Honey

The day ended the same as it often did: you curled up on your side, pillows and blankets and the occasional stray article of Joel’s clothing caging you in. You slept with your nose buried in one of his old flannels when he was out on patrol, and this evening was no different.

He’d been gone for too long. By your calculation, it must’ve been at least three days since the last time you’d seen that soft, twinkling gaze beaming down at you from underneath a fringe of salt-and-pepper. Those absences always seemed to be felt most keenly when the winter months had started to give way to spring, sunlight streamed through the windows of your home a little longer each day, and all signs pointed to the fact that he should be here. Why wasn’t he here?

‘’M’right behind ya. Right here, sweetheart. Hold on.’

Sometimes, it was like you could almost hear the gravel in his tone, the little kinks at the corners of his lips, even the jingle of his belt buckle as the leather came undone. There were moments you would’ve sworn those callused hands were searing a red-hot path down your sides, trailing slow and long and low until the panties he’d hooked under his thumbs were at your knees. More often than not, you woke up soaked.

Sweating.

Cursing yourself for how long you’d let this go on.

But that was Joel Miller’s effect, wasn’t it? Half the reason you were in this bed, huffing his tattered clothing to fall asleep and whimpering and moaning when you couldn’t bring yourself to climax in the middle of the night no matter how hard you tried.

If you didn’t love him so much, you might be irked.

Dream Joel could get fucked, though, frankly.

Teasing you like that was just the worst thing—which was probably the reason why you felt no compunction whatsoever when a touch grazed your thigh through your sleep shorts tonight, and you groaned, reflexively:

“Nooooooo! Please. Please, I’m too tired for this shit.”

Only an imagined chuckle came as your reply, identical to Joel’s own and almost impossibly close to your ear. Something as sharp as his stubble touched your neck.

You were awake, but not really. Conscious but barely clinging to your own awareness, with just enough lucidity to keep your personality intact and tell faux-Joel he could take a long walk off a short pier and die.

‘Mmm. Your husband comin’ home anytime soon?’ The wildly rude hallucination mocked you. It even combed its fingertips over the crown of your head, smoothing your hair and then massaging tiny circles toward the base of your skull, just like Joel loved to do.

You eased into it, but you didn’t budge an inch besides.

In your barely sentient state, you recalled four separate occasions this same man had disappeared into thin air.

“My husband…would fuck me…” you trailed off, yawning big. “So…so much better than you could.”

‘Is that a fact?’

By now, the ministrations on your scalp had descended past your neck and met your shoulders, then your ribs, then the soft and pliant flesh peeking out through the side of your shirt. Your camisole was loose—an unflattering, murky shade of gray you’d hoped Joel would never get to take too long a look at. Simultaneously, you wished he would see it tonight.

‘Wanna test that theory, hon? See who fucks better?’

If it would get this fraudulent motherfucker to shut up, then yeah, definitely. It wasn’t going to end up with a—

“Oh,” you let out a breath at a pressure on your back.

And there it was: Joel’s warmth, Joel’s weight, the goddamn smell of Joel’s aftershave greeting your senses like an old friend as a form slid into the bed behind you. For a second, tears could’ve started to well in your eyes, and you wouldn’t have been able to stop them. You were sleepy, and you were starved, and more than anything, you missed your old man like hell.

“Please don’t…go,” you mumbled, wistful and pathetic.

If there was one thing you wished you’d told Joel before he’d slung his knapsack over his back on Monday and kissed you goodbye, it was that: don’t go.

Don’t leave you a quivering, shaking mess at the mere thought of feeling those hands all over you again. And once they did—or the imaginary ones, anyway—and they slid right over your hips and kneaded the skin there, you sighed. You relaxed into a body that had molded to the back of yours, and for a beat, you contemplated opening your eyes into the darkness.

Not wanting the dream to end, you decided against it.

All the familiar sights, from the deep burgundy duvet to the pillows scattered around the mattress, the indentations from where your body and Joel’s had laid countless times before, would have to wait. You hated how natural it felt to be resting like this here, now.

