Grace comforting you as Eva ruthlessly pounds into you with her strap when when when
I’m desperate omg
-🎥
there’s one use of (last name) in here but hopefully it doesn’t beak the immersion
fuck. fuck oh my god. your legs are spread open and pushed into the air carelessly just to get out of the way of eva and her ruthless thrusting. and it is ruthless in every sense of the word. you feel as if the only comfort you’re getting in the midst of your cunt getting abused is the feeling of your head lying back in ryland’s lap, his big hands cradling your face and caressing your chest, kneading your breasts, letting you suck on his fingers, holding your hands, etc.
oh but it all still feels so fucking good. it’s evident in the way your pussy leaves a white, creamy ring around the base of eva’s fake cock, and in the way you’re nearly in tears babbling nonsense. just when you think you’ve got a hold on reality, here comes ryland’s soft, smooth, and sexy voice entering your ears saying words that make your chest hurt.
“you’re doing so good, baby.” he purrs, his hands holding yours, keeping you grounded. “fuck. you take cock so well. my special girl.” his hand caresses your jaw so gently that a tear springs free from your tear ducts and falls down your cheek.
eva gives you one hard thrust before slowing down to take a breather, making you whine and cry even more. “she’s acting like a crybaby, dr. grace.” eva states, a smidge out of breath. “i wouldn’t say that’s her taking it very well, in my opinion. i have to disagree with your conclusion.”
ryland gives her a look, keeping his hand on your face to gently hold it, letting you know he’s there. “well, i mean… it’s not like she’s trying to get up and run away. look at her: she’s lying back with her legs spread. looks like implied consent to me. and even through her crying she’s obviously telling us how good she’s feeling, and how she wants more. and a lot of people crying during sex, stratt. it’s not uncommon at all. she wants it.” ryland leans forward to grab one of your thighs to move your leg out of the way, giving eva a better visual of your pussy cream coating her strap. “just, look at that… fuck. isn’t that just one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen, stratt?”
eva slows to a stop, just barely pulling herself all the way out: the entire 8 inches covered in slick and cream. you whine at the feeling of losing the feeling of being full. she thinks to herself, her cold hands traveling along the contours of your hips and thighs. “how close are you, dr. (last name)?”
this only makes you wanna cry more but you keep it locked down. “so fucking close.” you whine. “please, eva, i wanna cum. i wanna cum, please make me cum.”
ryland holds your hands, and eva mulls over your pleas in her mind. this wouldn’t be the first time your pleas fell on deaf ears
but when eva slowly pushes herself back into you, all you can do is tearfully thank her as your pussy gets torn apart once more.
cw. toy usage, overstimulation, squirting, praise, jack and his big boner, flirting, teasing, implied age gap, established relationship, pleasure dom! jack.
synopsis. jack finds your precious dildo!
jack did have a feeling that when he came over to your apartment, he would find a few sex toys here and there.
the two of you just started dating, and because you're young and had been single a while now, obviously you had to do something to quell your urges. all those hormones coursing through your body and ovulation cycles hitting you hard; of course you needed a toy to get yourself off. those little fingers wouldn't do. and definitely not when you got your nails done, long and bejeweled and not going inside your hole anytime soon.
but he didn't think your collection would be this expansive.
"what's this, baby?" he grins, turning a baby-pink dildo around in his hand. his mind instantly goes to visions of you pumping it in and out of your hole till it got sloppy and creamy, while watching some porn video, or, even better, thinking about him.
"jack stop!" you complain, trying to reach up and snatch it from his hand, but he doesn't let you. all he does is grin down at you with an infuriatingly smug expression on his face, and brings the dildo up to his face, taking a long whiff. you squeal and try to push it away, but all he does is laugh and fake frown at you. "aw. you washed it. i wanted to see if i could smell you on it, sweetheart."
you keep rocking on your tiptoes and grabbing at his strong bicep, hoping to tear the toy free out of his hand before he can tease you anymore. a terribly juvenile game, something jack wouldn't do with anyone else, most likely. he's serious until it comes to you. then, it's like his personality switches entirely and he just becomes a fucking tease.
"i'll give it back to you if you let me see you play with it, hm?" he coaxes, lowering the toy enticingly, and you press your lips together, heat spreading along your face and making your cheeks burn at his implication. the two of you hadn't done more than some dry humping and making out, and to let him see you play with your pussy in real time does sound daunting, but the grin on his handsome face has you folding before you can think it through.
"fine, jack."
"promise you won't put it away the second i give it to you?" he tilts his head, that arrogant smirk still on his face.
"yeah, i promise." you roll your eyes. "but don't make fun of me, okay?"
"oh sweetheart, i'd never."
you shake your head as he teases you more and finally take the dildo back from him, figuring it'd be best to just hurry into it because hesitating would allow nerves to overwhelm you. you know you're a pretty person, and your body's nothing to be ashamed of. so why are you freaking out?
you lay back in your bed and shimmy off the house-shorts you'd been wearing, tearing them off and hooking your thumbs under the pink lace panties you had on. jack's face brightens even more, the fucking perv.
"were you anticipating we'd be doing this?"
"shut up." you grumble, embarrassed you had indeed prepared for the occasion, dressing up in a matching lace set and shaving every inch of your body. he licks his lips in anticipation, but huffs a little bit at the lack of hair at the top of your pretty pussy. "leave it next time," he says quickly, wanting to get it out now, full transparency, so you can commit it to memory.
you blink at the command, stilling your movements, but nod slowly, nod questioning his preference for hair. it does warm your heart a little bit that he prefers you all natural and wants you to be comfortable leaving hair where it belongs, and a sudden rush of confidence courses through you as you shimmy your panties off the rest of the way, giving him a full view of your plump, glistening pussy.
jack licks his lips, eyes fixed on the sight before him. he would love to just bury his face between your thighs right now or take out his cock and rub them against your slippery folds to see how they feel along his shaft and tip, but he holds back. tonight is about you and how you play with yourself.
he helps you out of your shirt too, marveling at the matching bra you have on, and then finally hands you your dildo while ogling your body. you huff and push your foot agaisnt his shoulder, clearly embarrassed by all his staring. he catches your ankle and kisses the sole of your feet before hiking it steadily over his shoulder, keeping you spread open while he nudges the dildo against your pussy. "get busy, sweetheart." he commands softly, focusing his attention on you.
you suck in a breath and ease the pretty pink dildo into your hole, gasping at the intrusion and shuddering as it fills you. you slip the toy in and out of yourself in uneven thrusts, your fingers clinging on to the base while you twist the fake cock in an attempt to hit somewhere weak deep inside you.
and jack... jack just watches with fascination, your little whimpers and the effort you're making to fuck yourself causing a bulge to start forming in his pants.
your legs are spread perfectly, giving jack an incredible view of the cock disappearing inside your hole with each thrust of it from your hand, and when you retract it, he can see your walls gripping and clinging onto the silicone to try and milk it as if it were real. his gaze flits between that and your swollen clit that rubs along the base of the dildo whenever you shove it in to the hilt, giving little twitches whenever it's stimulated.
you shudder and whine with frustration. somehow, it's just not enough. you can't cum like this. your lips press together in a pout as you stifle your little noises, but the desperate squelching of your pussy isn't silenced. jack starts to palm at his chubbed cock, gripping it through his pants and trying to relieve some of the ache, when you grab onto his hand, panting.
"jack, i need you," you plead, pushing the dildo into his hand while it's still stuffed inside you. "can't do it on my own, please..."
his thick fingers wrap around the dildo as you transfer it to him, and he just holds it inside you while you watch him trustingly, hoping he helps you and makes you cum. by now the imprint of his dick is visible through his pants, and you look down, wanting that inside of you much more than the cool, solid dildo, but you're not ready for it. he knows that too. he clenches his jaw for a moment, staring into your big, glassy eyes that plead with him to help you cum.
jack just can't say no to you.
slowly, he slides the toy out of you, staring at the wetness clinging to it and dripping down onto the mattress. you're fucking soaked. he doesn't think he's ever met anyone with a pussy as drooly and sensitive as yours, and again, the urge to fuck and taste you proper nearly takes over completely, but no. he has to focus.
your hips buck forward, your pussy wanting to be stuffed full on instinct, and he grunts and shoves it back into you, using his free hand to spread you open nice and wide for him so he can fuck you nice and good.
jack tugs it out of you, then teasingly begins tracing your slit with the head of the dildo. he rubs it through your folds, before aligning it with your hole once more and pumping it ina and out of you. your hand holds onto the sheets below you as you pant and moan, body twitching whenever he curls the cock and twists it deep, deeper than you'd taken it before. "it's so sloppy, listen to her," he chatizes, guiding the fake cock into your pretty pussy and angling it perfectly against your g-spot. "creaming all over this thing and it's not even that big. what're you gonna do with mine, hm?"
you cry out as the cock pounds into you faster. you can feel your orgasm fast approaching, lifting your legs higher and curving your body upwards while laying your hips in his lap with half your body in the air so that he can have more leeway to plunge the cock into your spread cunt. he groans at how your soft walls squeeze around it and suck it deeper, and so instead of drawing it back, he just shoves it in you all the way and grinds it around inside you, pushing you further to the edge.
you just need one little push...
jack lifts his thumb expertly and rubs it over your swollen clit, continuing to fuck the dildo into you at an unforgiving pace while rolling the bundle of nerves around with the pad of his thumb, occasionally flicking it, poking, and squeezing it down. "jack 'm so close!" you whine, legs shaking beside his head.
"yeah, baby? gonna be good and cum when i tell you too?"
his voice comes out so soft and coaxing, a harsh contrast to the force in which he's pounding the toy into you. at this point his dick is ready to burst out of the confines of his boxers. fuck, they're all stuffy and tight now. "wait till i tell you to, okay? don't cum 'till i say you can."
you whine loudly, using all of your strength to hold back while he increases his focus on your puffy clit. your toes curl with pleasure when he hooks his thumb to push it down while rubbing it in tight little circles.
your vision blanks at the corners and your face screws up with pleasure, your need to cum increasing by the second. "jack please, i need it now-!"
your boyfriend smiles down at you. "you need it now?"
you didn't even need a second to process the question, instead nodding hard in agreement. "alright, pretty girl. cum for me." is all he says, before your pulsing pussy gushes juices along the fake cock, soaking it even more as he continues fucking it inside of you. the mess coats him and the sheets underneath you while your cum glistens along the shaft of the fake cock, all while you shake and spray out pearlescent fluids around it. jack wishes it was his dick you were creaming on instead.
maybe sometime soon.
the thought urges him to continue plugging your cunt with the toy even as you continue cumming and your walls tremble around it from overstimulation, this thumb moving more gently now on your throbbing clit. "there you go," he talks you through your orgasm as it finishes off. "that's a good girl... easy now." he watches you relax at the sound of his voice and lay back down on the bed, panting as he finally retracts the fake cock from inside you, slipping it out with a soft, gentle pop and setting it beside you so he can focus on making sure you're okay.
"you did so well, sweetheart." he praises, scooping you up in his arms and pressing a kiss to your hairline. "thought you'd make a pretty face and cute noises when you cum. i was right, wasn't i?"
you huff and hide your face in his neck, settling yourself right on his achingly hard cock and gasping as you feel it twitch against your cunt. you look into his eyes as he smiles sheepishly at you and kisses your lips once. "cmon, what'd you expect? told you you were pretty."
I'm FUCKING CRAVING an enemies-to-lovers story with Jane Murdstone, where Reader is Edward's fiancée and Jane isn't happy about it, so she makes Reader's life miserable. Reader can't stand her anymore, and one day they get into a fight. It starts verbally, but then it escalates into a physical fight, which leads to… HATE SEX😛 (like very hateful sex, but obviously with consent.)
A Study in Correction (NSFW)
Jane Murdstone x fem!reader
A/N: You have NO idea how giddy this request made me!! Hate sex is one of my favourite tropes, and I rarely ever write it (a shame, truly). I really hope you’ll enjoy this, because I sure hope enjoyed writing it! <3
You’ve endured Jane Murdstone’s scrutiny for weeks now, each day a fresh litany of her corrections chipping away at your resolve. But today, in the heavy hush of the Murdstone household, it feels personal—as if she’s decided your very existence is an affront to her brother’s orderly world.
It begins innocently enough, or so you believe. Edward is in his study, his voice drifts occasionally through the doorway—soft murmurs to himself, the scratch of pen against paper.
Leaving you alone with her.
You are arranging the drawing room for tea when she appears beside you. Not suddenly, Jane Murdstone never startles, but with the quiet inevitability of a shadow sliding across the floor.
At six foot three, she hardly needs to assert herself. Her height alone narrows the space around her. The black of her dress absorbs the light, her dark hair is wound tightly at the nape of her neck, not a strand permitted rebellion.
“The roses,” she says, voice low and precise as she eyes the vase you’ve just filled. You inhale slowly. “They’re arranged too loosely. Edward dislikes that. Recut the stems at a sharper angle. Forty-five degrees, no more.”
You bite back the urge to point out that Edward has never once commented on the flowers. “As you say, Miss Murdstone.”
She doesn’t smile. Instead, she plucks a bloom from the vase herself, holding it up to the light like evidence in a trial. Her long fingers dwarf the stem, snapping it cleanly with a sound like breaking bone.
“Watch,” she instructs, demonstrating the cut with surgical calm. “Precision matters. Sloppiness betrays weakness of character.”
The barb lands, but you nod, resetting the vase under her unblinking stare. Edward calls from the study then and you both straighten, the momentary truce holding until he shuffles in, oblivious to the frost between you.
He drinks his cup without remark on the flowers, praises the blend—your choice, pointedly, and retreats again. Jane waits until his footsteps fade before resuming.
“Your posture at the table,” she murmurs, circling you as you clear the cups. Her shadow falls long across the rug; you feel it like a weight on your shoulders. “You lean forward when you listen. It suggests eagerness to please. Unbecoming in a wife.”
“I lean forward because I’m attending to conversation,” you reply, stacking saucers with more force than necessary. “Unlike some, who merely judge it.”
Her eyes narrow, but her tone stays even, almost gentle—the worst kind of reprimand. “Judgment preserves order. You would do well to cultivate it. Edward needs a partner, not a simpering girl chasing approval.”
The room tilts with suppressed fury. You set the tray down, turning to face her fully. She’s close now, too close, her height forcing you to crane your neck. Up close, her features are sharper than ever. High cheekbones, pale skin stretched taut over bone.
“Perhaps Edward needs a wife who trusts his judgment,” you say quietly, “not a sister who polices her every move.”
A muscle ticks in her jaw. “You mistake vigilance for interference. This house, his life, demands standards you have yet to grasp.”
The afternoon drags on like this, her orbiting you through domestic tasks, each reprimand a velvet-wrapped blade. In the parlor, she adjusts your embroidery hoop. At the pianoforte, where Edward briefly joins to hear you play, she critiques your tempo afterward. Even as you mend a tear in Edward’s coat under her supervision, she looms by the window, arms folded, dissecting your needlework stitch by stitch.
“You hesitate,” she observes, voice dropping as Edward dozes in his chair nearby. “Confidence, girl. Or do you fear the thread will snap?”
The word girl ignites you—reductive, infantilizing, as if your engagement evaporates your womanhood. Your needle pricks your finger, a bead of blood wells on your skin. You suck it away, glaring up at her silhouette against the light.
“Fear is your domain, Miss Murdstone,” you whisper, low enough not to wake him. “You haunt every room like a governess without a pupil.”
She steps closer, skirts brushing your knee, her shadow swallowing you whole. “And you play the fiancée without conviction. Shall I wake Edward to ask his thoughts on your… performance?”
Your heart hammers. Edward stirs, mutters, settles again. The air thickens, electric with what’s unsaid.
By evening, as twilight bleeds through the curtains, you’re alone in the drawing room—Edward called away to a neighbor, leaving you to tidy under Jane’s watchful eye. She’s relentless now, her reprimands shedding civility like a snake’s skin.
“Your hands,” she says, seizing your wrist mid-dust as you polish the mantel. Her grip is iron, thumb pressing against your pulse. “They tremble. Compose yourself.”
You wrench free, spinning to face her. “Compose myself? While you dissect me like a specimen?”
Her lips thin. “Discipline is mercy. You’ll thank me when it spares you humiliation.”
“I’ll thank you to leave me be,” you snap, voice rising despite yourself. “This is to be my house. My life with him. Not your prison of rules.”
She straightens to her full height, a tower of black bombazine and suppressed rage. “Your house? You are a guest here. Tolerated. And barely.”
The dam breaks. You shove the polishing cloth at her chest, it bounces harmlessly off. “Tolerated? Like your endless corrections? Your control? Edward sees right through you, a spinster clinging to his sleeve!”
Her face drains of color, then flushes dark. In two strides, she’s upon you, hand snapping to your chin, forcing your gaze up. “You know nothing of control. Or clinging.”
You slap her hand away, the crack echoing. Her eyes widen—shock, then something feral.
“You will apologize,” she hisses, crowding you back toward the wall.
“No.”
Her palm slams the panel beside your head, caging you. “You will apologise before you make a mistake you cannot mend.”
You brace for a slap, for her to shove you against the wall and storm from the room in righteous outrage. Instead, she grips your wrists again, and yanks you forward with a sharp, startled sound, your bodies colliding with enough force to knock the breath from your chest.
Your gasp is swallowed by the solid line of her, by the unforgiving stays beneath her dress, by the sheer height of her, enclosing you in shadow and black wool. You feel caged, caught—and, horribly, treacherously, something inside you thrills at it.
“Is this what you wanted?” she bites out, face inches from yours. Her breath is hot against your cheek. “To provoke me? To see what I would do if you pushed hard enough?”
You mean to answer with contempt, with some cutting retort that will slice clean through the tension. Instead, what comes out is little more than a whisper. “You were already waiting for an excuse.”
Her eyes flare, and that is when you see it—what you were not supposed to notice. The dilation of her pupils. The way her gaze flicks to your mouth, a quick, punished movement, as if she hopes you will not see the betrayal of it.
Your wrists ache beneath her fingers, but the bite of her grip sends heat crawling up your arms, pooling low in your belly. You should be repulsed. You should be doing anything but leaning forward, just slightly, as if drawn.
“You are outrageous,” she says, but her voice has dropped, roughened, the edges fraying. “You should be begging for my forgiveness.”
“I will never beg you for anything,” you whisper.
Her gaze lingers on your throat, and when she speaks, the words come slower, like each one costs her.
“You do not want me to let go.”
It is not a question. It is a diagnosis.
You hate how true it is.
Your laugh is breathless, shaky. “You think very highly of your own influence, Miss Murdstone.”
“Jane,” she corrects fiercely, as if the sound itself could anchor her to sanity.
“Jane,” you echo, because you are foolish, because the name feels like a sin in your mouth. Her fingers spasm around your wrists.
In one swift motion, she pins you back against the wall, caging you there with her body. The impact knocks a framed print askew. The glass rattles, a brittle protest. You gasp, more from shock than pain, and she presses closer, using every inch of her height to tower, to loom, to dominate.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice low and almost horrified. “You cannot decide whether to strike me or—”
She does not finish the sentence. She does not need to.
Your hands, freed for an instant, find the front of her bodice, fingers clawing at the rigid line of buttons. You don’t know whether you mean to push her away or drag her nearer, the result is the same. The fabric creaks. Her breath catches.
“Or what?” you demand. “Go on. Say it. You correct everything else I do—why stop your tongue now?”
Her hand moves to close around your throat—not squeezing, not yet, but firm, possessive, her thumb resting against the frantic thud of your pulse. Your head tips back against the wall, baring more of your neck to her. She stares as if transfixed.
“You do not know what you ask,” she says softly, and there is something almost broken in it. “You do not understand what it would mean, if I… indulged you.”
Your voice shakes, but it doesn’t falter. “Then show me.”
The last thread of her restraint snaps.
Her mouth crashes into yours with none of the delicacy expected of a woman of her station. There is nothing gentle in it, it is all teeth and anger and pent-up hunger, years of denial exploding at once. Your back scrapes the wall, you cling to her shoulders, to the hard line of muscle beneath all that severity, to anything that will keep you from collapsing.
You taste tea and steel and something undeniably her, something sharp and addictive. She kisses like she argues—unyielding, punishing, determined to win. You fight her for control out of instinct, answering her roughness with your own, biting her lower lip hard enough to make her hiss.
Her hand tightens on your throat in reflex, a warning squeeze that sends heat shooting straight through you. You flinch, but you don’t pull away. If anything, you arch into her.
She feels it. Of course she does.
“Oh,” she breathes against your mouth, half-mad with revelation. “You like this.”
Humiliation scorches your cheeks. “You are vile.”
“And you are lying,” she snarls, and kisses you again, deeper, forcing your lips apart, swallowing whatever protest you might have made.
Her free hand fists in your skirts, dragging them brutally upward, bunching the fabric around your hips. The sudden rush of cool air through your open drawers makes you gasp into her mouth. She curses under her breath, a raw, unladylike sound you have never heard from her before.
“Tell me to stop,” she says, the words barely more than a growl. Her forehead presses to yours, both of you panting. “Say it now, and I swear I will.”
You stare up at her, at the war raging behind her eyes—discipline and desire tearing each other to pieces. You realize, with a jolt, that this is the only mercy she will offer you. This single, trembling chance to retreat.
You should take it.
“Do it,” you whisper instead. “If you’re so certain I don’t understand, then teach me.”
Whatever fragile restraint remained in her shatters completely.
Her eyes burn into yours, wild and triumphant, as if your surrender has unlocked some forbidden part of her she’s kept chained for years. “You have no idea,” she rasps, “the ruin you invite.”
With a savage yank, she tears your skirts higher, the fabric of your drawers ripping at the seams under her strength. Her long fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, spreading them apart with ruthless efficiency, pinning one leg against the wall. You’re exposed, vulnerable, the cool air shocking against your dampening core—and she sees it, her gaze dropping to where you’re already slick with unwanted need.
“Filthy,” she mutters, voice thick with disgust and hunger. Her thumb drags roughly over your folds, parting them, circling your clit with deliberate cruelty—too hard, too fast, just enough to make your hips jerk involuntarily. “All this from hating me? Look at you. Dripping like a whore.”
You snarl, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back, exposing the long column of her throat. “And you’re no better,” you hiss, grinding against her hand despite yourself, chasing the friction. “Touching your brother’s fiancée like this. You’re depraved.”
Her laugh is low, broken. A sound that vibrates through her chest into yours. She retaliates by thrusting two fingers inside you without warning, deep and unyielding, curling them against that spot that makes your vision white out. You cry out, biting your lip bloody to stifle it, but she pumps harder, her palm slapping wetly against your clit with each brutal drive.
“Say it again,” she demands, free hand clamping back over your throat. “Call me depraved. I dare you.”
You do, choking it out between gasps: “Depraved—monster—” Your walls clench around her fingers, betraying you, and she groans, her own arousal evident in the flush creeping down her neck, the way her thighs press together beneath her skirts.
She withdraws her fingers abruptly, leaving you empty and aching, and shoves them into your mouth instead. “Clean them,” she orders, eyes locked on yours as you suck, tasting yourself on her skin—salty, musky, humiliatingly intimate. Her breath hitches, pupils blown wide. “Now kneel.”
The command ignites fresh fury. You shove at her chest instead, hard enough to make her stagger, but she’s too tall, too strong. She grabs your waist and lifts you, pinning you down onto the nearby settee like you weigh nothing. The springs creak under the force. You bounce once, skirts a tangled mess around your waist, legs splayed obscenely.
She looms over you, unbuttoning her bodice with one hand while the other holds you by the hip. Buttons ping across the floor, forgotten. Her chemise gapes open, revealing the swell of her breasts, nipples hard peaks straining against the thin fabric. She’s breathing as raggedly as you are, raven hair falling loose from its pins, framing her sharp features in disarray.
“Spread your legs wider,” she says, shedding her skirts with frantic tugs until they pool at her feet. No undergarments. Her cunt is bare, glistening, a dark thatch of hair framing lips swollen with need. She straddles your thigh, grinding down hard, leaving a slick trail on the fabric of your drawers. The heat of her, the sheer size of her bearing down—it’s overwhelming, possessive.
You buck up against her, nails raking down her arms, drawing red lines. “Make me,” you spit, but your hand betrays you, reaching for her breasts, squeezing roughly until she moans a raw, guttural sound that makes your clit throb.
She slaps your hand away, then grabs your wrist and forces it between her legs. “Feel what you’ve done to me, then. Feel how much I loathe you.” Her clit is fat and pulsing under your fingers. You circle it viciously, pinching just to hear her gasp, her hips stuttering. She’s soaked, dripping onto your skin, and the power of it surges through you as she fucks herself on your fingers, riding them with punishing rhythm.
She eventually pushes your hand away with a groan, but she’s not done with you. She leans forward, her weight crushing the air from your lungs, and grinds her soaked folds directly against your cunt—labia sliding wetly over yours, clits bumping with each filthy roll of her hips. It’s messy, graceless, the obscene squelch of it filling the room alongside your mingled curses and moans.
“Tell me you hate me,” she pants, one hand fisting your hair to yank your head back, the other bracing beside your shoulder as she ruts harder, faster. Her breasts drag against yours through the thin barriers of fabric. “Say it while you come.”
“I hate you,” you sob, the words fracturing as pleasure coils tight in your belly. Your legs wrap around her waist, heels digging into her back, urging her on. “I hate—God—Jane—”
Her own name breaks her. She kisses you again, all teeth and tongue, swallowing your cries as she grinds her clit against yours in short, brutal thrusts. Your orgasm hits first—shattering, humiliating, your walls spasming around nothing as you soak her thighs. She follows seconds later, shuddering atop you with a choked growl, her release dripping hot down your skin.
For a long moment, you’re both still—sweaty, ruined, chests heaving. Her forehead drops to your shoulder, black hair tickling your neck. The rage hasn’t vanished. It simmers, waiting.
“You will regret this,” she whispers finally, voice hoarse.
You turn your head, lips brushing her ear. “So will you.”
— pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Reader, Maekar Targaryen x Wife!Reader (second wife)
— content: 18+ MDNI | smut | yearning | unrequited feelings | angst | pregnancy | implied age gap | filthy smut | voyeurism | someone sees Paris
— summary: Baelor has always wanted you. Maekar's wife. He has wanted you since the first moment he saw you, and he has been very good about it. Until Maekar takes him up on an offer Baelor had made "mostly in jest", and one night turns out to be so much more than he bargained for. Aka, you are between the hammer and the anvil.
— word count: 9k
— a/n: The long-awaited follow-up to The Baby Project. 9k words!!! I am just as baffled as you are. I could not write this any shorter and still tell what I thought was a complete story. Generally, the idea of running that poor old man Maekar ragged is still amusing to me...but now poor Baelor is involved. Thank you as always for all your comments, likes, reblogs, and requests. 🖤
The great hall was a cavern of light and sound, a roaring beast fed by the voices of hundreds and the crackling of the great hearth. The air was thick, a heavy tapestry woven from the scent of spiced meat, the dripping sweetness of melting wax, and the underlying damp, mineral smell of the ancient stone walls. It vibrated with the low, ceaseless hum of a hundred conversations layered over one another. A minstrel in the corner, a man with a straggly beard and nimble fingers, plucked a jaunty, complicated tune on his lute, the notes weaving through the laughter like a silver thread, struggling to be heard over the raucous clatter of wooden plates and the occasional shout of a toast.
To any other observer, it was a scene of robust, unthinking celebration. A display of excess designed to remind the bannermen of House Targaryen's power and generosity.
Baelor could not have told you a single detail about the feast. He did not taste the wine, though his goblet was rarely empty. He did not hear the story the man to his left was telling. The minor lord was recounting a long-winded tale about a hunt that had involved a particularly cunning stag, a beast that had supposedly led three men on a chase through the Kingswood for three days. Baelor nodded at the appropriate intervals, a practiced, polite smile fixed firmly in place, but his mind was entirely elsewhere.
It was on you.
You were seated beside Maekar, as you always were, a position of honor and unassailable right at the high table. Your chair was pulled in close to his, so close that the dark fabric of your gown brushed against the black velvet of his doublet with every small shift you made.
You were laughing at something now, your head tipping back, the sound a clear, bright peal that cut through the din of the hall like a bell. The candlelight loved you. It caught the wild, waist-length halo of your hair, a restless sea that framed your face. It traced the delicate line of your jaw and the soft, vulnerable curve of your throat. And it illuminated the new lushness that three moons of carrying Maekar's child had given you.
Your body had softened, deepened. The change was subtle to those who did not look closely, but to Baelor, it was as stark as the changing of the seasons. Your breasts had grown fuller, heavier, pressing against the fabric of your dress in a way that made it difficult to look away. The bodice, cut in the current fashion, hugged the new curves, emphasizing their swell. Your hips had blossomed, creating a gentle, rounded slope that spoke of life and fertility and a profound, earthy change. Even seated, there was a tiny, barely-there swell of your belly, a subtle rounding of your midsection that was a secret the whole world now knew. You were glowing in the most literal sense of the word. Your skin seemed to hold the light, to radiate a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire roaring in the great hearth. You were extraordinary.
You had been extraordinary since the first moment. Baelor remembered the day. Maekar had brought you before his father at King's Landing, had stood beside you, his hand resting at the small of your back, a gesture of possession and protection that was entirely his. His brother, who had always been carved from granite and stern pronouncements, had looked at you with an expression Baelor had not seen on his face in a long time. It was a look of fierce, tender pride. This is my betrothed, Maekar had said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. And Baelor had looked at you, at your warm, playful eyes and the genuine smile that reached them, and felt something shift in his chest. It was a physical sensation, like a heavy stone finding its final resting place at the bottom of a deep, cold river. Heavy. Permanent. Entirely too late.
That was a year ago. A year of watching you belong completely and devastatingly to his brother. In that time, Baelor had become a connoisseur of your intimacy. He saw it in the way Maekar's hands would find you in any room, a steadying touch on your elbow, a possessive caress on the nape of your neck, a brushing of stray hair behind your ear. He saw it in the way you looked at Maekar, as if he had personally hung every star in the sky just for your amusement, your gaze wide and adoring. He saw it in the way his brother had come alive. Maekar smiled more now. He laughed, a rare and startling sound like rocks grinding together, rough but genuine. He moved with a new ease, a lightness that Baelor knew, with a certainty that was a physical ache, was because of you.
He was not the only one looking tonight. The young lord three seats down, a boy with a fresh face and an eager gaze, kept finding reasons to glance toward the high table. He would look at his plate, seemingly fascinated by a piece of parsley, then at his companion, then his eyes would dart to you, lingering a second too long before he remembered himself and blushed. The knight across the table, a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face and a thick neck, was less subtle. His eyes would fix on you whenever you laughed, his gaze heavy and appreciative. He would take a long draught of his ale, his eyes never leaving you, admiring something he knew he could not touch.
Men had always looked at you. Baelor understood it — a visceral, helpless impulse, the particular misery of a man who knew exactly what he could not have. He could have anything he desired, but he could not have you. You were Maekar's. You carried Maekar's child. You looked at Maekar as if he were the center of your world. And in the face of that, all of Baelor's power felt like dust and ashes.
You leaned in toward Maekar now, your body curving into his space, seeking his warmth. Your lips brushed close to his ear, your thick hair falling forward to curtain the moment, creating a private world in the middle of the crowded hall. You were saying something meant only for him, a secret whispered in the language of lovers. Your fingers curled around his forearm. Whatever it was you said, it caused a reaction. Maekar's mouth curved in that rare way it only ever did for you. He turned his head, his platinum blonde hair almost white in the candlelight, catching the glow, and said something back. Your response was immediate. You laughed again. Baelor's eyes shifted from you and found his brother's eyes already on him.
Maekar said nothing. He simply held Baelor's gaze from across the table, his violet eyes steady and knowing. Baelor held his gaze for one beat, two, the air between them thick and charged with things that could not be spoken. The noise of the hall faded to a dull roar. He could feel the muscles in his jaw tighten, a familiar, low-grade ache that had become his constant companion. Then he looked away, his gaze dropping to the dark, swirling surface of the wine in his goblet. He reached for it, his fingers closing around the stem. He needed the solid feel of it, the coolness. He did not lift it to drink.
