything?"
"Not recently."
"You used to enjoy reading."
"So I've been told."
"Do you miss it?"
A long pause followed before you answered.
"I couldn't tell you."
"What do you enjoy doing now?"
Another silence.
"I don't know."
"What makes you feel most like yourself?"
You lowered your eyes toward your folded hands.
"I'm not certain."
Every answer was delivered calmly, sincerely, and without hesitation. That, more than anything else, unsettled her. You were not resisting therapy, attempting to deceive her, or protecting yourself behind carefully constructed defenses. There was no hostility, no resentment, no visible effort to conceal your emotions. You simply answered every question as truthfully as you could.
The terrifying part was that the truth itself had become almost completely empty.
Nearly two months after your first appointment, the psychologist found herself crossing a boundary she ordinarily would never have considered. It was neither desperation nor curiosity born of academic ambition. She simply wanted to know who you had once been.
Because everyone who spoke about you described two entirely different women.
There was the woman who sat across from her every Tuesday morning, unfailingly courteous, endlessly composed, and so emotionally quiet that even sadness seemed unable to disturb the stillness surrounding her.
Then there was the woman everyone remembered.
Valarr remembered her.
Your children remembered fragments of her.
Former professors, old classmates, previous colleagues—even members of the household staff who had watched your family grow over the years occasionally spoke about you with unmistakable nostalgia, as though mourning someone whose funeral had taken place long ago despite the fact that she still walked through the same halls every day.
It was impossible not to wonder how one person could become so completely different while remaining physically unchanged.
One evening, after her final patient had left and darkness had already settled over the city, she remained alone inside her office surrounded by scattered case notes, psychology journals, and cups of coffee that had long since gone cold. She opened her laptop intending only to verify a few dates, yet one search became another until, almost without realizing it, she found herself reconstructing the outline of an entire life.
King's Landing University preserved remarkably thorough digital archives of its graduates. Academic distinctions, published research, scholarship recipients, debate champions, conference participants, graduation ceremonies.
Your name appeared almost immediately, on repeated occasions.
Outstanding Academic Achievement. Faculty Excellence Award. International Research Fellowship. Departmental Honors. Published Undergraduate Thesis. National Debate Champion.
She continued scrolling as each page revealed another distinction, another article, another photograph, another professor describing your extraordinary potential, until a single title caused her hand to stop moving entirely.
King's Scholar.
She stared at the screen for several long seconds before opening the article.
There you were.
Years younger, standing proudly beneath the banners of King's Landing University with your graduation robes draped across your shoulders and your diploma tucked carelessly beneath one arm because the other was already gesturing animatedly toward someone outside the frame. You were laughing—not smiling politely for the camera, but laughing with your entire body. Your eyes sparkled with unmistakable life, your posture radiated confidence, and there was an excitement about you that almost seemed capable of escaping the photograph itself.
The accompanying article described you as one of the brightest graduates the university had produced in decades, praising your research, your leadership, your relentless curiosity, and your unusual ability to inspire intellectual discussion among both classmates and faculty alike.
One sentence from your supervising professor refused to leave her mind.
"She possesses the rare ability to make everyone around her think more deeply than they believed themselves capable of thinking."
The psychologist read that line three separate times before looking back at your photograph, unable to reconcile that brilliant young woman with the patient who quietly answered every question by admitting she no longer knew how she felt.
—
The psychologist did not wait until the following week.
That very evening she remained alone in her office long after the building had emptied, unable to pull her gaze away from the glow of her computer screen. Around her, newspaper clippings, academic journals, university records, faded photographs, and handwritten notes lay scattered across the desk, each new document painting a portrait that seemed to belong to an entirely different woman. The more she read, the more impossible it became to reconcile the brilliant, fiercely curious young student described in every article with the woman who sat quietly across from her every Tuesday morning, answering every question with the same calm, almost supernatural composure.
She was no longer searching for a diagnosis.
She was searching for you.
For the woman who had existed before whatever had happened erased her without taking her body with it.
The following session began differently.
There were no questionnaires waiting on the table, no discussions about your sleeping habits, no careful inquiries regarding your mood or the events of the previous week. When you entered the office, you found only a thick folder resting neatly between the two chairs.
The psychologist waited until you had taken your seat before opening it.
"Today," she said quietly, "I don't want to talk about how you're feeling." You lifted your eyes toward her. "I want to talk about who you were."
Without another word, she reached inside the folder and slowly slid a photograph across the table until it came to rest in front of you.
It was your graduation photograph.
You lowered your gaze toward it and remained perfectly still for several long seconds, studying the young woman smiling back at you without saying a single word.
"Do you remember it?"
A long silence followed before you answered. "Not very well."
The psychologist nodded gently, as though she had expected exactly that response. "I'm not surprised."
She opened the folder again and began placing document after document beside the photograph.
Certificates. Newspaper articles. Academic awards. Conference programs. Published research.
One after another they formed the outline of a life that seemed increasingly impossible to associate with the woman sitting before her.
"I didn't know a university could be this proud of a single student." Your eyes moved slowly from one page to the next. "King's Scholar." Another document. "Faculty Award for Academic Excellence." Another. "National Debate Champion." Another. "Published undergraduate researcher."
The room remained silent as she continued reconstructing your past piece by piece, not with the intention of overwhelming you but of placing before your eyes the life everyone else still remembered.
"You know what surprised me the most?" She waited before continuing. "Not a single person I spoke to mentioned your grades first." Your attention lingered on an old photograph. "They all spoke about your mind."
She picked up one of the interviews.
"One professor told me he'd never met anyone so incapable of remaining quiet whenever she believed an argument lacked substance." She reached for another.
"Another said you were unbearable because you always stayed after class to ask one more question after everyone else had already left." A faint smile crossed her lips. "And Professor Harrow..." She lowered her eyes toward the paper. "He said arguing with you was exhausting. Even when you lost, you somehow managed to make everyone else question whether they had actually won."
Your fingers moved. Barely. The smallest movement imaginable.
She noticed. She deliberately chose not to acknowledge it.
"I spoke with Professor Harrow."
Your breathing faltered for the briefest instant. "He is eighty-three years old now," she continued softly, "and he still remembers your graduation."
For the first time since entering the room, you raised your head completely. Suffocated.
"He told me that while everyone else celebrated outside the auditorium, you walked back inside alone because you wanted to hear the lecture hall one last time before leaving it forever."
The room seemed to grow impossibly still. "He followed you." Your eyes never left hers. "He asked what you were doing." She opened another page. "You looked around the empty room and said..." Her voice softened even further. "'I think this place made me brave.'"
Something changed.It was so subtle that, had she blinked, she might have missed it.
Your brow tightened ever so slightly. Your lips parted. The expression that crossed your face was neither pain nor confusion. Recognition struggling against years of silence.
The psychologist remained perfectly still, terrified that the slightest interruption might cause the moment to disappear.
"You weren't a quiet woman." Another pause. "You were relentlessly curious. You argued simply because you loved thinking." Your fingers slowly curled into your palms. "You refused to accept shallow answers."
Your breathing was no longer perfectly even. "You loved history." Your eyes drifted back toward the photograph. "You loved international business." A muscle trembled faintly in your jaw."You wanted to lead a company."
Your lips opened again. "...No."
The word barely escaped your throat. The psychologist felt her heartbeat quicken.
"No..." You repeated, but this time it no longer sounded like an answer. It sounded like resistance. Like something buried beneath years of quiet obedience pushing desperately against the surface. Your eyes remained fixed on the photograph. "No..." Your voice trembled. "I—" The next word took several long seconds to emerge. "wanted—" Tears slowly gathered in your eyes, though you seemed completely unaware of them.
You continued staring at the young woman in the photograph as though meeting someone you had spent years believing was gone forever.
"I wanted—" Your voice finally broke. "more. He—hetook it from me."
Silence filled the office once again. You said nothing else. You didn't need to.
For the first time since your treatment had begun, the silence no longer belonged to emptiness. It belonged to grief. To memory.
To someone who had finally managed, however briefly, to feel something again.
The psychologist drew a slow breath to steady herself before quietly closing the folder. She did not ask another question, did not risk turning that fragile moment into another clinical exercise, and simply allowed you to remain there, staring at the photograph while silent tears traced their way down your cheeks.
When the session finally ended, you stepped into the hallway with slow, measured movements.
Valarr rose from the waiting room immediately, exactly as he always did after every appointment, having spent the last hour seated in the same chair with a book he had never truly managed to read.
He looked at you once, and something inside him stopped, he couldn't have explained what was different. You weren't crying. You weren't smiling.
You looked exactly as you always had. And god, your eyes.
There was something inside them that hadn't been there when you walked into the office.
A flicker.
A faint, almost imperceptible uncertainty that fractured the flawless serenity you had worn for years so small that anyone else would have dismissed it entirely.
Valarr couldn't.
He had spent too many years memorizing every expression your face had ever made. He crossed the room slowly.
"Love?" You lifted your head. Your eyes met his. For a single, fleeting heartbeat, he did not see the quiet woman he had learned to live beside. He saw someone thinking. Someone questioning. Someone standing on the edge of remembering.
The expression vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, dissolving once more into that familiar calm. He had seen it. He knew he had. For the first time in years... he had not felt as though an empty shell were looking back at him.
For one impossibly brief moment you had been there. This, he thought, is the other one.
—
The journey home barely existed for you.
Beyond the car window, the city slipped past in a blurred procession of buildings, traffic lights, and people carrying on with their ordinary lives, completely unaware that, inside that vehicle, someone had just remembered the unbearable weight of her own existence. For years you had inhabited a silence so profound that even your memories had lost their edges; now they returned all at once, without order or mercy, crashing into you with the violence of a dam finally giving way after holding back its waters for far too long.
You weren't crying. Not yet. It was worse than that.
You sat perfectly still, your hands resting in your lap, breathing slowly as though the slightest movement might be enough to shatter you completely, while Valarr barely took his eyes off the road long enough to make sure you were still there. Every time he looked at you, he discovered something new.
Your eyes were no longer empty. There was fear. There was confusion. There was pain. Terrible, real emotions he would have given anything to see them again.
The residence welcomed you both with the same elegant silence it always had.
The staff greeted you politely before disappearing into the corridors, understanding, without the need for explanations, that the house was meant to remain quiet that afternoon.
You walked slowly through the entrance hall. It did not seem as though you were heading anywhere in particular; instead, you looked like someone wandering through a museum dedicated to a woman you could no longer remember being.
The staircase. The piano. The family portraits. Every object awakened an image. A feeling. A different version of yourself.
You stepped into the sitting room without saying a word. The gray afternoon light streamed through the tall windows, settling over the furniture with an almost painful stillness as you stopped in front of the fireplace, where the family photographs still stood: holidays, birthdays, Christmas mornings, and pictures of your children covered in paint back when they could barely hold a brush.
In every single one, you were smiling. A wide smile. Alive.
You couldn't remember ever smiling like that.
Slowly, you lifted a hand, your fingertips brushing the frame of one photograph. In it, you were holding your newborn son while Valarr embraced you from behind. The image had preserved a perfect moment forever and, yet, you did not remember the photograph.
You remembered the hospital room. The scent of disinfectant. The burning ache of your cesarean incision every time you tried to breathe. The exhaustion, the fear, the guilt, the despair, and the almost superhuman effort it had taken to force yourself to love a child whose very existence reminded you of the way he had been conceived.
Then another memory surfaced.
University.
The packed auditorium. Your name being called at graduation. The applause. The scholarship. Your professors. Your ambitions. The absolute certainty that your life was only just beginning with a trip to London.
Emma. Robert. Divorce attempt. The argument. Shouting. Those four months. Coming back. The years. Everything, everything came flooding back at once.
The air vanished from your lungs as you pressed a trembling hand against your chest, each breath suddenly becoming painful. "No..."
The word barely escaped your lips as you slowly shook your head, as though repeating it might somehow stop the avalanche crashing through your mind.
"No..." The tears came without restraint. They were not quiet, not graceful. They were the desperate sobs of someone who had awakened inside a life she no longer recognized as her own.
You took one step backward, then another.
Your legs began to give way, you felt that you were about to faint. Your legs, they could no longer bear the crushing weight of everything you had just remembered.
Valarr had remained motionless the entire time, watching you without moving closer. He knew this pain was necessary, but the instant he saw your knees buckle, he stopped thinking altogether, crossing the room in two hurried strides and catching you before you could hit the floor.
His arms wrapped around you with desperate firmness as your body collapsed against his without the slightest resistance.
That was when you finally were reborn.
You buried your face against his chest and began to cry with an intensity that seemed impossible to contain, clutching the fabric of his shirt as though you needed something—anything—to keep yourself from falling apart completely.
"Valarr..." His name came out shattered, so shattered it scarcely sounded like a word.
He closed his eyes as he felt your full weight settle against him. After so many years of you being composed, untouchable, and impossibly serene, for the first time you allowed yourself to fall.
And you fell into him.
"I don't know who I was—" Your breathing fractured between sobs. "I don't know—when I—, when I disappeared." Every sentence seemed to tear another piece from your chest. "I forgot so many things..." You slowly shook your head, unable to stop crying. You didn't know where you started or finished, there was no physical limit, only total pain. "I forgot the girl who wanted to conquer the world—and I never even realized when she stopped existing..."
For years he had wanted nothing more than to bring you back, imagining this moment hundreds of times without ever believing it would hurt this much.
He held you even tighter, not to stop your tears but simply to keep you standing while you fell apart. One hand stroked your back in slow, soothing circles while the other rested protectively behind your head with almost reverent tenderness.
"You didn't disappear." His own voice trembled. "Not completely." He pressed a gentle kiss to your hair.
You continued sobbing against him, no longer capable of standing on your own, your entire body trembling as though years of silence had finally abandoned you all at once, leaving behind nothing but the unbearable exhaustion of carrying a life that had long since stopped feeling like your own.
"No—" you sobbed . As soon as the truth had struck you, it returned with the force of a hurricane. He. He took it from you.
You moved away from him, creating distance with a push.
Graduation. Your graduation dress. The nonexistent wallet. The tear in the fabric. His disgusting touch. All these images hit you in the way that only reason can over time, revealing the most atrocious of truths. The man in front of you, who had held you with the care necessary for a precious possession, who showered you with silk and jewels and whispered sweet nothings in your ear, took your life away. The culprit was right in front of you, looking at you with a mixture of fascination and concern.
Ire took the place of sadness.
"You—fucking son of a bitch," you spat venomously, angry tears sliding down your cheeks. "I remember—I remember it so well, you lying, cheating bastard." Word by word came out of your mouth, and he could only be satisfied.
He couldn't be happier.
"You raped me. You took my life, you stole what I desired most. You—" He pressed his lips against yours. His lips tasted of almond milk and satisfaction. His hand moved behind your head where it had previously been caressing you, forcing you to stay still. A sound of relief arose from deep within his chest.
"My love..." he whispered against your lips before attacking them again, his expression that of a child in a toy store. "God—it really is you. You're here." You bit his lip when he leaned over, he just moaned. "Again—fight, claw, scream. Do it. Do it, and that way I'll know you're alive."
You glared at him, kicking his leg. He slammed you against the wall. A groan escaped you, only to be silenced with another kiss. He didn't seem to need air, and even if he did, he wouldn't stop. This was what he wanted. You had given it to him after years of thirst, and today he would devour it.
Panic gripped your body again. It was too much, so much at once. The memories, his touch, his force pressing you against the wall as you tried to escape. Barriers that would keep you here at his mercy. Tears—this time of humiliation—flowed. You clawed at his arms, and he pressed his erection against your thigh like an animal in heat.
Just like on graduation night, you'd have to let him take.
He continued rubbing against you, his breathing ragged like the wet, disgusting kisses he left on your neck. When you tried to push him away for the umpteenth time, he grabbed both of your wrists in one hand, placing them above your head.
His other hand was greedy, moving from your collarbones to grasping your breast, then patting your sex from above. Even when the wall wouldn't allow it, you moved, and that only motivated him more. "Valarr— stop! Valarr—" he kissed you silence.
You despised how your body—the shell—moved your hips toward the touch of his hand, the way your cries let out some sound of primal pleasure.
"You like it as much as I do," he said, pulling down his pants hurriedly and cursing under his breath for taking so long. "Look at you—just a moment ago you were rubbing against my hand like a bitch in heat. You love it." The clinking of its strap as it fell gave you enough of a clue to know what was coming. It didn't prepare you. It entered you cruelly. You weren't wet, and it hurt and burned like hell.
You weren't a virgin, but you felt a tearing in your rubbery walls as that parasite—his member—thrust against you in a steady rhythm. You cried loudly, and he didn't stop you. Every time an insult escaped your lips, he kissed you; every time a moan escaped, he soothed it by caressing your clit.
"You feel sublime," he gasped against your ear. "So tight— so perfect"
He didn't care about the employees' eyes—they wouldn't be bothered. They'd seen this for years.
Just their boss taking his wife.
—
Conversation flowed through laughter, interruptions, and exaggerated protests, just as it had on countless other nights. Your son's girlfriend had just finished telling a story about university when you added one of your own, correcting one of the details your eldest son had deliberately embellished with a smile. He protested immediately, his joined the argument, and for a few seconds everyone at the table was talking over one another.
It was your daughter who, in the middle of all that familiar chaos, slowly set her cutlery down on her plate, frowned ever so slightly as she looked at you.
"Mom..."
You lifted your gaze to hers. "Yes?"
She remained silent for a few moments before smiling with a mixture of surprise and relief. "You're different."
The table gradually fell quiet.
You tilted your head slightly. "Different?"
"Yeah." Her smile widened just a little. "I don't know... you're arguing again. You're telling stories again. You've already corrected my brother three times since dinner started."
"I... I hadn't even noticed."
"Don't stop."
Her words lingered in the air.
Valarr never took his eyes off you.
A slow, deeply contented smile spread across his face before he leaned toward you and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to hear that."
His lips lingered against your skin for one heartbeat longer before he pulled away, and when he looked at you again, there was a happiness in his eyes so serene it was almost devastating.
He had finally gotten back the woman he had always loved.
Without realizing that, now that you had awakened, you had also recovered every memory of everything you had lost in order to remain by his side. And, at the same time, your downfall had given rise to another genesis.
'Don't stop,' your daughter had said.
Don't stop, because your downfall with Valarr was just beginning to resurface. With your rebirth came the plagues again, and this time you would experience them skin deep.
How would the AKTSK guys react to a screamer in bed? 😏
Headcanons for a reader who is vocal in bed
(including: Baelor, Maekar, Valarr, Daeron, Dunk and Lyonel)
Tags/Warnings: 18+, Smut, Implied Age Gap for the DILFs
Words: about 150-200 for each
BAELOR would tell you to be quiet, lest you be overheard. He'd shush you with a ringed hand covering your mouth, cooing in your ear as he continues thrusting, burying himself inside of you again and again, pummelling the spot that made you scream in the first place.
He wants desperately to make you come, but he does not want the whole castle to hear you. Not because of embarrassment, but because he does not wish others to know what you sound like. Baelor has to give so much to the realm. Your sounds are one of the only things that are his.
If you were on Dragonstone, on the other hand... he would encourage you to make whichever sounds you please. He loves knowing that he pleasures you so much that you become unable to regulate yourself, that he unmakes you so thoroughly. The only time he would muffle your sounds in the privacy his seat on Dragonstone affords him is when he kisses you, swallows your sounds into his own throat, consuming you as you consume him.
MAEKAR would be undeniably proud. He takes immense pride in his prowess, and he does not mind everyone knowing how much his lady wife enjoys him and his thick cock. In fact, he wants them to know. All those young, simpering knights that follow you with their eyes - they'll hear your pleased screams and know that your husband is the one making you feel this way. Not them. Never them.
If anything, he encourages you to be even louder, egging you on as he fucks you harder, faster, whatever you need. If you like your hair pulled, he'll do that, too. Maekar can get a little mean with it. This man has no shame, and he can be almost as vocal as you with his groaning and grunting.
The only thing that would dampen his ardour is if his children were staying close. When he needs to be mindful of his brood, Maekar has been known to put something into your mouth to keep you quiet. A gag, his fingers, his cock... it doesn't matter. He'll make you peak regardless. He knows your body well enough.
VALARR would be startled at first. He was raised on gentle courtesies, the politeness of court. He is used to refined speech, people concealing their wants and desires behind mild manners. But that does not mean that he dislikes how vocal you are.
In fact, he learns to treasure it, his longing for your screams in the sanctity of your chambers becoming quite ardent. It's a respite, a break from his burdens. In bed with you, his head bracketed by your thighs, he feels at home. He is finally not afraid of failing, not when you sing so prettily for him and there is no doubt to be had that you enjoy his touch.
With you he knows that he does not need to be perfect for you to love him, though he still always puts you first, wringing at least one peak from you before he even enters you. Valarr himself is quiet, rarely even sighing in pleasure, but you more than make up for it and he would have it no other way.
DAERON would barely notice initially. Other than you, he was used to whores, and they were always vocal in their performances. At first he assumes you are the same, acting to please him, pretending.
Once some time has passed and he realises that you actually like what he is doing, that you are being honest, he becomes more nervous. There's a pressure on him now. What if he cannot make you scream the next time? What if he drinks too much and cannot be good enough for you?
It fucks with his head a little. Daeron is used to being perceived as a failure. That you like him, like the way he makes you feel, is foreign and strange. But with time he learns that it is not bad. To be wanted. That your "expectations" are not hard to meet, that it's different than what he's used to. There's no punishment, no disappointment. Only love.
DUNK would stop immediately. He would freeze above you, scared to death, his broad, towering frame supported by his huge arms, needing to make sure that your scream was a good sound. He's not used to making people feel good.
When you encourage him to continue, when you reassure him, he becomes more confident, bolder. He'd start experimenting with what makes you scream the loudest - a kiss here, a squeeze there, his cock pushing into you in a maddeningly slow drag.
Eventually, he grows to love your squeals, your screams, your sighs. Everything that shows him that he's doing a good job. He knows he can be slow to understand, but he finds that your sounds make your reactions easier to interpret. He almost doesn't even mind the grins and salacious winks people shoot at him when he emerges from his rooms after a rigorous night of activity. But his blush betrays him.
LYONEL would chuckle and tease. All in good fun, of course. He loves a confident woman, a woman that knows what she likes and expresses that. If you are usually shy, he'll like it even more. Seeing a side of you that no else sees, coaxing it out of you with his mouth, hand, or his cock - it drives him crazy.
He's utterly unashamed - Lyonel likes fucking you where people will hear your sounds. If anyone mentions it to him, he'll boast, take it as a compliment. If he's feeling particularly naughty, he might make a comment doubting the other's sexual prowess if they cannot make their wives scream as he does his.
His favourite is when he crooks his fingers inside of you, seeing your face twist in pleasure at the same time. He loves watching that scream form in your throat, loves watching your eyes flutter as you peak. His name on your lips makes him unbearably smug.
If you read any of these fics, please read the tags and consume responsibly. These are some lovely fics written by talented folks - it would be appreciated if you like/comment/reblog. It truly means the most to us creators. Thank you! 🖤
Joel Miller
Marking - @mcthsman - Your boyfriend catches everyone’s eyes. Joel, for the most part, doesn’t seem to notice but you know better: They want him just as much as you do, and you need to figure out a way to keep people away.
Unfaithful - @peepawmiller - Your husband is unfaithful, and your contractor is hot.
Better in My Head - @broad-shouldrs - textfic! a wrong number text turns into something neither of you meant to start.
Season of the Wolf (Part Four) - @mcthsman - The giant wolf that has been killing people around town shares a very striking feature with the quiet man that keeps breaking into your home— They both have the saddest, warmest brown eyes you've ever seen.
Ruined - @broad-shouldrs - joel uses a sex toy
Never enough - @milla-frenchy - you don’t want Joel to go on patrol, so you make him an offer he can’t refuse
The Best Man - @baronessvonglitter - Decades after your hot summer fling, you run into Joel Miller at his brother's wedding.
run, bunny, run. - @cordycepskiss - You couldn't stand another day staring out the window wishing for fairytales. You were going to talk to Mr. Miller when he returned today. Tell him you're done. That you needed more. You expected him to be angry, tell you no. What you didn't expect is what happened next.
Love Shack - @aurorawritestoescape - You confess to your stepdad about having a crush and he gets angry and horny about it.
JM Is Live - @astr0veil - Struggling to pay the bills, Joel finds a rather unique way to make ends meet.
Overtime - @pearlessance - Joel's exhausted by the time he makes it to bed. But when a pretty little thing crawls in beside him, he finds the time for you, just like he always does.
Never tear us apart (part 3) - @milla-frenchy - Joel and Ellie settle in Jackson and Tommy becomes a part of his brother’s life again. One day he brings Joel some unexpected news
Smack my b*tch up - @milla-frenchy - you’ve been kidnapped by raiders, Joel is their leader. Women who don’t “behave” are locked in a place you call “the shithouse”. You live in your own house, “freely”. Tommy and the guards have free use of the women in the camp, while respecting Joel's strict rules.
