Archive of Our Own

The transition to the bed was a clumsy shuffle, hampered by Baelor’s injury and Maekar’s trembling exhaustion.

Maekar eased his brother down onto the furs with agonizing care, terrified of jarring the shoulder again. He arranged the pillows behind Baelor’s back, his movements frantic and hovering.

When Baelor finally settled, letting out a long, ragged exhale, Maekar remained standing by the bedside, naked and marked, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides.

"The bleeding has slowed," Maekar noted, his voice thick. He looked at the fresh stain on the bandage, then up at Baelor’s pale face. The guilt surged again, a fresh wave. "I can fetch the Maester—"

"No Maesters," Baelor cut him off, his eyes closed. "Just you."

Maekar shifted his weight, the sting of his skin a constant, throbbing reminder of the last hour. He felt unmoored, the violence having stripped away his usual stoic defenses.

"Then tell me," Maekar whispered, stepping closer until his knees bumped the edge of the mattress. "How can I make it up to you, Baelor?"

Baelor’s eyes snapped open. The exhaustion in them vanished, replaced by a flash of sharp, cold iron. His good hand shot out, snatching Maekar’s wrist with a grip that was surprisingly strong.

He pulled, forcing Maekar to stumble forward, dropping to his knees beside the bed.

"Do not call me Baelor," he hissed, the sound sharp enough to cut.

Maekar blinked, confused. "Brother, I—"

"And do not call me brother," Baelor interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate low.

He released Maekar’s wrist and reached up, his fingers digging into Maekar’s jaw, forcing his head up.

"Out there, in the mud and the rain, I am your brother. In the court, I am the Crown Prince. But in here? After what you did? After what I just did to you?"

Baelor leaned forward, his dark eyes searching Maekar’s face, finding the submission that lay just beneath the surface.

"You forfeited your titles when you entered this room," Baelor murmured, his thumb brushing over Maekar’s lower lip. "And for tonight, I forfeit my name. You are here to serve. You are here to atone."

He tightened his grip on Maekar’s jaw.

"Address me as Master."

The word hung in the air, heavy and charged. It was a transgression, a subversion of their blood and rank, but as it settled over Maekar, it felt like a key turning in a lock.

It stripped away the last of his resistance. It simplified the world into a single, undeniable truth: he belonged to the man in the bed.

Maekar swallowed hard, his throat dry. He looked into Baelor’s eyes and saw no jest, only a waiting, hungry command.

"Master," Maekar breathed, the word tasting of copper and ash.

Baelor’s expression softened instantly, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. He released Maekar’s jaw and let his hand drift down to cup the back of Maekar’s neck.

"Again," Baelor commanded softly.

"How can I make it up to you… Master?" Maekar asked, his voice shaking.

"Good." Baelor sighed, sinking back against the pillows, though his hand remained tangled in Maekar’s hair, a tether keeping him close. "You learn quickly when you are motivated."

Baelor looked down at Maekar’s kneeling form, his gaze drifting over the broad chest, the flat stomach, and the reddened skin of his thighs.

"You wish to make it up to me?" Baelor asked, his voice raspy.

He tugged on Maekar’s hair, urging him closer. "My shoulder burns like the Seven Hells, Maekar. I cannot move. I cannot undress myself further. I cannot reach the wine."

He paused, a dark, heated smirk touching his lips.

"You are my hands tonight. You are my body. So start by finishing what you began." Baelor nodded toward his legs. "Get these boots off me. And do it with your teeth if you have to. I do not want to lift a finger."

The guilt was a live thing inside Maekar, a frantic hummingbird beating against his ribs, making him clumsy. He reached for Baelor’s left boot, his large hands grappling with the muddy leather, fingers slipping on the wet buckles.

He tugged, too hard and too fast.

Baelor let out a sharp, hissing breath through his teeth, his head snapping back against the pillows. "Seven Hells!"

Maekar froze, the boot half-unlaced in his grip. He looked up, eyes wide with panic. "I—I am sorry, I—"

"You handle me like a blacksmith shoeing a mule," Baelor snapped, the pain in his shoulder making his voice thin and cruel.

He glared down the length of his body at Maekar. "I asked for service, not to be jostled like a sack of grain."

"My hands," Maekar stammered, looking at his own palms as if they were traitors. "They are shaking. I cannot…"

"I’m not a sack of grain," Baelor hissed. His patience had evaporated. "You have the touch of a pathetic squire, Maekar. Heavy. Thoughtless."

He shifted, gritting his teeth as he reached for the silk sash that held his robe closed. With a fluid, albeit pained, movement, he unlooped it.

The robe fell open, revealing the pale skin of his chest and the stark white of the bandages, but Baelor ignored his own nudity.

He dangled the long strip of silk from his good hand.

Maekar’s breath hitched. "Master?"

"Come here."

Maekar crawled up the mattress, the furs rough against his bare knees. He stopped within reach, his head bowed.

"Give me your wrists," Baelor commanded.

Maekar obeyed instantly, crossing his wrists before Baelor’s chest. Baelor worked with surprising dexterity for a man one-handed and in agony. He wound the silk tight—not enough to cut off blood, but enough to render Maekar’s hands utterly bound and useless. He tied the knot with a savage finality.