Maekar looked away too, his attention returning to you as if nothing had happened, as if the silent exchange had been a figment of Baelor's imagination. But Maekar did not forget. He remembered the conversation from days ago with a vividness that made his stomach clench. He had gone to Baelor's solar, seeking company, sympathy. Baelor had made his offer then, his voice calm and even. Are you seeking assistance? He had said. Maekar had been furious. He was frankly lightly offended still. Baelor had seen it in his eyes tonight, a lingering resentment beneath the surface of his composure, a sharpness in his gaze when it landed on Baelor. It was a wound to Maekar's pride, a suggestion that he could not provide for his own wife.
The hour grew late. The energy of the room shifted, winding down like a clockwork mechanism running out of spring. Your head, which had been held high with regal grace throughout the meal, drooped slightly, leaning toward Maekar's shoulder. You caught yourself with a start, sitting up straight and laughing softly at your own tiredness, your hand pressing over your mouth in a gesture of apology. It was a charming, vulnerable display, and it made Baelor's chest ache with a tenderness he had no right to feel.
You turned to Maekar and said something, your voice too low for Baelor to catch. But Maekar understood. He was on his feet before you had finished speaking. His hand found yours, fingers lacing through yours, and he drew you up with great care. He supported your weight as you stood, his other hand hovering near your elbow, ready to catch you if you swayed.
You made your apologies to the table with a smile that could have lit the hall on its own. Several men watched you go: the young lord, the scarred knight, and half a dozen others. Their eyes followed you, a silent testament to your beauty. Maekar's hand settled at the small of your back as he guided you toward the great oak doors. His fingers splayed wide, claiming you, supporting you. You leaned into him as you walked, your head tilting toward his shoulder, your body seeking his support. Just before you passed through the heavy doors, you laughed at something he said, quiet and private, just for him. The sound was like a handful of glittering jewels tossed into the air, bright and beautiful and fleeting, and then it was gone.
The doors swung shut behind you both. Baelor looked down at his wine. The hall felt dimmer somehow, though the candles had not changed. He sat in the dimming light, the ghost of your laughter still ringing in his ears, and waited for the pain to recede into the dull ache he knew so well.
The heavy oak door clicked shut, the latch sliding home with a final, wooden thud that severed the noise of the feast from the sanctuary of your chambers. The roar of the hall, the clinking of goblets, the drunken laughter of the bannermen — it all vanished, replaced instantly by the crackle of the dying fire in the hearth and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the man beside you.
You had taken only two steps into the room, your hand still resting in the crook of Maekar's elbow, when he turned you. The movement was swift but not rough. His hands came up to cradle your face, palms warm and calloused. He didn't speak. He simply looked at you, his pale violet eyes searching yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs, as if he were reminding himself, in the quiet dark, that you were real. That you were his.
Then his mouth descended on yours.
It was a slow, deep, consuming kiss that started at your lips and pulled at something deep in your belly. His beard brushed against your chin, a rough friction that sent shivers skating down your spine.
You leaned into him, your body molding itself to the hard lines of his. Your hands released his arm and moved instead to the front of his tunic, fingers curling into the rich fabric. You pulled him closer, eliminating the inches of space between you, because any distance at all felt wrong. You needed the solid wall of his chest against yours, the proof of him grounding you.
He made a low sound in his throat, a rumble of approval against your lips, and began to move you towards the edge of the bed.
The mattress was soft, yielding beneath your weight as he lowered you down, but his eyes never left yours. He followed you down, bracing himself on one arm beside your head, his body a cage of warmth and muscle that blocked out the rest of the world.
"Maekar," you breathed, the name a sigh on your lips.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, his hands moved to the laces of your gown. His fingers were sure, practiced, but there was no rush in his movements. He undid the knots with a patience that felt like reverence. The fabric loosened, and he pushed the heavy material from your shoulders, peeling it away layer by layer until the cool air of the room touched your skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake.
You shivered, not from cold, but from the anticipation of his touch. When you were bared to him, he stilled, his gaze sweeping over you. It was a look of possession, but soft, edged with wonder. His eyes traced the new curves of your body.
His hands came up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. You gasped, your back arching off the bed, pushing yourself deeper into his hands. He groaned, a vibration you felt against your ribs, and dipped his head to take one tight peak into his mouth.
The sensation was electric. He suckled gently, his tongue swirling around the nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you cry out. Your hands tangled in his hair, the silver-gold strands sliding through your fingers as you held him to you. He worshipped you with his mouth, moving from one breast to the other, lavishing attention on the sensitive flesh until you were writhing beneath him, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
But he didn't stop there. His hands smoothed down your ribs, over the soft curve of your stomach, coming to rest on the gentle swell of your belly. The life inside you fluttered beneath his palm. He lifted his head, his eyes locking onto yours, and then he did something that made your heart stutter in your chest. He leaned down and pressed his lips to your belly. It was a tender, almost chaste kiss, filled with a fierce, protective adoration that brought tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
"Maekar," you whispered again, your voice trembling.
"I know," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and damp. "I know, my heart."
He moved back up your body, capturing your mouth once more. This kiss was deeper, hungrier, stealing the air from your lungs until you were dizzy with need. You could feel the hard length of him pressing against you. He shifted his weight, settling between your thighs. You opened for him willingly, your legs falling apart to accommodate the breadth of him. He reached between you, his fingers finding the slick heat of your folds.
"You are so wet for me," he rasped, his voice rough with desire. "Always so ready."
You gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. "Please, Maekar. I need you."
He didn't make you wait any longer. He withdrew his fingers and positioned himself at your entrance. With a slow, deliberate thrust, he sank into you.
He knew your body better than he knew his own. He knew exactly how to angle his hips to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur, knew just how much pressure to apply to drive you higher. He made love to you with a focus that was total and complete, his entire being concentrated on the point where your bodies joined. The room filled with the sounds of your coupling — the wet slap of skin against skin, the creak of the bed frame, the ragged gasps and moans that tore from your throat. You met him thrust for thrust, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and the slowing rhythm of your breathing. You were sated, warm, and content, your body humming with the lingering echoes of pleasure.
Your arm rested across his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns through the light dusting of hair on his pecs. You could feel the steady thud of his heart beneath your palm, a slow, rhythmic beat that soothed you. But as the minutes ticked by, you began to sense a shift in him. The tension that had left his body during your lovemaking was slowly returning, settling in the set of his shoulders and the tight line of his jaw. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes fixed on the dark wooden beams above, unseeing.
You tilted your head back so you could see his face. The firelight had died down to embers, casting his face in half-shadow, highlighting the furrow between his brows. You waited, watching him, knowing him well enough to know that rushing him would get you nowhere.
"What troubles you?" you asked softly.
He didn't look at you immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, as if the answer to some unspoken question was written there. Then, slowly, he exhaled, a long, heavy breath that seemed to deflate his lungs.
"I have been thinking," he said, his voice low, careful. It was the tone he used when he had been turning something over in his mind for a long time, weighing the words before he let them see the light of day.
"What of?" you prompted gently, your fingers still tracing the hard planes of his chest.
He finally looked down at you, his violet eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your stomach tighten. He reached up, tucking a stray curl behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone.
"How would you feel," he began, his voice dropping an octave, "about inviting another to our bed?"
The question hung in the air between you, heavy and shocking. You sat up slowly, the movement dragging the sheet with you until it pooled at your waist, exposing your naked breasts to the cool air. You didn't feel the cold. You felt only a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline.
Your eyes found his in the dim light, and they were already burning. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thinner.
"Who?"
Your mind was already racing, leaping to conclusions with a speed that terrified you — immediately and catastrophically to another woman. Was there someone at the keep? Someone who didn't carry the weight of his child, who wasn't swollen with the evidence of his duty and desire?
You went sharp, your voice dangerously calm in the way that preceded a storm. "What woman has caught your eye?"
Maekar started to speak, to reach for you, but you cut him off, the words pouring out of you in a torrent of hurt and fury.
"While I am carrying your child?" you demanded.
Your chest heaved with the force of your emotion. You felt a hot, searing pain in your chest that had nothing to do with physical injury. His hands found yours, gripping them tight, fingers lacing through yours, anchoring you.
"There is no one else," he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "There will never be anyone else."
The conviction in his voice gave you pause. You looked at him, searching for any sign of deceit, but found only a raw, open honesty.
And then he spoke again.
"I am tired," he admitted.
The words hung in the air, simple and devastating.
"Not of you," he added quickly, his thumbs stroking the backs of your hands. "Never of you." He looked away then, his gaze dropping to where your hands were joined. "I would sooner cut off my own hand than disappoint you or leave you wanting for a single thing. But I –"
The fury went out of you slowly, like a fire running out of air. The anger that had been fueling you evaporated, leaving behind a cold wash of realization.
You looked at him and the exhaustion that had been too proud to say plainly until now, buried beneath layers of duty and pride and love. He was a warrior, a prince, a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. And he was terrified that he wasn't enough for you.
It broke your heart.
Before you could speak, to reassure him, to tell him that he was everything, he continued.
"Baelor," he said, the name falling like a stone into a still pond. "Baelor has made his desire for you known to me."
Your eyes widened. You hadn't expected that.
"I suspect he has wanted you for some time." Maekar said, his voice steady, though you could hear the undercurrent of tension in it.
He looked up at you then, his eyes searching yours for any sign of revulsion or anger.
"If you wished it," he said slowly, carefully. "If it would please you... I would ask Baelor to come to our bed. Just once."
He squeezed your hands tighter. "You are everything to me. More than I can say. I would not have you feel debased or used, nor like anything less than what you are. If I have given offense, I am sorry for it, and I swear to you I will never speak of this again.
You were quiet for a long moment. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions. You thought of Baelor — of the way he looked at you, not with the crude hunger of the other men, but with a quiet, aching longing.
And then you looked at Maekar. Your husband. The man who loved you so much he was willing to share you, to set aside his own pride and possessiveness, just to ensure you were satisfied.
You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. "You are always enough for me," you whispered fiercely. "I have never wanted anyone else."
"I know it," he said, his voice rough.
You pulled back slightly, searching his face. There was something else there, beneath the sacrifice and the love. A flicker of something you hadn't expected.
"Would it give you pleasure to watch?"
The question hung in the air. It wasn't an accusation. It was a real question, your eyes searching his face, trying to understand the depths of what he was offering.
A muscle tightened in his jaw. His pupils dilated. He made a sound that was very nearly a groan, a low, ragged exhalation of breath.
"Perhaps," he admitted. The word was low and rough, scraping against his throat.
Something gleamed in your eyes. You looked at him for a long moment, this proud, exhausted, beautiful man who had just admitted he wanted to watch his brother take you to bed — and something in your chest loosened. You held his gaze, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth.
"I think my dutiful husband has earned a single night's respite," you said finally.
Maekar let out a chuckle. He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. You could feel the rapid flutter of his heart against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.
The slip was barely a barrier at all, a wisp of material that ended high on your thighs, leaving your legs bare to the shifting air of the room. Moonlight filtered through the high window, casting you in silver and shadow, defining the arc of your belly and the dark promise of your nipples beneath the thin silk. You looked like a painting of a goddess brought to life, trembling with a latent energy that seemed to vibrate right through your skin. You looked like something a man would burn cities for, or at the very least, lose his mind over.
Maekar was standing by the door, his hand paused on the latch. He had been watching you in silence, but as you turned, the air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with the static that always built between you two. He stopped moving entirely. The latch clicked, forgotten in his grip.
He crossed the room then, his stride eating up the distance between you with an easy grace. When he reached you, he didn't speak. His hand came up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the wild curls of your hair, and he pulled you into him. His mouth crushed yours, hard and demanding. He tasted of wine and the dark, metallic tang of sleepless nights. He kissed you with a thoroughness that stole the air from your lungs, his tongue delving deep to stake a claim, to remind you exactly who you belonged to.
Your knees went weak, the silk of the slip doing nothing to stop the heat radiating from him. You melted into him, your hands finding purchase on the hard planes of his chest, feeling the heavy thrum of his heart against your palms.
He pulled back abruptly, leaving you gasping, your lips swollen and wet. His gaze bore into yours, intense and searching. He took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, his grip firm but not bruising, tilting your face up until you had nowhere to look but him.
"You are mine," he rasped, his voice a low vibration that you felt in your bones.
"I would never forget," you breathed, the truth of it settling in your chest like a stone.
He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less possessive. It was a sealing of a vow, a brand pressed against your mouth. The sheer force of his ownership undid you. The thought of Baelor seemed to dissolve in the face of Maekar's overwhelming presence. Why did you need anyone else when this man could undo you with a look?
He pulled away, his hands catching your wrists and gently disentangling them from his clothes. The loss of his heat was a physical shock. Resting his forehead against yours for a moment, he lingered, his eyes closed, as if he were warring with himself, fighting the same urge to stay.
Then he stepped back. The space between you felt like a chasm.
"Wait for me," he murmured, the command soft but absolute.
He turned and walked out the door, leaving you standing in the pool of moonlight, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
You listened to his heavy footsteps receding down the corridor, counting them as they faded. Then silence returned, filled only by the crackle of the dying fire and the rush of your own blood.
Down the hall, the stone floor was cold under Maekar's boots. His blood was still up, heated by the taste of you, by the sight of you standing there like a queen waiting to be worshipped. He felt a strange, chaotic mix of emotions — possessiveness warring with a dark, twisted curiosity.
He reached Baelor's door and didn't bother with politeness. He knocked, three sharp raps that echoed in the quiet hallway.
A moment later, the door opened. Baelor stood there, a book still in one hand. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of his brother standing there at such an hour.
"Maekar?" Baelor's voice was rough. "Is something wrong?"
"I have something you must see immediately." His voice was tight, controlled, but there was an undercurrent of urgency that brooked no argument.
He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked back down the corridor.
Baelor hesitated for only a fraction of a second. He looked back into his room, then at his brother's retreating back. There was a tone in Maekar's voice he couldn't place, yet he stepped into the hall.
"Maekar," he called, hurrying to catch up. "Brother, what is this?"
Maekar didn't slow down. "Walk."
Baelor fell into step beside him, matching his long stride. The castle was asleep around them, the shadows long and stretching in the flickering torchlight. He studied Maekar's profile, the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. Maekar was impossible to read when he chose to be, a fortress of a man, and tonight he was locked tight.
Baelor's mind raced, spinning through possibilities. He prepared himself for bad news. If there was trouble, he would meet it. But as they turned the corner toward Maekar's chambers, the air seemed to change. It grew heavier, warmer, scented with something sweet and familiar.
Maekar stopped abruptly in front of the door to your chambers. He placed his hand on the wood, his fingers splaying wide. He paused, his back to Baelor, a statue of hesitation. Then, with a sharp exhale, he pushed the door open and stepped aside.
"Look," Maekar said.
Baelor looked.
And there you were.
You were standing by the window, your back to the door, your silhouette etched against the night sky. The silk slip you wore was the color of moonlight itself, clinging to your body with a faithfulness that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Baelor stopped breathing. It felt like he had taken a blow to the chest, a physical impact that knocked the air right out of his lungs.
He had thought about this. Gods forgive him, he had spent countless nights in the dark, staring at the ceiling of his own chamber, thinking about this exact thing, imagining what you would look like out of those heavy court gowns, what your skin would feel like under his hands, what sounds you would make when you were lost to pleasure, what secrets lay behind your closed doors.
Now he knew. Or he was beginning to.
You were breathtaking; a vision made flesh, a creature of such intense, terrifying beauty that it made his hands shake. You looked at him, your gaze locking onto his. There was no shyness in it. Only heat, curiosity, and a depth of invitation that nearly undid him right there.
"Baelor," you said.
Just his name, but the way you said it, the soft rasp of your voice, the way your lips formed the syllable, rushed through his veins, heating him from the inside out. He felt his cock twitch, hardening instantly against the rough fabric of his breeches.
He dragged his gaze away from you, forcing himself to look at Maekar. His brother had moved to a seat near the large bed. Maekar sat down, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back with an air of terrifying composure. This was not the furious brother who had nearly come to blows days ago at the mere suggestion of impropriety.
"What is this?" Baelor managed, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
Maekar's violet eyes were fixed on him, sharp and assessing. "My wife is insatiable," Maekar said, his tone calm. "Assist her as you offered."
The words hung in the air, heavy and shocking. Baelor felt a surge of adrenaline, a mix of incredulity and a fierce, blinding hunger. He looked back at you. You hadn't moved. You were still watching him, your chest rising and falling slightly faster now, your eyes dark and wide.
This was surely a dream born of too many lonely nights. But the heat of your gaze was real.
He stepped further into the room, moving slowly, giving you every chance to step back, to send him away. He was a knight, a man of honor, and even in the face of this temptation, that honor held. This h would not rush.
He stopped in front of you. Up close, you were even more devastating. The scent of you was intoxicating — vanilla and jasmine. He could see the delicate flush on your cheeks, the soft parting of your lips. He slowly raised one hand, letting it hover for a moment before settling it on your waist.
The silk was warm from your body. Your skin was even warmer beneath it. His hand spanned your side, his thumb brushing against the curve of your belly. He looked deep into your eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of reluctance, anything that would tell him this was a mistake.
There was only a burning curiosity, a softness that welcomed him, and a desire that mirrored his own. You leaned into his touch, just slightly, a subtle movement that surrendered to his weight.
"One rule, brother," Maekar's voice cut through the silence like a whip crack. It wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of iron.
Baelor glanced over his shoulder. Maekar hadn't moved, but his eyes were burning, fixed on the point where Baelor's hand rested on your hip.
"You will not spill your seed inside my wife," Maekar said, his voice dropping an octave, low and dangerous. "I will not share that with you."
It was a line drawn in the sand. Baelor understood. This was a gift, but it came with conditions. The ultimate claim belonged to Maekar.
Baelor nodded once, a sharp, jerky motion of assent. He didn't care about the restriction. He would take whatever scraps of paradise you were willing to give him.
He turned back to you, lowered his head and captured your mouth with his.
Baelor kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he was trying to drink in your soul through his lips. His mouth was soft but insistent, moving against yours with a slow, sensual rhythm.
His other hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. You felt the tremor in his hands, the way his restraint was already beginning to fray, and it made you ache for him. You melted into him, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the rapid, thudding beat of his heart. The silk of your slip rubbed against him, a sensory friction that sparked fires along your nerve endings. You were caught between the moonlight at your back and the solid heat of him in front, and for the first time that night, the ache inside you began to feel like it might finally be sated.
The weight of Baelor's hands on your waist was deliberate, his fingers spreading wide as if to memorize the topography of your hips before he guided you backward. You moved without resistance, trusting him completely. The bed gave beneath you, the silk of your shift whispering against the heavy furs as you sank into the softness. He followed you down, crawling over you, the heat of him pressing down, solid and overwhelming. His mouth found yours again, and the world narrowed down to the sensation of his lips. Your lips parted without thought, an invitation he accepted instantly. His tongue slid against yours, slow and possessive, savoring you as if you were the last sip of something rare and intoxicating.
You arched into him, your body seeking more contact, more friction. Your fingers curled into the front of his doublet, the rough fabric biting into your palms as you pulled him closer, needing to bridge the gap between you. His hands never stilled. They traced the curve of your waist, drifting down to the inside of your thighs, his calluses catching on the delicate skin there, sending shivers racing up your spine that had nothing to do with the cool night air. The silk of your shift rode higher with every upward stroke of his thumbs, the fabric bunching around your hips.
Then his palms were sliding under the hem, pushing the fabric upward in one fluid, practiced motion, leaving you exposed to the firelight spilling across the room. You gasped into his mouth as the cool air hit your bare skin, the sudden vulnerability making your nipples tighten into hard peaks. Your breath hitched, a mix of anticipation and exposure.
Baelor groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips, and for a heartbeat, he simply looked. His mismatched eyes dragged over your naked form. He didn't just see you; he devoured you with his gaze, tracing the lines of your body, committing them to memory.
The distinct creak of leather broke the rhythm of your breathing. Maekar. The knowledge that he was watching, that his violet eyes were fixed on your exposed skin, made the heat inside you flare brighter.
Your need was a living thing, clawing at your insides. You slid your hands between your bodies, fumbling desperately at the laces of Baelor's breeches. Your fingers were clumsy, trembling with urgency, but he helped you, his own movements just as eager. The laces came free, the fabric falling open. You wrapped your hand around him, the heat of his cock a brand against your palm. He was thick, heavy, the vein along the underside pulsing against your fingertips. A drop of pre-cum beaded at the tip, and you smeared it with your thumb, watching his eyelids flutter, his jaw clenching as he fought for control.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word a prayer torn from his chest.
You stroked him once, twice, relishing the weight of him in your hand, and his hips jerked forward, his control fraying. The firelight painted your skin in gold and crimson, glinting off the dampness already gathering between your thighs.
Baelor's gaze darkened. His mouth crashed down on yours again, but just long enough to steal your breath before he broke away. His lips trailed down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. You whimpered, your back arching off the bed, offering yourself up to him. His hands found your breasts, one cupping the heavy weight, his thumb circling your nipple until it ached with sensitivity. The other lifted, guiding your flesh to his mouth.
The first pull of his lips sent a jolt straight to your core, electric and sharp. You cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to you as his tongue swirled, his teeth scraped gently, and his free hand kneaded the other breast with just the right amount of pressure. Pleasure coiled tight and low in your belly, your hips lifting off the bed, seeking friction, seeking him. He gave it to you — his mouth hot and wet, his fingers pinching your nipple just shy of pain, the dual sensations making your vision blur.
"Baelor—" His name tore from your throat..
He released you with a wet pop, his breath coming fast and ragged. "Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire, his eyes burning into yours. "So fucking beautiful."
From behind, Maekar's voice, laced with possession: "Isn't she?"
The pride in his tone, the absolute certainty of ownership, sent another wave of heat through you. They were both looking at you like you were the only thing in the world worth wanting.
Baelor's hands slid down the length of your body, his touch reverent yet possessive. He hooked your knees over his shoulders, the movement effortless, displaying you to him. The cool air hit the wet heat between your thighs; you could feel his breath there, hot and uneven. Could see the way his shoulders tensed as he leaned in, his lips parting in anticipation.
The first stroke of his tongue was slow. Deliberate. A flat, broad lick from your entrance to your clit, as if he were tasting the finest vintage, savoring the first sip. Your fingers clenched in the sheets, your hips jerking upward, chasing the sensation. He did it again. And again. Long, slow stripes, his tongue firm and wet, learning the shape of you, mapping the folds of your sex. You were already trembling, your thighs quivering around his head, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Oh — oh gods —"
His fingers joined the assault, two of them pressing inside you in one smooth, fluid thrust. You were so tight, so hot, your inner walls clenching around him immediately, trying to draw him deeper. He groaned against your flesh, the vibration traveling through your bones and making you whimper. "So fucking tight," he growled, his voice muffled against your skin. He curled his fingers upward, finding that spot inside you that made your back bow off the bed, a silent scream tearing at your throat.
Your moan was obscene, broken, your hips bucking wildly as he worked you. He thrust his fingers in and out, his thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless circles, his mouth sealing over you, sucking, licking, devouring. The sounds you made were beyond your control — high, needy cries mingling with the wet slap of his tongue and the lewd squelch of your arousal as his fingers pistoned in and out of you.
"Baelor, please —"
"Go on. Let him taste you." The command from your husband was the final straw. It shattered what little control you had left.
Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, brutal and beautiful in its intensity. Your back arched, your thighs locking around Baelor's head as you came, your cunt clenching rhythmically around his fingers, your cries filling the chamber. When he finally lifted his head, his lips were glistening, his eyes dark with a hunger that hadn't been abated in the slightest. He crawled up your body, his heavy cock dragging against your thigh. His mouth found yours again, and you could taste yourself on his tongue; sweet, wild, and feel the way his body trembled with the effort of holding back.
You pulled him down, your arms wrapping around his neck as your legs parted instinctively to cradle his hips. He broke the kiss to look at you and the expression on his face made your chest ache. It was adoration mixed with lust.
Then he was moving, shifting your body with easy strength until your head was at the edge of the bed. Your hair spilled like a dark halo over the furs. He knelt between your thighs, taking his cock in his hand, the tip already weeping with need. You reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his length, stroking him, guiding him to where you needed him most.
The first press of him against your entrance was heaven. You were so wet, so ready, but he was thick, the stretch burning in the best possible way as he pushed inside. Your nails dug into his back, your breath stuttering in your chest.
"Fuck —"
He bottomed out with a groan, his entire body trembling. "You —" His voice was ragged, ruined. "You feel —" He couldn't even finish the sentence. He just moved.
Slow at first. Deep, rolling thrusts that made your vision white at the edges, your moans turning into broken pleas. "More — harder — please —"
He gave you exactly what you begged for.
His hips snapped forward, his cock driving into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, your cries mixing with his grunts and the wet, obscene noises of your body taking him. You heard Maekar shifting, his breath audible even over the sounds of your coupling, but you couldn't look, couldn't think because Baelor was fucking you, his fingers digging into your hips, his mouth finding your sensitive spots.
"Such a good girl," he growled, his thrusts punishing, perfect. "Taking me so well — this tight little cunt was made for me, wasn't it?"
"Yes —" The word was a sob torn from your throat. "Yes, yes —"
Your head fell back, dangling over the edge of the bed, and that was when you saw him.
Maekar.
His breeches were undone, cock freed from its confines, his hand wrapped around the thick length. He was stroking himself in slow pulls, his eyes locked on the place where you and Baelor met. His lips were parted, his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath. The sight of him — your husband, so visibly undone, watching you being fucked by another man, sent a dark and twisted wave of pleasure crashing through you.
Baelor followed your gaze. His grip on your hips tightened, his thrusts growing erratic as he realized what you were looking at. He pulled out of you with a wet, sucking sound, to flip you onto your hands and knees before you could even protest the sudden emptiness. The cool air hit your soaked cunt, making you shiver, your thighs trembling as he positioned himself behind you. His palm came down on your ass, hard, and the sharp sting sent a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you. Then Baelor was inside you again, his thrusts immediately brutal, his hips slapping against your ass, the sound lewd and echoing in the quiet room. The sensation was perfect. You cried out, your nails digging into the sheets, your body rocking helplessly with the force of him.
"Look at him," Baelor growled, his fingers tangling in your hair, yanking your head up to force your gaze forward. "Look at your husband while I fuck you."
You obeyed, unable to do anything else.
Maekar's hand stilled on his cock. His violet eyes burned into yours, his expression a mix of possessiveness and dark, hungry approval. "You love this, don't you?" His voice was sharp and precise. "Love being used like a whore."
You nodded, the movement jerky, your inner walls tightening around Baelor's cock at the degradation. "Yes — gods, use me —"
Maekar stood in one fluid motion, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. He crossed to you in two quick strides, his cock thick and flushed dark. He was hard as iron, the tip glistening with pre-cum.
He was right there in front of you. His hand cupped your face gently as his thumb brushed your lower lip. "Such a greedy girl," he murmured, his voice a caress and a threat all at once. "Always so hungry."
You moaned, your tongue darting out to lick the pad of his thumb. He groaned, his cock twitching right in front of your face, another bead of pre-cum welling at the slit.
"You've spoilt her, brother."
Maekar chuckled. “So it would appear.”
The head of his cock brushed against your swollen lips. "Open." You obeyed instantly, parting your lips and flattening your tongue.
The first taste of him was home — salty, musky, the familiar weight of him on your tongue. You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deep, relaxing your throat to accommodate him as Baelor fucked you from behind. The dual sensations were overwhelming. You were full, stuffed to the brim, your mouth occupied by Maekar's thick length while your cunt was stretched tight around Baelor's. Baelor's balls slapped against your clit with every thrust, sending jolts of pleasure racing up your spine.
"Fuck —" Maekar's hand tangled in your hair, guiding your head, his hips rolling slowly as he fed you inch by inch. "Just like that."
Baelor smacked your arse again and you welcomed it. "You feel incredible," he groaned, his voice strained. "So tight — so perfect."
You couldn't speak. You could only take, existing solely for their pleasure in this moment. Your moans vibrated around Maekar's cock, muffled and wet, your body trembling violently as your orgasm built again, coiling tight and low in your belly like a storm about to break.
Maekar's voice was a low growl, directed over your shoulder. "Fuck her harder."
Baelor obeyed without hesitation.
His next thrust was punishing, his hips snapping against you with enough force to drive you forward, taking Maekar deeper into your throat. His cock hit that spot inside you that made your vision whiten, that blinding point of pleasure that obliterated thought. You came with a muffled scream around Maekar's cock, your body clenching violently, your cunt milking Baelor as your orgasm ripped through you. Your throat fluttered around the thick length filling your mouth, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity of it.
Maekar groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair. "Fuck — fuck —" His cock pulsed on your tongue, and then he was coming, his release hitting the back of your throat in thick, hot spurts. You swallowed around him, desperate to take it all, your own climax still rippling through your body, leaving you a trembling, gasping mess between them.
Baelor's rhythm faltered. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his cock swelling inside you, his entire body tensing as he chased his own release. He was right there, hovering on the edge —
A sharp, cold flash in Maekar's eyes.
"Baelor."
One word. A reminder. A command.
Baelor groaned, a sound of pure frustration, his cock twitching inside you where you wanted him most. But he obeyed. With a ragged curse, he pulled out, his release taking him by force. His cock pulsed, painting your thighs and the curve of your ass in thick, white stripes. His mismatched eyes screwed shut as he rode out the waves of his pleasure.
Maekar slowly withdrew from your mouth, giving you a moment to breathe. He stroked your cheek, his thumb brushing your lower lip, wiping away a stray drop of his release. His voice was soft, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable.
"Good."
You collapsed forward, your body giving out entirely, every muscle liquid and spent. For a moment, there was only the sound of three people trying to remember how to breathe.
The mattress shifted, the heavy weight of Baelor's presence leaving your side, and the sudden coolness of the air struck your sweat-dampened skin. You didn't open your eyes. Your body was a vast, unmapped landscape of sensation, trembling in the aftermath, the aftershocks of your release still fluttering through your inner muscles in small, desperate waves. The sound of water splashing, distinct and wet, echoed against the walls. Then Maekar was in front of you.
"Let me," Maekar murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in your chest.
You felt the cloth first against your thigh. It was hot, wrung out just enough to be warm without burning, and the sensation drew a sharp, hissing breath from between your lips. He didn't rush. He wiped away the sticky evidence of Baelor's release, the fabric dragging softly over your sensitive skin.
You forced your eyes open. The room was dim, lit only by the dying orange glow of the hearth and the pale silver spill of moonlight from the high windows. Maekar's face was shadowed, but his eyes were fixed on yours.
"Are you alright?" he asked softly.
You nodded, your throat too tight to speak immediately. Your hand moved slowly, heavily, across the furs until your fingers brushed against his wrist. You felt the steady, rhythmic thump of his pulse beneath your fingertips.
"Yes," you whispered. The word cracked in the quiet room.
"You were perfect," he said, his voice dropping to a register meant only for you, a secret shared in the dark. "So good, my heart."
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The contrast — the roughness of his beard, the softness of the cloth, the hardness of the bed beneath you — threatened to pull you under. It was almost too much.
"You are everything," he whispered against your hair. "Everything. I would have you know that."
He meant it. You heard it in the way his voice broke, just slightly, on the last word. You felt it in the tremor of his hand. You turned your face into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut again, letting yourself drift in the current of his affection. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your shoulders, lifting you as if you weighed nothing more than a feather.
The sudden change in position made your head spin. You gasped, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders, steadying yourself against the solid wall of his chest. He held you cradled against him, his heartbeat a fast, steady drum against your ear. He didn't carry you far, just to the other side of the bed, where the pillows were piled high against the headboard.
He lowered you down with excruciating care. Your head sank into the softness of the down pillows, and he immediately reached for the heavy furs that had been kicked to the foot of the bed. Maekar pulled them up, shaking them out so they settled over you like a cloud, burying you in softness. You watched him through heavy-lidded eyes. He sat on the very edge of the mattress, his hip pressing into your thigh.. His fingers pushed back the wild tangle of your hair, smoothing it away from your forehead, tucking it behind your ear.
"Sleep," he whispered. "I have you."
