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No matter how hard you tugged on the front of his shirt, begged him gently, baby, please take me right here on the kitchen table—on your desk—in your truck—really anyplace, Joel would shake his head and tote you away to his room. Then he’d blow your back out on a plush and cushy king-sized bed exactly how a gentleman should.

“Wasn’t raised to treat a lady any different,” he’d always say, sucking a breath through his teeth as he plunged his cock inside you from the comfort and quiet of his sheets.

‘Whatever you say, old man’ was your habitual response.

It was one that more often than not ended with you walking funny for the next couple days, thanks to that twenty-something stamina Joel was still able to boast.

So, with sore legs and a warm load leaking out of your cunt every night, you shut up. You didn’t mind being confined to his bed if it meant getting fucked like that. But you would let him know, every now and again or as often as you happened to be ovulating, that there was a freestanding offer for him to just…take, if he ever felt so inclined. The first time you’d said the real word for it, Joel had just smiled and kissed you on the top of your head.

“I’ll sure keep that in mind, sweet pea,” he’d chuckled.

Or, in boomer-speak: ‘No way in hell am I doing that.’

You’d made your peace with it. You’d quit wearing open-gusset undies in the hopes of getting bent over the sink while doing the dishes on a random Tuesday afternoon. You’d put all thoughts of freeuse out of your head and now just waited patiently under the covers at night if you wanted some action on the go. That was more than okay.

And when Joel thundered through the door an hour late one night, you just offered up a smile and a sleepy wave.

“Hi, handsome.”

You were splayed out comfortably on the sofa, and your favorite show was playing in a dim, muted glow on TV. Joel toed off his boots and ducked his head in the closet.

“I said he-llo, you big hunk.”

You regularly alternated between handsome, hunk, and some form of baby or beefcake if he appeared extra large that day. You hadn’t gotten a good look at his form coming in, but you figured you’d give it a stab, shoveling more popcorn in your mouth before returning to Narcos.

Somewhat garbled: “Well hello to you too, babycakes.”

It was either going to piss him off or earn you a big, wet kiss on the cheek—or both, if you were lucky. The words had scarcely hung in the air for more than a second or two, and your popcorn was going down in one slow, crowded gulp, when something fell heavy at your feet.

Your legs were stretched as far as they would go to the end of the couch, and Joel had just dropped his weight right next to them. Then he was leaning back, gingerly.

Carefully.

Joel groaned.

“God, he looks stupid,” he said, staring straight ahead.

You coughed. You winced at a sharp, lone kernel that had snagged your throat going down, and when it passed, you sat up and glanced over to where Joel was looking.

All you saw was a sexy, if not slightly anachronistically-mustached man with tight pants and a slutty stance onscreen.

“Javier Peña?” you asked him.

The man’s nostrils flared in response.

“With that stupid fuckin’ Members Only jacket— dumbass aviators, too, he looks like the biggest dou—”

“Joel!”

You blinked at your boyfriend in disbelief. He knew better than to abuse your favorite DEA agent right to your face. At last, Joel met your gaze, and his cheeks tinged pink.

“What? You wanna fuck him or something?” he snapped.

You turned back to the TV and pretended to consider.

“Hmmm…I don’t know, would Agent Peña come home an hour late with no explanation and then start griping about another man’s clothes when I try talking to him?”

“Yeah. And he’d probably backtalk you, too. In Spanish.”

“Púdrete.”

Joel scoffed.

“Oh yeah? Fuck me?”

You raised both brows as if to say, ‘Yeah, dude, fuck you.’

Maybe there was a smile behind your eyes as you said it.

You didn’t mean to give in, or let him off so easy, but there was just no grappling with a man in blue jeans and a sweaty, dirt-sodden shirt giving you a look like that.

His eyes smiled back.

You didn’t protest when Joel muscled his way over across the couch and pushed you back on your side. Yanking your hips to lay flush with his front, taking up most of all usable real estate on the sofa just to lie behind you and curl his bicep around your belly. He nosed against you and inhaled deeply. He hummed.

You spooned and watched Narcos in silence.

“Bad day?” you murmured at length.

“Bad don’t even begin to cover it.”

Joel let out a breath, and you felt it migrate through your skull. The whole weight of the world, or, more likely than not, some dipshits at work who’d cost their team a bid or delayed a project by a week, ten, or twenty, was hanging somewhere close over his shoulders and depressing his whole demeanor. His grip on you tightened even more.

“‘M’sorry,” he said.

“Me too.”

Joel’s fingers seared a string of small crescents in your skin through the fabric of your nightie. Realizing he was pressing in too much, he eased back. Flexed his hand.

“Ain’t no need to be—it’s on me.”

You felt a kiss land on your shoulder. Your eyelids fluttered as a scene of chaos broke out onscreen with some ill-fated raid or other, and Joel’s hand traveled up your side. It cupped one of your breasts through the sky-blue satin material, and just as fingers began to knead—

“I don’t actually wanna fuck Javi,” you sputtered, dumb.

Joel kissed the space between your shoulder and neck.

“I figured.”

Then his index and thumb found your hardening bud and pinched it between them, rolling the skin in soft, languid strokes. That, paired with the movement of lips up the length of your neck, had your head lolling back gently and your eyes struggling to focus on any of the mayhem unfolding in time. You wanted to turn away from it all—meet Joel’s mouth with a feverish kiss of your own—but when your torso jerked the slightest bit, trying to move, the arm around your front kept you pinned to the spot. Joel’s grey, stubbled chin tickled the shell of your ear.

“Keep watching, darlin’,” he mumbled.

A low whine sounded in your throat, a noise Joel was no stranger to. It bubbled up, almost reflexively, and then was swallowed back as by force when his left hand shifted from toying with your nipple to joining the hem of your dress. Your breath hitched when you felt the pads of three fingers make an easy, careless sort of petting motion between your legs. Stroking you gently there.

“‘M’sorry I was late comin’ home,” Joel continued in the same attritional vein, gliding his middle finger between where he felt the seam of your folds through your dress, “Makin’ you wait up, wasn’t too kind of me, huh, baby?”

“D-Don’t mind,” you shuddered, just as the tip of his pointer finger found your clit and made a circle around it with the other two—a torturous loop that lacked just enough pressure to make it feel really good, and teased.

