Fruit Of The Vine

A chilly wind picked up, making you wrap your burgundy cloak tighter around you. The litter was prepared, caravans readied, and everyone was eager to depart, but Lyonel lingered for a bit longer.

"My lord, we should ready to depart," Raymont said. He was Lyonel's youngest cousin who served as his squire. He was a good lad and kept everything organized and on time, an attribute that was not your beloved husband's strongest suit.

"A few more minutes, then we can go," Lyonel said, leaning on his antler crutch. You rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, knowing he still held hope that Ser Duncan might join him.

Time passed, and the hedge knight did not show, making your husband sigh heavily.

"Let us go." The disappointed look in his dark eyes nearly crushed you. His lips gently brushed across your cheek, standing close as you mounted your horse.

"Ser Lyonel!" a deep voice bellowed across the field, and the party turned to look. Over the grassy hill rode Ser Duncan atop his huge brown destrier, which the older, brown stot following behind.

A grin broke across Lyonel's face. "Good lad, you decided to join me after all."

Dunk nodded, his face still bruised and swollen with his left arm in a sling. "I've had enough of princes, m'lord."

"Ride alongside my wife and me. We must be going, or Raymont will have all our heads," Lyonel said, clapping the horse's flank. He mounted a black palfrey, having lost his destrier in the Trial at the hands of Prince Maekar Targaryen.

The little took off, departing for Storm's End, where new adventures awaited.

Everyone was feeling sore and tired by the time they arrived at the castle. You rolled your shoulders as the household servants bustled around, and you instructed them to start preparing hot baths and a room for Dunk. Lyonel had his arms full with Roslyn and Jocelyn, fussing over the dark haired girls and showering them with attention. Their wide, dark eyes peered at Dunk curiously.

"Come and introduce yourselves, my darlings," you smiled, extended your hands out to them, and brought them closer. Roslyn was the elder, and Jocelyn was younger by three years. Lyonel adored them equally, even if they were constantly trying to get him to name a favorite.

"Miladies," Dunk said, giving a small bow, and the girls giggled.

"We will spend time together before supper. I must settle our guest in," you told them, kissing the top of each of their silky, dark heads.

"You and Ser Lyonel are kind for hosting me, milady," he said, towering over you, even bigger than your good husband. "Your daughters are as beautiful as you."

"Thank you, and we are happy to have you. My husband is quite fond of you, Ser, understandably so," you said, showing him to his quarters after winding up the stone staircase leading to the drum tower.

"You are kind to say so, milady," he said, ducking his head while his cheeks pinkened.

You escorted him into the quarters, where a steaming bath awaited him. "I will send in some of the stewards to help attend to you."

"No need for the fuss, I can handle it, I'm certain," he insisted.

"You are injured."

"It's alright."

You placed a hand on your hip. "You are as stubborn as my husband, it seems. Then let me assist you."

"N…no! That….you are a lady!"

"Very astute, Ser Duncan. I can assure you the sight of your cock will not make me faint. I've been surrounded by too many of my husband's men to pale at one."

His jaw dropped. How he yearned for the touch of a woman, yet how could he ask such a thing from a noble married lady?

You could see the hesitation all over his face. "I assure you, it will not upset my husband in any way. I have tended to many of his men over the years, plus we don't want the water to get cold."

The men who were more than simple companions. Beesbury had been one, and you knew his death tolled on Lyonel. Guilt swirled inside him, but who else would have rallied to aid in the Trial other than the dear man? The man who would have followed Lyonel to the ends of the world, and for whom Lyonel would have done the same. Over the return to Storm's End, which took a little over a fortnight, you saw the bond deepen between Lyonel and Dunk, but you did not begrudge it. Lyonel had always been honest with you about where his desires lay, and it only made you love him more. He was a good husband, a good father, and gave you freedoms along with whatever you desired, so you could not deny him of his true nature. You only asked for his honesty regarding the trysts, which he always honored.

"I…thank you, milady," Dunk murmured, and it was charming to watch such a large man attempt to make himself small.

You moved closer to help him undress, carefully removing the sling. The bruises and face swelling had gone down, but you would make a poultice for him later that evening. The blush spread down his cheeks toward his neck as you tenderly and methodically removed his clothing. You didn't let your eyes linger, not wishing to make him any more uncomfortable than he already was. He got into the bath on his own, groaning as he sank into the hot water.

"Seven Hells," he sighed.

You chuckled. "Yes, a hot bath can solve nearly all issues." You dipped the sponge into the water before lathering it with soap, starting with Duncan's broad back, careful of his injured shoulder. His wounds were healing nicely, but you would give them a thorough examination after the bath.

Soft sighs toppled from his mouth as you massaged his scalp. You closed your eyes, getting lost in the movements, remembering two summers ago as you tended to Humfrey and Lyonel in the bathhouse after the Lannisport tourney. Helping to wash the dirt and blood from them, the sweet kisses they left on your skin, the way their fingers curled inside you, the heat from their bodies as they enveloped you between them. Lyonel instructing Humfrey how to suckle your nipples. The hazy image of Lyonel's cock buried inside Humfrey as the honey mustached man gripped the stone's edge. A blurred memory from days past.

"There we are, Ser Dunk, clean as fresh linen," you smiled, noting the thin film of grime that coated the bathwater.

"I feel like a new man, thank you again, milady," he grinned, those blue eyes meeting your gaze.

"I've had the steward lay out some of my father in law's clothing for you. The dear man departed years ago, but he was almost as big as you. I can have my seamstress alter them if need be. I could arrange for supper to be brought to your rooms, but you are welcome to join us in the Round Hall if you wish."

"I would like that, milady. You've been most kind."

"'Tis my pleasure, Ser Duncan. I will leave you to rest."

He reached out, squeezing your hand. His touch lingered on your skin, like flames crackling over your fingertips. You found solace in your private quarters, where the ladies helped tend to and bathe you, dressing you in a rich golden dress embossed with vibrant purple grapes.

"Please arrange for an Arbor red this evening," you told them. You yearned for a taste of home.

Lyonel found you warming by the fire, embroidery hoop in your lap and half asleep. A gentle hand landed on your shoulder. The familiar scent of leather and musk wafted under your nose.

"Duncan is settling in nicely," he commented, studying you with his dark eyes. "You are to thank for that."

Your hand curled around his fingers. "I enjoy him, as do you, I suspect."

"You've always been perceptive, clever girl."

He pulled his fingers from your grip before kneeling in front of you. The firelight caught in the flecks of gold hidden in those dark eyes. How fitting they were for a Baratheon man. He drew your hands toward his mouth, placing soft kisses upon them. His beard made your skin prickle.

"Does it upset you?" Warm mouth spreading heat over your skin.

"Lyonel, if it truly upset me, I wouldn't have married you all those years ago," you smiled.

"You have never felt neglected?"

"Never," you assured him. "I know you would give them up if I asked, but I only wish for your happiness as I know you do for mine."

"The Gods truly blessed me with you," he whispered before laying his head in your lap. You lazily dragged your fingers through his curls, remembering when you laboured with Roslyn and how he had ridden through the night to return to Storm's End to be by your side. He didn't want you to be alone or miss the birth of his first child. You'd never forget the proud look on his face as he held her in his arms. The bonny babe wrapped in a gold cloth.

"All this will be yours one day," he whispered to her.

"I am sorry about Beesbury," you whispered, "I know how special he was to you."

"He was a good man, a fine man, and he is with the Gods now."

"I promised our girls I would spend time with them before supper," you hummed, gently massaging his scalp as you had done with Ser Duncan earlier.

"Ah, well, do not keep our little lasses waiting," he smiled, rolling to his feet.

"Go and visit with Dunk; he would be happy for your company." You rose, pulling Lyonel's face down and kissing him softly.

Supper was a warm affair, with your daughters transfixed by Duncan's endless appetite.

"You will be well fed here, Ser Duncan," Jocelyn said.

"I have no doubt, milady," he chuckled.

The girls entertained Dunk with their dancing once supper ended, and you knew that he would be favoured in these halls.

Many moons passed, bringing the three of you closer into an intricately woven web. While you had cared for Beesbury, participating in the occasional dalliance, you had never truly fallen for one of your husband's paramours. But there was something different about Dunk. He was pure hearted, a knight of the people. It was hardly surprising how he won over the hearts of many at Ashford, even the departed Prince Baelor. Your daughters took it upon themselves to teach him letters, helping him to read and write, and never poking fun at him. He doted upon them, constantly parading around the castle with them tossed over his shoulders as if they weighed nothing more than a simple bag of flour. Most of his days were spent with Lyonel in the training yard, and the hedge knight picked up skills easily. He was stalwart.

You came to welcome the shy smiles he would toss your way. The way those blue eyes would sparkle. The rosy flush that clung to his cheeks and neck. The rough feeling of his hand beneath yours when he would help you to stand or dismount from your horse. It all made your heart skip a beat.

You couldn't ignore the hushed whispers between him and Lyonel. The swollen lips of your husband as he crawled into your bed. The all too familiar bite marks marring Dunk's pale shoulder when he undressed, the colors of your husband's house falling around his feet. A strange jealousy began to bloom deep inside your belly, but you did not wish for it to fester and cause you to rot.

