Chapter Text
Maekar has infrequently been grumbling to himself for at least an hour now, low sounds that are probably meant to go into his beard and stay there, but as much as Baelor loves said beard, it does not serve in this regard. He sighs, likewise not for the first time, and looks up from the hefty tome he's currently trying to read, something about forestry, to glare at his brother. Who does not even deign to glare back at him, scowling instead at the letter in his hand, slouching in the big upholstered armchair beside the King's desk Baelor is sitting at, elbow propped up on one armrest. Next to him the sidetable is littered with more correspondence, half of it sorted into a system Baelor could not understand even if he had studied it from birth. He remembers what it was like, being the Hand of the King, and for a moment envies his brother. It would be cruel, making Maekar King, but he makes a better Hand than Baelor himself had been. Smiles are better suited to kings.
He catches himself staring, at the lines on Maekar's face and his pale eyes and long fingers and the sprawl of his body that means there will be massaging later in bed, and looks back down at the tome, trying to find his place, when the door opens. There's a big frame in fine clothes filling the doorway, and Duncan smiles and comes to him first. He leans down and kisses his husband sweetly, lingering bent over the desk, one large hand stroking Baelor's cheek softly, almost reverently. Baelor's hand comes up from the book, circling Duncan's wrist – not that he could actually close his fingers around it – and he presses a soft kiss to the heel of his hand.
"Everything alright with the horses?" he murmurs and lets go of that thick wrist.
"Aye," Duncan laughs, straightening again, "and now Egg's thrown me out of the stables, although why he feels the need to prove himself grown by helping birth a foal of all things I could not tell you. But it suits me right well, not sitting in the damned straw any more." He turns, finally, to Maekar, who again does not look up, doesn't move at all in fact, and Baelor knows it's petulance that his son asked Duncan to check on the horses (not at all to keep him company) and not him, even though Maekar hates sitting in the straw and would have complained about the smell the entire time.
"You're in my chair," Duncan says accusatory, hands on his hips and shoulders squared, and still Maekar's gaze is on the vellum. His voice is clipped.
"Last time I checked," he remarks, emphasising pettily, "it was the King's chair." His head twitches a little bit, but otherwise he remains dead still, though to Baelor his slouch looks rather tense.
Duncan indulges his antics. "Aye, and who 'm I married to?"
"And I am his Hand," Maekar rebukes, "which makes me higher in rank than the fucking Queen." Still no movement.
Duncan scoffs, and suddenly both of them are looking at Baelor, who has been watching them with fond amusement until now and suddenly feels his eyebrows raise on their own accord.
"Do not bring me into this." Maekar opens his mouth, Duncan draws in a breath, and Baelor tilts his head and shoots them both an incredulous glance. "I should think the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the Hand of the King are quite capable of resolving a border dispute amongst themselves," he says and looks back down at the page he hasn't been reading since before Duncan came in. His lovers are distracting, and Baelor loves watching them, but this they can fight out between themselves.
Which does not mean he will stop listening. Or watching, once he can risk accidentally making eye contact again.
Maekar, unsuccessful in his usual strategy of letting his big brother handle his troubles, tries a different tack.
"I'm already sitting here."
"Oh very mature of you, Lord Hand. But would a man as honourable as yourself truly leave the Queen standing?"
"There are other chairs." There is the rustling of vellum, and Baelor hazards a glance. Maekar and Duncan are now looking at each other, Duncan's hands still at his hips but his back eased. Maekar, mostly hidden behind Duncan's bulk, has a stubborn tilt to his clenched jaw, but the letter is lying on the table now and the hand Baelor can see is open and gesticulating at the other chairs that are indeed in the room.
"But you know damn well they are too small for me to sit in comfortably." Duncan is right, both in the fact and that Maekar knows it. Baelor swallows a fond smile at their affectations that he had at first thought would be temporary. He really should have known better. They are both headstrong and stubborn and love to argue with each other, and Baelor is quite glad they fit together so well, and that for Maekar it cuts down on time spent arguing with him instead. He initially had feared they were posturing, vying for his affections, fighting out an imaginary war about him, but never once has he been dragged baselessly into an actual fight between them, so he indulges them, every so often, like the gracious King he is. It is no hardship.