"There," Baelor breathed, falling back against the pillows, sweat sheening his forehead. "If your hands cannot be gentle, you shall not use them at all."

Maekar stared at his bound wrists, a flush rising from his chest to his hairline.

This felt absurd.

He was a Prince of the Blood, a grown man, a warrior who had unhorsed knights that very day. And here he was in his brother’s chambers, kneeling naked, bound like a prisoner.

Utterly helpless.

"Then how…" Maekar started, his voice thick.

Baelor’s eyes drifted down. He gestured vaguely to his own feet with his chin. "You have teeth, do you not?"

Maekar’s breath hitched. "You cannot mean…"

"I mean exactly that." Baelor’s hand drifted to Maekar’s hair, gripping the back of his neck, not gently. "If you wish to be my dog, Maekar, then learn to use your muzzle. Get those boots off. And then the breeches. And do not use your hands."

Maekar’s jaw tightened.

The humiliation hit him hard—hot, heavy, and suffocating. It was a degradation fit for a dog. But as he looked at Baelor—at the pain etched around his eyes, pain Maekar had caused—the humiliation twisted into something darker, something molten.

"As you command… Master," Maekar rasped.

He shuffled backward, off the bed, until he was kneeling on the floor at Baelor’s feet. The position was low, subservient. He lowered his head to the boot he had failed to remove earlier.

It smelled of wet leather and the mud of Ashford. It tasted of the tourney ground where he had almost become a kinslayer.

Maekar bit down on the leather strap.

It was awkward. It was maddeningly difficult.

He had to twist his head, his neck muscles straining, growling low in his throat like a beast as he worked the wet leather through the buckle. Saliva drooled from his chin, mixing with the grit on the boot.

"Slowly," Baelor’s voice floated down from above, no longer angry, but heavy with a drugged, voyeuristic pleasure. "Do not tear it. Work the knot."

Maekar squeezed his eyes shut.

He used his tongue to push the leather tab, his teeth to pull. His nose was pressed against Baelor’s shin. He could feel the heat of Baelor’s leg through the wool of his breeches.

Every movement was a struggle, every inch of progress a battle against his own dignity.

And he loved it.

He loved the surrender of it. He loved that for every moment he spent groveling at Baelor’s feet, the image of the mace crushing Baelor’s skull faded a little more.

This was his penance. This was his place.

"Good," Baelor praised from above, his voice faint but clear. "Work for it."

With a final, sharp tug of his head, the buckle gave way. Maekar spat the leather strap out, breathing hard, his lips throbbing. He hooked his chin over the heel of the boot and pushed, using the friction of his unshaven jaw to slide the leather down.

Baelor helped him then, pointing his toe, and the heavy boot slid off, thumping onto the carpet.

Maekar didn't stop. He moved to the other foot immediately, fueled by a desperate, frantic need to please. He attacked the laces of the second boot, his movements more fluid now, driven by instinct. He was panting, the sound loud in the quiet room—a wet, animalistic rhythm.

When the second boot fell, Maekar didn't rise. He pressed his face into the arch of Baelor’s stockinged foot, his bound hands clutching at nothing.

"Good boy," Baelor whispered, the praise sounding like thunder. "You make a better dog than a dragon, I think."

Baelor shifted his leg, nudging Maekar’s cheek with his foot. "But you are not finished. The breeches, Maekar. I am still clothed."

He felt Baelor’s good hand land on his head again, fingers weaving into his hair, guiding him, pulling him close.

Maekar looked up, his eyes dark and dilated, his mouth red and swollen. He crawled forward, between Baelor’s spread legs, up the length of the bed. He loomed over Baelor’s hips, the heat radiating from his brother’s body encompassing him.

"The laces," Baelor instructed, his voice barely a breath, his eyes fixed on Maekar’s mouth. "Use your teeth."

This was harder. More intimate.

Maekar pressed his face into Baelor’s thigh, finding the laces at the waist. The scent of Baelor was overpowering here—musk, sweat, and the metallic tang of the blood on the bandages above. Maekar’s nose brushed against the linen of the smallclothes as he hunted for the knot.

"Careful with the skin," Baelor warned, his voice breathless now. "I am tender."

He found the laces of the breeches with his lips, careful not to graze the skin with his teeth, terrified to pinch, desperate to serve.

"Yes," Baelor groaned, his good hand coming down to grip Maekar’s hair, holding him there, face buried in his lap. "Just like that. Undo me, Maekar. Strip me bare. Show me how much you want it.”

It was humiliating.

It was debasing.

And yet, Maekar tugged the knot loose with a gentle, wet precision that made Baelor gasp.

"Look at you," Baelor murmured, looking down at his brother—bound, naked, and serving him with his teeth. "My fierce anvil. Reduced to this."

Maekar looked up, his chin resting on Baelor’s thigh, his mouth red and swollen. "I am yours, Master."

"Yes," Baelor agreed, his voice thick with a dark, twisted affection. "You are."