Tommy Miller
Sweat It Out - @pearlessance - On the hottest summer day Texas has to offer, the heat brings out the worst in you and Tommy both. But Tommy knows his girl like the back of his hand, and he isn't above tiring that attitude out of you if he has to.
Joel Miller & Tommy Miller
Bound and Unbound - @millermouth - You weren't denying that what you had done was wrong, that it was the one taboo your kind had. But you chose it anyway. Chose them. And now, you paid the price for it.
Frankie Morales
Obsessed - @aurorawritestoescape - still in love and completely obsessed with his ex girlfriend, Frankie sneaks into your house at night where you live with your new man, Joel Miller.
Din Djarin
D. - @aurorawritestoescape - Din pays a visit to his beautiful little pet — you.
Tags: Jackson!Joel, soft!Joel, friends to lovers, smut, dirty talking, dry humping, eating, mildly food play, nipple play, biting, pussy pronouns, Joel is such a tease.
A/N: Surprise! This was completely unplanned but I couldn’t help but writing a quick messy Drabble after this video… I mean, he knows what he was doing and boy, he did it so good it’s still haunting me in my sleep 🫠 it’s unedited and English is not my first language. I really hope it makes sense, I apologize for any mistakes. Hope you like it, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated!
“What’s wrong?”
The question lingers in the air for too long before you gather the strength to answer.
“Nothing” you stammer.
“Oh come on, did I have something on my face?”
“No, it’s okay, you’re okay” you rush to answer before hastily stabbing some salad from your plate.
This was a terrible idea.
You and Joel having dinner together. Why you insisted?
Oh yeah, because he saved your little precious cat the other day. She was falling over the fence while sniffing around. She likes to climb and jump and explore all around Jackson. The other day she tripped on a broken wood board and almost fell off right in the middle of some infected outside the gate.
And now you’re stuck here with your new hero and you’re watching him eat a taco in a way it’s making your knees feel like jelly.
The way he bites on it, the way his lips purse and his jaw adjusts to try and keep everything safe from falling back down his plate. He's leaning over the table, making a noise that sounds like a noise of pleasure, and you can tell he has his legs spread under the table, a habit everyone learns to avoid sauce dripping down their legs and staining their clothes. He’s so… damn.
You always had a crush on Joel and you never admitted that to anyone, not even yourself.
You're friends, you're just friends, you told yourself every day as your heart pounded in your chest. Sure, he was always kind to you, and it wasn't the first time he'd helped you. He'd fixed your roof, as well as the cabinets in your kitchen and the leaking bathroom sink.
He’s so good with his hand, so focused when he works, times and times again you found yourself totally mesmerized by his competences.
He's selfless, kind, and generous, but he's that way with everyone, so you tried not to fantasize too much. It didn't mean anything that he'd helped you; you weren't any more special than any other Jackson resident.
You felt like he flirted a few times, calling you darling, throwing in a joke here and there about how much time you spent passing him tools and assisting him however you could, even though the only thing you'd made from scratch with your hands was a little clay pot for your mom during your art class when you were in sixth grade.
There was a moment last summer when the sink had splashed everywhere while he was fixing it. Your white t-shirt got wet, becoming see-through in the front. His eyes had lingered a little too long on the curve of your breasts.
He'd once bought you a beer at Tipsy Bison, and you'd spent the evening talking. He hadn't even kissed you, but the way he talked to you, the way he'd opened up to you despite being a notorious grouch...no, it wasn't possible. There were dozens of women in Jackson, and they were all eager to get laid with Joel. You'd noticed the way they looked at him, how they devoured him with their eyes as he was bent over building something, his shirt riding up his back, revealing his tanned, freckled skin underneath, how they drooled over his strong arms as he carried wood or supplies he'd gathered during a patrol.
And not just women, you had also seen more than one man observing him with particular interest.
So why would it have to be you?
“You're staring at me,” he says, before sticking his thumb in his mouth to lick the sauce off. “Have you never seen anyone eat a taco before?” he chuckles.
“Yeah,” you scoff, “I was just wondering if you like them.”
“Darling…I’m from Texas” he replies after taking a long sip of his beer.
“So what? Is loving tacos a prerequisite for being Texan?”
“Pretty much” he shrugs.
Is he making fun of you?
“But yeah, they’re great. I appreciate you takin’ the time to cook for me” he smiles.
“You saved Snowflake, I owned you” You sigh, getting up from the table with the excuse of getting another beer, trying to relax despite his gaze that doesn't leave you for a second.
Snowflake, safe and sound, is currently napping in the living room.
He’s smooth tonight, he seems at ease more than you ever previously noted. He laughs when you struggle with the bottle opener, he takes the bottle from your hands and uncorks it.
“Here you go, darling” he breathes and pour it into your glass.
You cheeks heat up at the way he takes another bite from his taco. Deliberately slow, groaning softly as his teeth sink into the corn husk and then into the spiced meat. His tongue darts out a moment later to lick some sauce from his lower lip. It feels like straight up porn, damn you and your tacos.
Your fingers itching to wipe the sauce he didn't notice from his chin.
"Wait, you have a little bit of..." You lean over the table, tracing a line with your thumb just below his lip. "Sauce...here," you mutter.
"Thanks, baby." His voice is deep, husky, and to your greatest dismay - cause you’re not supposed to feel what you’re feeling - it makes you wet.
Wet as a goddamn waterfall.
He takes your wrist, brings your finger to his mouth. Closer, ever closer. His lips part, your finger slides over his tongue.
He moans. He fucking moans, sucking the juice from your finger.
You freeze, the sound of it still ringing in your ears.
“Delicious” he growls, a smile dancing on his lips.
You could swear he never looked this gorgeous.
Relaxed, playful, teasing you from the other side of the table.
“Why don’t you come here and help me with the rest of the taco, so we can skip to the dessert faster?”
You catch the double meaning feeling a million butterflies in your tummy, flapping their wings around, your head light, your pussy clenching.
Your legs are wobbly when you get up, he takes your hand guiding you on to sit down on his lap.
“Do something for me, alright baby? You barely ate so now I want you to take a good bite” he commands, his voice steady while he holds a taco in the air.
Your arm is around his shoulders, your legs draped sideways over each other, his hand on your waist while the other brings the taco to your lips. You open your mouth, taking a big bite, salsa dripping onto his fingers. As you chew, he carefully cleans them one by one, his tongue darting and gathering, making you wonder what else he could do.
You’re not hungry for anything other than him right now, that’s for sure.
He’s big and broad and warm against you, his hand deliciously weighs on your small back keeping you steady, his legs making the most comfortable sit you’ve ever had.
He places the taco down on his plate and his eyes lingers on your lips doing all the talking.
His fingers run up your leg, slipping under your dress, hot on your bare skin as they travel higher and higher.
“Good girl” he whispers and you’re just putty in his arms, timidly smiling back at him.
His fingers are resting on your inner thighs, languidly tracing circles on your skin.
“May I?” He asks, hazy eyes and soft voice.
A greying lock falls on his forehead, calling for your fingers. You love his hair, you always dreamed to run your fingers through it.
He smells like leather and something citrusy and fresh, clean and pleasant.
A faint hint of alcohol and spices lingers in his breath but you’re eager to kiss him nonetheless.
“What you looking at?” He smiles, poking at you.
“Your lips” you reply, faintly, without even thinking.
“Mmm wanna try them?”
You don’t answer, you just kiss him.
His lips are so inviting and soft in contrast with the delicious scratch of his beard and mustache.
It feels so heavenly you even forget where you are, everything disappears beside his mouth welcoming your tongue, his tongue meeting yours, his hand roaming your back and his fingers dangerously close to your center.
You’re dripping, literally. You’re so wet at this point your panties feel useless and you’re pretty sure he feels that same way the moment his index and middle finger meet the fabric.
He groans in your mouth, while you hand finally gets to get lost in his curls. They’re even softer than you expected. You tug a little bit, eagerly licking into his mouth, savoring his taste and dancing with his tongue.
You didn’t feel so needy in years.
He traces tight circles on your clit, you moan so loudly it’s unmistakable even if you’re still kissing him.
He pulls away only to ask you, “You like it, huh? What does this little pussy want? Does she want to come?” You whine, words failing you.
“I need you to use your words, babe”
“Yes. Yes, I need it. She needs you” your voice is hoarse, barely a whisper coming from the back of your throat.
“Straddle me, take what you need on my leg” he orders.
You get up, your legs trembling, your whole body aching for a release.
You lift the skirt of your dress, exposing your white lace panties. You weren't wrong; when you look down, you see they're practically see-through because you're so soaked.
"Take them off," he urges. And you do.
The moment you sit on his jeans-clad right leg, each of yours bracketing his, and feel the fabric of his jeans against your folds, you almost lose your breath.
“Move baby, I want you to make a mess” he grabs a handful of your ass, guiding your hips back and forth on his legs, your clit brushing against his jeans, your juices dripping down, leaving a wet stain all over.
“You’re doing so good for me,” he groans, his hand tugging at the neckline of your dress and at the bra underneath, exposing your tits.
His lips are on them a second later, hungrily sucking at your nipples while you can’t stop rolling your hips on his leg.
Your right leg meet his erection, again and again.
He’s rock hard, you can feel it twitching beneath the fabric.
Your orgasm crushed into you a moment later, his hands digging into the flesh of your hips, his lips still latched on your breast.
It’s all dizzy and hot and confused, your eyes rolling in the back of your head, your bodies hot and sweating.
Joel hugs you the entire time while your peak crushes into you so violently your legs are shaking and your back arches so much you almost feel like slipping off.
When you finally come down from your high, Joel cups your face, tenderly kissing you.
You notice a mark on your breast you hadn't noticed, you hadn't even felt him bite that hard.
You chuckle. “What about this? You wanted to devour me like a taco?”
“No offense to your cooking, but I'd choose your tits over tacos any day.”
“Shall we move to my bed? I’m still hungry and I’d love to try this” you whisper in the shell of his ear, palming his hard on from above his jeans.
He laughs, lifting you up in his arms, your legs wrapped around his waist. “You know what? This is the best taco Tuesday of my damn life.”
Absolutely no pressure tag: @milla-frenchy @baronessvonglitter @aurorawritestoescape @mcthsman @sawymredfox
Hiii I love your writing! I wanted to ask if you could do a fic with maekar marrying reader (2nd wife, kids are all there) and falling in love with her and her with him. But when they go to attend a tourney at another lord’s home he finds out that reader was originally meant to be that lord’s wife and was even raised there and fell in love with the guy and was widely adored by the people of the kingdom to the point where they accidentally call her lady what ever lord you pick’s wife in front of maekar multiple times. And what makes it worse is that reader and the lord were in love with each other and while she has moved on he hasn’t and makes it very obvious. Maybe throw in some maekar kids being overly attached to their new step mom. Thank you so much if you do chose to create it and if not that’s totally fine too! I’m sorry if this request is a bit everywhere and disorganized, I was just writing it as it came out of my brain. Thank youuuuuuuuu
BEATS FOR YOU—Maekar Targaryen
Maekar Targaryen x wife!reader
content: Maekar is faced with the reality that maybe your heart does not belong to him like he had once thought, a mere few days ago.
words: 2.8k
cw: MDNI 18+, smut p in v, fingering, jealous Maekar, breeding (shocker), lmk if I missed any
a/n: this request scratched something within my brain.
When you had first married your husband, Maekar, it had not been for love or so that is what you had said to yourself the night before your wedding, but there had always been a connection. From the moment he laid eyes on you he was drawn to you and even more so when your gentle eyes met his face, and you smiled at him as if he had deserved it. You did not want to acknowledge what it was….or the fact that he ended up in your bed chambers that very night, and participated in activities unbefitting for an unwed couple.
He had petitioned for your hand the very next day, and was completely unaware that your hand had already been long promised to Lord Leo Tyrell’s son, Victor. Your father had agreed without question, because only a fool would deny a prince’s request, even if he was the fourth son of a king, and already had six children.
Victor was upset, rightfully so, he had spent most of his life thinking you were to be his wife, and now you were being married off to some stoic brute of House Targaryen. You did not mention the fact that you had made your way to that said man's chambers that night nor the fact that you were more than content to marry him. You cried, told him you would miss and then you were off to Summerhall.
And what had started as passion slowly shifted to love. Not that he would truly admit that out loud, but he showed it in his actions, he cared for you, he held you close to him every night, and he watched you with a sort of softness that was only reserved for you. On the contrary you had no problem telling him exactly how you felt. You loved him, more than you had ever loved anything in your life. You also showed him with your actions you took care of his children despite not being their mother, you never replaced Lady Dyanna’s memory, but instead existed alongside her.
He had never planned to take a second wife, and he had told you that from time to time, but then as he put it you strolled in and claimed in ways he could never quite express, not because he thought it was beneath aman of his status, but he could simply never form the words that he thought you deserved.
He knew you loved him.
You knew he loved you.
And former lives where you were supposed to be Lady Tyrell were long forgotten. You never thought of him. There were no nights where you lay awake wondering what could have been. It was honestly as if that time in your life never existed.
Until you were forced to face it again face first, crashing into that world once more. You realize now in hindsight you probably should have asked where the tourney was, and if it was a celebration for someone, but you had been so excited that Maekar had wanted you to accompany him.
“Oh, shit,” you had muttered when Victor Tyrell had approached, and your husband turned to you with furrowed brows, but you never did have the chance to answer as your name was called through the air.
Maekar’s shoulders immediately tensed, as it sounded much too casual on the man’s tongue, there was no title, no sense of formality, and it caused anger to flare within him, as his eyes locked on you watching your face. You smiled, and it seemed more nervous than genuine.
Who the fuck did this man think he was to address you in a such a way?
Just when he thought it could not get worse the man fucking hugged you. His hands touched you. He watched as his arms wrapped around you, and the young Lord's eyes locked on him, a smug smirk on his face. Baelor who stood a few feet away conversing with Lord Leo, watched his brother carefully as if he was afraid the man would begin to beat the Heir to High Garden.
He had a right to think that.
The pair of you pulled away as you stood awkwardly between them, “Maekar, this is Victor Tyrell,” you introduced waving your hand toward him, but you kept your eyes on the Targaryen, “Victor this is my husband, Prince Maekar.”
“I am sure you have heard of me,” Victor said, a cocky grin on his face.
“I have not,” he said bluntly, his signature scowled carved deep into his face as he turned from you toward the man. He was shorter than himself, with dark hair, and a boyish grin. He did not seem that much older than his eldest son, but then again you weren’t much older than his eldest son.
The young man’s smile faltered slightly, but not much. “Well, she practically grew up here so we were very close. So much so that your wife was supposed to be mine originally.”
He knew you had grown up in the Reach, within the Walls of High Garden, your father had sent you there as he felt ill equipped to raise a daughter, as your mother had perished in child birth. He had been completely unaware that you were in fact supposed to marry another.
Now his mind began to spiral.
Had you been betrothed already? Were you in love? Were you angry when you were forced to marry him instead of the young man? His mind couldn't stop.
His jaw clenched, harsher as he stared at the young man, but before he had a chance to answer or even talk to you further Baelor was beckoning him forward, and when he went to drag you with him of course Young Victor Tyrell was swooping in telling him that he could keep you company, and before he could utter a harsh remark you were already gone in the wind.
Maekar’s foul mood had tripled by the time darkness had taken over the sky. He had heard the whispers of the court of how they were so elated you had returned, that Victor looked happier than ever, and even heard the odd few call you Lady Tyrell which he had been quick to correct words flying out before he could stop himself (Baelor then had to offer apologies to the poor terrified soul).
His long fingers curled around around the goblet that was sure to break if he squeezed any harder, his eyes following you as you danced across the floor with Victor Tyrell, the smug cunt, whose hands held you too closely for a woman that was not his wife.
Baelor had suggested for him to dance with you, and your face had practically lit up in excitement but before he could even shoot it down the man who irked him, beyond belief, showed up swooping in leading you toward the dance floor.
The smile on the man’s face wasn’t the worst. It was his eyes who stared at you with such loving intensity it made a pit fill in his belly. He couldn’t see your face long enough, but he imagined you looked the very same. You had grown up with him, had spent most of your life thinking you were going to wed, and then he came ripping you from the life you were supposed to have.
Him the fourth son of a King set to inherit no crown, him who had been widowed once already, and him with six children you were now forced to take care. This could have been your life. Lighter fabric dresses for the heat of HIgh Garden, Young Lord who had no issues smiling at you, and a man that had not been burdened by grief and children like he himself had.
Perhaps this is what you had deserved.
He was lost in thought he missed the silver hair, interrupting your dance. He missed the change of partners from the young man he had been brooding about to his second son. He definitely missed the way you were now positioned to see his face, as Aerion conversed with you a topic unheard to anyone, but the pair of you.
He did not come back to the land of living until he felt a gentle hand be placed on his hsoudlers. He recoiled slightly before he turned, finding you staring at him, “I wish to retire for the night. Would you care to join me?” you asked.
He could not meet your eyes, he did not want to see anything they would reveal. Like the fact perhaps you were happier here, angry at him for taking you away from this place, or even worse the disappointment you may have felt for him as your husband, but nonetheless he grunted out before following after you.
He never truly could tell you no.
The walk to your provided chambers were silent, the only sound being his hard steps against the floor, and your skirts whispering. He watched you the entire way, as you fiddled with your rings on your fingers or even grasping the lighter material of your skirt. At first he had been excited for the warmer weather, for you to adorn the thinner dresses you had worn before you had made Summerhall your home, but now he wasn’t so sure. Now he knew other Lords had spent the entire night undressing you with their eyes, perhaps they had undressed you before.
When you finally reached the chambers the door shut, as you moved pouring you each wine.
“Are you ready to talk?” you had asked, sitting on one side of the table.
He pulled his doublet off, now only wearing a tunic as he pushed the sleeves up revealing his toned forearms. He said nothing at first, moving to sit across from you as he drank, not meeting your eyes.
“Maekar,” you called out, your voice gentle, reminding him the sound of light rain against the windows bringing him a sense of comfort. He finally looked up meeting your eyes as you stared at him, they looked the same as always, a look of something he could never quite place filled them.
“You do not have to tell me I already know I ruined your life,” he grumbled, finishing the red liquid before pouring himself more. He needed the courage if he was going to have this conversation. To feel his heart being ripped from his chest and stomped on.
“How do you figure that, husband?”
He sighed, “You were suppose to marry that young handsome Lord and I fucking swopped in stealing you away forcing you into a life you did not want. You could have had this,” he said gesturing around to the walls of High Garden, “Instead you got stuck with an angry, old man and six children. When your heart clearly belonged to another.”
You laughed, which only caused his eyes to squint, “Do not mock me,” he hissed.
“I am not mocking you. Is that truly what you have been thinking all day?”
“What else am I to think?” he countered, sitting back in his chair, causing the wood to groan.
“Maekar, do you remember when we met?” you then questioned.
He thought back to that time, you had accompanied your father the Red Keep, for a celebration he could not even recall. What he could recall was when he had walked you back to your chambers, and you talked the whole time and he listened, clinging to every word. He couldn't stop himself from thinking of how beautiful you looked, as you laughed, and used your hands much more freely than a proper woman should, but Gods he didn’t want you to stop. Then he remembered, being invited into your chamber, and then he kissed you, or mayhaps you kissed him he could not recall all the details on your face as you came undone beneath him a tangle of sheets. The very next day he had asked for your hand, and he now wondered if he still would have done that if he knew your heart belonged to another.
He grunted in reply, and you stood making your way to him. He stared out ahead, but his legs opened on instinct allowing you to step in between them. Your hands moved to his bearded cheeks, forcing him to look up at you. “It is true. I was supposed to marry him, and I had thought I was in love with him, but then I saw you. I did not know what it was when I looked at you, but I knew I had never felt it before with Victor. Then you kissed me, and it showed me what I now know.”
You lifted his hand resting on your chest, and he could feel the thumping from inside your chest, “My heart beats for you and only you. I have not regretted marrying you for a single second nor will I ever wish this is my life instead of what I have with you.”
He stared at you, the hard edges of his face softening as he stared up at you, processing your words, as they buried themselves deep inside him, wrapping around his heart. You then leaned down, “It has only ever truly been you,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his.
He immediately shot to his feet, his hands gripping underneath the curve of your ass as he lifted you with ease. His mouth claimed you, trying to burn himself into all your senses as one of his hands moved, swiping the material of the table to the floor as he set you on top of it. All his pent up frustration of the day finally came to form, as he kissed you urgently as your hands immediately moved to the lace of his trousers.
His hand bunched your skirts up, ripping your small clothes with great strength, as he found you already dripping for him, he entered a digit into you with teasing, his thumb and forefinger pinching your clit causing you to moan, your hands stilling on the laces. He entered another as you freed his cock your hand wrapping around his base stroking. He curled his fingers inside you causing your grip to tighten as you both groaned.
“Please. I need you inside me, husband,” you begged, as you stroked his cock.
He normally would have taken the time to draw out your pleads, until you were practically crying for more than he was giving you, until you were babbling mess, as then he fucked you to mush, but he needed you just as much as you needed him. He needed to claim you further, to erase the thought of any other Lord from your mind like he already did time and time again without even knowing it.
He pulled his fingers from you, “Open,” he commanded as he positioned himself in between your legs. You did as you were told, his fingering entering inside you as you thoroughly licked them clean, he entered fully inside you were once brutal thrust, causing you to clamp down on his digits slightly.
The pace was brutal, as the sound of flesh slapping against each other filled the air, he ripped the front of your dress further exposing your chest to him, as your fingers tangled through his silver locked tugging into him harshly, trying to pull him closer, as if he could be any closer to you.
You felt so full. Your eyes practically rolling back into your head as he fucked you sensless. His hands everywhere as his mouth moved across your chest leaving marks in their wake, painting your skin with him.
“I am going to fill you with my fucking babe and then no one will forget who you belong to.” You clenched around him at his words, causing him to grunt his brutal pace only intensifying, his balls slapping against your ass that hung partially off the wood, felt heavy as his release was starting to crawl up his chest.
“Please. Please, husband! Give me your seed,” you cried, your head tilting back as his hand snaked in between you giving your swollen clit the attention it begged for. The coil in your belly snapping caused you to flutter around him, crying out his name, as your nails raked down across any skin you could find.
He followed soon after, buried to the hilt as he painted your walls with him, he groaned your name as the glorious feeling of release filled his bone, as his head moved resting on your shoulder, as your ragged breaths filled the air.
“I am yours and only yours,” you promised, as you could now finally form a thought.
Maekar lifted his head pressing his lips to yours, it was gentle, softer than what had just occurred moments ago. “As I am yours,” he whispered, his voice so low it almost got lost in the wind. A smile crossed his lips as he remembered your words from earlier, your heart only beat for him and not some young reach Lord cunt.
Maekar Targaryen x Daeron’s best friend!fem!reader
content: You are tired of guys your age, and set your sight on your best friend's moody father.
words: 2.4k
cw: MDNI 18+, age gap, p in v, fingering, hair pulling, unprotected sex, creampie, lmk if I missed any
a/n: in my mind this is in the same universe as this ... Idk why it has no direct connection other than one comment about Baelor's assitant, and then my mind was just like ok same universe
You had met Daeron your freshman year of college, he was overly drunk, and you had ended up half carrying him to his dorm. Since then the pair of you had been attached at the hip. You met his family for the first time a year later. He needed a date for some event, and you agreed. From the moment you laid eyes on his father you were enamored. You told Daeron you would one day become his step-mother which only led him to scoff.
Maekar was grumpy, he talked only in grunts, he had a constant tension in his jaw, swore like a pirate, and chain smoked in ways that could not be good for his lungs. But he was hot. You found him so incredibly hot, and charming in a way you could not even explain.
He hardly even looked and you perhaps that was half of the problem. He was not foaming at the mouth staring at you trying to conjure ways to get into your pants, he was not whispering sweet nothing to you while texting ten other girls, and he wasn’t some broke frat boy. He was nothing like guys your own age. He was older, he had a job, he was successful, and he obviously could offer a woman a good time (he had six fucking children).
You could still remeber the dinner, when Daeron drunkenly declared to his family that you wanted to fuck his father. You had wished nothing more for in that moment for the ground to open up and swallow you alive. You did not dare look at the man at the head of the table, as you buried your face in your hands as everyone glanced at you.
It really did nothing to affect your life. You hardly interacted with the man other than the occasional family event you were forced to. Maekar Targaryen was nothing but something to compare every man to or the face you may have imagined when trying to get yourself off, but you tried not to acknowledge that too much or your face would go bright red when looking at him.
You tried with guys your age, you did, but date after date each worse than the other led you to the situation you were in now. You stood outside, the cool night air of King’s Landing nipping at your bare legs, your thin excuse of a coat pulled over your shoulder as you bounced slightly trying to keep yourself warm.
You had already tried to call Daeron three times, and you had decided this was your last and final attempt before trying to walk home. The phone rang twice, before someone answered, “What?” The voice was much too gruff to be his. Your eyebrows drew together as you pulled the device away checking the name of the screen to make sure you called the right person.
