Beautiful Monster 🥀

not a minor

[fezrus]

Seven steps, one word

John Logan (Off Campus) x Reader

from an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.

word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !

One — "Oh, fuck!"

The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.

​Except for John Logan.

You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.

​Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.

​You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.

​​Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."

​The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."

​"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.

​You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."

​You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.

Two — "Fuck you"

A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.

​The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.

​The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. ​"You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."

​Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"

​"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.

​Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"

​"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."

​Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.

​"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."

​"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."

​Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."

​"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.

​"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."

​"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."

​"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."

​"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."

​"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."

​"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."

​The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. ​He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.

"Fuck you," he whispered.

​The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. ​Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."

​But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.

​"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.

Three — "Fuck off"

​For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.

Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.

​There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door,  silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.

​Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.

​The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.

​Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.

A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.

​Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.

​A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.

​"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."

​The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.

​Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.

​"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.

​The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.

​The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces. 

Four — "What the fuck"

The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.

​A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.

​You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.

​He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.

​Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.

​You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."

​Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.

​"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.

​You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."

​The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.

You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

​He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.

​"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."

​"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"

​"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

​Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

​"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.

Five — "Well, fuck"

​The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.

​You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.

Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.

​Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.

​You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

​"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."

​Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."

​You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."

​You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.

A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.

​"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.

​"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.

Six — "Fuck"

Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.

​But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.

​Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.

​Logan stepped out.

You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.

​Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.

​Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.

​Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.

​It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.

​"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.

​With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.

​You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.

​"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."

​"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."

With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.

Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.

The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.

"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.

The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.

The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.

You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.

He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.

That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.

Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.

Seven — "Fuck it"

Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.

​The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.

Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.

​"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."

Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"

But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.

Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.

"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.

Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.

Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"

When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.

[bunnies-p1tst0p]

I LOVEEE!!

[the-darklings]

you said Jason Todd would be an annoying bf, do you have any specific thoughts on why?? im a long and diehard fan of him, I’ve read the fics, the comics, seen the movies, etc. I KNOW he’d be a difficult piece of shit but I wanna know the almighty Kat’s take on it.

NOT ME GETTING LIKE 20 MESSAGES ASKING FOR JASON THOUGHTS GUYS PLS??? I DON'T EVEN GO HERE, BUT FUCK IT, FINE. 18+ for nsfw. mdni.

JASON TODD AS YOUR BOYFRIEND HDCS—

Loving Jason Todd is not easy. It's a lifestyle adjustment at the bare minimum, and the first thing to understand is that he's not some soft golden retriever boyfriend. Never has been, never will be.

He's not Dick (charming, attentive, performative), he's not Tim (anxious, observant, analytical), he's not Damian (devoted to a fault, awkwardly sincere); he's the one who came back wrong and never fully unlearned the rage or the wrongness of that come back.

He doesn't meet people the way normal men do. No Hinge profile, no striking up conversation at a coffee shop unless he's already aware of you as a potential informant.

The way he ends up in your orbit is one of three things: you crossed paths with one of his cases (you witnessed something, you live above the wrong building, you're the cousin of some dead girl, you work at the diner three doors down from the safehouse, and he noticed you because his job is noticing things, and then he kept noticing you, and that part wasn't the job); or you're tangentially Bat-adjacent (you work at WE, you're an old friend of Babs's, you patched him up once at a free clinic and didn't ask questions), which he hates in theory and seeks out in practice; or you're a complete civilian and he's furious about how attracted to you he is, which is the funniest one (for us) and the most dangerous one for him.

For the first dozen interactions he's rude. Not really cruel or anything. Jason has a deeply skewered and fucked up moral spine despite everything but he has it. He's brusque, he's short with you, he gives you the kind of one-syllable answers that make you check whether you've offended him somehow, and you haven't, he just doesn't waste words on people he hasn't decided require air from him.

But here's the thing: he keeps showing up.

You'll see him at the bar three nights in a row, sitting where he can see the door. You'll mention offhandedly that you can't find a decent mechanic one time and a week later your car runs better than it did when you bought it and the guy at the shop says "yeah some big guy paid in cash, told me not to mention it"; you'll say in passing that the back lock on your apartment door sticks and the next time you come home it's been replaced with something that looks like it could survive a small explosion. He'll never bring any of this up, and if you bring it up, he'll go "don't know what you're talking about" with that infuriating half-smirk and change the subject completely .

This is his love language and it's unbearable, because Jason won't ask you out, he won't say anything, really. He's just slowly making your life safer and more functional and waiting to see if you notice, and every time you do notice, he gets a little more annoyed that you're getting under his skin and keep noticing.

When he finally starts engaging with you, his flirting is mean. Affectionate-mean. He'll roast your taste in music, your coffee order, your shoes, the book you're reading, the way you say a particular word. He calls you stupid pet names that are technically insults: sweetheart, princess, trouble, and the one he reserves for when he wants to see you actually flustered, baby, and he watches you very carefully to see how you respond.

If you bite back his entire face changes. He gets delighted, he'll lean in over the table and go "oh, you've got a mouth on you, huh?" and you can see him tucking this information away in real time. If you go shy he'll keep pushing, gently, until you laugh, because he's testing you, he needs to know you can handle him before he lets himself want you any more than he already does.

You will not have a defining-the-relationship conversation. He will not ask you to be his girlfriend in some sappy way. One day you'll just realise he's been at your apartment four nights in a row, there's a toothbrush in your bathroom that isn't yours, he's eating your leftovers like he pays rent, and when his phone buzzes he angles it away from you with a look that says don't ask.

And if you ask what you are to each other he'll say something like "the hell kind of question is that?", not unkindly, just like the question itself is so ridiculous he can't believe you wasted a breath on it; obviously you're his, he thought you knew, he's been acting like it, hasn't he? Keep up!

He hasn't been acting like it in any way a normal person would recognise, but to him the fact that he hasn't killed anyone over you yet is a love sonnet <3

His texting habits are a horror show: he doesn't text first, ever, until suddenly he texts you twelve times in a row at 2 a.m. (u up. u home? answer the phone. fine. ignore me. fuck. txt back when u see this) he leaves you on read constantly (he's not ignoring you, he read it, he doesn't see why a "got it" was needed), his messages are all lowercase and full of typos because he texts with one hand while doing something else (cleaning a gun, driving, running across a roof), he'll send you a single question mark in response to a long vulnerable message and then forty minutes later show up at your door with takeout and not mention it.

He saves your contact under something stupid like Trouble or Headache or Don't pick up.

He works nights, he gets shot some of those nights, and he'll absolutely disappear for 48 hours with no contact and then reappear in your kitchen at 3 a.m. bleeding from somewhere he won't show you. When you panic he'll go "Jesus, breathe, it's not even that bad" (which is the sentence equivalent of holding a grenade) and he'll not apologise for the disappearing, but he will look slightly ashamed when he realises you actually couldn't sleep.

He doesn't know what to do with the fact that you worry about him; it short-circuits him, people don't worry about Jason, Jason worries, or Jason handles it, and the role reversal, the uncomplicated care, is a wound he can't reach to scratch.

Then comes the obnoxious-about-your-attention phase, which is when he gets very annoying and very hot simultaneously, because Jason is territorial in a way that would be a red flag if he weren't so weirdly principled about it.

He'll not tell you who you can talk to, will not check your phone, he will not get jealous in the openly controlling way that signals abuser. He's not that.

But what he will do is loom (when you're at a bar and a guy is talking to you, Jason who was across the room is now somehow magically standing directly behind you with a hand on the small of your back, not saying anything, just radiating, and the guy will leave, and Jason will not comment);

Scoff (anyone shows interest in you within his sightline, he makes a noise: short, derisive, almost a laugh, like the idea is so absurd it's funny anyone is trying);

Ask too-casual questions ("who was that on the phone?" he says, not looking up from the gun he's cleaning on your coffee table (concern.) and you can hear that the casualness is performed, that he's in fact extremely invested in the answer, and he's furious with himself for caring);

Mark you in stupid little ways (steals your hair tie and wears it on his wrist, leaves his jacket at your place "by accident" four times in a row, bites the side of your neck where it'll show above your collar and is unrepentant when you complain about it).

Now: the slap-on-the-ass-then-prickly move, which is the Jason behaviour pattern that will define the first six months of dating him.

He's physically affectionate in a way that's cocky, performative, almost rude (the hand on your ass when he's walking past you in the kitchen, the fingers around the back of your neck when he's leaning over to grab his beer, the bite (he's a biter, I'm afraid, that man cannot keep his teeth to himself) at your shoulder, your jaw, your ear, the teasing physicality of pulling you back into his lap when you try to get up, holding your wrist when you reach for something, hooking his ankle around yours under the table).

All of this is easy for him, it costs him nothing because he's performing the part of "guy who is comfortable touching his girl" because it's the closest he can get to being affectionate without admitting that he wants to be.

But the second you try to flip it, try to initiate genuine closeness, try to climb into his lap when he didn't put you there, or to cup his face and look at him too long. Even say something soft like I missed you in a voice that means it, Jason goes rigid. Not for long, a second, maybe two, but you'll feel it: the full-body lock, and then he'll deflect with a joke. A kiss that's more aggressive than tender, a hand on your waist that turns you around so you're not facing him anymore.

He can't take it when you mean it. He can give and give in the language of teasing physicality, but tenderness received, sincere tenderness, the kind that means I see you and I'm not going anywhere, that's the language of the family that buried him while he was still dying, that's the language his mother used, that's Bruce's voice in the cave and Bruce's silence in the alley after.

He doesn't trust it, he doesn't know how to be on the receiving end of it without flinching, and this will be one of the hardest things about loving him.

You can't push, he's spent his whole afterlife being pushed, and you have to be willing to let him deflect six times before he takes it on the seventh, and it takes months, sometimes longer, before he can let your hand stay on the side of his face for more than a second without turning into it like he's trying to escape his own want.

The way you eventually crack it is sneakier than confrontation. You do it in transit, in passing, when he's distracted: a kiss to his shoulder while he's at the stove, fingers through the hair at the back of his neck while he's mid-sentence about something else, I love you mumbled into the crook of his arm at a moment when neither of you is looking at the other.

It has to be cheap, it has to be easy to ignore, because if you give it weight he can't hold it. Over months, he learns to take it without flinching, then to lean into it, then (eventually, miraculously) to ask for it (never with words, he will never use words for this, but he'll plant himself within reach of your hands and wait, like a stray cat learning where the food bowl lives).

He's also annoying about your safety in ways that are sometimes touching and sometimes infuriating: he has opinions about every person in your life.

He's run background checks on people you went to college with and isn't sorry, he will text you the route home (not ask, tell) take 5th not the alley tonight, he has bought you (without asking) pepper spray (good), a small folding knife (lowkey concerning), a panic button that is wired to him specifically (worrying that this exists, kinda sweet that he thought of it), and a self-defence class he'll not attend with you because "I'll just correct her form and piss her off".

He gets weirdly quiet when you mention being scared of something (not comforting, quiet, you can see him processing: who, where, when, can I get there in under fifteen if she needs me) and you have to actively redirect him before he goes and breaks someone's hands.

He'll never, ever tell you not to do something dangerous, because Jason understands the impulse to walk into things, but he'll follow you in from a respectful distance where you can't see him. Close enough that if anything happens he's the second person who knows, and this is actually one of the most loving things he does.

He doesn't try to keep you small, he just makes sure that if the world tries to swallow you, it has to go through him first.

The intimacy doesn't really start in bed, it starts in his apartment.

The first time you're allowed in there (and you have to be allowed, because Jason has safehouses you'll never see and he has the apartment, and the apartment is the closest thing he has to a self he doesn't have to hold a weapon against) and the thing that will undo you is how much care lives there: there are books everywhere, dog-eared, some stained, there's good coffee, a record player, spices in the kitchen that mean he actually cooks for himself, and the bed is made.

The bed is made. This is the detail that will catch in your throat. Jason Peter Todd, who came back from the dead, who lives with a body that's been to war, makes his bed every morning (some habit from the manor, or from before the manor, or from somewhere he won't tell you about) the corners are tucked, the pillows are arranged, and he'll be sheepish and dismissive if you notice but he'll not stop doing it.

Now, the first time. It doesn't happen in his apartment, you don't get into his apartment for months. The first time happens at yours, and it happens because the tension has been so unbearable for so long that one of you finally has to break it, and it's going to be him, and the way it happens is going to feel (at the time) like an accident, even though it absolutely is not.

He's been at your place too late, he's been finding excuses to be at your place too late, and on this particular night the excuse is your faucet, sweetheart, you said it was leaking, I can fix it, no I'm not gonna pay some guy to do it when I'm right here, and he does fix it, except then he doesn't leave.

You open a beer for him, and the two of you end up on your couch, and there's a moment (a very specific moment) where you've been laughing about something stupid and the laughter trails off and he's looking at you and you're looking at him and the whole apartment is suddenly quiet, and you can hear the fridge humming, and the click of the clock, and the way his breathing has gone shallow.

He'll break it the way he breaks everything: with a joke, with a deflection ("what," he says, low, rough, daring you, half a smirk on his face) and you're going to call his bluff, because by now you know how he works.

You're going to lean in first, and his whole face is going to do something you've never seen it do before (a flicker of oh, fuck) and then he's going to kiss you back like he has been thinking about it for a year, which is because he has been thinking about it for a year, and the kiss is not soft. It's a hungry thing. The kiss of a man who's been holding himself back from this for so long that the moment he stops holding back, there's no halfway; his hand goes to the back of your skull, immediately, fingers in your hair, and he tilts your head where he wants it, and the small noise he makes against your mouth is the first time you've ever heard him sound undone.

Jason pulls back first, and his hand is on your jaw, his thumb on your bottom lip dragging across it. He's looking at you with an expression that's somewhere between starved and pained, and he says (and you'll remember this forever, "you sure?") and the question is not a polite formality, he needs you to look him in the eye and confirm it, and when you do, when you say "yes," clearly, no hesitation, he's on you in a heartbeat.

The first time is fast, not because he doesn't have control (Jason has frightening control), but because he has too much tension in his body and he genuinely can't moderate it on the first pass.

It's also slightly clumsy in places. He knocks over your lamp (oops), he'll laugh about this later, and you'll be on the floor before you make it to the bedroom. Your shirt doesn't survive (rip). He tears the collar of it dragging it off you, mutters fuck, sorry without sounding sorry in the slightest, and goes back to your throat, and it's intense in a way that doesn't feel like sex so much as like finally, like something that's been building between you for months has finally been allowed to happen.

His hands are everywhere and they're huge. You'd noticed the size of his hands in the abstract before. The way they wrap around a coffee cup, the way they look on the steering wheel.

But the first time you feel one of them spread flat across your stomach, fingertips just barely under the waistband of your jeans, you understand the reach of him in a way you didn't before.

The sheer span, the way one of his palms covers ground. He's careful with his strength even when he's gone. In a sense, he's been careful with it his whole life because he's had to be, and the carefulness shows up as a deliberate slowness even when everything else is fast. Fingers on the inside of your thigh that take their time getting where they're going, a thumb on your hipbone that presses just hard enough to be a question

He's going to be louder than you expected, with his mouth, not his volume.

He runs commentary even the first time, which is partly nerves (Jason gets mouthy when he's anxious, you'll learn this) and partly that he genuinely can't help himself. He'll mutter against your throat ("Fuck, you have no idea how long—") and then cut himself off, because he didn't mean to say that out loud, and instead he'll bite, hard, just under your jaw, like he's trying to put the sentence back in his mouth.

He'll say "look at me, look at me, baby," not as a command but as something closer to a request, and you'll realise later that he needs you to see him for this, that he can't do it with you looking at the ceiling, that some part of him needs proof of recognition.

He'll bury his face in your shoulder when he comes and his hands will go tight on your hips; tight enough to leave marks, you'll find them in the morning, four little crescents low on each side, and the surge you feel at seeing them in the bathroom mirror will be embarrassing to think about.

He will be, for one breath, two, completely undone, and you'll feel the shudder run all the way through him.

And then almost immediately, the second it's over, the shutters come back down. Not fully, but you can feel it, the way he reassembles himself, the joke he reaches for to cover the rawness of what just happened ("so, the faucet's fixed," he'll say, voice rough,) and you'll laugh, and that will be his way of saying don't make this a thing or I will lose my nerve.

He doesn't stay over that first night. He kisses your forehead in your doorway (which is somehow more tender than anything that just happened) and he says, "I'll text you," and you know he won't, and he doesn't.

Three days will pass and you will think, oh, that was it, that was the thing, and on the fourth day he'll show up at your door at midnight with takeout and a look on his face that says I tried to stop thinking about you and it didn't work, and the second wave begins.

The early sex (the first month, maybe two) has a specific flavour to it that's worth naming: it's frequent, very intense, and it has an undercurrent of him trying to prove something, though even he doesn't know what.

He fucks you like he's daring himself to keep doing it, like every time he expects you to be different in the morning, colder, distant, regretful (or maybe he's expecting himself to be those things), and every time he's mildly stunned that you aren't, that he isn't, and he punishes himself for the relief of it by being slightly more of an asshole about everything else for a few hours after.

Physically, in this period, he's exhausting in the best way.

His stamina is genuinely a problem (he's in extraordinary physical condition, he can go for an extremely long time, he has the recovery of a man who jumps off buildings for a living), and you will, at some point in the first month, look at him afterwards while you're trying to remember how to breathe and say something like Jesus Christ, Jason, and he'll grin at you, sweaty, smug, infuriating, and say "problem?", and you will hit him with a pillow.

He'll laugh, fully, not the half-laugh he gives most of the time but something that comes from his actual chest, and you will realise, then, you're going to love him for the rest of your life and it's too late to do anything about it.

He's also a tease from the very beginning. Catastrophically so, but in the early days the teasing has a sharper edge to it. Almost competitive, like he's trying to see how far he can push you before you break. Like he needs the proof that he can take you apart in order to believe that this is real.

He'll get you right to the edge and then slow down deliberately, two fingers stilling exactly where you need them to be moving, his mouth lifting off your skin at the worst possible second, and when you complain (when you swear at him, which he loves, which you'll learn fast he loves) he'll laugh (that low, mean, delighted laugh, mouth right against your ear) and say something like "you got somewhere to be, sweetheart? we got all night", and you'll want to kill him.

He loves it when you try, it's free foreplay, and the rule he has invented entirely for his own amusement is that the more you mouth off the longer he draws it out, and he'll absolutely tell you this to your face ("you wanna keep talking? we can keep going. I got nowhere to be") while you're shaking apart underneath him, and the bastard means it, too.

He's very good with his mouth, and he knows it, and he treats it like a settled fact you don't need to discuss.

The first time he goes down on you, he does it with the same focused, watchful attention he brings to everything else. Eyes up, watching your face, two fingers wrapped around your wrist where it's gripping the sheet because he likes feeling the pulse there, and he will not be hurried, will not be talked out of taking his time, and he will absolutely look up at you afterwards with his mouth still wet and say something insufferable like "yeah, I thought so," and you will want to push him off the bed, and he'll laugh every time you try.

The shit-talking is non-negotiable from day one, he can't keep his damn mouth shut.

He runs commentary the entire time, and the commentary breaks down roughly into three modes that he flips between without warning.

The first is mean (observational, smirking, designed to make you squirm) "oh, that's what does it for you, huh?" breathed against your ear when he's noticed exactly which thing is making you fall apart,

"look at you, fuck, you're a mess for me already and I've barely touched you," "yeah? you gonna ask nice?", "that's it, that's it, sweetheart, you can do better than that, c'mon, let me hear it,"

And the meanness is never actually mean, it's delighted, you can hear the smile in it. He's having the time of his fucking life winding you up and he wants you to know it.

The second mode is filthy, full stop. Jason at midnight with his hand between your thighs is saying things like "fuck, you're so wet, you're soaking through my fucking jeans, baby, you been thinking about this all day or what?"

Running narration of what his hands are doing right now ("that's it, just like that, you feel that? right there?"), running narration of what his hands are about to do ("gonna take my time with you tonight, gonna make you beg for it, you know that, right?"), running narration of what he's planning to do once he's recovered ("give me ten minutes, sweetheart, ten minutes and I'm gonna have you on your knees, gonna fuck your mouth till you cry, you want that?"),

and (most catastrophically) running narration of what he was thinking about doing earlier, when you were just standing in his kitchen in his t-shirt making coffee and didn't know he was watching: "you have any idea what you looked like in my kitchen this morning? in my fucking shirt with nothing under it? I had to leave the room, sweetheart, I had to go take a cold shower like a goddamn teenager, I was gonna fuck you on the counter, I was thinking about it the whole time you were talking to me about your friend, you didn't even notice—"

He likes hearing himself called things, sometimes. Likes the specific small power of Jay, please, Jason, fuck, please please please. And he'll work for it, he'll deliberately drag it out of you, "what do you need, baby, you gotta tell me, I can't read your mind," knowing perfectly well he can, in fact, read your mind, knowing exactly what he's doing.

The third mode is the one he doesn't mean to do, and it slips out anyway, usually when he's lost focus and his guard drops for half a second. Almost devastatingly tender things that he covers within two seconds because he didn't mean to say them out loud, "god, you're so fucking pretty like this," and then, immediately, recovering, "yeah, you like that, huh, you like when I say nice things to you?" with a smirk back in place, like the first half of the sentence didn't happen;

Or "shit, sweetheart, look at you, look at—fuck, c'mere" and then he kisses you hard enough to shut himself up;

Or, the worst one, the one he'll pretend for years he never said, said quietly into the curve of your shoulder when he thought you were too far gone to hear him: "I don't know what to do with you, I don't know what to fucking do with you,", and he panics about it the second he hears himself.

Because I don't know what to do with you is dangerously close to a confession he isn't ready to make, and so he bites your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark and follows it up with "you got such a pretty mouth, you gonna put it to use or what?" before the pause can land.

He calls you everything (sweetheart, baby, princess, good girl, brat), and in the early days these are all you get.

He uses your name only when he's serious, when he's looking at you and he means it, and you will learn to clock the difference: the pet names mean I'm having fun, your name means I love you and I'm not going to say it yet, and you will notice (months in, looking back) that for the first stretch of your relationship, he never said your name in bed, not once.

The night he finally does (really says it, low and ragged, looking at you, fuck, followed by ragged exhale of your name breathed against your temple, is the night you'll know something has changed in him that you don't have words for yet.

Jason, almost as a rule, likes when you talk back. He likes it when you mouth off. The single fastest way to get him to lose his composure is to be a smartass while he's trying to wreck you.

He'll go "oh, you've got jokes," and then he'll prove a point, and the dynamic this creates is one of the most addictive things about being with him: you can spar with him, in bed, all the way through, he will not shatter, will not get hurt feelings, he will meet you every time, and the back-and-forth is genuinely funny in a way that almost nothing else in your life is.

Sex with Jason is, weirdly, often fun, in a way you didn't know it could be. You laugh, sometimes, mid-thing, and he laughs too, his forehead dropped against your shoulder, his whole body shaking with it for a second, and it doesn't break the heat, it deepens it, because it's involuntary, it's unguarded, and he gives it to you anyway.

Jason has a body that has been through something. He has scars he doesn't talk about, he has somewhere in him a permanent tension (a vigilance) that doesn't fully go away, ever.

In bed that tension goes somewhere; he fucks like he's trying to outrun something, and there's a quality to it (especially in the early months) of too much, too hard, too fast, like he's trying to drown out a noise in his head with the sound of you. And it's incredibly hot but it's also, sometimes, a flag.

For the first stretch he refuses to be seen during sex, in a particular way that takes you a while to clock: he prefers positions where he's behind you or above you, where you can't easily reach his face, where his expression is something you have to work to read.

He keeps his shirt on more than you'd expect for the first month or two. A faded grey henley, usually, that he won't take off, even in your bed at 2 a.m., even with his hand down your pants, and you'll learn not to push it.

He avoids long eye contact; and if you reach up to cup his jaw mid-fuck he'll catch your wrist and pin it, gently, smoothly, like he's playing, but he's not playing. It's redirecting, and you'll eventually understand that he can't let you look at him like that yet because if you do, he'll feel it, and feeling it is what he came to bed to not do.

Jason's body is a map of the life he's lived, and you'll learn it in pieces. Slowly, over months, because he doesn't sit you down and explain it. You have to find each one and decide whether to ask.

It's worth saying clearly that his scars aren't pretty. They're the body of a man who's been beaten, shot, burned and stitched up by his own hands more times than is reasonable.

There's the long, ropy line down his left forearm from a knife in Hong Kong (he'll tell you that one, eventually, a clean story he can shrug off); there are the round puckered scars of bullet wounds in his shoulder, his thigh, low on his right side where it nearly took a kidney (these are boring to him, he genuinely thinks they're uninteresting, "occupational hazard, sweetheart"); there's a long pale stripe across his ribs from something he won't name, and a smaller jagged one at the corner of his eyebrow you'd noticed before you ever saw the rest of him.

There are the ones that don't have stories he wants to tell. The scars on his back that don't match anything ordinary, a clustered constellation of marks across his shoulder blades and lower spine that you won't ask about and that he will not explain, ever. The pattern of which you will eventually stop being able to unsee, and there is, at the back of his neck, just below the hairline, a thin curved scar he touches absently when he's thinking and will never tell you the origin of.

The crowbar is not a single scar, it's a map. A knot of healed, raised tissue along his ribs where one strike landed wrong, a notch missing from the side of one knee, a hairline kink in the bridge of his nose that you can feel when you kiss him, and a small permanent deviation in the way he holds his left wrist that you'll notice when he's gripping a glass. None of which he names for you, and none of which you ask about, because some part of you already knows, and he can tell that you know, and that knowledge is part of why he can let you near it at all.

The rule, for all of it, is you don't flinch.

The first time he lets you really look at him in full light (really look, not the half-dark of your bedroom but the morning sun coming in over the bed) he's watching you like he's waiting for you to recoil, holding too still, and what you do in that moment will determine what he can be with you for the rest of your life.

And the right move is to look, to actually look, not perform unbotheredness, not avoid; trace something, if he'll let you, with one finger, pick the smallest scar, the one at his eyebrow maybe.

Something he doesn't have feelings about, and start there slowly, and don't say anything stupid, don't say anything at all if you can help it, just look at him after like yeah, and?, because that's what he needs: not for it to be invisible, but for it to be uninteresting as a verdict on whether you want him.

After that morning, eventually, he stops keeping the shirt on.

Eventually he stops flinching when you touch the rougher places mid-sex. Eventually (months later, maybe a year) he'll let you press your mouth to the worst of them, deliberately, while you're on top of him. Your lips against the knot of healed tissue along his ribs, and his breath will catch and his hand will close hard around your wrist but he'll not stop you, and that (that, more than the first I love you, more than any of the words) is the moment you'll understand he has decided to stay.