Something nudged between the tops of your legs.

Had the moon been shining a little brighter or your eyes actually ventured to open again, you might’ve seen a broad, muscular forearm reach across your abdomen and find a home for a seasoned hand. That touch was not only quick but assured in its movements, just where you needed it most.

You moaned while two fingers circled your clit.

And again, and again, and again, they went on.

‘There she is,’ a Texan’s lilt crooned in your ear. Elevating in volume as your whines did the same, ‘That’s where your old man misses every time, huh?’

“N-No. He doesn’t,” you protested weakly.

This dream was fucking unreal.

The little circuits and lemniscates on your sensitive bundle of nerves had turned into a full-blown incursion, and it worked. In no time at all, you felt an influx of pleasure materialize; you heard it echo through the tiny, repeated squelches between your thighs, and you guessed that very same essence would be trickling down onto the bedspread. Pleasure eclipsed thought, and your eyes shut even tighter.

Then a pair of lips grazed your jaw. Fine, sharp hairs that you pictured shining mostly silver in the light tickled behind your ear, and the voice continued:

‘Bet he can’t find that…special spot…inside her.’

At just the mention of it—that fucking use of ‘her’ to refer to your slick, wet pussy—your whole body pulsed.

Something else must have twitched back, too, because suddenly you felt your hips at an angle.

Still unable to fathom that any of this could be real, or that the fingers working your clit mercilessly right now might actually lead to more, you operated on instinct.

You arched your back, obedient as you’d ever been, and you didn’t protest. You wanted it. From Joel, some figment of the inner machinations of your own mind, an enigma, really, you weren’t in a position to care.

‘Can you make it fit? All the way in, sweet pea?’

You nodded into the bed, lids pinched shut.

‘Been so long since you had it, huh?’

Uh-huh, your head bobbled again.

It didn’t matter if this whole thing ended a second from now: you were feeling it, needing him, and practically bucking for release. You’d get it soon enough, you reasoned. Asleep or fully awake—it would happen.

And then something warm and thick breached you.

The tip and every inch beyond was welcomed by your dripping heat, so the slide was easy. It might’ve gone four, five inches before you hit the widest part, and only then did your walls show a hint of resistance. Hell, it had been almost a week since you’d gotten fucked properly, and your body needed some…adjustment.

You were stunned you’d actually made it this far.

Never before had the fantasy not ended with Joel’s cock at your entrance, and never had it been like this.

Frantically, you reached behind yourself and felt him.

“Joel?!” you all but choked on the words as your husband sheathed the rest of himself inside. A soft, wet sound echoed at the press of his balls to your rear.

“Right here, honey. You jus’ tell me if this is OK, yeah?”

Clearly, he hadn’t been aware that you thought his presence was all an illusion; he’d figured you were roleplaying, probably. There was a strain in his voice as you squeezed and clenched around him and made his cock fit as snug as it had been in a while. He held your hip and kept his own lower half perfectly rigid and still.

You turned your head to him and stared, eyes wide.

Still lying with your spine pressed flush to his chest, but able to crane your neck just enough to watch him:

“I—I thought I was making you up.”

Joel grinned. The bastard smirked before he leaned forward an inch or two and found your lips. Kissed you.

That face was worn and haggard and webbed with rows of wrinkles from all the years and restless nights, and you wished you could soak it all in like a person might take a picture. As it was, though, your eyelids were fluttering back shut with the kiss, and your cunt was quick to stretch against Joel’s pulsing intrusion. His cock was more than a familiar force by now; he’d practically carved himself into your genetic makeup with every thrust, and your body reacted accordingly.

Taking gentle, shallow strokes and kneading your breast while he did, rubbing his thumb over the hypersensitive nipple, Joel managed against your lips:

“My baby’s been dreamin’ ‘bout me, huh?”

You didn’t need to respond in words.