“Uh, sorry. I was looking for Daeron. I just…nevermind. I am sorry to bother you,” you rambled out, as a car alarm sounded loudly through the air causing you to flinch slightly.
“Where the fuck are you?” the man suddenly asked.
“Some bar off the King’s road. I had a date, but he left me here after I said I wouldn’t blow him in the bathroom,” you admitted, rubbing the back of your neck slightly as you looked around. “Listen, again, I am sorry to brother you–”
“Stay where the fuck you are,” he grit out, and the line went dead.
“Okay,” you muttered, letting out a shaky breath, eyes flickering up and down the street. The streetlights flickered around you, as you heard rough laughter carrying out from the bar behind you, with a grimace. You should have walked away the very moment he brought you here, but you gave him the benefit of the doubt, that always seemed to be your downfall.
You were not outside long when the familiar black SUV pulled up. You checked your phone calculating the time it took for him to arrive. It was much too quick for him to be at home, so you decided he must still have been at work, which was not unusual for the man. Daeron often told you he spent more time in that building than his home.
He stepped out of the SUV driver’s side. He still wore his dark suit which fit him perfectly, his silver hair slightly tousled as if he had been running his hands through it, and his jaw clenched in the same way it always seemed to be. His violet gaze flickered back to the bar with a small grimace, before they finally met your face.
“Hi,” you greeted. He grunted his eyes sweeping over your form, checking for injuries, but lingered on your bare legs, before they snapped back up to your eyes. “Why do you have Daeron’s phone?” you question as he stood staring at you.
“He left it at the office.”
He moved toward the passenger door opening it, before turning to you
“Alright,” was all you said, fiddling with the hem of your dress, completely missing the way his eyes would flicker from the road to you.
“I have to finish something at the office. I will either call someone to drive you home or you can wait for me to finish and I will.”
Your nose scrunched slightly at the thought of returning to your empty apartment, “I’ll wait,” you said with a shrug.
“Why the fuck would you go on a date with some idiot there?” he finally questioned, forcing himself to look away from your bare legs as he felt his cock twitch slightly in his pants, as he wondered what was underneath. You were beautiful, and his eyes always had trouble leaving you, but he would always force himself to look away. You weren’t just anyone, you were Daeron’s friend, one of the only things that kept his son grounded, and he would not step over that line. He would not be a creepy old man praying on a young woman, but he had already crossed that line in his mind.
“That is not the worst place one has taken me.”
He scoffed, “It should not surprise me. Young men never know properly how to treat
Your entire demeanour flipped in a millisecond, a grin spreading across your lips, as you turned. Your eyes flickered over his face, “So you are saying I should start dating older men?” you asked.
You watched him flinch slightly as if you had struck him, his jaw clenched harder as his hips repositioned on the seat, his knuckles going white as he gripped the steering wheel harshly. He never answered your question, nor talked again for the quick ride. You had offered to stay in the car while he finished, but he had told you not to be a fool before leading you up.
He sat at his desk, eyes scanning over the document on the screen, but his mind would not concentrate. His gaze kept drifting to you as you inspected the room. You had shed your jacket due to the warmth of being inside once more, and it only alerted his attention further as he found himself looking at the skin now visible to him. It wasn’t inappropriate in the slightest, it was modest if anything, but you being here walking around looking at this part of his life with interest was doing something to him.
You could feel his eyes on you, and at this point you were willing to perform slightly. Maybe he was right, perhaps you needed to ditch guys your age all together and seek out older men, and what better man than the one who had filled your fantasies for so long. You bent over slightly reading something that hung on the wall, some award that you were sure Baelor had forced him to hang.
“Did Baelor decorate here?” you questioned glancing back at him, like you expected his eyes were on your ass, but your voice pulled him away as he looked at you.
“His assistant did,” he grunted, you stood nodding slightly as you turned toward him.
“You seem stressed,” you pointed out as you leaned against his desk next to him.
He leaned back in his chair, as his eyes trailed over your form, stopping three times. Once of your mouth, once at your chest, and then where your dress ended and the bare skin of your thighs were currently on display. You lifted the dress slightly presenting even more skin, “I can help you with that,” you offered with a grin.
“You do not know what you are offering.”
“I am well aware of what I am offering,” you said, sliding into his lap, his half hard cock giving him away as you met his gaze.
He stared at you for a moment, clearly trying to will his mind to push you away that this was wrong, but your hand reached up cupping his bearded cheek, and it felt so nice. To be wanted by a woman, especially one as beautiful as yourself, and before he could think properly he was leaning forward pressing his lips to yours.
He was standing his hands, going under the curve of his ass as he set you on top of his desk, his mouth claiming you as your hands laced through his hair giving it a sharp tug. You spread your legs as you felt his hand running up your thighs.
“You are already fucking soaked,” he said, his finger rubbing against the pool in the cloth of your panties.
“You have that effect on me,” you moaned, as his fingers finally moved the fabric making contact with your clit.
“You are so responsive. So needy. Have you been thinking of this for some time?” he asked, as your hips moved against his hand trying to chase more than he was currently giving you.
You only nodded, biting your lip to suppress a loud crying as a digit entered inside you without warning. His mouth moved to your neck and you could feel him grin against the flesh, “What do you want?” he then asked, sliding in another.
“You,” was all you could get out, your hand resting on his shoulder as he nipped at your neck gently,
“You have me,” he pointed out curling his fingers slightly as he pressed on your clit, his name loudly slipping past your lips. “Use your words or you won’t get what you want,” he instructed you.
“I want your cock,” you finally gasped out, your fingers digging into his shoulder.
He lifted his head, as his thumb finally began to circle your clit, causing you to shudder,“How do you want it?” he then asked, his burning gaze holding yours as he could you clench around his hand, your orgasm quickly approaching much faster than you wanted it too.
“I want you to fuck–Oh–fuck me–Gods–over your desk,” you finally get out as the coil in your belly snaps, your orgasm claiming you as you clenched tightly around his hands, your hips thrusting into him as you rode out your high on his hand.
He pulled his hand away with a small grin, as he brought his fingers to his mouth, his tongue sweeping out to clean the evidence of you from them, “Just as sweet as I imagined.”
You groaned slightly, as he grabbed your hips, helping you from the desk before turning you over, your face rested against the cool wood as you heard him rustling with his belt behind you, “Like this?” he asked.
You nodded with a hum, as he pulled your panties down, pooling at your feet. “Use your words,” he commanded, as his tip rubbed between your slick folds gathering the wetness.
“Yes,” you gasped out, you pushed yourself back slightly as an offering to the man.
He finally entered inside you and he could swear you were heaven, better than anything the Seven Gods could ever think to offer him, as you moaned responding to him as if you were made for him. “You feel fucking perfect,” he grit out, his teeth clamped down as he held your hips tightly, beginning to move his hips against yours.
The wet sound of him fucking in and out of filled the air along with the obscene sound of flesh slapping against each other. Your moans that had some point started to border on the line of sound like straight porn as you gripped the desk harder, the familiar coil in your belly returning quickly.
He did not stop talking or making noises the whole time, very vocal for a man who usually stewed in silence. He would mutter something after every thrust and if it wasn’t words it was a grunt that only made you clench around him harder showing the true affect he had on you.
“Such a good girl.”
“Taking me so well.”
“Do you feel how deep I am inside you?”
“You were fucking made for me!”
His hand wrapped around your hair, giving you a harsh tug pulling you to your feet. Your back flush against his chest changing the angle causing you to cry out, his hand snaking down the front of you finding your clit, “You gonna be a good girl and cum on my cock for me?” he asked.
You nodded, your head flying back to rest on his shoulder as he pounded into you from behind. His mouth met yours burning against you as his tongue claimed you. He was everywhere and suddenly it all became too much as another orgasm claimed you. His mouth silenced your loud cries of ecstasy as his pace picked up now free to chase his own relief. His thrusts turned sloppier as he buried himself to the hilt before spilling inside you, tears of overstimulation streaming down your face as he rested his forehead against your own.
Neither of you moved as he stayed buried in you, your ragged breaths filling the air as you clutched at his forearm, trying to ground yourself as your legs currently felt like jelly as they trembled slightly, “I think you were right,” you said turning your head slightly to look at him.
He raised a brow, his hand moving to brush the sweaty hair from your forehead, “About?” he questioned.
“That guys my age don’t know how to treat me...but you definitely do.”
a concept: baelor x reader in an arranged marriage, but instead of doing their duty, they’re both equally stubborn and refuse to yield first… until she starts spending more time with daeron since he’s technically her age, and baelor starts to feel the pang of jealousy. angst angst angst slow burnnnn
DO YOUR DUTY—Baelor Targaryen
Baelor Targaryen x younger!second wife!reader
content: Your husband was ever the dutiful man, except when it came to you, but once you started seeking company in the form of his nephew everything changed.
words: 3.5k
cw: MDNI 18+ mentions/allusions of sex, jealousy, drinking alcohol
When you were younger you had dreamed of the day you would be wed. You imagined a prince, one that was handsome, young, and kind, but as you grew older you realized that was not going to be the case. You would be married to whoever your father deemed fit. He would show you off like a horse, giving you to the highest bidder, and one day it came.
Baelor Targaryen was practically old enough to be your father. You were not much older than his eldest son or nephew. He was handsome, yes. He was also kind, yes, and he was even a fucking prince, but he would not look at you for more than a second. As if your very existence was a nuisance.
You had been hopeful at first. The wedding passed by without a hitch, he had held your hand the whole time making sure you were comfortable, seeing to your need. Even the bedding was good, much better than you had expected. There had been no one watching, only you and him, and he made sure you reached your peak three times before his cock even touched you.
Now he refused to touch you. He did not share a bed with you. He did not come to even see you in the middle of the night just hoping to wet his cock, which you would have welcomed with open arms as there was a burn in you that you could not dull since that night. In return you refused to seek him out. You would not yield to him, and let him know that you wanted him.
That was pathetic, that was weak, and you were neither of those things. You would be the future Queen one day. You were young, you were fertile, and Gods be fucking good he was lucky to marry you. Fuck him. If he didn’t want you then so be it.
You sat out in the gardens with your eyes closed as you enjoyed the nightly breeze, enjoying the only sense of peace the Red Keep gave you. Though your husband refused to be your husband in anything, but name you still had duties as wife of the crown prince, which led your days to be filled with a business you had never quite known.
Then your peace was interrupted as someone stumbled in slumping down next to you. Your eyes shot open, turning slightly to look at who had now joined you. Daeron, your nephew by marriage, though he was closer to your age than your husband. He was nothing less than a disaster, but he did always manage to get a laugh out of you at feasts.
His hair was unkempt, his clothes looked as if they had been simply tossed on, and there was a smile to his lips, one that only made an appearance when he was already deep in his cups, “You smell like shit,” you stated flatly, causing him to laugh.
He pulled the sack by his side, offering it to you, shaking it slightly. You knew it wasn’t water that he was offering you, but wine. You stared at it a moment hesitating before muttering a quiet, “Fuck it.” Take it from him bringing the liquid to your lips and taking a long swig.
The alcohol burned slightly, causing you to cough slightly as you handed it back to him. He took a swig, before handing it back to you, and this carried on until you were just as drunk as him. A loud, laughing mess as the pair of you talked nonsense.
“Oh, fuck you!” you gasped, slapping his chest playfully, as his head rested on your shoulder his laugh carrying through the air louder than either of you had realized. You missed the footsteps approaching both drunk, and too wrapped in your own conversation then you heard the calling of your name.
You turned your head slightly to find your husband looming over you, as you tilted your head up to look at him. “Your grace,” you greeted, though it lacked the warmth that had filled your voice moments ago. His mismatched eyes flickered between the scenes in front of him. Daeron head on your shoulder as the pair of you longed pressed into each other, an empty wine sack by your side. Your hair was messy, your skirts were ruffled, and your eyes hazy.
If you had been a little more sober you would have seen the anger on his face, not that you truly would have cared. “Your maids were worried you were not in your chambers,” he said gruffly, watching as neither of you made any moves to separate yourself, only staring up at him, a drunk grin spread across your lips.
“Is it that late already?” you hiccupped slightly, “I was just spending time with our darling nephew,” you said, gesturing to the man.
Daeron looked up at his uncle, a smile on his lips that looked much too smug for his liking, “I have been taking great care of, my new aunt, do not fret uncle.”
Baelor's patience was already thin as he watched the younger man lean in whispering something in your ear causing you to giggle slightly. It snapped in that moment as he reached down wrapping an arm around your bicep before tugging you to your feet.
“I will see you in the morning, dear aunt!” Daeron called after you as your husband dragged you away from him, back into the halls of the Red Keep.
You swatted at the man’s hand, but he did not falter pulling you along, as the servants and knights turned their heads watching the pair of you in confusion. It was not often the pair of you would be seen together other than public events, and it certainly was not common to see him dragging you through the halls as you attempted to pry his grip from you.
“That was unbefitting of the wife of the crown prince,” he finally said, voice low, the anger he felt laced through every world, but his voice did not rise with emotion like yours did. He was still controlled, careful with his words almost, and that irked you more. You wanted him to yell at you, to show you he cared even the smallest sliver, but all that seemed to bother him was the damage that could have come to his reputation.
You scoffed, “Do not lecture me on what is befitting, husband,” you hissed, no warmth in your voice that had been there moments ago.
Now your words were a blade, aiming at anything close in an attempt to protect yourself from further hurt. He paused, his hand tightening slightly, “What is that supposed to mean?”
You laughed, humorless, “If you cared of image you would do your duty as a husband. Instead you avoid me at all causes and let the court whisper of how I must be barren, because you refuse to fucking touch me!”
“Lower your voice,” he hissed, but once again it only fueled you more. He only cared about his image, not you, a voice inside yourself screamed.
“No! If you do not wish to touch me then what was the fucking point of marrying me, and before you lie I already know that it was not the King’s will, but your own,” you said, taking a step forward, cheating heaving with the brungin rage that flowed through you.
He took another step forward, holding your burning gaze without a flinch. He dropped his head slightly as if he was going to kiss you, and for a short pathetic moment you hoped he would. You hoped he would finally put an end to this torture that consumed you and claim your body once more. He could dull the burning ache that had filled you in his absence, but his mouth never met yours.
Instead he straightened up, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, “Because I was selfish,” he declared, his voice low, but firm, as if that answered every question that had been swirling around in your head for moons.
It did not. Your eyebrows drew together, your mind much too fuzzy from the wine to find the true meaning of his words, and you had officially reached your limit. You yelled out of frustration, stomping your foot once before you turned storming away from him leaving him to watch your retreating form with a sigh.
A fortnight had passed since your drunken screaming match in the hallway, one you could hardly remember other than you yelling once in your husband’s face and stomping your foot like a toddler. It was not your finest moment, but you refused to dwell on it.
You currently stood talking with Lord Lannister’s daughter who was visiting the capital with her father. She was dreadfully boring and you feared you would begin to claw your eyes out if you had to be in this conversation any longer.
Then your eyes lit up as you saw a savior, approaching. “Dearest aunt!” he exclaimed, approaching the pair of you. You smiled in greeting, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek, he then turned to the young woman, “I hope you do not mind, but I must require my aunt’s presence,” he said.
He did not wait for a reply before pulling you away. You turned, casting her a small smile, before turning back, lacing your arm around his with a groan, “You looked like you needed a savior.”
“I did. She just kept talking about the same thing over and over again. She asked me how I seduced the prince as she has her eyes set on your brother,” she muttered, shaking her head slightly.
He laughed, “Best of fucking luck,” he muttered as you made your way outside. The sunshine, and slight breeze felt nice on your face as the pair of you began to wander the grounds. “I must say I am also curious as to how you seduced my uncle.”
Your eyebrows drew together in confusion, “I did nothing. I had two conversations and a dance with the man then he declared his wish to marry me to my father. I would say he regrets that decision now though,” you mutter the last part, but he still heard you clear as day.
“He does not regret that decision. I can see it with how he looks at you,” he countered.
“He does not look at me," you argued, scoffing slightly, with a shake of your head.
Daeron grinned slightly, glancing at you. “He looks at you when you look away. Both of you only look at each other when the other is not,”
You stopped, pulling your arm, turning toward him, your eyebrows drawing together in confusion, “What are you talking about?” you asked, your eyebrows drawing together in confusion.
He opened his mouth to reply, but he never did a moment to reply instead your name was being called through the air. You turned, seeing as your husband approached, his hands clasped behind him as his eyes flickered between the pair of you.
“Uncle.”
“Nephew,” he replied, but he did not look at the young man, instead his eyes trained on his wife.
You raised a brow in question wondering what he could possibly want, “Your Grace,” you greeted with a nod, your lips push together as you watched him.
He smiled, despite the way the title was wrapped with barbed wire, trying to poke him. “I was hoping you would be free to dine with the boys and I for a mid-day meal,” he said.
You felt a warmth spread through you, but you pushed it down, trying to ignore it as you stared at the man. “Oh.” Your brain faltered slightly as you blinked at him, “Uh…yes I can do that,” you nodded.
His grin only widened as he offered his arm to you. “I will see you later,” you told Daeron, giving his arm a small squeeze with a smile. The angry green monster in Baelor roared slightly at the gesture, but dulled slightly the moment you wrapped your arm around his.
“How was your time with Lord Lannister's daughter?” he asked.
You raised a brow slightly having no clue he even knew about that, “It was…” you hesitated. “She is…”
“Dreaful? Slightly dull?” he offered.
Your eyes lit up slightly, as a laugh escaped your lips, “Yes it was honestly the worst. She kept trying to ask me for my techniques on how to get a prince to marry you. I think she was hoping that I would give her step-by-step instructions on how to marry into the royal family,” you joked.
“Even if you gave her instructions, no one could compare to you,” he said, gently, casting you a small smile that caused your breath to get stuck in your throat.
The words caused a fluttering sensation to fill your body, but you did not get to even reply to the words as you were being pushed into his solar to dine with him and his two sons. The words continued to rattle around in your brain the entire time though, but you never were given a moment alone to talk to him further.
The feast was in full swing around you, the hall filled with laughter, music, and conversation. Baelor of course had been pulled away by Lord something for some painfully boring conversation you were sure.
You sat at the high table next to Daeron, the pair of you conversing as you tried to make sure he did not drunkenly pass out on the table. You missed the burning set of mismatched eyes boring into you as you laughed at one of the man’s stupid comments.
You missed the way the sea of people parted for the man as he quickly pushed through to now be standing in front of you. You glanced up when you heard someone clear their throat looking at your husband who loomed over you.
“My dear wife, would you like a dance?”
You blinked at him, before glancing down to his hand, in confusion you agreed nonetheless. He wrapped a hand around your waist, fingers splaying as he possessively claimed you as if it was a competition. You did not even realize, too lost in the thoughts of confusion, "We don’t do this. I cannot even remember the last time you asked me to dance,” you pointed out, allowing him to lead you.
“Perhaps we should do this more often then. I seem to recall you are quite the dancer from our wedding night,” he said, holding you gently, pulling you closer than he was supposed to, but you let him. You could see the warmth of his body against yours, and it caused something to stir within you.
The burning ache, branching from your groin to all your limbs as you thought of your wedding night. “We have not done a lot of things since our wedding night,” you pointed, the words slipping from your mouth before you could stop them.
He stared down at you, fingers tightening on you slightly as he held your gaze, humming slightly, “No we have not,” he agreed, his gaze holding yours as they flickered to your lips for a moment before he sighed looking away from you, but he looked as if the act itself pained him. As if he did not want to look away from you, and it caused the burn inside you to only intensify.
That was the last of the conversation before you were fleeing the hall, muttering some excuse as you made your way into the dark hallways, a plan forming in your mind as you began to think over the last few weeks since the drunken night in the garden. He had been holding you at arms length, but now he had given you a step forward without thinking and you could now see through him.
You had finally had enough of your husband’s antics. Every time you and Daeron would spend time with one another someone would come to interrupt, calling you away for some made up duty or task that most certainly was not urgent, but was always made out to be.
You sat in your husband's chambers, awaiting his return, two goblets of wine poured on the table. He finally entered by rubbing his face slightly, clearly looking forward to the promise of sleep, but then his eyes found you.
“Wife,” he greeted, but did not move from the doorway staring at you.
“Husband,” you waved your hand to the seat in front of you.
He finally moved forward, to the seat, but he did not touch the drink at first. He took his boots off, glancing up at you every so often as if to make sure you were still there before he finally sat back in his seat. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” he asked, raising a brow as he brought the wine to his mouth.
“What is your issue?” you asked flatly.
He chuckled slightly, “My issue?”
“Do not make me sound the fool. You know just as well as I do what I am referring to,” you said, your arms crossing over your chest. He watched you, his eyes stopping on your chest for a moment before he looked back to your face.
He said nothing, only staring at you, causing you to shake your head as you pushed yourself to your feet. “You request my hand from my father and then we are wed. You bed me, you hold me all night whispering in my ear and then you disappear. You neglected your husbandly duties and I left you, then suddenly I spent a little time with another man and here you are swapping in every chance you get to make sure we are not left alone.”
You continued toward him, standing in front of him, but not within arms reach, “Were you worried that I would bed him? A nice handsome man showing me attention you would not.”
His jaw clenched, but he said nothing staring at you. “You cannot have it both ways, Baelor. You either do your duty as a husband or I find it somewhere else starting with Daeron,” you said.
It was as if something snapped within the collected man as he was on his feet in seconds, his hand moving to your jaw forcing your face up to look at him, “You are playing with fire.”
“I am playing with my husband. You have already slipped up and now I see through you, Baelor. You fucking want me, but won’t let yourself. Why?” you asked.
“Because I was selfish when I asked for your hand. I gave you no choice in the matter. I am giving you one now. I am giving you freedom from being married to an old man.”
“If I wanted fuckign space you would be the first to know trust me. Now you are just being a coward. Do your fucking duty or someone else will.”
“It is more than a duty if we both want it,” he countered, his eyes flicking down to your lips.
You smirked, ‘So, it is, but you are still talking instead–” your words were cut off as his mouth pressed to yours finally claiming you. Your hands moved one resting on the nape of his neck as the other clutched his doublet holding him close, because now that you had his mouth on you again you were never letting him take a step back from you.
This was never about duty. It was about the fact that he had shown you what life could be and then stripped it from you on the very same night. It was about the burning urge that claimed you both when your eyes so much as glanced at the other. The way you hidden between the space that you had created instead of acknowledging what was truly there looming over the pair of you,
“Don’t give me fucking space again,” you hissed as your hands moved unclapsing his doubtlet, pushing it back from his broad shoulders .
He moved to the ties of your dress, “Never again,” he confirmed, his mouth reclaiming yours as each of you took over the other's senses. Nothing beyond the pair of you truly mattered in that moment.
Though it would forever be seen as duty, children, a life together, the pair of you knew the truth, and that was all that mattered. Not the whispering ladies at court who said you were much too young for him nor the doubt that ate both of you away slowly. It was nothing compared to the string that attached you together and the home he had made underneath your ribs without either of you ever realizing. It was never about duty, and would never be anything but the overwhelming sense of love that bloomed between you.
Step uncle Joel Miller x fem!reader x step dad Tommy Miller
Bad Blood Extra || can be read as a stand alone || 4,8k
Summary: feeling sad about leaving Austin and returning to college, you decide to take something with you — a hot sex tape, starring Tommy, you and Joel.
Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, big age gap (reader is 22, Joel and Tommy are in their late and mid-40s), shooting a sex video, cnc, stepcest play, rough sex, mean!Joel, soft!Tommy with darkish vibes, coercion play, slutshaming, mfm, unprotected DVP, m!oral, ass/tit slapping, throat fucking, multiple orgasms, creampies, degradation kink, praise kink, daddy kink, uncle kink (is this a thing?lol), fingering, swearing.
A/n: thank you for this request, nonnie!💞 I hope you’ll enjoy the fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. Lots of affectionate spanking to my baby @milla-frenchy for beta-ing the fic♥️ Happy birthday @nana90azevedo 🎉 💐 Joel, Tommy, Angel and I wish all your wet dreams come true! (Joel added ‘wet’ I apologise for his behaviour) and thank you for your continuous support and love of this series!🥹🫂 Titled after the song by Cigarettes after sex. Dividers by @/enchanthings
Bad Blood Masterlist || MASTERLIST
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Tommy asks, breaking the silence. You two are having lunch on a patio of an Italian restaurant, and usually you’re very chatty but not today. Spinning your fork in a plate of Carbonara, you sigh,
“Last day saddies. I hate to go back. Hate to leave you.”
“Me too, baby. I wish you could stay.” Your boyfriend takes your hand and searches for your eyes. “But soon we’ll always be together, yeah?”
You nod, your face lights up a little. You can’t wait to graduate and move to Austin. Every time you have to return to college you feel like you’re leaving your heart back here. Your last night with Tommy is always restless even if he does his best to tire you out with the most amazing sex.
“What can I do to cheer you up, my love?” Tommy asks carefully and your heart swells hearing his gentle tone, seeing warmth in his eyes which are waiting for an answer. You still can’t get used to how sweet he is.