When he's having a bad night (when something happened on patrol, or someone said the wrong name, or it's an anniversary of something he won't tell you about) he'll want you in a way that is almost desperate.

He won't say it, he'll just show up at your door at midnight with a bruise on his jaw and his hands already on you, your back hitting the door before it's fully closed. His mouth at your throat hot and wordless in a way it usually isn't, and the first time you realise he's doing this (that he's using you, sweetly and gently and not in a bad way, as anchor) you'll have to make a choice: you can either let him have it, no questions asked, every time, and let him use sex to skip past the feeling, or you can occasionally slow him down.

Catch his face in your hands, say his name, make him look at you, make him be present in his own body with you, instead of running through it.

He'll hate this but he'll need it, both, equally, and the very first time you do it (the first time you stop him, hand on his jaw, Jay, hey, look at me) he'll go completely still for a beat too long, like a circuit shorting.

His body braced against yours, his breathing ragged, and you'll see an emotion go through his eyes that you don't have a name for, and then he'll press his forehead to yours and exhale, hard, like he didn't know he was holding it, his nose against yours, his whole frame trembling with the effort of not running.

That exhale is one of the most intimate things he'll ever give you, and if you handle it right (don't say anything, don't make it a moment, just stay, just stay) he will, slowly, come back to his body with you in it, and the sex that follows that pause will be different. Slower, quieter, his hands less grabbing and more holding, his mouth against your shoulder more like a kiss than a bite, and afterwards he'll not joke, just lie on top of you with his face hidden and breathe.

That moment is the hinge of your sexual relationship. Before that night and after that night are different countries. Because once he's done it once, once he's let himself be slowed down, there's now a possibility in the room that wasn't there before. From that point forward the sex begins, very slowly, to deepen: still mouthy, still teasing, still possessive as hell, but with windows in it now, moments where he lets the noise drop out and just lets himself be there with you.

Around the three or four month mark you'll notice him starting to do small things differently: he'll keep the lights on instead of always reaching for the switch; he'll let you push him onto his back instead of always being above you; he'll let you take a turn driving the pace, which in the early days he wouldn't, he had to be running it (because if he was running it then he could control how close you got to him), and the first time he just lies there and lets you set the rhythm and watches you, eyes half-lidded, his hands loose at his sides instead of on you, a little stunned at the quiet of it.

Then his hands do come up, slowly, to settle on your thighs, not gripping, not directing, just resting there, his thumbs stroking idle patterns against your skin. You'll realise, then, that this is a gift, because he's not a man who gives up control easily, and what he's doing is showing you that he doesn't need to be the one with his foot on the gas to feel safe in this room with you anymore.

You'll also notice (and this is the one that hits haard) that he stops looking away: in the early months his eyes were always somewhere else (your throat, your mouth, the line of your collarbone, anywhere but your eyes), and one night, somewhere mid thrust, you look up and he's looking at you. Full-on, unblinking, eyes dark, expression open in a way you've literally never seen on his face before.

Jason doesn't break it, and the quality of the sex changes in the next ten seconds because he isn't running anymore, he's just here, and he stays here, and afterwards he doesn't joke. He just lies on top of you with his face in the curve of your neck and breathes for a long time.

That's the night you understand that he is in this, not just with you but in it, and you don't say anything about it because you know better, but you remember it for the rest of your life.

By six months in, he's started giving you the slow nights, the ones where he fucks you like he's trying to savour you. He'll go slow, keep his forehead against yours, say your name, your real name, in a voice he doesn't use anywhere else.

He'll move like he has nowhere else to be and nothing else to do, and his eyes will be on yours the entire time; on these nights his hands are different too, more reverent, less hungry. One cradling the back of your head, the other splayed flat on your back, holding you against him, and he kisses you between every other thrust he does, constantly, like he can't stop coming back to your mouth.

The rhythm itself is different, deep and unhurried, like he's trying to make it last, and you'll feel (for once) that you have his whole attention, not the part of him that's always halfway watching the door.

These nights are still rare, still precious, still earned, but they exist now, they're in the repertoire, and that's a thing that did not exist in month one.

The kissing on those nights is different too, and over time it becomes the way you can tell what kind of night it is going to be.

Jason normally kisses like the kissing is a fight he intends to win. With teeth, with intent, a hand at the back of your skull holding you exactly where he wants you. Deep, hot and a little punishing.

But on these nights he kisses you like he's apologising for something, slow, full and quiet, mouth soft, tongue languid, slipping deep, his hand on your jaw instead of gripping your hair.

He'll come back to your mouth between everything else like a bookmark, like he's checking you're still there, and the first time he kisses you like that you'll feel a shift in your chest, and after enough of those nights you'll learn to read it from the first kiss of the evening: oh, it's that kind of night, and you'll know, and he'll know that you know. Neither of you will say a word about it.

He has a thing (and you'll notice it over time, a thing that gets more pronounced as he gets deeper into his feelings) about your hands.

Jason likes them in his hair (and his hair, you'll discover, is soft, a fact that always weirdly disarms you given the rest of him, and he has a small tell that he likes having it pulled, just slightly, just at the back, and the first time you do it without thinking you get a sound out of him that he has clearly not meant to make).

On the back of his neck where the muscle is always tight, on his face if you've earned it, and he'll bring your hand to his mouth at strange unguarded moments and press his lips to your knuckles like a reflex, and he'll absolutely not acknowledge that he does this.

If you tease him about it he'll get pink at the back of his neck and tell you to shut up.

He also has a thing about your throat. Not in a violent way, in a possessive way. The flat of his hand resting there, his thumb at your pulse, like he's checking you're right there where he needs you, real and solid,a nd his. And he has, devastatingly, a thing about being held.

Actually held, after, with your arms around his ribs and your face in the curve of his throat, and he'll never, ever ask for this, but if you do it he'll not move for a long time.

And as Jason gets deeper into it, the things he wants change: in the early days he wanted you under him, fast, now; later he starts wanting things he doesn't have a way to ask for. Wanting you to stay over even when nothing is going to happen, wanting to be the little spoon (which he can't request and you have to figure out by trial and error, because one night you'll do it almost as a joke, fitting yourself behind him, and he will go extremely still in a way that you'll learn means yes don't make me say it, and then he will reach back and pull your arm tighter around his ribs without a word).

Wanting your hands on him in non-sexual ways during sex (your fingers in his hair, your palm flat on his chest over his heart, the small of his back, the back of his neck, you lips at his jaw, the corner of his mouth), wanting foreplay that's genuinely about touching him, not just escalation.

Wanting, in short, all the things he couldn't bear to want in month one, because back then wanting them meant admitting that he needed them.

In the early days the sex is frequent because the itch is mutual and unscratchable. He wants you, you want him, the chemistry is loud, and the hunger is mostly physical, mostly now, mostly the kind of want that has a clear destination and a satisfied stillness on the other side of it.

He texts you at midnight because he can't stop thinking about your mouth, you go over because you can't stop thinking about his hands, you fuck because the tension is unbearable and the release is the point. Afterwards he leaves or you doze and the want, briefly, quiets. That's month one. That's month two. The math of it is simple: stimulus, response, relief, reset.

But somewhere around the four or five month mark (somewhere after the hinge night, somewhere after the windows started opening) the math stops working.

He'll have you, fuck you properly, completely, and an hour later he'll still want you, more than he wanted you before, in a way that doesn't make sense by the old rules. He'll be lying with his head on your stomach, fully spent, your hand in his hair, and you'll feel him press his mouth against your skin like he's checking, like he's making sure you're still there, and then he'll roll up onto an elbow and look at you and you'll see it in his face.

Not finished, not in a sex way, in some other way, a way he doesn't have language for. And he'll kiss you again, slow this time, and you'll realise the wanting hasn't gone anywhere, it's just changed shape.

What it becomes (and this is the part he couldn't have explained to you on the night you met him, the part he can barely admit to himself even now) is anchoring.

Sex with you stops being an itch he scratches and starts being a place he goes to feel alive. Jason came back from being dead, and most of his life since has been spent at a slight remove from his own body, vigilant, watchful, half a step outside himself in case he needs to move; with you, in your bed, his face pressed against yours, your hands on his back, your breath on his throat, he is (for the duration) in his body, in the moment, here, and he can feel his heart going, and he can feel yours, and the proof that he's still alive is so loud it drowns out everything else.

That quiet, that presence, is something he can't get anywhere else and has stopped trying to find anywhere else.

So the appetite changes shape. He still wants you fast and rough (that mode never goes away, that's just in him) but a lot of the wanting becomes about closeness, about contact. Feeling you pressed against him in real time.

He wants long unhurried hours where neither of you has anywhere to be. He wants the lights on so he can see you. You on top of him with his hands on your hips so he can feel you moving, breathing, being there. He wants to fall asleep with his face against the back of your neck because the rhythm of your breathing is the only lullaby that ever worked. He wants (and this is the one that costs him the most to want) to be held while it's happening.

Your arms around his ribs, your mouth at his temple, your whole body wrapped around him while he moves inside you, and he will never ask for this, but if you do it, if you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him down against you and hold him tight, his whole frame will settle in a way you've never felt from him before, and the sound he makes will be something between a groan and an exhale and a quiet, broken fuck, and you will know.

You'll catch him, sometimes, in the middle of it (eyes closed, forehead against yours, his rhythm slowed almost to nothing, just staying there inside you, breathing, his hand splayed flat on your sternum over your heart) and he'll not be moving toward an end. He'll not be building toward anything. Just be with you, in his body, breathing in time with you, and you will understand that he isn't trying to come, he's trying to stay, he's trying to make the present moment last because in the present moment he is alive and you're alive and the both of you are warm, breathing and the world has not ended yet.

And the tell (the one that gives him away, the one you'll learn to read) is what Jason says at the end. In the early days, after, when he could still pretend, he'd give you the smirk and the joke: "yeah, that'll do, sweetheart," a kiss to your forehead, a stretch, a deflection.

Later, after the wanting changes, he stops saying anything at all for a long minute, and then what comes out (quiet, half-mumbled, into your hair, like he's not sure he means to let you hear it) is some version of "don't move, just—don't move yet," or "stay there, stay right there," or simply "god, I needed that," and he's not talking about the sex, not really, he's talking about you, about the warmth of you, about the proof of you, about the fact that he's here and you're here and for one more night he gets to stay.

He also gets quieter over time in general, which you will find a little shocking. Jason is mouthy, Jason is a shit-talker, Jason will happily narrate the apocalypse if he could.

But as he gets deeper into his feelings there are stretches in bed when he just goes silent, and the silence isn't absence, it's the opposite. It's him being so present he can't quite manage the words.

The first time it happens you'll wonder if something is wrong, and it's not, it's the most right something has ever been. You'll feel his breath ragged against your shoulder, his hand fisted in the sheet next to your head instead of running its mouth, his rhythm slowed almost to nothing.

The first time he comes quietly (without the muttered curse, without the bitten-off line of dirty talk, just a long shuddering exhale against your throat and your name, once, not loud) you'll know that something has migrated in him, that this is the version of him that didn't exist three months ago, and you will stroke the back of his neck and not say a word about it.

The vulnerable conversations happen at 3 a.m., in the dark, when neither of you is looking at the other, because he can't do them face to face. He needs the cover. He'll tell you things in bed, after sex, in the warm aftermath when his guard is down. About Ethiopia, about Sheila, about waking up in the dirt, about the year he can't really remember.

He'll tell it flatly, quietly, and wait for you to react, and don't react big: don't gasp, don't well up, don't reach for him too fast, he's testing whether you can hold it without dropping it. The way to win is to listen, to ask a quiet question, to not try to fix anything, to let him say the thing and then let it just exist in the air without you needing to clean it up or soften it.

If you do that, he'll tell you more, slowly, over months and months. The story of him will arrive in fragments and you will assemble it like a mosaic, and he'll never once say "thank you for listening", but the way he kisses your forehead before he leaves will mean it. You'll eventually realise that the sum total of what he's told you is more than he's ever told another living person, and you'll understand that this is what he has instead of words for love.

He will also, occasionally, ask about you (quietly, in roundabout ways, in the dark) and the rule there is the inverse: he wants the real answer, not the cleaned-up one, because he can smell a lie at fifty paces and the fastest way to lose his trust is to give him the version of yourself you give to people you don't know yet.

Jason doesn't want to be one of those people, even though he hasn't earned the right to ask not to be, and what he's doing when he asks you a question at 3 a.m. is asking let me in to the room I haven't earned yet, and the answer is supposed to be yes, but the yes has to come in the same coin he's paying in: quiet, unfussy, no big deal, while neither of you is looking at the other.

He doesn't say he loves you for a long time.

The first time will be by accident, muttered into your hair when he thinks you're asleep, and you have to pretend you didn't hear it because if he knows you heard it he'll panic and undo it.

The second time will be in a fight, yelling, angry: "Because I fucking love you, you idiot, that's why!" and then a horrible silence, then him walking out, then him coming back four hours later with takeout and not bringing it up.

By the time he can say it sober, calmly, looking at you, it will have been a year, maybe more. When he does it will undo you, because he will say it like it's been on his tongue the whole time and he's just finally letting it through, and his voice will be a little rough, and he'll not break eye contact, and the way he says your name after will be the kindest sound he has ever made.

And the first time he says it in bed (which is later, much later, because for him these are different rooms) the first time he says it mid-fuck, breathed against your throat, ragged and ungoverned, I love you, fuck, I love you, you'll know that the wall has come down all the way.

That this is the version of him no one has ever gotten to see, and what you do in the next thirty seconds will become the foundation of the rest of your life with him, and what you do is: you don't make it weird, you don't make him repeat it, you don't perform astonishment, you just say it back, simple and sure, and you let him hear it, and you let him have it, and you let him know that the room he just opened a door into is one he is allowed to live in.

Aftercare, which he would rather die than call aftercare but which he does, every time: he gets you water (always water, the man is on a mission), he cleans you up (his hands are surprisingly gentle for someone who breaks ribs for a living, there's a particular thing he does where he runs a warm cloth over your stomach, your thighs, with the same focused patience he uses for cleaning a wound, and you'll never quite get used to how careful his hands can be when he wants them to be).

He'll check casually like it's nothing whether anything hurts, and if it does he'll be quiet about it but he'll be careful with you for the rest of the night; he'll get you food if it's that kind of hour, he'll let you wear his shirt.

He likes you in his shirt, and he doesn't have the language for why, but there's a softness in his face the first time he sees you in one of his too-big henleys that you will think about for years, and if you fall asleep on him Jason will not move. He'll lie there dead-still for hours even if his arm goes numb, because he doesn't want to wake you, and this is the most romantic thing he's capable of and he does it constantly.

The aftercare also evolves: in the early days it was efficient, almost practical (water, check-in, joke, distance), and over time it becomes longer, more lingering.

He stays in the bed instead of getting up, he traces shapes on your back with one finger while you doze, he'll talk to you about nothing, real nothing, the stupid shit. What he ate that day, something a kid said in a bodega, the dog he wants you both to maybe think about getting (a sentence which makes him visibly regret saying it the second it's out of his mouth), and these post-sex small-talk hours become, by month eight or nine, one of the most important parts of your relationship.

Because this is when he's most himself, the least armoured, and also the funniest, and you'll find yourself looking forward to them in a way that has nothing to do with the sex and everything to do with the man underneath the noise.

On the nights when he needs aftercare (and there are nights) he won't ask, but you'll be able to tell: he'll be quieter than usual, his hands will linger longer than usual, he won't joke as fast as he normally does, and the way to handle it is the same way you handle his trauma stories: don't make it a thing, don't ask if he's okay (he'll lie), just stay close, bring him water, run your fingers through his hair while he's lying with his head on your stomach pretending to be asleep.

When he eventually says something (usually a half-sentence, half-mumbled, bad day, or just don't go yet) you say okay and you don't go, and that's how he learns, slowly, that there's somewhere on this earth where he's allowed to need things, and that the somewhere is you.

Jason doesn't sleep well. This is the single most important thing to know about being in his bed.

He doesn't fall asleep easily, and when he does he doesn't stay under, he's a light sleeper because if he wasn't he'd be dead again. He has nightmares all the time (about the warehouse, about the crowbar, about his mother, about the Pit, about Bruce's face, always the face), he wakes up with his hand already moving toward where his gun isn't.

Early on this means he doesn't sleep over: he'll fuck you and leave, or he'll wait until you're under and slip out the window, and he'll feed you a line about "shit to do" and you both know it isn't true.

When he finally starts staying (and it'll take time, and you'll want to mark the date) there are rules nobody told you about that you'll learn by trial and error: he sleeps on the side closest to the door, always, don't argue.

He keeps something within reach (a knife under the mattress, a gun in the drawer), he won't apologise, you'll get used to it or you won't.

Don't wake him by touching him. Say his name first, say it twice, thrice. He has exactly once grabbed your wrist hard enough to bruise it because you reached for him at the wrong moment, and the look on his face when he registered what he'd done was the closest you've ever seen him come to regret. He didn't sleep over again for two weeks after that, and the thing that finally fixed it was you showing up at his apartment with your wrist healed and saying nothing about it, just climbing into his bed like nothing had happened, because he needed to learn that you weren't going to keep score, and you needed him to learn it on his own.

He runs hot (stupid hot) he's a furnace and he steals all the blankets and he doesn't care, and if he stays the whole night you'll wake up tangled around him.

Because he's a clinger when he's actually under, he'd just rather die than admit this, and you can feel his face against the back of your neck and his arm heavy across your waist and his breathing slow and steady, and it's the only time you ever see him truly soft, and it's gone by the time he wakes up.

The morning after the first time he stays the whole night, he'll be weird about it. Quiet, gruff, making coffee with his back to you. You'll think you did something wrong, but you didn't; he's just rattled, because he slept, actually slept, and he didn't wake up swinging, and somewhere in the part of his brain that doesn't talk to the rest of him there's now knowledge that says safe here, and he doesn't know what to do with that, so he is, as always, an asshole about it for a few hours until he settles.

The big picture, the actual truth of dating Jason Todd is this: he will never be easy.

He'll never be the boyfriend who texts back in under ten minutes, who shows up on time, who tells you he loves you in the morning over coffee. He's been broken and reassembled and broken again, and the seams show. He's dangerous and grey in a way that means sometimes you'll not love what he does. He kills people (he has rules about it, but he does), he keeps things from you, he disappears, he's occasionally an asshole.

But he's also the man who, when you're sick, will sit on the edge of your bed for six hours and not check his phone once. He's the man who memorises your coffee order the first time and never gets it wrong.

He's the man who, when you tell him about a thing that happened to you when you were younger (a thing you've never told anyone, a thing that still wakes you up sometimes) will sit with you in the dark and not say anything at all. Because he understands that some things can't be fixed and he won't insult you by pretending they can.

He'll just stay, all night, without moving, and he is, against everything that was done to him, a person who chose to love you, knowing what love costs, knowing what it does when it goes wrong, knowing how it ends sometimes in a warehouse in Ethiopia with a crowbar and no one coming, and he chose anyway, and he keeps choosing, and that is not nothing—that is, for Jason Peter Todd, everything.

He is the worst and you will love him forever, godspeed.

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

quarantined - masterlist

dr jack abbot x senior resident!reader

description: you and your attending butt heads—and it’s no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects more—and you’re done with it. Just as you’re about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patient—and his patient—tests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, you’re both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.

tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance (reader is a senior resident but abbot is still technically her boss), quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension tension tensionnn, fine line between hate and horny, headstrong reader, mutual pining

A/N: i DONT WANT TO HEAR IT THAT THIS IS UNREALISTIC. It’s fun and it’s my fanfic I’ll cry if i want to and u know you’d quarantine in abbot’s house too if given the chance

exposure || day 1 || day 2 || day 3 || day 4 || day 5 || day 6 || day 7 || day 8 || day 9 || day 10 || day 11 || day 12 || day 13 || day 14 ||

[p1ttlings]

blurb that spiraled but it’s still a blurb argue with ur mother. 5.6k………. Right right….. mdni

okay okay look listen to me. virgin!reader who’s getting tired of being her grown age and not getting any action!!!!! and ofc, that makes her naive and it’s easy for pope to swoop on in there for his families latest heist

you didn’t get much attention from boys growing up. your friends were the pretty ones. with the latest fashion pieces and current trends. you were the odd one out. reading fanfiction for hours on end, even dabbling in writing your own. you spent more time on your phone, talking to online friends from halfway across the world, than doing things with your class. 

you told yourself you didn’t need it. and you still don’t! or that’s what you tell yourself. in middle school, it was excusable, you were young! you didn’t need to focus on dating! and high school was the same. You were focused on your studies and ramping up your transcripts with sports and clubs and all sorts of extracurriculars that would make you stand out to the colleges you were applying to. 

but now, you’re in your 20s. and you haven’t so much as held hands with a guy. your sisters tease. your friends tease. and they’re not bullying you but it makes you insecure. it’s not like you’re not interested!!! you have sex toys who keep you company but only vibrators, tiny ones that you can hide anywhere. it’s not the same. 

your family owns a chain of grocery stores. well, your step-father does. you’re not close to him. he married your mother pretty late in your life so he didn’t feel the need to parent you, your mother had already done all the grunt work. you don’t have to work because of him though, he’s paying for all your schooling. the only thing he asks of you is to cover his shifts if he’s ever in a dire situation. 

you’re shy. you don’t stand up for yourself often. an old white man is berating you at the register, a long line of customers behind him. tears are welling up in your eyes at his accusations, the others watching as if it were entertainment. 

it wasn’t pope you were supposed to fall for. the plan was for craig to seduce you. he’s tall and buff and what most people would deem more conventionally attractive. he had to piss, leaving pope behind in line. he’s too far back to notice what’s going on quick enough. he listens for a beat, listens to the old man yelling about his coupons and that you’re stealing from him. 

one second, you’re letting tears fall from the sheer embarrassment of this situation, a hand suddenly grips to your arm, yanking you harshly, and the next, the white guy is on the floor, punch after punch falling to his face. it takes three other men to pull them off of each other. your assistant manager deals with the cops. all your coworkers attest that the white guy assaulted you first. the knight was only helping you. 

so you help him. he insists he doesn’t need a hospital. so you offer your services. you’re both in the employee bathroom now. Your hands are shaking as you wipe his bloody fists clean. he’s staring at you. he won’t look away. and god, you’re nervous. 

“you’re scared.” he comments. 

you eyes widen, head snapping up to look at him. “what?” 

“you’re scared of what i did back there.” 

“n-no! not at all! i really appreciate it! i-it-it, im just… you… you make me nervous. not scared…” 

“nervous?” his stare is still so damn intense. 

you’re not sure what comes over you. you’re not bold. not in any single way.  not with your hair. your clothes. your way of speaking. none of it. and yet— “you’re just… you’re really… hand…” you clear your throat. “you’re handsome…” 

the intense look switches to what you can only conclude is confusion. “handsome?” he repeats, needing confirmation. 

you nod. “y-yeah.” 

you’re embarrassed by what you’ve said when a heavy silence falls between you two. you’re about to apologize profusely but he cuts you off. 

“can i have your number?” 

And god, you’re so nervous for your first date. too nervous. you almost ghost him, block him and vow to never show up for another shift at the store. you’ll just have to pay for your tuition all on your own!!!!!! but your friends give you a loving pep talk. and your tuition is far too much to manage on your own. 

it’s how you end up in his truck, nervously fidgeting with your fingers, hands placed on your lap. he’s not much of a talker. and you’re too nervous to talk. it’s awkward. you’ve been texting a lot. youre not complete strangers anymore but still… you wish you could jump out of the damn truck and never see him again. but it turns out… nice. understatement. 

you loved it. he took you to the beach. you two ate at a cute little cabana restaurant. the awkwardness dissipated as soon as you two were sat. and you walked side by side down beach with ice cream cones at hand. 

“so, college?” it almost makes you laugh how stiff the guy is. but it doesn’t seem to deter him. he lets you talk and talk. he gives his two cents but he seems to be content just watching you and listening to you. 

you nod, “yeah. college.” you confirm, “did you go?” 

he shakes his head, “no. i, uhm, i dropped out of high school.” 

you hum, “ah, that’s okay. it’s never too late to go back though. get a ged. there are a lot of amazing programs that can help you get a better career than… what do you do?”

his hands are in his pockets, having finished his ice cream first. “work for my mother. help manage her properties. my brother baz… he’s the actual manager of her properties. i do the… physical things. mow lawns, fix broken sinks, squeaky doors, break noses when tenants don’t want to pay rent.” 

you laugh at this, not believing him. sure, he beat a man up for you but you figured it was just a one time thing. how wrong you are. “right, right… either way… you got a good gig. i can respect that. but if you ever want something else, you have options.” 

“that’s long past me.” 

you stop in your step, glaring softly at him, nothing serious. “education is never past anyone.” there’s a ghost of a smile on his face, you can see it. “im serious, pope. you can be anything you want to be.” 

“this a ted talk?” 

you laugh softly, “sure is.” but you don’t let him keep walking. you lightly take his hand in yours. “i mean it. anything.” 

— 

he’s awkward. he doesn’t mean to be awkward. he’s just quiet. and that makes people awkward. you’ve seen the way he interacts with people. and by interact you mean the way he stares and doesn’t talk. most people think he’s awkward. he thinks he’s being normal. you like it. it always makes you giggle.

you watch him as he orders your coffee for you. and it’s a simple order, it really is but he makes even that seem stiff. it takes everything in you not to giggle as the barista fumbles around. 

but the ping of your class chat pulls you away and you’re back to typing away at your laptop. he plops down across from you, your order at hand, placing it by your side, and staring at you. you’re used to it at this point, his eyes always on you in some way. it’s not inherently sexual but sometimes, it makes your stomach flutter. but you have to reign it in at the coffee shop. 

“yes, king?” you ask teasingly without looking up. 

he hesitates and this makes you stop typing, finally looking up at him. he begins soon enough, “are we dating?” 

your eyebrows furrow in confusion, “what?”

“are we… dating?” 

the snort you let out is completely unattractive. “shouldn’t i be asking you that?”

he shrugs, “i read up on feminism like you told me to. i can do that, right? ask?” 

your grin is bright, “you read up on feminism?” 

“stop smiling.”

“can’t. you know i live in world of sunshine and rainbows.” 

“are we dating?” he asks again with a sigh. 

“don’t sound too excited.” you scoff, going back to typing. “you haven’t asked me.” 

“im asking.”

“no, you’re asking if we’re dating. im saying you haven’t asked me to be your girlfriend yet.” 

he leans on the table, eyeing you. “i read women can ask now too.” 

you laugh, “i guess i hold some conservative values. a guy must ask me. i will never do the asking.” 

