Ma'am, this is gonna get a little messy

This full situation was just utter shit. Even if you removed your own wage from the earnings of the practice (which you were certain was something the majority of vets did not do), it would barely be above water. You had to find a solution, and fast.

It meant no more treating stray animals (and especially not feeding that cute tabby that always came to the backdoor at exactly 8pm each night, but you were pretty sure you would find yourself waiting at that door tomorrow 7:58, catfood in hand), no more giving discounts to customers struggling with their vet fees, and, worst of all, following up with customers that have yet to pay.

You were a vet, for Seven's Sake, you were better at interacting with animals than humans, so having to chase your past customers for their overdue bills truly did seem like hell.

If only you knew that the situation truly could get worse.

There was a low thud at the backdoor, Dixie's head lazily raised at the sound, giving you a look as if to say 'Well? Aren't you going to go check?'.

You could only scowl, remove her paw from your thigh as you dusted off any pet hair off your jeans, which truly was an impossible task that you quickly gave up on. Sleep gnawed at the corners of your mind, blurring your sensibilities as you went to the door, and for some reason beyond your own stupidity, you opened it, half expecting to see that tabby yowling for a midnight snack.

Yeah no wonder your practice was going to shut down, being run by an utter idiot like yourself. You did not even stop to think that perhaps, as a young woman that lived alone, that maybe, just maybe, you should not be opening the door to strange sounds at odd hours of the night. But unfortunately that was a thought only brought afterthefact.

Instead of a cute cat with brown and grey stripes, you found a man slouched against your door, falling into the entrance as you opened the door.

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

He was injured, blood blooming against his otherwise pristine white button up shirt, the arms of his black blazer scuffed by dirt, the fibers tearing slightly. His hair, short cropped and neat, matched his beard — a deep chestnut with silver threaded throughout. It looked as if it were cut with scissors rather than a razor. You would have thought that he was quite handsome, with his sharp features, nose that looked as if it had healed after being broken in the past, if it were not for the grievous injury in his side and cuts on his face.

He was not even making any noises, not even when his head had crashed against your laminate flooring in a loud thud. You cringed at the sound, your gaze scouring the back alley, only finding darkness staring back, forcing your hands beneath his armpits as you dragged him inside of the store, slamming the door shut behind you, locking it once, and twice; confirming it remained locked.

You really did not want to see what had injured him.

Dixie followed you, her nose prodding at the injured man as you tried to lift him onto the examination table. It was difficult, the man was tall and you could tell that there was muscle concealed beneath that suit, which just made him heavier to move. But, eventually, you managed, his legs hanging off the edge of the table as it was truly designed for much smaller patients, like stray cats, and occasionally a large dog.

When you were certain he was not going to fall, you applied hand sanitiser to your hands, rubbing them as you inspected him. He was breathing, although it sounded slightly laboured, but that was all that mattered. You really did not want him to die in the practice. You would just apply first aid and call 777, the ambulatory services, and hopefully they would just race over here, and take the man away.

Dragging the nitrile gloves over your hands, you grabbed a small penlight, dragging the eyelid of his left eye open, revealing motionless brown, the pupil immediately constricting. You sighed softly at the sight, thank fuck, it meant his brain wasn't injured at least. You moved onto the next eye, muttering a soft prayer to the Mother as you hoped to see the same thing occur, only for your heart to drop.

Violet.

The pupil constricted, exposing more violet, and you could only stare.

Shit.

He was a fucking Targaryen.

You released the skin of his eyelid, dropping the penlight, the torch clattering against the floor, metal against laminate. Your eyes darted to your phone that was just resting on your desk.

You couldn't call the police, right? That would actually be stupid, right? The Targaryens owned everything, you were pretty sure they even owned the police. They were an impenetrable empire, posing as a chain of high end hotels, The Ānogar, and a hundred other successful businesses that you were certain just existed to launder money.

Motherfucker.

He definitely couldn't die now, especially not here. You grumbled low complaints to Dixie, who sat patiently at the doorframe, wagging her tail as if she were not meant to be resting right now

You checked the back of his head, fingers tracing where he had previously slammed it, and you were just thankful that there was no blood. You moved onto the wound on his side, half removing his blazer so that it no longer restricted his arms, and unbuttoned his shirt with trembling hands.