But your eyes drifted past him, drawn by a movement in the shadows.
Baelor was standing near the foot of the bed, his back partially turned. The moonlight caught the sharp lines of his shoulders as he moved, quiet and methodical. He found his shirt on the floor and pulled it over his head, the fabric sliding down to hide the skin you had only moments ago been raking your nails against. He told himself it was decency. He was giving you privacy, retreating to allow husband and wife their moment. It was the honorable thing to do.
But you could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the stiffness in his spine. He moved like a man in a trance, his breeches still unlaced and hanging loosely on his hips. He was watching. Even as he dressed, he was watching the way Maekar's hand smoothed your hair, the way your body curled instinctively toward your husband, seeking his heat, the way your fingers twitched against the furs as if reaching for him even in your drowsy state.
His chest rose and fell in one deep, shuddering breath he couldn't quite suppress. The longing that rolled off him was palpable, a thick wave of sadness that seemed to lower the temperature of the room. It wasn't just the night, though, that had been extraordinary, a fever dream made flesh that he would remember for the rest of his days. It was this. This quiet aftermath, the domestic belonging. This was what he was starving for.
He had touched you, tasted you, heard you cry out his name. But he would never have this. He would never be the one to tuck you in, the one whose hand you sought in the dark, the one who got to whisper that he loved you and know that you were safe simply because he was there.
One night was not enough.
The pain of it was written into the lines of his back, the slump of his shoulders. He was a man who had mastered his emotions, who moved through the world with wisdom and calm, but in this moment, he looked utterly undone.
Your heart ached for him. You saw the raw, open wound of his loneliness, and you couldn't bear it. Not tonight. Not after everything.
You turned your head slightly on the pillow, looking up at Maekar. He was still smoothing your hair, his eyes soft and full of a devotion that made your breath catch.
"Maekar," you whispered.
He stilled immediately, his hand resting warm against your cheek. "Yes, my heart?"
"Come to bed. Lay with me."
He stood, shed his breeches, and slid in beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, the furs rustling as he settled. You didn't wait — you rolled toward him immediately, your body finding the familiar curve of his, your leg draping over his, your head tucking into the hollow of his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you flush against him.
Baelor had taken two steps toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
The question hung in the air, soft and certain. Baelor froze before turning slowly.
You had raised your head from Maekar's chest, looking at him over the mound of blankets, your eyes clear and steady in the dim light.
Baelor stood in the center of the room, his shirt still unlaced, looking like a man who had forgotten how to speak. He looked between the two of you — his brother, whom he loved, and you, the woman he had somehow impossibly fallen for with a terrifying intensity.
"I —" He started, then stopped. His voice was rough, scraped raw. "I thought —"
"Are you not staying?" you asked.
The question was simple. It shouldn't have undone him as completely as it did.
He looked at Maekar. Something passed between them in the silence, not permission, but an acknowledgment. Maekar's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly. But he didn't speak, only held you a little tighter.
Baelor couldn't leave. He didn't have the strength to walk away, not when you were looking at him like that, not when the alternative was a cold empty bed and a lifetime of wondering.
You had already closed your eyes, your breathing beginning to slow and deepen.
"Come to bed, Baelor," you murmured, the words slurring slightly with exhaustion. "Just for tonight."
Just for tonight.
The words were a lifeline and a wound all at once. He stood there for one last heartbeat, looking at the two of you tangled together in the vast bed. Then he moved, slowly, carefully around the foot of the bed to the empty side. He looked down at the narrow space between you and the edge and sat on top of the covers. It wasn't much. But it was enough.
"Stop this nonsense, brother," Maekar murmured, "Sleep properly."
Baelor slowly climbed under the furs.
You shifted, rolling so that your back was now against Maekar’s chest. Your hand moved without thought to rest against Baelor's chest, a tether in the dark.
He looked down at your hand and felt the warmth of it seeping through his skin. His eyes locked with Maekar’s over your shoulder. Maekar was watching him, his violet eyes steady and unreadable in the darkness. Then he placed a kiss on your cheek, let out a deep breath, and closed his eyes.
Slowly, Baelor lowered himself down. He lay on his side facing you, careful not to touch you anywhere else, not crossing any line that hadn't been offered.
He watched your face in the moonlight, listened to the sound of your breathing, and felt his own sync to it without meaning to. The warmth of you radiated into his side, seeping into the cold places he had been carrying for longer than he could name.
As he lay there in the dark, watching the woman he could never keep, held by the brother he could never replace, Baelor closed his eyes and let himself pretend, just for tonight, that this was where he was meant to be.
pairing 𓂃 prince!Baelor Targaryen x wife!fem!reader
Late at night, overworked Prince Baelor Targaryen is buried in paperwork until his wife slips in wearing only a silk robe, coaxing him from his desk and make him forget his duty for the night.
genre and tags 𓂃 Erotic Romance, Smut with Feelings, comfort, Domestic Intimacy
Explicit Sexual Content, Established Relationship, Married Couple, Soft Dom Baelor, Praise Kink, Possessive Behavior, Romantic Intimacy, Desk Sex, Cowgirl Position, Aftercare, Power Dynamics (Prince/Queen), Tender Aftercare, Sleepy/Overworked Husband, Wife Temptation
The candle closest to him has been dying for the past twenty minutes, the blackened wick leaning dangerously. You’ve been watching it gutter from the doorway of the small private council chamber, barefoot on the cold stone, wrapped only in a thin robe of dark green silk that clings a little too closely to your skin, still warm from the bed you left empty behind you, the sheets rumpled where you’d waited, growing impatient.
Baelor hasn’t looked up since you slipped inside.
Before him lies chaos: parchments scattered everywhere, crown revenue accounts weeping red ink, half-opened sealed letters, a goblet of wine that’s been half-finished for three hours. His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows, forearms corded and tense, smudged with black ink in places. He looks exhausted. He looks… gone.
You move without sound, the silk whispering against your thighs.
You stop just behind his chair. You lay both hands on his shoulders—gently at first, feeling the tension knotted there like old rope. He barely startles; the faintest shift of muscle under your palms tells you he knew the moment your bare feet crossed the threshold. Always alert, always watching, even when buried in duty.
“It’s almost three in the morning, my husband.” you murmur, your chin nearly resting on the crown of his head, breathing in the faint scent of ink, parchment dust, and the clean sweat beneath.
“I know.” His voice is rough, worn thin. “One more hour. Maybe two.”
You slide your fingers into his hair, slow and deliberate, massaging his scalp with the pads of your nails. His eyes flutter shut for a single heartbeat despite himself.
“You’ve been saying that since midnight.” you point out softly.
A small, tired laugh escapes him—almost too quiet to hear.
“I’m a terrible liar, aren’t I?”
“The absolute worst, my love.”
You lean down further and press the lightest kiss just behind his ear, lips brushing the warm skin there. He draws a sharp, involuntary breath through his nose, the sound almost pained.
“Come to bed,” you whisper against his skin. “Please.”
He opens his eyes again, stares at the parchment in front of him like he can will it out of existence.
“If I don’t finish these tax projections before dawn, the council will tear itself apart tomorrow. And my father will give me that look… you know the one. The one that says ‘you’re my son but sometimes I want to throttle you’.”
You wrap your arms around his neck from behind, bending until your cheek brushes his, rough with the day’s faint stubble he hasn’t bothered to shave. Your voice drops lower, intimate.
“And I’m giving you the look that says ‘if you’re not in our bed in the next ten minutes, I’m going to get very mean’."
He lets out a breath that might be a stifled laugh. “How mean?”
You let one hand drift down his chest, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the hard planes beneath the open collar of his linen shirt until your palm flattens against the taut muscle of his stomach, just above the belt. You feel him tighten instantly under your touch, a ripple of response he can’t quite hide.
“The kind of mean where I drag you out of this chair myself… and carry you back if I have to.”
He finally turns his head toward you. Those eyes are shadowed with fatigue, but they burn.
“You’re bluffing.”
You smile—slow, wicked. “Test me.”
Silence.
Then he sweeps the parchments aside with the back of his hand—sharp, almost violent for someone usually so controlled. The goblet wobbles and spills a few dark drops across the wood.
He catches your wrist and yanks.
You laugh softly as you round the chair; he pulls you straight onto his lap, your back to his chest, your legs straddling his powerful thighs.
His arms lock around your waist like iron bands forged in dragonfire, one hand splaying possessively over your stomach while the other slides up to cup the nape of your neck.
“You’re impossible,” he growls low into the curve of your neck, but his mouth is already there—hot, open-mouthed—teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear, then biting down lightly enough to make you arch.
“And you smell like ink and despair.” You thread your fingers through his hair and tug lightly, forcing his head back so you can meet his gaze. “But I still love you. Madly. Stupidly. Even when you’re trying to drown yourself in paperwork.”
His growl deepens—lower, rougher, hungrier. The sound vibrates through your back.
“You’re going to pay for that mouth of yours.”
“I’m counting on it.” You breathe, rolling your hips once—deliberate, slow—feeling him harden beneath you in response.
His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks you'll trace later with a satisfied smile. The silk robe has ridden up your thighs, pooling around your waist like dark water, and the cool air of the chamber kisses your bare skin. Baelor doesn't seem to mind the chill—he's too focused on the heat you're pressing against him.
He shifts beneath you, adjusting so his growing hardness nestles perfectly between your thighs, the friction immediate and deliberate. You feel the low rumble in his chest as he speaks against your neck.
"You came here to tempt me," he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion and want. "And you succeeded. Beautifully."
You tilt your head back against his shoulder, giving him better access. His lips find the pulse point beneath your jaw, kissing, then sucking gently, marking you in the way only he does—soft enough to fade by morning, possessive enough to remind you who you belong to.
One hand slips beneath the silk, palm sliding up the inside of your thigh until his fingers brush the slick warmth between your legs. He pauses, breath catching.
"You're already so wet for me," he says, almost reverently. "Even when I'm buried in ledgers and half-dead from lack of sleep. How do you do that?"
You rock forward against his hand, chasing the pressure of his fingers. "Because I missed you," you whisper. "Because watching you work like this—focused, powerful, exhausted—only makes me want you more."
His thumb finds your clit, circling slowly, and you gasp. He rewards the sound with another slow circle, then dips two fingers inside you, curling them just right. He knows exactly where to press, exactly how deep to go, and the knowledge makes you shiver.
"Good girl," he praises, voice low and smooth as velvet. "Look at you—taking my fingers so perfectly. So eager for me."
You whimper, hips rolling in time with his slow thrusts. The chair creaks beneath you both, but neither of you cares. The candle finally gutters out, plunging the room into deeper shadow, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth and the faint moonlight through the narrow window.
Baelor withdraws his fingers, slick and shining, and brings them to your lips. You open for him without hesitation, tasting yourself on his skin as he watches with dark, hungry eyes.
"That's it," he groans. "Show me how much you want this."
You suck gently, swirling your tongue around his fingers, and his hips jerk beneath you. The hard length of him presses insistently against your entrance through his breeches.
"Enough teasing," he says, voice rougher now. He lifts you just enough to shove his breeches down, freeing himself. You feel him hot and heavy against your core, the tip nudging at your entrance.
He guides you down slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every stretch, every pulse. When you're fully seated, he stills, both of you breathing hard.
"My queen," he murmurs, hands sliding up to cup your breasts through the silk, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble under his touch. "Ride me like you were born for it."
You begin to move—slow at first, rising and falling, savoring the drag of him inside you. His hands settle on your hips, guiding but not forcing, letting you set the pace. His head falls back against the chair, eyes half-lidded as he watches you.
"Look at you," he breathes. "Taking every inch of me. Perfect. Magnificent."
You quicken your rhythm, thighs flexing as you grind down harder. His composure cracks—his breath comes in sharp gasps, hips snapping up to meet yours. One hand leaves your hip to slide up your back, tangling in your hair and tugging gently to expose your throat. He kisses the sensitive skin there, then bites down lightly.
"You feel incredible," he groans. "So tight, so wet—gods, I could stay inside you forever."
You lean forward, bracing your hands on the edge of the desk, parchments scattering further as you ride him faster. The angle changes, and he hits that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You cry out.
"That's it, my love," he whispers against your ear, voice strained. "Take what you need. Ride me until you come apart."
His free hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles. The combination is devastating. You shatter around him, crying out into his palm, body trembling as waves of pleasure crash through you.
He doesn't stop. He keeps thrusting through your orgasm, chasing his own, hips snapping up with desperate urgency.
With one final deep thrust, he follows you over the edge, spilling inside you with a low, guttural groan. His arms wrap around you, pulling you back against his chest as he rides out the aftershocks, burying his face in your neck.
For a long moment, the only sound is your shared ragged breathing and the faint crackle of the dying fire.
Then he presses soft kisses along your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. His hands stroke your sides, soothing, reverent.
"I love you," he murmurs against your skin. "More than the realm. More than duty."
You turn your head to kiss him—slow, deep, lingering.
"And I love you, even more than that" you whisper back. "Now come to bed. For real this time."
He chuckles softly, the sound exhausted but warm.
"As my queen commands."
He lifts you gently, still joined, and carries you.
Baelor doesn’t speak until you reach the heavy oak door of your private chambers. He shoulders it open without breaking stride, kicks it shut behind him, and crosses straight to the bed.
The sheets are still warm, still tangled from where you’d waited earlier. He lowers you onto them with careful reverence, never once slipping free of your body. Only when your back meets the mattress does he finally ease out of you—slowly, reluctantly—drawing a soft, shared hiss from both of you at the loss.
He pauses above you, braced on his forearms. Moonlight spills through the tall windows, painting silver streaks across the sharp line of his jaw, the faint ink smudges still on his forearms, the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.
"You’re beautiful." he says quietly, almost to himself. His thumb traces the swollen curve of your lower lip.
You feel the warm trickle between your thighs and clench instinctively around nothing. His gaze drops, dark and possessive, watching it with something like hunger even though he’s just finished.
“Stay like that a moment,” he murmurs.
He rises onto his knees, reaches for the small silver ewer of water on the bedside table. He pours some into the shallow basin, dips a soft linen cloth, wrings it out. Then he returns to you, gentle as he’s ever been.
The cool cloth glides over your skin—first your inner thighs, then higher, wiping away the evidence of both of you with slow, careful strokes. He’s thorough, reverent. When he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth aside and pulls the heavy furs up around you both.
Only then does he lie down, drawing you into his arms until your head rests on his chest. His heartbeat is still too fast, still thundering from what you just did. His hand finds its favorite place—curved possessively over one thigh, thumb stroking idle circles.
“You were right,” he says after a long silence. “I needed this. Needed you.”
“I know.” You press a kiss to the center of his chest, right over the steady drum of his heart. “You carry too much alone.”
You feel him exhale—long, slow, the sound of a man finally letting go of the weight he’s been shouldering since sunset. His free hand finds yours beneath the furs, fingers lacing together.
“Tell me you’ll wake me if the dreams come again,” you whisper.
His lips brush your forehead. “I will.”
“Promise.”
"I swear it."
You smile against his skin. “Good. Because if you try to sneak back to that desk at dawn, I really will get mean.”
He chuckles—low, tired, warm. “Noted, my queen.”
His hand slides up your spine, slow and soothing, until it settles at the nape of your neck. He holds you there, thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear.
“Sleep now,” he murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You let your eyes drift closed, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing slowly matching yours. The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is his lips pressing one final, lingering kiss to the crown of your head.
Author note : Hello again my fellow Baelor enjoyers. As you can see I'm coping with episode 5... which I've personally decided doesn't exist so here we are.
Hope you enjoy the reading, there is more to come <3
ps : don't hesitate to tell my if you have any ideas for other stories ! id be thrilled to grant your wishes :)
summary: you and your husband decide to settle things when he is near fatally injured. with more scars and bruises gracing his skin, you share your worries in that of your marital bed.
pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader
warning(s): SMUT, injuries, slight age gap relationship, mention of violence, breeding kink, slight angst (crying etc), pure domestic goodness
a/n: yes this is a fix it fic, and no it isn’t going to be the last, iam hurt, but i hope you enjoy!! 🥲💗
You did not know what to do with yourself in the aftermath.
The last you saw of your husband he was being guided, crumpled and bruised away from the muddied lists. Ever gallant in his step despite how much he was staggering, needing two men to handle him to safety.
None of the maesters had allowed you to see him, and by his own request you presumed. His vulnerability knew no bounds, especially not with you, but he knew that seeing him in such a state would leave you more wounded than he was presently. You paved the length of your chambers for what felt like hours, so swiftly and anxiously, the soles of your feet started to burn under the cool stone.
The last you’d properly felt and seen of him, before armour and honour was the moment you shared at dawn, tender and light, a chaste kiss pressed to your lips over and over as he calmed your worries as best he could. Every possibility imagined, you had already racked your brain with it. A broken limb, torn ligaments or wounds that would not heal, even worse, some form of amnesia or incurable ailment from the amount of blows he had taken.
Anything.
Though one thing was certain, you kept reminding yourself, he was breathing.
And you were relieved to see it for yourself properly when he finally arrived at the step of your chambers, after many hours apart.
Truth be told he hadn’t known what to do either. These trials did not come without sacrifice, and between either side they had lost near half of the men that they began with. The trial had concluded with the young prince Aerion, yielding under Ser Duncan’s claim. And amidst the flood of blood and dirt, every man was dragged away to be tended to.
He had only sustained a few strikes to the chest and arm, a few steady cuts at his leg, you supposed was from his brother. He was strong much like him, you knew of this. Something he had spoken oft with a proud smile.
Baelor gave you a knowing look as he straightened his back as much as his ache allowed him, an apology and relief all at once.
He ushered his squire and the few maesters away that helped him find his way to you, bracing his bruised arm onto the archway between you. He thanked them as you did, with a gentle nod, your eyes solely on him as you grasped to link your arm around his.
He hissed at the pressure, muscle flexing under the wrinkles of his undershirt. All armour had been swiftly discarded after the trial, leaving him only in his loose pair of midnight-black breeches and enough cloth to cover his top half.
“I’am sorry..” You apologised quickly though he hushed it, shaking his head, snaking an arm further around your middle for balance and closeness, as you pulled him toward the bed.
“Only a few bruises, there is no need for apology my love..” It was a shaky breath, just as secure and gruff as it had always been, now only with an underlying tire.
Though there were more than a few, you helped him gently onto the bed, his legs swinging up onto the covers without rush. You followed after him, rounding the bed to the other side, careful not to leave much distance between you, and you crawled into the middle of it, at his side. Your fingers traced up the open seams of his shirt, soft dark hairs now covering fresh scarring near the old, a splattering of red and deep purple.
The blood still dusted his cheeks no matter how much it had been scrubbed raw, but his eyes were soft and tender, something unseen in that of the wounded. He was still here, your husband, your Baelor.
Tears pricked your eyes before you could stop yourself, overwhelmed and yet grateful. You had heard many horror stories, ones of wives left without their husband, good men truly lost to the world. And now he was back as he was that very morning, like nothing had happened.
“Oh my heart, I’am alright.. truly.” His voice was still weak despite his assurance, rough hand reaching for yours where it gripped onto the bed in thought. He had meant it, though exhausted and pressed by the weight of every swing and clash of steel, you beside him, he was not wishing to be anywhere else.
“I know, I know you are, I just..” His fingers coasted further up your arm, pulling toward him, your body falling beside his on top of the sheets, faces only inches from one another as he led onto his side.
“And Iam here with you now..” His grip shook you lightly, firming you against him, no need for any more distance. His lips ghosted over yours, a look of recognition in his eyes, they were lidded and glossy in the low light, his pupils dilating with every heartbeat as yours matched.
“You are..” It was a whisper, hardly spoken at all before his lips were on yours, pressing and tender. They claimed your own without need for bite, it wasn’t possessive or rough, but passionate, like he hadn’t been able to wait another moment before crashing into you. And in truth, he hadn’t. You stayed there for a while, noses rocking against another as he slipped his tongue over yours, feeling, tasting.
Your hands cupped either side of his neck, tugging you closer to him as he threatened to roll you both, but you stopped him. Bringing one hand down to push back at his chest, you rose, his back falling back down onto the bed with a huff, your knees bending either side until you were straddling him.
“I believe you should stay put, husband..” His hands came up to rest at your hips, toying with the thin cotton of your nightdress that bunched over your thighs. Baelor rose after you, sitting up halfway to meet you in his hold. It was more playful the way it came from you, your own resolve threatening to break as to stay present and in the moment. The pair of you aware of the state at hand, reaching through lighthearted tension enough to shatter.
Though he was the one with blood on his hands and a worn back, you were just as shaken, bearing every emotional burden with it. He was careful with you and himself, delicate fingers pulling upward on your clothes, your arms raising instinctively over your head until you were bare above him.
He stared for a moment, eyes glistening with a look of a man that had now known such beauty, much less beauty he would see again. He took you in, breath hitching slyly as your hands moving back around his neck, playing with the short dark strands at the nape. And you mirrored his work, signalling silently at his shirt for it to come off. His arms moving upwards, allowing you to shrug it over his head, dropping it next to you on the silk covered sheets.
The muscles of his abs ticked from the cold, tan flesh bending up to meet yours. His injuries were more obvious now, every cut and bruise, skin pinching tight as you touched it, tracing with your finger. He shivered without wincing, only paying attention to the way your gaze studied him. His face pushed into your bare chest in front of him as you did so, impatience and need getting the better of him.
His arms anchored you to him, palms spread on the small of your back, his tongue sweeping over your exposed breast, licking over the nipple as you moaned. You let him take you, back arching by the slightest as he moved between each one, sucking them into his mouth ardently. He worshipped you all over, kissing and sucking gentle marks from your sternum to your collarbone, any place that he could reach from his position.
He did not move from there, rolling your sensitive buds between his lips, your hand leaving your hold on his hair to behind you, moving, guiding his one palm to your core between you. You were already soaked with want, and he let out a groan feeling your growing wetness. You had been worked up so hard, having him in your hold was more than enough. His index rubbed at your clit, languid and reverent circles until your bud swelled, the heat growing wildly. You whined against him, the press of his fingers pushing into your entrance attentively.
Usually it wouldn’t happen so fast, Baelor would take his time, hooking your legs around his head arms he tasted you, working you open without a hurry, kissing every inch of you. There wasn’t a hurry even in this moment, and yet the pair of you felt the eagerness, the desire bubbling up like molten rock before it erupts. He had only pumped his fingers in a few times, curling inside of you to pull you closer to your edge before you protested, rocking back into him.
“I need you inside of me, baelor please”
“I must ready you first..”
“I’am ready enough..” You snapped back without anger, hips bucking into his hardening clothed cock. His head pulled away from his kisses and affection to your breast to glance up at you, and you softened, cupping his cheek, “Please, my love..”
He obliged then, heart breaking at the sound of your pleas, and he knew he himself could not last either. He moved his hand underneath you, pulling his arousal covered fingers from your entrance and working at the short laces of his trousers. He was hard and heavy, thick length slapping to the lower of your groin as it sprung free.
His placed his forehead against you as he pushed in, lifting you up a mere inch to pull you back down onto him. He filled you with a burn, the pair of you hissing from the stretch. You pulsed around him, adjusting with every centimetre he moved you downward. He began to move, grinding up into you as tears fell loosely from your eyes.
You were furious, moving back into him, riding him with a building fervor, every slap of flesh connecting you together further. He had near been taken from you, no matter his urges and assurance, you were upset. Though your hands were careful, firming and massaging at the round of his shoulders as he hugged you tight to him.
“I could have lost you..” Your voice cracked through wanton moans, quivering in his hold, hands guiding you both.
“I know..”
“And it would have been because of someone else’s callous actions.”
“I know..” He could only agree, the dangers were clear enough. His breath was steady against you, breathing out in a gentle grunt.
The tears began to fall properly now, the feel of him filling you, fucking into you from where he sat on bed, and the torment of his state, it was all too much. His thumb wiped at your cheek, resting onto the apple there soothingly, eyes gleaming.
“But you have me..” He did his best to pull you from the darkness, affirming with every drag inside of you, hands splaying up and down your back.
“They could have sent me to another, wed me to some filthy lord out of politics.”
Something ticked in him then.
Your worries were one thing, but he was not about to lose you to anything, much less another. Even the talk of it, the thought, was enough to send him over the edge, and in one smooth motion he went rigid, thighs buckling into your own as he flipped you over, your back landing to the bed with a bounce, with him still inside of you. “Baelor be careful—“ He kneeled onto the mattress, faltering only a little under the weight of weariness, his hands pulling at your legs to anchor you back to him.
Your legs wrapped around his middle, cock slipping inch by inch until he shoved back into you, falling on top, only one arm keeping him up from full collapse. Your bodies now pressed tighter, your breast peaked at his hard chest.
“Suppose I should take more care, stay at your side.. and out of danger.” He stuttered out, a sure look on his face as he fucked you deeper, rolling himself into you, hipbones rubbing together with every thrust. “To stay in your arms, fill you completely until you are full of me, until there are no others.”
A sob ebbed the back of your throat, the head of him punching so harshly with pure adoration, love and every ounce of vigour he had left in his body. He relished in you, dipping his head to meet your jaw, proclaiming with every vow he had taken how you would not lose him, and neither would he with you.
“You are mine only.. as it will stay that way.”
The words came as a confession, through forged teeth and the stammer of his hold on you. The pressure building inside of you like wildfire, inching and engulfing every nerve in your body,. Your heels dug into his backside, drawing him ever closer.
“Say it to me..” He rasped, a need to hear you say it, as he meant it.
You barely recalled what you had said before, the sound of his voice your only focus as you were pinned beneath him, his length breaking you open as your climax neared. You hadn’t known completely as to why it was said, perhaps to feel him deeper, to feel him need you as much as you did him. Though all was lost, your fears that seeped out, falling away to nothing, his arms taking every one of them.
“I’am yours, and yours only..”
He relaxes at that, the tension in every muscle under torn flesh sliding to yours desperately. That’s all he longed to hear, his nose pressed into your cheek in heavy exhales. His thumb moved the lone tear from your cheek, kissing it into his mouth with warm lips.
“Let go with me..”
And that was the breaking point, the both of you coming undone together. You came around him with a cry, cunt pulsing around his thick shaft as his hips collided into your own, spilling inside of you hot and heavy. He buried inside of you to the hilt, crashing his lips to yours once more, this time with urgency, breaking apart together.
He continued to pump inside you, fucking his spend into you with lazy thrusts, wanting, wishing it to take. Not just out of duty, not fear, but desire, to have you marked up by one another for eternity, as you had talked about frequently.
Your hands reached up and around his neck, smoothing at the top of his spine, your heads knocking together as he slowed finally. The fire and glint in his eyes he reserved for you, brighter than the dying flicker of the candles at the wall.
“Stay with me..” You pleaded softly to his mouth, Baelor pressing another one sharply to you.
Hello! Would you mind writing a Baelor X reader fic where she is his wife and he’s very sweet to her and obsessed with her? He talks her through it when they have sex and he wants to get her pregnant
THE DRAGON'S DEVOTION (+18) — baelor targaryen
gif credits: @alterofbeacon
Summary: Baelor Targaryen is utterly, reverently obsessed with you, his wife. Every night he takes you slowly, talking you through every touch, every thrust, every shudder — guiding you to ecstasy while whispering how much he loves you, how beautiful you are, how desperately he wants to see you swollen with his child.
Additional tags: fem!read; no use of Y/N; +18; MDNI
A/N: i hope you enjoy it, anon! 💛
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The royal apartments are quiet tonight, save for the low crackle of the fire and the soft rustle of silk as Baelor closes the bedchamber door behind him.
You’re already in bed, propped against the pillows in nothing but one of his old linen shirts — the one he wore yesterday, still carrying the faint scent of leather and steel and him. The hem barely reaches mid-thigh; your legs are bare, the sheet pooled around your waist. You’ve been waiting for him since the council adjourned, heart tripping every time you heard footsteps in the corridor.
He sees you and stops. For a moment he just looks — eyes dark, reverent, like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.
“My love,” he says, voice already rough with want. He crosses the room slowly, shedding his doublet as he goes, then his belt, then his tunic. By the time he reaches the bed he’s bare to the waist, breeches still on but unlaced, cock already straining against the fabric.
He climbs onto the mattress, careful not to jostle you too much, and settles between your parted thighs.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, hands sliding up your legs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. “Every time I see you like this, I can’t breathe.”
You smile, shy even after months of marriage. “You say that every night.”
“Because it’s true every night.” He leans down, kisses the inside of your knee, then higher, higher, until his breath ghosts over your cunt. “And because I still can’t believe you’re mine.”
He kisses you there, soft, open-mouthed, tongue tracing the seam of your folds. You sigh, fingers threading into his dark hair. He licks slowly, savoring, like he has all the time in the world.
“Relax for me,” he whispers against your clit. “Let me taste you. Let me make you feel good.”
You do, thighs falling wider, hips lifting just a little. He groans — low, pleased — and slides his tongue inside you, fucking you with it while his thumb circles your clit in slow, steady strokes. You moan, soft, needy, hips rocking against his mouth.
“That’s it,” he praises, voice muffled. “Just like that. Let me hear you. Let me feel how wet you are for your husband.”
He keeps going, tongue and fingers and lips, until you’re trembling, thighs shaking, moans turning to little sobs. “Baelor—” you gasp. “Please—”
He lifts his head, lips glistening, eyes blown black. “Please what, sweetling?” he asks, kissing the crease of your thigh. “Tell me. Use your words.”
“I want you inside me,” you whisper. “I want you to come inside me. I want… I want your baby.”
His breath catches — sharp, almost pained. “Gods,” he says, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what that does to me.”
He moves up your body, kisses your belly, your breasts, your throat, until he’s braced above you, cock heavy and leaking against your entrance.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
You do. He holds your gaze as he pushes in, slow, careful, letting you feel every inch. You gasp — nails biting into the hard muscle of his shoulders — but there is no pain, only the exquisite stretch of him filling you completely, only the overwhelming sense of being claimed by the one man who has always known how to make you feel whole.
He bottoms out, hips flush to yours, and stills. “You feel so good,” he breathes. “So perfect. So warm. So tight around me.”
He starts to move — slow, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive place inside you. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “Just breathe for me. Let me take care of you.”
You nod, eyes locked on his, and he keeps the rhythm steady, deep, loving.
“Touch yourself,” he says. “Rub your clit for me. Let me feel you come around my cock while I fill you.”
Your hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit, circling fast. He groans, hips stuttering.
“That’s it,” he praises. “Good girl. Make yourself feel good. Make yourself come all over your husband’s cock.”
You’re close — so close — thighs trembling, moans turning desperate.“Baelor—”
“Come for me,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Let me feel you milk me.”
You shatter, crying out his name, walls fluttering, clamping down, pulsing around him. He keeps thrusting, slow and deep, fucking you through it, drawing out every aftershock.
When you’re limp and trembling, he leans down, kisses you tenderly, and whispers against your lips: “I’m going to come inside you now. I’m going to fill you up. I’m going to give you my child.”
You nod frantically, tears in your eyes, and wrap your legs tighter around his waist. He groans, hips snapping faster, and buries himself deep. He comes with a broken moan of your name, cock pulsing, spilling hot and thick inside you, filling you until it leaks out around him.
He stays inside, still hard, and lowers himself over you, careful not to crush you.
He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, soft, reverent. “I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so much.”
You smile, tears slipping free, and pull him closer. “I love you too,” you breathe. “I want this. I want your baby.”
He kisses you again and starts to move inside you once more.
The night is long. He takes you again and again — gentle, then harder, then gentle again — whispering love and praise with every thrust, every touch.
When dawn finally creeps through the curtains, you’re both exhausted, tangled in the sheets, his hand resting protectively over your lower belly.
He kisses your temple. “If it happens tonight,” he murmurs, “I’ll never let you forget how loved you are.”