You would’ve liked to press on, were it not for him, again:

“Aw, hell, honey.”

Your eyes snapped open, and fear seized you momentarily. Had something gone wrong?

Instead, when you glanced between your legs, you saw a stain—a crude Rorschach-looking splotch in its place. With all rational thought currently suspended and your brain in a primal fog of just wanting to fuck, you groaned.

“Joel, please.”

You know what to do. You know what you’re doing.

Joel continued to carry on as though he hadn’t heard you. He rubbed the wet spot even harder with his middle finger and let out the faintest trace of condescension with his breath, fanning warmly across your cheek. It was as though you could feel his big, stupid mouth forming a grin behind your head that made you purse your lips together and force back a whimper when he pressed.

“Left a real mess missin’ me here,” he chided, voice low, “Poor thing hasn’t been fucked in…what, twelve hours?”

You imagined the spot growing larger, gaining warmth and wetness and slick from the timbre of Joel’s voice alone. Nevermind the fact he was practically smearing it all through your panties, through your dress; you’d be soaking his hand in a puddle if he didn’t let up soon.

“Then fuck it again,” you gritted, hips stirring.

“But you’re so busy watchin’ your new man, I—”

At the last, you bucked pathetically against Joel’s hand.

“Don’t want him, Joel,” you moaned, “I need you.”

With what little strength you had left, you tried to turn your body to face the man behind you. He didn’t let you.

In fact, his hold constricted all the more unforgiving, and his right arm curled around your front from underneath you while his left hand took the plunge beneath your dress, finally. It was as torturous as it was fused with any pleasure, though, as his fingers made a pass through your panties, between your folds, and into your heat with little warning at all. Just a kiss to your cheek and then two thick fingers working inside your cunt all at once. You writhed at the stretch, and Joel nosed you again.

“I said you’re busy, baby,” he shushed, “Keep watchin’.”

Keep watching.

Like that wasn’t the most nonsensical instruction he’d ever given you, with his arm twisted over your front and his face in your hair and his fingers pumping in and out.

In and out.

“Don’t care about the fuckin’ show, Joel,” you keened.

He brushed the heel of his palm against your clit, and you could’ve cried from the sheer influx of pleasure.

“Sure you do, sweet pea, you’ve just been so—”

Joel pressed another kiss to your cheek and kept going.

“—busy, lately, it’s only fair I get to have my way, hm?”

Oh.

Oh.

You hadn’t heard his belt come undone. You were so focused on your own pleasure, and getting it fast, that you hadn’t stopped to consider for a moment whether Joel might be testing his ‘free pass’ after all this time.

And, as if to dispel any doubts, Joel kissed your shoulder.

“C’mon, baby, let me use this pussy how I need to.”

He couldn’t have made your body any more pliant and willing than if your limbs had been made of wax.

It was all happening like a dream, almost too good to be a real, flesh and bones man with his hand in your panties, your man, pulling the fabric aside and making you lie on your side while he tapped the head of himself right there.

The hand that had once been toying with your clit was now lifting your knee, parting your legs to make space for him behind you, just outside of you—sliding his dick back and forth at first while he left trails of kisses down your skin. You could cum from the friction of that alone, the little squelches of his skin on yours and the fact that you weren’t in a bed, for once, and he was doing it now. He was making use of your body and cherishing it whole.

In spite of that gaping chasm between you in strength and size, he was obeisant, in a way. Painstakingly slow.

“This okay, baby? Can daddy fuck you right here?”

Joel pressed the head of his cock right against the weeping ring of muscles, felt it pulse against him, and groaned. He let just the cusp of your folds suck him in, forming the slightest, shallowest ‘o,’ only for him to retreat, moving his dick back up and down your slit.

You’d already cried and told him, yes, yes, you can fuck me there, daddy, please—but Joel was too busy tilting your head back up to the screen. Making you open your eyes and watch the show, loath as you were to focus on anything else but the soft, steady brush of his member.

“Remember, hon, you gotta stay focused,” he said, too sweet, “Chin up and keep those legs spread for daddy.”

They were. You were. Your head was up, just barely, and your eyes were nearly brimming with tears from just how badly you needed him inside you. You whined when he kissed the side of your mouth, but loved it all the same because it made you feel safe where you were. At ease.

Joel held you open for him, the shelf of his belly nudging at the small of your back and only pressing harder as he sank in deeper. It was a sensation that felt almost foreign, the first inches he’d breached, as he filled you from a new angle and held you close, you whimpered.

“Fuck, that pussy stretches out so nice for me,” Joel let out in a groan, “Feels like she’s made just for me, huh?”

At that, you felt a hand pinch both of your cheeks, forcing your mouth in a little pout as you nodded fiercely.

“Y-Yes, daddy, she’s made for you, all for you.”

One inch retreating, three more pushing in. Joel’s breath was hot on your ear again, and you could feel the soft grey tufts of hair on his tummy fold into themselves against your back as he pushed even deeper. His cock parted the insides of your walls and fucked you open like it was nothing at all. Your eyes stayed fastened on the television screen, but, frankly there wasn’t a thing on the LED display that was registering more than a passing thought. You felt the hand on your face squeeze even tighter, then release. Then your head was tilting sideways of its own volition, and your body was not—being moved by Joel’s gentle thrusts now—and your lips somehow met his in a kiss. One of his moans bled into your mouth.

“Look so. damn. pretty. when you’re like this,” he panted, “Never look better than when you’re fucked out on this cock, don’t ya, sweet pea? Nod your head and tell me.”

You nodded. You told him. Or whimpered it, anyway.

It was exactly the same and somehow nothing like you’d felt with him before: a new place, a new position, but then just the way you were letting him have you was a territory left entirely uncharted for you both. He could take, and take, and take, keep fucking you until his old joints gave out, and you were a vessel for that pleasure. Your body was limp; Joel’s frame was imposing and always holding you up, milking from your cunt what he needed and always praising you for how good it felt.

“My pretty girl,” he murmured, words like syrup. Then, each new one punctuated with a thrust as he sped up, “Gonna let daddy cum inside this tight little pussy?”

And, to his shock and yours, the hole he’d been using all this time grew wetter, more slick, then was pulsing with arousal as an influx of pleasure washed over your body—your brain had barely registered his words before the rest of you was making an even bigger mess of it, welcoming Joel deeper each time as your cunt spasmed over again.