“be my girlfriend.” 

you hum, looking up at him with your easy smile, “hmm… no.” 

“you can’t say no.” 

“i just did.” 

“but you like me.” 

“do i?” he kicks you softly under the table. you close your laptop, “it has to be romantic.” 

“i wont ask.” he scoffs, leaning back on his seat. “you have to ask me.” 

“then i guess we’re never going to be official.” you sigh wistfully, opening your laptop back up again. 

it’s quiet for a few more moments, not awkward, despite his stare. “you’ve never told me about your dad.” 

you pause, unsure of what to say. “what do you want to know?”

he shrugs, “what does he do?” 

it’s your turn to shrug. “don’t know.” 

his eyebrows furrow, “you don’t… know?” 

you nod. “last i heard, he was a janitor at some school.” 

“wait… i thought he was a manager of some sort.” 

your eyebrows furrow and then it hits you. “oh, my step-dad? he owns like a bunch of grocery stores. told you, the one we met at is his.” you hum. “he favors that one most. it was the first one he ever opened up. says it was his most precious piece of work.” 

he hums, interested. “how much is a bunch?” 

you shrug, still typing, multi-tasking your homework and your conversation. “uhm i know he has about a dozen in Oceanside. about… 30 in San Diego, maybe more? Another dozen in Carlsbad. I don’t know how many more but he has businesses in Escondido, Encinitas, Del Mar, Chula Vista— god, there’s a lot. he’s opened a few up in the Los Angeles area too, i think?” 

you see him nodding from the corner of his eyes. “if you ask me out first, we can date, get married, and you can knock me up and you can be rich like me.” it’s a complete joke. 

“ha.” you don’t notice how dry his laugh is. “yeah.” 

—-

you find yourself hanging out with him everyday. he picks you up, you two head to a quiet place, sometimes his home. mostly his home. 

the first time he takes you there, you’re nervous. your friends told you that you’ve been on too many dates to not give it to him. it being your “cookie”, as they like to call it. so you shaved. every single part of you. there wasn’t a single hair on your body. 

he ordered a heavy meal. that should have been your first sign. when you sit on the couch to watch a movie, he sits a little too far from you. and your damn panties are uncomfortable and riding up your butt. you’re not having a good time. you’re fully pouting by the time you get a few minutes into the second movie. 

“you okay?”

his voice snaps you out of your thoughts. you open your mouth, ready to deny anything and everything. but you’ve decided you have to get past it. you really, really like him. and communication is key… right…? 

“do you not want to have sex with me?” and for the first time since you’ve met him, he looks stunned. 

“… do you want to have sex with me?” He asks carefully. 

“uhm… yeah… do you?” 

“you’re… you told me you’ve never kissed anyone. figured you’ve never… had it…” 

you nod, skin feeling hot. “yeah… I haven’t.” 

“and you want to give yourself to me?”

another nod from you. “yes. I like you, pope.” 

he looks to be deep in thought, those dark and intense eyes scouring your face, looking for even a flicker of doubt. you’re sure he doesn’t find any because he releases a shaky breath and speaks, “let’s take it slow.” he scoots closer to you. “still haven’t had your first kiss?”

you snort out a laugh, “you mean since I met you? no. im only seeing you.” you pause, eyebrows furrowed. “wait… are you seeing other people?”

“im not.” 

“good. im not either.” 

the kiss is gentle. sweet. a little awkward only because you get into your head a lot. he pulls his lips from yours, a small snicker leaving him. “relax, baby,” a shaky breath against yours, “don’t stress it.” his hands are holding your face, caressing it. 

you pout softly, “can’t not stress it.” 

“jus’ me.” he’s ghosting his lips over yours, desperate to press his lips against yours again, breath labored. 

softly, “that’s why i can’t… wanna be good for you.” 

he chuckles softly, “don’t gotta.” he’s pressing wet kisses down your jaw now, “I’ll be good for you.”

you get the hang of it after a few tries. and you only get more desperate. you’re heavily making out now, his hands all over your body, groping every part he loves on you. 

and that’s what you do most of the time. you go out, talk, go on walks, go to his place and make out. just make out. you make moves to tell him you want more. but it always ends up in just dry humping. 

you’re straddling his lap, his big hands on your hips, guiding you. He’s unbelievably hard beneath his sweats. he’s relaxed around you, you learned that a few days ago when you realized he doesn’t wear only stiff button ups around you. and you love it. god, you love him. the first guy who’s ever paid any attention to you. the first guy who’s listened to you. the first guy who has made you feel wanted. a month and a half of this and you love him so much. too much. 

your breathing is hard as the friction against your covered clit rubs against him. “pope… I want—“ 

he cuts you off with a sharp kiss, “know what you want,” he mumbles against your lips. “can’t give that to you.” 

you groan, hips stopping. well, you stop putting effort. he’s still desperately dragging you against him. “pope… are you a virgin?” 

he huffs out a laugh, “no, god, no. just… don’t think you want me to be the one.” 

you glare softly at him, “why would you think that? i think you don’t want me.” 

it’s his turn to glare at you, “that’s stupid.”

you put your hands over his, halting him. “it’s not stupid. you reject my advances. are you… asexual?” his eyebrows furrow, looking at you as if he has no idea what the hell you’re saying. you continue, “are you uninterested in sex?”

he looks at you like you’re stupid. “do you not feel how hard i am?” 

“there are spectrums to it… maybe you’re not into vaginal sex. or vagina at all. you like vaginas… right?”

he laughs. actually laughs. a fully body laugh. it makes your heart race and grin in triumph. you’ve never heard him laugh like that, “im serious, pope. i don’t need you to eat me out or anything. i know men don’t like that and—“ 

“i like that.” he clears his throat. “i like doing that.” 

you freezes for a moment, nodding. “okay…” 

“okay…” sudden shyness on both ends. it’s silent for a moment, “do you want that…? right now?” 

you clear your throat now, “do you… want that… right now?” 

he nods, “yes.” 

and that falls into the rotation of the very limited things you two do. he doesn’t let you touch his cock. at all. he lets you dry hump him, sure. but if your hand ever tries to slip into his jeans, he moves your hand to any other place on his body. 

you try not to judge him for it but… you do think sexual intimacy is important in a relationship. but you don’t push. You try but once he shuts it down, that’s that. but surprisingly, you don’t need his mouth on you as much as you thought you would. it’s good, of course it is, but sometimes a lazy day at his place is better. 

“what’s a seven word letter for a man’s bag?” he makes fun of you for liking crossword puzzles. because you’re not good at them, always pulling out your phone to google it. he always answers. he’s not this time. “pope…” you hum. “answer me, fucker.” more silence. You look over at him. he’s already watching you. your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “you good?”

the sigh he releases is shaky, “y’know i’d never hurt you, right?” 

with absolutely no hesitation, “I know.” he reaches over and presses a soft kiss to your temple, inhaling deeply, you grin, “you sniffing me?” 

he chuckles, nodding. “yeah,” another kiss. “smell good.” 

—

“babe, do I really have to do this?” you’re groaning. groaning because you’re sweating and your body feels heated from the strain of working out. you were done for the day, having done an hour of a high incline on the treadmill and a too fast pace on the stairmaster for another hour. 

pope nods, holding the punching bag. “just punch as hard as you’re able to. with the correct form. im serious, baby, you’re gonna break a finger if you don’t.” 

you groan again, “im tired, pope.” you just wanted to take a long shower, wash off all the muck from the gym, and snuggle up into bed with him. 

“just a few times.” a pause. “you know i love taking care of you.” 

you raise a single eyebrow, “but?” 

“you’re a wimp, baby.” 

you snort out a laugh, “that so?” 

“very much.” the smile is soft but it’s there and it makes your body tingle. or maybe it’s the strain from the stairmaster.  “you’ve got to know how to throw a punch, at least.” 

you groan. again. it’s your default at the gym. “pope. im always with you.” 

“no you’re not.” 

“babe, you take me to and pick me up from school. im always at your place.” you hum. “i have a drawer. that’s how much time i spend with you. even when you’re at work, im at your place. you’ll always be there to punch someone for me.” 

“that’s a weak mindset.” 

“im not learning how to punch someone.” 

“baby—“ 

“no.” 

“just—“ 

“i said no.” 

it’s his turn to groan, “fine.” 

he pouts. you hate it when he pouts. you mentioned it to him once and he got upset. claims he doesn’t pout. so you never brought it up again. but it works on you. with a huff, you roll your eyes, “fine. come on.”

he seems content that he’s won, behind the punching bag and holding onto it tight, taking his own stance. “alright, you remember the stance?”

“yes.” you answer, “if you keep teaching me how to fight i’ll end up beating you up one day.” 

“what a dream.” he scoffs. “show me the correct way.” 

you do as he taught you once. “that good enough for you?” 

“more than good enough. come on, hit me, baby.” 

you snicker, “hit you or the bag? i can totally hit you.” 

“haha. what a funny girl i have. swing.” so you do. and he makes you repeat it. and repeat it. 

you’re getting bored after a while, “pope, im bored. let’s do something else. outside of the gym.” 

“just a little more.” he tries to convince you. 

you huff, annoyed now. “pope. what is up with you?”

he glances at you once before sighing and removing his thin gloves. “nothing.” 

“why are you being persistent about this?” you continue. 

“i just think it’s important for you to protect yourself, baby. look at how we met. a man put his hands on you.” 

you sigh, recognizing the fear in his voice. “nothings going to happen to me.” 

“you don’t know that.” 

“i do. because you’re… youre strong enough for the both us.” A pause. “i don’t know about you but… you're it for me, Pope. that means… i’ll always be around you. and you’ll always protect me.” you motion to the punching bag again. “a few more times. and we’re done, okay?” 

he seems lighter now. not as persistent with it. he ends up showing off some kicking move while you sit the side and drink some water. you thought it was kinda dorky but he looks happy so you cheer him on. before you know it, you’re up on your feet and with a laugh, you try to mimic him. 

it doesn’t work. 

you cackle as you fall to the floor, unable to contain yourself. he had rushed to you, concerned. “im fine, pope.” he takes your hands in his, helping you up. immediately, he’s wiping at your mucked up knees, knowing they’re your favorite leggings. you grin, pressing a quick kiss to his lips when he’s back up, “see? always got you.” 

he grins, pressing more kisses to your lips, “you do got me, don’t you?”

— 

you don’t work at the grocery store often, which there are a lot. you don’t get business, that’s not your major and you tune out your step-father often. but you’re in a good mood today. and it’s victors birthday, you have to bring him the brownies he loves so much!!! you spent so much time on them, writing a lovely birthday note with his favorite flavor of frosting. 

“my favorite underling.” you joke, putting the platter of brownies down. he gasps and coos, takes thousands of pictures too. but of course, there are no utensils in the break room. so, you’re off to grab some from the kitchen, which is closed down this late at night. 

you’re humming the tune of the birthday song you and the others just sang to victor. you open a few drawers in the kitchen, huffing in frustration when nothing is found. you grab your phone, shooting your step-dad a text. ‘forks in ur office??’. You get a reply quick, ‘yes. lock b4 leave.’

you can’t believe how lucky you are as you walk to his office. he’s started to trust you, he never lets anyone in there. despite not wanting his businesses at all, you know he’s speaking to your mother about his inheritance and who could take over. you’d say no, but being thought of still feels good. you have amazing friends who are helping you with every awkward question you have when it comes to the relationship you have with a hot, older man. 

and pope. you love him. you really, really do. he’s yet to say it and so have you but you know it’s there on his end. there’s no way he can be faking all of those late night talks, that intimacy you two have without having sex. and he had told you he has something big planned. you have a feeling your words got to him and he will be asking you to be his girlfriend in a romantic way. 

you try to remember this week's code to his office lock as you round the corner. he had told you the start of the week but he doesn’t let you write it down. crap, you really wish you had written it down right now. with a sigh, you press the first button but a small noise leaves you when the door pushes open instead by the barely there touch. eyebrows furrowed, you softly push the door open some more, “uhm… I thought you were at ho—“ your breath catches to see two masked men. 

immediately, you take a step back, but it’s too late. they saw you. there’s a big hand grasping your arm and dragging you into the office. a pained gasp leaving your lips as you’re shoved to the ground. you can’t take a full breath. the men are arguing back and forth. 

“he said she wouldn’t be here!” 

“she’s going to fucking kill us.” 

“she?? he’s going to fucking kill us.” 

one of them scoffs, the tallest one, “he told us he didn’t even like her.” 

“i call bull.”

you’re not even really sure what’s happening. you’re trying to think. think. think. think. but you can’t. not with the sight of their weapons strapped to them. weapons. guns. you’ve only seen a gun once. in pope’s truck. you were opening the center console and refused to even look at him afterwards. he promised since then that he took it out of his truck. you chose to believe him. 

there’s a safe in the office. one your step-dad refuses to talk about. your siblings and you would make jokes about it. there’s either gold, a porn stash, a body, or a fuckload of money in it. now, your best bet is money— these men clearly want it. but your step-dad can’t be that stupid, right? why wouldn’t you have your money at a bank? he’s smart. right…?

another body comes in. you’re too scared to look up, eyes on the floor and shaking. you thought you had gained confidence the past few months. you didn’t, apparently. there are tears streaming down your face, you can’t stop. 

your mind gets hazy as they keep arguing, placing the safe on to the roller. the third person isn’t talking, you notice. and it makes you miss pope. anytime you see or meet the quiet one from a group, it makes you miss pope. and then, before you know it, the two huge bodies are out, pushing the safe out with them. 

you think you’re safe. no more guns. no more arguing men. 

a pair of hands meet yours. you flinch, immediately yanking your hands from the third persons. they pause for a moment, as if deliberating. but they reach out again. you don’t pull away this time, you let their hands grabs yours, helping you up off the floor. your eyes are shut tight, trembling in fear. but your body completely stills when they bend over slightly, lightly wiping the dirt off of the jeans at your knees. you just let it happen. 

what’s worse is you let the man take a single step closer, his body almost pressed up directly to yours. he doesn’t do anything. he doesn’t say anything. he just stands there. as if he’s taking you in. a shaky inhale and your body shudders. he’s smelling you. inhaling the scent of you. and then, he’s pulled away. and leaving. leaving you behind in the turned over office, the giant safe missing. 

—

it took you a few minutes to get yourself together. when you’re brought back to the real world, it’s victor that’s shaking you out of your trance. there are cops. detectives. your mother and step-father are there immediately. 

you explain what happened so many times. at some point, it feels like a hallucination. like when you repeat a word too many times and after a while, it stops making sense. 

you don’t call pope. you’re too stuck. it should’ve been a red flag when he showed up. but you’re too wrapped up in fear to question him. when you spot him, tears well up in your eyes again and you’re rushing to him. he immediately wraps his arms around you, cooing in your ear as you cry. “it was s-so, so scary, pope.” you cry in his arms, letting his arms soothingly rub at your back.

“i know, baby, i know.” his voice is so soft and sweet as he holds you. “you’re okay, everything’s okay.”

it’s how you end up in his home again. wrapped up in his arms in bed. you’re still a sniffling mess. you’re recounting the story again. every single part. but you skip the last part. how the thief was… taking you in. 

“that’s all?” he asks softly, gently swiping the tears from your cheeks. 

you hesitate. “‘s all…” you lie. 

you’re like this for days. distraught. paranoid. he’s helping you a lot. holding you. talking to you. you swear this is the most he’s ever spoken.

“let’s do something.” you two are lying on your sides, facing each other. 

you shake your head softly, “no… i don’t feel very good.” 

he sighs softly, not from annoyance, but clear concern. “you can’t just… you can’t let this stop you.” 

you huff out a small laugh, “yeah? isn’t this your dream date? doing nothing with me all day?” 

he nods, “yes but i want your dream date. do everything with me all day.” 

it warms your heart that he’s trying. really trying. not a single part of you picks it up as guilt. so, you groan dramatically, sitting up. “fine. but that means record store, beach, steak, and ice cream.” 

he grins, sliding off the bed with you. “deal, baby,” he smacks your ass as you walk past him. you laugh happily, “get ready quick.” 

and you do just that. anything you want, you get it. not that you didn’t before. he likes taking care of you. you can see it makes him feel useful. like his days have a purpose. but it’s different today and you can’t put your finger on it. 

it should have been really obvious to you when suddenly, he has no qualms about being with you. about sex. despite being stuffed by your meal that afternoon, you two are heavily making out. and then, his face is between your legs. and then, it’s happening. he’s being so gentle, his touch full of love. he doesn’t need to say it. you know he’s feeling it. 

soft praises fill your ears. the bed beneath you feels softer. your skin feels hot. 

your breath catches as he pushes only a tiny bit of his cock. nothing crazy, just notches the tip of him in you. a small whimper leaves you, “fuck…” 

he’s worrying immediately, “whats wrong, baby? too much? i can sto—“ 

“don’t you dare stop, pope, i will kill you if you pull your cock out.”

you both fall into a fit of laughter at your words. his forehead is leaning against yours, hand caressing your cheek. “i love you,” the sound of your name coming from his mouth makes your eyes fill up. 

despite the fear you felt that day, you’re happy. You were so lonely before. and now, you’re losing your virginity to the man you love, “I love you, too, pope.” and he pushes in, hollowing out completely. 

you think you’re a sex addict from there. you can’t get enough of him. more time passes and your anxiety is easing. you don’t flinch or pull away from random men you come across. you’re still slightly paranoid but pope helps you calm down, come back to earth. 

“y/n…” he groans as you press kisses up his chest. 

“what?” you’re smirking as you do so, skipping a ton of skin and pressing your lips to his. “you know that thing that men spew when they take a girls virginity? that they get clingy and obsessive? think im feeling that.” 

his hands slides down to the curve of your ass, lightly smacking it. “yeah? you were already obsessive and clingy before.” 

you feign a hurt gasp. “how dare you? i was rightfully clingy either way. you’re sexy. and you’re so weird. that’s all girls want lately. sexy and weird. god, im so horny. let’s have sex.” 

he laughs heartily, “later, baby.” one final pat to your butt and he’s sitting up. he reaches over and grabs his wallet, handing a bill over to you. “delivery guy should be here soon. tip. gonna go shower.” he’s pressing a kiss to your cheek and moving out from under you. 

he doesn’t notice how you still, staring down at the bill. the familiar bill. how your finger traces the familiar drawing. it’s small. barley even there. you’d have to really inspect the bill to notice it.

when your mother first met your step-dad, you didn’t like him. you didn’t get why she needed someone else’s love when she had yours. it was silly but the first day you met him, you asked for collateral. a deposit. you asked for two hundred dollars, which you would not return if he ever hurt or left your mother. her boyfriends never lasted long so you were just in it for the money. easy 200 bucks. he only had 20s. you were bored in homeroom and you drew a heart on one using a purple glitter gel pen. in the middle you wrote your step-dads initials alongside your mothers. 

when they didn’t break up and you were the maid of honor at their wedding, you gave him the 20 back with their initials. “you two should really be thanking me. because of this 20 dollar bill, you two got married.” it made the room erupt in laughter and your mother cry as she pressed soft kisses all around your face. 

“it was you.” your voice wasn’t soft. it was cut-throat. unlike your soft-spoken nature. your hear shuffling. you don’t look up, eyes still on the purple glitter heart and initials. “it was you. you were… you and your brothers… you hit the store.” you finally look up. he’s watching you. the same intense fucking look he always has on. 

“what are you say—“ 

“don’t fucking lie to me, pope.” you hold the bill out to him. “this… i gave this to my step-dad. he must have been keeping it in the safe. the safe that you and your brothers stole. right?”

he doesn’t answer for a moment. his breathing is labored. and then, he’s fine. as if this weren’t a big deal. “yes.” 

[valleyanimalz]

pope/abbot/sammy p!links

cw i mean they’re p!links. very nsfw, open w/ caution

pope cody

andrew had a bad day and needs relief (i can actually see him here it’s kinda scaring me in a horny way)

needy puppy andrew humping you…

on the couch with him…

jack abbot

jack man handling you 🫠

grinding on him

jack fucking you HARD

sammy bryant

teasing sammy

teasing sammy AGAIN

sammy wants to get you pregnant

[cestpasfaux24601]

Bertie Carvel as Simon Foster Doctor Foster  1.04 (2015)

[lovebugism]

✶ — THE DRAGON AND THE STAG !

summary: baelor abides by your wishes when you flee from your arranged marriage to be with the man they call the laughing storm. he asks only for one night with you, before he risks his life at the trial of seven, and lyonel doesn't mind sharing. (8.8k)

pairing(s): lyonel baratheon / fem!targaryen!reader, baelor targaryen / fem!niece!reader, brief mentions of aerion targaryen / fem!sister!reader

contents: targaryen!reader (no physical description other than r's hair color) strangers to lovers, established relationship(s), implied age gap, angst, hurt/comfort, unrequited love (baelor wants that cookie BADDD), canon divergence cw for targcest, vague implications of sexual assault (aerion sucks, you heard it here first folks!), smut (MDNI): threesome, p in v sex, unprotected sex, oral (fem and male receiving), lyonel is a munch and baelor is so touch starved

Lyonel Baratheon appears to you first in a flash of golden candlelight as he stumbles from the bustling inn, wearing nothing but a pair of slacks and an antler crown sitting askew on his greying curls. He sighs when the cool night air meets his burning skin, coated in a thin sheen of sweat that glows a pale silver in the moonlight. His chest, adorned with a dusting of dark hair, heaves as he takes his first good breath all evening.

The sounds of the party inside muffle a second later when the wooden doors creak shut behind him. The scent of sweat and ale remains, carried on the silky breeze of the starry night.

You study the stranger in the several long moments it takes for him to notice you — a high lord from Storm’s End, whose drunken mania in battle ultimately earned him the title of the “Laughing Storm.” You eye him over the rim of your heavy flagon and sip noisily at the bitter wine, not nearly as palatable as that of King’s Landing’s supply, but much easier to get drunk on.

Lyonel’s head snaps in the direction of the nose. His cinnamon-colored eyes, glassy from the alcohol, glimmer at the sight of you — slouched in an old rocking chair, with your feet kicked up on the railing before you. Your heeled boots match the color of your crimson dress, the hem of which sinks to your thighs from the angle your legs are sitting at.

His fleeting look of confusion gives way to a crooked grin, half-hidden beneath his grey-black beard. His voice is low and slightly slurred as he croons, “I remember you… You were the bride— Made of light…”

You figure it must be the hair giving you away. It’s the only real semblance you share with the rest of your family, of course — a mixture of your father’s white-silver and the subtle gold streaks from a mother you would never meet. It was your most obvious designation of royalty, of which you were afforded very many. Far more than most bastards ever got, anyway.

You were Maekar Targaryen’s only daughter, after all, and there was nothing quite as undoing for a man as that. Per his orders, you were to keep the family name, the subsequent titles, and, ultimately, the promise of Queen Consort upon your betrothal to your uncle — the heir to the Iron Throne.

Your marriage was more of a chess game among your father, your uncle, and your grandfather, more than it was a union built on any real affection. Baelor had already done his duties — he’d gotten married to a noble woman, who had given him an heir, and had died shortly after giving him another. He did not want another wife as much as he wanted a warmth to distract him from his grief. He ultimately found that in you, when your father traded your livelihood in exchange for your unwavering security in House Targaryen.

You were married to your uncle in the Red Keep at the age of one-and-six, in a gown made of silver-gold, which reflected the light spilling in from the stained glass windows on either side of you — known soon after as the bride made of light.

“My reputation precedes me, I assume?” you wonder aloud, before licking the sheen of wine from your lips.

“Aye. It does,” Lyonel nods slowly, antler crown tipping. His boots scuff the aged wood of the inn as he stumbles towards you on heavy feet. He catches himself on the creaking railing beside your boots before he can fall over completely. His lopsided smile never wavers. “You are an awful long way from him, little dragon…”

You can’t be sure exactly how far away from home you are now — you only know that, when you made it out of the Red Keep, you just kept going.

It wasn’t so much your uncle that drove you away as much as the constant pressure to perform, and the unrelenting leers from your dragon-eyed brother. Aerion grew jealous of your newfound position in the Targaryen hierarchy. He hated you for it, so much that he began to mistake the detestation for love, and believed his violence to be the very expression of his adoration.

You and your siblings had endured a lifetime of terrorization from your brother, but it was not the constant threats that sent you running. It was something far more measly in comparison — following the night of a lively feast, when Aerion closed the distance between you at the table to pull a scarlet ribbon from your hair, with the same pale fingers he’d otherwise etch bruises into your skin with. The act was as delicate as it was violating; a silent reassurance that he could unravel you as he wished, and that no one would bat an eye if he did so.

You made the sudden decision to run that very night. And, somewhere along the way, it led you here — a terribly drunken thing, sitting before the pretty man everyone calls the Laughing Storm.

“I’m right where I want to be,” you confess, half-echoed into your flagon as you take another lengthy sip. Your peer at the older man over the rim, eyes all squishy around the edges with a smile you don’t let him see.

The music inside dims for a moment before erupting into a loud, familiar instrumental. Lyonel’s grin blossoms into a wide, lopsided thing. “C’mon,” he tells you. “Come dance with me.”

“I don’t dance,” you dismiss with a stubborn shake of your head.

The last time you danced in a crowd was with your now-husband, and something about it felt distinctly like a severing of your girlhood. You’d spun in your uncle’s arms and fought the urge to cower beneath the prying eyes of high lords and low strangers — knowing you would never again be the young girl who stood on the toes of her father’s shoes when she danced with him.

Lyonel reaches out for you anyway. He curls his right hand around your left wrist, still holding onto your cup of ale. He props himself on the armrest of your chair with his free hand as he leans down over you, reeking of sweat and the grape wine staining his crooked teeth a faint pink color.

Your eyes dart back and forth between his dark ones. He’s sloppy and staggering and looking like the rest of your entire life.

“The earth is spinning, firelight,” Lyonel lilts, in a voice as smooth and low as honey. “We’d be fools to just stand on it, wouldn’t we?”

You had danced with him that night, despite your better judgment, and forgot to leave his side.

Your freedom comes at a compromise — in that, it was never completely yours. Baelor only extended the illusion of such as a kindness on his behalf. He knew what had been done to you, by him and your father and your brother, and felt you deserved to live your life the way you wanted for a change, before his inevitable ascension called for your return to the Red Keep.

Maekar sneered at his brother’s indifference to your well-being. “Your enthusiasm is honorable, brother. Truly,” he’d scolded. “You forget this is my daughter we’re talking about—”

“And you forget this is my wife. And that she's more mine than yours,” Baelor said, and waved his hands at the Gold Cloaks before him. “Leave her be. I will have the Bloodraven watch over her. His spies will see to her return when the circumstances call for it.”