You smile, sleepy, sated, and curl tighter against him. “Promise?” you whisper.
summary: out of your siblings, there was always the three of you, but as the years passed childhood play turned into feelings they competed over, all for your hand.
pairing: baelor targaryen x sistertargaryen!reader x maekar targaryen
word count: 5.3k
warning(s): targcest, 1ncest, canon typical violence, family issues, SMUT, slight threesome, pinv, angst, competing for you
a/n: i will/want to write more of them even wife!readers because i love these old men but i had this idea save me.. 💗
From the cradle, you were bound to them by blood and fire. Baelor, the eldest by mere moons, with solemn violet eyes and quiet strength, always the one to shield you from the court's sharper edges. Maekar, the wilder, fiercer brother, his laughter echoing through the Red Keep's halls like a challenge to the gods themselves. And you, the cherished daughter of the dragon, caught between two brothers who saw in you not just a sister, but the sun that warmed their world.
As children, the games were innocent enough. Hiding in the shadowed corners of the gardens, where the weirwood trees whispered secrets to the wind. Baelor would find you first, his small yet still bigger hand slipping into yours, pulling you from the underbrush with a promise of lemon cakes stolen from the kitchens. "You're safe with me," he'd say, his voice steady even then, as if he already knew the weight of duty.
But Maekar... oh, Maekar would burst through the leaves like a storm, his pale cheeks flushed, eyes alight with triumph. "I knew you'd be here," he'd declare, not waiting for invitation before pulling you into a fierce hug that smelled of salt air and sun-warmed leather, of adventure and scraped knees and mischief. Baelor would only laugh softly, closing his book with a patient sigh.
“You always make an entrance, brother” he’d murmur.
“And you always hide in dusty corners,” Maekar would shoot back, though there was a lightness to it.
The three of you were inseparable then.
Racing through the endless corridors on stick-swords, shouting of dragons and crowns, pretending to conquer the Seven Kingdoms before supper bells rang. You’d trip over your skirts up steps, and Baelor would be there in an instant, careful hands steadying you.
Maekar would already be halfway down the hall, turning back with that defiant grin.
“She’s faster than you think, Baelor! Come on!”
And you would run again, laughing, heart pounding, chasing the storm.
—
They were the only ones who truly stuck beside you, your father and mother taken by court duties and issues of the realm, though your other two brothers seemed just as distant. All older than you, Aerys preferred the shadows of the libraries and council chambers, already slipping into the strange, distant world that would one day consume him. You’d sometimes glimpse him passing with a stack of scrolls, eyes sharp and restless, barely sparing you a look. And Rhaegal was even more absent — said to be off training or riding, but you knew from a child that wasn't the case, he had vanished into corners of the realm where children weren’t welcome. And when he did appear once in a moon, it was brief, like a ghost passing through the halls, untethered laughter and prophecies spilled from his lips as someone quickly dragged him away.
So it was always you, Baelor, and Maekar.
A small kingdom of your own where outside worries could no longer consume you.
—
Yet even in play, the lines began to blur as the years did.
During mock tourneys in the yard, Baelor would kneel to tie your sash like a proper lady of the court you'd forgotten to be, fingers lingering just a moment too long until a cough came from behind, Maekar's defiant grin when he'd already let you win a race.
“For luck,” he’d say softly, smiling.
Maekar would roll his eyes.
“She doesn’t need luck. She’s got me.”
Then he’d lean close and whisper, “But I’ll win for you anyway.”
And he always fought harder when you watched.
Your heart, young and unguarded, bloomed for both. You had loved Baelor's gentle stories by the fire, the way he'd braid wildflowers into your silver hair. You loved Maekar's reckless rides on his stallion, his whispers of far-off lands where no one could command you. They competed in subtle ways— Baelor with quiet devotion, Maekar with bold challenges— but neither spoke of the growing ache. Not yet.
Adolescence brought the dragons' true fire without need to announce it. The court watched as you flowered into womanhood, your Valyrian beauty a mirror to the queens of old. Baelor, ever the dutiful prince, trained beside you in the art of governance, his presence a constant anchor. Even when he was pulled away, he taught you the intricacies of the small council that he had learned just before, his fingers brushing yours over maps of Westeros, lingering just a heartbeat too long as they used to.
"One day, we'll rule together," he'd murmur during those late-night lessons, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that made your cheeks warm. You felt it then, the pull toward him, steady as the tides, a love born of shared silences and unspoken vows.
Maekar, though, was the spark to Baelor's hearth. He wasn't as needed s your elder brother, biding his time training, where he dragged you to the dragon pits, ignoring the maesters' warnings, his hand firm on your waist as you approached the skeletons of beasts that ruled once. "Feel their heat," he'd say, his breath hot against your ear. "That's is us— wild, untamed." His jealousy simmered beneath the surface, flaring in arguments with Baelor over trivialities: who escorted you to a feast, who claimed the seat beside you at table, who had time on their hands enough to care for you. Fists flew once, in the training yard, over a jest about your favor. Bloodied lips and bruised egos, but they both turned to you afterward, seeking absolution in your touch though you had had enough of it. The thrill of rivalry was beginning to turn dark.
You walked until the castle was only stone through the leaves, only stopping to sink onto a fallen log, hugging your knees tightly through sharp breaths.Tears came hot and sudden.
“I just wanted them to love each other again,” you whispered into the air, the wind rustled the leaves in answer.
You huffed as the minutes passed, watching the tree tops as they shook in the steady wind.
You head snapped up at last, footsteps crunched softly behind you. Though you didn’t turn.
“I said I needed time.”
Baelor’s gentle voice came first.
“I know. I’m sorry. I just… couldn’t let you go alone.”
Another set of heavier footsteps stopped a little farther back.
Maekar.
“I tracked you,” he admitted. “You always come here when you’re overwhelmed.”
Of course he knew, they both did.
Your chest tightened.
“You both promised to stop fighting.”
Baelor stepped closer slowly, “We’re trying.” Maekar huffed quietly, stopping by the tree you sat up against. “We’re failing.”
You finally turned.
They stood there — both worried in their own ways.
“I hate it,” you said softly. “I hate feeling like the reason you’re tearing each other apart.”
Baelor shook his head immediately, “You’re not the problem.”
Maekar’s voice was rough. “You’re the only good thing in this mess.” Tears slid down your cheeks with emotion that you couldn't quite comprehend.
“I love you both,” you admitted. “But when you compete like this it feels like I’m losing you.”
Baelor’s eyes shone.
“We’d never leave you.”
Maekar stepped closer, kneeling in front of you.
“Tell us what you need.” You wiped at your face. “I need peace,” you whispered. “I need you to remember you’re brothers before you’re… whatever this is.”
Silence came as they nodded slowly, eyeing each other over you.
“You’re right.”
“For you,” he said quietly.
Baelor moved beside you and gently pulled you into a hug, warm and steady as always.
Maekar hesitated — then wrapped an arm around you both, awkward but protective. And for a moment it felt like childhood again, your three hearts tangled. One family. Not growing apart and into yourselves in distance, but together.
Baelor murmured softly, “We’ll try harder.”
Maekar added, “No more fighting in front of you.”
You leaned into them.
“You promise?”
“Promise,” they said together.
The irony?
It would never last forever.
But in that quiet woodland moment, peace existed.
Just for a breath.
—
You loved them fiercely, differently. Baelor was the calm sea you could navigate forever and Maekar was the storm that thrilled your blood. The competition deepened however, shadows lengthening as whispers of betrothals circled the family as months to few years passed. Your father, the king, decreed it: you to Baelor, to strengthen the bloodline, to secure the throne. Maekar's rage that night echoed through the keep accusing his brother of manipulation, claiming you before you'd gotten the chance, a roar that shook the stones. But he swallowed it, masking pain with ale and tourneys, while Baelor simply nodded, his eyes never leaving yours.
Later, you found him in the lower courtyard, where rain misted the stones among the tall greenery. He stood with his back to you knowing you were there already, hands braced on the fountain’s edge, white hair disheveled and damp.
“You didn’t tell me,” he said hoarsely.
“I didn’t know until today.”
A lie.
Not fully, but not truth either.
“You’re marrying him,” he said slowly. “That’s it then.”
“Maekar…”
He turned at your voice speaking his name, his eyes bright.
Not with tears.
But with fire.
“Was any of it real?” he demanded. “All those nights, all those looks. Was I just a pastime before you chose the safe path?”
“You were never a pastime,” you whispered, stuttering under your breath from the cold.
“I love you.”
The word shattered something in him.
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t say that now.”
“I love him too.”
The silence fell heavy and he stared at you like he was seeing fate itself.
“You love us both,” he said softly. “And the gods chose for you.”
You nodded, tears sliding free through the rain cascading above you, streaming down both of your cloaks through hooded eyes.
“I didn’t choose this.”
“But you’ll live it,” he replied bitterly.
He stepped closer so close you could feel his breath.
“This is where I lose you.”
“You don’t lose me,” you whispered.
“I do,” he said. “I lose the life I was supposed to have.”
His hand lifted like he might touch your face.
Though he stopped himself and dropped it, face falling just the same.
“Congratulations, princess,” he said quietly. “You will make a beautiful wife.”
It sounded like a funeral not a betrothal.
He walked past you without looking back. No smiles, no laughter, or jest to accompany him. Silence as you stood there, wrapping your arms around yourself through the cold, and the hollow aching in your chest. And when you found yourself back in the hall, Baelor watched you return, knowing of your state as Maekar pushed past him moments before.
Your eyes were red and sodden and he didn't ask, he didn't need to.
He opened his arms as you found him, face tight and fallen as though he too felt the ache, and he did, and you fell into them.
He held you tight, strong and safe. The future.
But somewhere beyond the walls of the castle— Maekar was already becoming the man forged by loss. The warrior and the brother who loved you too much and got left with ashes.
—
The day of your wedding dawned not in softness but in noise, the Red Keep already alive with rushing feet and ringing bells, servants darting through corridors with bolts of fabric and trays of wine, the air scented with perfume and anticipation. Sunlight poured through tall windows, catching on the white silk that draped your body like liquid moonlight, handmaids whispering excitedly as they adjusted veils and smoothed sleeves. Your heart hammered, not only with nerves, but with the weight of everything changing. Outside of the court, trumpets tested their breath, and hundreds of the realm gathered to witness the golden prince take his bride.
Aerys stood beside your father, pacing outside the chambers in fine black and red, pale fingers twitching as one muttered of omens , about how the songs would be written. His eyes were sharp and restless, already half elsewhere. Your other brother was absent, as everyone knew he would be— locked away once more in madness, shouting at phantoms no one else could see. His name went unspoken, but the emptiness lingered like a shadow at the edge of the celebration.
Though it seemed to met always, when the great doors of the sept opened and the music thundered through the hall, your breath caught in your chest. The space was overflowing with nobles shoulder to shoulder, banners of House Targaryen hanging heavy from stone walls, torches flickering against carved pillars. At the front stood Baelor, no longer the gentle boy with flowers in his hands, but a man grown tall and strong, clad in black and red with the three-headed dragon blazing across his chest. His posture was steady, his expression calm, yet when his eyes found you, they softened, like the world narrowed to nothing but the aisle between you.
Just behind him stood Maekar, positioned exactly as a dutiful brother should be— half a step back, hands clasped behind his back, broad shoulders squared. He looked every inch the warrior prince now, scars faint against one cheek, jaw hard with restraint. His face revealed nothing, but his eyes were low and dark as they followed you, not with anger, not with fire, but with something aching and resigned. It felt like being pierced straight through the heart.
Each step you took felt echoing through the hall as you continued forward, but the light ambience from bards complimented you. All eyes were on you, a vision indeed, yet only two pairs could you not part from. Baelor watched you as if you were something sacred, Maekar watched you as if you were something already lost. The septon’s voice rose and fell, declaring the holy ceremony before the kingdom, half swallowed by the crackle of flames and the murmured breaths of the crowd. When Baelor draped the ceremonial cloak around your shoulders, his fingers brushed your neck with careful tenderness, a promise in the touch, never faltering to hold your gaze. And somewhere behind him Maekar’s jaw tightened just once, so quickly most would never have noticed, never admitting he wished to be the one stood before you.
When the septon proclaimed you bound as one and Baelor leaned in to kiss you, the hall erupted in cheers and song. His lips were soft, warm and loving. The realm rejoiced with celebration before you could pull away, melting into him. Your love, your husband. And now you him Maekar closed his eyes for a single heartbeat, like a man laying something precious to rest.
"My wife.." Baelor's voice grounded you through the crowd noise, his hand still cupped at your cheek in a teary smile. You smiled back, resting into his touch the uneasiness settling into your stomach comfortably, "My husband.." Your head spun behind you both, the smiles of both your mother and father bright and proud as ever, victorious in a match not only for security but for the the knowledge in your love.
It was concluded, before thousands, before the histories. Something that instilled in you all, particularly Maekar.
The feast that followed was louder still, overflowing with laughter, music, and clashing goblets. Baelor remained at your side the entire evening, proud and attentive, introducing you as his wife, his hand resting gently at your back and never once leaving. Maekar stood nearby throughout, ever present, ever proper, lifting his cup in toast, offering polite smiles behind a scowl underneath, saying all the right things. Yet he did not laugh as he once had, nor drink with reckless joy, only congratulating you both once, nodding that nod you'd grown to know. Absent. And every time your eyes met across the crowded hall, the air between you felt thick with words neither of you dared speak.
The wedding had been a spectacle of fire and tradition, dragons roaring overhead as vows were exchanged in the sept before the High Septon. You were Baelor's now, in the eyes of gods and men—crowned with the weight of House Targaryen, your white gown traded for a silken shift that clung to your curves in the flickering candlelight of the marital chambers. The air smelled of myrrh and anticipation, the massive four-poster bed draped in crimson silks, waiting for the consummation that would seal your union.
—
You paced the stone floor, heart pounding not from fear, but from the tangled threads of love that had woven through your life. Baelor should arrive soon, his steady presence to claim you as wife. You were ready, preparing for such a moment before your maidens even spoke to you of purity, you'd yearned for it just as much as he had. Yet the door creaked open, and it was Maekar who stepped through, his broad frame filling the threshold. His face, etched with the lines of age and unspoken grief, twisted in conflict. He wore a simple black tunic, no finery, as if he'd slipped away from the celebrations like a shadow, the ceremony armour now discarded.
"Maekar.. what are you doing here?" you whispered, though something in you knew. An agreement, the agreement— whispered in stolen moments over the years, a pact born of desperation and devotion— the one they had mentioned though never let you in on, a way to bridge the impossible before the finality of tonight.
He closed the door softly, eyes dark with longing and restraint. "I couldn't... I had to see you like this. One last time, before he takes you fully." His voice cracked, raw, and he didn't move closer, fists clenched at his sides. "I won't dishonor you. Not on your wedding night. But gods, sister... you are a wife now... it tears me apart."
You crossed to him from where you stood , the shift whispering against your thighs, and placed a hand on his chest. His heart thundered beneath your palm, matching your own. "Maekar, we've always been more than blood. You and Baelor... you both hold me. This marriage, it was for us, not just one or two but all three. To end the hiding."
He swallowed hard, gaze dropping to your lips, then lower, tracing the swell of your breasts beneath the thin fabric in a way he couldn't deny. The silk hugging your curves in ways he'd only seen in his dreams. "And what of Baelor?"
"This was plan was it not. For me, for peace between you both." Your fingers curled into his tunic, pulling him nearer. The heat of him, familiar as your own skin, and it made your breath hitch. Maekar's resolve wavered, his hands rising to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks though he stumbled in his words. "I love you too much to ruin this for you." But his body betrayed him, leaning in, forehead resting against yours.
A shadow shifted in the archway then— Baelor, silent as a dragon in flight, his violet eyes watching with a mix of sorrow and acceptance. He wore his wedding tunic, unbuttoned at the collar, dark hair tousled from the feast. He didn't speak, nor interrupt, but his presence hung like a blessing.
You turned your head, meeting Baelor's gaze over Maekar's shoulder. The understanding there steadied you and he blinked, arms crossed as he leaned at the closed door. It was not sorrow of jealousy or loss, instead lust, love, a warmth that engulfed the room. With a soft exhale, you tilted your face and pressed your lips to Maekar's— tender at first, a reassurance, then deepening as years of pent-up ache poured out. His mouth moved against yours hungrily, tongue slipping in to taste you, a low groan rumbling from his throat. Maekar's hands slid down your arms, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. You felt his cock harden through his breeches, pressing insistent against your belly. Breaking the kiss, you took his hand, guiding him toward the bed. "Come," you murmured. "Both of you. For tonight, we are whole."
Baelor stepped forward then, his footsteps measured, reaching you as Maekar sat on the bed's edge, pulling you onto his lap. Baelor's hand found your hair, tilting your head back for his own kiss, a gentle, claiming one, his lips soft but firmer than they had been before, tongue exploring with the patience of a lifetime's love. "My wife," he breathed against your mouth, voice thick. "If this is what you need... then so do I."
You melted between them, Maekar's rough hands roaming your sides, bunching the shift up to expose your thighs. Baelor knelt before you, his fingers tracing your calves, then higher, parting your legs with care. Maekar's mouth found your neck, sucking lightly, teeth grazing skin as he whispered, "I've dreamed of this, of tasting you without fear."
The shift was tugged away in unison— Baelor's steady pull from the front, Maekar's urgent yank from behind, their rival existence leaving you bare, skin prickling in the cool air. Maekar's callused palms cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peaked hard, eliciting a gasp from you. He pinched one, rolling it between fingers, the slight sting sending heat pooling between your legs. Baelor watched from below, eyes hooded, before leaning in to lick a slow stripe up your inner thigh. His breath ghosted over your cunt, already slick with arousal. "So beautiful," he murmured, then pressed his mouth to your folds, tongue delving in to lap at your wetness. You moaned, hips bucking as he sucked your clit into his mouth, as firm as his lips, building the ache.
Maekar shifted you, laying you back on the silken sheets with care, kneeling beside you as he stripped quickly, breeches kicked aside to reveal his thick cock, aching and long, beads of his arousal coming from the tip. Baelor rose as you climaxed, threading your fingers through his hair to reach both of their eyes, he pulled you downward to the edge of the sheets, rocking you against his face with your release. Standing, he began shedding his own clothes with more deliberation, his shaft thicker but just as beautiful as Maekar's, curving upward with promise.
You reached for Maekar first, hand wrapping around him, stroking from base to head. He hissed, thrusting into your grip. "Fuck, your touch... sister." Baelor joined, propping over you on his elbow, his fingers sliding into you, two at once, curling to stroke that spot inside that made all feeling tug into your belly. You clenched around him in an instant, wet sounds filling the room as he pumped slowly, carefully as to take you in ways all of you had only envisioned.
"I need you," your voice was a hoarse whisper, wrapping your hands around Maekar's neck at your other side. Your whine was not aimed at one or the other though Baelor nodded as his younger brother's head shot up, looking to him with a light, a proposal in his eyes. "Take her brother," he nodded, your head thrown back through a soft smile, as he thumbed your cheek, peering down at you grinning, "Only if you make promise to share." You both chuckled as he positioned himself between your thighs, his cock nudging your entrance and a steady hand resting beside your head, one of theirs stroking your face. With a shared glance at Baelor, who nodded again, face flushed and hand still working at your clit, Maekar pushed in, inch by inch, stretching you with his girth. The burn was exquisite, your mouth falling open as they both cooed at you, fullness overwhelming as he bottomed out, balls pressing against your ass.
He stilled, forehead to yours, panting. "Gods, you're tight... you're perfect." The breath caught in your throat as you adjusted, urging your hands at his sides, closer, and then he began to move, thrusts deep and measured at first, tender, each slide pulling whimpers from your lips. Baelor straddled near your chest, feeding his cock into your mouth. You opened your slack mouth, sucking eagerly, tongue swirling around the head as he guided you, pinching your cheeks enough to hollow them as you took him deeper, tasting salt and him. It hit the back of your throat as the cock inside you punched deeper, a gasp choking around his cock that made you gag. Baelor stilled, eyes weary at the sounds coming from you until you took him again, moans vibrating around him.
The rhythm built gradually, Maekar's hips rolling into yours with a deliberate slowness at first, each thrust measured to savor the newness of your union. It was unlike anything you had ever felt, the stretch of him inside you a revelation— full, intimate, the slight ache blooming into pleasure as your body fractured. His hands reached up, fingers intertwining with yours to pin your wrists above your head, not harshly but heavy, anchoring you as he watched your face for every flicker of sensation. The bed creaked softly under the building force, his grunts deepening from restraint into raw need, animalistic in their edge as he drove deeper, his cock dragging along your inner walls with exquisite friction.
"Mine," he growled low, the word a possessive rumble that echoed the truth they both knew— you belonged to them in ways words couldn't bind. Your need mirrored his, hips lifting to meet him, the coil of tension winding tighter with every slide. When release came for you first, it washed over like a tide, your wetness coating him as you arched off the bed, walls clenching rhythmically around his length. Muffled cries escaped as Baelor's cock filled your mouth, the dual sensations overwhelming, pleasure ripping through you in waves that left you trembling.
Maekar stilled within you, his breath ragged, eyes locked on yours with a mix of triumph and sorrow. He lingered a moment longer, savoring the aftershocks, before pulling out slowly, slick with your shared essence. The emptiness he left ached briefly, but Baelor was there seamlessly, shifting to take his place. He entered you in one smooth, insistent thrust, filling the void with his own length, curving to hit depths that made you cry out. His pace started steady, grinding deep with a controlled insistence that spoke of his pent-up longing, hands on your hips guiding you gently at first, reaching down t capture your lips into a delicate kiss.
Maekar didn't withdraw fully; he stayed close, kneeling beside you both on the bed, his hand stroking himself lazily as he watched, violet eyes dark with a heartbroken reverence. The room filled with your shared neediness— Baelor's breaths coming sharper, your whimpers urging him on, the room filled with the wet sounds of his movements. And as the tenderness gave way to urgency, Baelor flipped you onto your side, one leg hooked over his arm for deeper access. He thrust harder now, skin meeting skin with increasing fervor, fingers digging into your thigh, leaving faint red marks on your flesh. The roughness built, insistent and claiming, his body pressing close, mouth claiming your shoulder and neck in heated bites.
You reveled in it, body alight from the contrast— Maekar's earlier passion now echoed in Baelor's fervor yet care. Another orgasm coiled tight within you, sparked by his relentless rhythm, his free hand sliding down to rub your clit with rough circles. You shattered again without thought, trembling between the sensations, clenching around him as ecstasy pulsed through every nerve. Baelor followed soon after, burying deep with a final, grinding thrust, hot spurts flooding you as he groaned your name, voice breaking in release. He collapsed over you partially, chest heaving against your back, holding you close in the haze. Maekar, spent from his own earlier peak but drawn inexorably, moved nearer only after, his touch feather-light now. He didn't seek more than this— his sorrow etched in the gentle press of lips to your skin.
Starting at your arms, where Baelor's grip had been absent, he kissed reverently, trailing soft, lingering presses along the length, tasting the salt of your sweat. His mouth moved to your chest, focusing on the curves and hollows Baelor hadn't completely claimed— the swell above your heart, the sensitive underside of your breast— each kiss a quiet apology, a vow of enduring love. He took the other side of you, mirroring Baelor's position but from your front, lips brushing your collarbone, then lower to your sternum, sorrowful in their tenderness, as if imprinting himself without demand. "My heart," he whispered against your skin, voice thick with unspoken pain, the three of you entwined in the afterglow, needs sated but the bonds forever tangled.
Exhausted, they drew you between them on the bed, Baelor at your front, arm draped possessively over your waist, pressing sweet kisses to your neck and Maekar now at your back, lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder. For this night, the triangle was no fracture, but a union, tender in afterglow despite the raw edges. "Together," Baelor murmured, voice sleepy. Maekar nodded against your skin, the heartbreak eased, if only for now.
The dragons outside quieted, as if the world itself held its breath for the three of you.
—
And though the years from then had turned like pages in a maester's tome. You grew into your roles— Baelor the wise heir, Maekar the warrior prince, and you the realm's jewel. The betrothal long solidified, a chain of gold and expectation. Courtiers bowed to you as future queen even before your father's death, your chambers adorned with his sigils in red and black. Yet in stolen moments, Maekar's gaze lingered, a promise unfulfilled.
You’ve shared beds, grief, laughter, long nights with newborns, whispered prayers when fevers ran high. The children now run through the halls with silver-dark hair and Baelor’s calm eyes, grown beyond their years.
The realm sees a perfect royal family. And in many ways… it is.
Baelor is everything and a good husband, a devoted father. He still brings you warm wine when the nights ache in your bones, still kisses your knuckles before councils, still listens when you speak.
You love him, deeply and steadily.
And Maekar? He is the storm that never quite moved on. He’s older now too, scarred, older than he should in that rugged, handsome way. The one you've grown to admire at your side. Quieter in public, stoic and strong. But when his eyes find you across a courtyard… nothing has changed.It is with a love so profound it bordered on sorrow, as if he saw the fractures in your heart and bore them willingly.
—
The summer evening brings peace in it's own way, the sun sharing her warmth as the rays reach down onto you, all of you.
Your children are chasing fireflies and catching one another with their cousins in the gardens. Baelor stands beside you, arms loosely around your waist, a proud smile on is lips as he kisses your temple.
Maekar leans against a pillar a few paces away, watching the little ones laugh, his own amidst them, eyes steady as they flick back and forth from you to them
Silence breaks as your eldest trips and before anyone else moves, Maekar steps forward and catches them easily, air shifting past you both as he strides forward. Lifting them onto his shoulder with the weightless strength of a warrior.
The child giggles in glory, as the others watch before going back to play, oblivious as usual. Your hand covers your mouth, shock turning into contentment.
“Uncle Maekar is fast!” they cry. And he smiles, the real and soft in a way few ever see, the way he did as a boy.
“For you, little dragon. Always.”
Your chest tightens and Baelor watches. There’s a flicker of something — jealousy, gratitude, resignation — all mixed.
Your husband returns to you after discussing the matter of the hedge knight. With the trial ahead heavy on his mind and burdened by responsibility and the weight of the crown, you thought to make him forget, even if it is just for one night. (one-shot)
pairings: Baelor Targaryen x (Targaryen) Reader
warnings: targcest, age-gap, smut(he talks you through it so congratufuckinglations)
words: 5k
•• ━━━━━••⚜••━━━━━ ••
The silver bracelet your husband gave you felt cold against your skin, a circle of braided Valyrian steel that bit slightly into your wrist as you toyed with it. You turned the metal obsessively. He should be back any second now. You watched the shadows stretch across the floor, long and distorted like the necks of the dragons your family no longer flew.
You had wedded your Baelor on a stormy night much like this one, an evening where the very atmosphere felt thick with the scent of ozone and unspent lightning. The ground of King's Landing had been a slurry of mud and anticipation, yet you walked through it with the poise expected of Rhaegal’s daughter. You didn’t know at the time how he would be like, as you didn’t interact or see him much. You thought he would be prideful or cruel, though all your fears were for nought, Baelor was kind and just. He was a prince worthy of song and praise, when he will take the Iron Throne with you by his side there will be no other like him.
King Daeron had been the architect of your union, driven by a feverish desire to "strengthen the Blood of the Dragon" against the rising tide of outside influence. He had beamed at the wedding feast, his smile widening into a triumphant grin when you announced your pregnancy a mere two months later. "The seed is strong," the King had declared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. He spoke of a future where the dragons would return, lured back by the purity of your line. In his old age he became adamant on the fact that the intermatching of the Targaryen’s blood with the noble houses of Westeros weakened you, made you unworthy of your flying companions and beasts of magic, though you knew better. You knew that the only reason the House of the Dragon was no longer aided by them was because of your pride. Pride and foolishness. Many dragon eggs laid under your grandfather’s watchful eyes, none would hatch. No matter how many nights you prayed, no matter how many tries of bathing them in fire and sacrifices. They slumbered in their cocoons. A mocking gesture that proved time and time again you were no longer the conquerors that brought the known world to heel. You remained a shadow, a whisper spoken by lords who knew better than to shout it. The House of the Dragon was weak.
Maekar was seething when he came back to Ashford Hall and you prayed his anger hadn’t reached his smallest son. He was a man of few words. Few words and lingering glances towards you- on your silver hair, on your face and then your hands that reminded you of how disappointed he was that you were not betrothed to him. You were supposed to be a gift for his valor in the Redgrass Field that destroyed the Blackfyre pretends. King Daeron promised him your hand, but something changed in your grandfather’s mind in the eleventh hour. What it was, either Baelor himself or the king's own foresight, you could not say. Though you thanked the Gods for it. He remained a pillar of silence and exchanged little words akin to grinding stones with you now.
You remembered his son, little Aegon, with his head shaved and his identity hidden, playing at being a squire to a lowly hedge knight. The boy was clever, perhaps too clever for his own safety, but he was still just a child caught in a world he didn't yet understand. You knew Baelor would not allow Ser Duncan to lose his head for a boy’s jest. Baelor understood the difference between a crime and a misunderstanding. The candles in your chamber burned low, the wicks drowning in pools of melted wax. The fire in the hearth cracked, a sudden pop of wood sending a spray of orange sparks against the soot-stained brick.
Your heart ached with the distance between Ashford and King’s Landing. You wished to see your Valarr again. He had only seen four winters, yet he already carried himself with a miniature version of his father’s gravity. He had Baelor’s soulful eyes and dark hair, though your heritage asserted itself in a single, startling lock of silver at the nape of his neck. The blood of the dragon.
You would have stayed with him, tucked away in the safety of the Red Keep, as you regaled him with stories of old and played, but the King’s command was absolute: you were to stand by Baelor’s side at Ashford. You were a living symbol, a reminder to the smallfolk that the next generation of Targaryens was as formidable as the conquerors of old. You smiled softly at the memory of your son's laughter. If the Gods were just, he would grow to be as mighty as his father, mayhaps even mightier. Baelor loved him so much it brought tears to your eyes. Your husband wept as you did when he was brought into the world.
The sudden murmur of voices drifted through the heavy oak door as the Kingsguards took their place outside. The wait was over.
The door groaned on its iron hinges, a sound that seemed to slice through the suffocating silence of the room. Baelor stepped inside and looked older than he had that morning with the shadows under his eyes bruised and deep.
You locked your gaze with his, searching for a sign of the verdict. He didn't speak immediately, instead, he offered a weary, soft smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He moved toward the table in the middle of the room, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone, and reached for the decanter. The sound of the wine splashing into the chalice was sharp, like a stream over pebbles.
“What will become of the knight?” your voice broke through the sound of wine being poured. Baelor sighed, the weight of the crown heavy even if he hadn’t donned it yet.
“A trial.” he answered shortly. He brought the chalice to his lips, closing his eyes as if it could wash away the memories of the day’s arguments.
“A trial? Does he stand a chance against Aerion? I can scarcely believe it.” You stood, your dress hissed against the floor as you approached your husband.
He smiled at you and the corners of his eyes wrinkled with a sort of grim irony “Aerion invoked a Trial of Seven. Ser Duncan could not refuse it. Not without admitting to a crime he did not commit.”
The name of the ritual sent a cold shiver down your spine. You had spent countless nights hunched over crumbling scrolls in wonder and inspiration. You remembered the accounts of such trials in bits and pieces.There hadn’t been one in two hundred years, not since the era when dragons still cast shadows over the earth and Aegon the Dragon sat the Iron Throne. It was a relic of a more violent, distant age, a spectacle of slaughter masquerading as divine justice.
“Does he have knights to fight alongside him?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. You knew the answer before he gave it. A hedge knight without a coin to his name stood as much chance of finding six champions as a beggar did of finding a kingdom.
Your husband shook his head, his expression darkening. You stepped into his space, tilting your head back so you could look him directly in his weary eyes. You reached up, your fingers grazing the stubble on his jaw as you cradled the side of his face. The heat of his skin was a stark contrast to the damp chill he brought in from the hall. Baelor leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a fleeting second. He brought his own hand over yours, his palm rough and warm, and pressed a lingering kiss into the center of your hand. “I don’t think so, though I can imagine he could muster two or mayhaps three knights wishing for glory to raise up arms alongside him.”
Baelor whispered and his voice was that of the honey most famous in The Reach. You could see in your husband’s eyes the thoughts that plagued him. Reading his expressions and wants came easy to you now, as he did yours.
“His cause is just,” he continued, his thumb tracing the line of your knuckles. “He protected the innocent, just as the vows of knighthood demand. I wonder if there are any left who can see that as I do.”
