The air was thick with everything at once—roasting mutton, dark ale, sweat from a hundred bodies packed onto rough-hewn benches, the smoke that curled lazy and grey toward the high rafters where banners hung in the dim.

You sat pressed against your husband's side, your amber silk gown warm against your thighs where it pooled across the bench, and you were not listening to Lord Harren Blackwood.

You had stopped listening approximately seven minutes ago, somewhere between "barley yield" and "and if you consider the oat rotation, my lord, the true cost is—" and you had not been missed.

Lord Blackwood's attention was fixed entirely on Maekar's face, his ruddy cheeks flushed from wine and earnest desperation, his hands gesturing with the ink-stained cuff of his wool tunic as he charted numbers in the air like a septon casting prayers.

He did not see you.

He did not see how your fingers had begun to trace slow circles on your own knee beneath the table, or how your gaze had drifted from his tedious mouth to your husband's jaw.

Maekar's jaw.

That hard line of it, the close-cropped beard that did nothing to soften the cut of his bone, the muscle that worked beneath his temple as Lord Blackwood droned on.

He was being patient.

You could feel it in the way his hand had gone still around his cup of wine, the way his shoulders had settled into a posture of strained courtesy. He was letting the man finish.

And you were very, very bored.

“My lord, as I was saying,” the elderly lord continued, oblivious, “the western granaries produced nearly twenty percent less grain than expected.”

Prince Maekar nodded once. “Then import from the Reach before winter drives the prices higher. Waiting will only worsen the matter.”

You sat beside him, slowly dying of boredom.

Grain.

More grain.

An astonishing amount of grain.

“My prince is wise,” the lord agreed. “Though transportation costs remain a concern—”

You leaned toward your husband. You shifted closer to him, letting your shoulder press against his arm, the silk of your gown whispering softly against his sleeve. He did not react—not visibly—but you felt the slight hitch in his breathing, the way his chest paused for half a heartbeat before continuing its steady rise and fall.He knew you were there.

He always knew.

“Maekar.”

His violet eyes flicked toward you briefly. “Not now.”

Lord Blackwood continued. “If we could negotiate lower tariffs—”

A rather pleasant thought crossed your mind at that moment, humming beneath your breath as you took a sip of your wine and then smiled sweetly.

“Did you know,” you murmured into Maekar's ear, “that I've spent the last ten minutes imagining how quickly you'd drag me out of this hall if I interrupted your very important discussion about wheat?”

The moment the words slipped from your mouth, Maekar froze, a brief moment long enough for him to send you a scalding glare, “Tariffs,” he said evenly to the lord, staring straight ahead, “can be renegotiated.”

The lord nodded eagerly. “Yes, exactly, Your Grace.”

Your lips brushed the shell of your husband's ear, close enough that your breath was warm against his skin, and you let your voice drop to a low, honeyed purr that only he would hear.

“My lord husband,“ you murmured, your tongue tracing the ridge of his ear just once, featherlight, “I have been sitting here for the better part of an hour, listening to a man describe the moisture content of barley, and I have come to a decision.”

The muscle in his jaw jumped. His eyes did not leave Lord Blackwood's face, but you felt the shift in the air between them—the way his attention, that vast and careful attention he was giving the grain lord, fractured.

“Is that so,” he said, his voice flat, pitched for the conversation he was still technically having. Lord Blackwood, blessedly oblivious, continued talking about soil acidity.

“It is,” you breathed. You hand slid from your knee to his thigh beneath the table, palm flat, pressing through the wool of his breeches. “I've decided that you are paying too much attention to oats and not nearly enough to me.”

The muscle beneath your hand tensed. Hard. His thigh was solid, all dense strength from years of riding and sword work, and you traced the edge of it with your fingertips, a slow exploration that stopped just short of where he would feel it most.

“And I've further decided,” you continued, your lips still brushing his ear, “that if you do not find a way to end this conversation in the next minute, I will slide my hand higher. And I will find out exactly how much of your attention I can claim while Lord Blackwood explains the difference between spring wheat and winter wheat.”

Maekar's hand moved.

It dropped below the table and closed around your wrist—firm, his calloused fingers a band of heat around your delicate bones. He did not squeeze hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to stop you.

“Wife,” he said, and his voice had dropped. Lower now. A growl that vibrated through his chest and into your shoulder where you leaned against him. “That is not a game for this table.”

“I'm not playing a game,” you said, and you let your teeth graze his earlobe. Just once. Just enough to feel him shiver. “I'm making a point.”

Lord Blackwood took a breath. “—so you see, my lord, the adjustment would only be a few silver stags per bushel, and I assure you the yield increase would—”

Maekar turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough that his mouth was against your temple, his breath hot against your skin, and his voice was a low, rough warning that only you could hear.

“If you do not stop,” he said, “I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of this hall like a sack of flour. In front of every lord here. In front of your Dornish friend, who has been watching you since you sat down.”

Your heart stuttered.

A flash of heat, sharp and bright, that traveled from your chest straight down to your core.

You knew that tone.

You knew the weight in it, the promise that was not a threat but a statement of intent. He would do it. He absolutely would do it.

You drew back.

Just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes catching the firelight, and you let your mouth curve into a slow, deliberate smile.

“You wouldn't,” you said, and your voice was a challenge now, a dare wrapped in silk.

His violet eyes held yours.

“Try me.”

You should have stopped there. You knew you should have stopped there. The line was drawn, the warning delivered, and any sensible woman would have pressed her knees together, taken a sip of wine, and waited for the conversation to end with her dignity intact.

But you had never been sensible. And you were not done.

You let your smile widen—just a fraction, just enough to show you knew exactly what you were doing—and then you turned your head.

Across the table, Lord Anders Dustin sat lounging in his seat with the easy grace of a man who had no particular business at this feast and no particular care for who knew it. His dark hair was pulled back from his face, the silver scar on his brow catching the torchlight, and his sharp brown eyes had been watching you for some time.

You had felt his gaze on your skin like a whisper, like a question. And now you answered it.

You smiled at him. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of smile that meant something—or at least, the kind of smile that could be mistaken for meaning something.

Anders's mouth curved in response, a lazy, knowing tilt that acknowledged the game you were playing. He raised his cup to you, just slightly, a salute that said I see you, and I see him, and I am very curious how this ends.

Lord Blackwood was still talking. He had moved on to drainage. Nonsense words, water and silt and percentages that you did not hear because you were still smiling at the Dornishman, and because Maekar's hand had tightened around your wrist.

“That,” Maekar said, his voice so low it was barely a vibration, “was a mistake.”

And then you squeezed his thigh, palmed the visible evidence of his straining cock and grinned.

Hard.

The lord blinked. “Are you unwell, Prince Maekar?”

“No.”

You squeezed once more and feeling quite emboldened by the wine and the fact that your husband hadn't paid you much attention since the feast began, moved your hand higher and slipped beneath his legs, fluttering your eyelashes when your husband quietly groaned beneath his breath.

“You appear tense.”

“I am listening.”

“You do not seem to be listening.”

“I assure you,” Maekar replied through clenched teeth, “I hear every word.”

You rested your chin on your hand. “How impressive. A prince capable of discussing grain and tariffs while wondering whether his wife is about to behave herself.”

Maekar inhaled, slowly, dangerously and you smirked behind your cup, taking another sip as you tried to appear as innocent without making it obvious that you were now rubbing the evidence of his hardening cock beneath—as you promptly deemed it at that moment—too much clothing.

The lord frowned. “Your Grace?”

“The harvest,” Maekar said, voice strained, “was lower than expected.” a hiss tore from his lips as he rolled his shoulders, your fingers squeezing once more over the fabric of his breeches, grinning innocently at him, though he paid you now attention.

“Yes.”

“And the grain must be moved before winter.”