“This place is great. Thank you for taking me out.”
Tommy leans forward closer to you.
“Maybe you have something else in mind?”
You take a sip of water and think.
“Mm I don’t know.”
Tommy sighs.
“Well, if you think of anything, let me know. I’ll make it happen.”
He gives you a wink and you purr,
“You’re the best, daddy.”
Feeling frisky you glide your foot over his calf under the table and Tommy chuckles, his brown eyes glinting with a naughty spark.
“Bad girl.”
He’s so handsome right now - a white shirt clings to his broad shoulders, his dark curls are moving in the wind. Wishing to capture the moment you take your phone off the table and snap a selfie of you two - a shy smile on Tommy’s face, yours is glowing with love.
Suddenly an idea pops into your head.
“Oh my god! I know! I know what’ll make me feel better!”
Tommy immediately catches your excitement.
“What is it?”
You put your phone down and bite your lip, scared that he’d say no.
“C’mon. Tell me.” Tommy pushes, noticing your hesitation.
“What if.. ehm..we shoot a video?”
Tommy raises his brows.
“Like.. of our day?”
“No, of our night.” Your lips spread into a playful grin and Tommy realizes what you mean.
“Ohhh..”
“Yeahh…” You nod and lean closer to him. Gliding your hand over his muscular arm, you say in a sultry voice, “I’ll watch it back in my dorm when I miss you, daddy…When I’m all alone and needy. So horny for my sexy boyfriend.”
Tommy’s eyes darken, they move to your lips, his cheeks rosy. Then he reaches closer and kisses you.
You melt and gush in your panies as he teases you with light pecks, then swipes his tongue over your lower lip and licks inside your mouth. Two can play this game so being naughty you take his tongue between your lips and suck. Tommy growls and deepens the kiss.
When you part from each other, you both are extremely hungry but not for food.
“Yeah, great idea,” Tommy croaks and takes a swig of his cold beer.
With your pussy still aching, you squeal and clap your hands, attracting attention of some guests.
“What about Joel? Gonna miss him, too?” Tommy asks, taking a bite and glancing at you.
You scoff but the idea of having that hot motherfucker on video makes you lick your lips.
“I won’t miss him-“ you lie, “but… maybe we can invite him?”
“Maybe we can,” Tommy smirks. “Wanna text him?”
“Ok!” You say gleefully and grab your phone.
You have a tripod? You send to the contact named Jerk🍆
You place your phone back, not expecting Joel to answer you soon, that man never checks his messages, but to your surprise your phone vibrates a few seconds later.
Yes. What time we filming?
“What the fuck?” You lift your widened eyes at Tommy. “How does he know what we wanna do? You told him?”
“When? You’ve just come up with the idea.”
“Then how does he..?”
“It’s his superpower,” Tommy chuckles mid-chew. “He’s like a sex psychic. Feels those things instantly.”
Another text from Joel appears on the screen.
??
Shaking your head in awe you text back.
Tonight. Bring the tripod.
It’s 9:30 pm and you’re sitting on Tommy’s bed in his rented apartment. The renovation of his new house is taking longer than he anticipated so he decided to get himself a place. You love this temporary love nest for Tommy and you but you also miss staying at Joel’s. You’ll never admit it though.
The tripod with your phone is standing on the floor by the corner of the bed. The camera is directed at you and already filming, you hit the record button a few moments ago.
The room is dark and like a stage only the bed is illuminated. There are lamps on the nightstands and a bright floor lamp that Joel dragged into the room himself.
“Lightin’ ‘s the most important thing,” Joel stated with expertise in his voice and you wondered how many times he’d used that tripod. And with whom.
To make the atmosphere more sensual you also placed a little mood lamp nearby that now casts a reddish glow onto the bed.
Stage fright makes your stomach churn for a second when you glance at the camera lenses but then you take a deep breath and say loudly,
“Come in!”
Tommy and Joel walk into the room, or rather saunter inside, sex appeal oozing from both of them. Your heart and pussy throb when your eyes slide over your boyfriend. Tommy wanted the video to be special for you so he’s wearing your favorite black shirt with skulls embroidered on the front, white pants, his long hair tied in a man bun. He looks like a snack.
Joel always dresses like a porn star so it’s not surprising that his outfit screams Sex. He’s wearing a barely buttoned shirt over his naked torso and tight dark jeans.
“Howdy, angel.” Joel tips an invisible cowboy hat to you and you roll your eyes at first but then remember the role play you agreed on so you sit up and give the men a sweet smile.
“Hi uncle Joel. Hi daddy.”
You tug down on the hem of a silky robe you have on, feigning modesty, as the men walk around the tripod and come up to you at the opposite sides of the bed.
“Hey, sweetheart. How are you doing?” Tommy coos and sits down next to you. Joel keeps standing, hands on his hips, huge bulge at your eye level.
Tommy brushes away a lock of your hair and your skin erupts with goosebumps at the soft touch.
“All good. Just a little sad.”
“Why's that?”
“I don’t wanna leave home. I’m gonna miss you two. And mom.”
Joel barks a laugh but when you glare up at him he coughs into his hand.
“Yeah,” Tommy sighs. “Maybe we can cheer you up.”
You blink at him with fake ignorance and Joel explains,
“Want a present from your daddy and uncle?”
Joel palms himself and Tommy smirks, throwing his brother a knowing look.
“I love presents!” You exclaim and bounce on the bed, making your robe open up a little and expose more of your cleavage.
“Bet you do, little slut,” Joel mumbles, staring at your tits, but you pretend you haven’t heard it.
“What is it?”
“Oh,” Joel climbs on the bed and kneels at your side. “Give me your hand.”
You bite your lip to hide your smile and offer your hand to him. Joel immediately brings it to his bulge.
“Feel it. It’s right here. Waiting for ya.”
The lump under your hand is stiff as a rock and your mouth waters, remembering all the times you had Joel’s cock and balls between your lips.
“It’s big,” You gasp theatrically and glance at the phone.
“Hell yeah, baby. Wanna see?”
Timidly you put your hand away and drop your head down.
“Mm.. I don’t know..”
“Hey.” Tommy pinches your chin and tilts your head up to face him. His pupils are blown as he says. “It’s so hot tonight. Why don’t you take your robe off?” His black eyes roam your still covered body and you wrap your garment around your torso tighter.
“Mom won’t like it if my stepdad sees me almost naked.”
Tommy takes a sharp breath and Joel groans, bucking his hips in your direction. He cups your cheek and you look at him.
“We won’t tell her, babygirl. No one will know.”
“No one,” Tommy promises and his fingers caress your knee.
You pretend to consider the decision and then nod curtly.
You untie the robe and it slowly slides off your shoulders, pooling on the bed. The men grunt and instinctively move closer to you when you reveal your lingerie - a light pink mesh set with little white hearts. Joel growls, taking you in, but Tommy’s eyes get glossy, his voice croaks and he asks,
“Is it..?”
You nod with a warm smile touched by the fact that he remembers. You were wearing it the first time Tommy and Joel fucked you. After the dinner date. One of the hottest nights of your life.
“You’re beautiful,” Tommy gushes, breaking the character and glides his palm over your arm.
“Thank you, daddy,” you drop your head and stare at your thighs.
Joel rolls his eyes and steers the scene back.
“Still too much clothes, niece. Let me help you.” He reaches behind your back and like a magician unclasps your bra in a blink.
“Joel!” You gasp as it falls down, exposing your naked tits. Your chest heaving, you cover yourself with your hands and shake your head.
“No, I can’t do it.”
You grab your robe but Tommy stops your hand and scoots closer to you.
“Whoah, whoah, sweetie, hold your horses.”
“No daddy, I can’t. It’s wrong. My mom wanted you to be a father figure for me.. not… this,” you mewl, still keeping your hands over your breasts.
Tommy climbs on the bed and kneels by your side. He cranes his body to hug you and his lips brush your ear as he whispers,
“I can be anyone you want, but you’ll need to become my little slut first.”
“Daddy…,” you breathe out, your eyes flutter closed, your core puckers, your panties are getting soaked.
Slowly like two predators circling its prey, the men cage you between their broad bodies. You timidly glance up at them, begging for mercy but their gazes are dark and menacing.
“Uncle, please,” you plead but Joel gives you a carnal smile and grabs his bulge.
“M’sorry, sexy, but you’re getting this present tonight.”
His voice is hoarse and lustful, his breath hot on your neck and breasts and your nipples stiffen up from these invisible kisses. Your eyes dart between the men as they’re staring down at you like hungry wolves at a bunny that has nowhere to run. Heat raises in your core and you almost moan.
“And if I try to leave?” You say, your voice is shaky with arousal but it seems like you’re scared. “You two won’t take me by force, right?”
It’s impossible to hide how much this turns you on, your eyes are glazed over with want. Tommy’s voice is quiet but it holds such power over your body, you start trembling.
“If you ask like a good girl we might let you go.”
Your chest is rising and falling, your pussy aches, and you whimper,
“Please. Let me go.”
Joel scoffs and brings his hand to your hair. Your breathing hitches when he softly scratches your scalp. Suddenly he grabs a handful and yanks your head back, making you gasp. His face hovers over yours as he grunts,
“He said we ‘might’ not ‘will’.”
“No!”
Your palms hit his naked chest, you push him away but to no avail. He keeps you in place with the hand in your hair.
“You leave this room when we say so,” he hisses into your face. “And only when your pussy’s full of our cum, little slut.”
You burn up with hot need and move your eyes to the side to see Tommy change the position and get behind you. A muscular arm wraps around your torso, a hard chest hits your naked back.
“He’s right,” Tommy rasps into your ear as his fingers knead your naked breasts and lightly pull on your nipples. “I was too soft with you, my sweet stepdaughter. Gave you what you wanted. Now we gonna take what we need.”
You’re breathing heavily, your lips parted. You didn’t expect them both to be so good at this game and your pussy leaks into your panties, your clit throbs between your folds, and seeking relief, you grind your pelvis against the bed.
“Look at her, brother,” Joel smirks, noticing your pathetic search for pressure. “Rubbin’ her cunt on the sheets. Gonna leave her snail trails all over.”
Tommy tuts and you cry out as a palm on your back pushes you down. You land on your hands and hastily turn around to make weak attempts to fight the men off.
“No, please, I don’t want it,” you beg, glancing up at the phone, your pussy crying. You can’t wait to watch it later.
“I won’t let you!” You scream but not so loud as to attract the neighbours’ concern. After you try to sit up, Joel puts his hand on your neck and holds you down.
“Like we need your permission, dirty whore,” he barks, slapping your tit and drawing a cry out of you. “Tommy’s right. You turned into a little brat. Daddy, no, uncle, no. Fuck this! Our cocks need milkin’ and you’re the best candidate for the job.”
You’re whimpering and fake-sobbing, ready for the brothers to do whatever they want and shaking with adrenaline.
Tommy leans in and whispers, “Is this ok? You good, my love?”
“Yeah… yes.” You nod eagerly, your voice confident. You want them both to be rough with you so much you might cry.
Tommy’s softness makes you push harder and with a fiery gaze you slap Joel’s hand off your neck and hiss,
“Fuck you both!”
You rush to escape but Tommy grabs you and easily manhandles you onto your front. He pushes you into the mattress, his knee on the back of your thighs. You try to snake away but he grabs your wrists and binds them behind your back with his strong hands. Now you’re helpless with your cheek pressed to the sheets, your arms restricted.
While Tommy’s holding you down, Joel starts undressing. When he’s done, his face appears in front of yours. With a usual assholish smile he coos,
“You were so sad before, angel. Bet ya happy now.”
“Jerk!” The word is muffled by the sheet at your mouth, you’re glaring at him, enjoying every second of this.
“No one’s gonna help you,” Tommy smirks, lovingly gliding his warm hand over your asscheek, your see-through panties not covering anything. “You might cry or beg. Your holes are ours tonight. You’ll be lucky if you can walk tomorrow.”
You whine and squirm on the bed, until Joel slaps your ass and you freeze.
“Quit it, niecy. Or I’ll spank it raw.”
Your pupils dilate and Joel notices.
“Ohhh she wants it, bro.”
Tommy scoffs.
“Of course. Bad girls love to be spanked. And this one is naughty as hell.” Even his degradation sounds sweet in his velvet voice. He follows Joel’s suit and gives your ass a juicy slap. The stroke sends rays of pleasure through your pussy and you moan.
The men laugh and you bite your lip, wishing they’d do it again. But Joel has a better idea.
“We’ll spank you more, when our cocks are ruining your tight cunt.”
“At the same time?” You cry out wishing to give them the idea, barely hiding your excitement.
“Not sure you can take us yet. Let’s check, Tommy.” The younger brother pulls your panties down and slides them down your legs.
“No! Stop!” You scream and thrash around, completely exposed now. You have no chance of overpowering them so it takes seconds for the men to manhandle you in the position they want — your naked ass up in the air, your cheek pressed to the bed, they both holding you down. You flinch when someone’s fingers slide between your folds.
“Fuck, she’s dripping wet.” You hear Joel groan behind you. You moan and whine looking up at the camera.
“Let me see.” Tommy gathers some of your slick and swirls his fingers around your clit once, twice, then stops. Your hole clenches with despair but next second he pushes two fingers inside it and begins scissoring you open, getting you ready for god knows what. You settled on the role play before the night but not the details; you wanted it to be a surprise.
Tommy pulls his fingers out and you hear him suck on them, tasting your wet arousal.
“Still too tight. We’ll split her in two,” he mumbles with his fingers still in the mouth.
“Fuck her open, Tommy.” Joel offers your pussy like you’re a cheap hooker and a half sob half moan escapes your lips. The younger brother pushes your legs wider apart with his knee and settles behind you.
“You’re both fucked in the head!” You cry out and try to get away but fail miserably when Joel places his wide palm on your head and pushes down.
“Naughty kitten,” Tommy growls. His hands grab your hips, fingers dig into your soft flesh.
You hear a belt unbuckling, a zipper opening and like Pavlov’s dog you start salivating. He throws his clothes off and then his hot cock lands on your asscheek. You whimper, ready to be pierced.
“Big breaths, little slut,” Joel smirks. “Gonna hurt less if you relax.”
You fake shaky sobs and squeeze your eyes shut, ready to take the meaty cock of your daddy.
And you take it well. Tommy feeds his length to your cunt slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every rim and vein. He spreads your folds with his thumbs for a better viewing and when his heavy balls hit your pussy you both moan loudly, not hiding how great it feels.
“Damn, sweetie, you’re so tight,” Tommy groans and starts rocking his hips languidly at first, letting you get used to the big cock deep inside you. Joel glides his palm over your back, leaving goosebumps on your skin.
“I’ve fucked lots of cunts, need to test this one out,” he muses and you throw him a glare.
“Man whore,” you spit as jealousy pricks your heart. “Alrighty,” Joel chuckles, “let’s plug this dirty mouth of yours.”
With that he stands on his knees and pulls his dick out. It’s bobbing over your face now, mighty and hard, dropping precum on your cheek, and you want to gobble on it but staying in the role you yell,
“Don’t even think about it! I’ll bite it off!”
“Nah,” Joel smirks, grabbing you by the hair again and pulling your head up and off the bed. “Once you taste this shlong, you’ll ask for more.”
You’re standing on hands and knees now, swaying back and forth with Tommy fucking your pussy. Joel gets in front of you and like a good actor checks if he’s not covering you from the view of the camera. Then he pinches your chin and commands,
“Say Ahhhh. Time to get your present.”
You do it, not without sending him to hell first. Soon you can’t speak though, Joel’s cock taking all the space in your saliva-filled mouth.
The brothers are plowing your holes, sawing their dicks in and out, your eyes crossed from pleasure. Tears are running down your cheeks when Joel pushes his cock all the way into your throat. It’s not your first rodeo so you take his cock like a champ, curling your lips, slurping and drooling. When your lips circle around Joel’s base, his length stuffed in your throat, Joel holds your head in place and grunts,
“Tongue out, angel, lick my balls.” He lifts and holds them pressed to the underside of his cock, on his palm like on a silver platter for you. Your eyes flick to the camera - it better be capturing this. Starting to suffocate, you stick your tongue out under the hard shaft and reach reach reach… until the tip of your tongue glides over the fuzzy skin.
Joel cheers,
“That’s my slut! She’s gifted, Tommy,” he says and both men chuckle. You gag and slap Joel’s thigh. He immediately pulls you off his dick and your saliva streams down your chin and on the bedsheets, your chest heaving as you are wheezing and swallowing air.
“You’re sick,” you croak, your throat fucked already. Your arms and legs are shaking under you, your pussy still being used by Tommy but he’s slowed down, letting you calm down.
Joel pays your comment no mind. He gets off the bed and takes your phone off the tripod.
You understand why when he stands by the side of the bed and directs the camera at your fucked out face, eyes glossy, cheeks tear stricken, lips puffy and wet with spit and Joel’s precum.
“Smileeee,” he sings, mocking you, and when you flip him a bird he chuckles and moves the camera. He starts filming the place where Tommy and you are joined.
“C’mon, little star, show us how good you’re at taking a cock.”
“She’s doing great,” Tommy praises and coos, “Best stepdaughter ever.”
You smile and clench around him, coaxing a groan from the man. Not stopping his thrusts, Tommy leans forward, slides his palm over your juggling ass and arched back, then grabs your asscheeks and spreads them wider apart. You glance back. Joel holds the camera close to your heat and you wish you could see it right now, too — your hole stretched around Tommy’s cock, creaming around his base, you pussy sucking in his fat dick every time he pulls back.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” Joel says, looking at the screen. “Bet we can get good money if we stream it.”
Tommy chuckles between heavy breathing and you lift your head.
“No!! No streaming.”
Joel waves you off with his hand.
“Chill, babygirl. I kid. For now,” he adds under his nose and you whine again.
It gets quiet for some time except for the sounds of skin on skin slapping so you turn your head and see the men discuss something without words. Just gestures and eyes.
Tommy pulls out and slaps your ass.
“On your side.”
“Please, can I go?”
Joel sets the phone back on the tripod and replies to your question.
“Ya feel any cum in your holes, slut? If no, then we ain’t done.”
You sniff and get on your side obediently. Joel plops behind you and big spoons you. His arm bonds you to him, his chest by your back, his lips brush your ear.
“Ready for us?” He nibbles on your earlobe while you’re watching Tommy lie down in front of you.
“Daddy, what are you gonna do?”
“We’re gonna spend some time like a happy family. Together.” He smirks and you swallow loudly.
“Who goes first?” Joel gruffs into your neck and Tommy says,
“I’ll start.” Now he turns to you, “put your leg here.” He pats his hip and you do it, mumbling,
“M’scared.”
“It’s ok, sweetie. Daddy’s here.” Tommy leans forward and your lips meet. Your breath catches as you forget about your role and kiss him back sensually.
While Tommy’s kneading your breast, his tongue deep in your mouth, Joel grumbles and pierces you on his cock from behind.
You moan into Tommy’s mouth, adjusting to the hot rod inside you, and he parts from you.
“I thought I was gonna be first,” he snickers.
“The early cock gets the hole.”
“Isn’t it ‘the early bird’?” you ask and whine when Joel rolls his hips and sends his member deeper into you.
“Don’t be a smart ass,” he gruffs into your ear and stops moving. You glance back with confusion in your blown out eyes and he wiggles his brows up and down.
“Waitin’ for your daddy to join us.”
Your mouth pops open and you gasp when Joel rolls onto his back, pulling you with him, his cock still buried inside you. In a flash you’re lying on top of him, your front up.
“What are you..?” You start asking but Tommy cuts you off when he pushes your legs up and Joel grabs your thighs, opening you up for his brother. Tommy settles over Joel’s legs, his cock bobbing, and asks,
“You’re so full already, baby. Think you can take more?”
You shake your head.
“I can’t, daddy. You’re too big. Both of you.”
“No doubt,” Joel mumbles and snaps his hips up. His tip kisses your cervix and you gasp.
“We can do it. I’ll help.”
Tommy gives you a reassuring smile and draws circles around your clit with his leaky tip.
“Oh daddy,” you moan, clenching around Joel’s shaft, making him groan. Tommy keeps pleasuring you with his fat crown, alternating between massaging your clit and slapping it rhythmically. You can’t hold off the heat rising in your core and soon come on Joel’s cock.
“Fuckkkkkkk,” the older brother moans, squeezing you tight in his arms. “I ain’t gonna last, bro, hurry up.”
“Coming,” Tommy smiles watching you jerk with ecstasy hits, proud of his work. He bends down, keeping his weight on one hand that’s planted on the bed, and nudges your already spread hole with his cockhead.
“Daddy, it won’t fit.” You pant after a delicious orgasm.
“It will, sweetie. You just need to really want it, want your daddy and uncle inside you.”
You flood Joel’s cock with your slick as Tommy pushes his tip inside you, his thumb helping to squeeze it in.
“Fuck she’s tight,” he mutters under his breath but doesn’t give up.
“I’ll help,” Joel says and pinches your clit.
You whine and he laughs before his fingers start rubbing your overstimulated bud. You swap his hand away but he brings it back.
“Don’t — slap! Stop it! I’ll just pet your kitty.” It burns for a few moments but soon under Joel’s skilled fingers the pain turns into pleasure and your hole opens up little by little until Tommy’s head disappears inside you. He moans and keeps thrusting forward while Joel is massaging your puffy clit until Tommy bottoms out as well, joining his brother inside you.
“Oh my… you’re everywhere,” you groan, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. It really feels like this - like they occupy every cell in your body, every nook and cranny.
“Breathe, angel.” Joel reminds you, his big hands cupping your tits. He sounds like he’s on the edge, holding onto the last straw, postponing his climax.
All three of you are panting, bodies glistening with sweat, moaning and grunting in the reddish light of the room.
You flutter your eyes open and look at Tommy hovering over you.
“You can move. Both of you,” you say and Tommy starts fucking you, setting the rhythm for both men. In and out. In and out. In and out.
Joel follows and soon two hard cocks are pumping your poor pussy, stretched to the maximum, crying over them, thumping with your fast heartbeat. Their pushed-together cocks rub every nerve ending you have inside your core and inevitably your walls begin contracting.
Oh fuckkkkk!
Shitttttt!
Aahhhhh!
You moan loudly, the men roar as you start unravelling between them, Joel under you, Tommy over, your pussy squeezing their cocks so hard they almost get pushed out. The brothers keep fucking you through your earth shattering orgasm giving you every last drop of ecstasy.
‘Mgonnacome,” Joel breathes out against your temple and starts spilling his seed against your walls. His dick throbs in your pulsing cunt and Tommy can’t resist any longer. He groans loudly and begins adding his cum to Joel’s inside you. They squirt more and more jizz into your core until it spills out and trickles down your ass and onto Joel’s balls.
All three of you are slowly coming down from your highs, breaths laboured, skin wet with postfuck dew. Sandwiched between the brothers, you lock eyes with Tommy and giggle.
“You did amazing, my love,” he praises you, his face hovering over yours.
“You, too, daddy. I loved every second.”
Joel clears his throat, shifting on the bed under your body, and you roll your eyes and glance back at him.
“You were good, too. Go easy on the jokes next time though.”
“No way. It’s comedy gold in there.”
Three heads turn to your phone which is still filming. Joel slaps your thigh and asks,
“Who wants to watch this shit and then fuck some more?”
Thank you for reading! Please, leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed the story💞
Bad Blood Masterlist || MASTERLIST
Tag list for the series: milla-frenchy @koshkaj-blog @survivingandenduring @/nana90azevedo @mermaidgirl30 @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff @obscurexsorrows @tammythr @ratoonstown @anama-cara @pedge-page @huskyfox-5 @ashleyfilm @stevie75 @untamedheart81 @puduvallee @theoraekenslover @eloquent-dreamer @ashhlsstuff @pinkiec6-rubi @guelyury @mydarlingjoel @604to647
His hands roam over your body in such a possessive way it makes your legs weak. His rough, calloused hands against your smooth and delicate skin feels so erotic.
“Come on, baby. Just a little longer.” His voice rang like honey in your ear. His lips pressed your neck softly as he left a gentle kiss—before suddenly biting down, bringing a sharp sting to your nerves.
It’s been forever. You heard this line an hour ago.
He just could not get enough of you.
You squirmed beneath him helplessly, your body trembling and shaking beneath his. You felt so weak, so controlled, yet you wanted it more and more. The blankets were wrinkled from all of your movement above it.
“You’re so easy to please, ain’t ‘cha? Atta girl. Doin’ so well for me.” He was almost mocking you.
And you loved it. You had to physically restrain yourself from whimpering at his words.
His fingers slid down from your thighs to your sweet, little pussy. His fingers hovered slightly above, feeling the heat that came from it. The smug on his face immediately grew wider at the sight of your wetness.
“Joel.. please..” You whispered, your voice a pathetic mess from his doings.
He scoffed softly before slowly sinking his fingers in. Feeling the warmth inside you, he knew you were just so eager for him. He knew how much you loved this, a single touch would send pleasure throughout your entire body. The slick texture of silk beneath you just made you even more sensitive.