Pressed into the sofa with your hips tilted down, now, you didn’t need to supply a verbal answer, just pulling Joel closer and pleading in broken moans to paint you white inside. He, like you, probably couldn’t have kept it from coming out if he tried. His hands were gripping your body, pushing you down with the weight of his grasp and his thrusts and feeling too fucked out to even know how much of himself he was pouring inside you as he came.

But it filled you to the hilt, all the way down his length.

In fact, there was a moment Joel feared he might’ve stuffed you more full of cum than you could take. You’d just barely come down, still moaning and shaking and dripping with more nectar than you’d ever felt before.

Joel tried to wipe the pussydrunk look from his eyes—terrible and greedy and wanting to see what he’d left—and he was just about to pull out to make sure you were alright, when he felt something grip him. On him and around him, pinching his wrist and squeezing his length inside you, you couldn’t help but turn back to face him.

Your eyes were smiling again.

One hand had just started to inch up his arm, kneading the flesh like you needed something from him then too. Only now your gaze was drifting down to the place where your body and his were still joined, and from that look, Joel sensed there had to be a lot of him there—which is why he was shocked when next you said sweetly, softly,

You had told him, of course, that such splendor was unnecessary, that a small supper with the family would have more than sufficed. Yet Baelor delighted in spoiling you, for you were the finest blessing he had been granted in a lot of time.

Whenever Ser Duncan the Tall found himself in your presence, he devoted most of his time to watch you from afar—seeing you laugh beside Baelor, play with Egg, or even speak comfortably with Prince Aerion. Your presence was nothing short of glorious, a magnet for eyes and devotion wherever you went. Your nature was exquisite—kind, gentle, and so unbearably sweet that at times Dunk thought you could scarce be of the same blood as the rest of them. 

And your beauty… that was another matter entirely. You were the loveliest sight the humble eyes of a hedge knight had ever beheld. Your form was wondrous, your face celestial, your long hair falling over your shoulders like a silken cascade, and your smile... it stole the very breath from his chest every time. Each time you entered his sight, a sigh would just escape out of him, soft and helpless, like a boy hopelessly in love.

“Do not even think it, Dunk,” Egg warns him, as he had more than once before, quick to notice the besotted look upon his big friend’s face as they sat together at the table. “That's out of your power to reach, Ser.”

But Dunk does not answer. He is far too intent upon you as you appear in the great hall’s doorway. 

Today you wear a gown of red, dazzling, adorned with pearls and white embroidery that spreads across your bodice, climbs your shoulders, and trails down the length of your spine, where darker crimson stitching forms the likeness of dragon scales. Your hair lies loose down your back, softly waved, gleaming in the candlelight.

All rise at your entrance.

Dunk is the last. He nearly stumbles over his chair in his haste, its legs scraping loudly against the stone floor as he shoves it back. That alone—and you—turn him red as a summer apple.

Valarr, seated at his other side, watches his brutish motion with poorly hidden amusement.

“My love,” Baelor calls first, his face gentle as drifting clouds, fondness curving his lips as he comes to greet you properly. “Happy name day.”

You accept his embrace, smiling as he presses a tender kiss to your hair.

After him, the others come in turn, forming a line to offer their wishes, their thanks, their gifts—small tokens and letters placed into your hands.

Egg flings himself into your arms, making you laugh and sway back a step beneath the force of him. Baelor, standing close at your side, smiles at the sight. Ever tender are you with the younglings, and for that, he loves you all the more. You shower his children with a devotion so maternal and steadfast that one would never guess they did not spring from your own womb.

“Thank you, my sweet Aegon,” you tell him, stroking the fine, pale silver-gold hair already sprouting upon his head. The boy had even brought you a flower—one of those you cherished most, a silent token of his affection.

Duncan feels painfully out of place when his turn comes. Standing empty-handed while his stomach twists into a tight, miserable knot.

He is already flushed when you lift your gaze to him, your eyes sparkling with amusement at the familiar effect you have upon him—his trembling hands, his stammer, his shy smiles. He's so cute!

“Ser Duncan. I hope you would be here,” you greet him warmly, you know well the bond he shares with Aegon; to have him present is a comfort to your heart. “Aegon speaks wonders of you. It does not surprise me to see you have become each other's shadow.”

“My lady,” Dunk answers you, his voice no louder than a mouse’s squeak. His gaze, much against his better judgment, betrays him, making a swift, helpless journey over the length of your body.

And Baelor notices, of course; his smile fades, slow and certain, as he watches the knight’s every movement like a hawk perched upon your shoulder. A single brow lifts slightly, and a deep, thoughtful furrow begins to cloud his brow.

Duncan clears his throat and casts your husband an apologetic glance before daring to look at you again. “I— I beg your pardon. I would not wish to be an intrusion upon your name day. Your father was kind enough to grant me to attend.”

The hall falls into sepulchral silence. The small conversations that bloom among the Targaryens die at once when Dunk’s words echo through the great chamber, their meaning plain, their offense unmistakable and unashamed. Even the youngest cease their play, and the servants stand frozen right where they are.

All turn to stare at Duncan now, and they look upon him with mortified eyes, as though none dare breathe.

Somewhere, someone fails to smother a laugh—most likely Aerion.

Egg’s mouth falls open in mortification. He looks up at his friend, his expression stricken, willing him to understand—to see—that what he has just said is wrong. Very wrong.

Duncan looks down at him when his small squire gives his shin a furtive kick, meant to draw his notice without the others seeing. He frowns, bewildered, not understanding what offense he has given now to deserve such a blow.

And when he looks back to the grown folk, he finds you watching him with an expression poised in perfect balance between horror and amusement. There is even the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of your lips, one you must press away when you turn your head toward your prince.

Baelor does not look pleased as you do.

His face is uncommonly stern, his brow drawn tight, his lips pressed into a hard, unforgiving line, he is trying to gather every shred of his restraint to keep from striking the foolish knight upon your name day.

“She is my wife, Ser Duncan,” he clarifies, his patience stretched thin, drawn so taut it borders upon offense. His hand comes to curl around your waist as you lean into him, lifting one hand to his chest in quiet reassurance.

You are still trying to hide that treacherous, amused smile.