“Yes.”

“And if my wife says another word, I may personally carry her from this hall.”

Lord Blackwood blinked.

You grinned. “Carry me?”

Maekar finally looked at you. The stare promised consequences.

“Be quiet.”

You rose an eyebrow in challenge. “Make me.” The silence that followed was deafening. Across the table, one knight abruptly became fascinated by his wine. Another choked on his drink.

The lord looked between the two of you and wisely decided that perhaps grain could wait until tomorrow. “On second thought,” he said, standing quickly, “I believe we have discussed the matter sufficiently.”

The moment he was gone, Maekar seized your wrist beneath the table.

“Seven hells,” he muttered as his head tilted back, violet eyes darkening as you looked entirely too pleased with yourself.

“At least you're paying attention to me now.”

His jaw tightened.

“Keep smiling.”

“Why?”

“Because in five minutes,” Maekar said, rising from his seat, “you are going to regret reminding me that I have been ignoring you all evening.”

For the first time during the feast, you were no longer bored. “Is that a threat, Your Grace?”

He leaned towards you, lips pulling back and then he did not unexpected—your husband's lips wrapped around your earlobe and then he nipped, “No, sweet wife, it's a fucking promise. Now behave, or else I'll bend you over this fucking table and shove my cock so deep in your cunt that you'll be screaming my name,” and then he leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself at the flustered look on your face, “and I am seconds away from doing so.”

You cleared your throat, but his fingers wrapped around your wrist before you could pull your hand away, “I do not think I gave you permission to stop,” and then your lips parted, his violet gaze clashing against your own and then he grunted, “fuck it, we're leaving.”

You laughed.

It was a bright, ringing sound, the laugh you used when you knew you were being wicked and wanted everyone to know you knew it. It cut through Lord Blackwood's monologue like a blade, drawing his attention for the first time in minutes, drawing the eyes of the nearest tables, drawing Anders Dustin's amused gaze and the tilt of his scarred brow.

The lord, who knew better than most than to utter a word, glanced away and took careful interest in the plate of untouched food in front of him, “We will continue this discussion on the morrow, I find that I must tend to far more important matters.”

You did not see the hear the scrape of Maekar's chair. You only felt the air shift, the sudden absence of his warmth at your side, and then his hands were on you—one gripping your arm, the other sliding around your waist as he pulled you up from your seat with a strength that left no room for resistance—

and then threw you over his shoulder, ignoring the several gasps that tumbled from the ladies huddled somewhere in the corner of the hall, gossiping most like, your husband paid them no mind and turned to face his brother, Prince Baelor Targaryen who looked far more amused at the lack of decorum than he had any right to be.

“Maekar,” Baelor murmured beneath his breath, “this is not a fitting image of a prince of the realm to act,” Maekar grunted.

“Fuck off, I've had enough of this fucking feast and talks of grain, now please excuse me, I have to teach my wife some manners,” and then Maekar did indeed keep promise to his words when he carried you the hall.

The world swung upside down, stone and torchlight and gasping faces tumbling past your vision as Maekar's shoulder drove into your stomach hard enough to steal your breath.

His arm locked across the backs of your thighs like iron, your crimson gown pooling around your ears, the silk of your skirts sliding against your face as the hall spun to a stop.

“Maekar,” you gasped, the word punched out of you by the impact, but your husband was already walking, boots striking the flagstones with the unhurried rhythm of a man who had nowhere else to be and no one to answer to.

Behind you, the hall erupted. A lady's shriek, cut short. The scrape of a chair pushed back too fast. And beneath it all, Baelor's laughter—low, silken, utterly delighted—following you past the doors like a ribbon of sound.Your hands found Maekar's back, gripping the leather of his doublet as you tried to right yourself, but the angle was wrong, your weight balanced on his shoulder with nothing to brace against but the broad span of his spine.

Your hair swung forward, strands catching in your mouth, and you spat them out with an undignified huff.

“Put me down.” His hand slid up the back of your calf, callused fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks.

“No.”

The corridor swallowed the torchlight. Damp granite chilled the bare skin of your arm where your sleeve had ridden up, and the echo of Maekar's boots flattened against the narrow walls, footsteps chasing each other into the dark ahead.

You heard the whisper of a servant pressing themselves against the wall to let the prince pass, heard the sharp intake of breath, heard the scurry of retreating feet.

“Everyone is staring,” you said, your voice muffled by the angle, by the fabric of his doublet pressing against your cheek.

“Let them.” His hand was still on your calf, thumb tracing the seam of your stocking, and the touch was deliberate—not absent, not accidental. He was touching you like he owned you, like the corridor was his chamber and your leg was his to map in the dark.

Your face burned. “You made a scene.”

His laugh was a grunt, barely a sound at all, but you felt it move through his shoulder, through the meat of his back where your hands still clung. “I haven't even started.”

The corridor turned. The air changed—cooler, damper, the smell of old stone and something earthier. The tower stairs. You heard them before you saw them, the hollow echo of a space that opened upward into darkness.

Maekar's hand left your calf. You felt the absence like a loss, the ghost of his fingers still warm on your skin. Then his palm landed flat on your arse, squeezing once, hard, and you yelped.

“That's for smiling at the Dornish lord.”

“I didn't—”

“You did.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Three times. Once when he complimented the wine, once when he said your gown suited you, and once when he leaned close enough to touch your hand.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. “He was being polite.”

“He was being a cunt. You thought I didn't pay attention to you? You grabbed my cock, teased me and now you want to complain? Fuck that.”

The stairs began. Each step jolted through you, his shoulder driving into your stomach with every downward stride—no, upward. He was carrying you up, not down. The tower. The royal apartments. Your chambers.

His thumb hooked the top of your stocking and pulled. The silk snapped against your skin, sharp and stinging, and you gasped.

“You should have thought twice before wearing red,” he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “Makes me want to tear it off you.”

Your pulse hammered. “It's the Targaryen color.”

“It's my color. On you. In this light.” His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the bare skin of your inner thigh, and you felt the heat of his palm like a brand. “Makes me want to put my mouth on every inch you've covered.”

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The stairs kept turning, the walls close and dark, and his hand was still moving, fingers tracing the edge of your smallclothes through the silk of your stocking, and you were wet—you could feel it, the slick heat gathering between your thighs, the shameful, aching want that bloomed every time he touched you.

“Maekar.” His name came out wrong, too breathy, too desperate. “I was bored and you were talking about grain.”

He stopped walking.

The sudden stillness was worse than the movement. You hung over his shoulder, your blood rushing in your ears, your cunt clenching around nothing, waiting.

His hand left your thigh. “And you thought smiling at another man, teasing me like you didn't expect this outcome? Oh, no, no. You'll fucking learn, sweet wife.”

You heard the click of a latch. The groan of a door swinging open. Warmth washed over you—candlelight, the smell of beeswax and dried lavender, the familiar scent of your chambers.

He stepped inside. Kicked the door shut behind him. The sound of the lock turning was louder than you expected.

He crossed the room in three strides, and then you were falling, the world righting itself as he dumped you onto the bed, the mattress catching your weight with a creak of ropes and feathers. You bounced once, your gown tangling around your legs, your hair wild across your face, and before you could push yourself upright, he was there—one knee on the bed, his hands gripping your ankles, pulling you flat.

“Stay.”

The word was a command, not a request, and your body obeyed before your mind caught up, your legs stilling, your hands falling to your sides.

He looked down at you. The candlelight caught the silver of his hair, turned his violet eyes to molten amethyst, and his jaw was set, his stubbled cheek shadowed, his chest rising and falling with the breath of a man who had carried his wife through the Red Keep and was not finished with her.

“You're going to learn,” he said, “what happens when you smile at other men.”

So perhaps this wasn't because you had teased him, but rather assumed that he hadn't paid attention to you

Your throat tightened.