You remembered the story of the puppeteer in the tent. Aerion was a cruel boy, for he was just a boy in your eyes, a cruel little boy who delighted in making those weaker than him feel insignificant. There were none that appreciated his presence, not even his father. You wonder if that is the greatest punishment the Gods gave him.
“If he has none that will stand to fight then the trial can not proceed.” You mummured and gazed at the fire. Such a shame, that honor has no place in this world anymore.
“I will.” Baelor caught your gaze once more, his eyes filled with a certainty that made you feel like a soldier looking upon a commander “I will take his side. You know that as well as I do.”
“Baelor,” you sighed and toyed with the cold silver Hand symbol he had on his breast “Maekar will not be happy.”
“Maekar is scarcely happy either way.” He smiled a bit at the mention of his younger brother and you returned his expression in kind.
“That he is.” You responded. He smelled of amber and kindness and everything any woman might want in a man.
He brushed your silver hair back over your shoulder and touched your cheekbone tenderly “Has there been word from Kings Landing?” Baelor asked, not in wishing he heard of the cruel whispers of court, but in wish to hear of his son. He looked at you like a father would, with his heart miles away in the Red Keep watched over by servants who swore their life to his wellbeing.
“I’ve been waiting all day long for a letter to hear of how he is terrorizing his grandfather, alas all is quiet.” you answered and Baelor tilted his head as you spoke, smiling at the fond memory of his son running through the halls of the castle with his grandfather following him and trying to stop him from putting his hands on everything that he sees.
“What if something might befall you in combat?” You remembered the strong mace of his brother. Aerion and Daeron posed no threat to the might of Baelor’s sword. His brother was the only one capable, the only one who felled as many men as Baelor himself, the only one who wielded a true challenge.
You wanted to give him many sons and daughters, you wanted to have him with you in health for many moons yet to come. The thought that something, anything- even a slight cut to his cheek might befall him sent you into thoughts too powerful for your eyes. If Baelor was to fall in battle, Gods forbid, for you shuddered at the thought. You would never love again.
“Nothing shall happen to me, my love.” He leaned down to catch your eyes, a silent prayer to calm your nerves and thoughts.He grabbed your shoulders and pulled you into him as you swung your arms around his midriff. His body was a strong tower against your own. He kissed the top of your head and pressed his cheek to it afterwards.
“I am as sure of that as the sun that rises in the east.” His voice, stronger now, to replace yours “Maekar would rather see himself dead than see any harm come to me. Trust me when I say so.”
You nodded against his chest. The fabric of his clothes scraping your cheek.
He let go of you as the servants brought you dinner.
You talked about the future. About Valarr, about dragon dreams and the weight of the crown he will bear. As you took another bite of mutton, Baelor reached over and took your hand, dwarfing yours in his bigger grip.
“In another life” he smiled at you with a glint in his eyes. His heavy demeanor had changed and was now replaced with the comfort your company always brought him “you and I are two farmers worrying about how this year’s season might end. We would be content with only the roof over our heads and each other.”
You smiled at your husband, catching his fingers into your hand “In another life.” The light from the fire danced across his features and he looked impossibly handsome in it.
These moments with him weighed heavier than the solid gold the Lannisters were famous for. He was always busy nowadays, always plagued by thoughts. You wondered how much Valarr will be like his father once he grows, surely he will have his stature and voice, you hoped he carried your love for history and prose.
•• ━━━━━••⚜••━━━━━ ••
The Lord of Ashford had spared no expense for his daughter’s name day, providing a bed of such plush down and fine linens that it felt like a cloud. As the storm outside turned the world to mud and shadow, Baelor left the fire to roar in the hearth, its orange glow painting the walls of the chamber.
He welcomed you in the crook of his strong arm as you two shared stories. Your legs made contact with his own from beneath the cotton blanket and you tangled them together as you settled in a more comfortable position.
You could feel him slowly drift to sleep as you talked.
“Baelor?” You whispered against his chest as his hand went still on your waist and breath became softer.
“Mhhm?” His face was pressed to your own, beard slightly scratching your forehead and he pushed his head into yours.
“If you had a dragon…which one would it be?” You knew that broke his sleep spell as you could feel him thinking about his answer.
“Vermithor” he muttered and his chest rumbled beneath your hand. “He served Jaeherys well enough. Loved him too.”
You paused. Vermithor was a beast of old, a titan that carried the Old King and was his eternal companion. You could see Baelor and The Bronze Fury bonded. They would be quite the match.
“What about you, my life?” He asked you back.
Now, you really had to think.
You knew all Targaryen dragons, knew all their riders. This was a tough decision. The truth was that any dragon would be a blessing to have. A Targaryen without one could scarcely be worthy of their family name. You felt a bitter bite for the mistakes of your past made by hubris. All of your hearts were heavy with longing towards a sky you could never conquer. Not anymore.
“Vhagar.” You felt him chuckle as you answered in kind.
“I should’ve expected that. I’ll leave it to you to make sure order is assured in the realm.” He pressed you even closer to him and you brought your arm across his body to hold him as well. The rain was hitting the castle wall and the fire softly cracked in the hearth. Your belly was full of the best food coin could buy a minor lord and you had your husband in your arms. The only thing missing was you baby, but he was safe and sound, and that was the only thing that mattered.
You raised your face and he was already looking at you, features soft and wondering.
“What will I do without you?” He asked as you raised your foot against the sole of his under the blanket and smiled.
“I truly have no idea.” You kissed his lips and they were soft, his beard rubbed against your chin “Maybe become a farmer?”
His eyes brightened a bit as he leaned his head back and laughed. The sound a blessing to your ears. He pulled you closer to him as he returned your gaze once more.
“Maybe so.” His face was free of worry and emboldened by something sweeter laying underneath.
He brought his face down and kissed you again, stronger this time.
“Baelor.” Murmuring his name beneath his affection was hard, but you managed.
“Yes?” He pressed another soft kiss to your lips then peppered a trail towards your nose as he turned you on your back. The bed made a sound with the weight being shifted on top. In the back of the room, the hearth cracked once more with a hollow sound.
“I’m worried for you.” Your voice was small before you grabbed his face and pulled him to look at you, he stared at you with those mismatched eyes. One from your ancestry, another from blistering Dorne, a gift from his sun-kissed mother.
He brought his head down in the crook of your neck. “Whatever for?” you stifled a giggle as his beard tickled your collarbone. “Aren’t I the Hammer? I’ve broken sturdier things than some knights and my youngest brother.” His strong voice was a whisper that traveled through you. You knew he was right.
“Hammers break, Baelor.”
He pulled back once more and saw the fear in your gaze. He smiled and with tender words answered you “Tomorrow I will return to you and you shall see that all your fears were for naught. We will laugh about this on our way to Kings Landing. I promise you.”
You turned your head to the side, contemplating his words. Baelor never lied to you. His word was law and be it because of the comfortable night or the heat pulling into your own belly at your husband’s presence you locked eyes once more with him.
“I want to be your husband tonight. Can I?” His gaze was tender, albeit laced with a boyish glint you scarcely saw lately. His soft words hit your face and your stomach twisted in anticipation at what he offered.
You nodded as you touched the side of your husband's face, brushing your hands against his beard and pulling him closer to you by the back of his head, soft brown hair in your hands.
Your lips parted and reunited again and again as you brought your arm around his neck and pulled him down on you. His cotton shirt touched your night gown as you tried to be impossibly closer to your love. You felt as if he was the only thing that mattered in the world at that moment, your cheeks aflame and heartbeat quickening under his gaze and affections.
Baelor's lips opened and welcomed yours in familiarity, he touched you everywhere he could get his hands on, on your face, on your waist and finally he brought your leg to lay on his side as he raised your gown up beneath the cotton blanket and caressed your thigh.
He kissed you time and time again as he whispered honeyed words he loved blessing you with: “My life and desire.” Your hands shook like a maiden’s as you suppressed an innocent smile.
He had held you like this countless times over the years, yet it was never dull. His gaze swept into your soul, finding the blushing bride you had been on your wedding night and drawing her out again. He paused to smile at you, his eyes searching your rosy, upturned face, lingering on the way your breath hitched before he continued his quiet confessions.
You wondered, as he was bringing his lips over yours again and softly groaning into your mouth with a sound that traveled right between your legs- if he knew exactly what he was doing.
What a foolish thought, of course he did.
You could feel the hard line of his desire pressing against your hip. Taking a breath that felt like a prayer, you shifted, bringing your leg beneath his body in a silent, desperate order for him to take his place. He obeyed with a moan that sounded like a surrender, settling between your thighs with a slow, heavy drag of his hips that set your nerves on fire. Baelor was not a man who rushed. The lavender pressed linens enveloped you in their warm embrace. You could almost think of yourself a poet for this moment.
Bracing himself on one sturdy arm as to not crush your smaller frame he brought his hands to your neck and then below, grabbing the string that held your nightgown from coming undone at your breasts. When the knot finally gave way, he pushed the fabric aside, his hand sliding inside to cup the warmth he desired. His groan was a physical weight against your skin, and your eyebrows furrowed.
Baelor brought his head down and pressed hot kisses to your chest, then your breasts as you moaned.
“Do you love me?” his breath was hot on your skin.
“Of course,” you managed to choke out, your fingers tangling in his brown hair, holding him there as if he might vanish if you let go. You felt him move then, the rustle of fabric as he removed himself from his pants, his eyes never leaving yours.
He muttered something in High Valyrian, a prayer or vow you could not make out as he touched your flower with his hand. You gave a silent gasp and smiled at his own expression, before settling with his touch. He brushed his fingers again over you and you fought to be closer to him. You wanted him to finally press up against you but he would not relent.
“Baelor.” you pleaded into his mouth, voice breaking. He gave a sound of acknowledgment towards you as he brought his body down, lower and lower.
You chuckled as the realization settled in, then gasped with pleasure as you felt his beard where you were most sensitive. You wished to stay quiet, truly, but caught in the heat of it all you must’ve made the most pathetic sounds of whispers and moans as your husband lavished you with his full attention.
You felt your stomach twist as he tasted you where you needed him most and you brushed your fingers into his greying hair, wishing for something to grab hold of. Whenever a sound would leave him, it would vibrate and set you unconsciously rising up against him. He grabbed hold of your breast with one hand, the other holding your hip gently but firmly down, keeping you pinned to his pleasure.
His love continued until you could barely decide between trying to get away or push your legs close to his ears and keep him there. Sounds leaving you before you could stop. You grabbed hold of his arm and pleaded with him as raised his body up over yours once more.
“Please.” You almost had tears in your eyes, but they were not from sadness. He kissed you and he tasted of you all over his lips and damp beard.
“Please?” Baelor brought your upper lip beneath his own “What?” He smiled into your mouth like the wolf he was and you had half the mind to start crying.
He enjoyed the thought of hearing you say shameful things as you tried to not have your ears catch on fire. It brought him as much pleasure as any grand meal in the capital but you thought words were beneath you now as you reached down, your hand finding the heat of him. His own breath hitched, brows furrowing in a sudden, sharp pleasure. You brought him to the threshold and pressed a quick, desperate peck to his lips as he finally, mercifully, pressed himself inside.
You both gasped in unison and you closed your eyes, every muscle in your body tightening as you adjusted to the fullness of him. He pulled out and then pressed once more, gently, into you. You felt a pleasant pressure in your belly and happiness settled in your heart at finally getting what you desired. You brought your legs over his hips as he moved. Baelor pressed his head down next to yours, the hair on his beard coarse against your soft skin as he gave you sweet sounds of pleasure. The fire in the hearth was dimmer now, but you had all the heat you needed on top of you. Thunder rumbled outside.
He pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek, breath hot on your ear as he told you “Wrap your legs tighter around me,” he commanded, his breath hot against your ear. You obeyed without hesitation, your arms sliding under his to grip his broad shoulders. “That’s it. Just like that.”
You moaned into the crook of his neck, the sound muffled and raw. He raised up on his elbows, the old oak bed complaining in a rhythmic, wooden groan beneath his weight and hips. A thin layer of sweat made his brow glint in the low light, and he smiled down at you, his voice nearly breathless. “You’re so beautiful.”
You were sure you looked a mess, lips and breasts sore from his eager kisses. A mess of his own doing you supposed and he took no greater pleasure than that of seeing you this way.
“Look what you’re doing to me.” His movements became more eager now, the slow patience of the beginning giving way to the frantic chase of the peak. His movements became more eager, more enthusiastic to chase the end of his own pleasure that he forgot his own power and weight for a moment as he allowed himself to press down on you. You turned your head to the side, gasping for the cold air of the room to keep from fainting from the heat of him.
He took the chance to trail kisses down your neck, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. Your flower and stomach oscillating between pleasure and the beginning of discomfort from his love making. Your left eye let out a small, incandescent tear of pleasure, which he leaned forward to kiss away.
In that moment, you wanted him to never stop, you wanted to have him on his back, on his side, to feel him in every way possible until the sun refused to rise. He pressed inside one last, devastating time, his body shuddering. You could feel him pulse inside in his climax as he grabbed your face.
“Kiss me.” He said.
•• ━━━━━••⚜••━━━━━ ••
His breath was hot on your ear as he softly snored, finally content with the night. Your body was flush against his, with his arm around your waist and hands embracing one another above the blankets.
The fire in the room was no more as the rain lashed against the cool castle wall. You brushed your thumb across his hand, trying to memorize the pattern of each knuckle and the feeling of his skin. The sun would rise in the east whether you wanted or not, and time passed either way. You had to get your rest. Breathing in the smell of cedarwood and amber you squeezed his hand as you pressed your face to the pillow. Somewhere, the hedge knight that sheltered Aegon was finding his knights between glory seekers and few friends he probably had, completely oblivious he had the heir to The Iron Throne on his side. You knew your husband could tip the scales in his favor, you knew that after this, you would probably return to Kings Landing and have a few months left of peace before the Seven Kingdoms called for his guidance.
His breath hitched, a low murmur escaping his lips as he pulled you closer in his sleep, seeking you even in the deep drift of slumber. You managed a weak, watery smile, closing your eyes to paint the picture he longed for, your husband, not in armor, but in a sun-bleached straw hat and torn down clothes, his hands rough from the plow instead of the sword.
Holding onto the image of the farmer, a man of the earth rather than the realm, a blissful creation that would break the instant dawn broke and the bounds of honor demanded their hero.
You felt sleep claim you as well.
•• ━━━━━••⚜••━━━━━ ••
authors note: idk how they somehow got the DILFiest men ever in this show but here ya go. Baelor ure so hot and ur voice is like silk god i hate you. Thank you so much for reading it, please let me know if you liked it as it makes my whole day reading your thoughts and talking to any of you. THANK YOU <3 have a great day babes
this got so nasty so fast. i had to take multiple...breaks...writing this. probably the hottest thing ive ever written. based on this ask by anon. this fic is LONG AND IM PROUD. thank you SO much to @emmaziadarcy for the phenomenal gif :) (idk why it’s not tagging you bestie im sorry 😭) no, i did not edit this. i never edit my stuff. why are you asking me questions you already know the answer to
📖 masterlist
🖊 ao3
🗒 wip list
🔥 discord server
Summary: Three heads of the dragon have always stood shoulder to shoulder. Tonight, the space between them disappears.
WC: 11.1k
Warnings: 18+, Sex (p in v), oral (male and female receiving), threesome, paris, vaginal fingering, targcest (DONT FUCKING READ IT IF YOURE GONNA BITCH ABOUT IT), doggy, missionary, multiple partners, ???
Maekar "The Anvil" Targaryen x Sister!Reader x Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen
The yard was nearly empty by the time the bell rang for the end of drills, the last of the squires dragging targets away and the older knights peeling off their gloves. Dust hung in the sunlight like a veil, turning everything gold and hazy. Somewhere along the wall a pair of men laughed, steel clattered into a rack, boots scraped stone. The noise felt far away, swallowed by the heat and the steady pulse still thrumming in your arms.
You rolled your wrist, trying to shake out the ache. The sword felt heavier now, your fingers sluggish around the grip, sweat making the leather slick. You adjusted your stance and lifted the blade again.
“Again,” Baelor said gently behind you.
Your brother’s voice was as familiar as your own breath.
You had not heard him approach. You rarely did. He had always moved like that, quiet-footed since childhood, forever appearing at your shoulder when you least expected it. One moment you were alone, the next his warmth was at your back, close enough that you could feel it through your shirt. His hand slid over yours, broad and callused, guiding your fingers into place the same way he had when you were small enough to hold a wooden practice blade.
He adjusted your thumb and knuckles with careful patience, slow and deliberate, as if you might bruise under too much pressure.
“Not so tight,” he murmured near your ear. “You’re fighting the blade.”
“I am not,” you said, though your voice came out thinner than you meant.
“You are,” he replied, fond and certain. “Relax. Let it move.”
He stepped closer as he spoke, chest brushing your back. His other hand settled at your waist to steady you, thumb resting just above your hipbone. The touch was practical, familiar, the way it had always been when he corrected you.
It still made your breath hitch anyway.
You lifted the sword again, trying to follow his instruction.
“No.”
The word cut clean through the warm quiet.
Maekar crossed the sand toward you with long strides, dark hair damp with sweat, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. He did not slow when he reached you. He simply stepped into your space and took the sword straight out of your hands like it belonged to him.
“That stance will get her killed,” he said.
Baelor’s hand did not leave your waist. “It will keep her from exhausting herself in the first exchange.”
Maekar shoved the hilt back into your palms and adjusted your grip with brisk efficiency. His fingers were hotter than Baelor’s, rougher too, moving you without hesitation. He pushed your shoulder down, angled your arm, then planted his hand low on your hip and turned you a few inches like you weighed nothing.
“Like this,” he said. “Center your weight. If someone hits you, you hold.”
You swallowed. “You’re both contradicting each other.”
“You should listen to me,” Maekar said.
“You should listen to me,” Baelor said at the same time.
It would have been ridiculous if it weren’t so typical. They had been arguing over how best to teach you since you could walk.
Their hands stayed where they were.
Baelor’s at your waist. Maekar’s just beneath it.
You could feel the heat of them through your clothes, one on each side, guiding and correcting as if you belonged there between them. Your pulse thudded embarrassingly loud in your ears.
“Lift your elbow,” Baelor said softly.
“Lower it,” Maekar said.
“She needs flexibility.”
“She needs stability.”
“She needs both,” you muttered.
Neither paid you any mind.
Baelor adjusted your wrist again, his fingers sliding down your forearm. Maekar’s hand tightened at your hip to keep you from moving the way Baelor wanted. Their knuckles brushed over your side.
Then stayed.
It was the smallest contact, barely anything at all, but it felt like lightning. Both of them went still at once. You felt it in the way their hands paused, the way their breathing changed. Slowly, their gazes lifted.
Not to you.
To each other.
It was not anger exactly. Not yet. Something sharper. Measuring. Territorial. The look men gave across a tourney field before the first charge.
“Let go,” Maekar said quietly.
“I’m supporting her,” Baelor replied.
“So am I.”
You stood between them like a contested prize, the sword still raised uselessly in your hands.
“If you’re both finished using me as an example,” you said, trying for dry humor, “I would like to actually practice.”
Neither answered.
Baelor’s thumb flexed against your waist, almost unconsciously. Maekar’s fingers tightened at your hip as if to anchor you there. Your skin burned where they touched you.
“Strike,” Baelor said.
You obeyed, swinging forward. The blade cut the air cleanly, but before you could recover Maekar stepped in, catching your wrist and redirecting the motion, guiding you through a sharper, faster follow-through.
“Again,” he said.
You did.
This time Baelor corrected your shoulders mid-swing, pressing you back into alignment. You stumbled half a step and both of them steadied you at once, hands firm, bodies close enough that you could feel the heat of their chests on either side. For a moment you were trapped between them, sand shifting under your boots, their grips tight and certain.
Not unpleasantly.
Your breath stuttered.
Maekar noticed. His eyes flicked down to your mouth before lifting again. Baelor noticed that, his hand tightening almost imperceptibly at your waist. Something shifted in the air, heavier now, thicker than the dust.
“You’re distracting her,” Maekar said.
“I’m teaching her,” Baelor replied.
“You’re coddling her.”
“And you’re manhandling her.”
“I don’t mind,” you said.
They both went quiet. Both looked at you. Then, slowly, at each other again.
The yard had gone nearly silent, banners rustling overhead, the last scrape of boots fading beyond the gates. It felt like the three of you were alone in the world. Baelor’s hand never left your waist. Maekar’s never left your hip. Neither seemed inclined to move, like stepping back would mean conceding something neither of them intended to lose.
You realized with a slow, dizzy clarity that they were not touching you by accident anymore. They were touching you because the other one was. Because neither would yield the space. Because neither meant to let go first.
“Well?” you said softly. “Are you going to keep arguing, or are you going to teach me?”
Baelor’s mouth curved faintly. “Again.”
Maekar’s grip tightened just enough to make you shiver. “Again.”
You did not remember the last few swings. Only the heat of them on either side of you. The steady correction of your wrist. The firm pressure at your hip. Their voices low and close to your ears, overlapping until you could not tell whose breath brushed your skin. When at last the sword slipped from your fingers and thudded into the sand, all three of you stilled at once, breathing hard.
“That’s enough,” Baelor said quietly.
Maekar did not argue, which might have unsettled you more than anything. He simply reached down, picked up the sword, and handed it back to a passing squire without taking his eyes off you.
The walk to the Keep began without discussion. It simply happened. You wiped your palms on your trousers and stepped toward the archway that led inside, and they fell into place beside you like they had done it a thousand times before.
Only now there was nowhere to escape them.
The corridor was narrower than the yard, the stone walls holding the day’s warmth. Your boots tracked sand across the floor, the sound soft and rhythmic. Baelor took your right without thinking. Maekar claimed your left just as naturally. You were aware, acutely, of the way their arms brushed yours with every step.
Too close to be accidental.
Too close to ignore.
Baelor reached for your hand first. He turned your wrist gently, examining the leather glove like you were still a child who needed tending. His brow furrowed.
“You’ve split the seam,” he said. His thumb traced the worn patch near your palm. “You’ll blister.”
“I’ll survive,” you said.
“I know.” His voice softened. “Hold still.”
He loosened the laces and retied them tighter, slower than necessary. His fingers slid over your knuckles, your pulse, the inside of your wrist. Every touch deliberate, careful, reverent. The corridor felt too warm suddenly.
On your other side, Maekar made an impatient sound in his throat. “You’re fussing.”
“I’m fixing it.”
“She’s not wounded.”
“She will be if I don’t.”
Maekar stepped closer anyway, his shoulder brushing yours. His hand found the buckle of your sword belt without asking permission. “Here.”
Before you could protest, he unfastened it and slid the belt free. The leather dragged across your hips as he pulled it loose, slow enough that you felt every inch of it. His knuckles grazed your waist. He did not hurry. He never hurried.
“I can take that myself,” you said.
“I’ve got her,” he replied.
Baelor glanced up, expression mild but edged. “Clearly.”
The word hung between them, quiet and sharp.
They did not look at each other, but you could feel it. The competition threading through every small gesture. Baelor brushing dust from your sleeve. Maekar taking the belt and slinging it over his shoulder like it belonged there. Baelor adjusting the strap of your bracer. Maekar’s hand settling briefly at the small of your back to guide you around a crack in the floor you would have stepped over easily.
You did not need guiding.
They knew that.
They did it anyway.
Their shoulders bumped once. Neither apologized. Neither yielded an inch of space.
You were suddenly hyperaware of the corridor’s tightness. Of their thighs nearly brushing yours. Of the heat of their bodies bleeding through linen and leather. Of how easily either of them could reach for you at any moment.
“Don’t crowd her,” Baelor said quietly.
“I’m not,” Maekar replied.
“You are.”
“She hasn’t complained.”
They both looked at you.
Your mouth went dry. “I’m fine.”
That only seemed to make it worse.
Baelor’s hand settled at your waist again, familiar, protective. Maekar’s fingers hooked into the fabric at your hip, tugging you half an inch closer like he refused to let Baelor have more of you than he did. The touches overlapped. Hands nearly brushing. Neither retreating.
You wondered if they even realized how much they were touching you. Or if they did and simply refused to stop.
You tried to focus on the sound of your footsteps, the flicker of torchlight along the walls, anything but the steady pressure on both sides of you. But every small thing betrayed you. Baelor’s thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric at your waist. Maekar’s knuckles grazing your hip when he shifted the belt. The way they leaned in close when they spoke, voices low enough that only you could hear.
“I’ll see her back,” Baelor said.
“I already am,” Maekar answered.
Silence followed. Thick and heavy.
Their shoulders bumped again.
Still neither moved away.
You exhaled slowly, realizing with a strange, fluttering certainty that the tension from the yard had not broken at all. It had only tightened. Stretched thinner. More deliberate. Every step deeper into the Keep felt like winding a bowstring further and further back.
Caught between them, hemmed in by stone and heat and two steady hands that refused to leave you, you wondered which one of them would let go first.
Neither seemed inclined to lose.
The small solar near the yard door appeared almost by instinct. You pushed it open without announcing anything, grateful for somewhere to sit, somewhere to breathe that was not a corridor barely wide enough for your shoulders.
They followed you in automatically.
Neither of them hesitated.
The door shut behind you with a soft, solid thud.
The room trapped the day’s warmth. Leather, oil, dust, sweat. The air felt thick, close, intimate in a way it had never seemed before. There was only one bench, one narrow table, one rack of spare gear. Too small for three people who had just come off the training field.
Too small for Baelor’s broad shoulders, too small for Maekar’s restless energy, too small for the way both of them crowded near you without thinking.You sat heavily on the bench and reached for your boots, but you barely got your fingers on the straps before Baelor was already kneeling.
“Let me,” he said quietly.
You didn’t argue. You never did with him.
He rested one knee on the stone and took your ankle gently in both hands, thumbs warm through the leather as he loosened the laces. His movements were slow, methodical, careful not to tug too hard. Like you were something fragile.
Behind you, Maekar made a soft sound of impatience and stepped closer.
“Hold still,” he muttered, already reaching for the clasps at the back of your armor.
You hadn’t even asked.
Metal clicked softly as he worked them free, fingers sure and efficient. Where Baelor’s touch lingered, Maekar’s moved with quiet confidence, sliding beneath straps, undoing buckles in seconds. His knuckles brushed the back of your neck, then your shoulders, then lower along your spine as each fastening gave way.
You inhaled sharply before you could stop yourself.
Neither commented.
Baelor tugged the first boot free and set it aside. His hand stayed at your calf a moment longer than necessary, steadying you as you shifted your weight. His thumb traced a small, absent circle against your skin, thoughtless and gentle.
Maekar slid the loosened plate from your shoulders, his palm spreading briefly at the small of your back to keep you from tipping forward.
Between them, you barely had to move at all.
It was strangely easy. Natural. Like this was something they’d always done.
Like you belonged exactly here.
One kneeling.
One standing close behind.
Both touching you without hesitation.
The room felt warmer by the second.
Baelor reached for your other boot at the same moment Maekar reached around you for the last buckle at your side. Their arms crossed in front of you, creating a wall of muscle and heat. Your breath caught as Maekar's chest pressed briefly against your back, his fingers working at the stubborn clasp while Baelor's hands slid up your calf to steady you.
"I can manage," you said, but the words came out breathy, unconvincing.
Neither acknowledged your protest. Maekar's knuckles grazed your ribs as the final buckle gave way. The pressure of the armor released, leaving you feeling oddly vulnerable in just your thin shirt. Baelor's fingers lingered at your ankle, his thumb tracing the hollow there with deliberate care.
"You pushed too hard today," he murmured, gaze fixed on the reddened skin where your boot had rubbed.
"She can handle it," Maekar countered, but his hand at your hip said something different. Gentle. Almost possessive.
You sat perfectly still between them, caught in the strange gravity they created. The room had shrunk to just the three of you—Baelor kneeling before you, Maekar standing behind, both watching you with expressions that made your skin flush hot.
"You don't need both of us fussing," Maekar said, though he made no move to leave. His fingers trailed up your side where the armor had been, testing for bruises he knew weren't there.
"Apparently I do," you replied, aiming for lightness and missing by a mile. Your voice came out too soft, too breathless.
Baelor's eyes darkened at the sound. "We've always looked after you."
The way he said it—soft, almost reverent—made your pulse stutter. You could feel Maekar's breath against your neck, his heat at your back, while Baelor's hands continued their slow path upward.
"Always," Maekar agreed, his voice rougher than his brother's but no less intent. His fingers traced a path along your shoulder, finding the place where muscle had tensed during training. When he pressed his thumb against the knot there, you couldn't help the small sound that escaped you.
Baelor's eyes flicked up to meet yours at the noise, then drifted past you to his brother. Something unspoken passed between them—a challenge, a question, a decision. You couldn't read it, but you could feel the shift in the air, the way the tension crystallized into something sharper, more deliberate.
"You're sore," Baelor said softly, his thumb pressing gently into the muscle of your calf. "You should have stopped earlier."
"I'm fine," you managed, though your voice betrayed you, coming out breathless and thin.
Baelor's hands slid higher, past your calf to the sensitive back of your knee. His touch was gentle but deliberate, thumb tracing small, teasing circles against your skin. Maekar's hands worked at the knot in your shoulder with more pressure, his callused fingers finding the exact spot that ached. The dual sensations made you dizzy—Baelor's gentleness below, Maekar's strength above.
"She says she's fine," Maekar murmured, though his touch belied his words. He was not treating you like someone who was fine. His fingers worked deeper, finding tension you hadn't realized was there, drawing a soft gasp from your lips.
Baelor's hands paused at the sound. "Is that too much?"
"No," you whispered before you could stop yourself.
The air in the room seemed to thicken. Baelor's thumb traced a slow, deliberate path up the inside of your thigh, stopping just short of impropriety. Maekar's hands slid down to your waist, steadying you as you shifted under Baelor's touch. The warmth of his palms seeped through your thin shirt, a stark contrast to the cooler air against your newly exposed skin.
"See? Not too much," Maekar murmured, his lips close enough to your ear that you could feel the warmth of his words. "She can handle more than you think."
Baelor's eyes never left yours as his hand stilled high on your thigh, thumb resting dangerously close to where your legs met. "Is that true?" he asked softly. "Can you handle more?"
The question hung in the air, weighted with meaning that went far beyond training and sore muscles. Your heart hammered in your chest, skin prickling with heat that had nothing to do with exertion. The truth was dangerous, but it slipped past your defenses anyway.
"Yes," you whispered.
Something changed in Baelor's eyes—a flicker of restraint giving way. Maekar's hands tightened at your waist, his chest pressing more firmly against your back. For a moment, neither moved, as if testing whether you'd take the word back.
You didn't.
"Look at her," Maekar murmured to his brother, his breath hot against your neck. "She's been waiting for this."
Baelor's thumb traced one more deliberate circle on your inner thigh. "Have you?"
Words failed you. Your breath came too quick, too shallow, your nod barely perceptible. A confession without words.
Baelor's fingers tightened on your thigh as his other hand rose to cup your face. His thumb traced your lower lip, feather-light, testing. "How long?"
"Too long," Maekar answered for you, his mouth suddenly at your neck, the barest graze of teeth against your pulse. "She watches us in the yard. When we spar. When we train." His hand slid up your side, just beneath the curve of your breast. "Thinks we don't notice."
Heat flooded your face. You hadn't realized they'd seen.
"Is he right?" Baelor asked, still holding your gaze, his thumb continuing its torturous path across your lip.
You couldn't lie. Not with both of them touching you, reading every tremor in your body. "Yes." Baelor's eyes darkened at your admission, his pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remained. His thumb pressed more firmly against your lip, parting them slightly.
"And what do you think about?" he asked, voice low. "When you watch us?"
Maekar's mouth was still at your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You felt his teeth graze your pulse point, testing, before his lips pressed there in something too deliberate to be anything but a kiss.
"Tell us," he murmured against your skin.
Your head tilted back instinctively, giving him better access. The movement pushed you further into his chest, your back against his warmth, your throat exposed. Baelor watched the motion with undisguised hunger, his hand still firm on your thigh.
"I think about..." Your voice faltered. It was one thing to have these thoughts alone "...this," you whispered, the confession barely audible. "Your hands. Both of you."