Your reply came in the way you reached behind yourself and fisted a clump of gray ringlets at the nape of Joel’s neck. Your husband adjusted his position and began fucking you a little more quickly and deeply.

“I can tell, honey. Can feel by how she squeezes me.”

Without a doubt, Joel was in charge, but you could also hear the faintest intonation of something breaking for him, too. You’d been thinking of him, of this, and he’d been doing the same while he was away on patrol.

The thought that you could be a vessel for his pleasure in the exact same way that he was for you made you want to squirm even more. You felt him hold your head upright by your neck, and with his face only inches away, you kept coupling your bodies, again and again.

The hand around your breast squeezed harder. The measured thrusts grew uneven. You were milking Joel’s cock for every scrap of pleasure you could claim, and in truth, the two of you probably looked close to feral fucking like this. The bed creaked and groaned and threatened to splinter with every new movement.

A familiar warmth pooled in your stomach.

Something twitched beside your cervix.

“Ain’t gonna last long. ‘M’sorr—”

“Don’t,” you choked, before Joel could finish the apology. “Don’t be. Want you to…cum inside me.”

Instinctively, you both knew better.

Hell, you hadn’t been tracking your period for weeks with how infrequently Joel was at home, but here you went: all but begging him to blow his load inside you.

“Aw, honey. You—You know—”

Apocalypse. Living undead. No access to emergency contraceptives should you have been ovulating then.

“Might as well leave me with…” A strangled breath curtailed your speech. You rut your hips even harder. “…something to…to…keep me company while you’re out on patrol. You know how lonely it can get here.”

You knew what kind of effect those words would have on your husband, too. You’d never indulged this much.

Joel had just been itching to knock you up of late.

“Fuck, baby,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

His thrusts sped up. There wasn’t enough road left for the two of you to keep speeding on like this—your highs were drawing closer and closer by the second.

“Don’t you wanna make me a mama?” you pouted.

“Fuck, honey. Yes. Yes. You jus’ give me the go ahead.”

Joel was polite, even when he was about to breed you.

Like it had been before, you didn’t need words to answer his question. Like you felt when you were curled up in bed, mostly dead to the world, you were fine because you’d already established this agreement that it was OK to take. OK to give, so long as it made both you and him happy and still put your safety first.

Maybe this wasn’t the safest, or smartest, thing to do.

But when Joel groaned against you, and you moaned back, mouths open and strained and panting out noises of inimitable pleasure, that thought faded.

In its place came an arm tightening around your body, a set of lips crashing to yours, and a long-awaited release—pulsing, pushing, flooding you with heat.

Your husband must have unloaded about a hundred ropes of spend by the time the two of you were finished. He looked about as tired as if he did.

Still, he was grinning as he flipped your body to him.

An electric current seemed to be vibrating beneath your skin as you finally, finally got to throw your arms around your husband and let him pull you into a hug.

He smelled like pine needles and sweat. His hair was a mess. That beard you’d been begging him to grow out for ages was now long and a little unkempt in some places, but nothing could hide the smile on his lips.

Most importantly to you, he was real this time.

And before you could utter so much as a word to say that you’d missed him more than anything this last week, the old man was reaching for your hips again.

Your smile grew bigger, and your eyebrows lifted a bit.

“Well, darlin’, I’ve gotta make sure we made it stick.”

TIME TO YEARN ABOUT THAT OLD MAN AS A FATHER NOW!!!

Ever since Baelor Targaryen had wed the young, sweet, insatiably cunning thing with silver hair—blood of his own blood—he surmised he’d need to keep an eye on the time of month if he knew what was good for him.

He didn’t want a son. He scarcely had any desire to ascend the Iron Throne himself, and yet he was bombarded, always, with admonitions, queries, downright pleas to procreate. To produce an heir.

Because of this reality, it wasn’t lost on the man in the slightest why he had been promptly paired off with you

Another inch gliding inside of wet and slippery perfection, and his whole body seemed to shake. Your cunt sucked at him delectably, temptingly, and it was getting harder and harder to keep the need at bay.