“I—”

“Shut up.” He said it without heat, the way he said everything, and then he leaned down, his hands finding the neckline of your gown, and he pulled.

The fabric tore.

Not the careful unlacing of a maid's hands, not the patient work of a husband undressing his wife—a rip, a surrender, the sound of silk giving way to force. Cool air hit your chest, your stomach, the tops of your thighs as he rent the gown down the middle, baring you to the candlelight in your shift and stockings and nothing else.

You gasped. Your hands flew up to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists, pinned them to the mattress above your head, and held you there with one hand while the other traced the line of your collarbone, the swell of your breast through the thin linen of your shift.

“Pretty,” he said, and the word was rough, almost reverent. “So fucking pretty like this. Spread out for me. Waiting.”

Your breath came in short, sharp pulls. “Maekar—”

“I'm going to fuck you," he said, his voice dropping, his thumb finding your nipple through the linen and pressing, circling, watching your face as you bit your lip. “I'm going to fuck you until you forget every man in that hall exists. Until the only name you remember is mine.”

He released your wrists. Stepped back. His hands went to his belt, working the buckle with the practiced ease of a man who undressed in the dark more often than the light, and you watched him—watched the leather fall away, watched his fingers find the laces of his breeches, watched him free his cock.

It was thick.

Heavy.

The head flushed dark, already slick with something that caught the candlelight, and your mouth went dry.

“On your knees.”

You moved before the words finished leaving his mouth, rolling off the bed, your bare feet finding the cold stone floor, your knees pressing into the rug at his feet. The torn gown pooled around your hips, your shift rucked up to your waist, and you looked up at him from the floor, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.

His hand found your hair.

Wrapped around the tumbling waves, twisted, pulled until your head tilted back, your throat bared, your lips parted.

“Open.”

You opened your mouth. He guided his cock to your lips, the head pressing against the soft heat of your tongue, and you tasted him—salt and skin and the musk of his arousal, clean and sharp and wholly him. Your lips closed around him, and his hand tightened in your hair, and he pushed deeper.

Not rough.

Not gentle.

The weight of him filling your mouth, stretching your lips, sliding across your tongue until the head pressed against the back of your throat and you gagged, your hands flying up to grip his thighs.

“Breathe through your nose,” he said, his voice steady, his hips rocking forward once, twice, seating himself deeper. “You can take it.”

You tried. Your nose burned, your eyes watered, and his cock was thick in your throat, pulsing against your tongue, and you wanted—gods, you wanted—to please him, to take all of him, to feel him lose control in your mouth.

Your hands found the backs of his thighs, nails digging into the leather of his boots, and you relaxed your throat the way you'd learned, the way you'd practiced in the dark when you were alone and thinking of him, and he slid deeper, his cock filling you completely, your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base.

He groaned.

The sound was low, guttural, punched out of him, and his hand in your hair tightened, holding you there, holding you still while his cock twitched on your tongue.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fucking good girl.”

He pulled back, slow, letting you breathe, letting you gasp against his skin before he pushed in again, setting a rhythm—deep and slow, each thrust pressing you open, each withdrawal leaving you empty and aching for more.

Your jaw ached.

Your throat burned.

Your cunt was dripping, slick and desperate, clenching around nothing as you knelt at his feet and let him fuck your mouth, let him use you the way he needed, the way you needed him to.

His breathing changed. Shortened. His hips stuttered, once, and he pulled out, his cock sliding across your lips, leaving a trail of spit and the taste of him on your tongue.

“Maekar...” you whined in protest.

“On the bed.” His voice was rough, frayed at the edges. “Face down.”

You scrambled up, your knees weak, your shift clinging to your sweat-slicked skin, and you threw yourself onto the bed, face-down, your cheek pressed to the furs, your arse in the air.

You heard him behind you—the creak of the bed frame, the rustle of fabric, the low, rough sound of his breathing.His hands found your hips. Gripped. Pulled you back until you were on your knees, your face buried in the pillows, your cunt bare and wet and waiting.

“Look at you.” His voice was almost wondering. “Soaking, just for me.”

You couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. Your whole body was a prayer, a plea, a desperate, wordless begging for him to fill you, to take you, to claim you until you couldn't remember your own name.

He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear. “You want my cock?”

“Yes.” The word was a sob.

“Say it.”

“I want your cock.” Your voice broke. “Please, Maekar, please—”

He pulled back. His hand left your hip. And then he was there, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, slick and hot and thick, and he pushed.

The stretch was everything. The burn, the fullness, the way your body opened for him, swallowed him, gripped him like it had been waiting for this since the moment you met.

He seated himself to the hilt in one long, slow thrust, and you cried out, your fingers clawing at the furs, your back arching, your cunt clenching around him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, you're tight.”

He didn't move.

Just stayed there, buried inside you, his cock throbbing, his breath ragged, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

“You feel that?” His voice was low, almost tender. “That's me. Inside you. Where I belong.”

You nodded, your face pressed to the pillows, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“Say it.”

“You're inside me.” Your voice was muffled, broken. “You belong inside me.”

He pulled out.

Slow.

Almost all the way, until only the head remained, stretching your entrance, and then he thrust back in, harder this time, the slap of his hips against your arse loud in the quiet room.

You moaned.

Lost.

Shameless.

He set a rhythm. “This is what you wanted, isn't it? To fucking tease me, to test my fucking patience? Now fucking take the punishment.”

Hard and fast, each thrust driving you forward into the mattress, your body rocking with the force of him, his balls slapping against your clit with every stroke.

The sound of it—wet and obscene and perfect—filled the room, filled your ears, filled your head until there was nothing but him, his cock, his hands, his breath, his voice.

“Whose wife are you?”

“Yours.”

“Whose cunt is this?”

“Yours.”

“Who do you belong to?”

You couldn't answer.

The pleasure was building too fast, coiling in your belly, spreading through your limbs like fire, and you were close, so close, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust, your body begging for the release it couldn't name.

His hand found your hair. Pulled. Forced your head back, your spine arching, your throat bared to the ceiling. “I asked you a question, woman.”

“You,” you gasped. “I belong to you.”

“Good girl.” His hand released your hair, slid down your spine, gripped your hip. “Now come for me.”

Your orgasm hit like a wave, like a fall, like the world ending and beginning in the same breath. Your cunt clenched around him, gripping him in waves, and you cried out—his name, a sound, a sob—as the pleasure tore through you, leaving you shaking, gasping, boneless beneath him.

He didn't stop. Kept fucking you through it, his thrusts growing rougher, less controlled, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.

And then he stilled, his cock buried to the hilt, his body shuddering, and you felt it—the hot pulse of his release, filling you, marking you, claiming you from the inside.

He stayed there.

Breathing.

His forehead pressed to the back of your neck, his weight heavy and warm, his cock still twitching inside you.

Minutes passed.

Or hours.

You couldn't tell.

Finally, he pulled out. You felt the loss like a wound, the emptiness where he'd been, the trickle of his seed sliding down your thigh as you collapsed onto the mattress, your body spent, your mind blank.

The bed creaked. The candle flickered. And then his hand was on your hip, warm and heavy, and his voice was low in the dark. “Next time you smile at a Dornish lord, I'll make you suck my cock in front of him.”

You laughed, a broken, breathless sound. “You wouldn't.”

His teeth found your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to sting. “Try me.”

His teeth stayed sunk in your shoulder, the sting of his bite a living brand, and you felt the low rumble of his approval vibrate through his chest against your back. Then his hand moved—slid down your hip, across the curve of your belly, and slipped between your thighs from behind.

You gasped as his fingers found the wet heat of your cunt, slick with your combined release, his seed already cooling on your skin. He didn't pause. Two fingers pushed inside you, gathering the proof of what he'd done, and you felt the stretch, the intrusion, the obscene wet sound of his touch.