"It is not my fault that you are a great big oaf of a man." As customary, there is less swearing for Maekar and more proper articulation for Duncan, and Baelor wishes he could get them to talk that courtly in actual court, if not the small council, but then he remembers that only he gets to hear them like this, and maybe those lords can stand to be coursed out sometimes. It keeps them humble, and slightly afraid of his Hand, which nobody enjoys more than said man.
"The great big oaf is going to remove you from that chair by force if you do not withdraw at once."
Maekar snarls and gives up on etiquette. "I'll knife you, you poor-bred bastard." There is, Baelor notes with a bit of relief he would never confess to, absolutely no heat behind his words, and Duncan takes them with an easy smile in his voice.
"Does the incestuous alien have something to say about my breeding?"
"I will-" but Duncan cuts him off.
"And you left your knife by the door." A beat of silence. Maekar tries something very unwise, but from his tone Baelor is sure he does not realise it.
"My mother sat with me in this chair years before you were even born!"
"Aye?" Baelor can hear the smugness in Duncan's voice and looks up to see his brother's horrified realisation of what he has just given his opponent. "Your mother? And what position did she hold in court?"
Maekar sputters, but it's too late. Duncan's massive hands at the end of his more massive arms grab him like a child, right hand behind the back and left one under his knees, and in one quick turn he's sitting in the chair, a protesting Maekar cradled on his lap.
Neither of them even glances at Baelor, and Duncan grabs Maekar's chin with his left hand, turns his head, and slots their lips together. It's a filthy kiss, Baelor can see their tongues slide against each other between shiny spit-slicked lips, hear the wet noises of their movements between low moans and grunts, and then his brother bites Duncan, who laughs and lets up. Even with Maekar sitting on his thick thighs their heads are not quite level, and Baelor could watch his brother's sleek, lithe form framed by the smooth, expansive planes of his husband's massive shape forever and still hunger for it. Maekar is dressed in dark, formfitting clothes, long lines across Duncan in his lighter garb. Where Maekar had sprawled and still only used part of the big armchair, Duncan now fills it, easy and soft. They're grinning at each other.
Duncan puts his left hand on Maekar's thighs, hoists him properly back up onto his lap, and starts petting him, absent-mindedly moving his fingers across the dark fabric, and his hand is so big. Baelor has little hope for the tome in front of him on the desk.
But Maekar just reaches behind him, steadied by Duncan's other arm around his back, and continues his work of reading and sorting, reading and sorting, occasionally making Duncan grab the papers for him or directing his longer arms to put them onto a farther pile. Duncan hums here and there, places lazy kisses on Maekar's temple and forehead, and otherwise sits, eyes half-closed, happy to dose and, Baelor knows from experience, radiate warmth. What exactly, Baelor thinks, went wrong, that the King is sitting at a desk on a subpar chair while his younger brother and Hand gets to sit on the very comfortable lap of said King's husband. But he loves them dearly, and he really does have to read at least this chapter and the next, so he lets them indulge, as he always does, and Duncan smiles at him, soft and open and beautiful, over silver-white hair.
Pages later Baelor looks up to a movement across the room. Maekar, apparently dissatisfied with Duncan's fetching skills, is stretching backwards over the armrest, long arms reaching for one of the papers on the sidetable, longer legs extending in the other direction for balance, and he's wiggling. With his ass still firmly planted in Duncan's lap, Duncan obviously having noticed, and he's glaring at Maekar, whose wiggling is turning into writhing when his arms are still not long enough, dark doublet riding up to expose a strip of pale skin at his belly. Duncan's right hand is still underneath Maekar's back, but the left holding down Maekar's legs lifts for just a moment. With a loud thud Maekar's boot smacks down onto the flagstone, and Duncan's large hand is now spanning the inside of the thigh remaining across his lap, light skin on dark fabric. Baelor abandons his book again and watches his brother turn red from the overhead stretch and the struggle to sit back up, paper in hand, until Duncan lifts his torso, other hand remaining on Maekar's inner thigh. Now Maekar finally glares back at Duncan, and meanly grinds his hips once in Duncan's lap. Baelor can feel his own cock slowly hardening in his breeches, and he is only watching, which means Duncan is definitely hard.