You were right, he was muscular. Tanned skin littered with scars, with short dark hair that curled at his chest, trailing lower until it was concealed by his dress pants. But you couldn't focus on that, not when blood seemed to bubble out of his wound now that there was no more pressure. You quickly pressed fresh gauze against the wound, your mind going blank as you tried to think of what to do next.

If he were a dog, what would you do? Stupid question, but it was enough to trigger you back into action, searching for saline and an antiseptic to clean the wound. There was just so much blood.

All you could see was crimson, it had dripped on the table, smudged at your actions; it had coated the blue of your sterile gloves, causing everything you touched to become bloodied. You cursed the fact that you had removed your scrubs, your favourite white shirt now stained with specks of crimson. But you needed to keep a clear mind, and force your hands to stop trembling. You slowed your breathing, forcefully exhaling as you began to suture the wound, the curved needle piercing the skin as you stopped once, adjusting your grip on the needle holder, before continuing. It was neat, not exactly the prettiest, but you had plenty of experience of stitching up cats after they were spayed, and were proud that these stitches were as neat as those ones.

You were searching through one of your cabinets, trying to find a packet of butterfly stitches you were certain you had, but stilled when you heard a low groan behind you. Found them. You grabbed the packet and swiftly turned on your heel, finding the injured Targaryen now suddenly upright, glaring at you.

"Who are you?" He questioned, his voice hoarse, the words scratching against his larynx as he adjusted himself, wincing as his hand fell to his wound once more. But he frowned when he found the skin aching but covered with fabric, white bandages covering his abdomen.

You murmured your name (Dixie barked at the sound of it, causing you to flinch), your gaze darting to the needle that you left beside him. His gaze followed yours, his brain finally connecting the dots, no longer clouded by the haze of unconsciousness. You had stitched him up.

"You didn't use anaesthesia?" He questioned, and it sounded more like a demand rather than a complaint.

"No."

"Why?"

"Would you rather I had?" You answered with your own question, not wanting to get into the ins and outs of why you decided not to use local anaesthesia on an alleged mob boss. You both knew that it would have been stupid if you had, there were too many risks; he could have been allergic, and died; he could have accused you of drugging him, and you would have died.

"No." He admitted, buttoning up his shirt so that he could maintain some modesty in front of the veterinarian before him. You were pretty. But he was unsure if that thought was triggered by blood loss or the fact that you had saved his life. He would later decide that it was just a fact, nothing else, you were just very pretty, glaring at him while he had the audacity to question you despite the fact that you had just saved his life.

You continued to advance towards him, standing between his thighs as you busied your hands with opening the packet of butterfly stitched. He could feel the heat of your person pressed against his thighs, the smell of vanilla and something sterile wafting around you.

The Targaryen remained quiet, just watching as your gaze darted back to his face. But he could tell that you were not truly looking at him, simply cataloguing the shallow cuts on his face. Your hand travelled to his jaw, and he suppressed a shudder at the feeling of the cold nitrile against his skin but he allowed you to move him, manipulating his head into a position ideal for applying the butterfly stitches. You worked quickly, applying the small adhesive strips to his face, the cuts closing.

He didn't say another word to you, just watching as you withdrew, pulling the blood-stained gloves off, throwing them into a bin. Dixie replaced you, her tail wagging as she looked up at the brunette man.

"You should ideally go to a hospital, the wound is still at risk of infection. You'll need some sort of antibiotics. And clean bandages."

"No hospitals." He interjected before you could start rambling about whatever else he would need.

"Cool, die if you want, just not here." You replied sarcastically, watching as he petted the goldendoodle with gentle hands you were sure had spilled more blood than you had ever seen. "Do you have someone to call?"

He only offered you a slight nod, his hand disappearing as it searched through the pockets of his blazer, retrieving a phone you were certain had not even been released yet. His gaze travelled around the small examination room as he spoke lowly into the phone, tracing the images of happy animals and a sign that simply stated 'Abuse against staff is not acceptable.'