“Seven hells,” he cursed, just as his balls kissed the globes of your ass, and he was completely sheathed.

You’d offered him head after that trial at the Tourney of Ashford, if one could believe it. You’d welcomed him home that night with a hug and a kiss, marveling the multitude of bumps and bruises and lacerations he’d sustained in the fight, and then, just as fast, fallen to your knees. It had only taken four or five bobs of your mouth and a couple more kitten licks up his shaft before Baelor had lifted you and thrown you on the bed

And here he was, again, exactly where he’d promised himself he’d never be the week you were ovulating.

“Baelor,” you whined, canting your hips upward to make the slide of his cock that much more maddening and deep. You threaded your fingers through the short gray hairs at the nape of his neck, and when he hadn’t answered you in words, you said, even louder, “Uncle.”

“Hush, my dear,” Baelor implored. Another clench of your velvety heat, and his hips were stuttering again. “Y-You know I am not ‘Uncle’ when I sink this far ins—”

One more fluttering pulse. One more helpless grunt from him. Particulars about when his niece should and shouldn’t say ‘uncle’ were shortly lost to the ether.

You were much too young to be a mother. He was too old to be raising any child alongside you—it was wrong.

The bed creaked and groaned some more beneath you both, while your legs wrapped tight around the backs of his, and his cock plunged repeatedly in and out, in and out. He could feel your essence drooling from the place he had you plugged, and he hated how dearly he loved the feeling of it smearing his skin. Matting the wiry hairs at the base of his abdomen and making him feel, more than any measly Trial of Seven or other bloodshed event he had yet lived to see, like he belonged. Like he were born to serve a purpose.

He couldn’t be so selfish as to do it, though.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

The words hummed through his skull like a broken refrain, and when, at length, your back arched from the bed and your whimpers grew higher and higher in pitch, Baelor took comfort in the fact that you were close—that very soon, all of this would be over with.

“I— I—” you fumbled around for words, eyes rolling back as the wet smack of skin suddenly increased.

“Shh, shhh, that’s a good girl. I know it,” Baelor assuaged you gently. Pressing the tip of his cock to that sweet and special spot he knew would send you careening over the edge and into bliss in no time at all.

His thrusts were quick but as tender as ever; in just these few short months of marriage, the old man had come to learn your body like the back of his hand. He could tell by the way your nose scrunched presently that it wouldn’t be long before you reached your peak, and then his tight, hot, needy, greedy little minx of a wife would be satisfied. At least until the break of day.

“It’s alright, darling. You can let go. Go on then. Come.”

He plunged in to the hilt once again, and you shrieked.

“Baelor.”

“Come for me.”

Nails the shape of crescents clawed deep within his skin, and he could feel you. Squeezing him. Swelling.

“Baelor.”

“Darling, please—”

“I— I— I thought— I thought I’d lost you tonight.”

The words came out in a slurred, frenzied rush. Rather than hitting your high, like he’d hoped, you were releasing something else entirely: a feeling. Fear.

Or terror, as it happened to be.

Eyes widening out of panic, as opposed to the aftershocks of orgasm, startled Baelor abruptly.

Before he could even think: “What do you mean?”

“The Trial of Seven—I could not bear to watch it. I was certain you would be maimed, or—or, oh, I can’t say it!”

“That I might die?”

His movements slowed but didn’t stall entirely. He was still holding you, or cradling you, as it were, and your body was splayed with such abandon. You spread yourself to him but remained glued to his body like a second skin. Baelor only ever knew you to behave this way when he took you to bed. Every other hour of the day, you were as fiercely independent as one could be.

“You never told me—” he started delicately.

“I’d be left with nothing,” you went on, in almost a sob. “If you…passed, I’d have nothing to remember you by.”

As if on cue, he felt his cock twitch. Stiff as a fucking rock and planted halfway inside your heat, he felt a pull like he never had before. Baelor swallowed the thought as fast as it came and resumed his ministrations then, this time reaching down to thumb circles on your clit.