“Still dripping,” he murmured against your shoulder, his lips brushing the mark his teeth had left. “Still hungry. I can feel it. The way you clench around my fingers like you're begging for more.”

You couldn't deny it. Your body was already responding, your hips pressing back against his hand, seeking more friction, more depth, more of him. The aftershocks of your orgasm still trembled through your thighs, and yet—gods—you wanted him inside you again. Wanted to feel him stretch you, fill you, claim you all over again.

His fingers curled, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur, and you moaned, your face pressed to the furs, your hands fisting the bedding.

“That's it,” he said, his voice rough, approving. “That's my wife. Always ready for me. Always wanting.”

He withdrew his fingers, and you felt the absence like a loss, felt the cool air against your wet skin. Then his hand landed flat on your arse—a sharp, stinging slap that echoed through the quiet room, and you cried out, more surprise than pain, your hips jerking forward.

“That," he said, his hand rubbing the reddening skin, "is for teasing me at that feast. For making me watch you smile at that Dornish cunt while I sat there with my cock hard under the table, imagining bending you over the dais and fucking you in front of the whole hall.”

Your breath caught. The image bloomed in your mind—the cold stone of the throne room, the gasps of the court, Maekar's hands on your hips, taking you in front of everyone—and your cunt clenched around nothing, desperate and aching.

“You liked that.” His voice was flat, knowing. “You liked the thought of everyone watching while I took what's mine.”

Another slap, harder this time, and you sobbed—a broken, shameless sound. His hand soothed the sting, his palm warm against your heated skin, fingers tracing the curve of your arse before dipping lower, finding the slick evidence of your arousal smeared across your thighs.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “Wetter now than when I had my cock inside you. You're a wanton thing, aren't you? My wanton little wife.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yours.”

His hand left your skin. You heard the wet sound of him slicking his cock, and then the head was pressing against your entrance again, and you held your breath, waiting, aching.

He pushed in.

The stretch was sharper this time—your body still sensitive from the first fucking, still raw and open, and the sensation bordered on pain before it blurred into something deeper, something that made your toes curl and your back arch.

He seated himself slowly, deliberately, his cock filling you inch by inch until his hips pressed flush against your arse.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a prayer. “You feel that? The way your cunt grips me? Like it knows where it belongs.”

You couldn't answer. Couldn't think. His cock was throbbing inside you, and you felt stretched, full, claimed in a way that went beyond the body. He was inside you, and you wanted to stay like this forever—his, filled, possessed.

He pulled out.

Slammed back in.

The sound of skin meeting skin was obscene and perfect, and you moaned, your fingers clawing at the furs, your body rocking with the force of his thrusts.

“You want to know what happens when you tease me?” His voice was low, dangerous, each word punctuated by a thrust. “I fuck you. I fill you. I put my seed so deep inside you that it takes root.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I want to see you swell with it.”

His hand found your belly, pressed flat against the soft curve of your stomach, and you felt his cock moving inside you through the pressure of his palm. “I want to watch your body change. Watch your tits grow heavy. Watch you round with my child.”

A sound escaped you—something between a sob and a moan, your throat tight, your eyes burning. The thought of it, of his child growing inside you, of being so completely his that you carried his legacy in your body—it undid something in you, loosened a knot you didn't know you'd been holding, because gods you understand now why the man had six children.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” His thrusts slowed, deepened, each one pressing against your cervix, pushing deeper than before. “Being filled with my seed. Carrying my children. Walking through the Keep with my child in your belly, and everyone knowing exactly who put it there.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, Maekar, please—”

“Please what?”

“Please fill me. Please put your child in me.”

The words tumbled out, broken and desperate, and you meant them, meant every syllable, meant the want that burned through your veins like wildfire. “I want to carry your children. I want everyone to see. I want to be yours in every way.”

Gods, had you imagined this would happen because you had teased him, well, you knew for certainty that you would have done so sooner.

He groaned—a guttural, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into your back—and his hand left your belly, found your hip, gripped hard enough to leave bruises as he fucked you harder, faster, each thrust driving you deeper into the mattress.

“I'm going to fill you,” he said, his voice ragged, frayed. “I'm going to fuck you until my seed takes, until you're so full of me you can't walk straight. And then I'm going to fuck you again and again,” his teeth sunk into your shoulder once more, every word muttered answered with a harsh, brutal thrust, “every night until you are pregnant.”

Your orgasm was building again, coiling low and tight in your belly, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust. The sensation was overwhelming—the fullness, the rhythm, the sting of his hand still warm on your reddened skin, the weight of his words sinking into your bones.

“You're close,” he said, “I can feel it. The way you grip me. The way your breath catches.”

His hand slid between your thighs, found your clit, pressed and circled in time with his thrusts, and the pleasure spiked, sharp and blinding, tearing a scream from your throat.

“That's it,” he said, his voice a growl. “Come for me. Come on my cock. Let me feel you fall apart around me.”

You shattered. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave breaking against stone, your body arching, your cunt clenching in violent pulses around his cock, and you cried out—his name, a prayer, a surrender—as the pleasure tore through every nerve, left you trembling and gasping and utterly his.

He didn't stop.

Maekar fucked you through it, his thrusts growing rougher, less controlled, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. And then he stilled, buried to the hilt, and you felt it—the first hot pulse of his release, flooding you, filling you, spilling into the deepest part of you.

He kept coming, his hips pressing against you, his cock twitching as he emptied himself inside you, and you felt the warmth spread, felt the excess leak around his shaft and run down your thighs.

He stayed there, buried, refusing to let a drop escape, his hand pressing against your belly as if he could hold it in by will alone.

“Breathe, sweet wife. I am not done. Do not move, no drop is to be wasted. You wanted this, you knew exactly what you were doing.”

Maekar Targaryen was not a man that wasted words.

Jesse never considered himself that ‘motivated’ of an individual. Everybody knows him for what he tends to be; lazy, avoidant, a little bit oblivious. His cocky attitude is a front for the… somewhat pathetic individual he aches to hide beneath.

Always on something, rarely onto it, one may say. But you never really saw what everyone else seemed to see in him. You were friends — good ones, at that, ever since high school. He’s always respected you. He even lit one up with you behind the trashy school gym, when your date ditched you at prom. He’s a ride or die. Hopefully a ride, your mind wanders, as you lounge beside him, now. His shitty, stiff couch makes the slippery thoughts in your head all the more jarring.

You can feel it; the tension. There’s something unusual in the air; Jesse was already high when you showed up to his place to smoke, and he’s somewhat antsy. You sit beside from one another on the couch, yet it feels more distant than usual… though, not intentionally.

Some shitty ‘70s action movie rerun plays on the television, his feet kicked up on the coffee table next to the beer he’s almost finished. His relaxed demeanor is more of a performance than usual, one arm ‘lazily’ slung up behind his head as the other picks at the design on his graphic tee.

You’re starting to feel it by now, but the weird vibe is setting you off. It’s like he can’t make eye contact, or can’t stop himself from doing so. Either way, it’s confusing.

“Yo,” he murmurs after a long moment of silence. “So… how’s, like- uh- life?” He makes up for awkwardness in that stupidly effective dorky charm that he mistakes for swagger, scratching his unshaven jaw while glancing over at you.

Exhaling the smoke from your shared joint, you could swear Jesse was staring at your lips when you met his eye. He just offers you that shitty grin when your gaze catches his once again.

“Yeah, y’know.” You sigh under your breath, laying back. “‘s fine. But, uh, it’s good to… unwind like this, again. With you”

He nods and chuckles like you’ve said something with a lot more weight behind it, than your words would’ve had, in any other context. “Yeah, man, same. I’ve seriously craved getting with you again, dude.” He rests his arm over the back of the couch, lightly poking you, still grinning unapologetically. You smirk softly back.