The silence was heavy, broken only by the wet sound of Maekar spitting the linen of Baelor’s clothes from his mouth. His jaw ached from the exertion, his lips wet with saliva and the taste of his brother’s skin.

They were both breathing heavily.

"Exquisite," Baelor murmured, his voice a low thrum of amusement and pain.

He lay back against the pillows, his chest rising and falling shallowly to spare his shoulder. "The Prince of Summerhall. A slobbering mess at my feet."

Maekar looked up, his eyes dark and dilated. The degradation was a sharp, distinct flavor, but it was drowned out by the thundering beat of his own pulse. He was vulnerable between his brother’s legs, and the sight of Baelor—disheveled, bandaged, and imperious—was the most arresting thing he had ever seen.

"Up," Baelor commanded, flicking his fingers with his good hand. "Get off the floor. You look like a dog begging for scraps, though I suppose you are."

Maekar struggled to his feet. Without his hands to balance, the motion was clumsy, uncoordinated. He swayed as he stood, the silk binding his wrists digging into the tendon.

He felt agonizingly exposed. The firelight licked at his skin, highlighting the flush that started at his neck and burned all the way down.

Baelor’s eyes raked over him, lingering on the undeniable, rock-hard evidence of Maekar’s arousal.

"Disgusting," Baelor noted, though his eyes were hot and intense as they stared at Maekar’s leaking cock.

"I lie here with my flesh torn open by your hand, and you stand there ready to rut?” he mused. “Have you no shame, brother?"

"Master," Maekar corrected hoarsely, the word a plea. "I cannot help it. You… the sight of you…"

"The sight of your victim?" Baelor challenged. He reached out, his left hand grasping Maekar’s hip, digging his fingers into the muscle. "Come closer. Let me test how deep your penance runs."

Baelor’s good hand moved then, not to Maekar, but to himself. He adjusted his position, wincing slightly as his shoulder pulled, but the pain seemed only to sharpen his focus.

He looked at Maekar, his expression one of imperious, heated command.

"Watch," Baelor ordered.

Maekar’s eyes widened.

He watched as Baelor’s hand drifted down, over the flat plane of his stomach, past the navel, to wrap around his own hardening cock.

The sight was maddening—the slow, deliberate strokes, the way Baelor’s hips bucked slightly with the rhythm. Maekar’s own body screamed for release, his cock hard and aching in the air, throbbing with every beat of his heart.

"Does it hurt?" Baelor asked softly, not stopping. "To be so close, yet unable to touch? To see me take what you want?"

"Please," Maekar choked out, his hips jerking involuntarily, a friction that offered no relief. "Master, please."

"Please what?" Baelor’s hand stilled. "You want to touch? You want release?"

"Yes," Maekar gasped.

"Then earn it." Baelor released himself and reached for the small table beside the bed, grabbing a small vial of oil.

“Come here,” he commanded as he poured a generous amount on his palm.

Maekar shuffled forward until his thighs pressed against the edge of the mattress.

Baelor’s hand grazed the sensitive skin of Maekar’s inner thigh before digging two oiled fingers in his ass.

Maekar hissed, his head falling back, his bound hands clenching uselessly against his own stomach. Baelor’s hand was calloused from the sword, rough and warm, possessively cupping the span of Maekar’s perineum as he fucked him with his fingers.

"You look lost, brother," Baelor murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through the room. "A soldier without a sword. A prince without hands. What are you now?"

Maekar bucked into the touch, closing his eyes, the humiliation of the gesture warring with a desperate need for contact.

"I am yours," he rasped. "I am whatever you require."

"Then you are a beggar," Baelor decided, using his thumb to press on Maekar’s balls. "And beggars must wait for scraps."

The sensation was electric—the slick, firm grip of his brother’s hand sending a jolt of pleasure so intense Maekar nearly cried out.

"Oh, Seven…" Maekar groaned, his head falling back, his hips snapping forward into the touch.

"You want this," Baelor whispered, giving a slow, deliberate curl. "You want to forget the melee. You want to forget the sound of the mace hitting my armor."

"Yes," Maekar groaned, his hips twitching involuntarily against the hand.

"Too bad," Baelor said, and his grip tightened, turning from a caress into a stranglehold.

He stopped all movement.

Maekar choked on a breath, his eyes snapping open. "Master?"

"Beg," Baelor said simply. He didn't move his hand. He just held Maekar there, trapped in a vice of static heat.

"Please," Maekar rasped. "Please, touch me."

“More.”

“I… please, Master. I’ll be good. I’m sorry. I will never raise a hand to you again.”

Baelor smirked, a cruel, beautiful expression. "Very well."

The hand in Maekar’s ass remained frozen, but his other hand—the one connected to his injured shoulder—started stroking Maekar’s cock.

“Fuck!” Maekar cried out.

The rhythm was slow, agonizingly slow. Baelor watched Maekar’s face the entire time, drinking in every wince, every gasp. He played Maekar like a lyre, knowing exactly where to press, exactly how much friction to apply to drive his brother to the brink of madness.

Maekar was lost to it.