Maekar tugs his doublet back down over his stomach and goes to lean back against Duncan's chest to read what he just retrieved, but Duncan, with his right hand now in Maekar's neck (Gods, spanning from ear to ear easily, Baelor will never tire of that sight alone), forces his head back around to kiss him hungrily, left hand moving leisurely up Maekar's thigh towards his groin. His dark breeches and the angle hide any reaction, but they moan into each other's mouth. Maekar refuses to let go of the hard-won letter. He breaks the kiss.
"I have to fucking finish this," he snarls. "Unlike some people my position requires actual work." Duncan grins like a shark.
"Oh, I think in this position I can do most of the work," he leers and palms Maekar's cock trough his breeches. Baelor stutters through a breath at the way his brothers crotch just disappears beneath Duncan's hand. Maekar groans and tries to move away from that hand half-heartedly.
"You reek," he protests, even though he is mouthing at Duncan's jaw and neck unhurriedly.
"Mmm," Duncan hums, "like a horse, I reckon." He tilts his head to bare more of his neck and groans as well, deep and pleased.
"Like the stables," Maekar grumbles between open-mouthed kisses to Duncan's throat, "and if you make a jape about riding I will-" Duncan kisses him again.
They stay like that for a bit, kissing deeply, Maekar squirming a little on Duncan's lap, and Baelor muses idly how he might join them, when he sees Duncan's hand move at his brother's crotch.
He's opening the laces, one-handed since his other is still at Maekar's head, now grabbing at the silver-white strands, and has sneaked in his fingertips before Maekar realises. His hands, the right still grabbing that letter, grasp at Duncan's large wrist, trying to pull it away, but it is a useless endeavour: Duncan's arms are stronger, and he has good leverage in this position besides, and Baelor enjoys his brother's useless struggle against his own pleasure so much. Still no one has even looked at him, and he feels dirty and aroused, watching his husband force his brother to cuckold him, the King. His small groan at the thought is lost in Maekar's complaints.
"Take your hand away," Maekar protests again, undercut by the breathy tone of his voice. Duncan just hums. His arm, crossing over Maekar, effectively holding him in place, barely strains against Maekar's efforts to get out from under it entirely, or at least get it back to more innocent territory. Baelor can see his fingers moving inside his brother's breeches, leisurely and unconcerned but slowly driving Maekar insane, if the twitching of his long, lean thighs is anything to go by. His cock is straining against the fabric and towards those fingers. He again yanks at Duncan's wrist, to no avail, and then apparently decides on a different course of action.
"Fine," he huffs, ceding ground he cannot truly afford to loose. It is all Duncan needs, and his left hand is fully inside now, stroking over Maekar's cock, the fabric stretched over it, showing every languid movement. Maekar is stoically back to reading the letter, Duncan mouthing at his temple and jaw, nuzzling his pretty beard, and Baelor can see the strain in his brothers face, the thin control he has over himself at least, after losing control over the situation. It rankles him, Baelor knows, to cede to Duncan instead of his older brother, because Duncan does not want it for itself, never one to really enjoy people doing what he tells them to. Duncan just likes people being pleased and happy, and with Maekar that usually means pleasing him by force. His brother does not want to show weakness, and for him that includes pleasure. It suits Baelor just fine, having to break his little brother a bit, and Duncan seems to have developed a taste for it as well.
Baelor, seeing the slow, deliberate movements of Duncan's massive hand in Maekar's breeches, turns back to his book. This seems like it will take its time.