You offered him the address of the veterinary practice, and he echoed it into the phone. The man on the other end grumbled a response, and you were certain you heard the word 'shithole', but you ignored that as you fussed around the room, mindlessly putting the gloves and any other equipment you had used back into their place, watching the Targaryen from the corner of your eye.

He looked familiar, and you were sure that you should have known his name, but it evaded you in that moment. You were just certain that no matter what, you should try to forget that this night had ever occurred, and forget the man with the bi-coloured eyes.

He dragged himself off the examination table, his feet hitting the floor and he immediately buckled at the pain that had flared at the sudden motion, grunting lowly as he grasped at his side. You darted to his side, hands grasping at his forearms as you helped steadying him, watching as he screwed his eyes shut in pain, whimpering softly.

"Thank you." He murmured, meeting your gaze once more, unwavering despite the fact that you avoided his gaze. You offered a tight-lipped smile, not bothering to reply, as you helped guide him to your (very) small reception and waiting room, leaving the lights off.

Whoever came to collect him did not beep their horn, the only evidence was the harsh LED light spilling through the windows, pooling against the laminate flooring of the dark room and the soft purr of an engine that could only belong to a car worth more than all your lifesavings. But the Targaryen recognised it, and he began inching closer to the door, his arm resting upon your shoulder as you continued to help him.

The driver was a man with the classic Valyrian features, silver-gold hair, dark violet eyes, and a scowl that deepened at the sight of you. You didn't bother saying anything, even whilst Elsa over there was busy barking at the brunette, not even helping you; you just shoved the injured man into the back seat and quickly retreated, slamming your door shut, locking it once, checking it twice. Your heart hammered unsteadily in its cage, your eyes stinging as your exhausation finally caught up with you.

Fucking Targaryens.

You just prayed you would never have to see them again.

But unfortunately, the Seven hardly listened to your prayers in full, as you would see the injured man upon the small TV screen within your reception while you were talking to Dixie's owner. He was dressed in a forest green suit, so dark that it almost appeared black, grinning into the camera as he spoke to the reporter about a new business venture that The Perzys Group planned on investing in next.

His name flashed in bold letters. Baelor Targaryen, President and CEO of The Ānogar, COO of The Perzys Group.

Shit.

That same day, your receptionist, Rowan, would call you to the front, eyes wide as she pushed something towards you. You heard the gentle purr of an engine slowly becoming distant. You did not see the visitor.

There was an envelope stuffed with Dragon banknotes, spilling slightly as you opened the paper.

You were unsure if it was hush money or a promise of return.

baelor was a pious man. follower of the faith of the seven. a dutiful, loving husband since your marriage was set in stone moons ago. you loved your husband. would do anything for him in a heartbeat, as he would for you. the affection between you was mutual and only flourishing with each day passing by.

you also knew how much your husband cared about his brother. they have been close since the early days of their boyhood and would put their lives on the line for each other, if need be.

they would train together, go hunting together, and attend tedious council meetings together.

what you would’ve never expected is that they would also fuck you together, their bodies bracketing yours with no way of escaping, rough hands groping and positioning your body to their delight.

your husband leaned back against the headboard of the bed, with your bare chest splayed against his navel, while maekar held your hips pushed back, angling them to his liking as he rutted his cock into you with fervor. it would’ve been shameful to vocalize how good it felt. how could a wife let herself moan and mewl for her husband’s brother?

but baelor just smiled, crooning softly, broad hands cupping your face, wiping away the tears of guilt from your eyes, so achingly tender and soft, like he always was. the snap of maekar’s hips kept jostling you, pressing your bare breasts against baelor’s navel, right up against where his cock sat proud and thick, unattended for now.

“my sweet wife, why do you weep so? doesn’t maekar’s cock feel good?”

the words were filthy, but his smile was loving, his eyes still carrying that everlasting affection for you, even while glinting with mischief and satisfaction. you loved your husband so much, even while you could feel his brother’s grunts and groans behind you, one of his palms coming down onto your ass, spanking it firmly, making you cry out as the flesh of your buttocks jiggled, drawing baelor’s eyes to it with interest.