The guilt, the fear, the rain—it all narrowed down to the sensation of Baelor’s hands. The pressure built, a tidal wave rising in his gut, hot and inevitable. He curled his toes into the furs, his breath coming in short, sharp pants.

He was close. He was so close.

"I’m… I’m going to—"

Baelor’s hands vanished.

The loss of contact was a physical shock.

Maekar gasped, stumbling forward, his knees hitting the mattress. He stared down at Baelor, wide-eyed and wrecked.

"Did I give you permission to cum?" Baelor asked, his voice cool, contrasting sharply with the fever-bright look in his eyes.

"No…" Maekar whimpered, the word foreign on his tongue. "No, Master."

"Then suffer," Baelor commanded.

He let Maekar hang there in the agony of denied release for a long minute, watching the tremors run through his brother’s massive frame. Only when Maekar’s breathing began to slow, when the desperate edge began to dull into a heavy ache, did Baelor reach out again.

"Again," Baelor whispered. He wrapped his hand around Maekar’s cock.

The second time was faster. Rougher.

Baelor’s thumb rubbed over the head, smearing the precum, treating Maekar with a degradation that made his head spin.

Maekar groaned, straining against the silk bindings, his hips snapping forward to meet the hand.

"That's it," Baelor encouraged, his voice dropping to a growl. "Chase it. Run for it like you ran in the lists."

Maekar threw his head back, a guttural sound tearing from his throat. The edge was there again, sharper this time, a blinding white light behind his eyelids.

"Now?" Maekar begged, blind and desperate. "Master, now?"

Baelor stopped.

"No."

Maekar made a broken, frustrated sound, his forehead dropping to rest on Baelor’s shoulder—the good one. He was trembling violently now, sweat dripping from his nose onto Baelor’s chest.

"You were too fast," Baelor chided, wiping his hand on Maekar’s thigh, leaving a glistening streak of precum. "You haven't suffered enough yet."

"Why?" Maekar breathed into the skin.

"Because you need to learn control," Baelor whispered into his ear. "And because I enjoy watching you unravel."

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

It became a cycle of torment. Baelor would bring him right to the very edge, to the split second before release, where Maekar’s body was coiled tight as a spring, and then he would stop.

Sometimes he would squeeze painfully. Sometimes he would simply let go.

Baelor did it again. Maekar has lost count.

His eyes were wet with tears at this point. He was dazed and whining low in his throat, "Please. Please, Master. Don't stop this time.”

Baelor’s hand tightened around Maekar, but he slowed down. Tantalizingly slow. He teased the sensitive skin, thumb rubbing over the head, dragging out a moan from Maekar’s throat that sounded almost like a sob.

"That's it," Baelor crooned, his eyes dark with satisfaction. "Feel it build—again. Let it consume you."

He sped up, the strokes becoming harder, faster.

Maekar was panting, sweat dripping from his nose onto Baelor’s chest. The pleasure coiled tight in his gut, hotter and sharper than before. He was climbing the peak again, desperate to fall over the other side.

"Yes," Maekar hissed, "Yes, yes, please—"

He was there. He was right there.

Baelor stopped.

"No!" Maekar shouted, the word torn from him. He collapsed forward again, his forehead resting on Baelor’s uninjured shoulder, his body shaking with the force of the denial. "Why? Why do you torture me?"

"Because you like it," Baelor whispered into his ear, nipping at the lobe. "And because I own you. Your pleasure is mine to give, and mine to take away."

He waited.

He let the frustration pool in Maekar’s belly until it was a physical weight. He let Maekar whimper and plead, reducing the proud warrior to a trembling mess.

"Look at me," Baelor commanded.

Maekar lifted his head, his eyes glassy, his face flushed dark red.

"You want it?" Baelor asked, his hand hovering just inches away.

"More than air," Maekar confessed, broken.

"Then beg," Baelor said simply. "Beg for your ruin."

"Please," Maekar sobbed, leaning down to press a frantic kiss to Baelor’s chest. "Master, please. Have mercy. Let me… let me cum. I cannot bear it."

Baelor smiled, a beautiful, terrible expression. He reached down, gripping Maekar hard.

"Once more," Baelor promised. "We go up the mountain one last time, Maekar. And if you are good… if you are very, very good… perhaps I will let you fall."

He began to stroke again, and this time, there was no mercy in his touch. Only possession.

Maekar was heaving dry, frustrated tears, his mind fractured. He was no longer a prince.

He was merely a raw nerve ending.

"Please," Maekar slurred, his face buried in the crook of Baelor’s neck. "Master, please. It hurts. It hurts."

"Does it hurt more than a mace to the skull?" Baelor asked, his voice right against Maekar’s ear. He slid his hand back down, slippery now, finding the rhythm instantly.

"No," Maekar sobbed.

"Does it hurt more than the thought of burying me?"

"No. No."

"Then endure it," Baelor snarled, and twisted his hand, bringing Maekar up the mountain once more, merciless and exacting. "Endure it for me."

And right when he was about to peak—

Baelor released his cock.

Maekar wept.

He swayed on his knees, his body trembling so violently his teeth chattered. The denial was a physical blow, leaving him aching, blue-balled, and hollowed out.