"Will you share him with me?" you whispered to Lyonel one evening.

"Hmm?" Lyonel hummed, half asleep next to you.

"Dunk. I wish you to share him with me," you stated more clearly.

"Truly?" He shifted to face you.

"Yes, please. I have never asked for much, but might I partake with you?"

"If that is what you desire." He grazed his knuckles down your cheek. "I could never deny you."

And so it began.

Dunk was green, eager to please both you and Lyonel. That head, hair kissed by fire, disappearing between your thighs with your legs tossed over his broad shoulders. Once hesitant in the beginning, his movements grew bolder until he knew exactly how to trace his tongue over your swollen pearl. The sweet reward of your release, soaking his tongue, was all he needed to show him that he had done a wonderful job.

There were the nights that he and Lyonel entangled. Two valiant warriors curved together, melding into each other. The hedge knight's weight wedged on top of the Laughing Storm, cock buried deep inside. Sweet sweat beading down your husband's neck and forehead while Dunk set a gentle pace.

The best nights were when the three of you intertwined. Each man's mouth wrapped around your breasts, making you writhe and drip with pleasure. Taking your time stroking their cocks until the flesh stiffened and leaked. Your body learned to bend and adjust in ways you never thought possible, learning to accommodate two cocks buried inside your willing, eager cunt.

The only strict rule was that Dunk could not finish inside you. Lyonel could not risk you becoming the topic of cruel gossip or feeling shamed should a child emerge from the union. Neither you nor Dunk could argue with such logic.

The storm raged outside, heavy rain falling like pellets against the castle walls. In your chambers, the fire roared in the hearth, bathing the room in an amber glow. Various flickering candles were scattered across the room. Red and gold silks were draped over the canopy of your bed. Three golden goblets were filled to the brim with crisp Arbor white, and a silver platter filled with plump red grapes, almonds dipped in honey, ripe red cherries, cups of sweet cream, and halved figs sat in the middle of the bed. All this helped to create a cozy, yet sultry atmosphere.

You wore only a gauzy, thin robe, but the two men coupling you and the roaring fire staved off the cold. Lyonel wore nothing at all apart from two golden rings threaded with a golden chain through his nipples, and Dunk was just in his thin breeches. There was still a shyness that lingered beneath his surface, only furthering the endearment you and Lyonel held for him. You dipped your finger into the sweet cream, gently licking it away. Dunk lay on his back, slipping almonds one by one into his mouth with the sticky honey lingering on his fingers.

You crawled toward him, straddling his thick chest and lifting his hand to your mouth. Slowly, you suckled the honey from each fingertip. You would never get over how big he was. His cock swelled against the curve of your arse. Lyonel watched through heavy-lidded eyes, white wine dribbling down the corners of his mouth as he indulged one thirst.

"Open her up for me, Ser Dunk," he whispered huskily.

You gasped as Dunk maneuvered your body with ease, bracing you against his chest while using his large hands to spread your thighs wide.

"The sight of that cunt would make the most skilled of sailors crash right into the rocks," Lyonel mused, reaching down to stroke his cock. "They would beg to drown in it."

"I agree, milord. 'Tis a thing of beauty," Dunk hummed. One of his hands slipped down your belly to cup you between your legs before skimming his fingers over your flesh. His middle one sank deep inside you.

"We are men of good taste, are we not?" Lyonel smirked. With hazy vision, you watched Lyonel coat two of his fingers in oil.

Dunk nodded, nuzzling your shoulder while Lyonel positioned himself between your thighs. "Very good taste, milord."

Dunk's finger buried inside you made warmth flutter through your belly, spreading lower like slow dripping honey. Like the honey lingering on your tongue from his fingers. You whimpered when the digit was removed, leaving you longing for something to clench around. He tilted you back, keeping you against his bare, warm chest as more of you was exposed to Lyonel's eyes.

"Deep breath, my darling," Lyonel murmured before kissing your belly. His hot kiss lingered on your skin, burning an invisible mark that was soothed away by Dunk's palm. You inhaled slowly, filling your lungs as Lyonel's fingers aligned with your puckered arsehole. The slip of the oil allowed them easy entrance into the tight ring. "You wished to know what it felt like."

Ah, yes, you had been curious as a cock had never filled you there, yet it seemed to bring Lyonel and Dunk great pleasure. Just two nights ago, Dunk had spread Lyonel's cheeks wide and delved his tongue between the crevice. Meaty fingers digging into your husband's plush arse while the hedge knight devoured him. Curiosity had gotten the better of you, and you wished to experience it. It was not unpleasant once adjusted to the feeling. A feeling of being stuffed impossibly full.

"You're doing so well, milady," Dunk whispered into your ear, the praise enveloping you like a warm robe. The wisps of the one you were currently wearing clung to your perspiring skin. You groaned when Dunk rolled the stiff, aching flesh between the rough pads of his fingers.

With two fingers still buried in your arse, Lyonel lowered his mouth to your cunt. You twitched in Dunk's grasp while your good husband suckled and lapped at your swollen pearl. His fingers curved upward, sinking in deeper and hitting a pleasure spot inside you. Thick, pleasurable moans spilled wantonly from your parted mouth as you tumbled into an intense release.

"Dear Gods, woman, you do intend to drown me," Lyonel said with a wide grin, the aftermath of your release clinging to his beard and mouth. Gently, he withdrew his fingers before standing to wash his hands at the basin. Dunk stroked your body, peeling the thin covering away from your body.

"May I, milady?"

"What a sweet lad to ask," Lyonel teased.

"Leave him be," you chided. "Please, Ser Duncan, you may."

He kept you braced against his chest, your legs hooked over his wide thighs, before plunging two fingers into your sopping cunt.

"Ah!" you gasped, clenching around them. You felt Lyonel's hand on your cheek, thumb sliding between your lips.

"Open."

You obeyed, parting your mouth wide. The white wine trickled into your mouth, splashing against your tongue and quenching your thirst with the crisp taste of citrus. You sputtered softly, closing your mouth and feeling a thin stream run down the corners of your lips, then dribble down your neck. Dunk's free hand massaged your breasts, and soon your toes curled as you toppled into another peak. Heat prickled across your body, chest heaving softly in the aftermath, and you felt as if you could melt into Dunk's chest. The two men moved you carefully, settling you against the golden pillows with Lyonel hand feeding you cherries dipped in sweet cream while Dunk wiped you down with a wet cloth.

"How are you feeling, sweet wife?" Lyonel asked, tucking a stand of hair behind your ear.

"Very well, mayhaps a bit tired," you smiled. The juice from the cherries stained your lips.

"Then rest." His hand rubbed your hip and thigh. "Do you mind if Ser Duncan attends to me?"

You shook your head, stroking Dunk's face as one cheek pressed against your thigh. "Not at all. I will merely enjoy the show."

"The Gods truly broke the mold with you, good lady wife," Lyonel whispered.

"Never forget it," you quipped playfully before tugging on the golden chain between the piercings, eliciting a soft hiss from him, then helped Dunk from his breeches.

He left you with a searing kiss before turning his attentions to Dunk. You hugged a pillow against your naked body as you watched Dunk dribble and smear oil between your husband's cheeks. Lyonel stretched like a lithe panther on his belly.

"Milord," Dunk whispered, pressing a kiss to the back of Lyonel's neck. His hand tangled in the damp mess of Lyonel's curls as he lined up his cock. You squeezed the pillow tighter against your belly while watching Dunk's leaking, engorged cock sink deep into your husband, disappearing between his pert arse.

They kept his position for a while before switching to another, with Lyonel's legs braced against Dunk's shoulders and the Laughing Storm's knees nearly to his ears. The golden chain was clasped between Dunk's teeth as he rolled his hips, driving himself deeper into Lyonel. It was truly a beautiful sight to behold. The heat and desire between them bled heavily through the room. Lyonel left a sticky, pearlescent mess over Dunk's belly while the hedge knight's spend leaked from your husband's puffy hole. You tended to them after, wiping them down and kissing them before the three of you curled together.

Maekar ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

Becoming the father of six, Maekar got used to being constantly nervous, and it got worse when Dyanna died. However, when he decided to confess his feelings to you, that nervousness turned into insecurity. Something foreign for the Anvil. He brooded for days, closed up in his chambers, until he decided it was ridiculous and set aside everything to go straight to the point, but failing in the manners. He would express the obvious by almost touching on the insult and taking for granted an eventual union. When you refused his feelings, he became touchy, and you animatedly argued until your love escaped from your lips, calming the waters and recovering from the back-and-forth.

Lyonel ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The joyful and light-hearted nature of Lyonel led him to visit you often, cover you with gifts of every taste but carefully avoiding speaking about his feelings. Wasn’t his practical love language enough to make you realise how he feels? Yes, it was, but you didn’t want to give him the victory without fighting. When you asked him directly if he loved you, he started laughing nervously, making stupid excuses to avoid answering. Teasing him with a fake marriage proposal from another Lord worked to see him on his knee, pouring his heart on a silver tray and begging for your love.