“Oh—Seven—” Dunk breathes, realization striking him at last. He drops at once to his knees, bowing his head in reverence and shame. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I—I did not know. My manners are poor—you must understand, I never m–meant offense.”

“Of course not, Ser,” you reply kindly, looking down at him, still leaning against your husband’s chest. He lets out a soft sigh beneath your touch, your hand rising and falling with the steady motion of his breath.

Baelor makes a sharp, dismissive gesture for him to rise. “See that it does not happen again.”

“Of course!” Dunk scrambles to his feet at once, his face burning red with shame. “I only meant that she is so young and beautiful, and you—”

His frantic blue eyes fall upon Valarr, standing just behind his father. The prince shakes his head swiftly, his mismatched eyes widening in urgent warning, bidding him to hold his tongue.

Dunk obeys at once and his jaw snaps shut so hard it almost snaps apart.

“You witless boy,” Maekar rebukes him, his face twisted with disgust and disdain when the hedge knight dares glance his way, standing at your side like some old, ill-tempered hound. “That should cost you your fucking tongue.”

Your soft laughter breaks through the tension of the moment, and all turn to look at you, the heavy air easing when they all realize this offends you not half so deeply as it does them.

“I am certain Ser Duncan meant no malice, Maekar,” you say, seeking to soothe them—most of all your husband. “And I should not like to see any tongues torn out upon my name day, please.”

Baelor’s gaze remains fixed upon the mortified knight, his hand coming to rest upon the pommel of his sword—a blade he carries in quiet defiance of your pleas to remain unarmed this day. He thinks, perhaps, that he shall have a use for it against Ser Duncan.

“... shall we eat at last, then?” Comes Daeron’s unmistakable voice from somewhere within the hall. “I am hungry. And thirsty.”

“Of that, none have any doubt,” Maekar mutters, rolling his eyes as he returns to the table.

The others follow in his wake, granting you and your husband a moment alone.

Ser Duncan gives you another quick, apologetic bow before hastening out from beneath your husband’s gaze.

You cannot hold it any longer.

A breath of laughter escapes you, soft and bright, and you turn in Baelor’s arms to face him fully. 

He is still watching the place where Duncan stood, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid beneath your touch, as if the insult lingers in the air like a foul smell.

Your fingers curl more firmly into the front of his doublet to call for his attention.

“My prince,” you whisper with a smile when his two-toned eyes finally meet yours. “My heart...”

You rise onto your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, his beard tickling against your skin. His body noticeably softens beneath your warm affection.

Another kiss follows, softer still, at the corner of his mouth.

And one more, sweet and lingering, upon his lips.

“Peace,” you plead humorously against his mouth, your fingers toying idly with the Hand of the King’s badge on his chest. “You look as though you mean to challenge the poor knight to single combat over a slip of the tongue, my love.”

“I am not amused,” he manifests, his tone remarkably sullen, yet you press another loving kiss to his lips to chase away his pettish little pout.

“No?” You lean closer, your voice drops into something more playful and teasing, “is it because he thinks you're old, husband?”

His lips tremble at your words, holding back an ironic smile, and his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer against him.

Baelor clicks his tongue, and your gaze falls to his lips as he does. “I am not old.”

“Well, considering my own age... truthfully, you are a bit older,” you continue to tease him, biting back a small laugh at his startled reaction. “Should I begin calling you father now, hm?”

His beautiful eyes narrow.

You grin—and steal another quick kiss before he can protest.

“Do not push your luck, wife,” he warns all the same, a playful little smile curving his lips. His hand slides down to the small of your back before he delivers a sharp, scolding swat to your backside, making you jolt lightly against him.

His brow arches slightly. “You are the only one left breathless and trembling like some frail, ancient little thing. Or must I remind you how you clung to me the other night and begged me to—?”

Your hand flies to his mouth, covering it before he can utter another word.

“My prince,” you hiss under your breath, though laughter trembles in your voice, your eyes wide with scandalized amusement. “You grow bold. We are in a hall full of eyes, and your sons sit but a stone's throw away.”

His lips move against your palm, pressing a lingering, heated kiss there that sends a shiver down your spine. Baelor gently pulls your hand away, though he does not let go of your fingers, his thumb stroking your knuckles with a slow, possessive rhythm, grazing your betrothal ring.

“Let them look,” he dismisses, leaning into you to kiss your lips properly, claiming them. And claiming you.

You leaned against the arm of the worn leather couch, nursing a drink in your hand, trying to play it cool, enjoy the music, listen to some conversations but…

…your body had other ideas.

Ovulation hit you like a train this time, that deep, insistent ache blooming low in your belly, spreading heat through your core. Your nipples, hard and pebbled, were straining against the thin fabric of your tank top, every brush of the cloth sending sparks straight to your clit. 

You shifted your thighs together, feeling the slick wetness gathering in your panties, your pussy throbbing with a need that made your skin flush hot. 

Stubborn as ever, of course, you weren't about to let it show. Not here, not with Joels dark eyes flicking to your way every few minutes from across the room.

He stood by the kitchen doorway, broad shoulders flexing in his flannel shirt, a beer bottle dangling from his hand. Joel had that quiet authority in him, the kind that didn't really need words—his gaze said everything, sharp and knowing, like he could read the tension coiling in your muscles from just twenty feet away. 

You caught him watching you earlier, when you'd laughed a little too forced at one of Tommy's jokes, your hips subtly grinding against the couch cushion for friction you oh so desperately craved. 

Now, as the song shifted to something slower and quiter, he pushed off of the wall and made his way over to you.

"You alright?" His voice was low, eyes locking onto yours. His eyes narrowed slightly, taking in the flush on your cheeks, swollen lips, the way your chest rose and fell a bit too quick.

You nodded, forcing a smile, even as another wave of heat pulsed through you, your clit swelling with need. "Yeah, just...the party's great." 

Lie. Your body screamed for relief, for him to pin you down and fill the emptiness aching inside you.

Joel's jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to your fidgeting hands, then back up. He leaned in, voice dropping to a rumble only you could hear. "Can take you to the bathroom right now. Get you all sorted."

Heat flooded your face—you already knew what he meant, that stern look in his eyes promising he'd handle it, take control like he always did. But stubborn pride still flared over you; you weren't some kind of damsel crumbling at a party.