For a while, there's only the slow breathing of himself and Duncan, the slightly uneven breathing of Maekar, the occasional muffled sound of a kiss against Maekar's skin, and the rustling of handling letters and turning pages. They are back to the easy atmosphere of before, except that every time Baelor glances up he can see the small movements in Maekar's breeches, and his brother has a dusting of pink across the fair skin of his cheeks. Baelor smiles to himself and turns back to the page. His lovers will be beautifully placid and mellow after this, and incredibly worked up, and he is already planning on how, exactly, he is going to use that to his own benefit (And theirs, of course. If they are good. Perhaps.) when he hears Maekar groan, and then a muffled curse.
Duncan makes a low, crooning sound into Maekar's neck, his right hand covering Maekar's mouth and most of his lower face, and Baelor can feel his cock twitch in his breeches where he's sitting. He can see Duncan's left hand between his brothers thighs again, now glistening with oil, wherever he may have gotten that from. It moves, from what little Baelor can see, past his brother's cock and to his ass. Baelor knows Duncan has inserted the first of his thick fingers by the way Maekar stops cursing and gasps instead behind that large hand on his face, body going taut. Duncan's hand between his legs shifts, and a fully-body shiver runs trough his brother. The hand on his face is drawn back to grip into his fair hair in a way Baelor guesses is slightly painful and knows his brother likes.
Maekar's face is flushed, and his body has begun squirming in a most enticing way, continouos little motions emanating from his hips, still firmly seated in Duncan's lap. Duncan himself seems almost unaffected, has a certain glint in his eyes that makes Baelor reconsider his plan of watching them until he is invited, until they beg for his presence, the King's presence, like they should. But before he can reach a decision, absent-mindedly spinning the ring around his ring finger, Duncan prevails.
"I thought you had work to do, Lord Hand?" His voice is low, Baelor can hear the smirk in it, and Maekar groans in answer, and pulls a face. "Do not let me keep you from it with the unimportant dawdling my largely ceremonial position permits me. I only have to sit around and look pretty, after all. Unlike some people." Baelor can't keep the grin from his face. Duncan spoke in a very courtly, elaborate tone that Maekar most definitely cannot replicate right now, which he knows, which is why he opts to, instead of answering, bite Duncan's neck. Or he tries, but Duncan just tightens his hand slightly, and Maekar's snarl turns into a long, drawn-out moan when Duncan – presumably – pushes his second thick finger into Maekar and rubs over that spot inside.
Duncan just hums and continues the stretching, and Baelor finds himself leaning slightly forward to get a better view. Maekar is writhing in Duncan's hold, face turned red and strained, and he's making small, desperate sounds that go straight to Baelor's cock. The room is filled with his brother's moans and whines and the slick sounds of Duncan's fingers in his ass, long lean legs sporadically jerking on Duncan's tree-trunk thighs. Maekar's hands are clutching at Duncan's left arm with no hope of his fingers closing around it. His hips move and move and move.
"Maybe," Duncan starts conversationally, and Maekar's glare is cut off by a motion between his thighs that makes his eyes snap shut, "you don't want to work today." Maekar makes some kind of huffing sound and tries to leverage his hips up and away from Duncan's fingers. Duncan's muscles in his arm tighten. Maekar's legs tremble slightly. He does not move an inch, at least not away. "Maybe today you want to be the one sitting around and looking pretty." Maekar's knuckles are white on Duncan's arm, and his eyes are still pressed closed, an almost pained expression on his drawn-tight face. "Maybe the King will grant you that."
Duncan's brilliantly blue eyes snap to Baelor, and thankfully his pant is hidden beneath the desperate, keening "haah" his brother makes. Duncan has yanked his head around so that only he is looking at Baelor. There's a heated look on his face. Duncan has a plan, but he submits to Baelor and his will. Baelor palms his cock through his breeches and smiles.