Baelor ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The heir to the throne has been prepared for the role throughout his life, learning to use words appropriately according to the circumstances. No one ever taught him how to express his feelings to a woman, though, and he became restless. He would write down an essay and memorise every single word to repeat it at you with charm and confidence. Too bad he froze in front of you when the time came, and after long moments of absolutely embarrassing silence, he would excuse himself and take leave. You had to subtly reassure him and nudge him until he made a proper love confession with a hand kiss in the end.

Duncan ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

Our pure boy would become strangely quiet and avoid you because his good soul prevented him from hiding or lying about his feelings, but at the same time, he would be terrified to lose you forever. Your journey around the Seven Kingdoms would become weird and filled with tension; something you couldn’t bear. When you asked for clarification about his strange behaviour, he would stutter about a fake nightmare or an argument he had with someone at the market. All little lies that led him to panic until you reached for his hand, reassuring him softly until he would just say the three magic words.

Cregan ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

Her hand hung at her hip from the doorway, shaking her head as she stepped into the room.

That same argument carried on for a few more minutes before dissolving into laughter and accusations of snack theft. Which wasn’t exactly wrong. Somehow he’d devoured the entire bag before you and Kat had properly sat down onto the couch.

The apartment had gone hazy around the edges. Incense burned slowly in the corner beside an army of plants crowding the windowsills. Someone had cracked open a window, the thick air blowing out through the blinds with the distant hum of the city around you.

You’d found yourself curled up on the couch somewhere in the middle of it all, tucked beneath an old blanket you’d long since claimed as your own.

The camera sat abandoned on the coffee table, tossed aside where you’d left it. But Bobby, being him, he noticed it immediately, the calm silence going with it.

“You’ve got film in this?”

You cracked one eye open, Kat stirring beside you as she flicked through the tv channels.

“Maybe.”

He picked it up with careful hands, turning it over beneath the amber lamp light. It was one you’d been gifted, a cheap little recorder enough to fit in a few tapes.

“Y’know you don’t leave a loaded camera lying around,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, checking it out at all angles.

Kat snorted from beside you, nudging you with her arm.

“There he goes.”

“What?” Your head angled to look at her, rested onto the seat of the cushions behind you.

“Film geek Bobby.”

His eyes widened in mock surprise, but he didn’t speak, entirely transfixed on the device in his hands instead. From the high or his pure passion you weren’t sure. Likely both.

“You only have…” He checked the counter, scrolling his finger along the wheels and buttons.

“Eight shots left.”

“How can you tell that?”

Bobby looked up at you over the top of the camera, offended. He adjusted the focus ring absentmindedly while he talked, thumb brushing over the body of the camera like muscle memory.

“This lens is nice,” he said. “Did you thrift this?”

“Sure did.”

The teasing expression he had given you softened immediately.

“Oh.”

His fingers became gentler somehow, smiling at you as he continued.

“…Then we should use the rest properly.”

And he does. Of course.

He crouches by the plants, catching Kat’s mid rant about something that happened at work the other week, casting across the room like it’s something important. And not as plain as it is. You then find the camera angled at both of you, a smirk appearing just behind it.

“Bobby.”

“Hm?” He barely registered over the way he stared into the lens, inching closer to you teasingly.

“Don’t.”

“Why?” He pulled back just a touch, you and Kat curled under the blanket grimacing at him.

“Because we look half asleep.”

He leaned back down and peered through the viewfinder anyway, his own lidded eyes peeking over it.

“Exactly.”

But it wasn’t what he saw. Sure, the pot you’d smoked horus ago had left all three of you mellow, perfectly relaxed and comfortable lounging together. But there was more. His fingers pressed onto the zoom, turning the lens to fit you both into the recording, and in his eyes, perfectly.

The clear, white haze swirled about the room, sunlight peeking across you and Kat in dappled patterns, across your face, your eyes, the faces of the two people he found loving the most.

“You look great.. perfectly candid, see.”

He slid down between you both then, straightening his back just before he parked himself onto the couch with. squeeze. He shut the camera off but kept it in his lap, tracing his fingers along the plastic as the tape saved to file.

You and Kat shared an amused glance over his head, awaiting what was apparently so.. perfect.

—

The television played to itself.

None of you had been paying attention for the better part of twenty minutes. Bobby had shoved himself further between the two of you, one leg kicked out beneath the coffee table, the other pressed against yours. His fingers absently traced over the worn leather strap whenever the commercials got too loud.

Kat had migrated at some point, curled into his side with the familiarity that she’d done a hundred times before. Her socked feet were thrown over him and into your lap, lazily nudging you every so often whenever she caught you gazing off into the distance. You rested at his other side, as eased as you could without the thoughts racing.

It was comfortable in every way, just as it always had been, but the tension still grew tight, somehow more than before. Somehow stronger since last time..

The apartment smelled like incense and old upholstery and whatever snacks had survived Bobby’s attempt at “sharing.” And it was warm, too warm.

Bobby glanced down at the camera, brow furrowing.

“Three left.”

“You’re still counting?” Kat asked.

“Of course I’m still counting.”

“Nerd.”

“Film enthusiast,” he corrected on instinct and you huffed out a quiet laugh.

“There’s a difference?” Bobby looked over at you then.

“A massive one.”

The television cast shifting light across the room. Blue. Gold. Blue again. Kat’s head tipped back against the couch cushion as she looked between the two of you.

“You know,” she said eventually, voice gone thoughtful, “we never actually used them the way we said we would.”

Bobby blinked.

“…What way?”

She shot him an incredulous look, raising an eyebrow.

“Seriously?”

And then the realisation dawned slowly across his face. Because they had spoken about it. Often.

“Oh.”

His hand tightened slightly around the camera.

“Right.”

You could feel both of them looking at you, the wright of their stare, and the apartment suddenly seemed much quieter than it had a moments ago. Bobby’s thumb brushed along the edge of the viewfinder before he glanced away toward the flickering television.

“Well…” he said, trying, and failing, to sound casual. “We did say next time.”

He looked back at you then, blue eyes looking more hopeful than he’d wanted to let on, his lip curving by the slightest when he saw you looking back. Tempted, wanting, unsure..

“And we’ve got a few shots left.”

Kat’s hand smacked lightly against Bobby’s chest, curled around him from his other side.

“Unless you… want to?”

She couldn’t quite hide the smile pulling at her mouth, strands of hair falling into her face as the pair of them looked at you. Neither of them pushed. The question settled softly between the three of you, wrapped up in incense smoke and television static and the warmth of sharing a couch long after whatever movie had been playing stopped mattering.

“Kat we’ve been through this..”

She knew it, all of you did. It was a yes. Everything said it. You’d known it the first time she snuck kisses your way, the way you orbited each other and the way they both held you days ago at the store.

“My turn this time..” Her lips found yours first, reaching over Bobby between you just to hold your face in her hands. Wet muscle poked at your mouth, running and tracing across the plumpness of your lip. Her fingers tangled into your hair, stroking her thumb at the apple of your cheek before tugging you downward.

Your back pressed into the worn plush cushions of the couch as she moved over you, all of you silently thanking the fact it curved into an l-shape and somehow fit all three of you on, tangled limbs and all.

Her knee slotted between your legs, the skin rubbing into the fabric of your pants. Bobby watched you both patiently, sliding to the other end to give you room, a shaky breath leaving his lips at the sight.

Her tongue slipped inside of your mouth, pressing it further open, hands sliding down your sides urging you to sit up onto the armrest. They worked together then, kneeling over you as their hands trailed your waist, rising where the other one fell. Careful fingers adored your skin, tracing the curves as you breathed right between them. Kat took off your jeans, tugging the fabric down your legs inch by inch, and Bobby took your shirt, rising it over your arms until you sat there bare.

The cool air kissed your exposed skin, your nipples pebbling as Kat’s mouth left yours and trailed lower. She pushed your thighs apart with firm hands, kissing down while her eyes gazed up into yours. Bobby stayed close at your side, kneeling where she settled over your aching heat, his fingers brushing your breasts.

Kat’s breath ghosted over your pussy first, hot and teasing, before her tongue dragged a slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit. She moaned against you, tasting you with a torturous slowness, sealing her lips around the swollen bud. Her tongue flicked fast, circling and sucking through your folds, scissoring two of her fingers to slide around them, curling deep against your g spot.

Your hips rocked against her face, and she devoured you with an eager hunger, swirling her tongue until slick began to coat her chin, dripping from her lips with your sweetness.

Bobby watched every movement, his cock already hard and flushed, shorts shoved down to his knees. “That’s it babe, get her dripping for me,” he rasped, one hand stroking himself lazily.

Kat pulled back only when your thighs started to tremble, reluctant with her lips shining. She licked her lips, savouring you on her tongue as she nodded toward Bobby with a flushed smirk.

“Okay, up you get baby..” Bobby patted his thighs, shorts bunched at his knees as he moved to lay long ways shamelessly across the whole length of the cushions.

You swung your leg over Bobby’s lap, both of them watching with dark, hungry eyes. His hands gripped your hips as you lowered yourself, the thick head of his cock nudging your soaked entrance. A hand reached at your legs, slyly picking up the camera where he’d placed it onto the other armrest earlier.

It switched back on with the familar whirring sound, the faint glow of the screen lighting up Bobby’s face flushed and tranced. He let the camera find all three of you and focus just as you sank down onto him slowly, taking inch by inch until your ass met his thighs and he filled you completely.