His lips landed on your forehead like feathers, marking you all over with kisses. Your hands tightened around his arms. He hissed silently at the pain of your nails digging into him, but didn’t stop his fingers inside of you. In fact, he went faster.
His fingers fucked you in a quick, steady motion. The thickness grazed against the inside of your pussy deliciously, his fingertips hitting that sweet spot inside of you.
“Close, ain’t ‘cha? C’mon, baby. Let it all out.”
You couldn’t take it anymore.
Your orgasm crashed over you, a wave of pleasure washing over your nerves. Your voice emitted pitiful sounds as you trembled under him. You could hear him say something, but you were enveloped in such intensity that his voice was muffled to your ears. His weight and warmth felt so protective around you. Your voice stuttered as you came down from the high of cumming.
He buried his face in your neck, his breath warm against your skin. After a few seconds, he rose his head slowly to look at your face, adorned with a beautiful, fresh flush that painted you in pink, and small tears that formed in the shape of beads at the corner of your eyes. He smiled at you with a loving gaze.
Pairing/WC/Tags: Jackson!Joel x innocent!reader / 881 / p in v smut, nicknames ‘honey’ ‘babygirl’, legal age gap, inexperienced reader, fluff & smut
A/N: yall been seeing that scent trend on tik tok? I have, so I wrote this based on this specific video LOLZ enjoy
“It’s okay, baby girl.”
Joel smiles down at you, the grey in his beard flashing in the porch light. You chew at your lower lip, eyes dropping to the guitar in your hand. You’d been trying for nearly an hour, the pads of your fingers aching from the metal of the strings and your effort.
“I can’t get it,” you whisper, frustration trickling up your spine. “I just- Joel, I can’t.”
He makes a little frown, his brows raising. “You quittin’ on me?”
“No,” you say quickly, puffing your cheeks out. “I- okay. Tell me again?”
Joel gives you a look, having sensed your thought process a mile away.
“Alright,” he says, shifting closer.
He reaches over and taps your wrist lightly. “Loosen up. You’re holdin’ it like it’s gonna run off on you.”
You let out a small breath through your nose, half a laugh, and ease your grip just a little.
“Better,” he says right away, like he noticed the second it changed. He scoots in closer on the porch step, the guitar settling between you both. His arm brushes yours as he adjusts your fingers on the fretboard one at a time “This one here,” he says, pressing your finger down where it needs to be. “And this one right here. Don’t fight it. Just leave it there.”
You glance down. “It feels wrong.”
“Yeah,” Joel says simply. “It’s gonna. For a bit.”
You look up at him. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”
A faint smirk pulls at his mouth. “Wasn’t tryin’ to reassure you.”
He sits back a little, but not far, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth. He’s still close enough that you can feel him there, his body heat and leather. “Alright. Strum slow. Not like you’re tryin’ to set somethin’ on fire. Just… like you’re talkin’.”
You nod, swallow, and try.
The sound comes out uneven, one string buzzes, another rings clean. You immediately flinch at it.
Joel doesn’t react.
“Again,” he says.
You try again. Still messy, but less so this time. A little closer to something that almost makes sense. He gives a small nod. “There you go.”
Your shoulders drop without you even noticing they were tight.
“See?” he says, softer now. “It ain’t about it soundin’ pretty right away. It’s just your hands learnin’ what to do.”
You stare down at the strings. “My hands feel like they’re working against me.”
“Yeah,” he says, leaning back with a creak of wood. “Mine did too. Still do sometimes.”
“Really?”
“Really, honey.” Your cheeks heat, warmth pooling in your belly as you lean forward, and the scent of the oak guitar fills your nose. Joel leans forward, and his chest brushes your back. “Ready to try again?”
-
“Come on, baby girl, just a little longer.”
You nod frantically, tears slipping down your heated cheeks, babbling out broken pleas for more as Joel’s cock nearly splits you in two.
Nearly.
His hand cups the back of your head, forcing your mouth against his shoulder as he fucks into you at a slower and deeper pace, until your vision blurs and your thighs shake. You gasp, eyes squeezed shut as your walls flutter, your nails digging into Joel’s back.
“Can you give me one more?” He murmurs, his beard tickling your cheek. “Cmon darlin’.”
Your lips part, and Joel groans at the sight of your pink tongue, wet and hot, before shoving his mouth against yours. He kisses you hard, his cock thrusting in and out faster, the sound of skin slapping on skin echoing against the walls of his cabin.
“J-Joel.”
“Yeah, baby?”
The hand in your hair trails down your neck, pawing at your breast before Joel leans up on one arm, the other pressing right below your belly button. When he presses down you gasp, squirming.
“Awh baby,” he hums, and his eyes flutter. “Can feel me in ya. See that? Feel that? That’s me, darlin’.”
Your eyes roll but you try to sit up, try to watch the way his hand presses to your stomach as you pant. He grins, all teeth, before leaning back down and kissing you. The hand on your stomach moves to your hip bone and grips, pressing you down into the mattress as he fucks you into it, his whole weight squeezing the air from your lungs. You can’t breath, can’t think right, and your walls tighten around his length as you come, a moan and a sob exhaling from your throat.
Joel mumbles something, some praise that you can’t make out, and when his hips get sloppy you register it half way, a haze of bliss settling over your sticky skin.
“Did so good baby-“ he murmurs, pressing a reassuring kiss to your neck, your jaw. He’s warm as he slides out of your puffy lips and you whimper, curling into his side. His arm comes around you immediately, and you nestle your head to his chest. “Need to clean ya, baby.”
“In a minute?” You murmur. You know you’re a mess, that you need a shower and to put on your clothes; but all you want as your breathing evens out is to be in his hold.
Joel hums, his mouth pressing to your hair line. “Course, baby. Take all the time you need.”
Ormund Hightower fucking his wife with holy purpose of siring a new heir because the first four kids his first wife gave him are simply not enough and he must show off the power of House Hightower and more babies will surely show the stability of his house.
Ormund Hightower who develops a breeding kink after seeing his wife swell beautifully with his child, her belly round, her breasts filling up with milk to nurse another of his heirs, skin glowing and radiant and that proud glim that appears in her eyes as she rubs her belly.
Ormund Hightower that doesn't stop fucking his wife throughout her pregnancy because her cunt is so deliciously swollen from carrying his babe that he gets even more addicted to it than he was before. Whenever he can he has her on her back or on her hands and knees, careful not to squish her stomach while rutting into her with vigor.
Ormund Hightower who becomes obsessed with his lady wife —spoiling her whenever he can with the softest silks, beautiful new ribbons and sweet, sweet perfume that only makes him want to spend more time with her.
Ormund Hightower finding out he adores the smell of her skin — something entirely hers mixed with the smell of the milk that leaks from her breasts the closer to the due date she is. He loves how she smells, he loves that he partly is the reason of why it's happening.
Ormund Hightower that cannot stop himself from nursing from her breast after the baby is born, latching onto her nipple and drinking the sweet like honey and so so delicious. He loves to lay with her in their bed, head on her chest as she cradle it. It's intimate and so sensual and he loves hearing her gasp and whine while his mouth is closed around her.
Ormund Hightower pretending he has no idea what is happening while maester is surprised that her milk still haven't dried up because their babe is fed by nursemaids so why would his lady wife still produce it?
Ormund Hightower that gets her with another babe as soon as she feels strong enough to bear another, making her swell with his babe again, while carrying a squealing, giggling infant on her hip — a sight that makes his heart swell and a smile to form on his face all by itself
Baelor accidentally reads your diary and discovers the vulnerable desires you never dared confess. Instead of judgment, he offers understanding, honesty, and a promise to cherish every hidden part of your heart—and starting it with bending you over his desk.
WARNINGS; explicit sexual content, baelor does indeed bend you over a desk, he is not subtle, possession, rough sex and then gentle sex, minors dni.
NOW EXCUSE ME WHILST I WATCH WALKING WITH DINOSAURS BECAUSE OUR MAN HERE IS THE FUCKING NARRATOR!
The sunlight of King's Landing filtered through the high, arched windows of the Tower of the Hand, casting long, golden rectangles across the polished mahogany of the great desk.
Dust motes danced in the stillness of the solar, swirling around stacks of parchment and heavy leather-bound ledgers. Baelor Targaryen sat in the high-backed chair, his broad shoulders filling the space.
He had spent the morning immersed in reports from the Reach and the Stormlands, his mind a disciplined machine of statecraft and duty.
Beside a stack of tax records lay a small, unassuming book bound in pale blue leather. It was not a ledger, nor was it a history of the Seven Kingdoms.
It was yours.
You had left it behind in your haste to attend the midday meal with the Queen, a lapse in caution that you would soon regret.
Baelor had no intention of invading your privacy. He respected you, loved you with a quiet, steady intensity, and viewed you as the sanctuary of his life. He had reached for a scroll, but his hand brushed the blue leather, and the book fell open.
His eyes scanned a page of looping, elegant script. He intended to close it immediately, to preserve the sanctity of your inner thoughts.
Then, his gaze snagged on a single sentence.
I crave the weight of him, not as a lover who asks permission, but as a master who claims his prize; I want him to bend me over the very desk where he writes his laws and fuck me until my legs fail and I cannot walk.
Baelor froze. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, heavy with a heat that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun. He stared at the words, reading them again, then a third time.
The image flashed through his mind, you, his sweet, soft-spoken wife, the woman who blushed when he kissed her neck in public, pinned against the wood, your breath hitching in a way that wasn't caused by gentleness.
He turned the page and then the next.
The diary was a map of your hidden hunger. You wrote of the way his broad chest made you feel small and fragile, and how that fragility sparked a desperate need to be overpowered.
You wrote of the silence between you in the bedroom, the polite, tender exchanges of pleasure that left you satisfied but longing for something more visceral.
You described the fantasy of his calloused hands gripping your hips, the sound of your own whimpers turning into screams, and the sight of him losing the legendary Targaryen composure to the raw, animal heat of desire.
Baelor felt a slow, pulsing throb begin in his groin. His trousers tightened, the fabric straining against the sudden hardness of his cock. He had always treated you with a reverence that bordered on the sacred.
He feared his own strength, the sheer physicality of his frame, and he had spent their marriage tempering his passion to ensure he never overwhelmed you. He had been the perfect husband; patient, kind, and careful.
He looked at the desk. He looked at the heavy oak surface, the inkwells, the scattered papers. He imagined you there. He imagined the sound of your skin slapping against the wood, the scent of your arousal mixing with the smell of old parchment.
A small, predatory smile touched his lips. He closed the book with a soft thud and set it exactly where he had found it, though he did not move from the chair.
He waited.
The sound of your footsteps echoed in the hallway, light and hurried. The heavy oak door creaked open, and you stepped inside, your silk gown of pale cream shimmering in the light. You stopped short when you saw him, your chest rising and falling in a quick rhythm.
“Baelor,” you breathed, your voice soft. “I realized I left my journal here. I hope you didn't...”
You trailed off, your eyes falling on the blue leather book. Baelor did not speak. He simply watched you, his mismatched eyes dark, the pupils dilated until the blue and brown of his irises was a thin, shimmering ring.
The intensity of his gaze pinned you to the spot. “Did you see it?” you asked, your voice trembling as you took another step into the room, eyes wide and lips parted.
Baelor stood up. He was a towering presence, his silhouette blocking out the sun. He moved toward you, not with his usual measured grace, but with a slow, deliberate prowl. Each step sounded like a heartbeat against the stone floor.
“I saw many things,” Baelor said. His voice had dropped an octave, vibrating with a low, gravelly resonance that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “I saw things my sweet, innocent wife had been hiding from me.”
“I... I didn't mean for you to read that,” you whispered. “It was just... fantasies.”
Baelor stopped inches from you. The heat radiating from his body was an oven, smelling of cedar, expensive ink, and masculine musk.
He reached out, his large hand wrapping around the nape of your neck. His grip wasn't painful, but it was firm, possessive, leaving no room for retreat. He tilted your head back, forcing you to look up into the storm of his expression.
“Fantasies,” he repeated, his thumb brushing over your jawline. “You wrote that you didn't want softness. You wrote that you wanted to be claimed.”
You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “Baelor...”
“Do you still want it?” he asked, his voice a low command. “Do you still want your husband to stop being gentle?”
You couldn't speak, but could only nod, a small, frantic movement. The admission broke the last shred of his restraint.
You backed away, your heels clicking against the floor, until the small of your back hit the edge of the mahogany desk. You gasped, your hands flying up to your chest. The panic in your eyes was there, but beneath it, a spark of electric anticipation ignited.
Baelor's hand shifted from your neck to your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip. With one sudden, powerful motion, he gripped your shoulders, spun you around and shoved you forward.
You let out a sharp cry as your stomach hit the mahogany desk. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, and you found yourself sprawled across the wood, your chest pressed against the cool surface, your hips tilted upward.
The position was vulnerable, exposing and raw.
“Look at the desk,” Baelor commanded, his voice right at your ear. “Look at where you wanted this to happen.”
You looked, your vision blurring as you saw the inkwell wobble from the force of your landing. You felt his body press against your back, a wall of hard muscle and heat.
He didn't kiss you.
He didn't whisper sweet nothings, but instead, he reached down and gripped the hem of your cream silk gown.
The sound of fabric rending filled the room. He didn't slide the dress up; he tore it. The silk groaned and gave way, ripping from the waist down to your thighs.
The cool air of the solar hit your bare skin, making your nipples harden against the desk. You whimpered, a sound of pure, unadulterated want.
“You've been so quiet in our bed,” Baelor murmured, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “So polite. I wondered why you always seemed to be holding something back.”
He reached around, his hand sliding between your thighs, he did not tease, he did not linger, but without warning, he had pushed aside your smallclothes and shoved two thick fingers deep into your heat, finding you already drenched.
The sound was a wet, visceral squelch that echoed in the quiet room. “You're soaking,” he noted, his voice devoid of its usual softness. “You've been thinking about this while I was reading reports. While I was playing the dutiful prince.”
He withdrew his fingers and you felt the sudden absence like a wound. You arched your back, your hips instinctively seeking him.
“Please,” you gasped. “Baelor, please.”
“Please what?” he asked, his hand moving to grip your hair, pulling your head back so you had to look at him over your shoulder. “Tell me exactly what you want, since you were so brave in your writing.”
“I want you to fuck me,” you sobbed, the shame melting into a fierce, burning desire. “I want you to take me. Hard. Don't be gentle. Please, don't be gentle.”
Baelor let out a low, guttural growl. He reached for his belt, the leather creaking as he unbuckled it with efficient, hurried movements. He shoved his breeches down, and you heard the heavy thud of his cock springing free.
You didn't have to see it to know the size of him; you could feel the heat radiating from the length of him as he pressed it against the crack of your ass.
He was massive, a thick, pulsing vein thrumming against your skin. He didn't use lubrication; he didn't need to. Your own arousal was a slick lubricant, coating your folds. Baelor gripped your hips, his fingers bruising your skin, and aligned the head of his cock with your opening.
He thrust.
The entry was a violent, singular motion. You screamed, a loud, echoing sound that would have shocked anyone outside the door, but in this room, it was the only music that mattered. He buried himself in you in one go, his cock stretching your walls to the absolute limit.
The sensation was overwhelming, a mixture of pressure and piercing pleasure that made your vision go white.
You felt the air being pushed out of your lungs as your chest slammed back down onto the desk. Baelor didn't give you time to adjust. He began to move, his thrusts deep and punishing.
Shlick. Squelch. Slap.
The sounds of their union were loud and vulgar. Each time he drove forward, his balls slapped hard against your perineum, a rhythmic, meaty thud that vibrated through your entire body. The friction was intense, the head of his cock rubbing against your cervix with every deep plunge.
“Is this what you wanted?” Baelor roared, his composure entirely gone. “Is this the weight you craved?”
“Yes!” you shrieked, your fingers clawing at the mahogany, leaving scratches in the expensive wood. “Yes, more! Harder!”
Baelor obliged as he shifted his grip, hooking his arms under your armpits and pulling your upper body slightly off the desk, angling your pelvis to take him even deeper.
The change in angle allowed him to hit a spot deep inside you that made your toes curl and your mind fracture.
The pace accelerated, for he was no longer a prince; he was a predator, a dragon claiming its hoard, his thrusts became frantic, overzealous, the force of his movement caused him to slip out almost entirely, the wet, sucking sound of his cock leaving your body echoing in the room, only for him to slam back in with a force that made the desk slide several inches across the stone floor.
“Gods, you're so tight,” Baelor groaned, his voice a ragged edge. “You're squeezing me... you're trying to drain me dry.”
You couldn't answer as you were lost in a sea of sensation. The feeling of the hard wood beneath you and the hard man behind you created a vice of pleasure. You could feel the sweat dripping from his forehead onto your back, the saltiness of it mixing with the scent of sex.
He began to grind his hips, his pubic bone smashing against your backside with every stroke. The friction on your clitoris, though indirect, was enough to send you spiraling. You felt the tension building in your lower belly, a coil of heat tightening until it was unbearable.
“I'm... I'm going to...” you gasped, your voice breaking.
“Not yet,” Baelor commanded, his voice a low snap. He reached around and gripped your clit between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it with a brutal, fast intensity.
The combination was too much. Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, a series of violent spasms that gripped your internals, squeezing his cock in rhythmic waves. You wailed, your body shuddering, your head tossing from side to side as the pleasure ripped through you.
Baelor let out a choked sound, his own climax imminent. He stopped the grinding and went back to the deep, piston-like thrusts, each one more desperate than the last. He was panting, his breath coming in ragged gulps, his muscles corded and straining.
“Fuck, look at what you have done to me, my sweet girl, I intend to fill you to the brim with my seed and take you over and over again," he groaned, the words almost a plea.
With one final, devastating thrust, Baelor buried himself to the hilt. He stiffened, his entire body locking up as he erupted. You felt the hot, thick jets of his seed hitting your cervix, filling you to the brim.
He didn't pull away, he stayed pinned inside you, his chest heaving against your back, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your spine.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of their synchronized, labored breathing. The room felt different, the air charged, the sanctity of the solar replaced by something primal and honest.
Slowly, Baelor began to relax. He didn't pull out immediately. He leaned down, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the nape of your neck, his lips soft and warm. The contrast was jarring, the sudden return of the gentle husband after the storm of the master.
He slid out of you with a wet, lingering pop. You collapsed onto the desk, your limbs feeling like lead, your breath still coming in shallow hitches. You were shaking, a fine tremor running through your muscles.
Baelor stepped back and looked at you. Your dress was ruined, your hair a wild tangle, your skin flushed a deep rose. You looked broken, claimed, and utterly satisfied.
He reached down and picked up the blue leather diary. He didn't hand it back. Instead, he tucked it under his arm. “I think I'll keep this for a while,” Baelor said, his voice returning to its princely calm, though a hint of the gravel remained. “I find I have a sudden interest in your... literary pursuits.”
You rolled onto your side, looking up at him. You felt a strange mixture of vulnerability and empowerment. The secret was out, and instead of judgment, you had found a hunger that matched your own.
“You read the whole thing?” you whispered.
Baelor smiled, a slow, knowing expression. He reached down and offered you his hand, pulling you up from the desk with effortless strength and as you stood, you felt the warmth of his seed leaking from you, a sticky reminder of the last hour.
You tried to take a step toward him, but your knees buckled, your legs truly unable to support your weight.
Baelor caught you, sweeping you into his arms and holding you tight against his chest. He looked down at you, his eyes shimmering with an affection that was now laced with a new, dangerous understanding. “You said you wanted to be unable to walk,” he murmured, kissing your forehead. “I believe I have fulfilled the request.”
You leaned your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes. The Red Keep continued to hum with the business of the crown outside the door, but inside the solar, a new treaty had been signed.
“Will you do it again?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
Baelor began to carry you toward the bedroom, his stride confident and strong. “My sweet, innocent wife,” he said, his voice vibrating through your chest. “I intend to spend the rest of our lives exploring every single page of that book.”
As he laid you down on the silk sheets of your bed, the sunlight had shifted, leaving the solar in shadow. But in the bedroom, the fire was just beginning to burn. Baelor stripped away the remains of your gown, his eyes roaming over your body with a possessive hunger that made you ache all over again.
He didn't start with kisses. He started by pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, his weight pressing you into the mattress.
“Now,” he whispered, his lips brushing against yours. “Tell me what else you wrote. Tell me everything you've been craving while I was being a gentleman.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but he silenced you with a kiss, not a gentle one, but a deep, demanding exchange of saliva and heat.
His tongue pushed into your mouth, claiming your space, sucking on your tongue with a hunger that mirrored the act on the desk. You moaned into the kiss, your hips lifting instinctively, searching for the hardness you knew was waiting for you.
He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down to your throat, biting softly at the sensitive skin.
“I want to hear you say it,” he commanded.
“I want... I want you to take me however you want,” you gasped, your voice trembling. “I want to be yours, completely, no more politeness and no more hesitation.”
Baelor paused, his gaze locking onto yours. The love in his eyes was still there, but it was now intertwined with a raw, dominant energy that made you feel like the only woman in the world.
“As you wish,” he said.
He moved down your body, his hands exploring every curve, every fold, with a renewed sense of purpose. He spent a long time with his tongue, tasting you, swirling around your clit until you were sobbing and begging for him to fill the void.
He played you like an instrument, knowing exactly where to press, how to suck, and when to tease and when he finally entered you again, it wasn't with the violence of the desk, but with a slow, agonizing deliberation. He pushed inside inch by inch, watching your face as you stretched to accommodate him. He wanted to see the pleasure, the slight pain, and the utter surrender in your eyes.
The sex in the bed was different, longer, more intimate, but no less intense. He explored every position, bending you, twisting you, making sure you felt every single inch of him.
He was attentive to your needs, but he dictated the pace, the rhythm, and the depth, his cock dragging deliciously through every crevice within the warmth of your cunt. “Fucking take it,” Baelor groaned into your ear, “This is what you wanted, isn't it? I am but a husband fulfilling his sweet wife's desires, so do not fucking hide from me, as you've learnt what I am capable of when you hide from me.”
Your breath hitched, a broken sob of pleasure escaping your lips as Baelor’s words sank in. The threat wrapped in affection was a catalyst, sending a fresh surge of heat flooding your pussy.
You arched your back, pressing your chest hard against the sheets, offering yourself up to him completely. You didn't dare hide; the memory of his previous punishments, the way he broke your resolve until you were begging for mercy, was enough to keep you wide open and trembling.
Baelor didn't give you a moment to recover. He gripped your hips with bruising force, his fingers digging into your skin to anchor you as he shifted his angle.
He withdrew almost entirely, the head of his cock teasing the very entrance of your cunt, before slamming back inside with a wet, heavy thud that knocked the air from your lungs.
“Look at you,” he growled, his voice a low vibration against your skin. “Shaking for me. So desperate to be filled.”
He began to drive into you with a relentless, punishing rhythm. Each thrust was calculated, designed to hit that part of you that made your eyes cross together with brutal precision.
The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a rhythmic percussion to your whimpers. He wasn't just fucking you, he was claiming every inch of your interior, stretching you wide and filling you to the absolute limit.
As he hammered into you, Baelor reached around, his large hand finding your clit and grinding against it with a firm, demanding pressure. The dual stimulation was overwhelming. You felt your walls pulsing, clamping down on his thick shaft in tight, involuntary spasms.
“That's it, squeeze me,” he hissed, his pace accelerating into a frenzied blur of friction and heat. “Take every fucking inch of it. Let me feel how much you need your husband.”
You were spiraling, the tension building in your lower belly until it became an unbearable ache.
You tried to push back against him, seeking more of that crushing depth, but he shifted his weight, pinning you flat and asserting total control over the movement.
He slowed down for a heartbeat, dragging his cock slowly, agonizingly, through the slick walls of your pussy, savoring the way you whimpered in frustration.
Then, he surged forward one last time, burying himself deep enough to touch your cervix. He held himself there, pulsing inside you, as he felt your orgasm shatter through you in violent waves.
“Baelor!” you screamed into the pillow, Baelor let out a guttural roar, his own release hitting him as he pumped load after load of hot cum deep into your womb, filling you to overflowing while he held you pinned, ensuring you felt every drop of his dominance.
Hours later, as the moon rose over the Blackwater Bay and cast a silvery glow over the Red Keep, you lay entwined in his arms. You were exhausted, your body humming with a lingering electricity, your skin smelling of salt and sex.
Baelor held you close, his chin resting on the top of your head. He was quiet, his breathing steady and calm. “Are you alright?” he asked softly.
You shifted, feeling the soreness in your hips and the pleasant ache in your core. You smiled, pressing a kiss to his chest. “I've never been better,” you replied.
He tightened his grip, a small, possessive gesture. “Good,” Baelor whispered. “Because I've been thinking about the chapter where you mentioned the gardens. I think it's time we started a new entry.”
You shivered, not from cold, but from the thrill of knowing that your husband, the perfect prince, had finally discovered the darkness you carried and that he loved it even more than he loved the light.