"I do think the Hand as earned a small respite." he allows magnanimously. Duncan murmurs something into Maekar's ear that sounds suspiciously like "I'll make it a big one" and draws his hand out of his breeches. It glistens with oil and sweat, and for a moment Baelor wants to command the Hand to lick it clean, but this is Duncan's endeavour, at least for now.
Duncan wipes it liberally on Maekar's doublet and breeches, who immediately growls in protest, which Duncan silences once again quite effectively with his large hand. And then instead of a jape about how Maekar needs to get out of these soiled clothes he just takes them off, which Baelor finds he quite enjoys. It's not teasing at all, just very effective work that leaves his brother sputtering – and blessedly naked, finally.
His skin is scarred, all of them are, but the milky white is always a nice contrast to Duncan's golden tan and Baelor's ruddy bronze. It begs for bites and bruises, and seeing it now flushed and exposed in long lines, supple and tight over his brother's quivering muscles, punches the breath out of Baelor. It's a very nice contrast, all that pale, naked skin on display against Duncan, still fully clothed on the chair underneath. Maekar squirms in Duncan's renewed hold and Baelor couldn't look away if he wanted to, eyes roving over his brother's body over and over again.
Duncan's hands glide to Maekar's hips, and he lifts him. Just like that, and Baelor squeezes his cock so as not to come immediately at the sight.
Duncan lifts Maekar and sets him down on his lap properly now, legs folded and held apart by those massive clothes thighs, bare ass nicely on top of his crotch. Maekar grunts and writhes and Duncan catches him with his left arm across his chest and upper stomach, a secure hold, and Maekar writhes some more. Baelor is vain enough to think it for his benefit, even though his brother's eyes are firmly shut. His cock is an angry red and straining against his belly, but when he grasps for it Duncan just bats his hands away and tuts. Maekar whines and groans and writhes some more around Duncan's firm voice.
"The King told you to sit here looking pretty." No glance in Baelor's direction. "I will do the work." He reaches a hand behind his brother's back and down, and Baelor realises Duncan is getting his cock out. It always excites him, watching his husband fuck his little brother, but normally Baelor himself has to initiate it. He distantly thinks he might be drooling onto his desk.
Duncan shifts around a bit under Maekar's thrashing, securely held body, pale skin already rubbed red on Duncan's clothes, and then he opens his legs further. It presses Maekar's legs apart even more, gives Baelor an excellent view, which is probably the point. Duncan glances at him – it is definitely the point, to give his King the best view of his husband debasing his little brother, which, Gods, Baelor could die right now and he'd die happy.
Duncan has gotten his cock out of his breeches, flushed and hard and as impressive in size as all of him, and holds it steady while preparing to lift Maekar with the other arm. A large hand splays over Maekar's abdomen, meticulously not touching his leaking cock, tilting his pelvis backwards and arching his spine, and Baelor has to take a moment to admire his brother's perfect body, pale skin pulled tight over his cut stomach and his ribs heaving with every breathy groan, the trim chest Baelor wants to knead in his hands, flushed nipples and silver scars, and his sparse white body hair is catching the light and giving him a golden glow. Maekar is graceful in a sinewy way, but Baelor knows he does not want to hear that. A shame.
Duncan lifts him, thighs still holding Maekar's legs spread, and makes sure to let Baelor see how his brother glides down onto his cock. Duncan grunts with the effort of going slow. Maekar's breathing has quickened and he's making desperate, pained whines and keens, his eyes shut, his brow furrowed with the ache, his lips stretched tight over his gritted teeth. His legs around Duncan's thigh are quivering, his body taut, and his hands are desperately scrambling for purchase around Duncan's head and neck as he is slowly, inescapably lowered onto that fat cock, as his ass stretches to accommodate the Queen. Baelor is panting like a dog.