“Look at you.. both of you fuck.” The blinking red flicked up with a stutter, his hand slotted carefully inside of the wrap, drawing your bodies into view.

“So lucky.”

The recording picked up where Kat moved behind you, kneeling close so the peaks of her hard breasts pressed to your back. One arm wrapped around your waist while her other hand slipped down between your legs. Her fingers found your clit, rubbing teasing, tight circles as you started to move. “Ride him just like that,” she whispered against your ear, voice low and encouraging. “Nice and deep. Feel how full he makes you.”

You rolled your hips, Bobby’s cock dragging against your walls with every rise and fall of his arms coaxing you. And Kat’s fingers didn’t stop, they were relentless, rubbing your clit in time with your rhythm while her free hand slid down to her own pussy. She spread her legs wider behind you and pushed two fingers inside herself, fucking them in and out with wet sounds that matched the slap of your skin against Bobby’s.

“Faster,” Kat coached, her breath hot on your neck. “Make him feel how tight you are. How good you feel..” Her fingers worked faster on your clit, thumbing it until your head fell back to her shoulder, her own moans bitten into the sides of your neck when her own fingers curled inside her. Bobby’s grip tightened on your hips, thrusting up to meet you as Kat’s touch pushed you closer to the edge, the three of you moving together in a wanton, desperate rhythm.

“So good.. so good for us.”

Sweat beaded over Bobby’s forehead, sticking tacky to skin where you all rocked together. His hand stoked at Kat’s thigh, soothing circles across the skin just as he did for you, her lops reaching and kissing up the back of your neck. Your back arched in their hold, folded between them in heat and lust, taking all of him as he fucked himself deeper.

“Our girl hm? Want to remember this.. want to..” The camera seems to cut just where he captures the wrecked look on your faces, it slipping from his grip where his own greed tightens. The need too much, the control slipping, and it fell helplessly with a bounce onto the blanket.

His hands clamped tighter at your hips where they’re were free, fingers digging in just at the hipbones to draw you closer, dragging you down so hard as he fucked into you. Your clit grazed the base of his cock, the few golden hairs rubbing at your clenching pussy.

The moan that left your lips was broken, tangled in a hungry desire. Kat swallowed it, and the answer that was left on your lips. Yes. Your bodies bunched together as he sat up, his torso rising into yours as his mouth wrapped around your nipple, teeth grazing over your sternum. His arm reached out for you both, hugging around you as far as he managed to draw you closer and closer to that peak you were chasing.

Your breaths mingled, mouth parted slack in pants and moans just along with the haze in the room.

Bobby’s hips snapped up harder, driving his cock deep with every thrust as your walls fluttered around him. Kat’s fingers rubbed frantic circles over your clit, her own soaked pussy clenching around the two digits she pumped inside herself. Her moans grew louder against your ear, turning into broken whines when her orgasm hit, body jerked bonelessly behind you.

Her thighs shook from underneath you as wetness coated her hand, her hips driving into the flesh of your ass as she came undone.

Bobby growled low in his chest and sat up fast, one thick arm stretching as far as it could to pull both of you tight against him. His lips latching onto a nipple as he sucked hard, the sudden closeness pushing you over the edge. Your pussy clamped down around his cock in heavy pulses that wracked your whole body into a shiver, Kat’s fingers working on your clit to urge you through it.

He groaned against your breast, each thrust turning sloppy as he chased his own high, pulling from you with a careful tug as thick ropes of cum spilt hot across your lower belly and the top of your cunt. Kat’s hand slowed on your clit, her own orgasm still rippling through her as she pressed messy kisses to the side of your neck. His cock twitched leaking onto his stomach, and the three of you made no attempt to move, staying locked together, breathing hard, skin slick and spent.

“Fuck.. wish we caught all of that on tape.” Bobby huffed out, raking a hand through his hair.

“Be grateful for what you got..” Kat breathed, eyes focusing as she eased herself, embracing you closer from behind.

“Hey.. no complaints here.” He held his hands up.

But you didn’t argue after that. Because after all his crudeness, all of you knew it was true. The same words repeating over and over that both of them had whispered and spoken into your ear.

Our girl, our girl, our girl..

Kat’s body sagged into yours, soothing at your arms as Bobby did the same at your middle, rubbing small circles across the skin until your breaths mingled once more, this time eased..

And you were lost in it, completely.

So lost in it, you couldn’t hear the pounding from the door on the outside. Not until the blinds peeked open. And a tapping on the window had you shifting.

—

Heavy knocking came from the door. Once, then twice, and again. Somehow you’d managed to ignore it for as long as you could, curled up and collapsed into eachother onto the couch, for what felt like only minutes.

Before you really had no choice.

Kat moved from behind you, stepping swiftly into the bathroom, securing a towel for you as you shrugged the rest of your clothes back on, her own being thrown back on instantly. The large t-shirt she’d pulled from the closet covering nearly her entire body. Bobby took the slow approach, shoving his shorts back on with a groan before standing, his bare chest flexed in the low light.

And then the door swung open, sunlight blinding the apartment as you and Bobby squinted to see who it was.

“Captain Clark..?”

Bobby leant onto the doorway, holding the door with the other as you came into view behind him.

And it was him.. their manager. Clark. He looked dumbfounded, taking the pair of you in as his face remained flat, almost apologetic.

“Kat..” Bobby called out. No answer. You looked down the corridor, hearing her fumble with the rest of her clothes and smoothing down her hair.

“KAT!” He called louder that time.

“I’m coming.” Her voice shouted down the doorway before piling in beside you both, her arm curling at your waist.

“I need that camera.. do you have that camera?..”

Clark eyed the three of you, offering an eager smile, one that left you all confused, rocking back onto your heels on anticipation. And the highs you’re all desperately attempting to hide. Though from the faint scent of alcohol on his breath, you supposed he wouldn’t have noticed.

“For what..?” Kat questions calmly, crossing her arms over her chest.

There’s a pause then between all of you, his eyes darting around as you just stand there.

“Research.”

Kat’s eyes found yours, then Bobby’s, and then back to Clark’s where all of you glanced at him wide eyed.

Bobby spoke up, nodding slowly with his fingers tapping on the wood of the door.

“Yeah, yeah, sure you might want to uh.. just don’t click anything.”

But he had explained that he’d need their help for it, it wasn’t a one man job, and that Bobby could hold onto the camera, seen as he’d be the one using it. Not Clark.

“Oh and bring your friend too. We’ll need all the help we can get.” He called out lastly, before turning from the doorway with a short, hopeful smile.

Leaving you all to question one thing.

“What if war comes?”

It was a cunning question, asked with something vicious in the lord’s eyes. It was a spark that could start a ruinous fire, and it all seemed like the man would enjoy its heat.

You could feel your cheeks burning too, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction so easily. Anyway, you always thought about yourself as a composed woman; you never expected your nerves to be brought so close to their end, especially after all the horrors that you’ve been through.

“What then?” You answered like you would to an unruly child, but trying to sound respectful at the same time. It was a hilarious matter to speak of, too hypothetical to approach seriously. “We have remarkable generals and strategists, my lord. If, as you imply, the council will suggest against his grace leading the army, I’m sure he will choose someone equally suitable as himself. Perhaps his brother, Prince Maekar.” You nodded at the youngest of King Daeron’s sons, who grunted under his breath.

Your brother-in-law refused to look up, apparently biting his tongue and fighting to remain silent. You preferred it that way too. The king asked you directly to watch over the peace of the dinner that you were sharing with a significant guest. It would be much more challenging if you had Maekar running his mouth, unable to control his building fury.

As much as you liked him silent right now, you wouldn’t blame him if he snapped. Truth be told, you wouldn’t even mind if he stood up to drag the lord out of the room… The man stabbed the cake on his plate with unnecessary force. You could see Maekar’s grip on his goblet tighten. The faces of his children were warmed with small grins that they tried to hide. The little menaces awaited some action: perhaps someone being yelled at, punched if they were lucky.

You would mutely cheer on that too if you weren’t the main person responsible for the conversation with the guest. A man who was speaking against your husband ever since the meal was served. He balanced on the line of fake concern for the realm and open objection to Baelor being his father’s heir.

After the events of Ashford, he was intrusive enough with his letters that the king finally agreed to hear him out. He expressed his worry that the prince, who recently recovered from his life-threatening injury, wasn’t the right choice. It boiled your blood, truly. Not out of hunger for power, the crown… You couldn’t care less for that. It was the audacity and rudeness of the man that made you furious.

The accident clearly and visibly affected your husband’s health and life; there was no question about that. He spent long weeks in bed under the watchful eyes of maesters, with you and his sons by his side. Even longer until he was finally able to sit or walk on his own. He sometimes complained about his eyesight failing him, and his hearing in one ear almost disappeared. He spoke of it like it was his own fault, with embarrassment and distress that you assured him were unnecessary. A grimace appeared on his face whenever he became too aware of his limping walk. Something that was connected to the damage of his spine that the injury caused. Yet, he recovered.