“Missed me?” You prompt.

He bites his lip. You find your own gaze on his lips. “Oh, for sure.”

You both faintly chuckle for a quiet moment, the movie continuing to murmur away into the background. There’s a quiet truth that neither of you will admit, in that small moment of banter. You glance once again at his mouth, watching the front teeth brush the lower lip soothingly. He’s nervous.

He catches you staring, the joint twiddling in your fingers, you barely even noticed.

“Yo, don’t let it go out! My generosity only goes so far, man.”

Snapped back to reality, you blink, hurriedly taking a hit from the blunt and trying not to laugh, and therefore choking as the smoke travels your throat. Jesse snickers.

With one last cough and a very deep breath, your hands brush, handing the joint back to him. His smile tells you just how sarcastic he was being.

“Sorry.” You mutter anyway. “I’ll, uh, pay you back... maybe.”

He scoffs, blowing smoke in your face, just to tease at your apology. “Pay me back, yeah? With what cash?”

He snickers and takes another drag at your expression, pointing and nodding with that shit-eating grin that you’d (never) get tired of, way too quickly. 

“When I get paid next…” You trail off, smirking back, no real bite or anger fuelling your reply. 

“Oh, right. When’s that, again?”

“Tch. Like… uh, Friday. Next… next week.” The high starts to come over you, finally; you find the joint in your hands once again, without having even noticed it. Concepts that seemed simple 5 minutes ago, now just a little harder to wrap your head around. The warmth in Jesse’s pupils tells you he’s starting to feel it, too.

“Mmm… I can’t wait that long.” The paper rolls between his fingers prettily, impressively. Tactile enough to tell you he does it enough that he’s good at it, by now.

“…uh…” A small, awkward chuckle passes your lips at his reply, trying to decipher his tone before he can get the next words out.

“But- I, uh, take… other forms of payment.” He sniffles at that, taking the final drag of the dying blunt, and then pressing it out in his ashtray gently. You blink, watching the ashes land against the ceramic as he avoids your eyes for too long.

Finally, offering any indication of life, you tilt your head. He’s trying to… flirt. “Other payment?”

He rolls his shoulders. A grin that’s 50% trying to appear nonchalant, and 50% failing miserably settles on his handsome face. 

You don’t really think about it, as you hike your legs up onto the couch, beginning to crawl toward him. “Like… credit?”

Funny. That was funny. Jesse’s laugh is… somewhat mirthful, but mostly playing up his amusement for your approval. Fuck, he thought he was way more smooth when he was high. He can barely think as you loom over him. “N- nah. Uh, more like…”

“Like…?” The prompt offers no conclusion from Pinkman: you swear you can see his cheeks growing red as your arms bracket either side of his lap. Your breath brushes his lips, and he shakily exhales, eyes softening.

“Shit…” 

You hum, sliding your thigh over his hard crotch and settling it on the opposite side, straddling your old friend as though you’d done it a thousand times before. It felt natural, because you may or may not have thought about it a million times before. Jesse swallows, shakily, looking up at you with those pretty, pearly blues. Wide. Needy. So needy.

“You, um… you…” Even in his flustered state, he’s smiling. His hands fumble on your hips before settling with a tight grip, heaven on his face.

“Can you use your words for me, Jesse?” You whisper in his ear, resisting the urge to nibble at the skin: you need to give him some room to think. For now.

Shakily, Jesse sighs, pulling you in a little closer, exhaling as your clothed pussy brushes over the tent in his lap. Your clit catches and you swallow, almost purring at the feeling of him, pressing up into you. “Is this… do you want this?” Finally, he finds his words. Though, barely.

All you can do is slowly grin. You lean lower, until your lips are hovering over his. “Do you, babe?” There’s a moment’s pause as he gazes at your lips, a shaky breath leaving him. Then, he nods. Nods hard, and hurried. Even wider, you smile. It’s a cute display, and you chuckle, leaning in to nibble his ear. No need to hold back on him, now. “Good. Good boy.”

“Fuck-“ his hips twitch, he bucks gently up against you, needy hands digging into your sides. You quietly gasp, stilling out. “Fuck, don’t… don’t call me that.”

Hmm. You raise your brows, gently leaning back to look at his expression; which, annoyingly, he hides. He struggles to catch your eye, looking down at his lap with a barely contained whimper. “No?” You take his jaw softly, guiding him to meet your eyes. “You don’t like it?”

His lips part. The denial falters on his tongue, and - how sweet - his lashes flutter, fingers flinching against your sides. “I- wh… you shouldn’t… have to call me that.” He swallows hard.

Oh. Your head tilts without your noticing. Without thinking, one hand comes to his shoulder, softly rubbing, the other hand remaining on his jaw to stroke the stubble. “Do you not like it, Jesse?”

He grits his teeth. “I- I’m the guy here, yo, you don’t need to… you— do you like it?”

“Jesse.” You whisper. “Do you wanna be my good boy?”

A soft, embarrassed silence. He nods. He shrinks a little as you grin.

“My sweetest boy? Just for me?” 

Jesse bites his lip, his fingers figging at your shirt, then slowly brushing underneath. “…ah huh.”

“Obedient?”

The slight quiver in his lip, his trembling hands twitching at your sides only further explain the situation. He licks his lip, warm breath brushing your face as he gazes up into your eyes, silently begging for something. Once more, he nods. 

“Good.” You lean in, letting your lips just brush his, letting your teeth steal his lower lip tantalisingly. He almost whimpers, until he whispers your name as you drag his flesh with the tilt of your head, the most pathetic sound escaping his parted throat. He shudders, loving the pain of your teeth digging into his lip more than he should.

“Fuck.” Jesse mumbles, squeezing your hips and lightly arching into you. “Fuck, can you kiss- can I kiss you?”

The way he stammers is so cute. You tilt your head, letting your fingers ghost his jaw before taking a hold, keeping him still. You coo. “Do you want it that bad?”

“Uh huh.” He’s panting, pink; you’ve never had the pleasure of seeing him like this before. You’re not letting it go. 

“Clearly not badly enough.”

“What? No, I-”

“I’m not hearing you beg.” You cut him off, nails digging into his skin, ever so slightly. He huffs. The sheer shame he projects does nothing to hide the real thrill you can see he’s taking from this.

“P- please.” He mutters, sheepish, nodding hesitantly. “Please, Y/N, can I just–”

You coo against his mouth, hovering there, before finally closing the distance and eliciting a wonderful sound from the man beneath you. He grinds up against you as his fingers dig into your shirt. You purr, licking into his mouth.

It’s cute, how he kisses you hungrily, sucking at your lips, a testament to the truth of his general experience… which may or may not be somewhat exaggerated. Look, he may be dreamy, but looks only get you so far.

You put a hand on his shoulder, pinning him back against the couch slightly, taking the lead.

“Breathe, baby.” Muttering, feeling him slow and then still as your lips hover, just beyond his reach, what with your hand pressing him into place. “Follow my lead.”

Trying again, you encourage him to slow down, letting your tongue glide over his, teasing. He whimpers into your mouth, succumbing to your control.

Eventually he starts to follow your lead, kissing you with less haste; but no less desperation. His need still bleeds from every pore, every pant as he slowly grinds, matching the rhythm of your tangled lips, the music your combined sounds make egging him on.

He mewls your name quietly as you slow down once again when he starts picking up the pace, huffing. Bratty. You scoff slightly, and let your teeth sink into his lower lip, making him gasp and groan, hands clasping hard, just above the curve of your ass.

“Fuck, Y/N-!” Jesse can only whisper, as his hips buck wildly up against you, the pleasure and pain overwhelming.