“you’re being too rough, brother,” your husband’s voice dipped into sternness, but the twitch of his lips betrayed him. he was enjoying this. it made your toes curl. “don’t leave too many marks on my wife. we’ve talked about this.”

maekar’s only answer was a scoff, followed by a rough slap of his hips that splayed you face down right onto baelor’s lap, pressing you into the mattress as he shifted closer.

“then why is she squeezing my cock every time i do it?” his tone was gruff, but you could feel the smugness beneath it, how proud he was to reduce his brother’s wife to a mewling mess onto baelor’s lap, and having him watch the whole ordeal. “this pussy’s gonna milk me dry, brother.”

your husband’s answer was just to hum. one of his hands moved to brush through your hair, soft and soothing as you curled more onto his lap, your cheek now pressed onto his muscled thigh, mouth parted into hiccuping moans, drooling onto his skin, the pleasure too intense for you to even have the decency of a closed mouth.

“feels good, my love?” he asked, so hushed and soft, his smile sweet like honeysuckle as he peered down at you, firm fingers petting your hair tenderly. you could only nod, mind too far gone in mindless pleasure from how maekar was hitting that spot inside your cunt that made you want nothing but pleasure.

“yeah? then tell him, my sweet,” baelor coaxed, fingers now pressing lightly into your nape, cupping it gently, lulling you into listening. “tell my brother how good his cock feels. how well he’s fucking you. i want him to hear it. don’t you?”

the request was debauched beyond reason, but you could never refuse your husband anything, especially when he was gazing at you so lovingly, as if you hung all the stars in the sky for his viewing alone. the words tumbled out of your drooly lips not long after, garbled through moans of pleasure as you felt your core pulse and throb around maekar, your peak closer than you thought prior.

“cock f—fells s’good, maekar! p—please don’t stop, please! ‘m so close, so close—”

the response was a loud, deep curse behind you, feeling rough fingers dig into your hips as if punishing you, dragging you back by the fat there, slamming so deep into your pussy that you swore you could feel maekar’s tip reaching your womb.

“are you hearing this, brother? your wife loves how good i fuck her. gods, she’s sucking me in,” maekar grunted, one of his hands moving to where you two were connected, his thumb spreading your folds even more apart to see how well his cock slid in and out of you. “christ, look at this greedy hole. can’t get enough.”

the exchange only made baelor huff, amused, his eyes never looking away from you, making sure he saw every twitch and expression on your face, wanting certainty that his brother was making you feel as good as you deserved.

“now you know why i leave council early, brother,” your husband said, the curl of his lips turning haughty for a few moments. “i would be doing myself a disservice to be away from my wife’s pretty cunt for too long.”

maekar, despite his gruffness, his stunted emotional upbringing, and inability to keep his temper under control, was nothing but devoted to you.

an attentive husband, who made sure you had everything you wanted, even while he was out for days at a time, leaving instructions that his lady wife was to be taken care of and made an utmost priority. despite what the court and realm thought of him, you knew his heart. the one who loved you fiercely, even when words were not said aloud. his actions always showed you what his mouth couldn’t utter, and for you, that was enough. maekar didn’t need to say flowery words or recite poetry in your ear to show that he cared about you most in this world. his relentless pursuit of your comfort and happiness showed you where his true feelings lay, every single day.

his brother, however, was different.

baelor likes to talk.

revels in it, even. more so when he has you slowly bouncing onto his cock, gentle hands caressing the curve of your hips, letting you set the pace you favor, not guiding you yet, but encouraging you to take what you please from him.

“you can go slow, my lady,” he would whisper, soft and reassuring, head tilted back to rest onto the back of the armchair in you and maekar’s shared room. the comfortable one which faced the bed, upon which your husband stood splayed out, watching as his brother’s cock slid into your cunt, unhurried and sloppy.

maekar’s eyes narrowed at baelor’s words. “slow?” he scoffed, jerking his chin towards both of you, tone displeased; demanding. “have her go faster. she can take it,” he commented.

a fierce flush crept up your neck at your husband’s words, fingers twisting in baelor’s velvet tunic, not knowing if you wished to press closer or pull back, feeling more flustered than a maiden on her first night.