The words hung in the air, honest and raw. Maekar's teeth scraped gently against your neck, not quite a bite, while Baelor's thumb pressed more firmly against your lower lip.
"Our hands," Baelor repeated softly. "Like now?"
You nodded, unable to form words as Maekar's palm finally slid up to cup your breast through your shirt. The weight of his hand made you arch slightly, pressing yourself more firmly into his touch.
"And what else?" Maekar murmured against your skin, his voice rougher than before. His thumb brushed over your nipple, a deliberate circle that drew a soft gasp from your lips.
"More," you whispered, the word barely audible.
Baelor's fingers dug deeper into your thigh, the pressure sending sparks of heat through your body. His gaze never left yours, watching every reaction, every flutter of your lashes as Maekar's thumb continued its torturous circles over your hardening nipple.
"More what?" Baelor asked, his voice deceptively gentle. His thumb traced the seam of your lips, pressing just enough to feel the wetness behind them. "You need to be specific."
Maekar chuckled against your neck, the vibration traveling down your spine. "She's shy now? After watching us for months?" His teeth grazed your earlobe, making you shiver. "After following us into empty corridors? Standing too close in the armory?"
Your cheeks burned. You hadn't realized they'd noticed every incidental moments. Had they always known? The thought made your pulse race faster, your skin heating with more than just embarrassment.
"I didn't think you saw me," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
"We see everything," Baelor murmured, his thumb pressing more firmly against your lower lip until you parted for him. The pad of his thumb slipped past your teeth, resting against your tongue, salt and leather and heat. "Everything."
Maekar's hand kneaded your breast more deliberately now, no pretense of checking for injuries. His other hand slid down to your hip, fingers digging into the muscle there, anchoring you against him.
"Tell us what you want," he demanded against your ear, his voice rough-edged and impatient. "Say it."
Baelor's thumb withdrew from your mouth, leaving a trail of dampness across your lip. His eyes never left yours, watching the way your breath quickened, the way you swallowed hard before answering.
"Both of you," you whispered, the confession burning in your throat. "I want both of you." Your confession hung in the air between them, raw and honest. For a moment, neither moved—as if giving you a chance to take the words back, to retreat from the precipice you'd just approached.
But you didn't want to retreat. You'd thought about this too many times, imagined it in the darkness of your chamber when sleep wouldn't come. Both of them. Their hands. Their mouths. The impossibility of choosing between them when you'd always wanted both.
Baelor moved first, unfolding himself from the floor with a smooth, catlike inevitability. The shift brought him dangerously close, erasing whatever boundary had existed between you. His hands slid up your legs as he rose, one anchoring above your knee, the other bracing lightly at your waist, steadying you. The heat of his palms burned through your clothes, as if you wore nothing at all. He rose to his full height, and suddenly you were looking up at him, at the intensity in his eyes, at the way his hair had fallen carelessly across his brow. The air between the three of you seemed to vibrate, electric with anticipation and something more elemental, something greedy and selfish.
Baelor didn't hesitate. The look on his face was not one of uncertainty, but of satisfaction, as if he’d just solved an equation that had lingered in his mind for years. His gaze flicked to his brother behind you, then back to you, and a slow, wicked smile curled his lips. You felt Maekar tense at your back, his grip tightening on your hip, as if bracing for what Baelor would do next.
Baelor bent forward, his mouth hovering just above yours, close enough for you to taste the heat of his breath, but far enough that you’d have to close the distance yourself. His hand left your knee and cupped your face, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek, his touch reverent yet claiming. For the briefest moment, you wondered if he would actually kiss you, or if he’d make you ask for it again—if that was the game he was playing.
"Both," he repeated, his voice low and thoughtful. His fingers traced your jawline, tilting your face toward his. "You've always been greedy."
Behind you, Maekar made a sound like a growl. "She's always known what she wanted." His teeth grazed the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, no longer tentative. "Haven't you?"
The dual assault left you dizzy—Baelor's face hovering above yours, his thumb tracing your cheek, while Maekar's mouth worked against your neck, hot and demanding. You couldn't answer, couldn't find words when your body was singing with sensation.
"I asked you a question," Maekar murmured against your skin, his hand tightening possessively at your breast.
"Yes," you gasped, the word barely formed before Baelor closed the distance and captured your mouth with his.
His kiss was nothing like you'd imagined—and you had imagined it, countless times. It was not gentle or hesitant. It was not the quiet reverence you'd expected from him. It was hot and hungry, the culmination of a restraint that had finally snapped. His mouth moved against yours with certainty, his tongue teasing the seam of your lips before pressing inside, claiming you with a confidence that left you breathless.
Maekar's hands tightened at your waist, as if unwilling to yield even an inch of you to his brother. His teeth closed more firmly on your neck, a sharp counterpoint to Baelor's kiss that drew a muffled sound from your throat. The contrast was dizzying—Baelor's mouth possessing yours, Maekar's teeth marking your skin.
The pleasure of it was overwhelming—too much sensation, too many points of contact. You were caught between them, suspended in their shared hunger, unable to do anything but surrender to it. Baelor's kiss deepened, one hand sliding into your hair to angle your face exactly how he wanted it. The gentle brother, the measured one, kissed you like he'd been starving for it, like he might devour you whole.
Maekar's patience had clearly run out. His hand left your breast and tangled in your hair, pulling your head back from Baelor's kiss. The sudden separation made you gasp, eyes flying open to find Baelor staring down at you with dark, possessive heat. Before you could speak, Maekar turned your face toward him and claimed your mouth with bruising intensity.
Where Baelor had been consuming, Maekar was conquering. His kiss was harder, demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with deliberate skill. His hand fisted in your hair, controlling the angle, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. You felt the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the heat of his mouth, the insistent pressure of his lips.
Your mind spun with the contrast between them. Baelor's kiss had been consuming but measured, a careful claiming. Maekar took what he wanted with unapologetic hunger.
When he finally released you, your lips felt bruised, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Maekar's eyes were dark with satisfaction as he looked past you to his brother."Well?" Maekar said, his voice a rough challenge. "Which do you prefer?"
The question hung in the heated air between them. Your lips still tingled from both their kisses, your body caught in the space they created. You couldn't answer—couldn't choose—and they knew it.
Baelor's hand slid back to your face, thumb tracing your lower lip, swollen now from Maekar's attention. "She doesn't need to choose," he said softly. His eyes never left yours as he spoke, watching every flicker of expression. "Do you?"
You shook your head, the small movement making Maekar's grip in your hair tighten. The slight sting sent heat curling through your belly.
"Say it," Maekar demanded against your ear. "Tell us again what you want."
The word fell from your mouth, heavy with desire: "Both." Your voice trembled, then steadied. "I want everything—you, and you. Please.”
A slow, satisfied smile spread across Baelor's face. He exchanged a look with his brother over your shoulder—some silent communication passing between them that made your skin prickle with anticipation.
"Then you shall have us," Baelor murmured, his thumb brushing your lower lip once more. "But not here."
"Not like this," Maekar agreed, his voice rough against your ear. Without another word, Maekar released your hair and stepped back just enough for you to stand on unsteady legs. Baelor's hand found yours, fingers intertwining with a possessive certainty that sent heat coursing through your veins. The simple touch felt more intimate than it should have, his thumb tracing small circles against your palm.
"Come," he said quietly, the command gentle but brooking no argument.
Maekar's hand settled at the small of your back, guiding you toward the door with a pressure that made your skin burn through the thin fabric of your shirt. Neither seemed willing to relinquish contact, keeping you between them as Baelor led the way through the corridors.
The walk felt endless. Your legs trembled slightly with each step, anticipation and lingering exertion making you unsteady. Every brush of their bodies against yours—a shoulder here, a hip there—sent electricity through your nerves. Maekar's fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt as you walked, grazing the heated skin of your lower back. Baelor's thumb continued its maddening circles against your palm, a small point of contact that somehow felt more intimate than it had any right to be.
The corridors were mercifully empty. Whether by design or luck, you encountered no one as Baelor led you deeper into the Keep, past the familiar routes to your own chambers, toward the royal wing. Your heartbeat quickened with each step, awareness dawning of exactly where they were taking you.
"Someone will see," you whispered, though the protest sounded weak even to your own ears.
"Let them," Maekar murmured, his voice a dark promise that made your skin flush hot. His hand pressed more firmly against your back, urging you forward when your steps faltered. "I want everyone to know."
Baelor's grip on your hand tightened, neither confirming nor denying his brother's declaration. Instead, he led you around a final corner to a heavy wooden door you recognized immediately. The royal apartments. His chambers.
When the door closed behind the three of you, the sound echoed with finality. The room was larger than yours, dominated by a massive bed draped in rich fabrics. A fire burned low in the hearth despite the day's warmth, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The air smelled of sandalwood and leather, of Baelor's particular scent.
For a moment, none of you moved. The reality of what was happening—what was about to happen—settled over you like a physical weight. You stood between them, caught in the gravity they created, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Maekar's hands slid around your waist, pulling you back against his chest as Baelor stepped forward. You found yourself trapped between them once more, but this time there was no pretense of training, no excuse of checking for injuries. This was deliberate. Wanted.
"Last chance," Baelor murmured, his hand coming up to cup your face. "Tell us to stop, and we will."
"I don't want you to stop," you whispered, the confession hanging in the heated air between you.
Something shifted in Baelor's expression then—a final restraint falling away. His thumb traced your lower lip before he bent to capture your mouth again, this time with a hunger that made your knees weak. Behind you, Maekar's lips found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there as his hands worked at the laces of your shirt with deft, impatient fingers. The dual assault left you gasping, caught between Baelor's demanding kiss and Maekar's teeth at your neck. Your head swam with the sensation, too much and not enough all at once.
Maekar tugged your laces free with practiced ease, his warm hands slipping beneath the loosened fabric to slide against your bare skin. The calluses on his palms created a delicious friction that made you arch into his touch. Behind you, you felt rather than heard his satisfied chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into your back.
"She's responsive," he murmured against your neck, his voice a heated whisper meant for his brother's ears as much as yours. "Always has been."
Baelor broke the kiss, his breathing heavier now, his eyes dark as he watched Maekar's hands moving beneath your shirt. His thumb brushed your cheek in a gesture almost tender, contrasting with the heat in his gaze.
"She always has been," he agreed, voice low. "Even when we were teaching her to ride. Remember how she trembled when we lifted her onto the saddle?"
Maekar hummed agreement against your neck, his hands sliding higher beneath your loosened shirt, fingertips grazing the underside of your breasts. "This is better."
You couldn't suppress the shiver that ran through you at his touch, at the way they discussed you as if you weren't there—as if you were a shared secret between them. The casualness of it, the ease with which they touched you, spoke of desires long harbored but never voiced.
Baelor's hands reached for the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, deliberately, his knuckles grazing the heated skin of your stomach as he pulled upward. You raised your arms instinctively, allowing him to draw the fabric over your head. The cooler air of the chamber kissed your exposed skin, raising goosebumps that Maekar immediately soothed with his palms.
"Beautiful," Baelor murmured, his gaze traveling over your bare torso with undisguised hunger. His hands hovered just above your skin, not quite touching, making you ache for contact.
Maekar was less patient. His hands cupped your breasts from behind, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened into tight peaks. The rough calluses on his fingers created a delicious friction that drew a soft gasp from your lips.Baelor finally reached out, his hands joining Maekar's, fingers brushing against yours as they both explored your exposed skin. The sensation of four hands on your body at once sent a wave of dizziness through you, your head falling back against Maekar's shoulder as they touched you.
Baelor stepped closer, eliminating what little space remained between your bodies. His chest pressed against yours, trapping Maekar's hands between you as he bent to capture your mouth once more. This kiss was deeper, hungrier, his tongue sliding against yours with deliberate intent. You felt surrounded, consumed by them both—Baelor's mouth demanding your surrender while Maekar's hands continued their teasing exploration.
Their hands worked in tandem, as if they'd discussed this moment for years. Maekar's fingers pinched and rolled your nipples between calloused fingertips while Baelor's palms slid down your sides, mapping the curve of your waist before settling at the laces of your trousers. The dual sensation—Maekar's rougher touch at your breasts, Baelor's more measured exploration—left you trembling between them.
Baelor's fingers deftly worked the laces of your trousers, loosening them enough to slip his hand inside. The heat of his palm against your lower belly made you gasp against his mouth, your body arching instinctively into his touch. Behind you, Maekar made a sound of approval, his teeth grazing your earlobe as his hands continued their torturous attention to your breasts.
"She's trembling," Maekar murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Can you feel it?"
Baelor hummed agreement against your lips, his fingers dipping lower, teasing along the edge of your smallclothes. "I can feel it," he replied, breaking the kiss to watch your face as his hand slid further down. "I wonder how wet she is."
Your face burned at his words, but the embarrassment only heightened the ache between your thighs. Baelor's eyes held yours as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding the slick heat waiting there. His sharp intake of breath when he felt your wetness made your knees weak.
"Drenched," he murmured, his voice rough with approval. His fingers traced your folds with deliberate patience, exploring the evidence of your desire without quite giving you the pressure where you needed it most. "For both of us."
Maekar's hands tightened possessively at your breasts, his breathing heavier against your neck. "Let me feel," he demanded, one hand sliding down your stomach to join his brother's.
For a moment, you thought Baelor might refuse, might claim this pleasure for himself alone. But instead, his hand shifted, making room for Maekar's fingers to slip alongside his own. The sensation of both their hands between your th ighis was almost too much to bear. Different textures, different pressures—Baelor's touch measured and deliberate, Maekar's more demanding, both exploring your most intimate place with unhurried curiosity. Your hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more friction.
"Patience," Baelor murmured against your mouth, though his own breathing had grown uneven. His middle finger circled your entrance without penetrating, gathering your wetness before sliding up to tease your clit with feather-light touches.
Maekar was less restrained. His finger pushed inside you without warning, the sudden intrusion drawing a broken moan from your lips. "So tight," he growled against your neck, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin there as his finger curled inside you.
The dual sensation—Baelor's teasing circles around your clit, Maekar's finger thrusting inside you—made your head spin. You were caught between them, trapped in the pleasure they created together, your body responding with shameless eagerness to their combined touch. The knowledge that they were touching you together, fingers overlapping between your thighs, sent a wave of molten heat through your core.
"The bed," Baelor murmured against your lips, though he made no move to release you. "Now."
Maekar withdrew his finger with reluctance, drawing a small, involuntary sound of protest from your throat that made both men chuckle. Without warning, Maekar's hands gripped your waist and lifted you as if you weighed nothing, turning you toward the massive bed that dominated the chamber.
Your loosened trousers slid down your hips as they guided you backward, Baelor's hands steadying you, Maekar's pushing you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the mattress. You fell onto the soft furs, your trousers sliding further down your thighs as you landed on your back. They stood over you for a moment, both pairs of eyes dark with hunger as they took in the sight of you—half-naked, breathless, skin flushed with desire.
"Look at her," Maekar murmured, his voice rough with approval. "Waiting for us."
Baelor's expression was more measured, but no less intense. His fingers worked at the laces of his own shirt, loosening them with deliberate patience. "She's been waiting a long time."
You watched, transfixed, as they undressed. Maekar was impatient, stripping off his training clothes with efficient movements, revealing sun-bronzed skin and hard muscle beneath. The scars that crossed his torso told stories of battles and training accidents, mapping a history of violence and victory across his skin. Baelor undressed more methodically, each movement deliberate as he revealed his body inch by inch. Where Maekar was all hard angles and barely contained energy, Baelor was fluid grace, his musculature more refined but no less powerful.
Your breath caught at the sight of them both, standing at the foot of the bed like twin aspects of the same desire. Different in their approach but identical in their hunger as they looked down at you.
Maekar reached for your trousers first, tugging them down your legs with impatient efficiency. The fabric scraped against your sensitized skin, drawing a soft gasp from your lips. Baelor's hands followed, gentler but no less insistent as he helped remove the last of your clothing until you lay completely bare before them.
"Spread your legs," Maekar commanded, his voice rough with desire. You obeyed instinctively, thighs parting under their hungry gazes. The cool air of the chamber kissed your most intimate place, making you acutely aware of how exposed you were, how vulnerable beneath their matched intensity.Maekar moved first, climbing onto the bed with predatory grace. His weight made the mattress dip as he positioned himself between your spread legs, his large hands gripping your thighs to push them wider apart. The hungry look in his eyes made your breath hitch as he lowered himself, his breath hot against your inner thigh.
"I've thought about tasting you for years," he murmured, his lips brushing against your sensitive skin. "Watching you in the yard, sweating, breathing hard. Wondering how you'd taste after a long day of training."
You couldn't respond, couldn't form words as his mouth moved higher, leaving a trail of heat along your inner thigh. The bed shifted again as Baelor joined you, positioning himself at your side, one hand sliding into your hair to turn your face toward him.
"Look at me," he commanded softly. "I want to see your face when he tastes you." His fingers tightened in your hair, not painfully but firmly enough to hold you still as Maekar's mouth finally found your core.
The first touch of his tongue against your sensitive flesh made you cry out, back arching off the bed. Maekar groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body as he explored your folds with hungry precision. His hands gripped your thighs, holding them apart as his tongue circled your entrance before dipping inside.
"That's it," Baelor murmured, watching your expression intently as pleasure overwhelmed you. "Let us hear you."
Your eyes fluttered closed as Maekar's tongue flattened against your clit, applying delicious pressure that made your hips buck against his mouth. Baelor's hand immediately tightened in your hair, giving a sharp tug that made you gasp.
"Open your eyes," he commanded, his voice gentle but firm. "Watch what he's doing to you."
You forced your eyes open, meeting Baelor's intense gaze as Maekar's mouth worked between your thighs. The dual sensations—Maekar's tongue expertly circling your clit while Baelor's hand tightened in your hair—sent waves of pleasure through your body. Maekar groaned against you, the vibration making your hips jerk upward, seeking more.
"She tastes even better than I imagined," Maekar murmured against your flesh, his eyes dark with hunger as he glanced up at his brother. "You should taste her."
Baelor's thumb traced your lower lip, his gaze never leaving yours. "Soon," he promised, his voice thick with restraint. The heat in his eyes made you shiver, anticipation building in your core as Maekar's mouth continued its relentless assault. His tongue worked with practiced skill, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that had you trembling. Baelor's hand remained in your hair, keeping you anchored as pleasure threatened to sweep you away.
"She's close," Maekar murmured against your sensitive flesh, the vibration of his words sending sparks through your nerves. "I can feel it."
Baelor's free hand moved to your breast, thumb circling your nipple in time with Maekar's tongue. "Not yet," he commanded softly. "Make her wait."
Maekar hummed his agreement, slowing his pace deliberately, drawing back just enough to deny you the pressure you needed. Your hips lifted instinctively, seeking his mouth, but his hands pressed firmly against your inner thighs, holding you open and immobile.
"Please," you gasped, the word falling from your lips before you could stop it.
Baelor's eyes darkened at the sound, his grip in your hair tightening. "Listen to her beg," he murmured, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "I've waited years to hear that."
Maekar's laugh vibrated against your core, a dark chuckle that sent shivers up your spine. "She'll beg more before we're done with her." His tongue traced a torturous circle around your clit without touching it directly, the near-miss making your thighs tremble.
"Will you?" Baelor asked, his thumb brushing your nipple with maddening lightness. "Will you beg us properly?"
"Please," you whispered again, the word a desperate prayer between your lips. "Please don't stop."
Maekar's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, his mouth curving in a predatory smile against your flesh. "There it is," he murmured, the vibration of his words sending new waves of pleasure through your core. "Again."
"Please," you gasped, shame and desire twisting together in your chest as your hips strained against his iron grip. "I need—I need—"
"Tell us exactly what you need," Baelor commanded softly, his fingers still tangled in your hair. His other hand continued its torturous circles around your nipple, never providing enough pressure to satisfy. "Be specific."
Baelor's words made your face burn hot enough that you had to look away, but the emptiness pulsing between your legs left no room for hesitation. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips as you forced yourself to meet his gaze again. "I need to feel you," you breathed, voice cracking with desperation, "inside me, against me—anything—please—" The last word escaped as barely more than air.The last word left your lips as a plea, and something in Baelor's expression shifted. A decision made. His hand released your hair, sliding down to cup your face instead, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with surprising tenderness.
"We've been patient," he murmured, more to himself than to you. His eyes flicked to Maekar, who had paused between your thighs, watching the exchange with dark intensity. "Too patient."
Without another word, Baelor moved, positioning himself on his knees beside your head. His cock stood proud against his stomach, thick and flushed with need. The sight of it made your mouth water, your body clenching around nothing as you imagined how it would feel inside you.
"Open," he commanded softly, his thumb pressing against your lower lip.
You obeyed without hesitation, lips parting as Baelor guided the head of his cock to your mouth. The salt-sweet taste of him bloomed on your tongue as he pressed forward, his thickness stretching your lips. Above you, he made a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh, his hand returning to your hair to guide your movements.
"Gods, look at her take it," Maekar murmured, his breath hot against your inner thigh as he watched. His fingers replaced his mouth, sliding through your folds with deliberate pressure. "She was made for this. For us."
Caught between them, you felt yourself dissolving into pure sensation—Baelor's cock sliding deeper into your mouth while Maekar's fingers circled your entrance. Your body trembled between them, caught in the pleasure they created together. Baelor's thumb stroked your cheek, feeling the shape of himself inside your mouth with reverent fascination. Your jaw ached pleasantly as he rocked deeper, testing your limits with careful precision.
"That's it," he murmured, voice strained as you hollowed your cheeks around him. "Take me deeper."
Maekar's fingers circled your entrance once more before pushing inside, two at once, the sudden stretch making you moan around Baelor's cock. The vibration drew a hiss from Baelor's lips, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. The sudden motion pushed him deeper into your throat, making you gag slightly before you adjusted. His hand immediately gentled in your hair, thumb stroking your temple in silent apology even as his eyes darkened with satisfaction.
"Careful," Maekar murmured, his fingers curling inside you with deliberate precision. "You'll choke her."
"She can take it," Baelor replied, his voice strained as he watched your lips stretch around him. "Can't you?"
You hummed agreement around his thickness, the vibration making him groan again. Between your legs, Maekar's fingers worked deeper, stretching you with careful insistence.
"She's ready," Maekar said, his voice rough as his fingers worked inside you, stretching you with deliberate care. The wet sounds of his movements filled the room, mingling with your muffled moans around Baelor's cock. "So wet I can barely keep hold."
Baelor's hand cupped your face, his thumb stroking your cheek as you worked your mouth around him. His eyes never left yours, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your features as Maekar's fingers curled against that perfect spot inside you.
When Maekar withdrew his fingers, the soft whimper you couldn’t suppress drew knowing smiles from both brothers—Baelor’s brow quirked even as his cock stayed buried between your lips, slick and throbbing. Maekar grasped himself, the impressive length poised hot and insistent between your thighs. His hungry gaze flicked down to where Baelor’s shaft vanished in your mouth before returning to your glistening slit.
Slowly, deliberately, Maekar positioned himself at your entrance. The head of him pressed in—warm, insistent—and you gasped around Baelor’s cock. Maekar’s eyes locked on yours as he pushed forward, the first inch stretching you exquisitely while Baelor’s cock filled your mouth, his pulse throbbing at the back of your throat.
“Gods,” Maekar growled, hands clamping on your hips with bruising intensity. “So tight.”
Baelor’s dark gaze never left you as he kept his length deep in your mouth, one hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing your lips. “Look at you,” he murmured around his cock. “Taking him so beautifully.”
Maekar sank deeper, inch by agonizing inch. The delicious burn as he seated himself fully inside you sent your back arching off the bed, your body adjusting around his impressive girth while Baelor’s spit-coated cock remained deep in your throat. When Maekar paused, buried to the hilt, he met your eyes with a satisfied smile.
“Breathe,” Baelor whispered, stroking your hair as the fullness overwhelmed you. His voice was muffled in your mouth, but reassuring.
Maekar began to move—pulling almost all the way out before driving home slowly. Each deliberate thrust radiated pleasure through you, your walls clenching around him, even as Baelor’s cock pulsed in your mouth, his breadth hot on your tongue. Baelor watched with undisguised hunger, one hand sliding down to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple in sync with Maekar’s slow, powerful rhythm.
“How does she feel?” Baelor asked, his voice rough with anticipation, muffled though it was.
“Perfect,” Maekar growled, thrusting harder as you tightened around him. “Like she was made for this.”
Heat flooded your cheeks at his praise, and another wave of pleasure coiled through you. Maekar hissed as your walls clenched, hips stuttering for a moment before he found his pace again.
“She likes being praised,” Maekar observed, voice husky. “Tell her how good she is, brother.”
Baelor’s eyes grew heavy-lidded as he continued to fuck your mouth, sliding in deeper with each of Maekar’s strokes. His free hand drifted up to the hollow of your throat—gentle, possessive—sending electric shivers through you without choking or pressure. Your heart pounded under his touch, and without thinking, you wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock in your mouth, stroking him in time with his brother’s thrusts. The guttural sound he made vibrated against your tongue.
Baelor's control shattered with each thrust into your waiting mouth. "I can't—" he gasped, voice breaking as his hips stuttered forward. The prince who commanded armies now trembled above you, his composure crumbling as unfamiliar, raw sounds escaped his throat. His fingers tightened in your hair, his breathing ragged as pleasure overwhelmed his legendary restraint. "Perfect," Baelor whispered, voice strained. "So perfect with your mouth around me while he takes you."
Maekar's pace quickened, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. The dual sensations—his cock stretching you below while Baelor filled your mouth—pushed you toward a precipice you couldn't resist. Every nerve ending sang with pleasure, your body caught between them, used and worshipped in equal measure.
"She's close," Maekar growled, his fingers digging into your hips as he angled himself to hit that perfect spot inside you.
Baelor withdrew slightly, allowing you to breathe, his thumb tracing your swollen lips. "Not yet," he commanded softly. "Not until we say."
The order sent another wave of heat through your core, your walls clenching around Maekar's thickness as your body fought to obey. Pleasure coiled tighter, a spring wound to breaking point, but you forced yourself to hold back, to please them both.
"Good girl," Baelor murmured, his voice thick with approval. He guided his cock back between your lips, gentler now, letting you breathe between shallow thrusts. "So obedient."
Maekar's rhythm transformed, becoming methodical and precise—each powerful movement designed to keep you suspended at the precipice without allowing release. His fingers dug into your flesh as he widened your stance, tilting your hips until pleasure exploded through your core like shattered light. The disciplined prince began to falter, his measured cadence breaking as your body gripped him tighter with each plunge, his torso dropping closer to yours as the need for climax overtook his restraint. Maekar's face was transformed by desire—the stern lines softened, his usual severity replaced by raw hunger as he watched you stretched between them. Maekar's rhythm grew erratic, his powerful thrusts becoming desperate. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise as he drove deep one final time, his release hot and pulsing inside you. The sound he made—half growl, half groan—echoed through the chamber as his body shuddered against yours.
The sight of Maekar's climax, the hot, slick rush that painted your walls and dripped down your thighs, sent a matching shudder through Baelor. He never took his eyes off you, watching your face the moment Maekar gave in, the moment you trembled and mewled around Baelor's cock, your lips stretched wide and your tongue pressed flat beneath his crown. The sight of his brother undone—the quicksilver loss of composure, the deep growl torn from Maekar’s throat, his jaw clenched and sweat-slicked—made Baelor’s iron self-control unravel. You felt it in the frantic pulse of his cock, in the sudden tautness of his thighs, in the way his hand knotted in your hair and forced your mouth flush to the root, squeezing just enough to let you feel the wildness in him. And in the hot, desperate gasp that rose from the prince's lips, so unlike the careful, measured commands he'd given you moments before.
But Baelor didn't finish, not yet. He dragged himself back from that edge with a trembling shudder, withdrawing from your mouth with exquisite slowness. As he pulled free, a sticky web stretched between your lips and the tip of his cock, the sight of it kindling a flicker of pride in your chest. Baelor’s expression was transformed: the cool, regal mask was gone, replaced by something raw and feral and beautiful. His pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted in shallow breaths. He gazed down at you as if you held the answer to every riddle, and for once, he looked entirely mortal—devastating, but breakable. “Now I claim you,” he whispered, the words thick with urgency.
Maekar, chest heaving, collapsed beside you for a moment, his hand cupping your thigh, his fingers stroking little patterns into your skin as if to remind himself you were real, that he could touch you. There was a peculiar gentleness in his touch, a softness that belied his rough—almost brutal—release only seconds before. His other hand brushed sweat-matted strands from your forehead and tucked them delicately behind your ear, his thumb tracing the bruised curve of your jaw. He watched Baelor with hooded eyes as the elder brother stood, his cock dripping and glistening, then moved to the edge of the mattress with the purpose of a man intent on making good on a vow.
Baelor’s hands were gentle as they found your waist, lifting and turning you as though you weighed nothing, arranging you precisely as he wanted: on your knees, bent forward, elbows to the sheets, your ass held high and open, the fresh ache of Maekar’s climax still painting the insides of your thighs. Baelor spread your knees wider with his own, and for a moment he simply knelt behind you, his hands resting on your hips, his presence looming over your body like the shadow of a mountain. He drew his fingers up your sides, pausing to press into the softness just above your hipbones, then down again, leisurely, as if mapping you for the first time.
His fingertips grazed the backs of your knees, the flesh of your inner thighs, the curve of your buttocks, never lingering anywhere long enough to satisfy. Every caress sent a new tremor through you. Your cunt still clenched around emptiness, twitching with the last echoes of Maekar’s orgasm, but Baelor would not be rushed. He traced the puckered ridges left by Maekar’s hands, then dragged his thumbs apart to spread you further, making an appreciative noise as your slickness—Maekar’s and yours, mingled—glistened in the candlelight. He leaned forward, his breath feathering across your lower back, and pressed a slow, savoring kiss to your tailbone.
There was a reverence in Baelor’s every movement, as if he were performing a sacred rite rather than an act of conquest. His lips trailed up your spine, planting a slow series of kisses up each vertebra, pausing at the nape of your neck to inhale the scent of your hair. His hands never stopped moving, thumbs stroking circles into your hips, fingers splaying out like he might anchor you in place forever. Each touch was a promise: I see you, I want you, I will take my time learning every inch of you.
You tried to brace yourself for the first thrust, already trembling with anticipation, but Baelor only pressed the blunt head of his cock between your folds, letting it slip and slide through the mess Maekar had left behind. He rocked his hips, notching the tip at your entrance, but didn’t push forward. Instead, he uttered a command, soft but absolute: “Look at me.”
You craned your neck around, peering back over your shoulder. The sight of him behind you—hair loose, lips parted, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm—sent another pulse of heat through your core. His eyes locked on yours, dark and all-consuming, and for a moment the world contracted to the space between the two of you. He reached forward, caressing your cheek with one hand, then slid that palm up and over your scalp, the pads of his fingers massaging your scalp in lazy circles. It was grounding, almost hypnotic, the way he kept you anchored in his gaze even as the rest of your body hovered on the precipice of sensation.
With your gaze pinned, Baelor finally pressed forward, entering you with slow, inexorable force. Inch by inch, he filled you, the stretch made all the more exquisite by the lingering soreness from Maekar. You moaned—long, low, and involuntary—as Baelor bottomed out, his pelvis flush against your buttocks. He held himself there, unmoving for a beat, letting you feel the totality of him inside you, the thick pressure of his cock and the possessive weight of his hands. He bent forward until his chest pressed your back, his lips at your ear.
As you exhaled, he began to move, drawing out with the same agonizing patience before sinking back in, every stroke measured and perfect. There was nothing frantic about Baelor’s rhythm; he fucked you with the same discipline he brought to swordplay, each movement precise, each withdrawal a calculated loss, each return a reclamation of territory. The friction set your nerves alight. The flare of pleasure was different from Maekar’s—less desperate, more inexorable, like a tide that would eventually sweep you under. Baelor’s hand on your neck, his cock inside you, his body pressed to your back: he surrounded you, boxed you in with pleasure and will.