“Please—please! I cannot take it anymore! I need to cum, Master… it hurts. I’m aching. I’m full,” he babbled. “I’ll be good, I swear. I’ll be yours from now on.”

Baelor hummed, his voice laced with satisfaction and feigned boredom. “Mine?”

“Yes, yes!” Maekar nodded frantically. “Only yours. Just… please… let me cum, Master.”

Baelor sighed as he shifted back against the pillows, his face pale and slick with sweat, his eyes dark with a mixture of pain and cruel satisfaction. He looked at Maekar—shaking, dripping, and wrecked—and let out a short, breathless laugh.

"Look at you," Baelor murmured, shaking his head. "You look like you've been flayed."

"How long?" Maekar choked out, staring down at his own lap, at the ache that wouldn't subside. "How long will this go on?"

"As long as I want," Baelor replied simply. "And until I’ve decided you’ve earned your keep."

He gestured vaguely with his good hand, pointing to himself. The robe had fallen open completely now, revealing his pale chest, the stark white of the bandages, and the dark hair that trailed down his stomach.

He was hard and aching, visibly so, his cock leaking precum all over his thighs and stomach.

"You think a few tears and a little begging pays the debt?" Baelor asked, his voice dropping to that dangerous, commanding low. "You nearly sent me to the Stranger, Maekar. You owe me life. You owe me vitality."

Maekar looked up, his violet eyes swimming. "I will do anything."

"I know," Baelor said. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes as a wave of pain from his shoulder washed over him. He breathed through it, then opened one eye to fix Maekar with a steely gaze.

"You are denied," Baelor stated, the judgment final. "You do not touch yourself. You do not come. Not until I say so."

Maekar slumped, a whine escaping him. "Master…"

"But," Baelor continued, a wicked smile curling his lips. "I am a merciful lord. I will grant you release… eventually."

He shifted his hips, a clear invitation.

"But first, you must be at my service," Baelor commanded. "And since I am generous, I will set a price. Twice."

Maekar blinked, the fog of lust clearing just enough to process the words. "Twice?"

"Twice," Baelor confirmed. "You will make me cum, Maekar. And then, when I am recovered, you will do it again. Only then—if you have been diligent, if you have been thorough—will I allow you to finish."

He reached out, his fingers brushing against Maekar’s cheek, sticky with tears.

"Now," Baelor whispered. "Stop crying. Use that mouth for something useful."

Maekar didn't hesitate. The denial had left him raw, his own need a dull, throbbing ache that radiated from his cock to his chest, but the command gave him a purpose.

If he could not have his own release, he would devour Baelor’s.

He crawled forward on the mattress, his knees sinking into the furs, until he was looming over Baelor’s hips.

Without his hands to steady himself, he had to brace his forearms on Baelor’s thighs, his face hovering inches from Baelor’s cock, blowing breath on the dark hair at the base.

"Don't look at me like a martyr," Baelor murmured, his hand tangling into Maekar’s hair, fingers tightening at the roots. "Eat."

Maekar kissed the inside of Baelor’s thigh first—a reverent, apologetic press of lips against the pale skin. Baelor’s leg twitched, his breath hitching audibly.

"Don't dally," Baelor rasped. "I am not a patient man tonight."

Maekar obeyed. He opened his mouth and swallowed Baelor whole.

It was a tight fit, warm and silken. Maekar groaned low in his throat, the feel of his brother’s cock flooding his senses.

He couldn't use his hands to stroke, couldn't use them to steady himself, so he had to use his neck, his shoulders, bobbing his head in a rhythm that was entirely servile.

It was encompassing and overwhelming. Baelor tasted of salt and musk, a sharp, intoxicating flavor that drowned out the metallic scent of the tourney grounds. Maekar’s tongue worked flat and desperate, swirling over the head, teasing the slit, before taking more, pushing past the gag reflex to accommodate the length.

Baelor let out a sharp, hissing intake of breath, his hips jerking upward against Maekar’s mouth. "Seven Hells…"

The movement jostled Baelor’s injured shoulder, and a groan of pain mingled with the pleasure, creating a rough, guttural sound that vibrated against Maekar’s lips.

It spurred Maekar on. He wanted to soothe the pain, to replace the agony of the shattered bone with this blinding, white-hot friction.

"Good," Baelor hissed, his hips bucking up to meet Maekar’s mouth. "Just like that. Take it. Take it all."

Maekar worked him with a desperate, single-minded focus. He swirled his tongue, he sucked hard, his cheeks hollowing as he drew Baelor deeper. Every time Baelor’s hips snapped forward, Maekar’s nose brushed against the dark hair, inhaling the scent of him.

Baelor’s grip on his hair tightened, turning from a caress into a vice. He began to guide Maekar, forcing a faster pace.

"Deeper," Baelor commanded, breathless. "Don't you dare gag. You take a sword in your hand, you can take my sword in your throat."

Maekar choked slightly but forced his throat to open, sliding down until his nose pressed into Baelor’s pubic bone. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes—from the depth, from the humiliation, from the overwhelming relief of being useful.