“patience, brother,” came baelor’s answer, his eyes warm and patient as he brushed sweat-dampened locks from your forehead and neck. rough fingers then cupped your cheek, brushing the warm skin tenderly as he spoke. “your wife feels good like this. don’t you, my lady?” a twitch of his lips, before he continued. “i can feel you squeezing around me. it feels wonderful.”

his words were so warm, his touch delicate and careful, as if you were made of porcelain. it made you squirm, leaning forward to hide your face into his broad shoulder, obscuring the rosy hue of your cheeks from both men’s view, making baelor chuckle fondly.

“your wife is a delight, brother,” he mused, catching maekar’s gaze, making the younger man roll his eyes, feeling a twinge of jealousy in the pit of his stomach, but not enough to take measures to quench it.

“she is,” your husband agreed, voice gruff, but underlined with a whisper of fondness, the affection he felt for you seeping through the cracks. “loveliest fucking thing in the seven kingdoms,” he paused, before a twitch of a smirk touched his lips. “with a pussy i would fight wars for.”

the words were crude, but they made you squeeze harder around baelor’s cock, the rhythm of your hips faltering for just a moment as you felt heat crawl up your spine at your husband’s words. gods, he could be so wanton at times, but that was another reason why you loved him. why you always get so, so wet for him. just as wet as you were now, dripping all over his brother’s cock, making the snap of baelor’s thrust sound sloppy and debauched.

“ah, she liked that,” was whispered against your ear, tone fond but laced with amusement. “she’s soaking me so much, brother,” a low chuckle, before baelor’s hands drifted down to grip handfuls of your ass, letting the plush flesh dimple through his fingers, slowly urging you to move faster. “making such a mess, my lady. no wonder my brother loves to tongue at this sweet cunt so much. he’s always drinking his fill, isn’t he?”

you couldn’t see the shape of his lips, but you knew there was a teasing curve to them as he crooned into your ear, one broad palm softly patting at one ass cheek, urging your hips to roll deeper, for you to bounce quicker, to take his cock like you meant it. like you would maekar’s.

refusal wasn’t an option, not when you felt so warm and cradled in his lap, feeling more feverish by the second, the pleasure slowly pooling in the pit of your stomach flaring more and more, your peak rapidly approaching.

“if you make her cum, maybe i’ll allow you to get a taste of that sweet cunt,” came your husband’s voice, almost amused. “have her ride your face,” he continued, voice dipping into something sinful, something that made your toes curl. “would you like that, wife? getting that pussy all over my brother’s face? show him how you like it licked?”

there was no other place to hide from the heat washing over you but deeper into baelor’s arms, hearing the older man chuckle fondly, patting at your buttocks, as if comforting you after his brother’s words. you wanted to refuse, to say that, no, only your husband can have his mouth between your legs, but all reason flew out the window, leaving you a moaning, shivering mess, nodding against baelor’s shoulder, fingers scrambling at his tunic, needing something to hold onto, lest you lose your composure for good.

baelor seemed pleased with your answer, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass now, lifting and dropping you back onto his cock, harder, faster, hips snapping up into your cunt with fervor, as if already eager for the promise of maekar’s words.

“shh, let go for me, my lady,” he encouraged, hushed and tender. “i’m eager to have a taste of what my brother so raves about.”

who was going to judge them? they were princes of the realm, heirs to the throne, and dragons in name and blood.

no one had to know how baelor sat back, goblet of wine in hand, watching how both of their pretty wives knelt at maekar’s feet, while his brother fed his cock into their mouths, alternating between them. maekar always let his beloved wife have a go first, carding his fingers through her hair, before holding his cock at the base and sliding into baelor's wife’s mouth, letting her suckle at it as well. and repeating the ordeal. again and again, each wife lapping softly at his length. his brother was greedy, but baelor couldn’t blame him.

just as maekar couldn’t blame his brother, as their pretty wives straddled his lap, one mounting a thick, muscled thigh, as the other slid down onto baelor’s cock. always his wife first, then maekar’s. one riding cock with fervor, while the other ground her clit against corded muscle, both needy and wanton. just as baelor and maekar wanted them. it was debauched, but their wives felt pleasure, felt cherished, and received all their attention, so in the end, if the women in their lives were happy and sated, so were they.