You shook your head, meeting his stare. "I'm fine, Joel. I can handle it."

He straightened, exhaling a rough breath through his nose, those dark eyes pinning you in place.

"Then keep yourself together," he gruffed, voice like worn leather. "You're practically humpin' the couch, doll. Don't make me come drag you off it."

Your breath hitched at the words, the way he said them so matter-of-fact, no filth, just that authoritative edge that made your knees weak. 

He lingered a second longer, eyes tracing the curve of your neck where your pulse hammered, before turning back to the kitchen with a nod, like the conversation was over. But you felt his gaze on you the rest of the night, heavy and watchful, stoking the fire he was trying to tamp down.

And you tried. God, you really tried. Mingled with Maria, laughed at stories from the guys, even swayed a little to the music when Tommy cranked up an old country tune. But every step rubbed your soaked panties against your swollen folds, every laugh sent a quick jolt through your sensitive breasts.

The ache built, so relentless, cunt clenching around nothing, begging to be stretched, filled. 

Joel's words echoed—keep yourself together—and it only made you wetter, imagining him enforcing it.

It got too much at one point, the room spun with too many bodies and too much noise. 

You excused yourself with a mumbled "be right back," weaving through the crowd to the hallway bathroom. 

The door then clicked shut behind you, lock snapping into place, and you sagged against the sink, breath coming in shallow pants. Your hands trembled as you hiked up your skirt, fingers diving under your panties to find your dripping slit. You were completely soaked, arousal coating your thighs, clit throbbing under your touch as you rubbed frantic circles. 

"Fuck," you whispered, eyes squeezing shut, picturing Joel's thick cock replacing your fingers, pounding into you until the need shattered.

A sharp knock rattled the door—three firm raps. "Open up," Joel's voice cut through, low and demanding, no room for argument.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, fingers freezing mid-stroke. "Joel? I'm busy—go away."

Silence, then the knob rattled, his boot thudding against the wood like a warning. 

"Now, darlin'. Don't make me break it down."

Stubbornness warred with desperation, but your body won. With a shaky sigh, you pulled your hand free, slick fingers glistening, and twisted the lock. The door swung open, and there he was, filling the frame, jaw set, eyes dark with that knowing intensity. He stepped in without a word, kicking the door shut and locking it himself.

"Couldn't handle it, could you?" He murmured as he crowded you back against the sink. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, grounding you while your pussy clenched in anticipation.

You shook your head, breath hitching. "I—"

He cut you off with a look, those eyes speaking volumes: no excuses. One hand slid up your thigh, rough palm dragging your skirt higher, fingers brushing the damp fabric of your panties. 

"Shh. Let me take care of it." He hooked his fingers in the waistband and yanked them down, letting them pool at your ankles. Cool air hit your exposed pussy, making you gasp, folds slick and puffy from the earlier touches.

Joel's gaze dropped, taking you in with that stern approval, a low hum in his throat. 

He unzipped his jeans, freeing his cock—thick and heavy, the head already leaking pre cum, veins pulsing along the length. 

Your mouth watered at the sight, but he didn't let you drop; instead, he spun you around, bending you over the sink with firm hands on your waist. The mirror reflected your flushed face, his broad chest behind you, eyes locked on yours through the glass.

"Look at you," he growled softly, rubbing the blunt head of his cock through your soaked slit, coating himself in your arousal. "So ready for me. That's my girl."

His praise made your walls flutter. 

He pushed in slow at first, the stretch burning deliciously as inch after inch sank into your tight heat. 

You moaned, gripping the sink's edge, feeling every ridge and vein dragging along your sensitive inner walls. He was huge, filling you completely, the tip nudging deep against your cervix, right where the ovulation ache pulsed hottest.

"Goood," he cooed, eyes never leaving yours in the mirror, that stare holding you captive. "Take it all. You're doin' so well, openin' up like this." 

His hands gripped your hips harder, pulling you back as he thrusted forward, bottoming out with a grunt. The fullness was overwhelming, your pussy clenching greedily around him, juices dripping down your thighs.

He set a steady rhythm, hips snapping with controlled power, each plunge hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The sink creaked under your weight, your breasts bouncing with every drive, nipples scraping the cool porcelain. 

Joel's breath fanned your ear, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your head so you couldn't look away. 

"Eyes on me," he ordered, voice stern but laced with heat. "See how good you look, takin' my cock. Perfect, darlin'. So fuckin' perfect."

The praise sent you spiraling, your clit throbbing untouched as he pounded deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small room. 

The party noise filtered through the door—laughter, music—but it faded under your pulse, the building pressure in your core. His free hand dipped between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit, circling with rough precision. 

"C’mon, baby.” he murmured, eyes intense. "Let go. I've got you."

It hit you like a wave, your orgasm crashing through you, pussy spasming wildly around his cock, milking him as you cried out—muffled against his palm that clamped over your mouth just in time. 

Waves of pleasure ripped through your body, thighs shuttering, arousal gushing out to soak his balls. Joel groaned, thrusts turning erratic, his grip bruising as he chased his own release.

"That's it—fuck, yes," he rasped, burying himself to the hilt one last time. Hot spurts of cum flooded you, painting your walls deep, the warmth seeping into your fertile core. He held you there, cock pulsing as he emptied every drop, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, breath ragged.

Slowly, he pulled out, a trickle of his seed leaking from your stretched pussy, dripping down your inner thigh.

"Look at you," he said, thumb brushing your cheek, voice a low praise. "Handled that like a champ, huh? So beautiful, comin' apart for me."

You leaned into him, boneless, as he helped straighten your skirt, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "Now, let's get back out there. And keep it together this time—unless you want round two."

A shaky sigh exhales from Baelor as he eases inside you, thrusting until he's balls deep. With an arm around your waist, a careful gaze stuck on your dozing face, he pumps his shaft into your warmth. Hands clutching you as his chin finds the crook of your neck. You only start to squirm when he can't stop himself from picking up the pace, your hole unknowingly clenching and leaking at each quiet slap of his sack against you.

Breaths at your ear pull you halfway from your slumber. The fingers snaking to rub messy circles around your clit yank you the rest of the way.