"Yes," Baelor groaned, his head falling back against the pillows, his neck arched. "That's it… wash away the pain, Maekar. Make me forget."

Maekar found a rhythm—bobbing his head, using the suction of his cheeks, the wetness of his saliva. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive ridge, humming deep in his throat, the vibration travelling through them both.

"Good," Baelor gasped, his fingers clenching in Maekar’s silver-gold hair, guiding the pace. "Just like that. Deep. Don't… don't pull back."

Maekar obeyed. He took Baelor deeper, his eyes squeezed shut.

He felt Baelor’s good leg hook over his shoulder, trapping him there, pressing him closer. The power dynamic was overwhelming—Maekar was the weapon, and Baelor wielded him even now.

"You’re starving for it," Baelor whispered, his voice strained and breathless.

He looked down, watching his brother’s head move between his legs, the sight fueling the fire in his blood. "You want to please me, don't you? You want to be forgiven?"

Maekar couldn't answer, his mouth full, so he made a low, affirmative noise in his throat and suckled.

Baelor’s hips began to snap up to meet him, the rhythm becoming erratic, urgent. "Harder, Maekar. Don't be gentle now. Take it. Wring it out of me."

Maekar abandoned all subtlety. He worked his mouth with a feverish intensity, his tongue lashing, his lips tight and demanding.

He felt Baelor’s thighs tense, hard as iron beneath his forearms. Baelor’s breathing turned into jagged pants, his hand gripping Maekar’s hair so tight it felt like he might rip the strands from the scalp.

"Yes," Baelor hissed, arching his back, his head thrown against the pillows. "Yes… right there… don't stop! Don’t you dare stop!"

Maekar felt Baelor’s cock pulse beneath his tongue, the tell-tale throb of imminent release. He ground down, his throat opening, ready to receive the penance.

"Maekar!" Baelor cried out, a raw, broken shout that echoed in the room.

Baelor’s hips bucked one final, violent time, and he spent deep into Maekar’s throat.

It came in hot, thick spurts, filling Maekar’s mouth, coating his tongue. Baelor rode it out, his body trembling, his thighs clamping around Maekar’s head, trapping him there until the last drop was spent.

Maekar swallowed convulsively—once, twice—drinking it down as he had been commanded, terrified to spill a single drop. He stayed there, latched on, milking the last tremors from Baelor’s body until the prince went limp against the sheets.

Maekar pulled back with a wet pop, gasping for air, a string of saliva and cum connecting his lips to Baelor. He wiped his mouth on his shoulder—since his hands were bound—and looked up, his eyes wide, dark, and still desperately, agonizingly hungry. He licked his lips, still tasting his brother on them.

Baelor lay there, chest heaving, his skin flushed, the pain lines in his face momentarily smoothed away by the bliss of release. He opened one eye, looking down at his brother—messy, kneeling, and still visibly hard.

A faint, cruel smirk returned to his face as he saw the want plainly written on Maekar’s features.

He reached out with his thumb, wiping a stray drop from the corner of Maekar’s mouth and bringing it to his own lips.

"One," Baelor whispered.

Maekar’s own need was a physical agony now, a tight, cramping coil in his lower belly that demanded attention.

He made a small, pathetic sound—a whine of pure, unadulterated want—and shifted his hips, the friction of his thighs against the furs offering a mockery of relief.

The languid haze of Baelor’s satisfaction vanished, replaced instantly by that sharp, glittering cruelty.

"Impatient," Baelor tutted. "You think because you served me once, the debt is paid? We are only halfway there, Maekar."

He shifted his legs, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandaged shoulder, but he did not stop. He planted his feet on the mattress, bending his knees.

"Ride me," Baelor commanded.

Maekar froze.

"Master, your shoulder… if I lose my balance…"

"Then do not lose your balance," Baelor snapped. "You are a warrior, are you not? You ride stallions into battle. Surely you can manage a crippled man without crushing him."

He gestured impatiently with his good hand. "Straddle me. And keep your weight on your own legs. If you so much as graze my bandages, I will have you sleeping in the kennels."

Maekar swallowed hard, nodding mutely.

He rose on his knees, moving to hover over Baelor’s hips.

It was a feat of coordination. His hands were still bound tight in the silk sash, uselessly pressed against his own stomach. He had to rely entirely on the strength of his thighs.

He positioned himself, looking down at Baelor. The sight was intoxicating—the pale skin, the dark hair, the stark white linen, and the waiting, hungry look in Baelor’s eyes.

"Go on," Baelor urged softly. "Sink down. Take me."

Maekar lowered himself.

It was a slow, tight impaling.

Maekar gasped, his head falling back as he took Baelor in, the sensation of fullness stretching him, filling the hollow ache that had been plaguing him. He sank until he was flush against Baelor’s cock, bottoming out, his heavy thighs trembling with the effort of holding his weight off Baelor’s chest.

"Good," Baelor hissed, his hips twitching upward to seat himself deeper. "You feel… adequate."

Maekar let out a loud, shuddering moan, the pleasure spiking instantly. "Master… it feels—"

"Quiet!" Baelor cut in sharply.

Maekar blinked, looking down through a haze of lust. "What?"