A part of you knew that, when the royal knights hadn’t been sent to cease you, that Baelor was surely the one to talk your father off the ledge — to loosen his leash on you, as it were. You knew you were being followed long before the Master of Whispers ever sent his spies after you, on the rare occasions when Baelor needed to make a public appearance and your presence at his side was particularly paramount.

You had seen Baelor thrice in a year or more span, and your father only once. You had not expected to see them again, and certainly not at a low Lord’s tourney, which Lyonel had impulsively whisked you off to.

The golden sun rises slowly over Ashford Meadows, sitting heavy in a cloudless blue sky. The expansive, ornately decorated tent you rouse in fills with the still heat of an early summer morning. The silky humidity mixes with the scent of sex and ale from the long night before, both of which Lyonel struggles to recover from now.

You stand at his bedside, clad only in a thin pair of underwear, and watch the slumbering man for several long moments.

His naked body is twisted in the Baratheon gold sheets. His strong arms are curled beneath the thin pillow under his head. His scruffy face is half-buried in the cushion and half-covered by his wild grey curls. His soft snoring fills the quiet tent, which only slightly muffles the bustling crowd outside.

You can still feel the ache of his relentless thrusts between your legs from the night before as you nudge the mattress with your hip.

Lyonel inhales sharply at the rude awakening. “Wha—?” he groans, still half-asleep.

“Get up,” you command, arms folded over your naked chest like a stubborn child. “I’m bored. And hungry.”

“Have one of the knights fetch you something,” the man slurs, eyes still shut as he turns to face the opposite way. He waves you off with a tired hand and mumbles, “That’s what they’re here for, firelight—”

“Well, I, for one, would like to get some fresh air…” you trail off in a mischievous lilt, beneath the creaking of the wooden frame as you ascend upon the feathered mattress. Lyonel feels the bed cave under your weight as you plant your feet on either side of his hips. He can hear the smile in your voice, too, as you croon. “And, unless you want me going out like this, I suggest you get up and get ready with me.”

There’s a certain air of devilry in your words that piques the young lord’s interest. He blinks sleep from his heavy eyes and turns slowly onto his back to look at you. His hairy chest flares with a warm feeling at the sight of you on top of him — almost completely naked, save for the thin linen undergarments hiding the most sensitive part of you from him.

Lyonel sobers from slumber almost instantly, stretching out his tired limbs as his mouth curls into a crooked smile. His dark eyes glimmer as they dart between the delicate mound of your clothed cunt, to the swell of your breasts, and to your smiling face.

“Mm…” he hums in a gruff voice, propping himself on one elbow to reach out for you with his free hand. His calloused fingers are warm as they trail over the skin of your thigh. “I think you should wake me up like this every morning, firelight—”

His fingers curl in the hem of your underwear. Your fingers dart around his wrist to stop him.

“Mm-mm,” you hum and shake your head.

Lyonel freezes at your wordless demand. You meet his doe-eyed look with a playful grin and lift your pointer finger to your lips.

“Mouth,” you command vaguely.

Lyonel’s grin widens. He laughs, very boyishly giddy, as he sits up straighter on the mattress. You bite your bottom lip as you watch the man try and fail to sink his teeth into the hem of your underwear. You fight back a giggle when his teeth scrape your stomach, before finally snagging the soft linen between them.

He smiles with the hem of your panties in his mouth and bounces his brows at his successful attempt, leaning back to drag the thin fabric down our thighs. A moan grumbles in the back of his throat when your cunt is finally revealed to him, made of coarse hair and soft velvet skin. You watch his heavy-eyed look of desire flicker into a confused look a second later.

He pauses in place, with the hem sitting just above your knees, and with his gaze pointed somewhere past your spread thighs. A newfound breeze fills the tent, along with a fleeting sliver of sunlight, as your head whips around to follow Lyonel’s gaze. A gasped breath catches in your throat when you find the face of your uncle standing in the entrance of the tent, now closing shut behind him.

“Baelor!” you exclaim, scrambling to pull your underwear back up with one hand and covering your exposed breasts with the other.

The man clears his throat and averts his eyes as you rush off the creaking mattress for the robe hanging on the chair beside the desk. You blanket your naked body in the crimson silk, and Baelor makes a beeline for the flagon of wine on the table by the entrance.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting,” he says beneath the glugging of the decanter as he pours himself a goblet.

“Certainly not, Your grace,” Lyonel lilts, voice still gruff with sleep, as he lies back with his hands behind his head. He grins at the man across the tent, not nearly as terrified of him as he probably should be, after being caught sleeping with his wife. Though, to be fair, Lyonel Baratheon has never been terrified of much. “You know my philosophy, Ser Baelor. The more the merrier.”

“I’m sure it is,” Baelor nods politely, failing to match the Laughing Storm’s nonchalance, as his mismatched eyes dart back to you. He motions the jewelled goblet in your direction when you near him, and he tries not to notice how you wear sex and sleep over — in your wild hair and glassy eyes and the lovebites stamped onto your skin.

“Get ready,” he tells you. “Meet me in the study at Ashford Hall.”

Your fingers tremble despite yourself as you take the cup from him. “F-For what?” you stammer hopelessly, wide eyes darting across the older man’s bearded face. You think he must get handsomer every time you see him. He’s made of so many chiseled edges, carved from something harder than stone, but still somehow heartwrenchingly delicate.

Baelor grins shyly at your naivety, as if the distance between you has made you forgetful of your sworn duties. “’Tis a prestigious event, milady. We are expected to be seen together, as husband and wife.”

The titles sound half-foreign as they tumble from his lips. His eyes dart past you to where Lyonel stirs in bed, swinging his long legs off the side and reaching for his unders beside the mattress. He seems to forget that he’s still naked, or forgets to care otherwise. Baelor turns away and clears his throat again behind a closed fist.

“I’ll be waiting,” he says with a nod to dismiss himself.

He leaves without another word, parting through the tent door, as fleeting as the warm breeze and the momentary sliver of white sunlight outside. You feel a pang of something that feels like guilt when he’s gone. You wonder if the ache you feel now is a fraction of what he felt the night you left.

You were no longer the girl who left him behind — not quite the innocent bride with a head full of dreams that Baelor remembers. He thinks you haven’t been for some time, even before you left. He’d felt a certain shift the night before you ran away, the one and only time you had ever bothered to share his bed, aside from your wedding night.

You came to him when the rest of the castle was long asleep. You were sallow and sunken and full of sorrow, like a lily drowned underwater. You smelled like soap and sugar and bergamot when you slipped tentatively beneath the silk covers, moving carefully as if you believed Baelor to be asleep.

He pretended to be, for your sake, until you shifted on your back to face away from him. Then he turned his head and traced the edges of your exposed neck and shoulder with his tired eyes — skin bare from your silken slip, kissed in the moonlight streaming in from the windows. He balled his hands into the sheets to fight the urge to hold you.

“Are you alright?” he’d asked, voice gruff with sleep.

Your breath caught at the sudden question. It took you a moment too long to answer him. “Truthfully?” you whispered.

“Of course.”

“I think… I think I would be a great deal happier here if my brother were dead.”

Baelor didn’t need to ask for confirmation on which you were referring to. He knew there was only one sibling who could’ve sent you running to his bedside for safety. But, unaccustomed to such softness, and at a total loss for how to comfort you, he only said, “I understand Aerion can be cruel, but… The septons say we must love our brothers— even for their many… many faults.”

“That’s easy to say when you don’t have a brother who thinks himself a dragon, isn’t it, Ser Baelor?”

There was a sad sort of smile coating your fragile voice that made the man smile softly to himself, too. “Aye. I suppose it is…” he hummed. “Shall I speak with him?”

“No!” you blurt, far quicker than you mean to.

Your head snapped over your shoulder when you felt the man moving behind you, as if he’d planned to defend your honor in that very moment. He met your wide-eyed look of woe with a sterner, softer look. You fought the urge to reach out for him — to plant your hand on his bare chest and feel his heart beating against your palm — to melt into his warmth and hide there from your brother forever.

“Just… Just stay,” you’d pleaded with your hands curled into fists, because you always felt safest when Baelor was near, though it was never a word you’d speak out loud.

He woke the next morning to an empty bed, sheets that still smelled just like you, and a castle reduced to chaos.

He knew you were gone before anyone had sent to fetch him. It was not your leaving that had surprised him as much as the impact your absence had on his being. After you were gone, nothing quite felt like enough — not the sun on his skin, not the women in court, not the power he held in his hands. Baelor, instead, became a man full of all the letters he’d written you, but could never quite garner the strength to send off with his spies.

He was reduced to futility in the wake of your leaving, while you could only blossom without the weight of him there. You became half-girl, half-fairytale — both delicate and damned — fashioned from both a dagger and a silk heart. You grew into your girlish features and became saturnine, fawn-eyed, clever. A rose between thorns at the rambunctious tourney, which you long understood would end in a fight.

You watch from the stands, between Baelor and the empty seat where your father was supposed to be. “Any word from your brothers?” Maekar had asked you in the study of Ashford Hall, before tossing another grape into his mouth. He sighed hard through his nose when you shook your head. “Fuck me. I can’t seem to keep track of any of my children anymore. Except for the one…”

His lip twitched beneath his silver beard in disgust at the thought of Aerion, who mounts his horse for his first charge on the field below now. The boy is only slightly grieved by his father’s absence until he finds you staring. You catch him smiling to himself before he flips the visor of his helmet, fashioned into the head of a dragon.

The crowd erupts as the joust begins. Your racing heart rises into your throat. Your clammy hands twist into your scarlet dress, embroidered with Baratheon gold. You can feel the imminent violence as easily as you can feel the blood rushing in your veins, as easily as you can feel the rain in the air right before it storms.

“His lance is too low…” you murmur to yourself, hardly audible over the roaring chaos.

“What?” Baelor asks, scruffy features twisted in confusion. You can smell the spiced oil he bathed in on his skin when he leans in closer to you.

“He’s cheating—!” you shout.

There’s a loud crash as the two knights collide, then a whimper from a dying horse with a lance in its throat, and then a wailing from Ser Hardyng as his legs get crushed beneath the dying stallion. Aerion rides up to the stands with blood staining his dark horse and his dragon-scaled armor, taking his victory laps in spite of the roars of protest all around him.

He plants himself before you and lifts his ornate helm to reveal his smirking face beneath. Though you had not seen his face in quite some time, the sight of his chiseled features now strikes a deep fear within you, the same way it always did when you were younger. Your stomach swirls in disgust when his silver eyes meet yours.

“For you, dear sister,” Aerion calls, lifting a hand to reveal his favor — the thin red ribbon he’d taken from you the night before you left, now hanging off his gloved finger. “For there is surely no victory more beautiful than you.”

Your trembling hands ball into fists. You feel a sharp stinging in the fatty part of your palms as your dull nails threaten to break the delicate skin.

Baelor leans in close. His innate warmth, coupled with the scent of leather and jasmine on his skin, comforts you far more than his words do.

“Take it,” Baelor mumbles quietly, hardly audible over the crowd of angry guests.

Your head snaps to look at him. He tries not to cower at the offense twisting your features, like you’re terrified and half-betrayed by his command. But, without dragons to maintain the Targaryen family power, it was important to project the image of a united front (which was growing increasingly difficult, with each of you running away in some form or another).

So, despite himself, Baelor presses firmly. “Don’t keep them waiting. Take it.”

You fight back the urge to vomit as you rise tentatively from your seat. Your frail hand trembles as it stretches over the wooden barricade, reaching out for your tormentor, who now holds the remnants of your girlhood around his finger — like some kind of thinly veiled threat.

Something comes flying from the stands before you can take it from him — a clump of mud, or worse — that pummels Aerion in the side of his helm. The Kingsguard react instantly to defend their prince, while the peasants of Ashford swarm over the barricades to protect their own.

All seven Hells break loose thereafter, in far more ways than one.

Your brothers return — one drunk, as usual, and the other looking much older than you remember and without his usual silver hair. The freakishly tall man you remember from the tourney, (the so-called knight your brother had been squiring for in his time away), is imprisoned at Ashford Castle for assaulting Aerion, though you’d sooner grant him true knighthood for it. He’s granted a trial of seven instead, and in Ser Duncan’s scrambling for fighters, he goes inevitably for your Lyonel, much to your dismay.

“How sober were you?” you wonder aloud, standing between the man’s spread thighs as he lounges on the edge of your shared bed.

He props his weight on his hands and blinks the drunken haze from his eyes as he revels in your touch. Your soft fingers part from his greying curls to trail down his jaw and neck, heading for the opened collar of his unders. He fights back a shiver when your nails scratch gently at the exposed skin of his hairy chest.

“When my brother asked you to fight for Ser Duncan, I mean?”

Lyonel’s lips curl into a lopsided grin. “To be honest with you, I am not entirely sober now, firelight…” he confesses lowly, with a sheepish scrunch to the bridge of his nose, as if he were telling you some kind of secret.

“Then perhaps I should come out there with you. Make sure you stay safe,” you lilt, almost shy, as you tilt your chin to peer at the man from beneath your lashes. “My father fashioned me some armor for my nameday; I’m sure it still fits—”

“Well, that explains why your trunks are so heavy,” he quips.

“I’m serious, Lyonel.”

“As am I.” He shrugs at the stern look you give him. “I need you here. I need you safe.”

“I can fight,” you tell him.

“Better than any of us,” he concurs, smoothing his wide hands over your hips. His fingers ball the crimson fabric of your dress into his fists, which he uses to drag you impossibly closer to him. He rests his bearded chin on your breasts and tells you, “But if you won’t tend to me upon my return, then who will? My reasoning here is purely selfish, firelight, I assure you.”

“Well, I won’t have to take care of you,” you correct, twisting your fingers in his greying ringlets. “You’ll be just fine.”

Lyonel’s smile widens. “Surely nothing a good fucking can’t fix.”

You fight back a giggle when his hands cup your ass over your dress. “Are you capable of thinking about anything other than ale and sex, my lord?”

He clicks his lips against his teeth. “Not particularly.”

Lyonel tilts his chin to kiss you. You duck down to meet him halfway. He wastes little time in licking into your mouth, tasting of salty tourney food and sweet red wine. You sigh through your nose and melt into his touch, curling your arms loosely around his neck while his hands lift your dress to trail underneath it — to finish what you’d started that morning.

The tent flap swishes open the same way it had earlier that day. A cool breeze, smelling of earthy petrichor, comes in the same way Baelor does — swift and unannounced.

Your mouths part with a low clicking noise when Lyonel pulls away. He wears your spit on his mouth like some kind of trophy as he turns to face the older man towering at the entrance.

“We must stop meeting this way, Your Grace,” he jokes in a drunken slur as he leans back against the mattress and stretches his strong arms behind his head.

“I would like to have a word with my wife,” Baelor says, stern but not entirely unkind. “If I’m not interrupting anything, that is.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” you say with a polite nod before Lyonel can make another stupid joke.

The man leaves without another word. You don’t breathe again until he’s gone, parting from your lover with a grieved sigh as you leave to find your cloak. You take the heavy velvet from your trunk and slide it over your form. You flash Lyonel a knowing look over your shoulder while you tie the thing at your collarbone.

“Behave,” you tell him as you go.

“Of course,” he grins, hips bucking gently against the mattress, all but flashing you the subtle tint in his dark slacks. “You know what the poets say, my dear— Distance makes the cock grow harder…”

Your quiet giggling follows you outside, where the air is cool and sticky with the promise of rain. A satiny breeze ripples in the skirt of your dress. You wrap your arms around yourself on instinct, though it’s hardly the cold you’re shielding yourself from now, as you flash a wavering smile at Baelor and the two handsome knights flanking him.

“Looks like it might storm,” you observe in lieu of a real greeting as thunder rolls overhead.

“I won’t keep you long,” Baelor promises, jaw clenched as he examines the black clouds hanging low in the dark sky. He nods his head to motion you to follow him, then flashes his guards a silent look before he goes, a wordless command to leave you be. He gives orders without speaking and without losing any of his inherent softness — there is hardly anyone in the Seven Kingdoms more fit to rule than he.

You trek the dark camp together, lit only by distant fires from the surrounding tents. You fight hard to keep up with his longer strides as your boots dig into the soft grass below. Baelor keeps his distance next to you, staying near enough to smell the floral scent stained on your cloak, but still far enough away to deny that he wants to be closer.

You spare him a shy look from the corner of your eye when he struggles to start the conversation. “Is… Is there something you wished to tell me, Your Grace?”

“Aye,” Baelor nods with a weathered hand propped on the hilt of his sheathed sword. His anxious fingers fidget around the thing, very uncharacteristically nervous before you now. “I felt it was best you hear it now. You know, from me…”

You give him a wordless look of apprehension when he trails off. He spares you only a fleeting glance before turning away again, looking everywhere but back at you.

“I intend to fight with Ser Duncan on the morrow,” he confesses finally, then follows quickly at your shock. “He will not find seven fighters by sunrise. We both know that. No one is stupid enough to go against the crown—”

“Other than you, apparently,” you interject, a little sharper than you mean to.

“Aye,” the man sighs. “Other than me…”

You still in place, tilting your chin to peer up at the man when he towers some several inches over you. “You’d really fight against your own nephew? Your own brother—”

“I’m fighting for what’s right,” Baelor tells you firmly, as if it’s always been that simple. “The rest of it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Your squinted eyes dart back and forth between his brown and blue ones. A distant flame glitters in his lighter iris, and in the gold pin he sports on his broad chest. “Why are you telling me this now, Ser Baelor?”

“I know it may slip your mind every now and then when you’re fucking the Laughing Storm, but you are still my wife,” Baelor tells you in monotone with a soft, unfeeling smile. “I didn’t want you to feel slighted if I had not discussed it with you first.”

You shake your head with a sneer, as if you’d just tasted something sour. You hate how noble he is, how kind he is, when you have done nothing deserve it.

Baelor’s brows lower at your reaction. “Would you rather I’d stayed silent?”

“Perhaps. Yes,” you nod firmly. “I was worried enough as it is. Now, I certainly will get no sleep knowing both of you are going on that field on the morrow—”

“Well, surely my well-being doesn’t affect you as much as Ser Lyonel’s,” Baelor hums with an air of indifference, though something about it makes your chest ache.

“While I do admit that I do not love you as I love him…” you confess quietly, watching as Baelor turns away, pretending he doesn’t feel his heart breaking. “I will always have a sort of fondness for you. You are a far greater husband than I deserve — you’ve always been kind to me, faithful to me. Out of the hundreds of men my father could’ve given me to, I’m infinitely grateful that it was you, Ser Baelor.”

Your words knock the air from his lungs.

In the several moments it takes for the man to catch his breath, a fine rain starts to sprinkle from the starless sky — one drop, then another, then a few more. You wince and tug the hood of your cloak over your head. Baelor reaches for you on instinct, pressing a wide hand to the base of your spine.

“Let’s head back,” he tells you over the sound of rolling thunder, which brings in several more drops of heavy rain. Your rushed footsteps stomp hard on the wet grass as you rush the short distance back to camp. Baelor’s fingers hold tight to the soft fabric of your cloak to keep you close. Over the drumming rain, he tells you. “Perhaps… Perhaps it’s best you stay with me tonight. In Ashford Castle.”

You spare him a fleeting look beneath the edge of your hood. “Why would I do that?” you wonder aloud, a little more bluntly than you mean to.

“There hasn’t been a Trial of Seven in a hundred years,” Baelor says as he stills with you beneath the shaded entrance of the Baratheon tent. “It could very well be the last night we have together, is all.”

You flinch in response, like his words have hit you somehow physically.

“W-Why would you say that?”

“I… I have been having these… dreams, in truth,” the older man confesses, but struggles to find the subsequent words to explain them — to explain to you that he’s seen his death, and his son’s death, and his brother’s death in his nightmares most every night. “I would never demand something of you if you were not entirely comfortable with it, but… I do wish to have your presence in Ashford Castle tonight.”

You swallow hard, eyes darting between Baelor’s expectant gaze and the glowing tent behind you, where your lover lies in wait. “But.. But Lyonel—”

“Is not your husband,” Baelor finishes for you.

“Perhaps not,” you waver. “But he is whom I love—”

“And he has certainly never minded sharing.” Lyonel’s voice sounds from the entrance of the large tent. Your head whips in the direction of his voice, finding the man now shirtless and smiling wide. He meets your confused gazes with a knowing grin. “You both are talking quite loudly, I’m afraid.”

Baelor clears his throat, half-embarrassed. “I was just leaving.”

“Why?” Lyonel laughs with a lazy shrug. “We might as well have one good night before all Seven Hells break loose. Wouldn’t you agree, firelight?”

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out for a few moments. “Only if it’s alright with you, of course—”

“Well, if I’m not mistaken, you once expressed your wishes of being shared…” he murmurs lowly as he saunters closer to you. A few rogue drops of rain splashing down from the awning fall over his exposed skin. “And who would I be but a cruel man to deny my woman of her innermost desires?”

You melt into his hands when he cradles your burning jaw between his calloused palms. You mourn his gaze when his glittering eyes fall over your shoulder to the man looming just behind you. “Apologies, Your Grace. I’m sure you’re well aware of how much of a dragon she can be in bed—”

“Lyonel,” you snap, swatting his hands away and pushing past him in the doorway.

“What?” he chuckles.

“Not quite,” Baelor answers vaguely and within a strangled sigh as he follows in behind you.

Lyonel’s head swivels on his shoulder as he watches the two of you duck inside. He sports an incredulous twist to his scruffy features, stunned momentarily by the revelation, before rushing in after you. The cool air outside gives way to the warm, candlelight tent as he blurts: “You don’t have to spare my feelings, Your Grace— I’ve already heard quite the tales of your wedding day.”

“And that’s precisely what they were,” Baelor huffs, unclipping his heavy black cloak from around his neck. Raindrops roll off the dark leather and onto the ornate rug below as he drapes it over the back of a wooden chair. “Tales.”

Lyonel’s dark eyes flit to yours, glimmering with an expectancy that makes you cower.

“We never… consummated the marriage,” you confess sheepishly, warming at the memory as you toe off your boots. “We just sort of… Jumped on the bed, and… Pretended to moan.”

You shrink inside yourself and wait for the man to laugh, like he does at most things. Instead, he only softens. “So… So you still had your maidenhood when we met?”

“Not quite,” you repeat Baelor’s same non-answer from before, and refuse to go into any further details, which threaten to send a shiver down your spine just now.

Lyonel catches you trembling and closes the brief distance between you. “C’mon. Get out of these clothes, firelight— You’re freezing.”

Baelor watches silently as Lyonel towers over you, curling his fingers beneath the thin tie at your collarbones. It loosens, and the rain-soaked velvet falls behind you with a heavy thud. You rest your hands over the man’s bare chest as he reaches behind you to unknot your corset. You never once take your eyes off of him, as if his inherent confidence was a catalyst for your own.

Baelor averts his gaze on instinct and busies his anxious hands by pouring himself a goblet of ale, which fills barely halfway from the half-gone flagon.

“Don’t turn away now, Your Grace,” Lyonel quips with a wide grin. “This is the fun part.”

Baelor takes a slow sip from the warm, bitter wine and watches over the rim of it while Lyonel undresses you completely. His wide hands push the sleeves down your shoulders until they fall to your elbows. You slip your arms the rest of the way out of the dress and the slip you wear beneath it. The fabric pools around your feet, leaving your naked body on display, kissed by flickering candlelight.

Baelor struggles to look away, and he hates himself for it. He hates the way his mouth waters at the sight of your supple skin and full breasts. He hates the way Lyonel leers at you like you’re his for the taking.

“I don’t believe in fate, firelight, but… Sometimes I do believe the Heavens made you just for me…” the man murmurs lowly, trailing his ringed hands from your bare shoulders to your breasts. Your breath catches in your throat when his thumbs brush over your sensitive nipples. “Two wise gods instead of seven, perhaps...”

“You’re a child,” you scoff.

“I’m a righteous man, my lady,” he corrects, dark brows lowered in a feigned offense. “And this is where I go to pray.”

He drops to his knees with a quiet thud. His glimmering eyes lock with your cunt, which begins to drool at the sight of him below you. Your hands reach for his curls on instinct, and Lyonel’s heavy head swivels to face the man across the room.

His mustache curls in time with his smile as he says, “Watch diligently, Your Grace. You could stand to learn a thing or two.”

The words of an argument die on Baelor’s tongue when Lyonel leans forward to lick a fat stripe up your cunt. His breath hitches when he watches your head tip back, sighing at the feeling of his tongue between your velvety folds and his coarse beard between your thighs. Your fingers twist in his hair to pull him impossibly closer, and his muffled laughter sends a shockwave up your spine. The pretty sound you make for him has him grinning against you.

“My poor girl,” Lyonel hums, half muffled against you until he pulls away. Your honey glittering in his beard beneath the orange candlelight. “You’ve been waiting for this all day, haven’t you?”

You nod with your head still tossed back. “Yes…” you answer, sighing when he leans forward to press a too-innocent kiss to your cunt.

“I wager you’ll cum as soon as I command it of you, won’t you, firelight?”

He licks you this time, like a kitten to milk, and a whimper sounds in your throat. “Yes…”

“What say you, My Lord Hand?” Lyonel croons with a swollen smile and your slick still on his lips. “Shall I make her wait for it?”

It takes Baelor a moment or more to come to his senses, feeling half-caught in a dream. His hands work first, unbuckling the scabbard from around his waist. His words catch up to him second: “Well, we don’t have all day, Ser Lyonel— And I’d very much like a turn, if it pleases my lady.”

You exhale a fragile sigh that gets half-buried beneath the heavy clunking of his sword hitting the table. “Please…” you hear yourself beg.

Even with your eyes still closed, you can hear the smile in Lyonel’s voice as he says. “As you wish, Your Grace—”

He dives in a second later, working mercilessly with his tongue and mouth. Your hips buck instinctively against him when he suckles at your sensitive clit. Your hands knot his hair to keep your balance as his strong arms wrap around your thighs, clutching at the plush skin there to keep you pressed to his face.

He smiles against you when he feels you trembling. You can feel the vibrations of his quiet chuckling against you, and your fingers twist harder in his curls.

“Cum for him,” Baelor commands from the opposite side of the tent.

Your head snaps in his direction, blinking rapidly through the haze of your imminent pleasure. You find him sitting at the round table, slouched in his seat with his thighs spread. The stern look on his weathered features makes your clenched stomach do a backflip.

“You heard me,” he says, bringing his goblet to his mouth. “Cum for him. Now.”