There is a long "haaah" and then Maekar's whines turn into moans as he is fully seated in Duncan's lap, split apart by his massive cock and held wide open by his massive thighs. Duncan barely gives him time to adjust before he starts moving, languidly fucking up into that tight heat, broad, deep strokes that make Maekar's face screw up even more, contort with the no doubt aching stretch of it. His arms are tense around Duncan's head, his hands likely gripping painfully into his hair, and then harmonising moans and the squelching sounds of fucking fill the air as Duncan snaps his hips up again and again.
The next time Duncan meets Baelor's eyes Baelor cocks his head to the side, and Duncan immediately obeys, as he knew he would. Baelor shivers in anticipation.
With the way Maekar is made to kneel across and around Duncan's thighs, giving Baelor an excellent view on Duncan's cock moving inside him, he has almost no leverage to move himself, helplessly subject to Duncan's pace, slightly pulling himself up against his neck. It would be more effective, Baelor knows, to have his hands on Duncan's knees – but that would block Baelor's view. So instead, he makes Duncan do the work.
Duncan puts his hands around Maekar's waist, fingers not quite touching, splaying over that beautifully pale skin, and lifts.
Maekar makes an animalistic sound, high and whimpering and desperate, morphing into a deep, raspy moan that probably rattles in his chest, as he is pushed and pulled over Duncan's cock, fucked without any control, angled toward Duncan's barrel chest to give Baelor the best view, skin surely getting rubbed raw against the tunic Duncan is still wearing. His inner thighs are already an angry red from the friction against the breeches. It makes his weeping, untouched cock stand out less, which is a shame.
Duncan moans into Maekar's neck, both of the red from lust and exertion, Maekar's blush reaching far down his chest and over his shoulders. The pace of their fucking is brutal, steady and deep, and fast now with Duncan allowed to use his hands. They can't last long like this, Baelor thinks, and Duncan's eyes snap open and there's a desperation in them as he grunts with exertion, and Baelor thinks: ah.
They are waiting for him.
He could just give them permission, but instead he surrenders to his desire to finally participate. He gets up, cock hard and leaking in his breeches, and crosses over to their chair – his chair, really. In his study, in his castle, in his kingdom. Occupied by his Queen and his Hand, his husband and his brother. They might be his favourite possessions.
He steps between their spread legs, and Duncan is still looking at him from between Maekar's bare arms, pupils blown and a deferential, almost reverent look on his face. Maekar's head is thrown back into the crook of Duncan's neck, loud moans and groans being punched out of him with every thrust, and the long, pale, unevenly flushed line of his throat begs for attention. Baelor puts a ringed hand there, deep bronze on milky white and blotchy red, fingers leisurely covering most of the delicate skin, and Maekar's eyes snap open. He just looks at Baelor, moaning and panting and still being moved, being used, at Baelor's command. His throat is hot under Baelor's touch, and vibrates with the noises he is making, and Baelor leans down to torture his brother a bit. He brings their mouths close, hot breath between their open lips, panting into each other, but when Maekar tries to surge up and close the gap he holds him down, cuts off some of his air, presses his fingers lightly into his pulse, and listens to his little brother choke. Duncan whines and loses his rhythm for a moment, and Baelor feels himself smile.
He puts his other hand on Duncan's muscular shoulder opposite his brother's head, and still Duncan is looking at him, panting and subservient, tongue coming out to wet his lips. The muscles of his arms are tense beneath his tunic, his thighs twitching, all of his body working at Baelor's command and for his pleasure now, and trembling with the effort of it.
Baelor looks his fill between them, bodies moving and straining for him, and leaves his hands where they are, hot brands of ownership and favour.
"You'd like to come, would you not," he murmurs. Ever the gracious King, he does not make it a question; he knows neither of them could answer him right now, at least not properly. Duncan gasps and swallows hard, and Maekar whines, high and drawn out, a base sound of pain and pleasure both.
"Shall I grant you your release then?" His voice is low and raspy from his lustful panting and building arousal. "Should the King have mercy?" There's a sob and a deep groan, and Maekar's fingers fist desperately in Duncan's hair. Something is touching Baelor's leg; he glances down and sees Duncan's massive thighs struggling to hold apart Maekar's folded legs.