“You’d have memories aplenty, wife, would you not?” He tried schooling his features into something like unaffected complaisance, but the effort was largely in vain. His length was still throbbing with sick ideas.

“And what sort of company should memories be to me?” you huffed. Your own expression seemed bent on petulance for the time being, but your resolve was evidently waning. With the friction of those little shapes, your inner muscles tightened and clenched.

Fighting off orgasm anyway, you managed, quietly, “No, I— I wished I had had a part of you in my belly.”

That made Baelor halt in place.

Cock stretching you very nearly to your body’s limits—he was an abnormally large man, and you had only just learned to accommodate a girth of that size on your wedding night—he froze, as did the pace of his hand.

He spoke your name in a low and warning tone.

You rolled your eyes, as you were often wont to do.

“Don’t speak to me as though I’m naïve, uncle. I understand the purpose of this union as well as you!”

“To strengthen the repute of our House—”

“To preserve our bloodline!” you snapped. Digging your heels into his calves while a soft and strangled breath crawled its way out of your lungs. “Which we…cannot accomplish so long as you withdraw and spill your seed over my stomach or down my throat each night.”

Baelor was taken back by the frankness of your speech; indeed, he’d never heard his niece so uninhibited when it came to the subject of childbearing. You looked as austere as ever.

“If I ever lose you in combat someday…” you went on.

Then you swallowed and blinked harder, and Baelor could hear his heart splintering at the sight of it alone.

“If I could have just something to keep of us—”

While you spoke, Baelor sank in. Resumed.

He stroked your cheek, shaking his head.

“You won’t lose me. I swear by the old gods and new.”

That seemed about as good of a promise as any one man could make. Though no day was guaranteed for the prince of the realm, and there very well might be a time when his life hung in the balance, he could give that assurance: come what may, you wouldn’t lose him

At the same time, your body drew him closer to yours.

Now the warmth between your legs had risen to a near-conflagration, and that sweet, wet, precious tunnel of muscle and quivering flesh pulled at his cock taut as anything. He’d never felt such need, or heat, in his life, and the light that flared in your eyes reminded him just who you were, and where he came from, too.

It’d be a shame to leave this world without a namesake

Pity to rot away into the cold and hardened dirt without having left his mark in some way, with you.

Now to fuse a piece of himself inside your womb and see family grow from it: children with your silver hair and fiery gaze, all sunny and strong and steadfast, too.

The thought consumed him to the point of paralysis—at least in his mind, he was rooted in awe of that idea.

It happened before he meant it to.

Crashing his hips to your own in a kind of desperate, frenetic movement and then letting out a full-throated groan, he emptied himself completely inside you. He felt rope after rope spit from his hot, aching tip with every pulse of his cock, and he didn’t regret a drop.

What he could, and did, lament was how fast it came. Had you gotten the chance to hit climax yet yourself?

The answer to that followed from your cry in almost the same second—lips parting, legs trembling, body convulsing, momentarily, before your eyes flitted up.

You seemed almost incredulous of what you’d just felt flooding your insides as your orgasm washed over you. A little frightened, perhaps, to think your husband had only done this by accident and didn’t want the same things as you. The only way Baelor could think to put a stop to those thoughts, and savor the present moment, was to kiss you. So he did, tenderly.

When your body relaxed, so did his own.

His tongue traced every contour and crevice of your mouth, and in no time, the man had procured solace once more with the simple undulation. You kissed him back with all the force of a woman starved, lips needy.

Only now, it seemed, the wanting wasn’t just physical.

Primal seemed more fitting a word as limbs tangled even tighter together, mouths clashed, and hands reached everywhere, anyplace they possibly could. Baelor remained buried inside you, stuffing you full.

And when the two of you had had to part, eventually, after several dozen eternities that still couldn’t have lasted quite long enough, he beamed down at you.

With a newfound feeling and an unmistakable heat beginning to trickle down your thighs, you smiled back.