The long path of coming back to health earned him many silver strands in his hair and beard, and he felt overwhelmingly lightheaded when tired, but except for that, you couldn’t tell that the man almost faced death. You sometimes still teared up, watching him during normal daily duties. There was no sight more beautiful than Baelor sitting at his desk, back straightened like you would expect from a prince, doing his work while humming under his breath from time to time. You always pointed out he worked too hard and too much, but now you couldn’t even forbid him that. On some days you spent hours sitting with him, watching the view that you missed so greatly despite hating it before.

And now this—this fucking cunt dared to ramble against Baelor while looking you deep in the eyes. Audacious bastard, you thought probably for the sixth time during this damn dinner.

“Fine…” he muttered as an answer to your words, making you want to stand up and slap him. Then he smiled again in that planned way, fakely respectful and expressing the worry he held. “And what if our friends, an ally country, send their proxy here one day? Let us say that the prince – then king – has one of his worse days. Because you admitted, your grace, that he has ‘worse days,’ am I correct? How will that make us look if he passes out or feels too weak to attend the council?

You clenched your jaw and cursed your father-in-law, the old king, for being too tired today to join you. None of this would happen if he were here, listening to the lord. On the other hand, you weren’t surprised that he needed more time to prepare himself before he would call for the audience that the guest could express his thoughts on. Baelor was currently attending to his urgent duties. His absence was better for the situation, actually. Better for the world. You were sure you would stab him with your fork if he dared to speak like that in the prince’s presence.

“It’s not me you should speak about this to,” you said sharply, and yet still more calmly than you would like to. “I am not in a position to make those choices, and to put it simply, your words cannot make me think differently of his grace.”

You always referred to Baelor as ‘your husband’ or ‘the prince,’ but now you felt the need to mark his superiority over rascals like the man. It made the air around the room heavier. Even Maekar’s kids stopped in their hushed bickering, sensing the built-up tension to finally break.

“They will simply think we are ruled by a cripple,” he said, like you didn’t hear your words at all.

That was when the first person at the feasting table broke. Maekar’s hand  hit the table, making the plates clatter. “You will be a cripple by the end of your visit here if you don’t start watching your tongue,” he said from between his clenched teeth.

“My prince, I just…” he tried, silenced by you but only for a moment.

“Not another word from you, my lord.”

But you had enough. The expectation, Baelor’s tendency to work himself to death, Maekar’s moods, the king’s demands, and the memory of the maester’s words that your husband’s condition is fatal… All of it. The bastard was just one more pull to the thin string that held your composed nature in check.

“My lady…” he tried, making you stand up from your seat abruptly.

He was lucky he sat away from your place at the top of the table. He was also lucky that you had some mercy left in you, because the thrown goblet of wine crashing nearby him and not on him certainly wasn’t your bad aim.

A deep breath sounded between everyone, making you more aware of what you have done. There was not even one bone in your body that would regret it, though. Daeron moved from his seat with painfully little grace to reach the pitcher of wine that stood in the middle of the table and keep it close to him as if you would come for it next.

“You have been insulting and speaking against our house ever since you showed up in the Keep,” you said in a hoarse grunt that surprised even you.

“Princess,” he spoke up again, reconsidering how he should address you. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement with calmness, my princess,” he muttered, but you could hear his voice growing more and more unsure.

“You will achieve no agreement with me,” you announced firmly. “Perhaps the king will be more understanding of your vituperations.”

He nodded and looked at his lap for a moment, apparently gathering his thoughts. “I have no doubt that he will hear me out with fairness and will be able to acknowledge the truth. It would mean a lot to me, though, princess, if I could call you my friend in this matter.”

“You fucking can not.” The yell was the final thing that made him drop the sure face he tried to keep. You pushed your chair away and leaned more over the table, pointing him out with a finger. “I almost lost my husband to The Stranger, and look at him now. He’s fine. Not unaffected, yes, but healthy and in good spirits. He’s a victorious survivor, not a victim as you put him.”

“Not unaffected, that’s my point…”

You had to stop yourself from stealing Maekar’s cup and also throwing him at the man. This time  pointing it straight at him. Luckily for your dignity, you were able to hold back from the fantasy of his bloodied face.

“Shut up, bastard,” you ordered harshly.

It was his turn to stand up with anger. He could handle even the worst scolding from a royal, but a woman? Oh, that’s something he was very unused to and never planned to change. “Gods, woman! You are blinded by your desire for a higher position!”

Prince Maekar’s deep voice broke the silence that rang in your ears after the lord’s scream.

“Insult the princess once more, I dare you,” he warned. “Then you won’t walk away as a cripple. You will be carried out.”

He was never very fond of you, you imagined, but when it came to protecting the good name of his family, he knew no measures.

This calmed the lord, scared him enough that he sat again.

“I am merely a simple man concerned for the future of his land and country,” he muttered under his breath.

You scoffed in irritation.

“A blithering idiot is what you are.”

It was a loud remark that made him sit back in his chair. Daeron snorted in his drunken state, quickly being hit with his father’s murderous gaze.

But you acted upon your frustration and turned to him at once. “Shut the fuck up, Daeron.”

The loud thud of the doors sounded in the room long after you left.

All that you felt bad for was screaming at your husband’s nephew and doing it not only in front of a guest but also his siblings. If you were honest, you wished to banish the memory from your mind, even if worse words escaped your throat that day. You didn’t regret anything said to the lord.

With your husband busied by his duties, you were left to linger around your room, unable to focus on anything. After seeing the hours pass with no mercy and being left with no choice, you walked out of your chambers to find Daeron. He was probably too drunk to be bothered by your scream. All that caused him was a headache, but even for that you felt wrong.

You found him with his young siblings outside the castle, lying in the grass. He threw a hand behind his head to make the hard ground more comfortable and let out quiet snores while the others played around. Daella and Aegon stayed on their backs too, pointing out certain clouds and giggling about their shapes, while Rhae tangled the grass into numerous braids before connecting it together. Pretty convenient for Daeron, you thought. If only they could always be so well-behaved when he was ordered by his father to watch over them.

Rhae smacked her eldest brother straight in the face when she saw you approaching. “Wake up!” She demanded in a pitched voice.

“Wha–” Daeron almost sat up before his back hit the ground again. He had hair all over his forehead, and he looked up at you, upside down, before letting out a relieved sigh. “Oh, it’s you.”

“I’ve come to apologize,” you said after clearing your throat but weren't given a chance to speak more.

Daeron waved his hand dismissively and closed his eyes again. “That’s nothing, aunt. No offense taken. It was… rather entertaining, anyway.”

“It was,” Egg agreed loudly. “Especially when you threw that gobble his way!”

The siblings agreed in a mutual, excited hum. You felt the need to massage the aching space between your eyebrows.

“Come, watch the sky with us,” invited Daella.

“Yes, auntie!” Rhae was quick to grab your hand and drag you down to the grass, putting all of her little body’s strength into it. “Sit with us!”

Well, how could you say no to them? Sometimes it felt like the children were the only genuine creatures in this castle, even if they could also be the most cruel ones.

You laughed out loud, forgetting about the awful feeling left in you after the dinner. Just before you approached the kids, it struck you that the news would eventually reach Baelor’s ears, and you would have to face him. The mere thought made you dizzy. Now you could abandon the worry for a while, almost choking on your giggle when you noticed that Daeron was making up the shapes he ‘saw’ in clouds at the demands of his sisters, while his eyes were still closed.

“That one looks like Uncle Baelor,” claimed Rhae, nudging her brother’s shoulder.

Her sister deeply disagreed, snorting under her breath. “Perhaps when his head was all swollen,” he mocked.

You knew she was a child who probably only meant to hurt her sibling a bit, but you couldn’t feel your breath stop for a while. You stayed still, not very trustful of your own reactions today. Thankfully little Egg, the kindest boy you knew, sat up immediately and threw his sister a look of utter disappointment.

“Daella!” He screamed at her, making her blush and look your way as if she just realized you were there.

“I didn’t mean… I’m sorry,” she said to you, looking at her feet.

“It is alright,” you said quickly, certainly not wanting to cry in front of them. “I must go back to my occupations now. Have fun and… try not to walk away far from your brother.”

You looked at Daeron, snoring and asleep again, for the final time before getting up.

It wasn’t alright, not at all. The memory of Baelor’s suffering was a horror you would never forget. All the moments when his sons woke up at night were engraved in your mind. When you didn’t keep watch over your husband, you often sat by their side, holding them in your arms when they needed it. They were almost men, and yet they called for their father like children because of the worry for his life.

Ashford was about to stay with the four of you forever, and you knew it was better to accept it. Just sometimes, in moments like this, when your husband was locked in his room, you felt the overwhelming burden of it. It was like a force that could break your shoulders, your spine, and bend you in half just so you could hide your aching head between your knees.

When you reached your bedroom again, you gripped the goblet of wine like it was your only salvation in life. Gods, you really couldn’t handle it sober today. It made you feel even more pathetic when Baelor came in the evening, forcing you to turn around to hide your face reddened from crying and drinking. You banished the memory as much as you could when he left, forced by your desperate please.

If only you knew how much it broke his heart to leave you with all of it alone.

The pain was unbearable when you stood in front of his study the next day. It was midday, and you could still feel like sleep didn’t free you from its paws.

You entered slowly, recalling all the words you had prepared. The door didn’t squeak; your steps didn’t betray you.