"Well then. Come." Maekar howls as he comes untouched all over the pale skin of his stomach, legs convulsing around Duncan's and arms going slack behind his head. Duncan is holding Baelor's gaze fervently, and he groans deep in his chest, stuttering grunts and then gasping for air, as he slams Maekar down onto his cock and buries himself deep inside. He still looks at Baelor as he comes, though it almost seems to pain him. Baelor is pretty sure his hand on his brother's throat is the only thing holding him up, as Duncan's arms have gone slack with his release.
He lets them breathe for a moment, then straightens up slightly. "Oh, very good," he praises, "I am very pleased with your display." Maekar seems almost passed out, but Duncan's face glows with his tired smile. Baelor, delighting in his cruelty, his power, takes his hands away. His lovers are fucked out and exhausted, and still he commands their undivided attention, and gets it.
"Turn him around," he orders Duncan, whose arms shake with exertion, but still he complies, drags Maekar off his cock at Baelor's behest and turns him around so he's kneeling around Duncan's thighs again, face buried in Duncan's neck, ass presented to his King. His brother moans pitifully at being jostled, and at the knowledge what will come next. His loose, fucked-raw hole is dripping with Duncan's seed.
Maekar's hands, shaking, come up to Duncan's shoulders, and Maekar drapes himself over Duncan's clothed front as much as he can to steady himself for Baelor. His ass is only held up by Duncan's straining arms, large hands on those naked, lean thighs, spreading them even further than his own thighs already do, presenting his brother's glistening hole to Baelor, Duncan's own seed still leaking from it. Baelor opens his laces.
It's heavenly, to finally slide home into his brother, fucked-loose and hot and wet. He moans, and slides his ringed hands over that smooth, white expanse of Maekar's back. He already knows he won't last long, not after the show his lovers put on for him, and he grips Duncan's massive, tensed biceps and begins thrusting in earnest.
He loses himself in it, the slick-hot-perfect sensation around his cock, clawing into Duncan's taut upper arms and biting into his brothers pale, scarred shoulders. All of them are making noises, moans and groans and whines, and there's the wet squelch of fucking a fucked hole and the slapping of skin, muffled by the fabric of his own breeches. A lesser man would think himself unworthy of such bliss, but Baelor revels in it, that he gets to have this, all his desires secured at his side. They are his, to have and to keep, to command and to enjoy, and the most wonderful thing is how they love him, and he loves them, and they love each other.
"Kiss," he grunts out between thrusts, and sees his brother weakly lift his head to hastily obey, struggling to keep his balance against his powerful strokes, and then he is kissing Duncan, without any grace, and their lips are shiny with spit and they keep missing each other and sliding apart because Baelor is still fucking Maekar, held up and presented by Duncan, and then he moans and folds over onto his brother's back, is distantly aware of Duncan keeping them at least vaguely upright, and comes.
Duncan has gathered them against his chest. Baelor is too old to share a chair with his brother, much less a lap, so he's half standing as he pets Duncan's head and runs his other hand through Maekar's hair.
"I love you both so much," he says, and Duncan replies "We love you too," because Maekar only grumbles where his face is still pressed against Duncan's neck. He straightens up, looks down at himself and wrinkles his nose.
"These clothes need a wash," he looks up at Duncan, "and yours as well, and you" he says to Maekar, "need a bath." Maekar grumbles again in answer, then pushes himself slightly off Duncan and glares at his brother.
"And whose fault is that?" His protest is decidedly undercut by his flushed skin and relaxed movements and the slight smile he can't keep off his face.
"Hush your mouth," Duncan says and stands up with Maekar still held to his chest. "There's a bath in the other room, and then we'll have supper brought up." Baelor asks "Is there an occasion?" over Maekar's outraged "You planned this?!" and Duncan blushes and grins.
"Supper," he just says and carries Maekar through the door to his bath.