A whimper sounds in the back of your throat as your features crumple beneath the weight of your pleasure, which swells from the pit of your stomach to the top of your chest. Your legs threaten to buckle when the warmth finally releases, cascading into Lyonel’s wanting mouth. He happily slurps up every ounce of the honey you leak for him, and you whine when the man moans against your pussy at the familiar salty tang of your cum.

“There you go,” Baelor hums on bated breath in the interim, licking wine from his lips. “Good girl…”

You sigh at his praise.

Lyonel parts from you with a smack, wearing your slick on his swollen mouth and bearded chin. “My…” he hums through labored breaths. “You are in rare form today, aren’t you, my girl?”

Your softened eyes keep his gaze as he rises before you once more. You smooth your trembling hands up his scruffy chest and pant, “Your fault…”

He ducks down to kiss you, hard, with all the violence of someone taking a bite out of an apple. You sigh against him when you taste your cum on his tongue, melting his body with your naked breasts flush with his chest. Your hands twist in his greying curls, while his calloused ones swat at your bare ass — not enough to sting, but enough for you to feel the impact.

“Let’s not keep our gracious guest waiting, firelight…”

Your heavy head swivels slowly in Baelor’s direction. You peer at him with lidded eyes, like you’re seeing him for the first time. You exhale through your swollen mouth when Lyonel leans in to lick at the sweat-slick skin below your jaw. “Go kiss him, firelight,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “I know you want to…”

Your legs are carrying you in his direction before your brain has even commanded it. Your bare feet pad across the thin rug to where Baelor sits at the table. He slouches further into his seat and sets his goblet onto the ornate oak beside him in a silent command. You straddle his legs and descend upon his lap a second later, resting your trembling hands on his broad shoulders.

You sit tentatively over his thighs, resting the bulk of your weight on your toes, lest you stain his garb with the slick between your legs. His calloused hands grasp the curve of your hips to pull you further into him. Your breath catches when your sensitive cunt brushes his stiff cock, trapped in the confines of his trousers.

The tip of your nose traces the bridge of his at the proximity between you. It is not nearly the first time you’ve kissed him, but it’s the first time you’ve begged him for it. “Please…” you sigh.

Baelor closes the distance between you, kissing into your open mouth before you have time to take another breath. He tastes like mint leaves and grape wine, still slightly foreign but strikingly familiar to you all the same. You whimper against him, trailing your hands from his shoulders, down his torso, and to the tie in his slacks. Your eager fingers fumble with the knot there.

He pulls away from you with a smack.

“You don’t have to…” He goes to assure you, but trails off when your fingers slither beneath the hem. Your warm fingers cup his cock, stiff but still softer than velvet in your fist. He sighs hard through his nose at the foreign feeling of pleasure, which he hasn’t allowed himself to feel since some days after you left — since he’d bury his face in the pillow you laid on, inhaling your scent as he fucked his own fist.

Now here you are, the real thing, mounting yourself on his cock like he always dreamed you would. He watches with a lidded gaze as you descend upon him, grimacing slightly at the ache of being stretched, then moaning quietly when you’re pierced fully by his length. He’s not quite as thick as Lyonel, but perhaps an inch or so longer, and with more prominent veins you can feel when you rock your hips over his lap.

“It’s… It’s been… A while for me,” Baelor confesses on bated breath, eyes darting wildly from your blissful features to where your pubic hair glimmers with the honey you leak for him. He swallows hard and fights the surge of pleasure already stirring in his stomach. “I won’t… I won’t last—”

“Alright. Make room, you two,” Lyonel announces suddenly, breaking the tender moment as he saunters the short distance to the two of you. Your heads snap in his direction and find him already naked, jerking his stiff cock in his fist. He shrugs at your confused glances. “What? I have needs to, Your Grace— C’mon, firelight. On the table you go.”

You obey without question.

Your sweat-slick skin sticks to the cool oak below, as you spread your naked body across the length of it, like a feast to be devoured. You vaguely hear the men discussing on top of you as they take their places on either side of the table — Baelor between your thighs and Lyonel at where your head hangs over the edge of it. “Don’t forget to rub her clit while you’re down there, Your Grace. Would you like me to point you in the direction—”

“I’m not a child,” the older man interjects with an impatient huff.

Lyonel laughs, then brushes the head of his drooling cock across your lips.

“Open up, firelight,” he tells you, then exhales through his nose when you take his cock in your obedient mouth. You moan around him when Baelor tips his hips forward to pierce you with his cock. The sensation of being so full makes your burning skin start to buzz, and your back arches off the table when the man presses his thumb to your clit.

“You’re a fast learner,” Lyonel quips with a crooked smirk and a lidded gaze.

“Do you ever shut up?” Baelor spits through gritted teeth.

“She likes it when I talk, actually,” the younger man quips, dragging his hips back until only the head of his cock sits in your mouth. “Isn’t that right, firelight?”

You moan around him, and he grins when he tips his hips forward again. His head falls back at the feeling of your mouth, all warm and wet around him. “I need you to cum around his cock, firelight. Can you do that for me?”

You whimper at his words, hips bucking off the table. Lyonel laughs deliriously through a moan at the vibrations it makes around his cock. Baelor bites back his own grunt when your drooling pussy clenches around him.

“She’s getting tighter, isn’t she?” Lyonel wonders with raised brows, cradling your throat with one hand and holding delicately to your left hand the other. Baelor grips onto your right one, while his free hand etches bruises into your thigh as he fucks into you. His belt buckle clinks with each of his thrusts. He nods in response, jaw clenched tight. “Gripping you like a vice, I’m sure—”

“I’m almost there,” Baelor blurts, more to shut the man up than anything.

“You hear that, firelight?” Lyonel asks, and you moan in the affirmative around him. “Be a good girl and cum for him. C’mon. Show him how good you are, and I’ll reward you with my cum, what do you say— Oh, there it is…”

He trails off with a quiet laugh when you whine around him, twitching on the table as your orgasm hits you full throttle.

Baelor’s knees threaten to buckle when your weeping cunt flutters around him — though he was undone the moment he pierced you, in truth. Your thighs tremble on either side of his waist as his warm cum blossoms inside of you. Your pussy clenches to milk him for all he’s worth.

“See? Told you she liked it,” Lyonel quips, but goes unheard as Baelor’s low grunts fill the tent like thunder. He scoffs, “Okay. My turn, firelight.”

You keep your mouth parted obediently, gagging quietly as you let the man fuck your mouth — heavy balls swaying at your forehead, coarse hair scratching at your chin. He keeps his heavy gaze trained on your parted thighs, where a mixture of Baelor’s cum and yours glimmers in the candlelight when the older man drops into the seat behind him, utterly spent.

“I’m almost there…” Lyonel announces. “Fuck, I’m almost there—”

His hips stutter for a moment before he tenses against you, pulling out of your mouth to grip the base of his twitching cock, and groaning when ropes of milky white cum spit from the head. He babbles through his high, “Yeah, that’s it… Be a good girl and take it all for me… There you go…”

The first thing Lyonel does when he’s finally spent is reach for the flagon of ale, nearly tipping over the table’s edge. His blissful features twist into a frown when he finds it almost empty. “Who the fuck drank all my wine?” he wonders through panted breaths.

“You did,” Baelor huffs, buckling his trousers again.

“Oh…” Lyonel trails off, dropping into his seat at the other end of the table and drinking straight from the carafe.

You’re slow to rise from the table. Your skin still buzzes with the aftershocks of your high as you prop yourself up on your elbow and wipe your glittering mouth with your free hand. You wear the remnants of your pleasure all over — in your wild silver hair, heavy eyes, swollen mouth, and sweat-slick skin. Your kissed lips curl into a shy smile when you catch Baelor’s unabashed staring,

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask him, far too innocent for the way your legs are still spread before him,

“Because I would paint you if I had the talent for it,” he answers without missing a beat, mouth watering at the sight of your leaking pussy. “I could die a happy man just looking at you now.”

“You’re not going to die, Ser Baelor,” you tell him, foreignly stern but still soft in your way.

“No?” he muses.

You shake your head.

“How can you be so sure?”

“She’s a prophet, my firelight,” Lyonel grins, leaning forward to press his mouth to your pulse. You smile at the feeling of him there and press your cheek further into his curls.

“I’d sooner fight the Gods with my bare hands than lose you now,” you confess, unable to drag your eyes away from his, as if you were discovering something new in his gaze — how much you truly care about him, perhaps, or maybe how much you cannot stand to lose him. “We have to make up for lost time, don’t we, Ser Baelor?”

“Aye,” he nods, lips quirked into a faint hint of a smile. “We do.”

Please, Baelor prays despite himself, give me time to love her.

Please, you beg to whichever Gods will listen, don’t take this sinner away from me.

[siolixz]

⊹ ˚⟡‧Starlight‧⟡ ˚⊹

When the quiet grace of a Lady of House Dayne meets the jagged temper of Prince Maekar 'The Anvil' Targaryen, she is caught between his cold silence and her growing fire. Finding a way to grab hold of the man behind the armor may seem harder than ever imagined. (one-shot)

pairings: Maekar Targaryen x (Dayne) Reader

warnings: Maekar is an asshole; age-gap ( • ᴗ - ); filthy smut (dragons are all dead but imma make sure ure gonna ride one alright);

words: 7k

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

You pulled your horse to a gallop as you reached Summerhall once more. The brown mare breathed out in protest but followed your lead as you trotted back to the palace you called home. The guards and servants of the house were all mingling about, half forgetting of your existence as your stable boy took Chestnut away. 

The Redgrass Field was filled with the mangled corpses of the rebels and the Targaryens had won.

In the months following the master of the house’s leave, you could finally breathe the scent of freedom you longed for. The servants and maesters could finally rest easy knowing they will not be under the scrutiny of their lord, but under your careful guidance and grace for you were a Dayne, of the mighty Starfall. Many words and deeds were attributed to your house, many greater than the last, you were a people who believed in the righteousness of the soul, in the spirit of valor and the quiet power of words. You, as a Lady of the House, enjoyed the very same freedoms your brothers received, being trained by your father’s knights and taught the words of the common tongue as well as any poet or counselor.

The smell of vinegar hit your nose like a blow as you walked inside the main hall of the house, the servants had started preparing for tonight’s arrival, scrubbing every inch of happiness off the marble floor and from the walls. Your heart felt heavy. Gone will be the days you could bestow upon each of them the power of peace.

Even if today should be a celebration, you felt as defeated as Daemon Blackfyre. 

Nymella, a Dornish woman, who was born not far from your own home was your personal apothecary. Her black eyes and copper skin reminded you of summer, and truth be told, you regarded her as more friend than employee. She smiled as you walked into her room. Your light lavender riding shirt and white leather pants half covered in the dust dancing from the air at the border of the Dornish mountains heavy on your clothes. 

“Hello, Star.” She was pressing some sort of yellow herbs together. The air smelled of amber and sweet vanilla as you took a seat in one of the chairs she had in the middle of the room. You laid your head back on the pillow behind your head. Wondering. Thinking. What shall you say to him? Would he be changed?

“You look weary, is it because of the ride or the husband?” She took a seat next to your own, mortar and pestle on her lap covered in her dornish wear. 

You sighed. Truly you wished this all would’ve been easier for you. Your sister Dyanna, should’ve been in your place, she was made of tougher steel. She could’ve handled this much better than you. She could’ve handled him much better than you. She always knew what to do. You shook your head.

Nymella could read you like an open book, for she had known far more people than you. You looked into her eyes and searched for words.

“Is it cruel and terrible of me to wish he wouldn’t have returned so soon?” 

“Perhaps. But there isn’t anything we can do about it.” 

You nodded and Nymella laughed. 

“Gods above, Star, you look like you’re heading to war yourself, not in the arms of your Prince.” She giggled all the way through her speech.

“I am heading to war, Nymella. That's all he knows. Every time. He acts as if I am some sort of soldier he must command, not his wife. He treats these beautiful grounds like his own battlement he must order around.” 

“Still, your husband is returning and he brings with him a fire in his belly, doesn’t that sound pleasant to your ears? It should.” Her eyes were mischievous, probably imagining herself in your situation, albeit with a more pleasant knight. 

“No. I… I would rather not think of that.” Your ears felt ablaze with the usual shyness a girl of your experience showed. Memories of the night you became a woman flashed in your mind, your husband's body over your own and the pain between your legs. He left shortly after, the call of war greater than your marriage bed. 

“You shouldn’t let him dominate you like he does some piss poor farmer on the road here. You are his wife.” Nymella rose once more, bringing forward a vial of crimson liquid that smelled like the sweetest flowers in your garden. “Maekar is a man, as all men are men. No blood of his will change that.”

You took the vial from her and held it in your hand as she took her seat again next to you. “That’s easy for you to say, you’ve known a lot more men than me.” 

“Yes I have, so you must listen to the words I say. ” She didn’t understand you. Surely she didn’t see the way your husband filled any room he walked into, how he spread his legs like a Lyseni whore when he sat down, leaving all the etiquette of a Targaryen Prince out the door. How he spit on the ground like he was owed an apology. How he took you that night, and the following nights after, before he had to leave. His much larger hands moving you how he wanted, having you as much as he wanted, before turning his back and snoring like dying Balerion until the morrow. He would stare at you, and you would think to shrink as small as an ant before his gaze, your ancestors are probably turning over ten times in the crypt.

“I can see this brings a lot of thought in your mind,” She reached over, holding your hand in her own. She squeezed, once, for you to listen and twice, for good measure. "I’ve seen enough men and believe me, nothing unmans one faster than a wife who stops trembling and starts reaching. I’ve watched great generals shake like squires and heard of lords tripping over their own shadows just for a taste.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper “And that husband of yours? He’s just a man with a bigger name and a heavier hammer. He’ll melt, girl. I’ll wager my life on it."

“And what do you suppose I do?” Your voice adopted the same tone as her own. 

“I want you to go to him. Don’t let him take you, have him first and then you can tell me if he frightens you so.” 

You already imagined yourself on your knees before him as he sulked in front of the fireplace of your great chamber. His body a mountain before your own. The night in Summerhall allowed a cool breeze to drift through, and your husband preferred the breeze for his mighty blood ran hotter than the fires on Dragonstone. You quickly pushed that image out of your mind, for you had no idea where to even put your hands.

Would he even let you touch him where his attention would be physical without him making the first move? 

“Besides,” Nymella started once more, seeing your sour disposition and wanting to see your eyes brighten up again “one look at that silver hair of his and you understand why some claim his kind are closer to Gods than to men. You should feel your belly as restless as his is, it’s not everyday a woman gets to ride a dragon.” 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The day passed uneventfully afterwards.

You bathed then changed into the milk white dress your servants prepared, the soft silk easy on your clean skin. They braided your hair in the custom of your house and then you were left waiting.

Any sound outside would have the staff snap their heads to the grand oak doors and your heart beat a restless drum in your chest. The sun was leaving the sky to his sister as he painted the world outside in shades of bright orange which reflected off the terracotta hued marble from inside the house and created soft paintings over the walls of your home. You waited. They offered you dinner, but you could barely swallow your own emotions, let alone the roasted lamb your husband preferred.

Outside, in the private gardens, your mourning doves had begun their low, rhythmic lament. Usually, the sound brought you peace, but this evening their crying felt like an omen. Still, you waited. 

Nymella offered you some tea, a steaming cup of liquid gold, smelling of sun drenched fields and the deep, floral bite of saffron for “warming your womb” and calm your restlessness. You toyed with your silver bracelet. Truly, you wished he would just arrive already.

Leave it to him to make you wait and be miserable for hours. Mayhaps, something happened on the road. Bandits, or worse, mercenaries. But who would kill a fourth son? Your husband was so far from the line of succession, the only thing the crown needed him for was to break heads and hands. For he dearly enjoyed doing so.

When you looked up at the sky near one of the sandstone columns outside, you decided you had enough.

He won’t arrive tonight. 

You walked to the grand library you had in your ancient home. Happy you could get to reading a book as you sprawled once more in your colossal bed without a man to ruin your peace. You picked a tome of green and gold, it was the story of a knight who was righteous and understanding, who fell in love with a Lady and wanted to marry her, despite what her destiny might claim. You held the book to your chest as you returned. 

A servant passed you, running.

Then another one, a young boy, carrying a heavy towel. 

Your heart pounded in your chest as the commotion from inside the house reached your ears. 

So he did arrive home after all. 

He had no want for royal protocol, nor for stupid announcers of his presence. You thought for a second you might slip away into the night, get on Chestnut and ride hard and fast past the Red Mountain and the eternal Torrentine to go home. 

You rounded the corner and passed the heavy mahogany doors to see the servants, some having burned hands and fingers, pouring down buckets of boiling water in your copper bathtub to the edge of the room. He smelled of iron and burned leather. Simply overpowering any other scent you sprayed into your grand chambers, perfectly made to allow as much breeze into the room as possible. 

Maekar had his back to you.

Dressed in the black leather and red fur of his house. He knew your light steps better than you. 

“Our chamber smells like a Tyrosh brothel.” His voice traveled right to your ears in a clear, powerful tone. The same voice made for commanding armies, not for whispering sweet nothings into a woman’s ears.

He finally turned and you could finally see the face of your Prince once more. His hair, white as a bone, was swept back and he had a beard now. But it was still, unmistakably, Maekar. “The Anvil” they call him. And you could see no reason why they might call him anything else, for he definitely tried to shape you like iron on him during the last night you had together. His face, scarred from when he was ill with the pox, made his scowl even more terrifying. 

Not that many would be brave, or stupid enough to look him in the eyes.

“Welcome home, my Lord.” You bowed your head in the custom you were taught a Lady should perform as she greets her husband. He moved to the great basin, and started removing his clothes. First he untangled the silk cord holding his tunic in place, dropping it to the floor so the servants would be reminded of their place. The two young boys you saw running  approached him, reaching to help with his heavy boots, but he snarled at them and it was as if they were attending to a pointed sword.

"Fuck off.” he snapped "All of you. Out." They nearly tripped over themselves to flee and you had half the mind to turn around yourself and run to a dark corner he wouldn’t find you in.

Then he removed his tunic, then his undershirt and you, unfortunately so, looked away, even if it was for only a moment when you felt as if a stone was thrown towards your belly. The water was hot enough to blister human skin, yet he didn't even hesitate in swinging a strong leg over the tub.

“The road was long, I imagine.” Your voice sounded small against the splash of water as he lowered his body down with a groan, the sound traveled to your ears, then down between your legs but you didn’t wish to think of that.

“Was the weather kind to you, my Lord?” 

“It rained for three days near Blackwater,” his voice was akin to grinding stones, “The mud was up to the horses' hocks and smelled like a dead man's shit.”

You winced at the crudeness, but tried to maintain the grace your mother had taught you as you tried to not cower before him. "Regardless, I am glad you are home. We have missed your presence at Summerhall."

He looked at you like you said the dumbest jest he had ever heard: “No you haven’t.”

No you didn’t, therefore you didn’t argue.

The chamber was thick with the scent of scalded copper and the sweet perfume that Maekar clearly loathed. His head was tilted back against the rim, his throat exposed with a thick, powerful cord of muscle that looked as though it could weather the strike of a longsword. His eyes remained closed, his face a mask of exhaustion. You thought to say something, anything-

“Well? You’ve had a tongue for the servants and yet with me you are as quiet as a fucking squire.” Of course he knew of your gentle behaviour towards the smallfolk tending to you in the months he was gone, this was, after all, his house. “What has been happening in this nest of silk and song while I was cutting necks for the crown?”

You swallowed hard, the humidity making your white dress cling to your back. All careful words seemed to evade you, any lesson your family had ever taught you useless: “It has been… quiet, my lord. We followed the instructions you left. The harvest was brought in, and the accounts for the winter stores are nearly complete.” Your voice was more mumble than words.

“Speak up!” He snapped, and you, caught completely unaware and used to the grace of the staff, flinched as if he hit you. “I’ve spent almost a year with nothing but the roar of the catapults and the screams of dying men in my ears. I can’t hear your soft, palace whispers.”

“I said the accounts for winter are finished!” you said, forcing your voice to go louder, though it felt brittle and strange in your own ears. 

“Good,” he grunted, his jaw tightening as if he were biting back a curse. A long silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the drip of water from his beard to the bath. Then, without moving a single muscle, he asked another question “And who did you have in my bed while I was gone?”

You didn't answer immediately. You couldn’t. The sheer crudeness of the accusation felt like a physical blow and you were left to stare at him as he fixed you with his scrutinous gaze. 

Maekar’s eyes moved over your features like a commander inspecting a breached wall. He looked for a blush of guilt, a downward cast of the eyes, anything he could crush.

“No,” you stammered, the word catching in your throat. “Never. I would… I would never think to do such a thing. My lord, I have been here, waiting. Only waiting.”

His expression was unreadable and grim. He let out a long, ragged breath and closed his eyes again, sinking deeper into the boiling water.

“Good.” he muttered. 

He didn't move for a long time, looking almost like a statue of some ancient, vengeful king. Just as you thought he might have fallen into a trance, his lips moved one last time, the words falling like the blade of an axe.

“I’ll have you dead if I find anything of the sort. I don't give a shit for the songs they sing about your house. If you stain my name, I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”

You were once again left speechless. Mayhaps he had been hardened by the rebellion in ways, his mind already looking for traitors at every moment. But you were, under all and every aspect, a good woman, you hadn’t lain with any man, besides the one now washing himself in front of you.

You didn’t hate him, but you surely didn’t love him either. 

You moved to your vanity and placed your book there, promising yourself that you will finish it one of these days. You turned around as you heard the water splash once more and was greeted with the sight of your naked husband, your eyes traveled immediately between his thighs like an arrow and you averted your gaze to your massive ebony bed in the middle of the room, decorated with dragons and made out of the strongest wood in the Seven Kingdoms. He moved to dry his skin and commanded “Take your dress off and get on the bed, on your back.” like you were one of his soldiers.

You thought for a second about what Nymella said, your arms shaking as you untied your dress, about having him on his back and you on him, holding him there and reminding him that in these bedchambers, in this room and on this bed, you- not him, would be in charge.

You forgot about all of that and more as he grabbed you by your arm, placed you on the bed, raised your dress to your waist and your knees by your chest as he pressed himself between your thighs. You closed your eyes, cheeks aflame and heart in your ears as you grabbed the hand he had on your left outer tight. You much preferred when he took you in the night, where you could barely see him and his colossal shadow was the only thing to remind you that your husband was there. 

The fire from behind him allowed for too much light and too many details. You gasped as he pressed himself in you, the feeling unfamiliar in the long months he was away. Maekar gasped too, albeit quieter as he positioned himself better, his breath quickened and his hands shook, pushing down your gown by your chest until he could see your breasts and grab at them like some boy with the apples in his mother’s garden while he dragged his manhood inside your body. You would remain quiet, not sure if he would like the noises you wanted to make. You didn’t know if that fact annoyed him, but he would drag himself out and push as much as he could inside until you would grab at his shoulders and push him away, moaning from the pain and the pleasure you would feel in your belly. He had you like that for what felt like an eternity and you were sure his guards outside could very much hear. 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The fire in the hearth had burned down to a dull, glowing orange and the room was quiet now, save for the rhythmic, heavy sound of Maekar’s breathing. He had fallen into a deep, unshakable sleep almost the moment he was finished, his back turned to you like a wall of stone. Your body felt heavy and distant, still humming with the ghost of his weight and the rough way he had you.

The scent of the "Tyrosh brothel" was gone, replaced by the smell of salt, lye, and the faint, metallic tang of the "Anvil" himself. You stared out at the moon hanging over the Dornish mountains, feeling the ache between your legs. 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The days after you tried to make sense of your husband’s presence in the palace. His will was iron and it seemed like even the air bent to it here. He had you every night, and once in his study, when he received a letter from Kings Landing that sent his anger sweeping through the house and finally finding you in the form of a young squire that trembled as he told you your Lord husband is expecting you. 

Nymella remained the same. With the same advice. 

Yet every night, when he bedded you, you could hardly bring yourself to make any action towards him, any sort of conscious thought left you while holding your eyes closed through the whole ordeal. 

One blistering day, a messenger arrived from House Caron, the Lord and Lady wanted to join the Prince and Princess of the Iron Throne for dinner and you, a dear friend of Lady Jeyne Caron, accepted. The Carons were marcher lords from Nightsong and were famous for their singing and their history as the first line of defense against Dorne.

The lamb was well roasted, the vegetables freshly plucked from the garden and the bread was warm as they arrived. Hand in hand, bowing low before you and your stoic husband as the lord steward announced their presence. You hugged Jeyne before you sat and Lord Allun Caron began regalling you with stories. Maekar was drinking the dark crimsoned wine of Dorne. You thought you were above such indulgences, but as you saw the way the two interacted, joking and looking at each other like the other might disappear, you started drinking as well. The wine burned all the way down, but in that moment, you wished for something stronger. 

Maekar was chewing his lamb and swirling the wine in his chalice with a bored look on his face as you maintained the discussion with the Lady and Lord of House Caron. 

Allun interrupted Maekar’s thoughts as he tried to make conversation with the man of many years and experience above his own: “I heard the mud in the Redgrass field was so thick with blood the horses couldn't find their footing. My cousin said the stench of the dead was enough to make a man pray for a head wound just to lose his sense of smell. Must’ve been a hell of a thing to watch the Blackfyre’s line break under that mace of yours, no, Prince? I bet the sound of that iron hitting plate was sweeter than any harp.”

Maekar didn’t look away from the wall with the fireplace casting warm shadows on his face “It sounded like bone breaking,” he says flatly. “There’s nothing sweet to it.”

You watch Lady Jeyne’s hand tighten on Lord Allun’s arm, not in fear, but in support, as if she’s helping him weather the Prince’s attitude. You wonder if you’ll ever have the courage to even touch Maekar’s sleeve when he’s like this, you moved your eyes away from the awkward exchange and stared ahead as Lady Jeyne’s voice cut through the silence and you made eye contact with her.

“The songs don’t do your bride justice, my Lord. They say the Daynes have the stars in their blood and justice in their eyes and your beautiful wife is the clear embodiment of that. Why, you must be the luckiest man in all the Kingdoms.” Jeyne smiled and for whatever reason you felt tears prick at your eyes. You thanked her as Maekar fixed you with a long glance and nodded to Lady Jeyne. You tried to mask your emotion by eating some food while the pair tried to make conversation with the brooding Prince you called husband.

Was it the wine? Mayhaps. But in that moment you felt like reaching over and slapping him so hard he would’ve seen the stars standing mighty over your ancestral seat. How dare he? He couldn’t even agree with her, he couldn’t even say that ‘yes, she is beautiful’ or pretty or comely or whatever else he found in that thick head of his.