“I pray…” you spoke without proper greeting, but your voice broke. It was so pitiful you wanted to scream. “All I can hope for is that you see my behavior as humiliating only for myself and not for you too.”

Baelor's head snapped up, and his expression turned from surprise to something gentle.

“My wife…” he whispered like he didn't hear your words at all, just taken aback by your presence itself. You knew he had problems with hearing, but you also knew he did that deliberately now. “How do you feel, heart?” He asked, rising from his chair, not daring to step closer to you.

That was the worst; you screamed at him too last night, and now he resented you. He must have. You were almost scared of yourself too, especially after how you behaved towards him when drunk.

Moments after your fury and your vulgar, uncontrolled speech, you were partially proud of it. With time came the questioning. You decided you couldn't bear the embarrassment.

You refused to open the door when Baelor sought you, but he entered anyway.

“Please, please…” you sobbed in your drunken state. “Leave me alone. I am deeply sorry, husband, but I cannot– Scold me all you like… all I deserve, but tomorrow. Let me have tonight…”

“Are you certain you are good to stay on your own?”

“Fuck, just leave!”

He had awful remorse for leaving you alone, but you also never looked at him with such fright. He didn't know how to react and fled, feeling more like a coward than ever.

“Baelor…” you whispered, making him return his thoughts to now.

You didn't answer his question, but he saw you were swaying on your feet. It wasn't something he would ever blame you for. He remembered his youth well; he had drunken nights with his brothers and tried to drown his sorrows in wine as well in the past.

He wished to take you in his arms and rock you calmly but didn't wish to overstep. There was deep doubt in him that your wish from last night would ever leave his memory. To him it wasn’t about your behaviour, though. It was about how much he failed as a husband, which made you feel like you had to hide.

Left with no choice, straightened his back and took a deep breath. “I could never think of your acts as humiliating. To neither of us, never.”

It made your breath hitch.

“But I…”

“It was… unexpected, I admit.” He nodded his head and stood up slowly, allowing you to step away if you wished to.

He prayed you wouldn’t. It would be unbearable if you backed away to the wall, fleeing from him like that. His fists tightened and loosened as a way to distract himself from the need to have you close.

You teared up again, trying to fight it, but your head ached, blood buzzed in your ears, and you felt like collapsing in front of your husband.

Baelor broke his promise to not do anything against your wish. He ignored it and closed the distance between you, pulling you to his chest.

“Do not cry, my love,” he said softly, brushing the top of your head with his lips. “Shhh… I'm so sorry it happened to you.”

You allowed your hands to move up and grip the material of his clothing over his chest.

“I let him provoke me,” you explained, trying not to sound hysterical. “It's my fault…”

You could hear it in Baelor’s voice that he smirked. “Even if you're not the first and not the last.”

“I'm so sorry.”

He moved away just to have a proper look at you. With his thumb, he brushed your tears away. Then it collided with your shivering lower lip and pressed a little. When he leaned in and you felt his warm breath all over your neck, you couldn’t help but think that some part of him enjoyed all of it. You decided to ignore it, not wanting to leave things unsettled.

“Why are you apologizing to me, sweet?”

“I never meant to rush you outside our bedroom,” you explained, ignoring his question. “I didn’t want you to see me looking so pitiful. Certainly not when I expected you to be ashamed of me.”

“I could never be ashamed of you,” he assured you without the need to think about it. “And besides, from what Maekar told me, there is nothing I or you should feel bad about.”

You smothered the material over his chest from the crumples your grip left. You looked up at him again with worry. “Did he tell you what caused it?”

“He refused to, but don’t take me for a fool, my wife. I know this lordling’s belief better than I would like to,” he muttered with a grimace.

Not wishing to see him like that, you moved onto your tiptoes and tugged at the collar of his shirt. Your lips merely brushed over his, but you felt him smile and chase you chastely when you meant to pull away. His touch was warm, and a big hand placed over your back made you shiver.

“What he did mention, though,” he spoke up, parting from your lips swollen from your own biting, “was that you fought like a true dragon. It’s a grand compliment from my brother.”

“I am no dragon…”

“Well, I guess you take from people you surround yourself with.” He played with your hair before brushing it behind your shoulder. The path of his finger that traced your face made you realize he missed you as much as you missed him. “Now answer my question, wife. How are you feeling?”

The tension suddenly left you, making you sigh deeply. You were happy to lean into Baelor’s strong arms more, supported by him.

“Awful,” you admitted. “Disgusting…”

That's what he figured. A night like that couldn’t leave you with anything good, especially when the remorse that caused it was unnecessary.

“Will you allow me to take care of you?”

“I don't want to be a bother,” you murmured quietly, hiding your face in his chest, but he gently made you look at him again.

“Nonsense. And when you feel better, perhaps tomorrow, I would like to take you for a ride. Would that be appealing to you?”

You hesitated for a while, knowing how much worse Baelor’s anger could make the situation. Still, you placed his good name above everything, and it felt like your chore to remind him of that.

“Baelor, I think it would be better if I stayed out of sight for some time. I certainly shouldn't show up next to you anywhere. At least for a few days. I…”

Baelor's eyes darkened dangerously. You felt him cupping your face tighter. Still gentle enough to call it sweet, but it was slowly turning into a touch of urgency. Made from the need to keep you close even against the wishes of others.

“Are those your thoughts, or did someone suggest that to you?” His voice turned lower and quieter. He always spoke his warnings like that. But it wasn’t meant to intimidate you, certainly not.

“They are mine,” you promised. “I only meant what's good for you…”

Baelor stared at you, his face barely over yours, and you would swear he didn’t even breathe. You could no longer recognize if his expression was a grimace or a smile, but there was something wicked in it. Something that you could only see on Baelor when he was furious or led by desire. It made you feel warm.

With thrill settling in the base of your spine, you wrapped your arms around Baelor, settling yourself more comfortably against him.

“Husband?”

“Say it again,” he dared. “Say that your wish is to stay away from me.”

“Oh, you know that it's not like that.”

“Say it,” he repeated, placing his big hand at the nape of your neck like he needed to support your head. He forced you to look up and throw your head back a little.

You watched him eye your bare neck like a man starved for what was his to take.

“I don't want to say it.”

He brushed another strand of hair out of the way. Your noses almost touched before he leaned in closer. A lazy kiss was placed on the side of your neck, dragged on for too long to consider it proper. Baelor’s warm lips traveled up to your ear, settling there for a while and playing with your earlobe before he spoke up again.

“If anyone says something about it again,” he spoke up in a serious, quiet voice that sent shivers down your body, “tries to pursue you into staying in the shadows…”

“Baelor,” you didn’t want him to end that sentence, even if your less rational part was thrilled with it. Enough harm was done already.

But would Baelor think the same if he were there with you, hearing the lord speak all of those sick words? For now he looked shaken only by the idea that you could be pushed away from your place by his side.

“Whoever tries to keep you away from me will have to face something much worse than your screams. Not that they weren’t scary enough, from what I’ve heard.”

a/n: this was such a pleasure to write. just me, wine and my dear friend baelor break-my-back… oh i mean–

It had started, as many of the best evenings did, with you wanting something and deciding to negotiate for it.

The three of you were in your shared chamber — the large one, the one that had been yours collectively for long enough that it had stopped feeling like any one person's room and had become simply yours, the furniture arranged around three people's habits, the books stacked in three different systems, the bed large enough to be almost architectural. Baelor was at the window. Maekar was on the bed, back against the headboard, reading something with the focused severity he brought to everything including leisure. You were sitting in the chair watching both of them and thinking.

"I think I want something," you said.

Maekar turned a page. "You always want something."

"And I usually get it."

"Debatable," he scoffed.

Baelor turned from the window. He read your face with those mismatched eyes — the specific quality of his attention when he had registered that this was not ordinary — and the corner of his mouth moved slightly. "What do you want?"

You looked at both of them. Took a moment to appreciate the specific sight of them — Baelor at the window with the evening light catching the dark hair threaded with white, broad and certain and composed; Maekar on the bed with the white hair loose and those violet eyes now lifted from the book and doing their assessment, the old scars visible above his open collar, the sheer presence of him.

"I was thinking on having both of you," you said as simply as stating the weather of the day. "At once."

A pause in which the room processed this.

Maekar's eyes moved to Baelor. Baelor's moved to Maekar. A communication passed between them that had no words.

"That is not," Maekar said carefully, "an unusual request, coming from you."

"The specifics are unusual." You held his gaze. "I want one of you in my cunt." A beat. "And one of you in my arse."

The quality of silence that followed was entirely different from the one before it.

Baelor's composure remained intact, which cost him something — you could see it in the slight tension at his jaw, the specific effort of a man receiving information that has gone directly to his body and is being managed upward. "That is," he said, "a very specific request."

"It is."

"We have not—" Maekar started.

"In some time," you agreed. "I know. That is rather the point." You settled back in the chair. "I find I miss the feeling and I am offering it. The question is how you earn it."

Another silence, this one with a different texture entirely — the specific charged quality of two men who have just been told there is something rare on the table and are beginning to calculate.

"Earn it," Maekar repeated.

"There are terms," you said pleasantly.