The Tower of the Hand had always been a place of law and order, but for the first time in its history, it had become a sanctuary for the beautifully undone.
description — you hitch hike to escape your small town, but the man that picks you up isn't the savior you initially see him as.
word count — 11,886
tags — dead dove do not eat!!! smut, noncon, age gap, drugging, perv joel obviously, body betrayal, throat-fking, creampie, forced breeding, what else is there to miss? oh, he spits in your mouth once. this is actually evil and entirely self-indulgent. read at your own risk. this is not meant to romanticize or promote the behavior written and is purely fantasy. THIS GETS SUPER DARK SUPER FAST, BEWARE !!!!
notes — this has been hiding away in my wips for almost a year, and I finally rushed out the ending. so yeah, kinda sucks near the end, but i was gooning writing it, so sue me.
You sighed sharply, letting your arm fall to your side for what felt like the hundredth time. The weight of the sun pressed heavily on your shoulders, the heat clinging to you like a second skin. A warm breeze teased strands of your damp hair from your face, a mercy against the uv rays. Tilting your head back, you gazed at the expanse of blue sky that had darkened in the hours you stood on the side of the road, your patience steadily unraveling like an old, worn thread.
How hard could it be to hitch a damn ride?
All you wanted was to escape the stifling monotony of this rundown, bumfuck-nowhere town. Where time seemed to crawl and every day bled into the next. There was nothing to do except drink cheap beer in collapsing barns with the people your age you could tolerate—which, frankly, wasn’t many. Your graduating class had barely scraped together two hundred students, and most of them were already neck-deep in their great-grandparents’ conservative, redneck ideologies, content to stay trapped in the same traditional, endless loop you were desperate to escape.
Entertainment options were laughably slim, unless you counted gossiping at the diner or staring at the peeling wallpaper of your living room. The highlight of the week was usually a herd of cattle escaping or a barn dance, where everyone pretended their lives weren’t as dull as dishwater.
It was no wonder that generations before had filled their houses to the brim with children. After all, raising a family gave them something to do, a purpose to cling to in the otherwise monotonous grind of small-town life. And maybe, just maybe, it helped fill the silence that crept in at night, the kind that even wolf songs couldn’t drown out.
It wasn’t all bad, you supposed. At night, the air hummed with the songs of frogs and crickets, a sound that felt almost sacred. The stars lit up the sky in a way that was impossible to see from the city, their light twinkling like scattered diamonds. Fireflies blinked alongside them, tiny, fleeting beacons in the dark. Those moments, rare and quiet, made this place almost bearable.
Almost.
But Christ on a cross, when the sun rose, it brought the same crushing realization: there was nothing for you here. Nothing except Sunday mornings at church, where people whispered behind hymnals and dissected the sins of their neighbors, the same people they'd smile brightly at as they prayed for blessings to come to them. At least they handed out free donuts. Small mercies, you thought bitterly, kicking at a loose pebble on the cracked asphalt beneath your feet.
You adjusted the straps of your backpack, the weight of it pressing uncomfortably against your spine. The highway stretched ahead in an unbroken line, a mirage shimmering in the distance, promising freedom just out of reach. All you needed was someone to pull over, just one car willing to take you somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t here.
You even went so far as to wear the most revealing clothes you could find, not that your wardrobe had much to offer in that department. A perverted driver was still a driver, and at this point, you were desperate. You’d taken scissors to an old shirt, hacking it into a crop top that bared your midriff. The fabric was frayed and uneven, but it did the job. Your shorts were another matter entirely, uncomfortably tight and clearly too small, leftovers from when you were a kid. The waistband dug into your skin, and you had to keep tugging them down to avoid cutting off circulation.
God forbid any girl showed an ounce of skin in this town. The stares you got on your way out were enough to make you want to sprint out, but you were banking on that very same scrutiny to catch the attention of a passing car. Modesty might have been the golden rule here, but you weren’t above breaking it if it got you out of this dead-end stretch of nowhere.
You felt ridiculous, humiliated even, but the thought of staying here was far worse than enduring the leering eyes of some old man. You were used to that already. Men in this town had a way of looking at you like you were an object on a shelf they might pick up, inspect, and set back down when they were done. You’d learned to ignore it, to shrug off the uncomfortable heat of their stares and the muttered comments you pretended not to hear.
This was just more of the same, except now you were using it to your advantage. If showing a little skin meant one of those creeps would stop and offer you a ride out of this godforsaken town, then so be it. Dignity wasn’t exactly high on your list of priorities right now—freedom was.
If only one of these fuckers would actually stop. You’d been standing here long enough to feel the sunburn creeping across your shoulders, sweat pooling at the small of your back. You threw your arm out every time, trying to look as pitiful, or enticing, as possible, but all you got in return were waves of hot air as they sped by.
Was it just your town where men stared at women like predators? Or was that just how men were everywhere? You had no way of knowing. Your entire life had been spent here, in this suffocating bubble of prying eyes and wagging tongues. Sometimes you wondered if the rest of the world was different, or if the same lecherous glances and whispered judgments waited for you on the other side of this horizon.
Still, staying here wasn’t an option. Even if the grass wasn’t greener anywhere else, at least it would be different grass. And different was all you were asking for.
You were snapped out of your thoughts by the thunderous roar of an engine, deep and rumbling, shaking the stillness of the road. A semi. Your heart leapt, both with hope and a twinge of unease. You’d heard the stories, truck drivers were lonely old men who’d fuck anything with a heartbeat, and even that was a stretch. The thought made your stomach twist, but desperation outweighed caution.
Throwing your arm out again, thumb raised high, you focused on the massive vehicle barreling toward you. The sheer size of it was almost intimidating, the largest thing you’d seen on the road. Its grill gleamed in the sunlight like a steel beast, and you could already hear the hiss of brakes as it began to slow down.
This was it. Maybe luck was finally on your side—or maybe you were about to make the worst mistake of your life. Either way, it wasn’t like you had much to lose.
The semi groaned to a stop a few yards ahead of you, its engine idling. The driver’s side door creaked open, and out stepped a man, an old man, just as you’d expected.
His hair was almost completely gray, though uneven splotches of the lighter color dotted his scruffy beard like it couldn’t decide whether to age gracefully or not.
The glare of the sun bounced off the truck, making it hard to get a clear look at him, but you could tell enough. He was much larger than you, his frame broad and solid like he’d spent his life lifting things far heavier than the backpack you hauled. His hair had a slight curl to it, messy and unkempt, like he hadn’t seen a comb in days.
He tilted his head toward the passenger side, gesturing with his chin as he spoke. His voice was deep, slow, and unmistakably southern.
"Well, don’t just stand there, girl. You need a ride or what?"
There wasn’t much kindness in his tone, but there wasn’t any malice, either. Just a bluntness that matched the heat of the day. Your hesitation lingered for a moment before you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.
You all but scaled up the side of the truck, your legs shaky from a mix of exhaustion and the strain of hauling yourself up. The heat of the day clung to you, making every movement feel heavier than it should have. By the time you managed to get one foot inside, your muscles were screaming in protest.
The older man was already back in his seat, one wrist draped lazily over the steering wheel. He chewed on a wad of tobacco, the sound wet and unmannered as he watched you crawl in with a measured gaze. His eyes flickered up and down your figure, lingering just long enough to make your skin crawl. You swore you saw his hand shift subtly, adjusting himself as a low groan escaped your lips from the effort.
You settled into the passenger seat, the cracked leather sticking to your bare thighs. His stare lingered for a moment too long at the way they expanded before he finally spit into an old plastic bottle by his side.
“Where ya headin’, sweetheart?” he drawled, his lips curling into a half-smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.
Now that the sun was no longer blinding you, you could finally get a good look at him. To your surprise, he wasn’t all that bad-looking. In fact, he was quite handsome in a rugged, weathered sort of way. His deep chocolate-brown eyes had a sad look to them, like they had seen more than they cared to share. His nose was prominent, giving his face a bold, defined structure that worked with the lines etched into his skin. Those wrinkles, instead of detracting from his appearance like you'd expect them too, seemed to enhance his features.
Your eyes flicked to his hands resting on the wheel. They were large, rough-looking, the scarred, calloused kind of hands that did hard labor. An old, scratched watch clung to his wrist, the leather strap worn and glass cracked, but still functional.
Practical, like him, you figured.
Despite the circumstances, you found yourself momentarily distracted by his appearance.
“Well?” he asked again, the smirk on his face still lingering as he spit tobacco into his bottle. “Where ya headed?”
You hesitated, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat. “Anywhere but here,” you muttered, your voice low but firm.
He chuckled at that, a low rumble that seemed to reverberate through the cab. “Fair enough. Lucky for you, I ain’t goin’ anywhere near here for a good long while. Buckle up, sweetheart.”
You slid your backpack off your shoulders, letting it rest on your lap as your fingers found the charms hanging from the zippers. You twisted them absentmindedly, trying to occupy your mind and ignore the creeping weight of his gaze. The truck didn't move. Confused, you glanced at the gear shift, expecting to see his hand on it. Instead, his hand rested on his thigh, his fingers tapping lazily against his jeans.
Looking up, you caught him staring at you again, his dark eyes locked on yours for a moment before shifting downward. He sighed, tilting his head slightly like he was deciding what to do next. Without saying a word, he leaned toward you.
Your breath hitched as he closed the space between you, his face so close you could almost feel the faint stubble on his jaw and the silver strands in his hair. His arm brushed your shoulder as he reached for your seatbelt.
"Seatbelt's stuck," he muttered, though you hadn't even tried to buckle it yourself. His large hands gripped the strap and gave it a few tugs, his breath fanning across your cheek as he grunted, the plastic clicked before the webbing slid free and he pulled it across your chest.
The motion seemed smooth at first, but you stiffened when his knuckles grazed the curve of your breast. He didn't pause or acknowledge it. His gaze wasn't on the seatbelt or even his hands, it was fixed lower, right where the strap pressed against your chest. His eyes lingered there shamelessly.
He adjusted the strap, tugging it tighter against your chest, his fingers brushing over the swell more than once. The way he moved was deliberate, too slow to be casual, like he was testing how far he could push before you said something.
It didn't feel accidental, but it wasn't obvious enough for you to call him out on it, either. Your throat tightened, and you froze, unsure whether to flinch or let him finish.
“There,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, as he clicked the belt into place. For a moment, he didn’t move, his face lingering close enough for you to see the faint lines around his eyes and the uneven streaks of gray in his beard. Then, without a word, he leaned back into his seat with a grunt, as though the small task had been a chore.
His hand moved to the gear shift, and the truck rumbled forward, pulling onto the road with a jolt. “Can’t have you flyin’ out the windshield,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.
You didn’t respond, your heart still racing from the unnecessary closeness. Staring out the window, you gripped the straps of your backpack tightly, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of his hands, unease prickling along your skin.
Joel glanced at the cracked dashboard clock, tapping it lightly with his knuckle as if that would somehow make the time change. "We’ll probably hit a truck stop in a few hours," he said, his voice breaking the long silence in the cab.
He finally broke the silence with a grunt and a glance at the dashboard. “’Bout two ‘til we hit the next one,” he said, shifting in his seat and rolling his neck like it ached. “Gonna pull in there, grab some food. Might get a room if the lot ain’t full.”
You didn’t look at him, just nodded a little, eyes fixed on the streak of pavement disappearing beneath the truck. “Okay.”
He glanced at you then, like he was waiting for more. When you didn’t say anything, he added, “They got showers too, y’know. Clean ones. Not five-star or nothin’, but they get the job done.”
“Cool,” you murmured, trying to sound neutral, like you weren’t clocking every word.
Then he smirked a little—just a flicker, barely there, but you caught it. “Don’t worry, you can have your own bed,” he said, voice low, tone meant to be reassuring but sitting wrong in your gut. “Unless, uh... you’d rather save a few bucks.”
You turned to look at him, your expression unreadable. “I’ve got cash,” you said, flatly.
“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Joel said with a chuckle, eyes flicking to your chest again, not even subtle about it this time. “Just jokin’ around.”
You looked away, jaw tightening.
He scratched his beard, shifting in his seat again. “You’re real quiet,” he said after a moment. “Kinda figured a girl like you’d be more talkative.”
“A girl like me?” you asked, without looking at him.
“Yeah,” he drawled, his tone casual as his fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “C’mon you ain't exactly dressed for church, honey.” He turned to you with a grin.
You rolled your eyes before you forced yourself to focus on the landscape outside, the golden hues of the setting sun casting long shadows across the empty fields. But even as you tried to tune him out, you could feel his gaze darting toward you. It wasn’t constant, but it was enough to set your nerves on edge—quick, almost imperceptible glances at your legs, your chest, the curve of your neck.
Every time you caught him, he shifted slightly, like he hadn’t been looking at all. His fingers rubbed idly against his thigh, the movement subtle but deliberate.
“Don’t get too quiet on me now,” he said after a moment, his voice breaking the uneasy silence. “A guy can only handle so much quiet before he starts gettin’ lonely.”
You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m just tired,” you muttered, hoping that would be enough to end the conversation.
“Tired, huh?” Joel’s smirk widened as he leaned back in his seat, one hand lazily adjusting his belt. “Bet you’ve had a long day, stickin’ that pretty thumb out on the highway. Lucky for you I came along. Not everyone out here’s as friendly as me.”
The way he said “friendly” made your stomach churn. You shifted in your seat, pretending to adjust your backpack as an excuse to look away. “Yeah,” you said flatly, unsure of what else to say.
He chuckled again, a deep, gravelly sound that filled the cab. “You know,” he started, his tone turning thoughtful, “truck stops ain’t so bad. Some of ’em even got little diners... Hell, if you’re lucky, you might even find a little entertainment.”
You glanced at him sharply, but he kept his eyes on the road, his expression unreadable. You gritted your teeth, damn religious upbringings, you forced yourself to be polite and dryly humor his conversation. “What kind of entertainment?”
Joel shrugged, his fingers still idly tapping his thigh. “Depends on the stop. Some got TVs, little gift shops... and sometimes, you meet interestin’ people. Y’know, folks passin’ through, lookin’ for a little... company.”
Your pulse quickened, and you swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m not really looking for company,” you said quickly.
His grin widened, and he let out another low chuckle. “Didn’t think you were, sweetheart.”
You turned back to the window, your heart pounding as the shadows outside grew longer. The truck rumbled on, the uneasy tension between you thickening with every mile.
The truck’s turn signal clicked lazily, a rhythmic tick that cut through the hum of the engine as Joel guided the semi off the highway and into the glow of the truck stop.
The lights hit first, flickering fluorescents mounted on leaning poles, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The parking lot was littered with rigs and pickups, a few scattered sedans, and the occasional figure ducking in and out of the convenience store’s heavy glass doors. Beyond that, a rundown diner and a flickering neon sign that buzzed louder than it glowed. It wasn’t much, two diesel pumps, a few bent metal benches out front, and a crooked billboard advertising pie that probably hadn’t been served fresh since the Reagan administration, and behind it, the shape of a small roadside motel slumped under a sagging roofline.
Joel shifted the truck into park with a heavy hand and let out a grunt, stretching his arms above his head until his back cracked. His faded shirt lifted just enough to reveal a strip of his stomach, leathery and scarred. He caught you looking, not at that, exactly, just observing the place, but he smirked like you’d been staring.
“Not bad, huh?” he said, pulling the key out of the ignition. “Cozy little stopover.”
You looked out at the rows of trucks and diesel pumps, trying not to fidget. The stillness inside the cab after the engine died was sudden, as if the noise from the it had been cushioning something you didn’t want to feel.
You said nothing, unbuckling your seatbelt with a quick snap and reaching for your backpack, your fingers finding those familiar charms again. You rolled one between your thumb and forefinger, grounding yourself. The tension in your chest hadn’t left since you climbed into the truck. If anything, it’d only settled deeper.
Joel opened his door and climbed out with a grunt. “Food’s better than it looks,” he said over the roar of the diesel engine cooling off. “Diner’s got burgers, eggs, hash. All the heart-attack bullshit you could ever want.”
You followed after a beat, the door heavier than you expected. He waited for you at the base of the steps, one hand resting on the open door like he was holding it open for a date. You stepped down, trying not to flinch as his eyes moved with you, tracking every inch.
You stared past him at the diner, its windows fogged and glowing yellow under too-dim lights. A man smoked on a bench by the door. He looked tired. Everyone here did.
Joel jerked his chin toward the motel attached to the back of the lot. “Gonna check if they got any rooms left,” he said, spitting a wad of his chewing tobacco into the dirt. “You hungry, or what?”
“Yeah,” you said, your voice flatter than you intended. “Starving.”
He grinned at that, like it pleased him. “Go on then, I'll meet'cha.”
Inside, the diner smelled like grease and bleach, two things that didn’t mix well. The waitress behind the counter didn’t look up when you entered, too focused on a crossword puzzle. Joel slid into a booth a few minutes after you had, patting the cracked vinyl across from him.
The seat felt sticky. He leaned back, one arm stretched lazily across the backrest like he owned the place, the other already reaching for a menu he clearly didn’t need.
“Go ahead,” he said, nodding at you. “Order whatever. I’ll cover it.”
You eyed him, unsure if it was kindness or another invisible string. He caught your look and smirked.
“C’mon. Not tryna poison you. Just don’t like eatin’ alone.”
You nodded slowly, glancing down at the menu as he watched you over the top of his.
Joel leaned back in the booth, the vinyl seat creaking under his weight. One arm sprawled across the top, the other cradling his plastic cup of water. He let out a long sigh, an exaggerated exhale, like he was trying to be noticed.
“Been on the road five weeks straight,” he muttered, glancing out the window like he might spot someone he used to know. “Start talkin’ to myself if I don’t get some damn conversation.”
You looked up, cautious. He smiled, but it was thin. Forced.
“Life gets quiet when you get to my age. Too damn quiet, sometimes,” he said, fingers tapping idly against the side of his cup. “Wife gone. Kids don’t call. Truck’s about the only thing still wants me 'round.”
He chuckled softly, but there wasn’t much humor in it. More like he expected a certain reaction and didn’t care if it was genuine.
“That’s why I don’t mind pickin’ up company when I can,” he added, taking a sip and eyeing you over the rim. “Makes the road feel less... long.”
You didn’t respond, just nodded faintly. He didn’t seem to care—he’d already settled into his little performance.
“Not askin’ for much,” Joel went on, looking down at his calloused hands. “Just someone to talk to. Hearin’ a pretty voice now and again reminds me I’m still 'round, y’know?”
His eyes flicked to your mouth when he said it.
“Hell, you don’t even gotta talk if you don’t want, face's pretty 'nough on its own,” he added with a little grin, eyes crinkling like he was doing you a favor. “I’ll just ramble on till I lose my voice. You can pretend I ain’t even here.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Seems like you want someone to listen to you talk till your mouth hurts.”
That got a chuckle out of him. “Alright, fair,” he said, scratching at his beard. “I like a little attention. Guilty as charged.”
The waitress came over, tired eyes scanning the table. Joel ordered without looking at the menu—“bacon cheeseburger, extra pickles, fries, and a Coke,” before nodding at you to go ahead.
As you gave your order, you could feel his gaze on your face, lingering just a tad too long on your lips when you spoke. When the waitress walked off, Joel leaned back again with a grunt.
“Bet you think I’m some sad old bastard,” he said, smirking.
You tilted your head slightly. “You don’t seem all that sad.”
He laughed again, low and knowing. “Don’t gotta be sad to be lonely, darlin’.”
He said it so easily, like it was the kind of thing he’d said a hundred times before. Like it worked on someone, once.
There was something off about the way he spoke—too rehearsed, maybe. Like he’d said this all before. The “poor old man” routine. Alone on the road, no family, no one to talk to. It felt... thin.
Still, something about it tugged at you.
Maybe it was the way he sighed after every sentence, like he didn’t expect you to care. Maybe it was the worn in look behind his eyes.
You glanced down at your lap, your fingers twisting the zipper of your backpack until it bit into your skin.
You knew better. You really did. People didn’t get like this for no reason. Men didn’t hand out kindness for free. But even as your gut whispered caution, another part of you, smaller, quieter, felt bad for him.
He wasn’t pushing anything. Not yet. And you were tired. Not just from standing on the side of the road, but from months of going nowhere, of waiting for someone, anyone, to see you.
Joel caught your eye again, that half-smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t mean to lay it on thick,” he said, almost sheepish now. “Guess I don’t talk to people much these days. Gettin' rusty.”
You tried to smile, but it came out just as performative as his. “It’s fine. I get it.”
He tapped a finger against his glass, his tone softening. “You runnin’ from somethin’?” he asked, not accusing, just curious.
You hesitated. “Not really. Just… done with where I came from.”
Joel nodded like he understood. Maybe he did. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’ out. Some places don’t give you much reason to stay.”
His voice was quieter now, less performative. For a second, it felt more real. Or maybe you just wanted it to.
You studied him for a beat longer—his hands, his eyes, the worn creases in his skin. You could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers pulling your seatbelt earlier, still see the way his gaze had lingered a second too long.
But right now, he looked tired. Lonely. And something in you, despite everything, softened just a little.
“I appreciate the ride,” you said quietly. “Really.”
Joel looked at you for a second, then nodded once and leaned back again. “Ain’t no trouble,” he said. “Like I said, road gets real damn quiet.”
You both fell into silence after that, the kind that wasn’t entirely comfortable.
He’d tried to make small talk over greasy plates and chipped mugs of diner coffee—asked about your favorite music, your family, whether you had a boyfriend “waitin’ around somewhere.” He framed it as harmless banter, chuckling over his fries, talking with his mouth half full like it wasn’t meant to mean anything.
You mostly nodded, gave short answers. Your appetite had all but vanished the longer his eyes lingered on you.
They didn’t wander constantly, Joel wasn’t that obvious. But every so often, as you cut into your food or brushed hair out of your face, you’d catch him watching you instead of eating. His gaze would always drop quickly, back to his plate or the tabletop, but the silence between those glances felt thicker each time.
You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were tired, overthinking.
But by the time he paid the bill and motioned for you to follow him outside, your stomach had twisted into something tight and uneasy.
The air had cooled a little with the setting sun. Crickets had started their nightly hum, and the truck lot buzzed quietly with the sound of engines cooling and the occasional burst of laughter from inside the diner. But your ears were filled with the sound of your own footsteps following Joel’s.
He led you past the edge of the lot, toward a squat, single-story row of motel rooms behind the diner. Faded numbers were bolted onto each door, and the porch lights above them flickered weakly, as if unsure whether to bother staying lit.
Joel stopped in front of one, jingling a key in his hand. “Only had one left,” he said, turning the knob. “Told the guy it’s just for a few hours’ shut-eye. Not like I’m settlin’ in.”
Your heart skipped. Just one?
The room door creaked open. Joel stepped inside first, tossing the key on the nightstand and flipping on the light. A yellow glow filled the room, bouncing off stained wallpaper and a twin bed with a faded comforter. The A/C unit in the window rattled weakly.
The moment you stepped into the room, something felt different.
Not in the air itself, the motel room still smelled like bleach and dust, but Joel’s presence had changed.
He didn’t say much after unlocking the door. Just let it swing open, stepped inside like he owned the place, and gave the room a lazy once-over. Gone was the exaggerated sighing, the talk of loneliness, the half-hearted chuckles meant to make you feel bad for him. Now he moved slower, more comfortably, like someone who’d settled into something.
You weren’t sure what.
He let the door close behind you with a click that made your pulse hitch. He didn’t bolt it, he didn’t need to. The message was already clear.
Joel walked over to the table near the bed and dropped the room key with a soft clink. His hand hovered for a second, then he sat in the chair near the window, stretching out with a tired grunt. One arm slung over the backrest like he was getting ready to stay awhile.
“Not bad,” he muttered, adjusting the waistband of his jeans before running a hand through his graying hair. “Could be worse.”
You didn’t answer. You were still standing near the door, backpack hugged to your chest like a shield.
Joel’s eyes flicked up to you. Slower now. Less polite. Like he didn’t feel the need to pretend anymore.
"You can sit, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t gonna bite.”
He grinned at his own joke, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were darker now. Not cold, just… sure. Like whatever this was, it was already decided in his head.
You moved slowly, choosing the edge of the bed farthest from him—you wished the separate beds calmed your nerves, they didn't. The springs creaked as you sat, and the sound felt too loud. You kept your backpack in your lap, your hands gripping the strap.
Joel let his gaze linger for a moment longer, then leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Y’know, most folks would be grateful by now,” he said idly, like he was commenting on the weather. “Free ride, free food, place to rest. Ain’t a bad deal.”
Your spine stiffened slightly. There was no edge in his voice, no threat. But there was something underneath it. Something that made your stomach coil.
“I am grateful,” you said carefully.
“Mm.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced. “You’re just real quiet is all. Hard to read.”
You didn’t reply.
Joel scratched at his jaw. “Guess it’s just been a while since I had company.” He looked at you again, head tilted, lips just barely curved. “It’s nice. Real nice. You're nice.”
You felt your shoulders tense. He wasn’t doing anything, not really, but you could feel it building. The shift. The subtle way he took up more space now, like just getting you through that door had changed everything.