You brushed another tear that fell and before you knew it you chin wobbled. 

You really shouldn’t have drank.

The chair scraped over the marble floor as you stood, excusing yourself as your voice broke. You must send a raven to Lady Jeyne, apologizing, tomorrow. But for now, you had to get away. Your feet echoed into the vastness of the great hall, as you rounded the corner and sobs rocked you into two. You cried like you’ve never cried before and you were sure in that moment that you hated him. 

You hated him and his silences and his crass way. You hated that he was more mercenary in expensive leather than Prince of the Blood. You entered your chamber and undressed, laying in your bed and holding your pillow to your face as you felt your sobs rocking you to sleep. 

You heard the grand balcony doors, facing the Red Mountains, open. And yet, you couldn’t be bothered to look at him. 

You hated him, no, you despised him. 

He was undressing. Maekar took the grey fur from the bed you two shared and threw it on the ground as he laid next to you. The bed creaked and the sound of hooves were heard in the distance as your husband sighed. 

He laughed. 

Maekar Targaryen laughed, no, breathed out a noise that was akin to laughter through his nose and you wondered what was it that brought him to this point. You wished to turn and see what the great fuss was about-

“I know you’re awake.” 

You let a moment pass. The moon cast a white light in the room from the window and you turned, opening your eyes as if his rough voice awoke you, not your thoughts. Your eyes were bloodshot and your throat was scraped from all the crying. 

You hated him and you hated your silence and careful words of respect towards him. Maekar Targaryen didn’t deserve them. 

“Why must you be so cold?” you felt a fresh rush of tears to your eyes, and you let them fall, not caring he saw them, “You’re cold and uncaring, has anyone ever told you that?” 

His back was to the ebony headboard he was usually repeatedly slamming to the wall by this time of night. Maekar blinked once, like he was trying to make sense of your words and your boldness. 

You didn’t care what he thought of you anymore “When I was a little girl, I hoped that the Gods would bring me a man like Lord Caron, for he is sweet and caring. But they brought me you- and you are as crass as a mercenary and as unbecoming of a Prince as any soldier is.” You spit out the nearest insult you could find. Words tumbling out as fast as rain with the help of that sweet summer wine you drank. Your head was beginning to hurt, a pounding pain that settled in your skull. “You can barely see me as your wife so why, I ask you-” you hiccuped “-why have you made me so, if you would be uncaring with my soul and my body?”

Emboldened by the fire burning in your belly at finally speaking your feelings towards the stone wall you called husband you continued “Why do I, out of all the women in the Seven Kingdoms get to be with someone like you, while others can get to laugh and kiss their Lords when they please, how often they please- there are others who hold their wives, did you know? They don’t have to take them like some whore on the road.” Hot tears streamed down your face and you hiccuped all the way through your speech.

“Is that what you want me to do? To hold you? And kiss you?” His white hair and beard caught the light from outside and he looked every bit like the Valyrian lords of old he was descended from.

“Nay, my lord, you can keep your embraces to others, I clearly don’t wish for them.” You turned your back to him, still crying. He wouldn’t change for all the might of Valyria or the Iron Throne.

You could feel his presence beside you. He didn’t say anything else afterwards. Your sobs were the only thing heard in the colossal room.

You thought sleep might claim you again as you heard his voice.

“I don’t know how to act towards you so you may not be frightened of me.” Your belly hurt from all the sobs you put her through. Still, you listened. “I find it hard to find words to say to you, or to hold you- Gods know I haven’t been held in my life as you wish to be.” He scoffed at the last part and you realized you didn’t know much of his past. You took a deep breath, scared that any words might frighten him into solemn silence.

“If you wish to be kissed, you can act upon it yourself.” At that, you turned. 

You raised your bum to sit upright, back to the headboard as well. 

“You don’t wish for a husband like Lord Allun, trust me when I say so.” His voice was a whisper and you realized you never heard this hushed tone from him. “He’s had about a hundred whores and has bastarded half his servants” 

You gasped, “You lie!” your tone was a whisper as well. Memories of gossiping with your fellow Ladies came back, though this was surely different.

He shook his head, something akin to a smile forming on his face “It is truth what I speak.” 

You thought to turn and sleep, for you dearly wished to rest, but that godsdammed Dornish wine overpowered you before you could remember your manners before your Lord.

“Have you ever fathered any bastards?” 

A sound came out of him. A sound you never heard before from your man. You had half the mind to call Nymella and the Maester to find a cure. The sound was like that of…of laughter? He was laughing!

“No, I’ve not fathered any bastards. At least none that I know of.” You smiled with him, happy that you could see him happy. You half forgot what you were crying about. 

The dark covered you both in its embrace and maybe that’s why you were so brave. 

“You should sleep, before you bring me any more questions I may not know the answer to.” He laid down and sighed.

Yet, you were not done. No. What did Nymella say to you?

You rested your head once more on the warm pillow as he turned his back to you. You closed your eyes. Nay, maybe not tonight. Though, when else could it be if not tonight? Your heart thrummed in your chest as you lifted your hand.

Only for you to bring it down once more between you two.

You imagined him coming to your bedchambers, sitting down with a groan for his bones were weary, he was not as young as he used to be. You imagined yourself, sitting down on his lap of burned leather and expensive furs and kissing him. Not the closed mouth kissed you bestowed upon him once in a while, when he wanted you to, but open and hungry, like the ones Nymella’s books wrote about. You imagined him grabbing you with his strong hands and not rushing anywhere for once. 

You rubbed your thighs together and for the first time since meeting him you wondered: What in the Seven Hells were you so frightened of? 

You grabbed his shoulder and turned his much bigger body around with a definite pull to sit on his back.

You shuffled closer to him, closing your eyes as you often did when you were near him in such a situation. You opened them back up as you felt the smell of sandalwood and cedar and his broad shoulder land in the middle of your chest. 

He opened his eyes and that’s when you were expecting a remark, a curse, anything. You braced. Nothing came. Only his eyes. And yet, you didn’t cower like a flower in winter.

You touched the left side of his face and grabbed hold of his beard, forcing him to come closer and respond to your kiss. His lips were soft and careful as your own grabbed his upper lip and held it. His mouth tasted of summer wine and you were sure yours did too. You turned your head to the side, see if he tasted sweeter from there and your lips made a sound as they broke apart and then collided again that traveled right to your stomach and between your thighs. Maekar was surely feeling your heart beating out of your chest but you didn’t care for that. 

You moved your body to sit half on top of him as he grabbed your leg and put it across his thighs, legs moving on their own to find any friction between them that may ease the heat you felt. In a moment where you thought he would bring himself above you, as was his rightful place to be, he did the opposite.

Maekar grabbed your behind and pulled you on top.  

With his strong hands, more used to a mace than the soft skin of your waist beneath your nightshift. He settled your heat on top of his growing one as you placed both hands near his head and kept kissing him with as much need as any girl might towards her lover. You found all the long weeks spent dreaming of this moment and longing for it to happen to come crashing down all at once. So it could happen to you too. This wasn’t just books and whispers by friends in court.

He rose up to meet your feverish kisses and you found him pressing his hot mouth to your neck as he held your hair back. The noises that left you were so unlike you that, on any other day, with much less wine drank, you would’ve bowed your head in shame. But it was he who must be shamed, for he had treated you so unkindly.

You touched his broad chest and looked down upon your dragon husband. He looked smaller this way, much less royalty and more man. He grabbed your soft nightshift, raising it, and you threw it over your head and away from the both of you. His gaze swept across your body, to your breasts and waist, towards your thighs and the place he wished with ardent desperation to be inside of. 

You swung your leg off him and took his pants off. He needed the help, for his eyes never left your body. By the time he was in an almost-comfortable position you got on him again, feeling his heat on your own for the first time without rushing, and without closing your eyes so you may not die in shame. 

Your folds parted slightly as you took him beneath you and rubbed down on him. Moaning and looking down at him as he looked away to the canopy above you, lips parted and groaning all the way under your affection. His hands rested on your hips, but he barely commanded you to move.

You smiled. Then you grimaced in pleasure, and then smiled again. For this is what you wanted, no, needed. He looked into your eyes as you stood on your knees and brought him before your already wet entrance. His brows were furrowed and you felt his heart beat fast beneath your palm on his chest. You lowered yourself down and his moan was like that of your own. 

He brought his hands up to your breasts and closed his eyes as you tried to find a pace and a movement that might bring enough pleasure. At one point you stood too straight and a feeling like that of being impaled shot through your flower and towards your belly, you lowered down on him. Elbows on both sides of his head and kissing him like you did before as he rose up to meet your thrusts. The old bed croaked after each press of your body to his. 

The one stoic Maekar was groaning like you’ve never heard him before whenever you would meet him halfway. The only sounds in the room were your wetness and the feeling of damp skin pressing against each other time and time again as you cried into your husband's mouth. 

You rose again as he told you “Slower”, voice smaller than he ever used, but you couldn’t even begin to think about caring for any of his requests as you shoved yourself down on him time and time again. He didn’t seem to mind your pace either as he closed his eyes, and held your hips, grabbing you like you might disappear between his fingers. 

Your most sensitive spot rubbed against his own body time and time again and you grabbed fistfulls of his undershirt as you came. Squeezing him time and time again as he pulled you down once more on him. You wet your throat as he grabbed the back of your head and held you there. He didn’t stop until his thighs were shaking from beneath you and you felt the familiar pulse of his manhood, pressed as deep as he could in you. 

You remained laid with your head on his chest. His heart was beating so hard you could feel it beneath his hot and damp skin. 

After a moment, you looked at him. His cheeks, even in the soft light of the moon, looked impossibly rosy, like a maiden on her wedding night. And his once careful swept back hair was because of your hands, restless and wanting something to cling to, tangled and unkept. 

You kissed him again and he smelled of you.

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

You couldn’t say things remained the same afterwards. 

Meakar wanted you all the same, and yet you found yourself wanting him too. Nymella smiled whenever you came into her chambers with a knowing look.

“Your husband smells like a ‘Tyrosh brothel'  from neck to feet, any wonder why that is?”

The changes were subtle at first, like the slow turning of a season. It wasn't that Maekar suddenly became a man of poetry and flowers, but rather, the sharp, jagged edges of his temper had been filed down. He still scowled, but now, when his eyes caught yours, there was a flicker of something that looked like a secret shared between the two of you. A secret that set your heart on fire and pooled low into your stomach and beneath your thighs as you would be the one to call him to bed when he spent too long in his study.

You knew that his attitude would never touch you again, nor would his words make a dent into your humors as you regarded him as soft as summer air when you two were alone. Gone was the man who towered over you and you shivered in his shadow. He still existed, though you liked to imagine him with those silver locks of his buried beneath your legs as you held him there. 

You found that he loved the tartness of pomegranate juice one of your maids made and that he enjoyed the smell of jasmine. That he would much rather prefer staying in silence, each of you doing something of your own devices as you would often catch his gaze, though it wasn’t scrutinizing, you knew it was, in his own way- the only way he knew. His confession that he cared for you. He cared for you passionately as he extended your library and ordered Chestnut to be brought a wonderful saddle, made of fine leather from his own home, Dragonstone. 

His booming voice regaled you with stories of old, stories from his own family and how cruel he found life in the Red Keep, overshadowed by his brothers. He was glad he would never have to return there. 

He once told you, after you were both spent, with your back to him and his strong arm holding you, that he loved you, that he wished for you to love him back, if you could find it in you. You laughed. How dull could this man be? 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

You looked ahead into the horizon as you waited for the Carons to arrive, you had to make amends for the way you treated them last time they visited you, Maekar had no choice but to obey and scowl at the sun.

“Maekar” You turned your purple silk dress towards him “please try to be pleasant- smile, at least.”

“I am smiling.” His face hadn’t moved from a scowl.

“Look at me. Smile,” your face was brought to a grin while you pointed at it “like this, see?”

He looked at you and tried his hardest to replicate your face, yet he looked like a sneezing tiger more than Lord. You doubled over in laughter as he looked away- this time, with a real, genuine smile on his face that made him look a decade younger.

He could be funny when he wanted to be.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

Authors note: Yall I had to. I love a man who is emotionally constipated and I tried to bring him in this story as much as I could. UGH Maekar I've liked u since u had that fuck ass bob in the Snow White and the Huntsman. THANK YOU FOR READING this was longer than I intended at first but if you find it in you to write a message to me that u enjoyed this story- it will make my whole day. Have a great day loves <3 imagine how he's gonna act when u die in a few years after birthing 6 kids

[ghostlybfgf]

i can’t help that i need it all

summary: prince maekar targaryen’s younger wife is the feature of many a man’s fancy in the court, but more particularly her closest kin.

pairing: maekar targaryen x wife!reader, aerion targaryen x reader (step-mother), baelor targaryen x reader (sister in law), valarr targaryen x reader (auntie)

warning(s): SMUT, targcest, age gap relationship, stepcest, alludes to a fivesome, threats, rough sex, biting, mommy kink

word count: 3.2k

a/n: this is sort of short..but pure filth, and im wanting to do another part honestly where baelor and valarr feature more.. let me know if you'd want it.. 👀👀😤

pt.2 here!!

Word didn't come simply when you came to court.

When you married Maekar Targaryen.

There were endless murmurs from courtiers, and you felt their eyes like brands on your skin. As Maekar's second wife— younger and vibrant, with the silver-gold hair and violet eyes that marked you as true Targaryen blood— you drew attention you neither sought nor fully rejected. Questions came about how such a match would suffice, let alone withstand time, but neither of you seemed to care, Maekar loved you fiercely, his rough hands gentle in private moments, his body claiming yours with a hungry adoration that mirrored your own. And yet the court was a viper's nest, and your presence seemed to stir more than just one dragon.

The whispers started the moment you stepped into the Red Keep, a fresh-faced bride from a lesser branch of the family, wed to the stern prince after his first wife's passing. Maekar had been a widower for years, his heart armored in grief and duty, but you thawed him slowly, like a winter's grip melting in spring. At first, your union was met with skepticism— too young, too bold, they said, a match born of politics more than passion. Yet in the quiet chambers away from prying eyes, Maekar showed you otherwise. His touches lingered, callused fingers tracing the curve of your waist as he pulled you close, his breath hot against your ear.

"You're mine now, as I'am yours," he rasped at your skin with heat, and you believed him, even as the court's shadows lengthened.

Months passed in a haze of stolen glances and building tension, the intrigue of you thickened like smoke from dragonfire. Baelor Breakspear, Maekar's own elder brother, watched you during council meetings, his princely smile hiding sharper intentions in politeness. He'd comment on your choice of dress, how the fabric clung just so, and what a fine partner his brother had been blessed with, his voice carrying across the hall with a pride that dripped in more than just wishing you well. And Valarr, his eager son, and now your nephew, couldn't help himself around you, a younger woman mere years older than himself married to the family, a beauty you were indeed. He sought you out in the gardens, offering compliments wrapped in boyish charm and offering flowers you'd been eyeing moments earlier, blush heavy on his cheeks as he eyes the deep neckline to your gown.

And then there was Aerion, Maekar's second son from his first marriage, was the thorn that pricked deepest amongst the rest. He wasn't distant and cordial like Daeron, nor sweet and kind like little Aegon, or loving like the girls, and you had only met Aemon a few times, an ambitious and gentle boy. Instead he was intent on you, more so intent on plaguing you. He called you 'Mother' with a twist of irony, his violet eyes, only mirrors of yours, lingering too long when he brushed past you in the corridors, fingers ghosting at your bodice enough to make you gasp. It was a game to him, testing your boundaries, and stirring the pot of family rivalries.

You navigated it all with careful grace, believing it would wear off in time, but you were wrong, and your husband's jealousy grew like a storm on the horizon. He noticed every look, every word, from each one of them. His hand finding yours under the table or tightening around your arm as you walked the halls, he felt he could keep you, protect you better that way. And in bed, he only poured that possessiveness into you, his body a shield and a claim.

But the court wore on you both. The original murmurs evolved into bolder advances— invitations to private audiences, gifts left at your door. Your love deepened through it, a slow burn that forged steel from fragile flame. Maekar confided in you during late nights, his head on your chest as you stroked his silver hair as his did yours, sharing burdens of succession and family fractures. You became his anchor, and he yours, the passion between you a fire that warmed against the chill of intrigue.

Though, it wasn't strangers or professionals who remained fixed on you. It was from blood.

Baelor's compliments turned gently flirtatious, your nephew's jests laced with longing instead of char,, and Aerion. His own teases carried an undercurrent of something darker, more insistent. It all came to a head at the grand feast in the hall, months into your marriage, when the air hummed with unspoken challenges.

—

The space echoed with the clamor of the Targaryen feast, silver goblets clinking and laughter mingling with the strum of lutes. Maekar sat at the high table, his hand draped carefully over your thigh, fingers pressing into the red silk of your gown. You were a vision in crimson, the fabric hugging your curves, your hair braided with rubies that caught the torchlight, even he knew it. The court's gazes burned hotter than ever, but Maekar's touch grounded you.

Jealousy flickered through his shield in his violet eyes as Baelor leaned across the table, his voice a low rumble. "The gown suits you, dear sister, brings out the fire in those eyes." His stare cast over your face down to your body before looking away with a soft smile, and Valarr, beside him, chimed in with a grin, "To beauty that outshines the stars," he toasted, his young eyes tracing your throat as the others followed in agreement, not much notice of who it was directed to. You'd smiled back, raising your cup and bowing your head onto Maekar's shoulder, shrugging off what could well be innocent praise. Though part of you knew better.

Moments passed as Aerion, at the table's end, watched with that predatory gleam. "More wine, Mother?" he drawled, the word a velvet blade as he reached past you, his arm brushing yours deliberately. Maekar's grip tightened around you at that, a warning growl low in his throat as his thumb rubbed soothingly over your knuckles. The evening wore on, tensions simmering amid the revelry through laughs and harmless jibes, exchanging looks from every angle of the table until Maekar could bear it no longer.

He pulled you from the hall quickly as everyone else had departed to bed, his stride purposeful as he led you to your chambers. The door slammed not even for a second before he was on you, yanking the laces free with urgent hands. "They stare like wolves," he snarled, teeth baring your shoulders, mouth descending to suck bruises into your collarbone. "My brother with his false gallantry, Valarr like a pup in heat, and Aerion— fuck, that insolent brat."

You gasped as he shoved the gown down, exposing your breasts to the cool air. His palms cupped them tightly, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened, pinching enough to draw moan from you. "Only I worship this body." He backed you to the bed, stripping the rest away before shedding his own clothes, hands still gripped tightly around you. His cock stood rigid, tip glistening, and he pushed you down, climbing over to capture your mouth in a devouring kiss. "I've heard all the whispers, enough of them."

You arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders. "They're nothing to me. Only you—" But he silenced you with another kiss, tongue thrusting deep into your mouth, mimicking what his body craved. The furs soft under your bare back as he loomed over you, "Mine," he repeated, voice rough as he knelt down the bed between your thighs, spreading them wide. His mouth descended without fuss, his lips latching onto your clit, sucking hard enough you cried out, hips bucking as his tongue delved into your folds, lapping at your wetness with possessive strokes. He was no gentle lover, his beard scraping your inner thighs, teeth nipping the sensitive flesh as he ate you out like a starving man, fingers plunging into your cunt to curl against that spot that made you clench.

"None of them touch this," he muttered, the words vibrating against your core as he thrust his tongue deeper, fucking you with it while his thumb circled your entrance, slick with your arousal. You tangled your hands in his hair, pulling him closer, the pressure building until you shattered, thighs clamping around his head as you came with a sob, juices flooding his mouth. But he still didn't stop, licking you through you shaking around his head, then rising to shove his cock with your dripping hole. You whined out until you were begging for it, and he wasted no more time, sheathing himself deep, stretching your walls around his girth. You moaned at the fullness, nails raking his back as he moved inside of you, hard and relentless snaps of his hips that shook the bedframe.

"Say it," he demanded, one hand pinning your wrist above your head, the other gripping your hip to angle deeper, his balls slapping against your ass with each drive. "Who do you want?"

"You.. only you, Maekar." The words spilled out amid gasps, your cunt fluttering around him as he hit that deep, perfect spot over and over, tears threatening to prick at your eyes.

He flipped you at that, pulling out of you only to yank your hips up, bending you over as he shoved his way back in, cock driving deeper with your face to the mattress. His hand fisted in your hair, arching your back as he fucked you like he owned every inch, because he did. "Aerion can tease all he wants, call you whatever twisted name feeds his demons. Baelor and his boy can lust from afar. But this—" His other hand came down, connecting to your ass with a sting, redness blooming into heat as he thrust harder, dragging along your walls, building you toward the edge again. "This cunt is mine. Your body, your heart.. mine to fuck, mine to love."

His voice dripped in possession, in meaning and it tipped you over. You came again, harder this time, moans muffled into the sheets as you pushed back into him, feeling him more. Maekar groaned, pace faltering as he buried himself deep, fucking hot spurts of cum back into you as he let go, marking you inside as thoroughly as his words did.

He collapsed over you, still buried inside as his chest hit your back, lips pressing to your shoulder in a tender kiss. And he shifted, strained and strong arms reaching you into his grip as he shuffled back against the pillows, "Stay away from them, and if they don't I'll make sure of it.." he admitted into your hair, voice sated but edged with warning. But in the quiet aftermath, as his arms wrapped around you, you knew the pull of the others lingered— a dangerous web of desire that threatened to ensnare you all.

Yet for now, in your shared bed, with him leaking from between your thighs and his heartbeat now steady against your side, it was enough.

—

Sleep came heavy and fast, and better yet; dream-haunted. The court's pressure weaving into visions of violet eyes and grasping hands. You stirred in the dead of night, throat parched from the wine and the heat of Maekar's body pressed to yours. A faint thirst clawed at you, pulling you from the depths of slumber as you sat up. Maekar's arm lay heavy across your waist, his breath even and deep, but as you shifted, he murmured softly in his sleep, fingers tightening briefly in a tender hold before loosening when you kisses his temple. He rolled away with a sigh, curling into the pillows, lost once more to much needed rest.

The chamber felt stifling, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. You slipped from the sheets, careful not to wake him, and donned a loose robe over your naked form. The stone floor chilled your bare feet as you padded to the door, craving the cool draft of the halls to clear your head. The labyrinthine corridors stretched out like a maze of stone and secrets, torchlight flickering to cast long shadows that hid sins as ancient as the Targaryen bloodline. You hurried through them, even with knowing many servants would be in their own chambers, but your heart pounding from the remnants of your dream— the day's endless intrigues blurring with forbidden touches from others, the weight of Maekar's love a warm anchor in your chest. But anchors could drag you under, and tonight, the pull came from much darker waters.

Aerion had been watching you all evening during the feast, eyes gleaming with that feral hunger masked as jest. You knew him well enough by now, he was a whirlwind of unresolved rage and desire, his mother's death leaving scars that twisted his affections into something profane.. and you respected it, from all of them. But he toyed with it, toyed with you. And gods help you, part of you— the forbidden, tugging part low in your belly— responded when he called on you.

You shook your head as you flexed your fingers around the candle you'd picked up, trying to rid yourself of such thoughts, and turning a corner toward empty chambers, seeking solitude, but he was there, materializing from the gloom before you could notice.

"Running away again, Mother?" You jumped. His voice was a silken taunt, laced with mockery that sent a shiver down your spine, stalking towards you before you could speak. He closed the distance, his body slamming yours back against the cold stone wall. The impact stole your breath, his hands pinning your wrists at your sides in an iron grip, his lean frame pressing flush against you. The candle slipped from your hand with a crack to the floor, the flame flickering wildly.

"Aerion.. stop this," you gasped, but your voice lacked conviction, your body betraying you as heat pooled between your thighs. His smirk widened, feeling, as he leaned in, his breath hot against your neck.

"Stop? But you don't want me to, do you? Little stepmother, playing the faithful wife while you get wet for your husband's son." 

He ground his hips forward, letting you feel the hard length of his cock straining against his cloak, rubbing insistently against your core through the thin fabric of your own. Shame burned your cheeks, but so did desire, twisting like a knife.

He released one wrist only to tangle his fingers in the strings of your robe, exposing your breasts to the chill air. Your nipples hardened instantly, and he chuckled low, his free hand cupping one roughly, thumb flicking the peak, eyes running over them intently. "Look at you, already aching. My father's not enough, is he? You need someone to fill that empty place his first wife left in me." His words dripped venom, making you feel filthy, complicit in this depravity. Why did it make you clench, your thighs pressing together to ease the throb?

"You're twisted, Aerion," you whispered pleading with him, but he only laughed, his mouth descending to capture your nipple between his teeth, biting just hard enough to draw a whimper from your lips.

"Twisted? That's rich coming from you. Say it.. call yourself what I need you to be. Play the part, Mother. Make me forget she left me." His voice cracked then, vulnerability flashing in his eyes before the mask of dominance returned. He sucked hard on your breast, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud, pulling it deep into his mouth with wet, obscene sounds that echoed off the walls. Your head fell back against the stone, a moan escaping despite yourself as he lavished attention on one bud, then the other, sucking, licking, nipping until they glistened with his saliva, swollen and tender. But you couldn't move, pressed there against the stone. 

"Please... someone might hear," you continued to protest weakly, but your hands, free now, tangled in his silver hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing away. He growled in approval, his hand sliding down to hike up your skirts, fingers finding your soaked folds.

"Hear what? How Maekar's precious wife begs for her stepson's cock? How she spreads her legs like a whore for the boy she should mother?" He plunged two fingers into your pussy without warning, curling them to stroke that spot inside you that made your knees buckle. You cried out, bracing yourself against him, slick sounds filling the air as he pumped them in and out, thumb grinding against your clit.

"Tell me I'm wrong," he demanded, his mouth returning to your breast, sucking greedily as if drawing sustenance from you. "Tell me you don't want this.. don't want to be my mommy, fixing all the broken parts Father couldn't." The need slipped through his taunts, making you feel worse, dirtier, for the way it ignited something primal in you. You were no mother to him, yet here you were, arching into his touch, whispering the words he craved.

"I... I'll be your mother, Aerion. Just.. gods, don't stop." The admission burned, humiliation flooding you even as pleasure coiled tighter and he groaned against your skin, teeth grazing your nipple as his fingers fucked you harder, stretching your dripping hole.

"Good girl. Mother's so wet for her boy. But you're bad, aren't you? Letting me pin you here, tits out for anyone to see."He backed you harder against the wall, his body a cage of heat and muscle, cock now freed from the confines of his pants— thick, veined, just like his father, the tip leaking that smeared against your thigh.