Baelor, who had been watching your face with the full and undivided attention of a man who had decided this conversation required it, moved from the window. He came to stand a few feet from you with his hands clasped behind his back and his expression doing something complicated. "What terms."

"Whoever impresses me most," you said, "gets to choose their position."

The look that passed between them this time was different from the first. Still communicative, still the language of two men who had been in each other's orbit their entire lives — but with something new in it. The competitive edge. The specific quality of Maekar when he has been told there is a prize and someone else might get it first.

"Define impresses," Maekar said.

"I'll know it when I see it."

"That is not a useful metric."

"It's the only one I feel inclined to offer," you amusely completed.

He looked at you. At Baelor. Back at you. Something moving through his expression that was equal parts calculation and the specific anticipatory quality of a man who had already decided he was going to win this and was working out the method.

Baelor, meanwhile, was looking at Maekar with an expression you had not entirely seen before.

"Come here," Baelor said.

Maekar looked at him. "I'm reading."

"I am aware." Baelor crossed to the bed. Stood at the edge of it, looking down at his brother with those mismatched eyes and the composed certainty of a man who has made a decision and is past the point of reconsidering it. "Come here, Maekar."

Something shifted in Maekar's expression. The book was no longer relevant — it had been set aside without his appearing to notice. Those violet eyes reading Baelor's face with the thoroughness he gave everything, arriving at a conclusion that moved through his expression in stages.

"You cannot be serious," he said.

"Have I ever said anything I didn't mean."

A pause. "What exactly are you—"

"The terms," Baelor said, with the mildness of a man discussing logistics, "did not specify what would constitute impression. I have a proposal." His eyes did not leave Maekar's face. "Unless you are not interested in winning."

The specific effect of that sentence on Maekar was immediate and visible — the jaw, the slight straightening, the competitive instinct locating the challenge and responding to it before the rest of him had fully processed what was being proposed.

He moved to the edge of the bed.

They were close now — close in the way they had always been close, the physical proximity of a lifetime of shared space, but with a different quality to it tonight. Baelor looking at Maekar with the careful attention he gave to everything he was about to do. Maekar looking back with the expression of a man who had run out of certain ground and was standing at the edge of something he had not mapped.

"I do not—" Maekar started.

"I know," Baelor said. Quiet. "Tell me to stop and I will."

A silence. Maekar said nothing.

Baelor moved slowly — the same careful quality he brought to everything, nothing sudden, nothing that didn't give Maekar time to register and respond — and closed the remaining distance between them, and pressed his mouth to his brother's.

It was soft. Almost tentative — which was not a word that applied to Baelor in most contexts, but here it did, the specific care of a man who was attending to something delicate. His hand came up to Maekar's jaw, barely touching, a question rather than a hold.

Maekar went very still.

You made a sound.

You hadn't planned to. It left you entirely without consultation — something immediate and involuntary at the sight of them, of Baelor's hand at Maekar's jaw and the specific frozen quality of Maekar receiving the kiss with the expression of a man whose system had encountered something it had not been built to process.

Maekar heard it.

His eyes, which had been closed, opened. They found you across the room — dark and violet and reading your face with the focused assessment that missed nothing — and what he found there moved through his expression in real time. The flush. The way you were gripping the arms of the chair. The specific quality of you watching them with your lips slightly parted and your breathing already changed.

Something shifted in him. He turned back to Baelor and kissed him back.

Not tentative. Maekar had processed the available information — this is what she wants, this is what it does to her — and had arrived at a conclusion and committed to it with the same decisiveness he gave everything. His hand found the back of Baelor's neck. The kiss moved from chaste to something considerably less chaste with a speed that suggested Maekar had decided that if he was doing this he was doing it properly, and properly for Maekar had always meant thoroughly and without half measures.

Baelor made a sound against his mouth.

You gripped the chair harder.

They were extraordinary. The specific sight of them, the dark hair and the white, Baelor's hand still at Maekar's jaw now with more certainty and Maekar's at the back of his neck pulling him closer, the kiss deepening with the specific quality of two people who knew each other completely and were discovering that knowing someone completely translated even here. Maekar's other hand finding Baelor's shoulder. Baelor's moving to his brother's hair.

You stood up from the chair. You crossed the room.

You sat on the bed beside them and said nothing because there was nothing that needed saying — just your hand at Maekar's back, just your presence, just the specific thing of being close enough to feel the warmth of both of them and watch from this proximity and feel the sound building in you again that had started everything.

They broke apart. Both of them were looking at you. Both of them flushed. Baelor's composure present but reduced to its foundations. Maekar's entirely absent, replaced by the expression of a man who has done something he did not anticipate doing and found the data surprising.

"Well," you said. Your voice was not steady. "That was very impressive."

Maekar's eyes moved over your face. Reading the flush of it, the quality of your breathing, the very obvious effect. The competitive certainty assembling itself in his expression with a speed that was almost amusing.

"We are not finished," he said.

And reached for Baelor again. What followed was less tentative.

Maekar, having decided, was Maekar — the competition had located its footing and was proceeding with the focused dedication of a man who intended to win something specific. He kissed Baelor with the thoroughness you recognised from other contexts, his hands certain now, and Baelor responded with equal certainty, and you sat beside them and watched with your hands moving over both of them and the sound you were making had gone past the occasional involuntary to something more sustained.

"Tell me," you managed against Maekar's ear, "what you want."

"You know what I want," Maekar answered, against Baelor's mouth, which was frankly an extraordinary sentence to hear from him.

"Say it," you bit his lobe.

He drew back from Baelor. Those violet eyes finding yours from close range, dark and certain and carrying the specific quality of Maekar who has won something and knows it. "I want your arse," he said, with the flat directness of a man placing an order. "I've earned it."

You looked at Baelor.

Baelor, who was flushed from jaw to chest and whose composure was somewhere in the vicinity of the floor, looked back at you with those mismatched eyes and something that was not quite a smile. "I find," he said, with the remnants of his diplomatic voice, "that I am entirely content with the alternative."

"Entirely content," you repeated.

"Enthusiastically content." A pause. "Urgently content."

You laughed. It came out somewhat wrecked.

The logistics of three people were not, after years of practice, a mystery — but they required attention, and you gave them attention, and Baelor gave everything attention as a matter of principle, and even Maekar — who was not patient in most contexts — was patient in this one because the prize was specific and he intended to arrive at it correctly.

You took your time. There was oil on the cabinet in the bathroom — Baelor, who thought of everything, had ensured this somehow some moment in the past without raising the matter as something relevant — and hands that knew you, and the specific luxury of two people attending to your comfort simultaneously with entirely different qualities of attention. Baelor's careful and thorough and narrating quietly in that wrecked precise voice. Maekar's focused and purposeful and punctuated by the occasional sound that suggested his patience was finite but holding.

By the time you were ready you were beyond ready.

Baelor had seen to that with his usual thoroughness — the oil warm from his hands, his fingers careful and patient and attentive to every sound you made, reading you the way he read everything until he was certain, and then continuing past certain because Baelor's standard was not the minimum required but the best possible. His mouth at your jaw, your throat, murmuring things against your skin in that precise wrecked voice — you're perfect, you're so good, tell me if you need me to stop — and the specific quality of being attended to by Baelor while Maekar's hands moved over you from behind, less patient and more purposeful, the heat of him against your back and the low sounds he was making into your hair that suggested his finite patience was approaching its limit.

"She is ready," Maekar said. Not to you. A conclusion delivered to the room.

"I think I will determine that," your tone nowhere near a reprimand with the shaky voice you managed.

A sound from behind you that was almost a laugh. Almost. His mouth at your neck. "Are you ready."

"Yes," you said. "I've been ready since the chair."

The sound Maekar made at that resonated through his chest and into your back.

Baelor lay back against the covers — unhurried, because Baelor was always unhurried, because Baelor's patience was the kind that had almost no bottom to it — and looked up at you with those mismatched eyes dark and attending and his cock flushed and hard against his stomach and waiting with the same quality of composed certainty as the rest of him.

You swung your leg over him. Reached down, positioned him with your hand and sank.

The sound you made — and the sound he made simultaneously, the specific harmony of two people arriving at the same overwhelming fact from opposite directions — belonged to no public occasion. His cock filling your cunt completely, the familiar stretch of him, the specific completeness that made your eyes close briefly and your hands press flat to his chest.

"Gods," Baelor said. Low. His hands at your hips, steadying, the grip of them careful. "You feel — every time — you feel—"

"I know," you said.

"You don't — you can't possibly know what you—"

"Baelor." Maekar, behind you. His hands finding your waist. "Later."

Baelor exhaled. His hands tightened on your hips. Those mismatched eyes finding yours with the specific quality of a man tabling a conversation he intends to finish. "Later," he agreed.

Maekar's hand found the back of your neck — not gripping, steadying, the specific pressure of him orienting you forward, and you went, leaning into Baelor's chest, changing the angle, and felt Maekar shift behind you.

"Breathe," Maekar said, against your hair and pressing a kiss against your temple. The word quiet and direct and carrying none of his usual severity — just the specific instruction of a man who was paying attention to you and intended to keep paying attention.

You breathed. He pressed forward.