“You gonna behave?” Is all you whisper, teeth still hovering. The hesitation in him is evident; he’s not used to this vulnerability, this relinquishing of control. And it scares him, how much he loves it.

Shakily, he nods. “Y-yeah.” Even in his hazy high, he finds some semblance of balance and rubs your hip, silently begging you to come back and keep kissing him.

“Alright…” You whisper, hovering for a moment more. One last shaky whine is enough to convince you that he deserves the reward he craves, so badly he trembles. You hum softly into his mouth, this time meeting his passion, a hungry connection pulling you into him. 

There’s an intense gravity to you, Jesse finds; in his inebriation, he comes apart so much more easily than he expected. He really thought he was more suave, even when high, but apparently not. 

Any chance he gets to breathe, he ignores, muttering your praise when your lips disconnect. “Perfect”, “pretty”, “need you” he whispers, one hand squeezing your ass as the other wanders across your front desperately. You only smile into his kiss, letting your tongues press as he parts his lips easily once more for you.

You eventually pause, hovering over him as the two of you pant. Your hand tangles in his hair, offering a gentle tug, snapping him quickly out of his lusting daze. 

“W- what?” He mutters quickly, licking his lips, eager to fix whatever pulled you away. He’s learning. It makes you smile, and an easy hand comes up to stroke his cheek.

“Do you want more, Jesse?” You mutter, letting your hips slowly roll on the bulge beneath you. His eyes flash, and he nods, swallowing. “Manners.” Quietly - not quite scolding, but not soft - you remind him.

“Please. Please, baby, I need you.” He mutters hurriedly, squeezing whatever flesh he’s got a hold of once more. “Please? Whatever you want, just more—“

He cuts himself off with a gasp as you grind down one last time, letting your hands trail low, lower, down his chest and to his lap. Gently, you palm the tent in his lap, barely holding back your smile as he sighs shakily, his own dopey smile only egging you on. You duck your head to hide your own high-induced smile.

Jesse sinks lower into the couch, arching his hips up into your touch. You croon softly, lowering your lips to his displayed neck. He whimpers as your warm mouth meets his needy flesh, jaw dropping in pleasure as you suckle at his skin while still palming his hard-on.

“Fuck.. yes.” He whispers in your ear, pressing gentle kisses. This is so much more than he could’ve thought to wish for, with you. Strangely, in his uncharacteristic vulnerability, he couldn’t be more happy to be where he is now.

“Mm, that’s it.” You coax more sweet sounds out of him, gently lowering off his lap and onto the floor of his living room. He barely notices the change, too lost in ecstasy, eyes shut and head tilted right back. He only notices when your hands start toying properly with his fly.

Flushing, his eyes open, and he looks hurriedly at you, between his knees on the floor. He gawks for a moment. “Y- yo, Y/N, you don’t- y-you—“

You cut off his nervous chuckling, with a sterner look. He swallows. “Is this what you want, Pinkman?”

The teasing lilt when you call him by his high school nickname, his last name, it sends a shiver up his spine. He bites his lip. Somehow, he feels guilty. He glances at his boner, looming over your face, obscuring your chin from this angle.

“You don’t… have to do this, man. I…”

“Jesse, are you okay with it?” Once more you have to cut him off. You watch his lashes flutter, his pretty blue eyes conflicted, his want and guilt at war. His teeth drag over his lower lip.

“Y-yeah.” He mutters after a moment’s worry.

“Are you sure?” You pause, his hesitation making you ponder.

“If you’re… okay with it.” He swallows, dragging the collar of his crummy band tshirt away from his neck. 

Huh. Cute. You drag his fly down. “I wouldn’t offer if it’s not what I wanted.” You murmur, lowering the zip at an agonisingly slow pace. He shivers, nodding softly, letting your reassurance wash over him. Giving into the pleasure once again.

“Shit. Okay.” He rubs his jaw, putting his hands behind his head, breathing heavy as you pull his leaking cock free of his boxers and pants. He swallows thickly, licking his lower lips.

Slowly, you nuzzle against his cock, watching him twitch and whine under his breath. He lets his head fall back and eyes shut, relinquishing himself to your whim. You smile, licking your lips, the tip of your tongue brushing him. 

God, every sound you manage to milk out of him is heaven. He clutches the couch with a weak sigh, his head lolling left and right at every new sensation you give.

He’s all pent up, not only from tonight, but… years of wanting. Not that he’s willing to admit it just yet.

“That.. that feels so good.” He whispers, running a hand through his hair and weakly moaning as you press faint kisses to his tip, letting him get familiar with the warmth of your mouth as every few kisses you let your lips wrap gently around him, whether the tip, the base, or anywhere in-between. “Fuuuck…”

You smile as you lavish his dick with attention, smirking to yourself as he bucks softly against your face, smudging precum on your cheek. Lost in his hazy pleasure, he barely notices.

After enough teasing, your lips gently take hold of the tip. He moans under his breath, fist clenching into a pillow to his left, right hand tangled in his light locks. More soft curses escape him as you slowly suck and take him, little by little, into your mouth. He can only whimper, too scared to disobey or displease you if he makes any sudden movement. 

You’re not scared to take it slow; your teasing is tasteful. It’s sensual, there’s no denying. You can’t help but take it slow, especially in this state. The taste, the smell, it all leaves your mind, save for the feeling of his warmth on your tongue, and his little whimpers as you suck him in, a little deeper. 

He whines your name and something warms in your chest, until eventually he hits the back of your throat. He’s so patient; how sweet. You smile slightly around his dick, gently bobbing, not stopping him as his hips twitch for you, as a treat… but it only lasts so long.

When you pull away, he curses, fumbling for your hair, your cheek. He doesn’t pull you back down, but he certainly keeps you close, shakily whimpering at the loss of your wet warmth. “Wh- what’re you doing?” He whispers, and fuck, the needy look in his eyes could keep you up for days.

“Don’t worry.” You whisper, pressing little fleeting kisses over his cock, making sure not to leave any one part neglected. “I’m gonna take care of you.” 

He devolves back into his little whimpers and whines, his fingers shakily toying with some of your hair. You purr, licking a slow stripe up his cock, letting the tip of your tongue flick over the tip, making him shiver. He moans. Like, outright moans. God, he’s so sweet.

“Haah… hah… damn, damn.” He mumbles wearily, petting your head hurriedly, letting on far too easy his desperation for you to keep going, keep touching, keep pressing your lips to his hot, heavy and heedy skin. 

“I’ve got you.” You whisper little comforting praises, whatever comes to mind in the haze of your combined high, enjoying how he squirms harder when your sweet tone hits him where it hurts the best. “So good f’me. So, so good, Jesse.” Nodding hurriedly, his fingers curl into your hair, and he presses you down against his cock slightly, the tip brushing past your nose, catching you off guard. Your breaths hitch in unison, and he bites down on his lip, a guilty look washing over his flushed face.

“Sorry– sorry, I’m sorry,” He whispers quickly, but he doesn’t let go. The way his teeth drag on his lower lip drives you mad… maybe just this once, you’ll let him be bad. You shake your head, before cautiously pressing your nose back against his cock softly. 

“You’re okay… you can do what you need.” You offer under your breath, slowly stroking his thigh, over his jeans. “But don’t be rough.” The last little addition seems to add a flare of focus into his pretty blue eyes, and he hesitantly nods. He mumbles something about trying, but not long before he’s gently grinding your face on his dick, panting under his breath. The display is vulgar, it’s pathetic, his neediness is obscene in nature; but it’s so hot. Hotter, too, from the state you’re both in, completely broken down to baser instincts.

When he moans, you do, too, out of pure pleasure at the sound itself. You let your lips hitch on the tip again as he rolls his head right back when your lips are around him again, carefully pinning them back to shield him from your teeth.