You felt the shame now, the wrongness of it all crashing over you like a wave. Maekar's love was real, possessive; Baelor's gazes promised chivalrous rivalry; even young Valarr's bold advances stirred at the undercurrents. But Aerion, he weaponized your guilt, making you complicit in the fall.

"Fuck, you're tight," he hissed as he thrust into you, burying his cock to the hilt in one stroke. You stretched around him, biting your lip to stifle the scream from your already aching hole. He didn't give you time to adjust, hips snapping forward in a punishing rhythm, each drive pinning you deeper into the wall.

"Say it again— tell your boy how much you love his cock inside you." His mouth latched onto your breast once more, sucking harshly as he pounded into you. His tongue on your tits, his length dragging into you, pushed you toward oblivion, and more towards his web.

"I love it, Aerion— Mommy loves her boy's cock," you sobbed, the words tasting like ash and ecstasy as they came tumbling out. He made you feel worse with every thrust, every pull on your nipple, reminding you of the betrayal, the taboo. And still your body betrayed you fully, hips meeting his, pussy clenching as orgasm ripped through you, juices soaking him in a white ring.

He followed with a guttural moan, spilling deep inside you, hot cum filling your womb as he bit down on your breast, teeth marking you near enough to draw blood. When he pulled back, spent and smug, he tucked himself away, leaving you slumped against the wall, gown disheveled, his spend trickling down your thighs.

"Clean yourself up, Mother," he scowled, pressing a mocking kiss to your forehead. "Before Father smells the sin on you." Your breath shook as you clutched the wall, his frame vanishing into the shadows, leaving you alone with the ache of guilt and unsatisfied hunger, this web of desire tangling tighter. 

—

The next morning dawned with a deceptive calm, the hall of the keep filled with the clatter of plates and the murmur of voices as the family gathered for breakfast. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the oaken table laden with fresh bread, cheeses, and steaming bowls of porridge. 

You sat beside Maekar, your gown modest and pristine, every trace of the previous night's debauchery scrubbed away— though the faint bruise on your breast and aching in your core throbbed beneath the fabric. 

Maekar, ever the dutiful husband, squeezed your hand under the table, his touch warm but distant, his brow furrowed as if wrestling with unspoken worries. He glanced at you now and then, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, but he said nothing, none the wiser to the storm brewing around you, much less that had occurred after he fell asleep.

Across the table, Baelor and Valarr caught your gaze during a lull in the conversation. As the others, servants and lesser kin, drifted away to attend to morning duties, leaving you momentarily isolated near the hearth, they both approached with purposeful strides. Baelor's presence was commanding yet gentle, silver-streaked hair framing a face etched with quiet admiration. Valarr, mirrored his father's poise, his eyes alight with genuine reverence.

"You've outdone yourself this morn, my lady," Baelor said softly, his voice a low rumble as he leaned in, close enough for you to catch the scent of leather and spice on him. He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles. "The way you command this hall, even in silence—it's a grace that binds us all. You're the heart of this house, stronger than any crown."

Valarr stepped forward, his hand brushing yours in a feather-light caress, his touch igniting a spark of warmth low in your belly. "And your beauty... it's not just skin deep," he claimed, his tone earnest, eyes locking onto yours with unwavering sincerity as your face flushed, nodding sincerely. "You carry burdens we can only imagine, yet you shine through it all. Let me ease one, if you'll allow— your presence alone makes this day bearable."

Their words wrapped around you like a velvet chain, praising not with empty flattery but with a depth that stirred the guilt coiled in your chest, mingling it with a fresh wave of forbidden longing. You felt exposed, desired, even as Aerion lounged against a pillar in the distance, his smirk sharp and knowing. He watched, arms crossed, saying nothing,and he didn't have to, hanging back and savoring the tangle from afar.

Maekar's voice cut through from the table, pulling you back. "Wife? The meal grows cold." He rose, extending his arm to you with a puzzled and careful frown.

As you excused yourself from Baelor and Valarr, their gazes lingered, promising more than words could convey. The dance of desire and shame twisting into something unbreakable, the morning's light doing little to dispel the shadows of what was to come.

Because all of their eyes were very much on, you.

[starxs-s]

──── Aerion Targaryen Masterlist ♱

Reluctant bride ──── Aerion Targaryen x Arryn!reader part 1 (smut) Reluctant bride ──── Aerion Targaryen x Arryn!reader (headcannons) Reluctant Bride ──── Aerion Targaryen x Arryn!reader part 2 (smut) Reluctant Bride ──── Aerion Targaryen x Arryn!reader part 3 (smut) Reluctant Bride ──── Aerion Targaryen x Arryn!reader (headcannons 2) Reluctant Bride ──── Aerion Targaryen x Arryn!reader (headcannons 3) Reluctant Bride ──── Aerion Targaryen x Arryn!reader part 4 (smut) Reluctant Bride ──── Aerion Targaryen x Arryn!reader part 5 (smut) Reluctant Bride ──── Aerion Targaryen x Arryn!reader part 6 (smut)

Asks about ‘Reluctant Bride’

𝜗ৎ — Aerion’s wife and his dreams 𝜗ৎ — Aerion with drunk and clingy wife 𝜗ৎ — Aerion with his children 𝜗ৎ — Aerion when his wife isn’t in bed after his nightmare 𝜗ৎ — Aerion and previous to their marriage 𝜗ৎ — Aerion and his wife having pregnancy cravings (for him) 𝜗ৎ — Aerion and how he is while drunk 𝜗ৎ — Aerion when he crosses a line and his wife is mad 𝜗ৎ — Aerion while he’s injured 𝜗ৎ — Aerion while he’s jealous 𝜗ৎ — Aerion when it comes to his wife wanting to be on top 𝜗ৎ — Aerion and losing his virginity 𝜗ৎ — Aerion if his wife would die in childbirth 𝜗ৎ — Aerion and going down on his wife 𝜗ৎ — Aerion and his siblings 𝜗ৎ — Aerion when his wife reading an erotic book 𝜗ৎ — Aerion and period sex with his wife

[swordgrace-deactivated20260219]

❝ 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: wedded to cregan stark, a man you’ve never met , in an arrangement of convenience, you come to learn that even a wolf’s stoicism is rather deceiving.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: cregan stark x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.1K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), arranged marriage, reader & cregan are strangers, virgin!cregan and virgin!reader, cregan is really sweet in this, mutual loss of virginity, talk of insecurities relating to appearance, heavy kissing, size kink / size difference, brief handjob & fingering (fem!rec), groping, unprotected p in v sex, descriptions of cum, creampie, obligatory stark breeding kink, missionary position, soft ending + aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this was so so so fun to write, it’s a different take on cregan from how I usually write him as experienced, and lowkey loved this! I really hope that you all love this as much as I loved writing it! thank you for any support, much love! 🫶

DUTY — THE BANE OF LOVE, THE FOUNDATION OF ALL HONORABLE MEN, THE SPINE OF THE REALM; A SACRIFICE. A NECESSARY SACRIFICE, THE PLEDGE OF A MAN GROWN, OF A FLEDGLING LORD NOW COMING INTO HIS OWN POWER AND CERTAINTY.

Cregan Stark, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, was to be wed beneath the Weirwood Tree, boughs of an ancient crimson serving as the canopy to his newly-forged union with you.

A man of nine-and-ten, it was expected of him — unions with advantageous houses, married to a woman in exchange for something he did not have. It was not in his nature to be fraught with nerves in the face of uncertainty; as he grew into his role as Lord, so too did his confidence grow.

Not only was the growing wolf deemed a strong man, he was adept with a longsword and a proficient fighter. Cregan had excelled at his duties as Lord of Winterfell — however, marriage is where he assumed he’d falter.

Inevitably, he knew that he would find himself in this predicament, sworn to marry a suitable prospect from a noble house. His advisors had arranged a rather promising match to a maiden of House Connington, an exceedingly wealthy name, well-known in the Stormlands.

Northern alliances were already strong, built upon blood, steel, and an unyielding winter — it would be useful to have an ally further South.

He did not know what you looked like; your temperament, moral character, or if you would even find him favorable. It was not often that Cregan allowed himself to be plagued by lingering insecurities, but they seemed to weigh heavy within his mind.

Fortunately, such sentiments were shared by you, unbeknownst to him.

Griffin’s Roost was all you’d known, a lifetime spent in the Stormlands until you had reached maturity, now pledged to the Warden of the North. It pained you to leave what life you knew before, surrounded by family and the comforts of home.

The North was often regarded as a harsh and unyielding environment, with bitter, stinging winds and snowfalls that could bury men alive beneath their might. Ice-laden gales sang from beyond the Wall, bringing with it their callousness, whispers from savage lands.

Accustomed to the temperate forests and raging deluges of the Stormlands, the North’s biting chill would take plenty of adaptation on your end. The host of House Connington had arrived in all of their glory and bravado, bearing the twin griffin sigil, white upon crimson, crimson upon white.

From what little you gleaned of Cregan Stark, he was already a talented fighter, as thick as the trunk of an elder pine, and somewhat rugged around the edges. Roughness did not trouble you as it had other women — perhaps, it would give him character.

Part of you counted yourself fortunate to marry someone close to you in age, only one nameday your senior — plenty of women did not have such luck. Even then, you were frightened and nervous, hoping to make a lasting impression upon your new husband.

Much to your dismay, everyone seemed so eager to marry you off — to seal whatever pact had been struck, for you to begin your new life here, in the North. You hoped that you would find new companionship and comfort in your new home, but you neglected to get your hopes up.

The Old Gods were prevalent in Northern culture — the Faith of the Seven was nearly nonexistent here, a practice that your family had staunchly followed since your infancy. There were plenty of adjustments you would need to make in order to assimilate.

Sequestered within the guest chambers of your Northern host, handmaidens whose faces were unfamiliar to you helped dress you in your wedding gowns. It was a sentimental piece, handcrafted by your Mother before you departed from the Roost, a gown of crimson and silver.

Northern ceremonies were said to be much shorter, a tryst of few words outside of sacred vows. Your cloak hung heavy upon your shoulders, velvet encased by a line of fur, bearing the sigil of your House.

A lengthy, tarnished mirror sat before you, crystalline enough for you to admire your appearance, tresses pinned in intricate braids, visage dabbled with little cosmetics. You were to be given away by your uncle, journeying in the stead of your ailing father, Gods bless him.

With no facet of your appearance misplaced, you were prepared to make the journey to the Godswood, with your uncle upon your arm. As you stepped through ancient stone and over frozen ground, your heart hammered beneath your breast, like the beating of a bird's wings.

Anxiousness gnawed away at your fragile bones throughout your trek, mind continuing to race with a great many thoughts. What if he thought you ugly, or boorish? What if he was unkind or uncouth? What if the consummation was not satisfactory enough?

These were all feckless inquiries, born of your own insecurities and desire to make your new husband happy, make the most of your new life. Despite the biting chill that clung to your visage, perspiration slicked your palms, teeth absentmindedly gnashing against the inside of your cheek.

The dusky skies were blanketed by a penumbra of endless stars, as if the celestials themselves had gathered to witness your sacred union. Wisps of gray clouds scattered overhead, but soon dissipated in the wake of the moon’s glow.

Silvery rays touched a light snowfall, now muddled with hints of broken earth. There was no deluge to cast doubt upon your wedding — it was all endlessly clear, and the ice ceaselessly continued to stab at your exposed flesh.

The Godswood lay silent, surrounded by only a handful of Lord Stark’s closest advisors and kin, braziers lighting the way forward. Your grip upon your uncle’s arm became ironclad, as if you were attempting to hold on with every shred of strength in your bones.

Beneath vermillion leaves and pale bark, stood Lord Cregan Stark, with eyes as gray as winter’s shadow, chestnut tresses halfway pulled into a bun, the rest slicked with oils. He was nearly twice your size, frame clad in the taupe pelt of a wolf, countenance indiscernible from afar.

He was handsome, thank the Seven; and the closer you stepped, the more you realized that he possessed the same nervousness as you. One wouldn’t expect a man of his caliber to show it, but he did, the sentiment reaching his gaze.

As you reached the end, given to Cregan by your uncle, your stomach tumbled with butterflies, blood singed with anxiety. Cregan’s nervousness was far more subdued, though it lingered even still, especially as his large hand closed around yours.

Much to your surprise, the embrace of your Lord-husband was disarmingly gentle, coarse leather folding over your delicate palm. Storm-laden hues briefly fluttered toward you, as if searching for any scrap of discomfort caused by his own hand.

Vows were exchanged between strangers — and soon, in hours, you would not be so strange anymore.

“Will you take this man?”

It was your uncle’s voice, as spoken in Northern customs to give you away. He seemed uncertain as his inquiry filled the space around you, and yet you answered with a startling clarity.

“I take this man.”

In this close proximity, it allowed Cregan ample time to absorb you; a comely, beautiful stranger, soon to be the new Lady of Winterfell. It was your very presence that intimidated even the likes of him, enchanted by your delicate voice and beguiling appearance, features akin to the very image of perfection.

Admittedly, you stole every wisp of air from his burning lungs, something that he would not dare confess to — not here, at least. Fortunately, you did not seem terrified; nervous, perhaps, but that was to be expected.

Kneeling before the shadow of the Weirwood, Cregan uttered a brief prayer — he did not expect you to do the same. These traditions were likely a stark contrast to your own, something that perplexed him to no end.

In the recesses of your mind, you wondered what his heart was like — his interests, passions, the essence of his character. He seemed stalwart and rugged, as you’d been told, but he did not seem cruel nor callous, much to your relief.

He stood, unclasping your maiden’s cloak from your shoulders, presenting you with one crafted of elk’s hide and the tawny, dappled coat of a doe. It bore the sigil of House Stark, a direwolf embroidered onto thicker material, now swaddling your form in all of its warmth.

With your former House now by the wayside, the wedding feast was set to begin.

“My Lady,” As his husky, Northern timbre spilled forth from his mouth, hand outstretched, you took it, allowing him to guide you to your feet. Those onlookers who surrounded you in the Godswood looked on with subtle admiration for their young Lord. “It is tradition that I carry you to the feast.”

Cregan would not dare abandon the formalities of his countrymen, knowing full well that many eyes were upon him to uphold tradition. He sensed your twinge of hesitation, followed by a wave of embarrassment, however, you did not recoil from his gallant advances.

Knowing that he had an appearance to maintain, you nodded, both smitten and shy as thick, leather-clad arms hooked beneath your legs and back. It was effortless, the way he had hoisted you into his grasp, carrying you close to his chest as he began to make his way from the Godswood.

“I apologize if this is not comfortable, my Lady,” Even he found some wry amusement in this, all in a valiant attempt to ease the tension between you. “Once we arrive in the Great Hall, I shall put you down.” He assured, though your expression said otherwise.

“I insist upon you carrying me throughout the evening,” A playful lilt clung to your tone, and it seemed to ease Cregan’s nerves — at least you had a sense of humor about you. “I jest, my Lord. I must admit that I am a stranger to journeying through snow and ice.”

A brief huff escaped him, and the idle conversation slowly dissolved the foreign barrier between the both of you. Truthfully, he did not want his marriage to you to be distant, or icy. Northern superstitions dictated that snow during a wedding meant a cold union — fortunately, the skies were clear.

“You will grow accustomed to it soon enough.” Solemn, the young Lord ascended stone steps, making his way into the courtyard. The Great Hall would be full of people, most of them his own kin and denizens, as well as your host from the Stormlands.

A bout of silence occupied the space between you, your form lodged firmly against his chest, laden with muscle beneath his leather garb. Admittedly, you found a sliver of comfort within his hold, one that screamed with protection and a sense of security. It made you feel less unnerved.

In such close proximity, Cregan caught a gust of your scent; saccharine, bringing with it the warmth of the South, a touch of rainfall from the Stormlands. You did not seem perturbed by him carrying you — you fit within the crook of his arms rather perfectly.

Snow crunched beneath his boots, stricken with an ethereal glow from the face of the moon, glistening down to light your path. Smitten, your gaze briefly darted to admire his countenance — youthful yet worn, the bridge of his nose slightly crooked, a faint scar upon his chin.

Wisps of warmth emerged from between your lips, acclimating to the chill as best as you could. As you neared Winterfell’s Great Hall, rancor and excitement spilled from inside, orange light pooling from beneath the doors.

Cregan ascended another flight of stone steps, seemingly unbothered by cradling you, and once you reached the end, he gently deposited you onto solid ground. “Here we are.” Offering you his arm, you took it, led into the warmth of the castle’s archaic interior.

Met with the gleeful cheers of those in attendance, your host and his own, you narrowly avoided being pelted with flying deluges of ale. It was a merry hall, filled with immeasurable joyousness and laughter, which eased your anxiousness quite a bit.

Sentiments might shift once many of them sobered up, you imagined, but for now, you were delighted to enjoy your wedding feast. Your staunch husband led you through the commotion and gathering crowds with ease until you reached your table.

Situated at the helm of the hall, he politely moved your chair for you, allowing you to be seated before himself as he took his place by your side. A scarlet flush clung to his features, wisps of chestnut strands framing his strong visage.

The feast held in honor of your blossoming union was one of merriment, the mood lighthearted and blissful. You sat beside your husband, stomach pulled taut, a coil of nerves. Everyone seemed foreign to you, unfamiliar faces with their northern attitudes and thinly-veiled curiosity.

Following the exchange of toasts and presentation of foodstuffs, you became lost within contemplation, dreading the bedding ceremony that was sure to follow. You hoped that, if you closed your eyes, it would simply pass you by.

Cregan’s gaze remained transfixed upon you whenever you weren’t looking, blissfully oblivious to your husband’s ogling. He found you to be perfectly beautiful in all senses of the word — vexing, truly. Even he was not immune to the heated, carnal thoughts drifting within his mind.

Though, he was a touch nervous — unexpectedly so.

Carnal escapades were often packed into the richly-woven tales of his fellow advisors and compatriots, and it all seemed self-centered when they spoke of consummation. Cregan worried that he would fumble over himself, not know where to put his hands, let alone touch you.

As you prodded your fork into the seared haunch of meat, you happened to steal a glance at Cregan, and to your surprise, he’d already been staring at you. Warmth permeated your features, lashes fluttering as you cleared your throat.

Caught, he decided to be forthcoming in the matter. “Forgive me for staring, my Lady — you are rather beautiful,” He spoke plainly, blunt as he ensured you let his words sink in. Flattered, your lips quirked into a jubilant smile. “Is it all to your liking?”

A buzz of exhilaration bubbled within your belly, prompting you to sit a little straighter. “You flatter me, my Lord,” As you began to chew, a myriad of spices and flavors invaded your maw, sitting heavy upon your tongue. “It is — I must thank you for your hospitality.”

“This is your home now, as it is mine. You are deserving of such cordiality,” Cregan’s timbre had dissolved into a pleasant rumble, the cadence of it scratching at the back of your mind. You quite enjoyed his gruff nature, more than most. “I wish for you to be happy.”

The softness of his words made your stomach lurch with butterflies, lips parting in mild surprise. Admittedly, you had grown accustomed to the husbands commonplace within your life — they rarely took interest in their wives, especially with regard to their happiness.

“I … You have my gratitude, my Lord. I wish for you to be happy, in-turn,” Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you continued. “I know that we are somewhat foreign to one another, but I do not prefer it to stay that way.” You confessed.

Perplexed, Cregan’s brow furrowed momentarily, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Even for his youth, he was a stoic man — he had endured plenty, hardening him to the outside world. However, he found it within himself to treat you gently, perhaps surrender a sliver of gentleness to you.

“I would not prefer it, either,” Cregan replied, an amiable shimmer dancing within his wintry-gray hues. Delighted, you reached for his hand, much larger than your own, his skin calloused. He allowed you to hold it, reveling in your velveteen flesh. “Perhaps, we can tour the Wolfswood on the morrow — how are your riding skills?”

Perhaps it was the twinge of wine invading your bloodstream, but your thoughts had strayed on the side of perversion. A brief hitch formed within your throat before you hummed. “They are better than some,” You mused. “I’ve a great passion for horses, and for the outdoors.”

Making note of your interests, he knew precisely what to give you, a forlorn warmth stirring within his chest. Whatever impact you had on him, it was beginning to take some effect, reducing him to naught but boyish nerves.

Admittedly, Cregan hadn’t expected you to be this lively and jubilant — he expected terror and indifference, but this was a welcome change. It dissolved some of his initial reservations, but it was still too early to make any hasty judgments.

It had melted the ice somewhat, conversing about menial topics, allowing himself to grow accustomed to your presence. It would take plenty of work — fortitude, determination, kindness. Cregan did not want to sow any discord in your budding union.

“Tell me of Griffin’s Roost,” Cregan murmured, intrigued by your place of birth. The castle itself was said to be humble yet resolute, using the surrounding countryside to its advantage. “I’ve heard it sits upon some crag.”

A comely smile fluttered across your features, grasp beginning to loosen upon his hand. Returning to your hearty meal, you chewed, throat bubbling with a gentle hum. “It overlooks Cape Wrath, surrounded by red stone cliffsides — the view from the East Tower is wonderful.”

With a low grunt, your Lord-husband proved most attentive, posture beginning to slump into some relaxation within his seat. “Should my duties not become insurmountable, perhaps we could visit in a few moons time.”

Despite his desire to heed to the North, to remain planted, safeguard his lands, Cregan understood the importance of home. He did not want you to completely abandon your roots in exchange for Northern traditions.

Touched by such a proposition, you nodded in agreement, thankful that he’d suggested it. It meant more to you than he might’ve realized. “I would deeply appreciate such a journey, my Lord. I am certainly looking forward to learning of your home and its people.”

Loyalty seemed a core value amongst Northerners, their bond ironclad, a pact of ice. Such devotion amongst kin was comforting to witness, a web that you desired to be part of, with time. Duties of a lady were not lost upon you, but anxiousness stirred whenever you contemplated the future.

The Lady of Winterfell — the title itself was daunting, something you never imagined for yourself, foreign upon your tongue. The weight of it was a crushing one, but you hoped to soar beneath the pressure, impress both the people and your Lord-husband.

The sincerity of your answer had certainly beguiled Cregan, whose hardened visage seemed to soften. Admiration glittered within glacial hues as he attempted to clean his plate.

Before he could properly pose another inquiry into your morality and history, he noticed the flock of men and women beginning to swarm the terrace’s base. The bedding ceremony — he’d nearly forgotten about it, lost within the pleasantries he exchanged with you.

The thought of some drunken bannerman laying his hands upon you seemed to incite a flicker of fury within his chest; he feared breaking a nose at his own wedding. Even through the growing commotion, Cregan had made a rather hasty and disrespectful move.

“Come.” Low and brazen, his large hand gingerly closed around your elbow. To your startlement, your gaze flickered in the direction of the merry masses, continuing to clash their steins together, the rancor merely increasing.

Perplexed, you slyly crept from your chair, following Cregan into a rather slim corridor that stretched behind your seat. A glacial chill permeated ancient stone, and your brow remained furrowed with confusion.

“Won’t this upset your subjects?” Despite the innocuous nature of your inquiry, you were eternally grateful to avoid a bedding ceremony altogether. It felt wicked and crass, too irreverent as a precursor to consummation.

“Perhaps, but I wish to spare you such humiliation,” He sighed, guiding you onward until the two of you stood within an empty stairwell, torchlight encapsulating the walls. “That is worth their momentary disappointment.”

This was one tradition that he could live without, much to the chagrin of his advisors and the numerous wedding patrons. Admittedly, it was the thought of putting up some performance whilst strangers gathered outside of his door, all to see if he’d put a babe in you.

The more he thought of consummation, the more wracked with nerves he became, a festering anxiety gnawing away at his hardened bones. His chest heaved with a heavier exhale — at least this way, he would be afforded some privacy, away from any potential embarrassment.

Here, sequestered within the hush of the corridor, Cregan fully admired you, bathed in the glow of flickering firelight, wedding dress spiraling against the ground. Even still, you held his arm, delicate fingers folded atop his leather vambrace, absorbing his heat in the face of winter’s breath.

“I do not wish to make a foul impression upon your people with this,” Concerned that it would tarnish your image, Cregan dismissed your worries with a mere grunt. “Even if I truly do appreciate your kindness and understanding in the matter.”

“If this tarnishes your reputation, I will deal with it myself,” Stoic assurances were uttered from his lips, Northern timbre deliciously husky, like the tremble of thunder. “Come, before we are apprehended.” A twinge of humor sank into his stalwart tone.

Ascending spiraling steps that led to his lordly chambers, some nervousness had been alleviated by his grand gesture. Having beared witness to your own kin’s bedding ceremony, you did not wish such shame and discomfort upon anyone else.

Silence had blanketed the both of you, two anxious youth, navigating your newfound marriage. Butterflies danced within the pit of your stomach, as if reminding you of what was to come. Fortunately, it wouldn’t be in the company of others — only his, and that was intimidating enough.

As you approached a wide, mahogany door, wrought with careworn iron, Cregan gave it a brusque shove, the hinges groaning in protest. A wave of warmth greeted you, hearth simmering with a cluster of waning embers, nearly reduced to mere wisps of smoke.

His chambers were rather sizeable, a footlocker at the foot of his bed, draped in the impressive hide of a bear. Pelts adorned the feathered mattress in patchwork patterns of taupe, fawn-brown, and black. Before the hearth, a direwolf hide served as a rug above the cold stone.

Its appeal was rustic, rugged — it certainly followed the Northern motif. Even then, you found it pleasing and cozy, warm enough to shield you from the bitter brunt of a glacial tempest. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind you both, moving to rekindle the flames.

Stirring the dried twigs atop hunks of log, your Lord-husband quietly resigned himself to his menial task, brows furrowing together in concentration. It gave you a moment to steel yourself, awkwardly shifting to admire the humble fixtures of his bedchambers.

Part of you pondered what your own quarters might look like — lined in furs, bearing no trace of your own home. It was commonplace for noble marriages to remain in separate chambers, even if the thought happened to irk you.

As the hearth began to roar to life once more, bringing with it a wave of warmth, you shivered even still, likely out of anxiousness. Nerves seemed to bundle within your belly, a tight coil that had been pulled as tight as a bowstring, threatening to snap at any moment.

Admittedly, Cregan had needed a distraction — the reality of what was to come had dawned on him, and he feared making a fool of himself. Standing upright once more, he happened to catch a glimpse of your doe-eyed countenance, just as disquieted; outwardly so.

“Should — Shall I remove this?”

In accompaniment to your sudden inquiry, your digits had clumsily found the clasps of your bridegroom’s cloak, along the collar of your wedding gown. Numerous tales of consummation often held a similar pattern — remove your clothing, let him climb atop you, and put a babe in you.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, storm-laden hues swirling with a palpable trepidation. For a man so stalwart and intimidating, his own vulnerability was laid bare for you to witness, gaze averting your own as he collected his thoughts.