The sound you made this time was entirely different — lower, longer, pulled from somewhere that had nothing to do with thought, the specific overwhelming sensation of him breaching that tight ring and pressing inward, slow and relentless and impossibly careful for a man of his general approach. The stretch of it — the specific fullness of Baelor in your cunt and Maekar pressing into your arse simultaneously, the thin wall between them meaning you felt both of them with a clarity that was almost unbearable — made your hands scrabble at Baelor's chest and your breath come in short intervals.

"Still," Maekar almost hissed. His hands at your waist, anchoring. "I have you. Stay still."

"I'm — gods — I'm trying—"

"I know." His mouth at the back of your neck. The tenderness of it, from him, in this moment — extraordinary. "You're doing perfectly. Stay still."

He pressed deeper.

Baelor's hands on your hips tightened. His eyes on your face — reading every flicker of expression, the composure entirely absent, replaced by something that was raw attention and barely managed wanting and the specific effort of a man holding himself completely motionless while everything in him wanted to move. "Tell us," he said. Careful. "Tell us if—"

"Don't stop," you said. "Please don't stop."

The exhale Baelor released. The sound Maekar made above you.

Maekar pressed forward the last remaining distance and seated himself fully and the sound you made at the completion of it — at the specific overwhelming fact of both of them, buried in you simultaneously, the fullness of it beyond any single word you had available — echoed off the walls of the chamber and neither of your husbands looked remotely apologetic about having caused it.

You felt everything — the specific heat of both of them, the way they filled you from different angles with different qualities of pressure, the thin wall between them meaning every slight shift of one was felt by the other, meaning the three of you were connected in a way that was almost absurdly complete. Baelor's chest beneath your hands, rising and falling. Maekar's chest against your back, the old scars warm against your skin.

"Move," you said. "Please — I need you to —move."

They did.

Not in unison — that was not how it worked between three people, not how it had ever worked, and the lack of unison was precisely what made it extraordinary. Baelor's hips rolling upward in the deep certain motion that was specific to him, the full deliberate stroke of a man who had decided to be thorough about this, his cock dragging against the walls of your cunt with a precision that suggested he was attending to this with the same focused care he gave everything. And Maekar pulling back and driving forward with the controlled urgency that was always him, the possessive deep thrust of a man occupying territory he has won and intends to hold, his cock filling your arse with the specific relentless certainty of Maekar doing anything he had decided to do well.

The counterpoint of them.

Baelor rolling deep and slow when Maekar thrust forward, the two rhythms creating something that hit you from both directions simultaneously, that built something with no single source and no single peak but a sustained overwhelming accumulation of sensation that made coherent thought increasingly theoretical.

"Fuck," you said. The word arriving without consultation.

Maekar made a sound against your hair that was not entirely dignified.

"Tell me—" Baelor, beneath you, his voice demolished, his hips finding their rhythm and holding it. "Tell me how it feels."

"Full," you managed. "I feel — gods — I feel both of you — I can feel you both so—"

"Yes," Baelor said. The word rough and immediate, the composure entirely gone. "Yes — I can feel him — I can feel Maekar through you — you feel—"

"Don't," Maekar said, above you. His rhythm stuttering for a fraction of a second. "Don't say that."

"Why," Baelor said, with a somewhat playful breathlessness that had no diplomatic quality left in it, "does it bother you."

"It doesn't—" Maekar's thrust landing harder than the previous ones, the specific response of a man whose composure has been prodded— "it doesn't bother me, it's simply—"

"You can feel him too," you said. The words coming out wrecked and certain. "Can't you. Through me. You can feel him."

The sound Maekar made was not a word. His rhythm intensified as Baelor's thumb found your clit.

The specific arrival of that — the pad of his thumb working in slow deliberate circles while his cock drove upward into your cunt and Maekar's drove into your arse from behind — collapsed whatever remaining composure had been holding you. Your head dropped to Baelor's shoulder. Your hands gripping him. Maekar's hands at your waist pulling you back to meet every thrust and the sounds you were making had gone past language entirely, just the raw physical fact of being completely, totally, overwhelmingly full of both of them and Baelor's thumb and the specific counterpoint rhythm that was hitting you from every possible direction.

"She's close," Maekar said. Above you, directed at Baelor, the two of them communicating over your head with the specific language of men who had been in each other's orbit their entire lives and had added a new vocabulary tonight. "I can feel her — fuck she's—"

"I know," Baelor said through gritted teeth. His thumb moving faster. His hips finding a deeper angle. "You are taking us so fucking well, my heart."

"Don't stop," the words barely words. "Whatever you do don't — please — both of you — please don't—"

"We have you," Baelor said. Certain. Warm. Even now, even this undone, the specific quality of Baelor present and attending. "We have you."

Maekar's hand moved from your waist to the front of you — finding where Baelor's thumb was working and joining it, not replacing, the two of them together — and the specific fact of both their hands on you simultaneously while both their cocks filled you was the thing that finished it entirely.

You came apart.

Not the sharp clean peak of bilateral sex — something longer than that, more sustained, rolling through you in waves that kept arriving because there were two of them, two sources of sensation, and every tremor that moved through you was felt by both of them and responded to by both of them and the feedback of it was extraordinary and endless and you were saying things that were not words and gripping Baelor like he was the only solid thing and feeling Maekar's forehead press to the back of your neck with a tenderness that undid you as thoroughly as everything physical.

"Perfect," Baelor said. Into your hair. His voice entirely wrecked. "You're perfect — you're so — gods, you feel—"

"Again," Maekar said, against your neck. The word rough and wondering. "She's — Baelor — she's going again—"

You were going again.

The second one arrived before the first had finished, the overstimulation of both of them still moving — Maekar's rhythm gone from controlled to urgent, Baelor's thumb still working despite the shaking of his own hands — and this time you were louder and less coherent and heard both of them respond to the sounds you were making in real time, felt both of them tipping toward their own edges, the specific tension of two men who had been building to this all evening finally arriving at the point of no return.

Baelor first.

His hips losing their rhythm entirely, his hands gripping you with both arms suddenly, pulling you down hard against him as his cock pulsed in your cunt and his voice broke open against your throat with your name in it, said the private way, the specific way that had no public version.

Maekar mere seconds behind him.

Which was also Maekar — competitive to the last, holding on for the seconds that meant he did not finish first, the seconds that cost him visibly and enormously — and then the composure gave out completely, his hips driving forward one last time and holding there, buried as deep as he could go in your arse, his face pressed hard into your hair and a sound leaving him that was rougher and more private than anything he had produced all evening.

The three of you shook. Then stilled. Then breathed. The chamber was very quiet except for three people's hearts returning to their usual business. Your brain did not entirely register just how you disentangled from each other. Not that it did matter, after all.

Maekar's forehead was against the back of your neck. Baelor's arms around you from your front. The specific warmth of being completely surrounded — pressed between them, held by both, the evidence of the evening present and warm and thorough.

"Both of you," you said, eventually, against Baelor's chest. The words arriving from somewhere underwater. "Simultaneously. I want it on record."

"Noted," Baelor said. His voice demolished against the crown of your hair. "To be revised in the near future, I should hope."

A pause in which you did not find the strength to laugh.

"I won," Maekar said, smugness clear in his voice.

"Technically," you teased.

He lifted his head. "What the fuck does technically mean."

"It means the terms were most freaky and I'm not certain the kissing qualified on its own merits."

"I kissed my brother."

"You kissed your brother adequately and then fucked my arse, yes."

"Which was exceptional."

"Which was very good," you agreed. "Not quite the same thing."

Maekar stared at the back of your head. You did not need to turn around to know exactly the type of face he was sporting.

Baelor made a sound. "She's doing it again," he said. To Maekar. The tone of a man reporting a known weather pattern to someone who should have prepared for it.

"I can hear you," you said.

"I know." Baelor's hand found your back. Patted it once, twice, with the specific quality of someone soothing an animal they find both troublesome and dear. "I'm speaking to Maekar."

"And exactly what am I doing?" you asked in a playful voice.

"Poking the bear," Baelor said. "You always poke the bear when you've gotten what you wanted. It's a victory lap."

"It's not a—"

"She does this," Baelor said to Maekar. Conversationally. "You know she does this."

"I know she does this," Maekar said, with the flat resignation of a man who knows he is about to rise to something and cannot stop himself. "It was exceptional," he said to you, directly. "You said my name four times in a row."

"I usually say Baelor's name frequently."

"You said mine four times."

"I was being polite."

The sound Maekar made. "You were screaming."

"Enthusiastically polite," you raised your pointer finger in defence.

"Four times—"

"All right," Baelor said. With the composure of a man managing a room that has gotten away from him. "Both of you." A pause. "I was not aware this counted as a game, but Maekar won. The evidence is extensive and I was present for all of it." Another pause. "You are both catastrophic and I am going to need everyone to be still for approximately ten minutes because I am held together with goodwill and I would like to keep it that way."

You laughed softly against Baelor's chest. Maekar's arm came around you and his hand settled on your sternum, your own covering his and interlacing your fingers together.

"I know you won," you finally conceded to Maekar. You could almost sense his smile through the back of your head.

"She knows I won," Maekar said.

"I know," Baelor said, smiling. "Quiet."

A.N.: i am not gonna comment on how long this idea has been plaguing my mind. i think i cannot blame ovulation anymore, i think this is the real me

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