"I said be quiet." Baelor reached up with his good hand. But instead of caressing Maekar’s hip or steadying him, Baelor’s fingers closed like a vice around the base of Maekar’s erect cock.

He squeezed. Hard.

Maekar choked, the breath trapped in his lungs. The pressure was intense, a ring of iron cutting off the blood flow, effectively stopping him from cumming even though he was already so fucking close.

"You are here to service me," Baelor said, his voice low and dangerous. "This is my pleasure, Maekar. Not yours. You do not get to moan. You do not get to sigh. You do not get to enjoy this."

He twisted his hand slightly, a warning.

"Hold your tongue," Baelor commanded, his eyes boring into Maekar’s. "If I hear so much as a whimper from you, I will stop. I will push you off, and you will spend the night in cold, aching silence. Do you understand?"

Seven, save me, Maekar thought.

And yet, he nodded frantically, his eyes wide and wet. "Yes… yes, Master."

"Then move," Baelor ordered. "And be silent."

Maekar began to move. He lifted his hips and sank back down, establishing a rhythm.

It was torture. It was divine, agonizing torture. Every slide brought a wave of pleasure that crashed against the barrier of Baelor’s gripping hand. He wanted to scream. He wanted to beg.

He bit his lip until he tasted copper.

Squish. Slide. Slap.

The wet sounds of their bodies meeting filled the room. Maekar squeezed his eyes shut, his brow furrowed in concentration, fighting a war against his own vocal cords.

Baelor watched him with a detached, sadistic fascination. He lay back, letting Maekar do the work, his hand an unyielding shackle at Maekar’s cock.

"You look pained," Baelor observed casually, though his own breath was beginning to hitch as Maekar’s rhythm hit the right spot. "Is it difficult? Being a mute little tool?"

Maekar shook his head, a muffled sound escaping his nose—Mmph.

"I heard that," Baelor warned, tightening his grip.

Maekar’s eyes flew open, panic warring with lust.

He clamped his mouth shut so hard his jaw ached. He rode harder, faster, driven by a desperate need to make Baelor finish so the torment would end.

The sensation was overwhelming. Baelor was filling him, stretching him, hitting deep inside where Maekar was most sensitive.

And yet, the denial—the ring of Baelor’s fingers preventing any release—made Maekar feel like he was burning alive.

He was sweating profusely, his silver-gold hair sticking to his face. He stared down at Baelor, pleading with his eyes, begging for permission to make a sound, to let out the pressure building in his chest.

Baelor just smiled—a thin, cruel thing.

"That's it," Baelor whispered, thrusting his hips up to meet Maekar’s descent. "Take it. Suffer for it. But don't you dare speak."

Maekar threw his head back, his mouth opening in a silent scream as Baelor hit a particularly sensitive spot. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye, tracking through the sweat on his cheek.

He was trembling so violently his teeth rattled, small, high-pitched whimpers trapped in his throat, vibrating against his vocal cords but forbidden from escaping.

Hnnngg… nnnh…

"Almost," Baelor judged, his gaze dark and heavy. "Almost silent. But I can still hear you needing me, Maekar. Stop needing. Just give."

Maekar’s thighs were burning, a lactic fire that rivaled the heat pooling in his cock. He continued moving with a desperate, piston-like rhythm, spurred by the terror of stopping and the maddening need to push Baelor over the edge so that this sweet agony would stop.

Every time Baelor fucked upwards into his hole, a fresh wave of pleasure crashed through Maekar, seeking an outlet in sound.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

"Pathetic," Baelor whispered, his hand tightening around the base of Maekar’s cock, turning the ache into a sharp, throbbing pressure. "You are whimpering like a kicked hound. I told you… silence."

Maekar squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head frantically.

I am trying, he wanted to scream. I am trying, Master.

But the friction was too much. Baelor angled his hips, hitting a spot deep inside that made Maekar’s vision swim.

"Nnnngh!"

The sound escaped—a high, strangled noise trapped in his nasal cavity.

Baelor didn't stop him this time. Instead, he thrust upward, hard, punishing the slip.

"Again," Baelor challenged, his voice growing rougher, breathier. "Make another sound and I stop. I swear it by the Seven."

Maekar panicked. He couldn't stop now.

He leaned forward, burying his face in the crook of his own arm, biting into his bicep to stifle the next cry.

He rode faster, harder, his sweat dripping onto Baelor’s chest, mingling with the older man’s. The muffled sounds of his struggle—wet, choked gasps against his own skin—filled the small space between them.

Baelor let out a hiss of air. The angle was working. The desperation in Maekar’s movements—the sheer, animalistic need to please and to be done—was tipping the scales.

"Yes!" Baelor groaned, his head tossing back against the pillow. "Just… like that. Don't… stop."

Maekar felt the shift. Baelor’s thighs tensed beneath him.

The hand gripping Maekar’s cock didn't loosen, but the thumb dragged wetly over the sensitive head, a cruel spike of stimulation right when Maekar needed it least.

Maekar sobbed into his bicep, his hips snapping down with reckless abandon. He was drowning in sensation, trapped between the agony of denial and the bliss of Baelor’s fullness.