"B-Baelor–"

"Shhh, my dear," he hushes you, rutting at a particular angle that has you reaching from him in your sleepy wake. He clings you right back, the bed now shaking with each pummel of chasing plunge. "My head will not rest until I fill it with better thoughts… and fill you with my seed. Let me do this, and then we will sleep…"

𓆰 VALARR TARGARYEN of HOUSE TARGARYEN

Once a prince, now a king.

He's older and stronger when you visit his castle alongside the guard of your father's knights, and he looks it. You had heard rumors of the broadening of his shoulders and hardening of his gaze, as that's what happens to every man who finds self upon the Iron Throne. But to see it here, up close, while he spent the night at your side, staring and sharing cups of wine, is better than the magic his blood claims to hold.

The decision to offer you an invitation to his quarters is an easy one. Accepting it, even easier.

Morning comes faster than usual, along with a tug from sleep to feel a pair of lips at your tit, tongue flicking and swirling.

"The wine seems to have dragged us to sleep before I was gifted the chance of tasting you truly," Valarr mumbles, letting your nipple slick out of his mouth before slurping it back between his lips. You sigh a moan, fingers finding the streak of white locks just above his ear.

"Forgive me for letting the night slip away before I could prove that I am worthy of the most beautiful being in all the realm… remain by my side today? Kiss. I am sure your father–kiss–will not mind someone else spoiling his only daughter for a change."

Tilting his eyes to yours, Valarr cups your chest to nose at the skin, awaiting his answer. All it takes is a nod and a groggy grin from you to spark a twinkle in the king's two-toned orbs.

Marvelous.

𓆰 AERION TARGARYEN of HOUSE TARGARYEN

There's something to enjoy about Aerion when he sleeps. He's quiet. The fire that drives his arrogance is, albeit for a moment, dim enough to see the good that could be buried under all his upturned noses and pinched stares. The twenty years of frowns, nowhere to be found during the depths of the night.

In other words, the young man can seem, truthfully, quite tolerable when sleep has him. Which is why it is in the earliest of mornings that he finds himself waking to the pleasure of the flat of your tongue gliding at the underside of his cock.

The young man hums, smacking his lips and not bothering to look at you, his hum thick with drowsiness.

"Breakfast already?"

You bob your head with a light suck before pulling off his cock, wrapping a hand at the base to stroke while you speak.

"This is the only way to keep you from waking up grumpy on training days," you remind him, lapping licks along his tip. Aerion groans, finally cracking open his eyes, just for them to roll when you slide back onto his cock.

"Hmm. More spit," he croaks, folding an arm behind his head and scratching at his chest. You oblige him after a short gag, using the drool to speed your stroke. "And make sure to swallow it all this time, pet. My father will have my head if you're caught waltzing around the castle with my cum on your cheek again."

𓆰 LYONEL BARATHEON of HOUSE BARATHEON

"Hells, you taste even better than last night…"

Lyonel is incapable of rambling to himself like this while his face is buried in your cunt, even now–when you're finally halfway to sleep after him waking you begging to fuck just a few hours ago.

"I swear on the honor of my house that," the stag pauses to swipe another bold lick all the way up to your clit, groaning much too loudly at the taste. "you and this gorgeous centre are the most delectable in all the lands."

When you go to shush his booming tone, Lyonel digs his tongue back inside you with noisy slurps, wagging his head so his nose is smushed right into the patch of hair over your nub of nerves.

Lyonel eats at you, starved despite the fact that he should be well and full and sleeping, as you were.

"Forgive me, my beautiful, glorious consort, but we can sleep in the next life," the man proclaims with wet lips and a shining beard. "This one shall be filled with fruit and dance and my face between your legs until we both go blind."

All you can do is tangle a hand through his curls and roll your hips into the mouth that's trying to devour you. Later, after the sun rises and the world thrums with the anticipation of an incoming day, Lyonel attends breakfast alone, telling the others that you, his poor thing, will not be joining them.

"Lass had a long night," he winks, popping a grape between his shining teeth. Smiling widely.

tell me what u think :)

He had come late to bed, as he so often does, making sure that he has done his duties for the day. He would read letters, answer matters of the realm, and be in the small council when needed. Baelor was dutiful, always learning and attending to anything that the realm needed. 

Yet he had made sure to fuck you properly, tiredly as he mumbled praises to your ear, kissing your neck softly.

Sometimes, you wished for him just to take a day off and be with you. Though the prospect of him being king was closer by day, even if Good King Daeron enjoyed good health. 

The little you see of him, the more you crave him. It was becoming animalistic at this point, if it weren’t for the fact that it would be improper just to get under the small council’s table and simply suck his cock until you got enough. 

Baelor lets an annoyed hum, trying to keep sleeping. 

“Husband” you insist.

“What…” he could barely articulate the words to make sense “Sleep”

“I can’t” you say in almost a whine. “Baelor”

“My love, this can wait for the morning” 

“I need you” you say once again, sitting up as he sighs yet keeps sleeping. “Badly” 

Usually he would have you whenever you asked, always gentle and loving, kissing you with a smile and complimenting you time and time again. But you knew he was exhausted, after all his duties he did without a single complaint, even lightening up his father’s work, so the Good King could rest and play with his grandchildren. 

He moves his head to face you, his eyes barely open. “What?”

“I have missed you” you say, sincerely. 

“Oh…” he says, moving slightly to pull you to his side, making sure his arm is wrapped around your back to accommodate you closer. “I know, beloved” he says, his tone drifting once again. “Let us sleep for now…” 

“But…” you try to complain, yet you’re met with a dismissive hum, as he returns to snore. You doubt he was even awake or would remember this conversation by morning

You nuzzle your head to his neck, his scent soothing as you try to get closer to him. If only it was that easy to sleep when having him by your side. 

As your hand caresses his chest, feeling the small hairs in your digits as you make circles trying to think properly, to convince your brain to sleep… yet something in you keeps you from slumber. 

“Baelor?” you try to ask, but he’s asleep once again. 

Your hand moves lower, pushing the covers out of your way, as your hand finds his flaccid cock and you have to accommodate against him, feeling horny all over again. You move your hand back, only to spit on it as your eyes feel dropping. Yet, as your body feels tired, your mind is more awake than ever. 

His cock takes its sweet time to harden, little by little, as your husband grumbles and tries to remain asleep. 

“Love… what’ye doin’?” He grumbles, a hand against his face, as he doesn't want to open his eyes. 