Joel stood up, stretching again with a low groan, and walked toward the mini fridge. He bent to open it, empty, but lingered there a second longer than needed. When he straightened, he looked at you again. Still that same expression. Casual. Relaxed. Like this was just the natural next step in whatever he thought was happening here.
“I’m gonna go grab us some drinks,” he said, voice lighter now, maybe even cheerful. “You want soda, water, somethin’ stronger?”
You blinked. “Coke’s fine.”
He nodded, already halfway to the door. He paused, hand on the knob, then turned back.
“You lock that behind me if it makes you feel better,” he said, his voice quiet. “But I’ll be back in five. Don’t go disappearin’ on me.”
He winked. Not playful. Not mean. Just… like a joke he thought you were in on, even if you didn’t know the punchline yet.
Then the door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone.
The silence returned.
You sat still, backpack clutched to your chest, heart pounding a little faster than before. You weren’t sure what Joel thought this was. But for the first time, you were sure of one thing:
He thought he was owed something.
You weren’t sure why you stayed.
Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was the weight of your backpack digging into your spine for hours that made you too tired to run again. Maybe it was something worse, something harder to admit. That small, scared voice that told you: This is what you asked for, isn’t it? A ride. A room. A way out.
You told yourself it was fine.
But when Joel came back a few agonizing minutes later, holding a single room-temperature soda like it was some kind of gift, that thin illusion started to crack.
"Vending machine’s shot to hell," he said, tossing it onto the end of the bed like he expected you to jump at it. “Still good, though. S'just warm.”
You nodded, reaching to take a grab the bottle. You tried not to acknowledge the way your heart sped up as you leaned closer to him, your hand shaking.
Joel didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. He kicked off his boots, grunted as he lowered himself into the creaking chair near the TV, and grabbed the remote from the armrest.
The television flashed on, its speakers crackling as static fizzled into some old cable rerun. The volume was too loud for the tiny room, but Joel didn’t adjust it. He just leaned back and settled in, letting the laugh track fill the silence like white noise drowning out your thoughts.
You nerves were so shot, you hadn’t noticed the bottle hadn't hissed when you twisted the cap.
When your leg started to shake it was just a tremor at first, barely noticeable. But it spread, up your thigh, into your stomach, into your chest. Your heart fluttered under your ribs, fluttered wrong. Your throat was too dry. The lights were too yellow. The TV too loud. His breathing, even and steady from across the room, was the only rhythm that didn't match your panic.
You stood quickly, too quickly.
“Bathroom,” you muttered, grabbing your bag without really knowing why. Just needing it close.
Joel gave a vague nod, his eyes barely lifting from the screen. “Take your time.”
The bathroom was even smaller than you expected. Dim light. Cracked tile. A fan in the ceiling that buzzed faintly behind the walls. You closed the door and leaned against it, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands.
Your reflection stared back at you, paler than before. Eyes wide. Lips dry.
You didn’t even notice you were crying until the first drop hit the sink.
You weren’t scared, not exactly. But something inside you was twisting tight, something old and instinctive that didn’t care about politeness or gratitude or second chances. Something that whispered, Leave. Now.
You splashed water on your face. Once. Twice. The cold shocked your nerves, grounding you just a little, enough to breathe. But your hand trembled as you reached for the towel, and you had to brace yourself before you looked in the mirror again.
You stared at your own eyes for a long time.
You could still leave. You hadn’t unpacked. Your legs worked fine. The door wasn’t locked.
But outside that door, Joel waited. Not a stranger anymore. Not really. And that was somehow worse.
You dried your face, turned off the faucet, and in front the door of the bathroom for a beat, staring at the crack under it, the yellow-lit room shared the space of flickering blue light from the TV.
“You alright in there, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice warm again, sounding gentle despite how he'd had to hollar over the TV.
You took a breath. Then another. You told yourself you were overreacting.
People were weird, sure. Joel was… weird. But maybe that’s all it was. Maybe your nerves were shot from being on the road, from standing in the sun for hours, from not eating enough. You were tired. That made everything feel worse.
One night. Get some rest. Ditch him in the morning.
That was the plan. Simple. Safe.
You pushed open the door and stepped out into the dim light of the room again, trying to slide your expression back into something neutral. Something nice.
You gave him a polite, too-sweet smile in return, it was automatic, from that church-girl buried deep in your gut. You didn't owe him anything, but you still felt like you had to at least perform gratitude. Like that was part of the deal.
It was tight-lipped, polite, instinctual. The same smile you’d been trained to give since you were a kid, the smile that didnt reach your eyes, that said I’m fine, thank you, don’t worry about me.
He smiled back.
Not kindly. Not broadly. Just this thin, smug little thing tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He tried to play it off like nothing. Reached for the remote. Adjusted his posture. But it didn’t go unnoticed, not by you. Joel looked over at you from the chair, his arms resting behind his head now, relaxed.
You crossed the room, easing yourself onto the top of the bed. The blanket was old and dusty and reeked of stale detergent. Still, it beat the side of the highway. You opened the Coke and took a sip. Flat. Warm. Still, it gave your hands something to do.
On the TV, that same crusty sitcom was still going. Joel had turned the volume up since you'd gone. The laugh track punched through the tiny speakers like a drill to the temple. The jokes came rapid-fire—loud, overacted, dated.
You weren’t really listening until one of the characters—a middle-aged man with a gut and a mustache—joked about slipping a woman something to make her “act with less prudence.” The studio audience howled. His female co-star gave him a fake slap on the shoulder with an annoyed glare. The scene moved on.
You didn’t laugh. You didn’t even smile.
Joel did.
Not loud. Just a low huff of a chuckle, amused. Right in time with the laugh track. Like it had hit a nerve in him. The wrong nerve.
You stiffened. Your spine straightened just a little more. You didn’t look at him.
It was the type of joke that made men laugh in bars when they’d already had too much and weren’t watching their tone anymore.
Joel’s laughter stopped as quickly as it came. But when you risked a glance, you saw it, that same smug curl at the edge of his mouth, his tongue poking briefly at the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on something he wasn’t going to say out loud.
You looked away.
It’s the show, you told yourself. It’s the show. He’s just laughing because it’s on.
But the hairs on your arms were standing up anyway.
You shifted around on the stiff mattress for what must’ve been the better part of an hour. The bed creaked with every movement, the scratchy comforter brushing against your skin like old sandpaper. You kept changing positions—legs folded under you, then stretched out, then pulled back in. Nothing felt comfortable. Nothing felt settled.
You kept reaching for the bottle of Coke on the side table, fingers brushing it absentmindedly before pulling back. The ritual repeated over and over until finally, you just brought it into your lap. The half-full bottle had lost what little fizz it had, but you held onto it anyway. The weight of it in your hands was something solid, something to focus on. It gave your fingers something to do besides twist the hem of your shirt or pick at your skin.
Joel hadn’t said much. The flicker of the TV lit up his face in little bursts. Every so often, he’d glance over at you. Not long enough to say anything. Just enough to make your body flare up with heat as your blood rushed.
You tried to focus on the show, but your brain had gone fuzzy. Not foggy, exactly, but distant. Like your thoughts were moving through syrup. Your limbs felt a little heavy, your eyes dry.
The Coke sat in your lap like a small weight. When you went to take another sip, you hesitated, your hand lifting slower than you expected. The bottle felt heavier than before. Not by much. Just enough for you to notice.
You frowned a little, blinked once, then twice. Maybe it was exhaustion. Your nerves had been running hot all day, your body could just be crashing. That had to be it.
Still… something felt off. You gripped the bottle a little tighter.
Your head rolled slightly on your shoulders as you tried to blink the haze away. You gave a small shake, like maybe you could rattle the exhaustion out of your skull, but it clung to you—draped heavy over your limbs like a damp blanket.
You weren’t that tired.
At least, you hadn’t been.
You blinked again. The TV was still flickering, the show’s punchlines rolling out like clockwork. Joel chuckled along with the laugh track, low and content. Like nothing was wrong. Like everything was exactly the way he wanted it.
You didn’t look at him. You just focused on the bottle in your hands.
It wasn’t spinning, but it felt like it could be. Your fingers curled a little tighter around it as if that might tether you to the present. You told yourself again that you hadn’t eaten properly. That this was just your body protesting the long day. That the motel room was warm, and Joel’s TV was loud, and your senses were frayed.
But still… your skin was buzzing. Not panic, just static. An edge.
You reached for your phone without thinking, fingertips fumbling slightly with the zipper of your bag. You didn’t even know who you’d text if you needed help, but the need to do something was rising in your chest, your instincts growing louder, like background noise you could no longer ignore.
“Feelin’ alright, sweetheart?” Joel asked suddenly, not looking at you.
You jumped slightly at his voice, your fingers freezing over your backpack. You glanced at him.
His eyes were still on the screen, but his smirk was back. Not wide, not obvious, just there. Subtle, like he was hiding something behind it and didn’t care enough to try hard.
“I’m fine,” you said automatically, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.
Joel made a little humming sound, like he didn’t quite believe you, but he didn’t press. Just leaned back further in his chair, exhaling like a man pleased with how the day turned out.
You turned your eyes to the bathroom door again.
It wasn’t far. You could go in, close the door, lock it. Just for a minute. Just to breathe.
You planted your hands on the edge of the bed and pushed yourself up. Your legs didn’t respond the way you expected.
For a split second, it felt like they weren’t even attached. Your knees nearly gave out as you stood, a sharp, disconnected jolt rushing through your lower body like the numbness you get from sitting too long in one position, but worse. There was no familiar prickle of circulation returning, no tingling promise of sensation coming back. Just absence.
And something about that absence made your chest tighten.
You reached out, grabbing the wall for balance. The Coke bottle in your hand slipped from your fingers.
Behind you, Joel’s chuckle drifted lazily through the static of the television. Not loud. Just enough to make the air feel thinner.
“You alright there?” he drawled, voice a little too casual. A little too slow.
You didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Just, stiff legs.”
Your voice sounded strange even to your own ears, it was muted, distant. You could feel his eyes on your back now, tracking your movement more attentively than before.
You didn’t turn.
Didn’t say anything else.
You pressed your hands against the rough motel wall, the chipped paint cool against your skin. Your legs felt weak beneath you, shaking softly, and you couldn’t seem to make them move.
Your breath came fast and shallow, chest tightening with each inhale. The vintage chair creaked faintly nearby, a reminder that Joel was still in the room, still watching.
You didn’t look over.
Your eyes darted to the flickering TV, its pale light casting long shadows on the cracked wallpaper. It buzzed softly, filling the silence with pointless noise.
Maybe not so pointless.
You could hear him settle out of his chair, the scrape of fabric on denim. Joel’s footsteps shuffled behind you, slow and deliberate.
“Everything alright, sweetheart?” His voice was low, smooth, and far too casual. Almost mocking. It didn't sound like a question.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
Instead, you pressed your palm harder against the wall, willing the tremors in your legs to stop. But the more you willed it, the worse it felt, like your body was betraying you, leaving you trapped between fight or flight, but doing neither.
You swallowed the lump rising in your throat, biting your lip to keep from shaking or crying. Your heart hammered so loud you were sure he could hear it.
You wanted to run. To scream. To disappear.
But you stayed still.
You didn’t realize he was approaching again until the floor creaked just to your left. A soft sound, but close. Too close.
“Hey, c’mon now,” Joel said, voice gentle in a way that made your stomach twist. “You don’t look too good. Maybe you should lie back down.”
His hand reached out, palm warm and rough as it hovered near your arm. Not yet. The faux tenderness in his tone didn’t sit right with the look in his eyes. They were too alert, too interested.
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, though your voice was hoarse and small. You hated how it sounded.
“You sure? ‘Cause you’re swayin’ a little.” His hand landed on your arm this time, solid and steady. But he didn’t grip.
That should have made it better. It didn’t.
It was the stillness in his hand that made your skin crawl, how his thumb pressed, then circled slowly, like he was mapping out your pulse.
“C’mon,” he said again, guiding you gently, not forcing, but not offering space to resist. “Just for a minute. You’ll feel better when ya do.”
When... not if.
You let yourself be led. Partly because your legs still felt unsteady. Partly because you didn’t know what would happen if you pulled away.
He walked you the few steps to the bed, hand never leaving your arm, and helped you sit. His other hand reached for your shoulder, too familiar now, the way it rested there a beat too long.
You flinched.
Joel paused, then gave a soft chuckle under his breath. “Easy now. Ain’t tryin’ to scare you."
But when he leaned in to adjust the pillow behind you, his knuckles dragged against your collarbone. His other hand hovered lower on your side, not quite touching your hip—but close enough that the heat of it made you recoil inside.
“You’re all tense,” he murmured, gaze slipping down your frame like a slow leak. “Just breathe, alright? You’re safe.”
The worst part was how convincing his voice sounded.
But you knew better.
Your body knew better.
You sank down against the bed with a strange sort of heaviness, like your own limbs no longer belonged to you. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, a dry, musty scent rising up from the sheets.
You tried to sit upright, to keep your spine straight, but your body leaned without permission, your muscles slackened under the weight of your own breath.
Joel didn’t go back to the chair.
You heard the soft groan of the mattress again, felt the subtle shift beside you before your eyes caught up. He sat on the edge of the bed now. Right next to you.
Not touching, but close.
You turned your head toward him slowly, eyes trying to focus. Your brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton, every thought dragging through molasses.
“Why…” you started, but the rest of the sentence didn’t come.
Your tongue felt thick. Heavy. Wrong.
He smiled, small, faint. You might've miss it if you weren’t looking. But you were looking. Because watching him felt like the only thing tethering you now.
“You okay, sugar?” he asked again, quieter this time. Closer. He didn’t sound worried. Not really.
You tried to speak, but your words came out slurred, barely above a whisper. “M’fine…”
It took all your strength just to swallow the lump in your throat, even that felt like work. You could feel your pulse behind your eyes now, slow and sluggish.
Joel didn’t move away.
His arm rested across his lap, hand curled on his thigh. The same hand that had guided you here. The same hand that lingered too long.
His eyes weren’t on your face anymore.
You saw that.
You felt that.
Still, you couldn’t quite pull your body back. Couldn’t seem to make your limbs respond.
You were here. And so was he.
And something deep in your gut told you the space between you wouldn’t stay empty much longer.
Joel's calloused hands reached toward the strap of your bra that had peaked out from your shirt. He lifted it in his fingers almost carefully, letting it lead up to the top of your bra. Your mumbled incoherently at his touch. He shushed you softly.
He didn't speak anymore, he didnt need too. He brought his fingers back up to your collarbone before laying his palm across it, the strap caught between his fingers as he pushed it down your shoulder. His body leaned forward to press his lips to your collarbone. His beard was scruffy and sharp against your soft skin, like needles.
His lips were dry and cracked, the wetness from his saliva being the only softness. He pecked at the bone a few times before his mouth wrapped around it, sucking.
Your hands weakly moved to his shoulders, but his hands patiently wrapped around your wrists, pushing them to sit by your head. The bed dented down. Your writhed weakly. He continued sucking and nipping at the spot till a dark mark appeared.
The knot in your stomach churned as he licked over where he bit to soothe your skin, his beard felt like a hundred tiny needles digging into you. Red appeared around the purple. His thumbs pressed into your wrists, feeling your pulse as you whimpered. His mouth lifted for a moment, his breath hot on your irritated skin.
"Your hearts finally slowin' down sweetheart, ain't losin' ya am I?" He huffed with a humor only he had. His mouth wrapped around the mark again, his tounge tracing your collarbone as he hummed.
He hadn’t lied, your heart finally slowed, but the panic stayed lodged in your chest. Each beat hammered against your ribs, like it was trying to tear its way out and leave you behind. The thump in your chest spread your blood throughout your body, heat rising on your skin.
His hands weren’t tight on your wrists, his thumbs traced slow circles on your pulsepoints before sliding into your palms. His mouth kept defacing your shoulder. There was no violence in it, if anything, he almost seemed to be comforting you.
You couldn’t decide if that made it better, or worse, or if it changed anything at all.
Your knees dragged upward in another weak attempt to slip free, but your bones felt like wet cement, heavy and useless. You turned your head away with a thin whine, your body mustering what little control it had to spill tears that slid into your ears. Your chest heaved as you writhed.
Joel shushed you without cruelty, his hum low and pitying, the vibration running from his throat into your collarbone. His mouth scattered pecks over the marks fresh on your neck and shoulders before he propped himself on an elbow, still looming above you. One calloused hand smeared the tears across your right cheek while his lips caught the ones on the left—and you swore his tongue slipped out to taste the salt straight from your skin.
“Don’t cry, sugarpie… I ain’t gonna hurt you, promise. Didn’t mean to upset you none. I just get real lonely out on the road, is all.”
He looked and sounded so genuine, like he truly believed every word he spoke. His lips brushed your ear when he talked, his voice almost swallowed by the blare of the TV—and now you understood why it was so loud. Not that it mattered. The only sounds you could make were thin, mousey whines, easy to mistake for the creaks of the old bedframe or an actual mouse.
Your lips trembled as you turned your face from his hands, eyelids pressed tight. The only refuge you had was to pretend, if only for a moment, that none of this was real.
“Hey now… look at me. Let me see those pretty eyes, baby.” His voice stayed soft, but there was an edge of annoyance beneath it.
When you didn’t obey, his hand closed around your face, squeezing your cheeks until your lips puckered. He tilted your head toward him, but your eyes stayed shut. He clicked his tongue, then used his other hand to peel one eyelid open. Your iris was barely a ring around your blown pupil, whatever he’d given you was already winding through your blood, sinking heavy into your bones.
He smiled softly. “There she is…” he whispered, letting your eyelid flutter shut as his hand slipped into your hair, fingers combing slow like he meant to soothe. “Pretty, pretty girl.”
His lips met your forced pout in a mockery of a kiss, his tongue brushing gently against them, coaxing for a response you never gave. When you didn't reciprocate, he nipped at your lips gently.
He pulled back just enough to watch your face, your eyes still screwed shut, leaving you with nothing but the ghost of his touch. His hand hovered at your shoulder, and he grinned at the weak tremors rippling through your body. Slowly, he let his fingertips trail down to your hip, slipping beneath the hem of your shorts to trace the waistband, his blunt nail dragging a cruel line across your pelvis.
"It's okay, hun." He whispered as he slipped another finger into the waistband.
You felt his hand turn in your shorts, the pads of his fingers now touching you. You tensed but made no move to resist, not that you could. His hand slowly, painstakingly, moved deeper into your shorts. You quietly cried as his middle and pointer finger dragged across your clothed clit before it was quickly replaced by his palm, fingers down to your slit. Your heard a gravelly groan reach out of his throat.
"Fuck sweetie, you're soaking through your panties." He chuckled near the end of his words before exhaling heavily.
Your eyes wanted to shoot open, but only managed to lift with a furrowed brow. His eyes met yours, his bottom lip between his stained teeth. Confusion was painted on your features.
"Yeah baby, you're panties are fucking ruined." He huffed, his palm pressing onto your swollen clit.
A humiliating gasp was ripped from you as more tears fell from your eyes. No, no no no...
"Mhm, shit baby, see? Your body knows I'm not hurting ya, what was all that fuss about?"
The pads of his fingers brushed over your clothes slit, the wetness became more obvious as you heard a sickening squelch when he pressed them into your sopping hole over your panties.
"Ah... Joel.." you cried, your voice never felt smaller.
His hot breath fanned your face with a pant, "Yeah, baby, say my name."
You shook your head weakly, your eyes traveling down to where his hand disappeared into your shorts. You remembered you had hands as you tried to push his hand away. In your haze, you accidently pushed him closer, letting his palm rub harder into your clit.
You wanted to puke when your felt a shot of pleasure crack through you, you wanted to die when you felt your hips roll into his hand. Your voice cracked with a wordless 'No'.
Joel beamed, "You got such a needy pussy, baby... look at her, she wants so bad. She knows whats best for you... she just wanna feel good."
You grit your teeth as your hips rolled again, his hand meeting it with a circle of his own. Your nails dug into his forearm, but they barely made an indent. You felt his leg cross over yours as he hummed your thigh. His cock was hard in his jeans, the bulge large and visable despite your brain fog and the dark room.
His hand left your shorts for a moment, and you felt a wave of relief before you felt them fall straight to the button on them.
He unbuttoned them with one hand as he groaned, lifting himself to his knees. He grabbed at the waistband at both your hip bones and tore them down. You tried to cross your legs but one of his hands met your thigh and shoved it to the side, just long enough to get your shorts off.
He brought both hands to the back of your knees, dragging you down for his thighs to meet the back of yours. He spread you open and stared down like he was holding his fridge open, deciding what he wanted to feast on. He barely felt the tug of you trying to close them. In a last ditch effort you moved your hands to cover your crotch, and that's when you felt it.
You were completely soaked through, the wet spot making your white panties transparent. It was like something inside you broke at that moment. Your body had decided to completely betray you.
As if he noticed you resolve falter, he brought his hands to the side of your panties and ripped. One side, then the other. Throwing them across the room to land somewhere on the carpet. You bit into your hands as you stopped pulling away. Eyes distant but open, he would take it.
His hands lifted your shirt over your bra before he shoved that up too. It squeezed over the top of your breasts almost painfully.
"God bless you, baby... perfect fucking pussy," his hand slapped it as he leaned forward, "and perfect fucking tits."
His mouth wrapped around your nipple, tounge circling it wildly as he sucked the nub between his teeth. Your body reacted how it wanted, and you could only whimper and whine pathetically. He rested above you on one forearm while his other hand met your leaking slit again. His thick middle finger dragged up and down it, your wetness coating the pad. He brought it to you clit, circling slowly before he flicked it.
He moaned around you nipple when you jumped with a cry. The more your body reacted the more he seemed to lose it. He switched to the other nipple, "Gotta give her some lovin' too." He chuckled.
The actions repeated for a few minutes you think, your perception of time got foggy with each circle, flick, and switch.
The vibration from his groans tickled your breast, making your back arch further into his mouth. He was almost fucking drooling, copious amounts of spit shined your chest like you'd been rubbed down in oil.
He abruptly moved down, his hand leaving to grip your hips, holding them down as he settled between your legs. He licked a long stripe across your slit, shaking his head side to side as the muscle circled your clit before he sunk it into your organ. His hands moved to your chest as he tounge fucked you, fast and unrelenting. He only lifted from you to spit on you pussy before he flattened his tounge across your entire slit and diving back in.
Every groan and moan from his vibrated against your clit and the inside of you. You felt breathless and violated. And when a knot formed in your stomach that you couldn't decipher at first due to the sinking dread that had settled there, it was too late.
With a broken cry, you threw your head back as your legs shook around his head. His voice raised over the tv for a moment with how loud he growled against your pussy.
He detached from you before appearing in front of your eyes and shoving his hot tounge down your throat. You grimaced as you tasted yourself, your pussy still throbbing from your orgasm.
"Sweet as cherry pie, baby." He mumbled against your mouth. His tounge dragged along the inside of your mouth, just another hole to him. Along the ridges of the roof of your mouth to the back of your teeth.
He sucked on your tounge harshly before unlatching, raising back on his knees again with a hushed 'Fuck...' undoing his belt. The clink of metal echoed, as he stood. He didn't bother taking his jeans off, just shoved them down enough to release his raging cock.
He walked to the side of the bed, grabbing your arm and dragging you closer. His dick hung heavy as it twitched, face level with you. You closed your mouth tightly and turned your head, only to met with a gentle but forceful tap from the back of his hand. The same hand grabbed your jaw as he leaned down to meet your eyes.
"I'm only gonna say this once, you don't fucking bite. I don't wanna hurt you, sugar, but you bite my fucking dick and I'll knock your teeth out." He said it sternly with raised brows.
You only looked at him fearfully before he spoke again, "Do you understand?" You nodded.
He loosened his grip and brought his thumbs to the sides of your mouth, forcing it open. "Relax your throat, sweetheart. Be good for me, m'kay?"
What else could you do other then what you were told?
The tip leaked as he dragged it across your lips before he got an idea, backing up and manhandling you to lay with your head upside down on the edge. He returned to your lips, a couple heavy slaps of his cock landed on your cheek before he told you to stick your tounge out, and he slid into your warm waiting mouth.
He groaned as he moved till his balls touched your nose, stilling there for a moment as you suffocated. You whimpered around him as you brought your hands up, "Breath through your nose, sweetheart." He instructed.
He pulled out leaving just the tip in your mouth before he slowly bottomed out again. He didnt waste time changing the pace, his hips thrusted steadily. Drool dripped from your mouth as he fucked it, his heavy, twitching balls smacking your nose each time. He brought his hands to take your wrists, settling them on your stomach as he leaned forward so he could thrust harder. He panted and groaned, cursing occasionally inbetween.
One of his hands left your wrist to smack your pussy once before he lifted himself. Bringing one knee to the mattress, he stood as he thrusted downward into your throat. His hand enveloped it with a growl when he saw the shift inside of it. His eyes were locked on the bulge that appeared in your throat when he shoved it down.