"Faster," Baelor commanded, his voice straining. "Finish it, Maekar. Empty me!"

Maekar gave everything he had left. His legs shook, threatening to give out, but he ground down, riding the crest of Baelor’s climax.

Baelor shouted—a raw, guttural sound that filled the room—and arched his back off the mattress. He poured into Maekar, hot and pulsing, gripping Maekar’s hips with bruising force to hold him in place, milking the sensation.

Maekar collapsed forward, catching himself on his elbows just inches from Baelor’s injured chest.

He was gasping, drooling, his body wracked with the aftershocks of Baelor’s release, but his own release remained locked away, a tight, painful knot behind Baelor’s unyielding grip.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the rain.

Baelor slowly lowered his hips back to the mattress. He didn't let go of Maekar. He lay there, staring up at the roof, a sheen of sweat on his face, looking utterly wrecked and utterly victorious.

"Two," Baelor breathed.

Maekar let out a broken, keen sound—whimper—his forehead resting on the mattress beside Baelor’s head. He was shaking apart.

The overstimulation was unbearable.

He needed… he needed.

"Master…" Maekar whispered, the word a shattered plea. "Please. I beg you. It hurts. I am aching."

Baelor turned his head, looking at Maekar’s flushed, tear-streaked face. He saw the genuine distress, the way Maekar’s hips were still twitching, seeking friction that wasn't there.

Baelor smiled. It was softer this time. Sated.

"You did well," Baelor murmured. "You were… mostly silent."

He released his grip on Maekar’s base.

The rush of blood was instantaneous, almost painful. Maekar gasped, his eyes rolling back as the dam broke.

"Finish it," Baelor commanded softly, his hand moving to stroke Maekar's hair. "Right where you are. Come for me, brother."

The permission snapped the last tether of Maekar’s control.

He didn't hesitate. He sat back on his heels, hovering just above Baelor’s hips, his chest heaving as if he had run miles in full plate. He brought his hands down to his lap in a frantic, jerking motion. The silk sash had dug deep into his wrists, leaving angry red welts, but he didn't feel the pain.

He felt only the desperate, clawing need to end the ache.

It was a clumsy, maddening endeavor. Because his wrists were lashed so tightly together, he couldn't form a proper grip. He had to cup his cock with both hands, his palms sliding against each other, the rough silk of the knot rubbing abrasively against the sensitive skin of his shaft.

He groaned, a wet, shattered sound, his head falling back. "Master…"

"Don't speak," Baelor whispered, though there was no heat in the command now, only a dark, voyeuristic satisfaction.

He watched from below, his eyes tracking the frantic motion of Maekar’s hands. "Just show me. Show me what a mess you make."

Maekar stroked faster.

The friction of his own calloused palms, restricted and tight, combined with the slickness of the precum and the sweat, created a sensation that was almost too intense to bear. He was weeping openly now, the tears tracking through the grime on his face.

"I can't… Baelor, I can't hold…"

"Then don't," Baelor urged. He reached up with his good hand, his fingers digging into Maekar’s thigh, grounding him.

"Let go, Maekar. Cum for me!"

The end came with the force of a hammer blow.

Maekar shouted—a raw, broken cry that tore from his throat, echoing off the walls.

His hips bucked wildly, his bound hands slipping as his body convulsed in a violent, seizing release. He came hot and fast, coating his own trembling fingers, the ruined silk sash, and the pale skin of Baelor’s stomach in thick, white ropes.

He didn't stop shaking even after the waves passed. The relief was so profound it bordered on agony.

His strength abandoned him entirely, and he collapsed forward. He caught himself on his elbows at the last second, narrowly avoiding Baelor’s injured shoulder, and buried his face in the crook of Baelor’s neck.

He lay there, heavy and panting, his heart hammering against Baelor’s ribs, his bound hands resting sticky and useless on Baelor’s chest.

For a long time, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the scent of sex and the rain outside.

Slowly, Baelor’s hand came up. He didn't push Maekar away. Instead, he tangled his fingers into the damp, silver-gold hair at the nape of Maekar’s neck, scratching lightly against the scalp.

"Disgusting," Baelor murmured, though his voice lacked its usual bite. It was soft, almost fond.

"You have made a ruin of my bed, Maekar."

Maekar made a small, muffled noise against Baelor’s skin—half-apology, half-exhaustion. He turned his head slightly, his nose brushing against Baelor’s pulse.

"I… I will clean it," Maekar rasped, his voice wrecked.

"Eventually," Baelor agreed, his hand stilling in Maekar’s hair. "But not yet."

He shifted slightly, wincing as his shoulder protested, but he settled back into the pillows with a sigh of deep, physical contentment.

"Stay," Baelor commanded quietly. "The rain is heavy. And I find… I am cold without you."

Maekar closed his eyes, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. He felt the rise and fall of Baelor’s chest, the warmth of the man he had terrified himself with the thought of losing.

"As you command," Maekar whispered. "Master."

Baelor let out a short, tired laugh. "Sleep, you fool. We can discuss my title in the morning.”