He takes it slow, as he cautiously fucks your mouth, only the tip for a moment - then, just like you’d shown him before, he lets you take a little more of him, slowly. Shyly, you notice. He doesn’t stop, though, not until your throat is comfortably stuffed of him. He stares down at the sight for a second, and you feel a little sheepish at the angle.

Yet, he brushes any hair lingering in your eyes, a shaky little sound escaping him as your eyes lock. He weakly smiles. “You… feel so much better than I imagined.” He mumbles, starting to very gently move your head. You raise a brow. 

“Mmmrm?” You manage to reply (with a mouthful of cock, obviously). He chuckles and shudders at the vibration.

“N-not that I imagined you weren’t good… it’s just… I never could’ve dreamt up t- the real thing.” He stumbles, shockingly eloquent in this state. He sheepishly smiles and runs a hand through his hair, shy from how vulnerable he’s being while you’re literally deep-throating him. Either way, it’s not stopping him. He continues to gently bob your head. “You’re… incredible… ah.”

You hum softly on his dick again, making him groan under his breath, starting to move you a little faster. He shudders once more, biting his lip and rolling his head back.

He can’t help but talk to you, there’s something… safe. He’s safe, in your presence. Safe as he basks in your warmth. You don’t even need to reply as he rattles on, the pleasure simply seems to fuck with his head enough to spur him on. “Is… is it fucked of me? To’ve jerked off to you?”

His words are breathless. His hand continues to softly guide you, but he very, very much appreciates how you come away to simply follow his lead, and work him yourself. 

“Because I have,” He whispers in between heady pants. “Ever since high school. N-not when I was… I dunno… ah…” Trailing off, he hazily stares up at the ceiling. “Dating other chicks, or… whatever.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Neither of you will know by tomorrow. Maybe that’s the beauty of it. In your altered minds, language is broken down to it’s barest. Sex is enough, the pure, rawest feelings that you gift to one another are enough to communicate what your heart knows your head can’t. 

He eggs you on, his palm just ever so gently pressing on the back of your head, encouraging you to go back down on him a little faster every time, his panting growing faster, harder, needier by the second. The sloppy sounds of your gift to him is drowned out by the prettiest noises he makes, the whimpers and gasps that let you know you’re doing the right thing. 

“Oh, oh, ah, fuck– Y/N,” He mutters quickly, hand suddenly tangling in your hair. He moans again. “Please. Please, please, please please–” The words blur into one as he softly begs under his breath, and you know what’s coming.

You focus, now, going a little faster, and taking him slightly deeper as you breathe through your nose purposefully. He shudders and gasps. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna- I’m–!” He almost squeaks the words out, before hot, sticky fluid fills your mouth. Your eyes widen at the suddenness of it. Of course, he was coming, but so soon? 

You pull off his twitching member and smirk a little, wiping him off your lips with the back of your hand, grinning ever so slightly. “Care to warn me a little earlier next time?” You chuckle, voice a little husky from the throat-fucking. 

He swallows, lashes batting bashfully. He guiltily rubs over his face and neck as you do a rather fair job at swallowing his seed. “Sorry.” You can only smile. “Don’t be.” You rub his thigh a little more, before crawling back up onto the couch, legs cramping from sitting on your knees for a while. He smiles, still shy, somehow, hesitantly wrapping an arm around you as you lean into his shoulder, awkwardly stuffing himself back into his briefs.

“Y- you, uh… thanks. That was…”

You look up at him as he speaks, and as he looks down at you, you’ve never seen his eyes shine with such raw honesty. You’re smug smile softens into something much more tender, without your noticing. 

“That was amazing, dude.” He breathes, his hand finding your hair again, and returning to softly playing with it. You smile, and lay comfortably against him, no space between you.

“Just return the favour sometime.” You tease quietly.

Rain lashed the windowpanes in sheets, a steady drumbeat against the storm's low growl that rattled the ancient keep to its foundations.

You lay on your side, facing the dark, the weight of your belly a familiar, heavy anchor that pulled at your spine, making every shift a negotiation with gravity.

The child within stirred, a foot or a fist pressing against your ribs, and you gasped softly, your hand moving to cradle the spot.

Behind you, the massive bed groaned as Lyonel shifted in his sleep, a mountain of warmth and muscle. His arm, thick as a ship's timber, slid across the furs and found your hip, his fingers splaying possessively over the curve of your waist.

He was still mostly asleep, but his body knew where you were, always reaching for you in the dark. His breath, warm and even, brushed the back of your neck, stirring the fine hairs there.

“Can't sleep, my lady?” His voice was a low rumble, gravel-thick with sleep, vibrating against your back as he pressed closer. His cock, half-hard from the warmth of the bed and the press of your body, nudged against your thigh, thick and heavy even in its drowsy state.

You felt the familiar stir of heat low in your belly, a hunger that had only grown sharper in these final months, a craving for his weight, his heat, the feeling of being utterly filled.

“I need you,” you whispered into the dark, the words raw and honest, stripped of the courtesies and decorum of the day. You pushed back against him, your hips finding the shape of his, the jut of his cock pressing into the cleft of your ass through the thin linen of your shift. “Lyonel. I need you inside me.”

He woke then, fully, the shift in his breathing telling you he was no longer dreaming. His hand slid from your hip up your side, over the swell of your ribs, until he cupped your breast, heavy and tender with milk.

His thumb grazed the nipple, hard and sensitive, and you moaned, your back arching into his touch. “My lady,“ he murmured, his lips pressing against the curve of your shoulder. “You'll be the death of me.”

There was no fear in the words, only a kind of worshipful awe. He shifted, rising on one elbow, and you felt the cool air rush in where his body had been.

Then his hand was on your hip again, tugging the shift up, baring your thighs, your belly, the damp curls between your legs.

“Look at you,” he breathed, his voice rough. “Carrying my child. My son. My daughter. You're the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

You turned your head, meeting his eyes in the dim glow of the dying fire. His storm-grey eyes were dark with want, his jaw tight.

He lowered himself behind you again, his cock sliding along the wet seam of your cunt, slick and ready, and he groaned at the contact.

“Seven hells,” he muttered. “You're soaked.”

“I've been waiting,” you said, your voice breaking. “All day. I couldn't... he wouldn't let me rest. Kicking. And I just wanted you.”

He answered by pressing forward, not driving, but a slow, deliberate push that stretched you open around the thick head of his cock.

You gasped, your fingers gripping the furs, as he slid deeper, inch by inch, the angle adjusted to cradle your belly against the mattress.

He paused when he was fully sheathed, his balls resting against your wet flesh, his cock pulsing deep inside you.

“Gods,” he groaned against your hair. “You feel... you're so tight. So hot.”

You could only whimper, the feeling of being so completely filled overwhelming. He was everywhere, his chest against your back, his hand on your breast, his cock stretching you, the other hand pressing flat over the curve of your belly where his child floated.

The baby kicked, a sharp jab against his palm, and Lyonel laughed, a low, broken sound. “Even our babe knows,” he said. “Knows I'm where I belong.”

He began to move, a slow roll of his hips that withdrew him almost completely before pushing back in, deep and steady. The rhythm was a tide, pulling you under, each thrust a wave of pleasure that built and receded.

His hand on your breast squeezed gently, matching the rhythm, his thumb rubbing your nipple until it was hard and aching. “Lyonel,” you gasped, your hips pushing back to meet him. “More. Please.”

“Shh,” he soothed, his voice a low growl in your ear.

“Let me take care of you. Let me love you.” He moved faster, the slap of his hips against your ass a wet, obscene sound in the quiet room.

The head of his cock hit a spot deep inside you that sent sparks behind your eyes, and you cried out, your cunt clenching around him.

“Yes,” he hissed. “That’s it. Squeeze me. Take me.”