Every time you squeezed around him, Baelor shuddered, his control straining at the edges, but he never broke pace. Instead, he brought his lips to your ear again, his voice a low growl: “Is this what you wanted? To be filled by me, even after Maekar?” You managed a breathless nod, which he answered with a cruel, sweet chuckle. “Good girl. That’s how I like you—stretched and trembling and desperate for more.”
From your new vantage, you became aware of Maekar, who had not been idle. He knelt before you on the mattress, his chest and belly streaked with sweat and the evidence of your shared pleasure. His cock, which you’d assumed spent, had already begun to harden again, the tip beading with anticipation as he watched Baelor claim you. Maekar leaned in, close enough that you could taste the salt of his skin, and pressed his lips to your temple, then to the corner of your mouth. “Open,” he said, echoing his brother’s command, and you parted your lips, your tongue darting out instinctively.
Maekar guided his cock to your lips, letting you taste the remains of his release as he slid along your tongue. The act was filthy, decadent, and you loved it. You moaned wantonly, the vibrations traveling up Maekar’s shaft as he thrust gently into your mouth. With Baelor’s rhythm measured and deep behind you, and Maekar filling your mouth with slow, deliberate strokes, you found yourself suspended in a kind of sensory stasis—every hole filled, every inch of your body belonging to them, the two brothers taking you in a rhythm as natural as breathing.
Baelor’s hand fisted in your hair, holding your head steady for Maekar, while his other hand gripped your hip, angling you to take him deeper. Maekar’s hand rested lightly on your crown, thumb stroking your cheek as he watched you service him. He didn’t push or force, just let you set the pace, the tip of his cock bumping the back of your throat in a steady, teasing rhythm.
The two brothers fell into a kind of unspoken accord: when Baelor thrust forward, Maekar withdrew; when Maekar pressed in, Baelor pulled back. It was as if they’d rehearsed this choreography a hundred times, the way they moved in perfect counterpoint, never crowding your boundaries but always keeping you full, always keeping you hungry. The alternating pressure in your ass, your cunt, your mouth became a wave of sensation, building and breaking, building and breaking, each cycle bringing you closer to a kind of pleasure that eclipsed language.
Sandwiched between them, you lost all sense of where your body ended and theirs began. Every inch of you belonged to them in this moment—claimed, worshipped, used in perfect harmony. The pressure built inside you, coiling tighter with each synchronized movement. Baelor's steady thrusts from behind sent shockwaves through your core while Maekar filled your mouth with deliberate patience, his eyes never leaving yours. The pleasure built beyond what you thought possible, caught between their bodies, suspended in their shared rhythm. Maekar's taste filled your mouth as Baelor's hips snapped forward with increasing urgency. The steady cadence they'd established began to falter as both men approached their limits.
"Look at her take us both," Maekar growled, his voice strained as his cock slid deeper between your lips. "Greedy little thing."
Baelor's grip tightened on your hips, his thrusts becoming more forceful. "She was always meant for this," he replied, puncutated by a thrust. "For us."
Their words sent another wave of heat through your core, your walls clenching around Baelor's thickness. The added pressure made him groan, his rhythm stuttering for a moment before he regained control.
"Now," Baelor commanded, his voice a harsh whisper against your ear. "Come for us now."
His permission broke the last thread of your restraint. The pleasure that had been building crashed through you in waves, your body convulsing between them as your walls clamped down around Baelor's cock. Your mouth tightened around Maekar, drawing a harsh groan from his lips as your throat worked involuntarily against him.
"That's it," Maekar growled, his hand tightening in your hair as you trembled.
Your vision blurred at the edges, pleasure overwhelming your senses as both men continued their relentless pace. Baelor's thrusts became more erratic, his legendary control finally slipping as your body milked him with each pulsing wave of your climax. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you where you belonged as he thrust deep one final time, his release hot and pulsing inside you. The sound he made—a low, broken groan—vibrated through your entire body as he filled you, his cock throbbing with each pulse.
Maekar followed moments later, his release flooding your mouth, hot and bitter-salt on your tongue. His grip in your hair tightened almost painfully as he held you still, making sure you took everything he had to give. "Swallow," he commanded roughly, watching your throat work as you obeyed.
The three of you collapsed together onto the sweat-dampened sheets, a tangle of limbs and ragged breathing. Your body ached beautifully, used and satisfied in ways you'd only imagined in your most secret dreams. Baelor's arm draped over your waist, pulling you against his chest, while Maekar settled on your other side, his hand resting possessively on your hip. You lay between them, heart still racing, body trembling with aftershocks as your breathing slowly returned to normal.
"Mine," Maekar murmured against your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin there in a gentle bite.
"Ours," Baelor corrected softly, his lips brushing your temple. His fingers traced idle patterns on your stomach, dipping occasionally to the sensitive place between your thighs where both their releases mingled and leaked slowly onto the sheets.
You shivered at his touch, oversensitive but unwilling to pull away. The weight of their bodies on either side of you felt right somehow, as if this was where you had always belonged. Between them. Claimed by both.
Summary: you tiptoe into Joel Miller’s home like a stray cat, always giving him a heart attack, always flashing those doe eyes, tear-spilled and aching, and making his heart twist. So he protects you—cares for you, cooks for you, calls you pet names. But that night feels different. Heavy. There’s an ache crawling through your body, one you don’t understand and can’t quiet. You try. You fail. And when you get caught—by the same man who just called you “kiddo”—you can’t help but ask him for help.
Warnings: 18+, smut, MDNI, age gap! (60s and 20s), pillow grinding, masturbation, really inexperienced!reader, one (1) light thigh spank, fingering, joel teaches you how to touch yourself with a mirror, soft!joel, like the sweetest Joel, he is super flustered, fluff, pet names, lot’s of praise, joel calls reader kiddo/kid, implications of abusive household, implications of abusive father, drunk father, outbreak, kind of dbf!joel but not really
A/N: if anyone can still remember this from the poll i made monthsss ago, you are a real one🤞🏻 but i loved writing this, it’s filthy but also so incredibly soft, sweet and joel is just a sweet old man :((( (he is alive and well) anyways, i hope yall enjoy this!!🫶🏻
“Jesus Christ, girl. Told ya not to scare me like this.” He huffs out, boots creaking on the old wooden floor as he turns to face you. “Sneakin’ up on me like a damn cat.”
The light outside is slowly fading, as his eyes scan you—quick, instinctive. He takes in the flushed skin, the way your dress hangs crooked on your frame, the tremble in your fingers. Then his gaze lands on your tear streaked cheeks, and something shifts.
His whole face tightens in worry.
“Did ya daddy say mean things again?” He pinches your chin in his hand, making you look up to him.
You can only nod, unable to speak—because if you did, you were sure the knot in your throat would unravel, and you’d sob, just like you did hours before coming to Joels house.
He softly coos, one arm wrapping around your body as he pulls you into his chest. “Oh, babygirl,” he whispers, resting his chin gently on top of your head. “I’m sorry.” Then he presses a kiss there, steady and long.
His words sink deep into your bones, steadying your heart—not with judgment, but with understanding and care.
“S’okey.” You mumble, burying your face into his flannel shirt further, taking in his musk.
“Hell, I probably stink, don’t I?”
Joel just came back from chopping wood. His hands were rough—calloused, streaked with dirt as usual. Sweat clung to his skin, glistening along his neck and brow, soaking into the collar of his shirt. The scent of him was musky, edged with pine and smoke, but also of course, a hint of sweat lingering behind.
You loved burying your head into his chest.
“Not really,” You mumble. “Can I stay here tonight?” You ask, pulling away from his embrace and locking eyes with him—the question making your cheeks all flushed, a hint of embarrassment behind them.
“We can’t keep doin’ this, bug.” Joel murmurs, finger twirling a strand of your hair. “You come back every single time, like a damn stray cat.”
You roll your eyes at that, but a smile tugs on your lips.
“What? it’s true. I feed her, give her some milk and she always tip toes into my house back and gives me a near damn heart attack.”
You couldn’t quite pinpoint when it all began.
Maybe it started when your dad and Joel, being neighbors, began visiting each other—trading food, clothes, medicine like good old friends. Or maybe it was when you and Joel started talking about everything and nothing, while you found yourself trusting him with things you hadn’t told anyone else. Then again, it might have been that night you tiptoed into his house without asking, desperate for a place to stay after your dad had been cruel to you again.
Even then, he never asked questions. Even then, he knew what you needed in that moment, as if he could read you.
They all say in town: Joel Miller is a rough, stern, stubborn, and gruff man. But you always saw the opposite. You saw the way his fingers shifted patterns on your skin, careful not to let his dry hands scrape you. The way he’d place a cold hand on your forehead and leave it there—steady and quiet—until your migraine melted away. You heard his voice becoming softer when he talked to you.
And then there were the quiet actions. Like replacing the kitchen clock with a quieter one, just because you once told him—without meaning to—that the ticking reminded you of the one in your father’s room: loud and fast.
Or how he never locks the door anymore. Always leaves the porch light on, so you know—you can come in, even if it’s the middle of the night.
You sometimes wished he was your father.
“I tell ya what. You help me with bringing those logs inside and then you can stay here.”
You nod, eagerly.
So, he gestures towards a pair of worn boots by the step—his, clearly too big for you, but the only option he’s got.
“Go on,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Slip into those. Ground’s cold.”
You glance down at the boots, then back up at him, one brow raised.
He sighs, already exasperated. “Why ya always gotta come barefoot anyways? Ya gonna catch a cold.”
You roll your eyes, a little smirk tugging at your lips. “I’m fine.”
And before he can argue, you step past him, bare feet brushing over the cool stone, then the grass, then the packed dirt of his garden path.
Joel watches you go, but then shakes his head, chuckling. He can’t stay mad at you. Never.
The wood’s already stacked neatly near the shed, thick logs piled in a criss-cross pattern. You bend to grab one, arms wrapping around the weight of it, and carry it back towards the house. Joel moves the same, grabbing two—instead of one—and moving them into his house.
You come back for another, but as your foot shifts on the ground, something sharp presses into your sole. You hiss, stumbling slightly, and glance back at him.
He’s already shaking his head.
“Told ya to wear the boots, honey bun.”
You stick your tongue out at him, giggling as you hobble a step, then straighten and scoop up the log anyway. Joel smirks, eyes accidentally lingering on your legs as you walk back towards the house, the hem of your dress swaying with each step.
You’re halfway through stacking the last of the wood before Joel disappears into the hallway. You don’t think much of it—just keep moving, barefoot on the cool floor, arms full of logs that leave little flecks of bark on your dress.
When you place them down, and turn around, he’s back. Holding something.
A pair of thick, worn, brown socks.
He tosses them onto the couch, then goes to close the door to his garden. He jerks his chin towards his couch. “Sit.”
You blink. “What?”
“Sit down, kiddo.” His voice is calm, but firm. “You been runnin’ around barefoot like a damn forest sprite. Floor’s cold. You’re gonna catch somethin’.”
You roll your eyes, arms crossed. “I’m fine.”
Joel gives you a look—that look—the one that says, “I could bend you over and spank you,” and you know better than to argue. With a huff, you drop onto the couch, legs swinging slightly.
He kneels in front of you, knees popping—followed by that quiet dad groan he always makes as he lowers himself. His hand comes up, wraps around your ankle real gentle but firm.
You try to pull back, but he doesn’t let you.
“Quit squirming. Let me take care of you.”
You go still, cheeks flushing.
He slips the first sock over your foot, slow and careful, as if you’re something fragile. His fingers brush your ankle, your calf. He doesn’t look up, his eyebrows are pinched, concentrated
“Can’t have you gettin’ sick. Cold floor like this’ll mess with your stomach. You’ll be cryin’ to me about cramps in a day or two.” He murmurs.
You snort. “You sound like an old man.”
He smirks, sliding the second sock on. “Yeah, well. Old man knows how to keep you warm, bug.”
When he’s done, he pats your knee, then leans in—just a little and presses a kiss to the inside of your ankle. Soft. Barely there.
Your stomach does a small flip. And your toes curl against the rug, like your body’s reacting before your mind can catch up. It’s just a kiss, soft and low on your ankle, but it sends something warm skimming up your spine.
Then he stands up slowly, “There. All better.”
You wiggle your toes in the socks, quiely recovering from the kiss. They’re too big, smell like cedar and laundry soap—just like Joel smells whenever he changes clothes. You don’t say thank you. You don’t have to.
Joel’s already watching you with that quiet, unreadable look—the one that says he’d do it all over again, every day, just to keep you safe.
Then he clears his throat, voice low and lazy.
“Whatcha want to eat, huh, hon?” You glance up. “We can make some pasta,” he adds, already turning towards the kitchen.
You hop off the couch, socks slipping slightly on the floor, and trail after him. “You always make some pasta.”
Joel shrugs, pulling open a cabinet. “It’s easy. And you love my pasta.”
You climb onto the counter, legs swinging, watching him move m—sleeves pushed up, hands steady, the taught rhythm of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. He grabs a pot, fills it with water, sets it on the stove.
“You gonna help or just sit there lookin’ all cute?” he mutters, not looking at you.
You grin. “I’m moral support.”
Joel snorts, tossing you a clove of garlic. “Then start peelin’, bug.”
So, you do. Slowly. While watching him out of the corner of your eye as he moves around the kitchen and hums under his breath. The silence between you isn’t awkward…it’s warm. Familiar.
And when he brushes past you to grab the salt, his hand grazes your knee. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t even look at you.
But you feel it. And so does he.
Slowly, the air starts to smell like olive oil and tomatoes. The kitchen, warm now, feels like home—the kind you never had, but Joel made for you.
He glances over his shoulder at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re gettin’ more garlic on the floor than in the bowl, bun.”
You shrug, grinning. “You’re the one who made me help.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he stirs the sauce.
Then—suddenly—a knock on his door.
Your heart jumps. The garlic slips from your fingers, forgotten. You freeze, eyes wide, breath caught in your throat.
Joel looks up, brows furrowing. “Relax,” he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “It’s probably just Tommy.”
But you’re already sliding off the counter, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud, knowing what it could mean if your father finds you. You duck behind the counter, heart pounding, curling in on yourself like instinct. Joel watches you for a beat, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Alright,” he mutters, more to himself now. He walks to the door, slow and steady, and opens it just a crack. And the smell hits him first—sharp, sour, unmistakable. Then the voice.
“You’ve seen my girl, Miller?”
Joel’s jaw tightens. Your father stands on the porch, swaying ever so slightly, eyes glassy, breath thick with liquor. His shirt’s half untucked, belt askew, like he got dressed in the dark.
Joel doesn’t blink. “Nah,” he says, voice flat. “I was home all the time.”
Your father squints at him, leans in too close.
“You sure?”
Joel’s eyes narrow. His voice drops, low and dangerous. “You callin’ me a liar?” And hell, he could punch the shit out of him if you weren’t behind the counter.
There’s a beat of silence. Then your father scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and stumbles back down the steps, disappearing into the dusk.
Joel watches him go, jaw clenched, hand still on the doorknob, trying to calm himself down from the anger he is feeing. Only when the sound of retreating footsteps fades does he shut the door, slow and deliberate. The lock clicks into place.
He turns around.
You’re still crouched behind the counter, peeking up with wide, sad eyes. Your hands are clenched in your lap, shoulders drawn tight.
Joel’s face softens instantly, the anger washing away as fast as it came. He crosses the room in a few strides and kneels besides you, his knees popping as he lowers himself down.
“You stayin’ here tonight,” he says gently, “Maybe even tomorrow.”
You don’t answer. You just throw your arms around his neck, burying your face into his chest. He catches you so easily, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapping around your waist.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your hair. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you here. I got you.”
You nod against him, breath shaky, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, brushing a thumb under your eye. “It’s alright now. Let’s keep cookin’, yeah? My tummy’s grumblin’”
You manage a small smile. He helps you up, steadying you with a hand on your back, and guides you gently back to the counter.
The garlic’s still there, waiting. The water’s boiling. And Joel—Joel is right beside you, like he always is, and always be.
—
The pasta’s gone cold, but neither of you seem to notice.
You’re sitting across from Joel at his little wooden table, legs tucked under you, fork still in hand.
Joel leans back in his chair, watching you with that unreadable look. You can feel it—the way his eyes linger, the way his fingers tap slow against the rim of his glass.
You set your fork down. Swallow hard.
“You know…” you start, voice soft. “I don’t really trust people. Not anymore.”
Joel’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“But I trust you.” You look up to meet his eyes. “With everything.”
He shifts in his seat, like the words hit somewhere deep. He looks away, jaw tight.
“Don’t do that,” he mutters. “Don’t go puttin’ that kind of faith in me. I ain’t no good man, baby.”
You shake your head, voice steady now.
“Well… you’re better than my father.”
That lands like a stone in the room. Joel’s eyes snap back to yours, something raw flickering behind them. He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at you, like he’s trying to figure out what to say that won’t break the moment.
Finally, he leans forward, elbows on the table, voice low. “That ain’t sayin’ much.”
You smile, sad and small. “It’s sayin’ enough.”
Joel exhales, long and slow. Then he reaches across the table, rough fingers brushing yours. He doesn’t grab your hand—just lets his rest there, close enough for you to choose.
And you do.
You slide your hand into his, and he closes his fingers around yours tightly. You expect him to let go, to change the subject.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he lifts your hand slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss to your knuckles—soft, sweet, delicate, like he’s done it a thousand times in his head but never dared to do it for real.
Your heart warms.
It started with safety. With wishing he was the kind of man who could’ve raised you. But now, when he looks at you like that, and kisses you— you know it’s something else entirely.
And then there is another thing. The one where Joel makes you feel different. Not in your heart but rather…down there. Deep in your belly, where butterflies loom whenever you look at his calloused hands, whenever he stands in front of you—broad shoulders and as a big man who could handle anything.
A giggle slips out before you can stop it.
Joel raises an eyebrow. “What’s funny?”
You shake your head, cheeks warm. “Nothin’. Just… your hands are so big.”
He laughs, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—something darker, deeper. “Yeah? That a problem?”
You shrug, trying to play it off, but your tummy does a little flip as his thumb brushes over your knuckles again, slow and absentminded.
The room is dim now, the outside fully dark. And if it weren’t for the gentle brushes of his thumb over your knuckles, it would be the silence that let’s you a yawn slip. Stretching your mouth wide before you can stifle it.
Joel catches it instantly.
“Looks like somebody’s tired already?” he says, voice low and teasing.
You blink at him, eyes heavy, lips curved in a sleepy smile. “M’not.”
He chuckles, his hands leaving yours before standing up and offering the same hand. “C’mon, honey bun. Let’s get you tucked in before you fall asleep on my damn table.”
You take his hand without hesitation, letting him guide you down the hall—his thumb beginning to brush over your knuckles again.
He stops in front of the small door and pushes it open with a quiet grunt. The hinges groan slightly, like they haven’t been used in a while. The room beyond is cozy, if a little dusty—a twin bed tucked against the wall, a faded quilt folded neatly at the foot, and a big mirror leaned against the other side of the room.
Joel steps inside first, flicking on the light. Dust motes dance in the glow.
“S’been a while since you were here,” he murmurs, running a hand along the edge of the mirror. His fingers come away gray, and he wipes them on his jeans with a quiet huff. “Should’ve cleaned up better.”
You smile, stepping in behind him. The room is small, but it’s yours. Always has been. He never says it out loud, but he keeps it ready—just in case.
Joel walks over to the bed, pulls the blanket back with a dramatic flourish, and pats the mattress. “Alright, bug. Hop in.”
You climb in, the sheets cool against your skin, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. Before you can settle, Joel grabs the edge of the blanket and throws it over you, tucking it in tight around your sides.
Then, with a grin, he starts rolling you—gently, playfully—wrapping you up like a burrito, like a cocoon. “There we go,” he mutters, half to himself. “All wrapped up. Ain’t goin’ nowhere now.”
You giggle, squirming a little under the snug weight of the blanket. “Joel!”
He chuckles, crouching beside the bed, one hand braced on the mattress, the other smoothing your hair back from your face.
“You always do this,” you murmur, eyes soft.
Joel grins. “You always giggle.”
You peek up at him, voice quieter now. “You always kiss my forehead.”
Joel’s expression shifts—something tender flickering behind his eyes. His voice drops, warm and low. “And I always will.”
He watches you for a beat longer, then leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead—slow, gentle, lingering just a second too long. A silence settles between you, thick with something unspoken. Then he clears his throat gently.
“I’ll be downstairs,” he says, softer now. “Still need to work on somethin’. If ya need anythin’, just come down, yeah?”
You nod, cheeks warm, eyes already heavy.
“Okay.”
“Night, honey bun,” he whispers.
And then he stands, walks to the door, and slips out without another word, closing it behind him with a soft click.
—
It hits you just minutes after the door clicks shut. A slow, pulsing ache deep in your belly. A thrum of want, right where your hands have never wandered before.
You shift on the bed, the sheets cool beneath your thighs, the air still holding the warmth of where he was. Your fingers twitch at your sides, unsure. You glance towards the door, half-expecting him to come back. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
The silence stretches.
You sit up, then lie back down. Pull the blanket up, then push it off again. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s holding something in. Like something wants to release, but it can’t.
Your eyes flick to the mirror across the room. You don’t recognize the girl staring back—flushed cheeks, parted lips, pupils wide like she’s seen something she wasn’t supposed to.
You think of Joel.
His voice…low, steady, rough. The kind that settles in your chest and stays there.
His hands—big, calloused, careful. The way they brushed over your hand, the way he kept you wrapped up around his chest. The way he looked at you—not like you were fragile, but like you were worth protecting.
You close your eyes and breathe him in, even though he’s gone. The scent of him still lingers—soap, cedar, something with wood.
Your hand moves without thinking. Just resting. Just curious.
You’re not sure what you’re doing. But you know what you’re feeling.
You never touched that place. But today, something in your body wants more. Something aching to be touched, something that makes your pulse go faster, your breathing deeper.
So your hand starts moving—slow strokes over your damp panties. Your cheeks burn as the first waves of pleasure stir beneath your skin, soft and startling.
It feels good.
Too good.
A spark flares, sharp and sweet, and for a moment you think—maybe this is it. This is what your body wants. But it fades too fast. Dissolves before it can crest. You’re left with a pulse that won’t settle and a need that won’t quiet.
So you try again.
Stroking up and down. Left and right. Your body responds—hips shifting, breath catching. It’s good. More than good. But it’s not enough. Like trying to drink from a glass that’s just out of reach. You taste it, but you’re still thirsty. Your breath comes out in sharp waves and your hand moves faster, chasing something that’s there something you are not quite sure how to reach.
But you fail. The burning sensation on your cheeks grow, and you’re breathless when you let your hand fall.
You shift again, restless. Your thighs press together, trying to chase that feeling. Your gaze drifts across the bed, landing on the pillow near your hip. You hesitate. Then, slowly, you pull it between your legs, the fabric cool against your skin and the now, more dampened fabric.
You close your eyes, hips rocking against that feeling.
You don’t know what you’re doing—only that it feels good. You sit up, straddling it. The pillow is soft beneath you, and your hips begin to move faster without permission. You bury your face in the sheets, breath catching, heart pounding.
And somewhere in the dark, his name flickers on your tongue.
Joel stands at the kitchen sink, cleaning the dishes from the pasta. He should’ve gone to bed by now, leave all of that and just relax. But something’s keeping him up—a restlessness in his chest he can’t shake. If it’s guilt, or love—he can’t decide.
He thinks of you. The way you looked at him tonight, the way your eyes peaked from behind the counter. The way you wrapped your arms around him like he is the only person that can save you.
He runs a hand down his face, exhales slow. “Get a grip,” he mutters to himself. “She’s just a kid.”
Still, it lingers. He folds the same dish towel twice. Stares out the window like it might give him answers.
And when he finally heads to the hallway, to wash his face, put on his something more comfortable—he hears it.
Upstairs, Joel freezes.
He’s halfway to his bedroom when he hears it—your voice, muffled but clear, calling his name in a tone that makes his stomach twist. It’s not loud, but it’s enough. Enough to make his heart lurch.
He doesn’t think. Just moves.
Two long strides and he’s at your door, pushing it open with a sharp breath.
“Baby?” he calls, voice tight with worry. “You okay—”
Then he sees you.
You’re on your knees, straddling the pillow, frozen mid-motion. Your breath catches. Your eyes go wide. Your mouth is parted, lips swollen, cheeks flushed a deep, blooming pink.
Joel stops dead in his tracks.
His heart drops straight into his boots.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. He turns his head, suddenly aware of what he’s walked into. “Sorry, I— I didn’t mean to barge in like that.”
But then you say it again.
“Joel,” you breathe, voice trembling, needy. “Please.”
He doesn’t know what you’re asking for. Doesn’t know if you know. But the sound of it—the way you say his name like it’s the only word you’ve got left—hits him like a punch to the chest.
His cheeks flush hard. His hands find his hips, like he needs something to hold onto.
“Gosh,” he says, voice rough. “The hell are ya doin’, bug?”
He doesn’t even know why he asks. He sees it. Clear as day. But his brain’s still catching up to his heart, and his heart’s caught somewhere between panic and something he doesn’t dare name.
You sink down on the pillow slowly, heart pounding, shame already rising in your throat. “I… I can’t help myself,” you whisper, voice thin and breathless. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes flick back to you, going soft. “S’alright,” he says, voice low. “I’ll just—”
“Will you help me?”
The words tumble out before you can even stop them.
Joel freezes. Really freezes. His whole body goes still, like the air’s been knocked out of him. He looks at you, disbelief written on his face, and something shifts. His mouth parts, but no sound comes out. He’s searching for words and finding none.
“I don’t know what I’m doing…” you whimper, voice cracking. “I just—I don’t know how to make it stop.”
Joel’s hands fall from his hips. He rubs his forehead, dragging his palm down his face like he’s trying to wake himself up from a dream.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “Nah. Not happening.“
“Please, Joel.”
He shakes his head, backing towards the door. “No, baby. I— I can’t. You can just… do whatever you need. I’ll leave ya alone.”
He turns, hand on the doorknob, already halfway out.
And then you say it.
“It hurts…”
Just two words. Barely a whisper. But they hit him like a bullet.
Joel stops.
His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut. He curses under his breath—not at you, god, never at you—but at himself. At the way his heart twists. At the way his body responds, his cock wakes up in his pants. At the way he wants to help you, even while he knows he shouldn’t.
So, he turns back around.
Steps into the room again, slow and quiet. He walks awkwardly and sits down besides you, careful not to touch.
His eyes land on your flushed skin, sweat on your forehead, the way your hands are gripping the pillow as if it’s going to run away from you. And then the small wet spot you left—on his pillow. His. Joel’s head turns into mush.
“W-what do ya want me to do, bug?” he asks, voice almost broken.
You should be embarrassed. You should be hiding your face, pretending it didn’t happen. You shouldn’t be asking him for help. But you don’t feel shame anymore. Because it’s Joel. And with him, you don’t feel ashamed. You feel safe.
You look at him, eyes glassy, lips parted. “Touch me.”
Joel flinches. His jaw tightens. He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “God, baby… it ain’t right to do things like that when you’re visitin’ someone.”
He rubs his face, voice cracking. “You’re young. You’re hurtin’. And I’m supposed to be takin’ care of you, not—” He stops himself, breath shaky. “Not this.”
You look at him, heart breaking a little, eyes wide and wet, voice barely a whisper. “But you said you would help me with anything.”
Joel freezes. That line hits him like a punch in the ribs. And he swallows hard, jaw clenched, eyes flicking away. “I did,” he murmurs. “I did say that.”
Why did he have to say that, for fuck sake.
He rubs his palms together, like he’s trying to scrub the guilt off of his skin. “Didn’t think it’d be this, bun. Didn’t think you’d be askin’ me for somethin’ like this.”
Silence stretches between you two. His eyes on you. On your skin. On your dress that’s hitched up. And on the small bit of your underwear that he can see. He lets out a shaky breath, seeing the way the fabric is completely soaked. He huffs, soft and low.
“Y’really are needy, aren’t you, huh?” His voice is deep, but soft.
You nod your head silently, shifting your hips to show him the mess you made. He swallows, muttering something under his breath that comes close to “christ.”
“Ain’t gonna touch you,” he says, finally. “But you can listen to my voice, yeah? Let me take care of you like that.”
You blink at him, confused. Lips parted, brows drawn.
Joel sees it immediately—sees the flicker of doubt, the question in your eyes—and his heart damn near cracks. He knows you’re just needy, just desperate to feel something. And he feels like a real bad man for denying you.
“I just…” he starts, then stops. Rubs a hand over his mouth. “I don’t wanna mess this up, bun.”
You tilt your head, still quiet. Still waiting. Like a cat.
“You’re all soft right now, all sweet. All needy.” he rambles, “and I know you trust me. I know you feel safe. And I ain’t gonna take that and twist it.”
He shifts, nervous. His hands twitch like they want to reach for you—but fhey don’t. They can’t.
“So I’m gonna talk you through it. Just my voice. You’ll still feel good. I promise. But this way… you’ll know I ain’t just takin’ advantage.”
You nod, slow, understanding what he is trying to say. You see it in his eyes, guilt written on them. You don’t want to make him feel bad. So, the tension in your shoulders eases, and you trust Joel to make the ache go away.
“Okay,” you whisper. Joel exhales, shaky and repeats: “Okay.”
“Alright then,” he murmurs. “Do what you were doing before I came into the room.”
You hesitate, eyes flicking to his. He nods, just once. “Go on. I’m right here.”
He shifts where he’s sitting, his body turning towards you. Now, his whole attention is on you.
So you move—just like before. Still unsure, still not a damn clue what you’re doing. Your hips begin to buck in that familiar rhythm, slow and searching. A soft whine slips from your lips as the now cool, damp pillow brushes against your aching heat. The sensation is new, startling, and you want to chase it.
You glance at him, eyes wide, waiting.
He sees it—the unsureness in your gaze. The need. And his voice comes low, steady, like a hand on your spine. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that. You’re doin’ good. So damn good.”
You inhale sharply. The words settle over your skin. You hadn’t expected it to feel like this—how his voice alone could make your body respond, how praise could feel like touch. You move again, tentative. His voice follows you, steadying.
“Go slow, baby. No rush. Let yourself feel it.”
Each slow grind of your hips draws a quiet squeak from the mattress, rhythmic and raw. Your breath stutters, a whine escapes your mouth.
He hears it, so his voice dips lower. “You’re so beautiful like this. So sweet. Look at you.”
And Joel feels guilt in his chest rising from the words that leave his mouth. He swallows hard, jaw clenched. His voice is steady, but his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you.
You glance at him, always. Only at him, awaiting something. Cheeks flushed, lips bitten bloody.
He gives you a nod, eyes warm but careful—not trying to let you see the guilt. “Keep goin’. I’m right here, bun.”
You move faster, shaky, needy, guided by his voice.
The tension starts to build, hips stammering in that rhythm he coaxed from you with nothing but words. You’re right there, teetering, the edge rising up to meet you—
And then it’s gone.
The pressure breaks, not into release, but into absence. A gasp tears from your throat, sharp and helpless. You freeze, blinking hard, chest heaving.
Frustration prickles at your skin.
“I—I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking. “It’s not working.”
Joel’s jaw tightens, he sees the frustration. Sees the way your hips messily buck, your chest rising up and down quickly.
“I wanted to,” you whisper. “I really tried.”
He nods, brushing a hand down his face, like he’s trying to steady himself. Then, quieter: “I know. I saw you.”
Your breath hitches, frustration bubbling up in your chest. You blink fast, trying to swallow it down, but the words slip out before you can stop them.
“I—I never did it.”
Joel stills. His brow furrows. “What?”
You look away, cheeks burning.
“Touched myself I mean,” you whisper. “I tried before, but… I don’t have any privacy in that goddamn house. Someone’s always around. I never—” You shake your head, voice cracking. “I never got there.”
Joel’s face softens. He nods, slow and quiet, like he’s piecing it all together.
“That’s why you’re so worked up, huh?”
You nod, eyes downcast, lips trembling. You feel embarrassed for making such a scene tonight—keeping him up, begging him to touch you. But you don’t know any better. You don’t have anyone else.
He hesitates, then shifts closer, voice low and careful. “Can I… can I try somethin’ else?”
You look up, confused. He swallows hard.