“I really need you” your tone is almost petulant, but Baelor was used to it (and he almost always encourages it)

“Now? Sweetheart, we’ve already…”

“But your cock” you whine, as you sit up, feeling his hand fall from your side as he groans slightly. “just a quick one… please, again?”

Baelor sighs, as he looks at you with that tired expression of his. “You are insatiable…”

He moves groggily, moving in between his legs. His cock was hard now, the fat head was leaking slightly as you took the girthy length on your hand before moving it to meet your cunt. You can see the dark hairs at his base, yet he kept them well trimmed, like he does with the rest of him.

Baelor moves lazily, unlike him in many ways. As he pushes inside, you can hear him groan, his throat raspy from sleep that came so hard for him these days… and having a young wife that wanted him every second. 

“Only Gods know how my wife got so much energy…” he murmurs, and you wrap your arms around his neck as you moan loudly. 

“I’m young and full of life” 

“That you are…” 

He moves his head down to press a kiss on your cheek, so tender and loving, as his hips thrust slow and deep. His cock feels so huge inside you, and it was certain for you that his girth was his best attribute (amongst many others not relevant now…)

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Your fingers curl, gripping his shoulder as he groans next to your ear, his forehead falling to his shoulder as he presses sweet kisses there. 

“You’re so beautiful, darling” He praises you gently, his hips thrusting with a steady rhythm, his cock providing the perfect friction that you loved. “And insatiable… I already fucked you before bed, and you wake me up for more”

His heavy balls make a soft thud every time his thrusting gets deeper and deeper. You grip his shoulders, already drooling at the thought of having his cock in your mouth as a simple wrench would do, not like a future queen with her husband. 

The small hairs on the base of his cock tickles your skin slightly, but you are too drunk on pleasure to care. You can hear the small noise the bed makes as it hits the wall, among the small creaks of the wood. 

“I’m going to fill you up” Baelor murmurs, planting soft kisses next to your ear. “Yes, my love?”

“Yeah, please, please… fuck”

His thrusts become more insistent at your pleas, shifting his angle just slightly. His bread scratches against your face as he kisses you everywhere. He wasn’t a vocal man, but he wasn't quiet either, as he groans and murmurs loving praises. 

Baelor’s cock throbs as you cum, whimpering against his glistening skin. His balls tighten, pumping ropes of cum inside her The praises that leave his mouth become a bit slurred, as he kisses your neck gently, hands gripping your hips still as he makes sure he empties into you correctly. 

As he rolls to his side of the bed, pulling you close to his hairy chest, you both try to catch your breath.

“Are you satisfied now?” he asks, that slight amusement on his tone as his fingertips caressing softly your arm as your hand comes to rest on his heavy chest. 

“Until the morning, yes”

You shift sliding one knee over his thigh so you're half-straddling him, the movement slow enough that the old couch creaks in protest. His hands automatically settle on your hips big, warm and callused palms fitting the curves like they were carved to the exact measurements of your body years ago.

"Maybe I'm just thinking about how long it's been since you kissed me properly." You say keeping your voice soft teasing at the edges.

Joel's eyes dark like honey in the firelight just a narrow of a fraction. The corner of his mouth twitches not quite a smile, but close enough that heat coils low in your belly.

"Properly." He repeats tasting the word like it's something dangerous and powerful. "That what you want?"

He studies you for a long heartbeat thumb sweeping the sensitive skin just under the hem of your shirt, back and forth, back and forth. Then he leans in very slow so slow you feel every inch of the distance close, and catches your mouth with his.

It isn't gentle at all. It's thorough and hungry in the way only Joel can be hungry. Like he's memorizing you all over again even though he already knows every dip and swell and secret place by heart. His tongue slides against yours, deep and unhurried, tasting of coffee and the tiniest trace of the whiskey he'd sipped earlier. One hand leaves your hip to cup your jaw, tilting your head exactly where he wants it so he can lick deeper, slower, until your lungs burn and you're making small, helpless sounds against his lips. When he finally pulls back just far enough to speak his forehead rests against yours. His breathing is ragged.

"That properly enough for you sweetheart?" He asks his voice wrecked as you softly bite your bottom lip tasting him.

You shake your head, smiling despite the way your pulse is hammering in your throat. "Getting there."

He growls low in his chest a half laugh, half warning and surges up, lifting you with him as though you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist as his arms lock under your thighs. He carries you through the dim hallway without once breaking the kiss, mouths sliding together wet and open and desperate now, teeth catching lips, tongues chasing every gasp.

“Joel.” You giggle as the bedroom door bangs softly against the wall when he shoulders it open.

Moonlight spills through the gap in the curtains, turning the quilt silver-blue almost like a oil painting. He doesn't even bother with the lamp. He never does when it's like this even when the wanting has already burned past patience into something raw and reverent.

He lowers you to the mattress with careful hands, following you down so his weight pins you gently and deliciously. The mattress dips under his knees as he settles between your thighs. For a long moment he just looks at your eyes roaming your face, your throat, the way your chest rises and falls beneath the thin shirt.

"Christ." He breathes, almost to himself as he looks at you like a piece of art. "Look at you."

Heat floods your cheeks through your chest, and the tender skin between your legs. You reach for him, fingers curling in the front of his henley tugging on the fabric gripping the material tightly.

"Stop staring and touch me." You whisper feeling a little bold but also very desperate for his touch.

His laugh is rough and fond. "Bossy tonight."

He drags the borrowed flannel off your shoulders first, slow enough that you feel every inch of fabric sliding over skin. Then the sleep shirt up and over your head, tossed somewhere into the dark. Cool air kisses your bare breasts as your nipples tighten instantly. Joel makes a low broken sound in the back of his throat.

"Fuck baby." He rasps palms sliding up your ribs until his thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts. "Every damn time I look at you I lose my damn mind."

He lowers his head and takes one nipple into his mouth a hot wet suction that makes your back arch off the bed. His tongue circles flicks and then flattens. Licking slow and deliberate strokes while his hand cups the other breast, rolling the peak between rough fingers until you're whimpering, fingers twisting in his hair.

"Joel please." He switches sides, giving the neglected nipple the same devastating attention, teeth grazing just enough to sting sweetly. When he finally lifts his head his pupils are blown wide lips puffy.