His thrusts became sloppy as he got louder. He lean forward again, fully pounding your throat before hot seed filled it. You felt it hit your uvula in bursts, forcing you to cough and gag, your body desperately trying to suck in air through your filled neck. He stilled at the deepest point, his tip twitching to hit the back of your throat as you felt his balls tighten against your nose. He exhaled roughly before giving you one more slowly thrust, pulling out.
You gasped desperately, veins bulging in your face and neck. Your eyes were pink and your head was swimming due to it hanging upside down for so long. Spit and snot leaked down from your face along with his cum.
Kneeling next to you, he nuzzled your head with his own with soft shushing. "That's it, breath, honey... You did so good, took it so good. Made me feel so good, baby..." he muttered, kisses moving across your temple.
When your coughing subsided you breathed a sigh of relief that it was over, mumbling incoherently as your brain struggled to process. The fog lifted when you felt his hands around your ankles from the other side of the bed, dragging you to lay on it again. He crawled to join you before twisting you back around so your head was at the pillows.
Cries came more freely now as you saw his still hard cock scoot closer to your pussy. You head turned before narrowing in on a sheet of tablets sitting on the side table he'd been sitting at. Two blue pills missing.
Your throat burned as a weak cry tried to crawl out, but he'd abused it to the point of you loosing your voice. Pathetic squeaks falling from your mouth instead. You felt his cock slap against your pussy, it instinctively pulsed at the pressure. He pressed the tip to your clit, thrusting against it. Your back arched as your hips rolled with his, your brain was so fuzzy you didnt even register the noises spilling from your lips.
The stretch was sudden as he pushed into you. Your lips trembled around him as he slid inside easily. Your spit and already soaked his cock immeasurably, but the lube that leaked from you without permission added to it ease of which he came inside you without friction. You felt impossibly full when his hand came down to push on your lower stomach as he began working.
There was no build up, the speed was set from the jump as he hauled himself over you. His hips met yours with heavy thrusts, pounding into you without thought. The only time he let you breath was when he kneeled again, only to grab the back of your knees and shove them next to you head as he somehow fucked you harder. He felt no need to speak anymore, only occasion growls of how wet you were, which you hadn't needed verbal acknowledgement of. It was clear from the wet slaps that echoed in the room, bouncing off the walls and into your ears as you laid limp and took it.
Your mouth hung open as noises continued to force themselves from your throat, you had been so gone that you didnt flinch when you spit into your mouth, your throat instantly tensing as you swallowed it. You had lost almost all feeling, your hearing muffled, you took no notice of the impending release.
"Fucking shit baby... pussys so fucking tight 'round me... you gonna cum again? Hmm? You love this fucking cock, you know you do. You're body knows you do."
It went in one ear and out the other, you were reduced to a whimpering hole.
You didnt react when he pulled out to flip you onto your stomach, shoving one knee hip while the other stayed straight. He laid atop your seemingly lifeless body as he shoved himself back in and quickly resumed his previous pace. The cupped smacking sound reverberated with his pounding, your voice now muffled by the pillows you faced.
You felt his weight as his chest met your back and he rutted into you. Your fingers twitched with a mix of exhaustion, pleasure, and anxiety. He swiped your hair from your shoulder as he sucked another mark onto you from behind. Your voice raised a pitch as he thrusts began sloppy again.
"You're gonna make me cum again, honey... fuck yeah that's it, you can take it, knew you could." You whimpered as he lifted your hips, shoving you onto him just as harshly as he was fucking you. But you tightend around him all the same.
"Come on, cum with me, baby! Want your pussy to clamp down and suck my cum right out of my cock... milk me fucking dry, baby... lemme fill up that sexy fucking pussy!"
A scream was at the back of your throat as your body jumped like you were electrocuted. It came out as a broken cry as you shook violently. He didn't stop even after your orgasm run its course, only fucked you faster. Your hips pulled away as you mindlessly scrambled away from his unrelenting ones, but you were still under the influence of his roofie, and he was still so much stronger.
And so for another agonizing few minutes you shook and writhed and cried till he bottomed out. Cumming deep inside your abused cunt. You felt the warmth fill you as his tip hit your cervix, it spread quickly down to your opening where it leaked down onto the bed. He let himself to thrust a handful more times as he drained his balls inside of you.
And then he stayed there, his hand lifting your hips to keep it from leaking out. But there was so much, it filled your entire cunt. You felt his hands reached and pinch your slit closed around his cock. His mouth came to your ear as he whispered.
"Gotta make it stick... make sure you get nice and full."
You have nothing left in you to protest, only tears slipping by. You're so fucking dirty, cum and spit and snot and tears and sweat. The blanket your sprawled on feels like got left out in the rain.
You feel his cock soften inside you of before he pulls out. Two fingers immediately replace it, stuffing the little that leaks out back into your brushed pussy. You begin to lose your senses, your body unable to force itself to fight awake anymore.
You only feel the repeated drag of his fingers, a clicking sound like a camrea accompanied by a flash of light, and his breathless heaving. The bed shakes as he falls next to you before you feel his arm loosely wrap around you waist, pulling you into him. You eyes droop as you gave in. A lump forms in your throat when you feel a twitch against your ass as you slowly loose consciousness.
One minute you had been preparing for bed. Intimacy not even seeming in the cards for tonight. Then, suddenly, you were naked in the middle of the bed with a blindfold on, surrounded by two dueling dragons.
Baelor and Maekar are still arguing in hushed tones, while you sit there quietly, wondering if you should speak up or not. You settle on a quiet, “we really don’t have to do this. I love you both equally.”
“That is not the point.” The princes reply in tandem.
Much like this evening, you weren't sure what came first in your relationship. Whose eye you had caught first. Who you had given your favor to before the other. When two of you had become three.
Targaryens were not known for their convention. It was probably the least of their virtues. No one seemed to question both princes courting you nor your relationship, to the point that you began to think that you were the odd one, and it had been left at that.
The three of you had developed a rather amicable relationship. The brothers had a close, positive relationship anyway. And with the schedules of their respective duties, Baelor having the bulk of it, the issue of ‘sharing’ your time almost never came up. It was almost too easy. No conflict. No jealousy. Until tonight that is.
“I should go first.”
“You always get to go first.” Maekar snapped back.
“So it is my fault now for being born the eldest?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Fine. You go first then.”
“Stop acting so ‘gracious’.” You can just imagine Maekar’s sneer. “Like you’re the bigger person and just going to give her to me.”
“I didn’t say that…..”
There is movement and the sound of smacking, followed by a pause. It happened two more times before you heard Maekar growl again while Baelor let out a soft ‘hah!’. “Why do the gods always favor you…..”
There is another pause before someone reached for you in your dark and touched your shoulder. You jump a little, startled by the sudden contact, but quickly relax as Baelor’s soothing voice shushed you. “Just relax my love.” He whispered to you. “I’m sorry about all this. It’s utterly childish.” You hear the briefest scoff from Maekar in the distance over the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. “However, I can promise, you will be well rewarded for humoring us.”
The hand on your shoulder moved to grasp it in a soft clasp and you begin to relax. There is a lax pull as you are led in close to Baelor and he gave you a kiss. It is warm and inviting. Opening your mouth up with a firm push of his tongue. Making you melt in his embrace.
Then another set of hands is on you from behind. Cupping your breasts with heavy palms. Cool skin at your back as it nuzzled at your neck and hairline. Maekar.
You moan softly against Baelor’s lips as the other fondled your breasts until the nipples were in stiff peaks. The eldest brother let you go and you immediately fall back against Maekar as he gently pulled you in. Back resting on his chest now as your legs kicked out, with Baelor’s help.
Baelor’s own calloused hands rested on your thighs as he leaned forward to kiss the space between your ribs. Not bothering Maekar’s own handiwork. He kissed further down and paid extra attention to your stomach. A joke had formed between the 3 of you that, should you become pregnant, it would be hard to tell whose child it might be. Targaryen genes could be tricky. And without the absence of one or the other from your bed in quite some time, who knew who might father your potential child.
None of that mattered now as Baelor moved further down until he was at the apex of your legs. Gently spreading them apart to make space for him. Kissing your inner thighs down towards your entrance while his beard scuffed & scrapped deliciously against the sensitive skin. Your breath panting in anticipation.
Like with everything Baelor did, his first move was decisive. He kissed your outer lips as a sort of warning before his tongue licked your core and delved in deeper. You let out a stuttered yelp before you lay back against the sheets. Your brace was gone as Maekar had moved somewhere you couldn’t see with the blindfold.
The prince continued to work your entrance open. A wet, lewd sound vivid in your ears with the loss of your sight as you moan and grip the sheets. Then, he stopped. Uncharacteristic of your gentle prince as Baelor was usually not so cruel. Before you could whine much, he came back to you. “Ahh….Baelor…”
“Guess again.”
Your prince’s voice, the one who you thought was between your legs, rang out beside you. A queer little lilt in his voice. Almost amusement, but too heady to be taken in real jest. You quickly realize that it was Maekar between your legs now, and your back bent off the bed at the intoxicating thrill of it.
You remember what the argument was about now.
It had indeed been a childish argument, as Baelor had mentioned. Jokes between brothers, which quickly turned to japes, which then turned to jabs about who made love to you better. The subject of love never came up, as they were well aware that your comment on loving both of them equally had been true, it was purely physical satisfaction. Which you also commented was more than adequate.
As men of action more than argument, like their two other brothers, Baelor & Maekar decided to put the contest to an actual challenge. The reason for the blindfold? To have no undue favoritism or emotion in the judgement. This was purely on who fucked you better!
With the way your mind was already reeling in pleasure, you weren’t sure how you intended to render a judgement at all. Much less speak your name before all this was over.
The brothers switch a few more times. The juxtaposition between them driving you into a madness of ecstasy. Baelor is precise. Clearly remembering all your weak spot and attacking them with just the right amount of pressure to make your body sing. Maekar is more aggressive. He devours your cunt with gusto and zeal. Forcing his tongue in. Using his fingers. Animal in his attempt until you yourself just devolve into deep grunts & moans.
You cum so hard your entire body shakes. Wetting the bedding below in your juices before collapsing on the linens. “I win.”
“In what way?”
“Did you just not see her practically piss on my hand as she came just now?”
“That doesn’t mean it was all your doing. You just happened to be there in the end.”
“So, I do all the work and you come in and get all the credit like always, eh?”
You barely register a tight, strained sigh, likely from Baelor, before an equally strained, “fine. I will give you this one battle, brother.” The bed shifted under you as the pair moved to the end of it. “But the war isn’t over.”
There is a flurry of movement now. Where once it seemed this contest would be ‘civilized’ the brothers both seem to break their treaty and go after you with fervor. Touching you everywhere. Kissing your breasts, your hips, your back, your thighs. Your mind was still weak from earlier and the onslaught of attention just made it all that more clouded in a pink hue of desire as your entrance throbbed. “Please….”
You were laid back on the bed again. Free of their hands, but only a moment before one pair came up to your knees and spread them. A hard cock was then thrust inside your wet, willing, waiting enterance, and you cry out with a sharp, needy, “Ah…Baelor!” at the feel of it.
“How could you tell?”
You take a minute to catch your breath before you explain. “Yr…Yours is longer….” You stammer out. “It’s long…and hard…a-and…like your spear…p-pierces me deep….”
“What obscene poetry, my love.” You could just picture Baelor’s haughty smile as he said that to you. “Let’s see if my ‘spear’ can hit its mark.”
Baelor’s hips pull back before they snap into you. You cry out again at the jolt and moan as he set a fast, steady rhythm against you. As you had said, his thrusts were deep. Hitting that spot inside you that sent fire all the way up your belly to your chest. Until you could practically taste him on the back of your tongue.
You try to keep up as best you can from underneath him but quickly come undone with how sensitive you were from your first orgasm. Baelor continues, though slows his thrusts to something more gentle, but no less deep. Leaning forward to kiss you before he too came inside you. “That’s one for me, brother.”
A growl, then a push, along with an order to, “move” before your cunt was filled again.
“Maekar!” You scream.
“Would be pretty stupid if you got it wrong out of two.” He commented. Not moving yet as he gave you time to adjust.
“N-No…” You argue. Flailing a little against the bedding as you try to accommodate the overstimulation and his size. “Y’urs is…thicker. Oh gods the way it opens me up…”
“Let’s open you up then, sweet one.”
Maekar pulled back and began pounding into you. His thrusts are hard. You just bounce along on his cock with soft little moans. Without a thought or care in the world beyond pleasure as he made you his.
A soft touch came to your head. Brushing the hair out of your face. You whimper and turn your head into the touch. It then moved to caress your face, landing on your jaw with a delicate brush of a thumb to get you to open. You obediently comply. Opening wide enough for Baelor to slide his cock in. Moaning at the taste of him, his sweat, and a unique taste you realize is your own. Letting him shallowly thrust his member into your mouth while his brother fucked your cunt.
Suddenly, you were ripped away from Baelor with a wet pop and hoisted into the air by Maekar. You let out a cry at the sudden change but quickly devolve back into moaning as Maekar cradled you to him and manually moved you on his cock; deeper than he had ever been before.
“Using your strength as an advantage. That’s uncalled for.”
Baelor means it in jest, but you can’t even hear him as Maekar held you like a rag doll. Tangling your tongues together in a sloppy manner, like your cunt around his cock. Your engorged clit rubbing against the lines of his stomach before you came again. Maekar not far behind.
He waited until he was done before he lowered you back onto the bed. Your limbs beyond limp but lifeless. Your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath from everything. Every nerve on your body still firing.
“What do you say we just call it a draw, brother?”
“Fine.” Maekar replied to Baelor’s generous offer. “As long as you don’t win.”
You hear Baelor laugh before the blindfold around your eyes was removed. “Are you alright, my love?”
You are able to muster up a nod, but not words yet.
The princes begin to work together again. Maekar getting up to put on a light robe and bark at some servants for new bedding, while Baelor carefully lifted you up and carried you over to a large chair where he sat you in his lap with a blanket & gave you some water.
The servants work fast, but you are so exhausted you nearly fell asleep in Baelor’s arms. No thanks to the soft kisses in your hair. The staff leave like shadows, and you are lifted yet again to be placed in the freshly made bed. Right in the middle. “You are leaving Maekar?”
The younger prince stopped just a few paces from the bed. About midway between the two of you and the door. He looked surprised, and let out an almost uncharacteristically soft, “but it’s your night.”
Baelor scrunched his face and ushered him over with his hand. “Don’t be foolish.”
You muster up with little strength you had regained to offer your hand as well, and Maekar sheepishly came back over to the bed to slide in on the other side. “If you insist.”
The two of you chuckle and settle in for sleep. “I love you.” You manage to get out before all of night fell on you.
AERION'S NEGLECTED WIFE. (valarr targaryen x reader)
just thinking about how gentle valarr would be with you every time his cousin publicly showed how little he cared for your marriage. he knows how deeply humiliating it must be to stand ignored before all those gossipy nobles. he sees the way your eyes fall in shame whenever you try to speak to your husband and he barely looks at you, barely touches you, barely acknowledges your presence.
and valarr sees it all. he suffers it in silence alongside you. too calm, too quiet, too honorable to intrude on marital matters that are not his own. yet you — a lady of immeasurable beauty, sharp of mind and tender of heart — deserve so much more than to be a forgotten shadow beside a man capable of such cruelty.
if only you were his lady wife, you would forget the aching loneliness that gnaws at you day after day.
and he would make it so. for the feelings he had long repressed for you only smoldered deeper with every passing day, every week, every moon. it was only a matter of time before the fire grew too fierce, before the honorable prince finally surrendered to his own heart.
so valarr began visiting you whenever aerion left to train or to seek someone new to torment. what began as soft words of comfort soon bloomed into tender compliments and whispered promises, until they became kisses scattered across your face like blessings.
his lips would brush your temple like a feather, then the tip of your nose, your cheek, the corner of your mouth… until finally he pressed the softest, most tentative kiss to your lips — so gentle you wondered if you had imagined it. he would search your eyes, silently begging for permission, knowing full well how wrong it was.
you are his cousin’s wife. he cannot have you.
yet he cannot stay away. your soft, yearning gaze — silently pleading for more affection, more of him — left him utterly lost.
his lips molded to yours in delicate little pecks, each one lingering longer than the last. his hand cupped your cheek as he tilted his head, daring to part his lips and brush his tongue gently against your lower lip — first a tender caress, then with sweet, patient insistence at the seam of your mouth.
what he could not say in words, he told you with his breath against yours — how much he admires you, how unfair it was that you had to marry aerion, how he desired you. how he wanted to steal you from his cousin's claws forever.
with the bb and dreams ask, sorta adding onto that, how would bb react to companion having a sex/wet dream? how would companion explain THAT concept to this ageless entity?
so bb monitors you while you sleep. we've established this. he watches your face cycle through expressions, tracks your breathing patterns, is soothed by your heartbeat. he's running a passive scan of your entire biological state at all times because that's just what bb does when you're snuggled into him.
so obviously he notices immediately when the dream shifts.
your breathing changes first. deeper. faster. your heartbeat picks up next. not the sharp spike of a nightmare, he knows that signature, this is different. a gradual climb. a building. your skin heats. blood rising to the surface of your cheeks, your chest, your neck. your lips part. your hips shift against the blankets in a small, restless roll that's definitely, unmistakably, not a nightmare.
bb goes still.
because he can smell it. whatever bb uses for perception is tuned to you permanently and your body is producing a scent signature he recognises all too well. it's the one that accompanies arousal, the one he recognises from proximity, from the nest, from every time his mouth or his hands have drawn it from you deliberately. except this time he's doing nothing. you're asleep. he's three inches away with his hands at his sides and you're generating this response entirely on your own, from the inside, from whatever your brain is constructing behind your closed eyes right now.
and then you moan in your sleep.
soft. barely audible. a sound bb has heard at full volume with his face between your thighs and is now hearing at quarter volume from a girl who is unconscious and dreaming, and whose hips are rocking against nothing and whose fingers are curling into the blankets and bb is experiencing seventeen different emotions simultaneously and cannot prioritise a single one.
fascination. arousal. his own, immediate, the body he built responding to your sounds with ridiculous urgency that bypasses his conscious thoughts. confusion immediately after. and finally, jealousy (stinging, hot, irrational) because who are you dreaming about? is it him? is it bobby? or some faceless composite your subconscious assembled from spare parts? the possibility that you're experiencing pleasure from a source he cannot see or participate in is making something in his chest burn.
but underneath the jealousy, feeding it, complicating it: the arousal. because you're making those sounds. in his nest. beside him. your body flushing and shifting and producing the scent that drives him out of his mind and the cause is internal. invisible. a private theatre in your skull running a show he hasn't been invited to and the exclusion is maddening and the performance is exquisite and bb wants to watch and he wants to be in it and he wants to peel your skull open and crawl inside the dream and replace whatever is touching you with himself.
your back arches. slightly. the moan again. louder. and your mouth forms a shape that might be a name and bb leans closer ( inches from your sleeping face, black eyes wide, every receptor straining) trying to read the name off your lips.
he can't tell. the shape dissolves before it becomes a sound. your hips roll again. your thighs press together and the scent spikes and bb is vibrating with the effort of not touching you and the effort of not touching himself the way you showed him and the growing, bewildering realisation that watching you dream about sex is doing things to his body that actual sex sometimes doesn't.
you wake up.
slowly. blinking. still flushed. that disoriented warmth of surfacing from a dream your body was fully committed to. your pupils are blown. your breathing is ragged. and bb is RIGHT THERE. face inches from yours. black eyes enormous. the expression on bobby's face one of intense, focused, bewildered hunger.
"you were making sounds," he says promptly before you've finished blinking.
"I—what?"
"sounds. the sounds you make when I—when we—" he stops, draws a breath you both know he doesn't actually need. "your heartbeat tripled. your skin heated. your arousal—" he inhales through his nose, deliberate, savouring, "—is significant. and you were moving your hips in a rhythm i've observed during—"
"oh god."
"—a rhythm that corresponds to—"
"OH god."
"explain." the head tilt, but his voice is lower than usual. thicker. the fascination threaded through with something more molten. darker. he's affected and trying to be clinical and failing at it completely. "your body responded to something that wasn't happening. something inside your brain. explain how."
you press your face into the pillow. can feel heat spreading down your neck and his hand has found your hip under the blanket and his thumb is stroking a slow, absent circle on your skin as though the touch is involuntary. as though his body moved toward yours before his brain authorised it.
"it's a sex dream. sometimes when you're sleeping your brain just... creates a scenario. a sexual one. and your body responds like it's real because your brain can't tell the difference."
"your brain can't tell the difference," he repeats slowly, his thumb still circling on your hip. "between real sexual contact and imagined sexual contact."
"basically."
"so you were—in your sleep—experiencing—"
"yes."
"with someone."
"yes."
"who?"
and there it is. the edge beneath the curiosity. the black eyes fixed on yours, the jaw tight. the needy possessiveness surfacing through the fascination like a fish fin through water.
"who was doing the things that made you make the sounds?"
"you," you admit quietly, because it was.
bb's whole body locks up.
the edge dissolves. the tension in his jaw releases with it, and what replaces it is hunger. pure, luminous, fascinated hunger. the slow blink. the purr igniting low in his chest. the satisfied warmth of hearing that he exists inside you even when he's not trying to.
"me." soft. his body shifting closer. "your brain chose me? unprompted. unsupervised. it just... reached for me?"
"that's generally how it works, yeah."
"and my—the dream version of me—was doing things to you. intimate things. things that made your body respond as though they were real?"
"...yes."
he wraps around you.
slowly. coiling. his arm sliding beneath you, pulling you against his chest, his legs tangling with yours under the blankets. his chin settling on top of your head. the purr deepens at once. his body curls around you snugly because he wants something and is going to be patient about getting it. the cat-with-a-mouse configuration. the one where the mouse is already caught and the cat is just deciding which angle to start from.
"tell me." murmured into your hair. his hand sliding up your spine in a long, slow stroke that makes your still-sensitive body shiver. "tell me what he was doing. the dream version."
"bb—"
"i want to hear it." his mouth finds your temple, pressing. his voice drops into the register that makes your stomach flip. that low, warm, intimate one, coaxing. "i want to hear what your sleeping brain thinks i do to you. what it invents when i'm not directing it." his thumb tracing the knob of your spine. "think of it as quality control. how accurate is the dream version? does he get the details right?"
"this is embarrassing."
"your heart rate just spiked again and you smell—" a long inhale against your hair "— incredible. you're embarrassed and you're aroused and I want to hear everything." his lips against the shell of your ear. the purr vibrating through his chest into your back. "start from the beginning, baby. please. where were we? in the dream. what did it look like?"
"...the nest. we were in the nest."
"good. and I was—what was I doing?"
"you were..." you trail off. press your face into his chest. his hand strokes your spine again. patient. coaxing. the purr steady.
"take your time." whispered against your hair. "we have nothing but time. and I want every detail. every single one." his arm tightening around you. his hips pressing forward against your back and you can feel that he's hard and has been hard since you started moaning in your sleep and the knowledge that your dream aroused him is doing things to your ability to form sentences. "was i touching you? where. show me where."
you take his hand. guide it. place it where the dream version's hand was and his breath catches against your scalp and the purr stutters and restarts at a higher frequency.
"here?" barely a whisper. his fingers curling against the spot you placed them. "like this?"
"slower. he was... you were slower."
bb's fingers adjust. slow down. match the dream's pace with the same meticulousness he gives to everything you teach him. "like this?"
you sigh. "yes."
"what else?" his mouth on your neck now. between words. kissing the skin he's speaking into. "tell me what else. what did the dream version say. did he talk? did he use his mouth?"
and you find yourself telling him. in fragments, in whispers, in half-sentences that dissolve into gasps when bb's real hands mirror the dream hands' movements. because bb is coaxing it out of you with ancient patience but with gentleness of someone utterly besotted. he's not interrogating you. he's unwinding you. peeling the dream out of you layer by layer, his voice low and warm, murmuring encouragements into your hair— "yes, and then what?" and "show me" and "like this?"—while his body wraps tighter around yours and his hands learn the choreography your sleeping brain invented for him.
"your dream is more honest than you are," he murmurs against your throat. his fingers stroking you in a way you've never asked for out loud because asking would require admitting you wanted it. "your dream doesn't have embarrassment. your dream just wants."
"and what does the dream want?"
"me." said with quiet wonder. "it just wants me."
he's quiet for a moment, his hands still moving. his mouth presses to your pulse, the purr running deep and steady.
"tonight, when you fall asleep," he drawls against your skin. "i'm going to watch again. and tomorrow morning you're going to tell me everything. again."
"bb—"
"i want to learn every version of me that lives inside your head." his arm tightens around you, voice thick with something that goes beyond arousal, or curiosity, even beyond possessiveness. something closer to reverence, to simple, unadorned, love. "the dreaming one. the waking one. every version your brain builds when i'm not looking. i want to know all of them. i want to know if they're getting me right."
he presses his mouth to the spot behind your ear tenderly.
"and if they're not," he whispers, "i'll teach you the difference."