“Still not gonna—” He stops, starts again. “Still not gonna take more than you give me. But maybe if I just…”
He lifts his hands, palms open, hovering over your hips.
“Just here,” he says. “My hands. That’s all. I’ll guide you. Help you move. Nothin’ more.”
You whisper, “please,” and reach for him without hesitation, your fingers curling around his hands like you need him to stay grounded. Joel exhales hard by your reaction, as if the wind’s been knocked out of him. His hands settle on your hips, warm and trembling.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re going to fuckin’ ruin me, bug.”
You blink up at him, breath catching, feeling the throbbing get worse now that his hands are on you.
He shakes his head, eyes locked on yours. “Always fuckin’ using those eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Always knowin’ you get what you ask for, don’t you?”
You blink up at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you squeeze his hands.
“I just look at you.”
Joel huffs a breath, something like a laugh but heavier. “’Course you do, baby.”
His gaze drops, catches on the slow, unconscious roll of your hips on the pillow—like your body’s still chasing the rhythm, even if your mind hasn’t caught up.
He swears under his breath, voice thick.
“C’mon then,” he says, shifting closer, hands squeezing gently on your hips. “Let’s get you there.”
You start moving your hips again, while Joel’s hands guide you, slow and sure now, his voice a low hum in your ear. And every time you falter, his grip reminds you: he’s here. He’s watching. He wants this for you.
And somehow, that makes it easier. Makes it deeper.
The friction is good, but it’s his hands that make you tremble. His hands that coax the heat higher. His hands that tell you it’s safe to fall apart.
“There we go,” he murmurs. “Movin’ so good for me.”
You whimper, chasing that edge again, feeling it coming closer and closer. He leans in, lips brushing over your cheek.
“Sweet little thing,” he breathes, “So fuckin’ good for me.”
Something in you breaks open at that—soft and aching. You can’t help it. You lean forward, forehead pressing to his shoulder, breath hot against his neck.
Joel stills, just for a second. Then his hands tighten firmer on your hips.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “You rest right there, baby. I got you.”
You nod against him, breath trembling. He keeps talking, voice low and steady, every word a touch. You feel more wetness soaking the pillow, more mess forming between your legs. And he notices it.
“Didn’t know you had all that in you, honey bun.”
You bury your face further into his neck, heat rushing to your cheeks. You don’t say anything—can’t. Your body’s trembling, and his words only make it worse. Or better. You’re not sure anymore.
And he also notices the way your hips go faster, the way your thighs clench, the way your breath hitches.
“You’re shaking, baby. You gonna make another mess for me?”
And it hits you right in the chest. You whimper, barely, and lift your head. Your eyes meet his—wide, glassy, desperate. You nod. Just once. Small. Needy. Like you’re asking permission and giving it all at once.
Joel groans, his hands tightening on your hips.
“You’re doin’ so good. So proud of you. Let it come, bun. Let it take you.”
“J-joel.” You whimper out.
“M’right here. M’right here, baby.” He whispers, gently squeezing your hips and moving you against the pillow faster.
“I think—it’s coming, Joel.” You whimper, breathless.
Joel nods, his hands guide you on the pillow with a steady, fast rhythm, with the right amount of pleasure. You fall back to his neck, releasing a hiccup, hands holding down on the sheets, feeling that coil in your tummy finally about to snap and then—
…It’s gone again.
You freeze, breath caught in your throat, eyes wide with disbelief. Your face stays buried in his neck, hot with frustration, your breath hitching in little gasps.
“It’s gone.” you whisper, voice cracking.
Joel holds you tighter, one hand smoothing slow circles down your back. He doesn’t say anything at first—just breathes with you, steady and warm.
“What am I gonna do with you, bug, huh?” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
You lift your head, eyes glassy, almost crying lips parted.
“Please,” you whisper. “Do something. I don’t care what. Just… please.”
Joel’s jaw flexes. He looks at you, then away, scanning the room like he’s searching for an answer. That’s when his eyes land on the mirror. On the long, full-lengthed one, leaning against the wall. He stares at it for a beat, then huffs a breath.
“Your father’s gonna kill me,” he mutters.
You blink, trying to figure out what he is thinking. “No,” you say, voice trembling but sure. “You’re stronger than him.”
Joel lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “You got no idea what you’re sayin’, baby.”
Then, you put your hand on top of his again, squeezing gently. “I do. I trust you.”
Joel’s mind spins with possibilities—how this idea could play out, how it might shift the shape of your relationship, how it could make him look like something he’s not. Like he’s crossing a line. Like he might ruin you. He looks at you for a long moment, searching. Then he nods. Slow. Decisive.
“Alright,” he says, voice almost broken. “Let’s try somethin’ different.”
He stands up, the bed dipping as he rises. Then he turns, reaches a hand out to you.
“Let me show you somethin’.”
You blink up at him, confused, but you take his hand. He pulls you up slowly, the pillow that just sat between your legs, now completely wet and ruined laying there in the corner. He steadies you when your knees wobble, and pulls down your dress again.
Together, you walk across the room, his hand warm around yours. The mirror looms ahead—tall, full-length, catching your reflection in the dim light.
He steps behind you, his hands resting on your hips. You meet his eyes in the mirror.
“You trust me?” he asks.
You nod, almost too quickly. Because you do. You trust him with everything you have.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear.
“Then let me see you, baby.” A shiver runs down your spine. “Can I take your panties off?”
Your breath catches. No one’s ever asked you that before. No one’s ever seen what lies behind the fabric.
And for a second, you freeze. Not because you don’t want it—but because it’s him. Because it’s real. Because this isn’t about being used. It’s about being seen. Because you trust him.
You nod. Slow. Careful. Then whisper, “Okay.”
Joel nods, pushing your dress up and hooking into the waistband of your panties, slow and deliberate. He kneels as he draws them down your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours in the glass.
His eyes land on your pussy, and he licks his lips without even noticing.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “So god damn pretty.”
You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face in your hands. “Joel…”
“What?” he says, looking up and grinning. “I’m just tellin’ the truth.”
You peek down at him through your fingers, cheeks burning, but your cunt still pulses. Still asking. Still open for him.
“Sit,” he says softly, guiding you down.
You lower yourself onto the floor, the plush rug cool against your thighs. Joel kneels behind you, his presence a wall of heat at your back. Then he shifts, legs sliding out on either side of yours, bracketing you in.
You’re nestled between his thighs now, your back against his chest, his arms resting loosely around your waist.
He leans in, his voice a low murmur against your ear.
“There we go. You okay?”
You nod, breath catching, looking at yourself in the mirror.
Then, with slow hands, he reaches down, his palms gliding over your thighs. He nudges your knees apart, spreading you gently until your legs rest over his.
“Just like that,” he says. “Let me hold you open.”
You glance at the mirror, at your swollen pussy, then to Joel. Your cheeks flush, but you don’t look away. Not this time.
“I don’t want you to just feel it. I want you to watch how your body moves. Watch how it wants this. You ain’t broken, bug. You’re just learnin’.”
You nod, but your voice is small. “I don’t even know where to touch.”
Joel’s hands settle on your thighs, grounding you. He leans in, his voice a low hum in your ear. “Then I’ll show you, baby. Just once. So you know where to start.”
Joel’s hand hovers just above your center, not touching yet.
“Before we get there,” he murmurs, “you gotta learn how to tease yourself. Build it up slow. That’s how you make it last.”
“I know you’re already worked up with two ruined orgasms…” his eyes softly find yours in the mirror. “But I want you to also learn it for other times, yea?”
You nod before you even realize it, breath catching in your throat. You don’t fully understand what he means—not quite yet—but you trust him. You trust that whatever he’s teaching you, it’s not just about your body. It’s about you.
“Okay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I’ll try.”
He smiles, just a little. “That’s my bun.”
And when his hands return to your hips, guiding you again, you let go of the fear. You let him lead. You let yourself feel. He brushes his fingers along the inside of your thigh, featherlight. You shiver.
“Start here,” he says. “Skin’s soft. Sensitive. You touch yourself here, you’re tellin’ your body what’s comin’.”
He drags his fingertips up, tracing the curve of your thigh, then across your hip, your lower belly.
“Then here,” he whispers. “Your mound. Just a little pressure. Not too much. You’re not tryin’ to rush it—you’re sayin hello.”
You watch in the mirror, mesmerized by the way his hands move, by the way your body responds.
“You feel that?” he asks, his palm resting just above your center. “That heat?”
You nod, lips parted.
“Good,” he says. “Now we go lower.”
His fingers dip between your folds, still avoiding your clit, just gliding through the slickness there.
Joel’s fingers glide through your slick, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t rush—just lets himself feel you, lets you feel it.
He groans, low and wrecked.
“Goddamn, baby…” he murmurs. “You’re soaked.”
You squirm, cheeks burning, but you don’t look away. Not this time. You watch how his big fingers explore your cunt, how the pleasure feels tingly.
He pulls his fingers back, glistening with your arousal. Then, without a word, he brings them to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, voice rough.
You do. Lips parting, breath trembling. He slides his fingers past them, slow, letting you taste yourself.
His eyes stay locked on yours in the mirror.
“Tastes sweet?” he asks, voice low and wrecked.
You nod, your heart beating faster, your tongue curling around his fingers. His fingers are big, and you need quite a while until you suck your arousal off.
He groans, deep in his chest. “Good.”
Joel watches you suck his fingers, slow and shy, your tongue curling around the taste of yourself. His breath is ragged behind you, chest rising and falling against your back.
Then, he pulls his fingers free again, slick and warm, and you gasp like you’ve lost something.
Suddenly, he pulls away from you and mutters, almost to himself: “Hang on.”
He reaches for his glasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. Slips them on with one hand, slow and deliberate. You catch his reflection in the mirror—the way his eyes narrow behind the lenses, the way his jaw tightens.
“There,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “Now I can see exactly where she is.”
His hand slides down, slow and deliberate, until his fingers hover just above where you ache. Then, just when you least expect it; his fingers part you gently. The cold air meeting your slick coated cunt.
You shift in front of the mirror, thighs trembling, eyes flicking up to meet his in the glass.
“See this right here?” He taps on the little nub once, featherlight. You jolt. “That’s your clit, baby. That’s where all that ache’s comin’ from.”
“This little thing’s what makes you fall apart. You ever touched it like this before?” he asks.
You shake your head, quietly, your cheeks flushed.
“That’s alright,” he taps on your little clit again. “You feel that? That little twitch? That’s your body beggin’ for more.”
A gasp leaves your mouth when he gives you one rub. You squeeze your eyes shut, your head falling back against his chest. And suddenly, Joel lands a spank on your thigh making you jolt against him and open your eyes wide. “Keep your eyes on the mirror. I want you to see what I see.”
His hand smoothes over the spot. “Easy bug,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to scare ya. Just want you here with me.”
His hand stays steady between your thighs, fingers gliding through your slick, slow and reverent. You’re trembling, breath shallow, eyes locked on the mirror like he told you.
Joel’s voice is low, almost hypnotic.
“Slow circles,” he murmurs, brushing over your clit with the lightest touch. “Not too fast. Not too hard.”
You twitch, hips jerking, but he holds you still.
“Just like this,” he says again, rubbing in a lazy rhythm. “Slow circles. That’s how she likes it.”
You whimper, your head falling back again on his shoulder. You feel the pleasure in your tummy slowly building—just from feeling his middle finger on top of your clit. And he doesn’t stop.
“There she is” he whispers. “All swollen and pulsing.”
He keeps rubbing, patient and precise, and your body starts to melt into his.
“She’s real sensitive,” he says. “You rush her, she’ll shut down. But you take your time…”
He presses just a little firmer, and you gasp.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s the spot. You keep her there, she’ll take you all the way.”
His fingers never stop moving, and his voice keeps repeating, grounding you in the rhythm.
“Slow circles. Soft pressure. Let her talk to you.”
Joel’s fingers keep working you in slow, deliberate circles, never rushing, never faltering. The pleasure builds like a storm, tight and trembling in your belly. Your thighs are shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
You can’t hold it in anymore.
“Joel,” you whine, the sound broken, desperate. “I—please—”
He stills. Just like that.
You cry out, hips jerking, chasing the friction he’s stolen. But his hand stays still, warm and maddening between your legs.
He leans in, “Now you continue,” he says. “Let me see if you listened.”
You blink, dazed, your whole body buzzing.
“Wha—?”
He guides your hand down, curling your fingers over your clit, still slick from his touch.
“You’re so close, baby,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop now. Show me you remember.”
Your hand trembles, but you start to move, mimicking the slow circles he taught you. Your breath catches. It’s not the same as his touch—but it’s yours. And it’s working.
Joel watches you in the mirror, his hands resting on your thighs, grounding you.
“That’s it,” he says, voice thick. “Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty like this. Wrecked and tryin’ so hard.”
You whimper again, your body arching, chasing the edge he left you on.
“Keep goin’,” he whispers. “You’re almost there.”
Joels hand circle your thigh and before you even notice it, his other hand is gently rubbing on your nipple over the fabric. You gasp, trying to keep the rhythm of the circles on your clit, but it’s hard to do when you feel his hands and his gaze watching you.
Your breath stutters. Your legs shake. Your vision blurs.
“Joel,” you gasp, voice breaking. “I—I think—”
And then it hits.
Your body arches, a cry tearing from your throat as the orgasm crashes over you—sharp and deep and endless. You collapse back against him, your whole body trembling, your hand falling away from your center.
Joel catches you, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. A hand sneaks down to cup your cunt, pressing his palm on your clit to make you ride out your orgasm. You bury your face in his shoulder, breath ragged, heart pounding.
“There you go,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “That’s it, baby. You did so good.”
You whimper, still shaking, overwhelmed. Your first orgasm.
“Shh,” he soothes, rocking you gently. “I got you. I got you.”
He presses a kiss to your hair, his voice warm. He slowly removes his hand, making sure that the throbbing slowly fades away.
“First one always hits hard,” he says. “You held on so long. Now you let it out, bun. You earned that.”
You’re still trembling, your body boneless and warm, your breath slowing in Joel’s arms. He doesn’t rush you. Just holds you there, your back pressed to his chest, his hands gentle on your thighs.
One of them drifts up to your waist, rubbing slow, soothing circles into your skin. The other stays low, massaging the sore muscles of your inner thigh, where you’d tensed so hard.
You melt into him, your head resting on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.
“Did so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “So proud of you, bug.”
You hum, barely awake, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Thank you.”
Joel smiles, soft and warm.
“’Course, baby,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Ain’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you.”
You sigh, content, your fingers curling around his wrist where it rests on your belly.
For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the weight of his arms, and the quiet hum of something new blooming between you.
And then your voice comes out, soft and sweet, but bold.
“Now I want one from you.”
He stills, breath catching. Joel looks at you in the mirror, searching for your eyes. Then a low chuckle rumbles in his chest.
“That so?” he says, voice rough with restraint. “You really bringin’ me to my limits today, aren’t you, bug?”
You smile into the mirror, still dazed, still glowing. Joel’s always been careful. Too careful. He’s guided you, watched you, whispered praise—but never let himself touch you the way you crave. And you understands why. You know he’s afraid of taking too much, of being too much.
“You said you’d do anything for me,” you whisper, the words soft but sure.
Joel groans, tipping his head back with a quiet curse.
“Y’gonna always play that card now?” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just awe. Just surrender. So, this time—Joel does not argue, he doesn’t let guilt take over him. His fingers find their way down, on your clit and resume their slow, sweet rhythm, just like before. You twitch beneath his touch, still sensitive, still trembling.
“You still sensitive, hm?” he murmurs, watching your body react, watching your eyes flutter in the mirror.
He spreads your pussy lips, creating a v-shape with his fingers. Your cheeks flush again, looking at your aching cunt—your hole clenching.
“So fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs, then goes back to rubbing your clit.
But you wonder. What does it feel like? When something is inside, when the pleasure comes from there instead of your clit. And then you wonder: how would his big fingers feel in you, and you can’t help but arch your back, a whine escaping from your throat.
“Inside.” You mumble out before you can stop yourself.
Joel stills, his breath catching. His eyes flick to yours in the mirror, dark and steady.
“You want it inside?” he asks, voice low, reverent.
You nod again, cheeks flushed, body aching.
Joel leans in, lips brushing your ear.
“You sure, baby?” he asks, “It might hurt a little. First time always does.”
Your breath stutters. You hadn’t thought about that. Not really. But you nod anyway. Because it’s him. Because you want to learn. Because you want it to be him who teaches you.
Joel leans in, lips brushing your shoulder.
“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs. “Real slow. You tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”
You nod again, more certain this time. Your body aches, but your heart is louder—beating with trust, with want, with the quiet hope that this will be different. That he will be different.
He nudges his middle finger against your opening, and your breath hitches.
“Relax for me, bun.” He gently coaxes. “I wanna feel you take me in soft.”
You try to breathe, slow and deep, but your body’s tight—nerves coiled, thighs trembling. You’ve never done this before. Never let anyone in.
But Joel’s voice is there, smooth, wrapping around you like a blanket. “That’s it, baby. Just breathe. You’re doin’ so good.”
His finger presses again, gentle but sure, and this time your body yields—just a little. Just enough.
It’s strange at first. Not painful, not really. Just… full. New.
You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, but Joel’s hand is on your hip, grounding you.
“You okay?” he murmurs, still. Waiting.
You nod, breath shaky. “Yeah. Just… it feels weird.”
“First time always does,” he says, voice warm. “But you’re takin’ me so well, bun. So fuckin’ sweet for me.”
And with that, he eases in a little more, slow and careful, watching your face in the mirror the whole time. When his whole finger is in, he hums.
“Tight little thing, aren’t you?” Kissing your temple, he presses in just a little deeper, slow and careful. “You’re makin’ it real hard not to lose my mind here, bun. You feel what you’re doin’ to me?”
Your body jolts when he curls his finger just right, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat before you can stop it. Your thighs twitch, your breath stutters, and your eyes fly open—wide, startled, overwhelmed.
Joel’s watching you in the mirror, gaze dark and steady, lips parted like he felt it too.
“There,” he murmurs, voice thick. “That little spot right there?”
He presses again, slow, and your hips buck before you can stop them.
“That’s your G-spot, bun.” He kisses your temple again, his free hand stroking your side. “Feels good, don’t it?”
You nod, breathless.
Joel’s fingers start working you slow and sweet, in and out while rubbing your clit with his thumb. Your body trembles, your breath catching with every stroke. You’re close again, the pleasure building fast, and you can’t hold it in.
Your body arches into him, still trembling, still so sensitive. The second wave is building fast—hotter, sharper, like your body’s been waiting for this all along.
His voice right at your ear. “That’s it, baby. Let me take care of you.”
You whimper, your hips rolling into his hand, chasing every stroke.
“You’re gonna soak my hand, aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over me.”
You nod, breathless, your fingers digging into his thigh. You can’t even process all the dirty things he is saying into your ear. It feels like you’re floating.
“Please,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”
His breath catches, and his hand stills for just a second—just long enough to feel the way you clench around him, desperate and trembling.
He murmurs, voice thick. “You beg so fuckin’ sweet.”
He curls his finger again, slow and deep, dragging it right over that spot that makes your thighs shake.
“Oh, bun… you’re right there, huh?” He asks, “So close I can feel it. You’re flutterin’ around me, squeezing me so tight. Cunt’s begging to come.”
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t rush. Just keeps that steady rhythm, dragging his finger over that spot again and again.
“Come on, baby. Let go for me. Wanna feel you make a mess on my hand.”
Your breath catches—then breaks. The pressure snaps, and you fall.
Your whole body seizes, thighs clamping around his wrist, a cry ripping from your throat as your orgasm crashes through you—hot, blinding, endless. Your cunt pulses against his finger, and wetness gushes out of you.
Joel holds you through it, one hand on your belly, the other still deep inside you, grounding you as you ride it out.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “So good. So fuckin’ good. You’re perfect. You hear me?”
You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks, your body limp and warm. He kisses your temple, his voice soft now, reverent.
“You did so good for me. My sweet girl.”
Slowly, carefully, he begins to ease his finger out. You whimper at the drag, the sudden emptiness making your body clench around nothing.
“Shh, I know,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re so so good.”
Joel wipes his finger on his jeans as you sag against him, your legs barely holding you up. He catches you without a word, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you back into his chest.
Your heart’s still racing, but his hands are warm, his voice soft, and you feel yourself start to come back—slowly, gently, safely.
You’ve never felt this way before. Not just the pleasure, but the after. The way he holds you like you’re something fragile and precious. Like he’s proud of you. Like he’s not going anywhere.
The room slowly begins to fill with silence, the kind that hums with everything unspoken.
And then you shift, just slightly, and feel it—wetness, warm and unexpected, seeping through the fabric of his jeans where you’re sitting in his lap.
You blink, dazed, and glance down. Then up. You turn around.
Joel’s face is flushed, his jaw tight, eyes flicking away like he’s been caught.
You tilt your head, lips parting. “Joel…?”
He exhales, low and rough, then meets your gaze.
“Couldn’t help myself, bun,” he murmurs, voice thick with something between awe and apology. “You—watchin’ you like that… callin’ out for me… I just—”
He shakes his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
“You undid me.”
You blink, lips parting, and then something soft blooms in your chest. You reach up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the stubble there.
“You came… just from me?” you whisper, wonder in your voice.
He nods, eyes searching yours.
“Yeah. Just from you.”
You smile, slow and sweet, your heart fluttering. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you whisper, and it’s not a joke—it’s the truth.
Joel lets out a shaky breath, his arms tightening around you.
“You’re somethin’ else, baby,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You nuzzle into his neck, your voice barely a breath.
“I like that I can make you feel good too.”
He kisses your temple, ”You do. More than you know.”
Then he murmurs, voice low and a little rough: “C’mon, let’s get us both cleaned up.”
You nod, barely awake, but you don’t move. You just hum and nuzzle into his chest. Joel chuckles softly, his hand smoothing over your waist. Then, after a beat, he adds—almost shyly:
“And then… maybe you’d like to sleep in my bed tonight?”
You blink up at him, eyes soft, lips parting.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”
Joel exhales, something easing in his chest. He presses a kiss to your temple, his voice low and steady.
“Good,” he murmurs. “’Cause I ain’t gonna let you go back to your father anyways.”
You look up at him, and he’s already watching you, jaw tight, eyes soft.
“You’re safe here,” he says. “With me. Always.”
okey so this is HALF proofread…if you find mistakes or something doesn’t make sense, just ignore or let me know🥹 I feel like i’m using the word “like” too much…
Well anyways, i know this took a hot minute…i’ve been sick. forgive me pookies 😩 If you liked this, i’d love to hear your thoughts! Comments, messages, little keysmashes…i cherish all of it. you make it worth it 🫶🏻
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ House of the Dragon/Fire & Blood (Dance Era) *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
smut = ❤️🔥 (please note I may forget to add the heart, so read the tags yourself)
This masterlist is mostly for my own use, but also serves as a recommendation to anyone who stumbles upon this blog, and an archive in case any fics are deleted or blogs go inactive. If you would like your fic removed please message me.
Aegon II Targaryen
tag: #aegoniitargaryen
A Cruel Fate - @spider-stark
The Summer Islands - @fairysluna
He Needs Me ❤️🔥 - @teethingbeetle
Aegon Targaryen x wife!Reader - @gtgbabie0
Did Some Force Take You Because I Didn’t Pray? - @m4tthewmurd0ck
Aeron Bracken
tag: #aeronbracken
Jump Then Fall | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 - @thebenjiblackwoodexpress
tag: #benjicotblackwood
The Bridge - @spider-stark
Lady Strong - @spider-stark
I Love You, It's Ruining My Life | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 - @yikes-aemond (❤️🔥 throughout)
You Can Hear It In the Silence - @yikes-aemond
The Mermaid of Tully - @drmaddict
Drabble - @benijbol
Dramatic - @cherryheairt
Cregan Stark
tag: #creganstark
Sons & Daughters - @annwrites (note to self - read the rest of this & reblog)
Art of Braiding - @seafarersdream
Criston Cole
tag: #cristoncole
A Loyal Dog's Reward ❤️🔥 | Part 2 ❤️🔥 - @venus-maneater
Daemon Targaryen
tag: #daemontargaryen
Coming soon...
Davos Blackwood
tag: #davosblackwood
Weak Point - @dani-says-stuff
Gwayne Hightower
tag: #gwaynehightower
Bedroom Hymns (feat. Alicent) - @sansaorgana
Come Back to Me - @raven-dor
Delicate | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 - @thebenjiblackwoodexpress
Birds of a Feather - @raven-dor
A Conversation Between Old Friends - @spider-stark
I Wanna Be Yours - @raven-dor
Helaena Targaryen
tag: #helaenatargaryen
Beneath the Cherry Tree ❤️🔥 - @sapphire-writes
Jacaerys Velaryon
tag: #jacaerysvelaryon
Should've Been Me - @teethingbeetle
Snow White and the Seven Bandits - @painted-flag
Distain - @jacaerysgf
The Wrong Way (modern au) - @benjinotes
Rotten Soil, Rotten Fruit (feat. Alicent) - @princessbellecerise
"Gold Rush" - @sourcherryandsprinkles
Otto Hightower
tag: #ottohightower
One And The Same | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 - @annwrites (Please note the "dead dove" tag. This sometimes reads like borderline psychological horror (in kind of a hot way), and I confess I haven't finished it so I don't know how intense it gets)
Content/Warnings: oral sex (bj), reference to arranged marriage, reference to prostitution
GIF creds to owner
“How does one stop their husband from straying into the bed of another?”
The handmaid brushing out YN’s hair faltered for a moment, before resuming the rhythmic action. YN looked expectantly at her through the looking glass; Jeyne had been loyal to her since she first flowered, and had been a confidant during the early months of her marriage to the lion of Casterly Rock.
“Has the man already strayed, milady?” She asked thoughtfully, using her fingers to untangle a knot. She daren’t name Lord Lannister herself.
“No,” YN admitted, “but I fear… his lordship visits the capital often… and is away for a month or so each time…” she looked down to her lap, fiddling with the hem of her nightgown. “The women there…”
“The whores, you mean?” Jeyne prompted, setting down the hairbrush.
YN nodded. “I overheard some of the guards boasting of their… conquests. With the courtesans,” she said, her face heating.
Jeyne gave a laugh. “Courtesans or whores, they spread their legs for coin all the same my lady. And forgive me for my callousness, but his lordship has a lot of coin,”
YN sighed, dabbing her wrists and chest with rosewater. “I know,” she murmured. “It’s just… his lordship only calls on me once or twice a month, and yet seems disappointed every time my moonblood comes,”
Jeyne tutted, beginning to plait her mistress’s hair. “That’s all high lords care for, my lady,” she said. “Putting a babe in their wife’s belly. There would be far less fretting about heirs and spares if those husbands pulled their weight while making those heirs,” she tied up the end of the braid. “May I speak frankly, my lady?” She asked.
“Oh, please,” YN said, turning to face her maid.
“Well,” said Jeyne, her lips twitching into a wicked grin. “If you want to stop his lordship from falling into a whore’s bed, you must keep him in your bed with whore’s tricks…”
*
When Tywin Lannister next returned from the capital, he had not expected his wife to be waiting in his solar. The last time he had returned from travel, she had greeted him in the entrance hall, bobbed into an obedient curtsey, and scurried off to the sept or the library or wherever it was she entertained herself during the day.
“My lady,” he said, his eyebrows raised minutely. “I did not expect to see you here,”
“I was delivering a report from the granaries, my lord. I copied them out in my own hand- I found the original hand to be rather cramped,” she said, placing her hand gently on the document. “I also brought up wine and mutton; the hour is late, but I had them set some supper aside for you. The evenings grow cold,”
Tywin fixed her with an unreadable gaze, and he found himself to be pleased that she did not avert her eyes. When he first took her to bride, she hardly ever met his eyes. “That was… thoughtful of you. Take supper into my bedchamber, and pour a cup of wine for yourself,”
She nodded, her lips quirking into a smile as she did as he bade. He watched after her curiously for a moment, glancing briefly at the document on his desk. She was right; her hand was far clearer than the steward’s.
When supper was cleared away and YN had run over the things he had missed while away, he set his wine cup down, and gazed once more at her. “Are you well, wife?” He asked.
YN nodded. “I am quite well, my lord,” she said. “I am pleased you have returned. I grew lonely in your absence,”
Tywin smirked slightly. “You grew lonely? You are hardly ever without your companions,” he said.
YN looked down demurely. “My companions are not my husband,” she murmured, looking at her lap. “It was a certain sort of loneliness I felt,”
Tywin felt his blood run hot. There was his wife admitting that she missed him carnally, all while looking down as though she were praying in the sept. It was out of the ordinary for YN… yet he felt a rush of exhilaration. While he strongly desired an heir, he could not deny the base needs he felt, especially after a month of travel, and her practically offering herself up to him certainly piqued his interest.
“Come here, my lady,” he said, beckoning her over to him. She stood before him, and he fingered the edge of her bodice thoughtfully. “I will alleviate that loneliness for you, wife,” he said lowly.
She felt his hands trailing towards the ties of her gown, loosening the garment. As it fell to the ground, he made to lift her shift over her head before she grasped his wrist. “Wait,” she said breathlessly, almost dizzy with excitement. Under his curious gaze she sunk to her knees.
For a moment he thought she was curtseying to him, and was about to question her, before she looked up at him through her lashes, her hands folded in her lap. “What are you doing?” He asked, and his voice was a little hoarse.
“Pleasuring you, my lord,” she said softly, her eyes slightly wide. “At least, I hope to,”
Tywin’s nostrils flared, his jaw twitching before he gave her questioning gaze a nod. This was certainly out of the ordinary. Slowly, her touch featherlight, she unlaced his trousers, while he shrugged off his doublet. She hummed softly when she found him half-hard, pleased she had stirred some interest in his loins.
He watched with fire in his eyes as she felt the weight of his cock in her hand, and he did not miss the slight flutter of her eyelashes as she inhaled the scent of him. Tentatively, she began to stroke him to full hardness, her hands gentle against the velvety flesh. He hissed when her thumb brushed over the tip, smearing the droplet of liquid over him.
When he was fully erect, she sat back on her heels, gazing at his cock. She knew his size well; though his nighttime visits were infrequent, the way he filled her made her breathless each time, and left a tender, pleasurable ache in her the following day. But that was her cunt, and this was her mouth, and for a moment she thought Jeyne must have been jesting when she told her of this particular ‘whore’s trick’.
“Go slowly,” Tywin said through gritted teeth. She nodded quickly, and pressed a tentative kiss to the tip of his cock. He let out a sharp breath, his jaw set tight as he watched her kiss up and down his shaft. When her tongue flickered out to trace a vein, he bit back a groan, his fists clenching. Watching his sweet wife revere his cock with her gentle kisses was the most delicious form of torture; he wanted more from her, wanted to feel the constriction of her throat around him, but he did not want to let his control slip.
Carefully, she began to feed his length into her mouth, her pretty lips stretching around him. He felt her tongue giving him whisper-soft licks, his knuckles turning while as he gripped the arm of his chair. As she swallowed more of him, he allowed himself a low groan. When he hit the back of her throat, she moaned low in her throat, her eyes widening. Slowly, she got used to the intrusion of her throat, and began to bob her head slowly, flattening her tongue against the underside of his cock. When she hollowed her cheeks, he gritted out another moan, one hand tangling in her hair, nails scraping against her scalp.
As she grew in confidence, he began to guide her head in a rhythm that he liked, his hips bucking up from the chair, chasing the pleasure brought on by her mouth. Her soft gags and moans, as well as the lewd, wet noises from her ministrations only heightened his pleasure. His nails scraped against her scalp, and when he looked down to see her wide eyes and her hollowed cheeks, and the single tear trailing down her cheek, he almost spent there and then.
Tightening his grasp on her hair, he pulled her off. She gasped, and moaned lowly at the sight of his flushed, twitching cock. It glistened in the candlelight, and a string of saliva kept them connected. She was about to ask if she had done something wrong, when he said lowly, “get on the bed,”
“My lord?” She asked, getting slowly to her feet.
“Get on the bed,” he repeated, his voice gravelly. “I will not repeat myself. I will not waste my seed pouring it down your throat. Get on the bed.”