"Gonna take my time with you." He promises his voice thick and deep. "Been thinkin' about this all goddamn day."

He kisses a slow path down your sternum, over the soft curve of your belly, pausing to nip at the sensitive skin just above your navel until you squirm. His hands hook into the waistband of your underwear and drag them down your legs inch by torturous inch, kissing every new strip of skin he uncovers your inner thigh, the hollow behind your knee, the arch of your foot, until you're completely bare beneath him.

He sits back on his heels for a moment, just looking again, eyes dark and reverent. You’re like a work of art to him, and he doesn’t even think you’re real. His eyes glimmer with adoration and lust.

"Spread those legs for me, sweetheart." He murmurs and you do thighs obediently falling open, heart pounding so hard you're sure he can see it.

Joel exhales roughly as one big hand slides up the inside of your thigh. His knuckles brushing the slick seam of you. He parts you gently with two fingers, exposing the swollen pearl of your clit to the cool air.

"So wet already." He says awed like it’s a surprise every time. His thumb circles your clit with a light, maddening pressure and your hips jerk. "This all for me?"

"Yes." You gasp. "Only you."

He groans low and wrecked, and lowers his head. The first slow drag of his tongue makes your vision white out at the edges. He licks a broad flat stripe from your entrance to your clit, then seals his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks gently at first then harder tongue flicking in perfect time with the pull of his mouth. Two thick fingers slide inside you, curling just right, stroking that spot that makes your thighs tremble and your breath hitch into sobs.

"Joel oh God don't stop." Begging and pleading with him only making him chuckle in response.

"Oh I’m not stopping sweetheart." He growls against you the vibration sending sparks up your spine. "Not 'til you come on my tongue, baby. Want to feel it. Want to taste it."

He works you with devastating patience with long luxurious licks, and then quick fluttering flicks, his fingers pumping slow and deep until your hands are clawing at the sheets, heels digging into the mattress, hips rocking shamelessly against his face. The wet sounds are obscene filthy and perfect.

When you shatter it's sudden and shattering your back bowing, a broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashes through you in bright pulsing waves. Joel doesn't stop, doesn't even slow he just works you through it, tongue soft now, lapping gently until the aftershocks fade to trembling.

He kisses his way back up your body, your hipbone, ribs, collarbone. Until he's hovering over you again, forearms braced beside your head. His mouth is glossy his chin glistening. He kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and you moan into his mouth like you're starving.

"Need you inside me." You whisper against his lips keeping your mouth slightly open. "Please, Joel I need to feel you."

He makes a rough sound like a half plea half gratitude, and sits back just long enough to yank his henley over his head. The broad planes of his chest, dusted with silver and scarred from too many close calls, make your mouth water. He shoves his jeans and boxers down in one impatient movement as his cock springs free. Thick and flushed dark, already leaking at the tip. He strokes himself once, twice his eyes locked on yours.

"Ready for me baby?" He asks, even though he knows the answer, even though you're already reaching for him.

"More than ready." You breathe with more reassurance than you've ever felt before.

He settles between your thighs again, guiding himself to your entrance. The blunt head nudges inside with just the tip, and you both groan at the stretch, the heat, the impossible intimacy of it.

"Slow." He murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. "Gonna go slow, baby. Wanna feel every inch."

He sinks in by agonizing degrees, thick length stretching you open, filling you so perfectly your eyes sting with how good it is. When his hips finally meet yours, when he's buried to the hilt, he stills, breathing hard against your temple.

"Fuck." He chokes out. "Cunt feels so tight. So perfect. Christ, you feel like heaven."

You clench around him on purpose and he hisses, with his hips jerking involuntarily. He growled so loudly you almost wanted to do it again just to draw that kind of reaction out of him again.

"Don't please don't do that yet or I'm gonna lose it." He warns you softly his voice strained.

You smile wicked and soft all at once, and wrap your legs around his waist heels digging into the small of his back. Joel smirking at you knowing exactly what you were doing, and it turned him on even more.

"Move Joel." You whisper. "Fuck me."

He pulls out almost all the way with slow, deliberate roll of his hips forward again, deep and smooth, grinding against your clit on every stroke. The rhythm builds gradually with long, luxurious drags that make you feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of him inside you. His mouth finds yours again the kiss is sloppy now, all teeth and tongue and shared breath.

"Goddamn, baby." He groans against your lips. "You take me so good. Look at you cunt so pretty stretched around my cock."

You whimper nails raking down his back, leaving red trails he'll feel tomorrow. Knowing it would be a reminder of what he did to you, and how good he made you feel.

"Harder." You beg out loud and with your eyes. "Please I need you deeper."

He growls, and hooks one of your knees over his elbow, opening you wider, and thrusts harder, faster, but still controlled and still careful. The headboard taps the wall in time with his rhythm as the wet slap of skin on skin fills the room.

"Look at me baby." He rasps when your eyes flutter shut. "Want to see you when you come again."

You force your eyes open, locking onto his noticing how dark, fierce and tender his became. His hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit, circling in tight perfect strokes that match the drag of his cock.

"Joel I'm gonna, oh fuck." You couldn't even form a coherent sentence. Your mind was completely scrambled, and your body in a trance.

"That's it." He coaxes his voice low and ragged knowing exactly what he needs to say to get you there. "Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you. Let me feel my girl fall apart."

The pleasure coils tighter and brighter, until it snaps white-hot and endless. You cry out his name, clenching hard around him, pulsing and shaking. Joel's rhythm stutters as his hips slam forward once then twice burying himself as deep as he can go.

"Fuck baby I'm—" His voice breaks as he’s cut off on a guttural moan. Heat floods you in long, shuddering pulses as he comes, hips jerking, forehead pressed hard to yours, every muscle in his body locked tight.

He stays inside you long after the last tremor fades, breathing hard against your neck, arms trembling where they cage you. You stroke his back in slow soothing lines, feeling the rapid thud of his heart against your chest.

Eventually he eases out very careful, gentle and rolls to the side pulling you with him so you're tucked against his chest again. His fingers trace lazy patterns over your spine while your breathing evens out.

"I love you." He murmurs into your hair, so quiet you almost miss it. You press a kiss to the scar on his shoulder the one he got the winter you both nearly froze outside Casper.

"Love you too." You whisper back letting him know you heard him.