The pleasure built, a coil of heat and pressure that pulled tighter with every thrust. You were lost, drowning in him, his scent, his heat, the feel of his body surrounding you, protecting you.

The storm outside raged, but inside, there was only this: his cock sliding into you, his hand on your belly, his breath in your hair.

“I’m close,” you gasped, the words torn from you. “Lyonel, I’m going to...”

“Let go,” he commanded, his voice rough with his own restraint. “Let go for me. I have you.” He thrust deep, grinding against you, his hand leaving your breast to grip your hip, holding you open for him.

The pressure broke, a wave of heat and pleasure that ripped through you, your cunt clenching hard around his cock, milking him as you cried out his name, the sound swallowed by the storm.

He followed a heartbeat later, a deep, guttural groan against your neck as he emptied himself into you, his hot seed filling you in long, pulsing spurts.

He held himself still, buried to the hilt, his body trembling against yours as the aftershocks rolled through him.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the rain against the glass.

He stayed inside you, softening, his weight a comforting anchor. His hand moved, stroking the curve of your belly, tracing the path of his seed that trickled out around his cock.

“I love you,” he said, the words simple and absolute. “You and our child. My whole world is in this bed.” You felt a tear slip down your cheek, not of sadness, but of a relief so profound it ached.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, the confession slipping out before you could stop it. “What if something happens? What if...”

He pulled out, the loss of him a sudden emptiness, but before you could mourn it, he turned you, his big hands gentle on your hips, guiding you onto your back.

He loomed over you, his face above yours, his dark hair falling forward, his grey eyes blazing in the dim light.

He took your face in his calloused palms, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks.

“Listen to me,” he said, his voice the low, commanding rumble that quieted rooms, that made lords bend their knees.

“I am Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End. I have never broken an oath, and I will not break this one. I will keep you safe. I will keep our child safe. I will burn the world to ash before I let a single harm come to either of you. Do you understand?” You nodded, unable to speak, the weight of his vow settling over you like a shield.

“I will not let you face this fear alone,” he continued, his voice softening as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“I am with you. Every step. Every pain. Every joy. You are not alone.”

He lowered himself beside you, gathering you against his chest, your belly pressed against his side. He pulled the furs up, covering you both, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together over your heart.

The storm beat against the walls, but the bed was a fortress, and Lyonel was its lord.

You closed your eyes, the exhaustion of the day, the weight of your body, the release of the pleasure, all pulling you toward sleep.

You felt him press a kiss to the crown of your head, his lips lingering.

“Sleep, my lady,” he murmured against your hair. “I will watch the door.” The rain softened to a whisper, the wind fading to a sigh.

The child inside you settled, finally still, as if feeling the safety of its father’s promise.

Lyonel’s hand never left your belly, his thumb tracing slow circles over the stretched skin, and in the warmth of his arms, the fear that had coiled in your chest for weeks began to loosen its grip.

You drifted in the half-dark, suspended between waking and dreaming, Lyonel’s heartbeat steady against your cheek. His chest rose and fell with the deep rhythm of a man who had given everything and held nothing back.

The fire had burned low, orange embers casting long shadows across the stone ceiling, and the rain had become a lullaby, distant and soft.

But sleep would not take you fully.

Something tugged at the edges of your awareness, a restlessness that had nothing to do with the child.

The fear Lyonel had soothed was still there, buried now, coiled in the space between your ribs.

You opened your eyes, staring at the curve of his jaw, the dark stubble that shadowed his skin.

He looked younger in sleep, the lines of command smoothed away, his mouth slightly parted.

You loved him so fiercely it hurt.

The child kicked, a sharp jab against your belly, and you gasped, your hand flying to the spot. Lyonel stirred, his arm tightening around you, but he did not wake.

You felt the shape of the movement under your palm, a foot or a knee pressing outward, and you smiled in the dark, a fragile, trembling thing.

“You’re restless too,” you whispered, so low it was barely a breath. “You feel it, don’t you? The storm. The change.”

The baby kicked again, as if in answer, and you pressed your palm flat, trying to soothe them both. The fear was still there, a cold thread winding through the warmth of Lyonel’s love.

The maester had said the birth would be difficult. Your hips were narrow, the babe large.

He had used words like “complication” and “risk,” his voice carefully neutral, but you had seen the worry in his eyes.

You had not told Lyonel. You could not.

He would lock you in this room, surround you with every maester in the Stormlands, and burn the Citadel to the ground if it meant keeping you safe.

And you loved him for it.

But you also needed him to be strong, not frantic. You needed him to be the Lord of Storm’s End, not a man consumed by fear.

So you had smiled and thanked the maester and said nothing. But the fear had grown, a shadow that followed you through every corridor, that sat beside you at every meal, that whispered in the dark when Lyonel’s breathing evened into sleep.

What if something went wrong? What if you bled out on the birthing bed, your child pulled from your cold body?

What if the babe came early, too small to survive?

What if you held your son or daughter in your arms and watched them fade?

You blinked, and felt the sting of tears you had not realized were falling. They slid down your temples, soaking into Lyonel’s chest. You tried to breathe quietly, to keep the sob trapped in your throat, but your body betrayed you, a shudder running through your frame.

“My lady?” His voice was thick with sleep, but the alertness was already there, the warrior waking. His hand found your chin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. The dying fire caught the grey in his irises, turning them to storm clouds. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, unable to speak, the tears coming faster now. You pressed your face into his chest, hiding, ashamed of your weakness.

He was supposed to be the one who protected you, and here you were, weeping in his arms like a child. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, his lips pressing against your hair.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice low and steady, the voice he used to calm frightened horses and rebellious lords. “Whatever it is, we face it together. That is the oath I swore.”

“The maester,” you whispered, the words breaking on the way out. “He said... the birth will be difficult. My hips. The babe is large. He said there are risks.” Lyonel went still. The only sound was the rain and your ragged breath.

“When did he tell you this?” His voice was flat, controlled, but you felt the tension coiling in his muscles, the hand on your belly tightening.

“A fortnight ago. After the examination. I didn’t... I couldn’t tell you. I knew you would...”

“I would what?” He pulled back, his eyes finding yours, fierce and bright. “I would protect you? I would move the Seven Hells themselves to keep you safe? Yes. I would. And you hid this from me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you said, your voice small. “You have the keep, the lords, the harvest. You have so much to carry. I didn’t want to be another weight.”

His expression cracked, something raw and wounded surfacing.

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks.

“You are not a weight,” he said, his voice rough. “You are the reason I carry anything at all. Without you, there is no keep. No lords. No harvest. There is only an empty hall and a cold bed.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm on your lips. “I will send for the best midwife in the Seven Kingdoms. I will bring every maester from Oldtown if I must. I will build a birthing chamber lined with silk and guarded by a hundred swords. Whatever you need, it is yours.”

“I need you,” you said, the words a whisper. “I need you to be there. To hold my hand. To tell me I am not alone.”

“I will be there,” he said, the vow absolute. “I will not leave your side. Not for a moment. Not for anything.” He kissed you then, soft and slow, a promise sealed with lips and breath.

When he pulled back, his eyes were wet, and he did not bother to hide it. “You are my wife,” he said. “You are carrying my child. You are the future of Storm’s End. And I will not let you face this fear alone. Do you hear me?”

You nodded, your throat too tight for words.

“Good.” He lay back, pulling you against his chest, his hand finding its place on your belly.

“Now sleep. Tomorrow, we plan. Tonight, we rest.”

You closed your eyes, the fear still there, but smaller now, held at bay by the warmth of his body and the weight of his promise.

The rain had stopped, the silence of the storm’s passing settling over the keep like a blanket. The child kicked once more, a gentle nudge, as if to say they were listening too.

You pressed a kiss to Lyonel’s chest, just over his heart, and let the darkness take you.