It had become painfully obvious that neither of you were well-equipped to deal with the pang of awkwardness that had settled in. His hand clenched into a fist, attempting to relieve a sliver of bodily tension as he cleared his throat.

His stoic silence had only furthered your unease, as if you’d behaved in a manner most untoward. A lump formed within your throat, with Cregan seemingly gathering his composure as he stepped closer, gait measured and purposeful.

Sword-hewn palms gently grasped your upper arms, brushing over the delicate silks of your gown. A brief shudder passed through you, heat warming your features as his proximity from you had all but dissipated. His stature had become glaringly apparent, looming well above you.

Thumbs gently traced circles into your clothed flesh, the gesture disarmingly tender as he cleared his throat with a low hum. “I do not wish for any of this to be uncomfortable, and yet,” Cregan hesitated, a flicker of worry passing through him. “This is all unfamiliar.” He confessed.

Sharing in his sentiments, you began to relax beneath his comforting embrace, hands twisting themselves together. “I … It is just as unfamiliar for me as it is for you. I do not know where to begin.” You murmured, chewing at the inside of your cheek.

The first song of fervor sang within his blood, running hot with a spark of carnality. Despite his lack of knowing, it was instinct that drove him now as he attempted to discern where to begin with you. Gray hues fluttered toward your lips, visage warming with a flush of scarlet.

“I suppose the only way forward is to learn together.” Cregan proposed, his brows knitting together as he allowed himself to absorb your appearance. A slight lump began to coagulate within his throat, prompting him to hastily swallow it down for the sake of his nerves.

With a brief nod, you let yourself abandon this fear that had gripped you so tightly, knowing that he was a stranger to the act, just as you were. A tenuous silence filled in the crevices, invading the slight space between you both.

This was your duty — it was best to honor it.

Strong, calloused hands sluggishly slid down the length of your arms until he found your hands, delicate and velvety within his hold. His thumb traced over your knuckles, reveling in the sensation of your flesh against his, as downy as feathers, as soft as a wolf’s pelt.

Bending to reach you, Cregan stooped, looming closer, mead-tinged breath fanning across your visage. The rough pillars of his lips hovered above yours, gaze one of admiration as he allowed himself to absorb your beauty, akin to a kiss of summertime.

Wisps of chestnut framed his hardened countenance, which seemed to soften in your presence, losing its stony exterior. A brief hitch formed within your throat, accompanied by a slight noise of exhilaration as his mouth ghosted over yours in a fleeting kiss.

It was agonizingly slow, intended to be exploratory, test the waters. He did not think it as strange as he thought it’d be, the action initially stiff and rigid, attempting to grow accustomed to you.

A volatile churning of heat swirled within your belly, nerves set ablaze by mere friction of mouths. It was exhilarating yet frightening, knowing that this was merely the beginning of it all. Nevertheless, you let yourself relax as much as you could, a sharp inhale puncturing your lungs as he let the kiss linger.

Withdrawing after a few moments, you stared at Cregan, counting yourself deeply fortunate that he wasn’t uncouth nor cruel. He did not seem after his own self-gratification, hands untangling themselves from yours as he cleared his throat.

“Not so terrifying.” Nothing more than a mere lull, your voice was saccharine, endlessly tender as you spoke with a touch of assurance. The stiffness between you both seemed to gradually melt away, and you hoped it would diminish entirely.

A threadbare smile crossed Cregan’s countenance, a fleeting gesture that made your bones sing. One palm moved to cup your cheek, his stare incendiary as he studied you, committing every detail to memory. You were nothing short of mesmerizing, a beauty only sung about in ancient hymns.

“May I?” He gestured to your cloak, the swaddling fabric proving more of a hindrance. As you nodded, the young Lord calmly stepped around you, coming to stand behind you, now eclipsed within the might of his silhouette. Rough digits found their way to the clasps, unfastening the garment altogether.

Cregan draped your cloak over the foot of the bed, gaze exposed to a rather intricate line of ties that held your wedding gown together. He dared not touch them yet, chest nearly brushing against your spine as he bent to press a kiss against your shoulder.

It was so simple, so innocuous — and yet the gesture made you ache with desire’s heavy sting, unfurling within your heart. A soft gasp tore past your parted lips, craving his embrace as you would a gust of crisp air or the glittering rays of a warm sunshine.

The hollow between your throat and shoulder had tempted him, bare flesh ripe for the grace of his mouth. Wordlessly, he continued upon his own whims, planting a string of reverent kisses there, prickling when he heard the sweetness of your moan.

The noise did not seem anguished, and instead, one someone would make when satisfied. “You are beautiful.” Cregan’s Northern baritone had rattled your bones, set you aflame, all of you — the tension had climbed to a searing broil. Absentmindedly, you began to lean backwards into his embrace.

Desire seemed so foreign to you, a concept that transcended comprehension. Yet, as your new Lord-husband began to dote upon you, you felt it twist within your heart, unfurling from within.

He did not know where to put his hands, what to do with them — instead, they remained firmly by his sides, stationary until he asked for your consent. With a final kiss, he lifted his head, chest blossoming with tendrils of warmth as he looked to the laces of your gown.

Gooseflesh raked over your spine, prickling with a sharp jab of exhilaration as it warmed your insides. Similar to Cregan, your hands remained twisted together, anxiously plucking at the front of your wedding gown, nails picking at a swath of velvet.

“Does my Lady give me permission to remove her gown?”

Cregan swallowed his nerves, attempting to suppress any unease, letting it simmer down within his stomach. He had not seen a woman bare before — he’d imagined it on occasion, through heated dreams of a spirited youth, but you were flesh and blood made reality.

A twinge of hesitation clung to his Northern timbre, hands momentarily clenching together as he patiently awaited your consent. The silence lasted longer than he expected, and he wondered if he had brought about some discomfort.

Truthfully, it was your insecurities that began to fester like some creeping plague, a clutch of poison ivy coming to cling to your heart. “What if you do not find me favorable?” As your inquiry floated into the open air, you knew you had made a grave error in vocalizing it.

Through furrowed brows, Cregan’s nervousness had melded into bewilderment, and he seemed to freeze behind you. “Why would you think that?” His question, though sharp, lacked any lilt of malice or callousness. Instead, he was perplexed why he would find you anything other than beautiful.

“I … I do not know,” Twisting your fingers together, your confession seemed to weigh upon your shoulders, more than you revealed. “I often worried that my appearance might become a detriment, or worse, something boorish.”

Cregan’s chest stirred with a low rumble, contemplative of your words. He thought little of his own physicality, a youthful man built of stony muscle and fortitude, a hardened warrior. However, he imagined how it might be different for you.

He would be the envy of all men with you by his side; men that he hoped to ward away from you. Im truth, if it weren’t for his desire to seem stoic in the face of disquiet, he would’ve fallen to his knees at the sight of you beneath the Weirwood Tree.

“Boorish,” Cregan repeated, voice a sonorous hum as he stepped around you, facing you once more. His hands found yours, satin flesh and delicate, your grasp oozing with tenderness. “When I saw you beneath the Weirwood, my heart fell still for the very first time.” He murmured.

A hitch formed within your throat, coupled with a startled gasp of surprise, his words moving you in a way you didn’t think possible. “My Lord …” As your heart began to gallop like hoofbeats beneath your breast, he stepped closer, chest brushing against yours.

“Cregan,” His gentle correction had warmed your features, voice scratching the deeper parts of your very being. One hand relocated, roughened palm shifting to gingerly cup your jaw, thumb stroking over the silky skin there. “You are beautiful — you needn’t worry.” He reassured you.

Mesmerized by him, you rocked up upon your toes, mouth seeking his own as your lips collided in a seamless fervor. The kiss was far more passionate than the first, though still echoed with inexperience, ministrations somewhat erratic.

Flustered and charmed, your hands decided to abandon their position, finding the wide expanse of his leather-clad chest. Beneath your palms, it was all staunch muscle, hardened like that of indomitable stone, shielded by the rough veil of his tunic and cloak.

Returning your kiss, Cregan exhaled, the noise steady and resolute, hand shifting to perch atop the small of your back. Silken laces teasingly danced over his fingertips, as if attempting to rouse him to action — still, he did not bend to baser instincts.

Failing to part, the kiss continued, mouths beginning to find something of a rhythm, however unsteady it might’ve been. A surge of heat washed over you, the first wave of desire — at least, that’s what you assumed it was.

Cregan held you close, cradling you to his chest, grasp inherently protective and laced with gentleness. It was only when you drew away that he allowed it to slack, his features blanketed with a faint flush of scarlet, wintry-gray hues fluttering over your countenance.

“You may remove it.” The softness of your murmur was unmistakable, a sweet lull that had sunk its talons into the far recesses of his mind. Slowly, you turned, allowing him unobstructed access to the plane of tethered silk that clung to you.

With a brief exhale, Cregan steeled himself, ogling the back of your head — your tresses were braided and styled so intricately, the scent of a regal perfume wafting from you. Calloused digits found the column of laces along your spine, giving the very first a tug, making his way upwards.

The moment itself stewed with a searing tension, his body nearly snug against yours, the fabric beginning to loosen upon your body. Crimson and silvery silks gave way to the simple shift beneath, as pure as a newborn snowfall, its material tantalizingly sheer.

A stirring formed within his chest, exposed to your near-naked frame as you calmly stepped from your wedding gown. With respect to your garment, Cregan gathered it within his arms, placing it aside atop the footlocker.

As you turned to face him once more, instilled with a flicker of newfound confidence, you swore you heard his breath become heavy. The pliant peaks of your breasts prodded beneath the fabric, tresses spilling across your collarbone.

Nearly translucent, your shift left little to the imagination, material clinging to your form, as if tempting Cregan with what lay beneath. In a wordless rapture, he admired you — your beauty, the sparkling gleam within your eyes.

It was then that your attention had shifted to evening the score, gaze flickering toward the mantle of furs that still sat upon his shoulders, the studded leather jerkin. “I wish to see you, too.” Your confession was devastatingly tender, enough to make Cregan become a touch smitten.

“As you wish.” Cregan rumbled, lacking any qualms in regards to his own physicality. He was impressive for a man his age — nine-and-ten, and bigger than most. He watched as you quietly reached for the clasps of his cloak, easing it from him to join your wedding gown.

The assistance you provided in removing his own garb had made his heart fester with want, the proximity between bodies now incredibly thin. As your slender fingers went about unfastening the buckles of his vambraces, he gazed at you, as if you were the sun itself.

There was nothing boorish about you — the very air you exhaled was tinged with sweetness, air that he coveted. If Cregan did not know any better, he would believe you to be the goddess of beauty, made flesh incarnate before his very eyes. You drew him in so completely, making him burn.

As his vambraces joined the growing heap of clothing, both your attention and his had turned to his tabard and coarse tunic beneath. Leather slipped into your palms and his, fiddling with straps and buckles as he maneuvered it over his head.

His musculature was rather impressive, almost intimidating — Cregan took great care of himself, training daily and without rest. The dark, slate-hues tunic that clung to him came off next, as he pulled it over his chestnut mane until it fluttered atop the pile of garments.

Molten heat swirled within your belly as you marveled at the sight of him, statuesque and handsome, built to withstand even the hardiest of winters. You were nervous to touch him, just as he was with you — the hesitation was palpable, lingering between bodies.

The both of you stood with trembling hands and tremulous eyes, mere wisps apart, attempting to navigate through the first inklings of desire. To his surprise, it was you who had made the first move, hand slowly crossing the distance until it fell atop his chest.

A shudder gripped him, slithering along his spine, your embrace so very warm, a lick of fire piercing through his glacial gale of ice. “Is this alright?” You inquired, noting his nod of approval as he openly invited you to continue, pressing closer.

“May I?” Cregan returned the favor as his palms snaked toward the swell of your hips, and once you vocalized your consent, he let them sink into your pliant flesh. Despite the obstruction of fabric, he kneaded you even still, hands smoothing over your sides.

With a dip of his head, his lips danced over yours, a ghost of hot breath fanning over your features. He quietly awaited your consent, allowing you to bridge the gap, lips molding themselves to one another. The kiss made him dizzy, feeling your hands glide to perch atop his collarbone.

The hot, youthful surge of carnality came crashing down upon him like that of a tidal wave shattering upon the rocks. Cregan fought against his own instincts, what he’d been told to do, maintaining all sense of gallantry for your comfort.

This softness that he shared with you — it felt special, sacred; it was something that he envisioned himself growing accustomed to, with time. He felt you shiver within his grasp as his palm gently caressed along your spine, feeling your curves through your thin shift.

Each kiss seemed to sink into a gradual sense of comfort, shedding the initial awkwardness that had lingered at the start. Gods, you enjoyed his mouth quite a bit — more than what was deemed appropriate.

“You are wonderfully handsome,” As you murmured your praises against his lips, Cregan let the warmth of your words wrap around him. He became entangled in you, his mouth suddenly veering off-course, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Oh.”

A bewildered gasp tore past your mouth as he began to litter your throat in kisses, grunting when he felt your hand reach for the nape of his neck. This newfound sensation, however foreign, felt incredible to you — you wanted more.

Caging you in against his musculature, you felt the heat that wafted from him, as hot-blooded as the roar of the hearth. Arousal began to coalesce between your thighs, a pooling nectar that made you shift together.

His name emerged as a wanton whine from beneath your breath, enough to send a surge of desire throughout his bones, as sharp as a blade’s edge. Cregan’s jaw tensed, feeling his cock begin to twitch within his leather trousers.

Steady hands worshiped your body with reverent touches, fisting at the fabric that clung to you with a twinge of desperation. The young wolf continued to kiss his way across your neck until he found your collar, visage pressed into the soft canvas of your flesh.

“C—Cregan,” An unchaste moan floated from betwixt your lips, a song of mounting pleasure as he showered your skin in kisses. Gripping the chestnut tresses at his nape, your other palm slid around his torso, splayed atop his spine. “By the Seven.” You exhaled desire; exhilarated.

Biting back a threadbare smirk, his ministrations were ceaseless, wanting you to know just how flawless he found you, how beguiling. Muscles flexed around you, as if shielding you from the rest of the world, keeping you close to him.

Whatever chill had gripped his heart had all been melted away — fear of duty, fear of marriage, fear of sacrifice; it had all dissipated in your wake, leaving naught but ash.

Perhaps it was simply too early to feel such things, the imperviousness of youth, but for now, he cared very little for it. If Cregan was certain of one thing, it was that he wanted you, wanted your heart, to be your shield, a steady hand.

As he pressed a lingering kiss just above your sternum, a shiver passed through you, the shuffling of fabric becoming audible. He hadn’t fully realized that your hands had recoiled, now gathering against your ruffled shift. A flicker of surprise settled into his features, intermingled with a peculiar thrill.

Silence settled between, taut with want, the budding ecstasy of a new and promiscuous experience. Swallowing the slight lump that had coagulated within his throat, Cregan observed in hushed gaiety as you shakily fumbled to remove your shift.

Translucent material soared effortlessly over your flesh, pooling in a silvery heap at your feet. Tendrils of heat licked over your flesh, emanating from the hearth as your body revealed itself to your Lord-husband.

He seemed more a doe now than a wolf, visibly mesmerized by the sight of you, painfully beautiful, and he felt rather unworthy of it all. His heart galloped beneath his chest, storm-laden hues ogling every inch of you.

Standing rigidly still, more akin to a statue, you felt your words turn to ash upon your tongue, melting beneath Cregan’s incendiary stare. It was easy to discern the vermillion flush that had gripped his features, which happened to make you so very warm, hands awkwardly dangling at your sides.

“It feels untoward to touch you like this,” Cregan confessed, hardened countenance beginning to soften. “As if I might tarnish your perfection.”

The fondness laced throughout his cadence only stoked the volatile flame within your belly, thighs absentmindedly shifting together. A smitten smile permeated your features, eyelashes fluttering in rapid succession as you shyly reached for his hand.

“There is nothing to tarnish,” Gently, you set his large hand atop your hip, able to hear the sharp inhale of glee from the young wolf. “I — I want you, Cregan. I want you to touch me.” Tapering off into a hoarse utterance, you looked to him with pleading eyes; it was so easy for him to submit.

Steeling himself, Cregan allowed his confidence to flourish, then and there. You wanted him, craved his embrace — there was nothing to fear, no reason to believe that he’d disappoint you. Bending to kiss you, he let his digits flex over your flesh, as downy as a bed of feathers.

No satin or silk compared to that of you, perfection incarnate, living and breathing within his grasp. Permitting the kiss to linger, deepen, he only withdrew to ask a very important question. “Where, wife?” Such an innocent word threaded with a blistering desire — your knees shook.

A hitch formed within your throat, and Cregan was desperate to please you, even if it did not outwardly display itself. Excitable, you reached for his other hand, fingers barely able to encircle his wrist, guiding it towards the oozing heat between your legs.

Through furrowed brows and bated breath, he exhaled when his calloused digits met the damp heat of your nethers, jaw beginning to pull taut. The sensation was a foreign one, and he coaxed you closer, muscled arm keeping you aloft as his thigh gently pushed your legs apart.

He watched you closely, to see what you enjoyed and what you disliked, digits beginning to push past your petals. Met with the rushing warmth of your arousal, Cregan touched you with exploratory caresses, fingers gently gliding over your cunt.

Eliciting a moan from your mouth, he let his lips dip to your throat once more, sluggishly allowing his digits to slide along your slit. You gripped his biceps, anchoring yourself there as he warmed you in ways you didn’t think possible, head clouded by the haze of desire.

His lips returned to the bend of your shoulder, the velvety hollow between that and your throat. A string of kisses manifested there, digits continuing to caress over your slit. This rhythm was agonizing, your body screaming with ecstasy.

As his digits brushed over the pearl of your cunt, you immediately tensed, gripping him like a vice as you released a shaky sigh. “There.” You encouraged, feeling his mouth begin to still, focused upon his new charge.

Quietly, Cregan looked to you, hues a glacial storm, glittering with affection as he circled back to your clit, fingers brushing over the bundle of nerves once more. The way your hips had jolted forward, nails digging crescents into his biceps — he reveled in your reaction.

Acting upon instinct, your hand had dropped, traveling to the laces of his trousers, earning you an exhilarated look. He did not protest in the slightest, hand stilling enough as you began to sheepishly tug at the leather ties, a shiver icing your spine.

“To bed.” He uttered, preferring if you were comfortable and situated for all of this, and you nodded in agreement. Even as you shyly crept toward his bed, you didn’t want to stop your previous ministrations.

Slipping onto the impressive expanse of furs, you sank into pelts of bears and wolves alike, gaze expectantly finding his own as he paused, finishing with his breeches. Sluggishly, he stepped from his clothing, which had all felt rather cumbersome, restrictive.

The sudden flurry of nervousness flooded your countenance when you saw all of him; butterflies erupted within your belly, gooseflesh crawling over your frame. There was nothing small about him, from his indomitable stature and bulk of muscle to his cock, now fully erect.

Choking at the sight, you began to wonder how it would all fit, how it worked — though, you trusted in him, trusted that he would be gentle. It was to be expected — a man of his impenetrable stature likely had the assets to accompany it.

As Cregan joined you, the frame of the bed rustling in protest to the newfound weight, you swallowed the growing lump within your throat. His bulky physique had swallowed you whole as he moved to lay over you, blanketing you in his warmth.

It was his turn to become shy, chewing at the inside of his cheek as he deliberated on what to do next, palms firmly planting themselves on either side of your head. His cock twitched at the sight of you, beautiful beyond compare, resting beneath him with a sense of uncertainty.

Able to hold himself aloft well enough with one forearm, the other returned to previous ministrations, fingers finding the warm slick between your legs. He inhaled at the sensation, brows creased in concentration.

As your visage blossomed with an obvious delight, you wanted to even the score, reaching for his cock as it prodded against your belly. He grit his teeth together when you first touched him, initially shy as could be, nearly hiding behind your lashes.

The softness of your delicate digits wrapping around the girth of his cock made him swear beneath his breath, forehead resting against yours. In a pleasurable tandem, you exchanged caresses, his fingers languidly circling around your clit, burly physique spreading your legs apart.

Gazes met, a fire ignited — he was quiet, but the rapture within his eyes was unmistakable. Lips clamored for one another, a hushed moan floating from your mouth, hand continuing to stroke in rhythmic motions along his length.

The weight of disappointing you had withered away entirely, leaving only a sense of newfound devotion, desiring to please you in the way that you deserved. Cregan’s chest reverberated with a low grunt as the pad of your thumb circled over the swollen head of his cock, eliciting a sonorous groan from him.

He feared that if he carried on, he might not have been able to hold himself together. As his mouth claimed yours once more, the kiss disarmingly tender, infused with passion, he felt your body arch into the friction of his hand.

Waning embers pooled over your flesh, turning it to some incandescent shade, captivating him completely. The heat from the hearth mattered little to you, replaced by the comforting warmth of your new husband, whose body bent to you just as yours did him.

“I will be gentle, I swear this to you.” Cregan swore, tone resolute and laced with want, baritone rattling your insides with a flush of bliss. His cock pulsed within your palm, and he nearly bit at your lip, resisting the wolfish urge to do so.

Between sweeter kisses, he let his fingers toy with the pearl of your cunt a moment longer, wanting to bring you such bliss before the act itself. Nervousness continued to swirl within him, a fear of hurting you still lingering as he planted a kiss to your brow.

“I need you,” You hadn’t expected the words to float so effortlessly from your lips, and yet, it felt right to say it. Cregan’s countenance bristled with yearning, carnal fantasies taking root as he imagined filling you with a babe. “Cregan, please.”

Smitten and endlessly flustered, you nearly shrank beneath the intensity of his gray-hued stare, throat bobbing as he swallowed. His roughened palm stroked along your thigh, and he knew where to insert himself, but what came after?

It was easy to envision you swollen with his child, his new Lady of Winterfell, carrying his heirs, a maiden worthy of his worship. Cregan settled between your legs, adjusting his position, the head of his cock brushing against your slick petals.

A sharp gasp punctured your lungs, hands holding onto his biceps. Both his virtue and yours dangled by a mere thread, tantalizing as he angled himself to the best of his ability, reeling at the sensation of your legs squeezing at his hips.

“Are you certain?” Despite the breathy cadence of his inquiry, he wanted you to be well-prepared before he continued. Fingers twisted into the thick furs beside your head, forehead ghosting above yours, wisps of chestnut framing his countenance.

With a nod, you prepared yourself for what would likely be discomfort, hopeful that it would devolve into bliss after some time. “Yes.” You sighed, gaze innocuous, completely and utterly charmed by his gallantry as he eased his hips forward.

Cregan carefully watched your face, searching for signs of discomfort as his cock began to push into your tight cunt, which clenched around him already. A low cry of pain tore past your lips, attempting to suppress it for his sake — he was so very well-endowed.

“We do not have to continue.” His response was instantaneous and apologetic, brows furrowed together as his hips stilled, and you shook your head. Cregan deliberated, wrestling with himself as you encouraged him through wanton moans, knees squeezing at his waist.

“N—No,” Whilst your protest seemed weak, you meant it entirely. The stretch was certainly discomforting, but it wasn’t agonizing — you hoped to grow accustomed to it. “I wish to continue — please, Cregan.” Your pleas to keep going were reluctantly answered.

Admittedly, he felt overwhelmed by you — the tightness, the sensation of your cunt around his cock, the feeling of your body nestled against his own. He exhaled, hot breath fanning over your countenance, his expression just as doelike as your own.

Your neediness made his blood run hot, and he nodded, sluggishly resuming his pace. He continued to tilt his hips forward, cock feeding into you, inch by inch. Cregan felt the desperate bite of your nails clutching into muscle, leaving behind angry crescents.

A trembling breath escaped him, muscles flexing around you, caging you in against him. His stalwart nature had crumbled completely, lips gently pressing against your jaw in an attempt to soothe you, hips slotting forward until he had sheathed himself within you.

He did not move, allowing you time to adjust, content to lay there and pepper your flesh in plentiful kisses. One hand clamored to the nape of his neck, fisting at his chestnut tresses as you eased out a shaky exhale.

“Are you alright, wife?” Gods, the title — it made your belly churn with liquid heat, coalescing as arousal, heavy between your thighs. If it weren’t for Cregan’s reassurance and caution, this might’ve been rather distasteful.

Fortunately, he was perfect in all ways imaginable, crooked bridge of his nose inhaling a gust of your saccharine scent. You made sure to nod, his stillness becoming more of a hindrance than assistance. “Mm,” You moaned. “I am.”

The more time he gave you to grow accustomed to his girth, the more relaxed you became, no longer coiled like some furled lioness. As you let yourself become light, floating, the sensation gradually became pleasurable for you.

Cregan’s lips twitched into a threadbare smile; you took him so well, enough that it made his heart swell with ardor. Coaxing him in for a kiss, your lips met with a startling fervor, and he began to move, hips sluggishly rolling forward, ensuring that he was exceedingly gentle.

His cock filled you completely, a stretch that would take you more than just one night to adjust to. Your maidenhead was gone, your cunt tight around his length, pulling him in again and again. He took care of you, soothingly caressing your thigh as he held it within one palm.

Gods help him — he began to understand why so many men had talked of this carnal bliss, and it only made him ache for you all the more. Sharp grunts accentuated each of his thrusts, ensuring that his pace was careful, letting the pleasure build.

Cregan’s breathing became heavier, somewhat labored as he consummated your union. Each roll of his hips held meaning, beyond the creation of an heir. It was tenuous with newfound feelings, a burning sentiment he felt for you, ardor that had grown into a fire.

It was you that had reached for his hand, fingers interlocking above your head, pressed into the downy pillows there. It filled you with molten heat, slick cunt aiding in his ministrations, hips urging into yours with a simmering friction.

His name fell from your lips like some sacred prayer, whispered into the heat between bodies, distance nonexistent. The pliant peaks of your breasts had brushed against his muscled chest, your other hand gripping his bicep like a vice.

It was driving him mad, the way your cunt constricted around his cock, the way in which your back arched from the furs, chest brushing against his. Cregan grunted, jaw set and brows furrowed in concentration as he kneaded into your thigh, something to alleviate his tension.

He was so burly, a thick wall of impenetrable muscle that seemed to envelop you entirely, shield you from everything else, from all harm. It made you feel protected, comfortable — as if you had nothing to fear.

Strands of chestnut stuck to his temples, flesh glittering with perspiration from the exertion of lovemaking, coupled with the heat of your chambers. Clinging to him like a drowning woman, you savored the slow, sharp snaps of his hips, urging into you.

Cregan’s cock throbbed within you as he sought to spill his seed, face against yours, lips occasionally connecting in a series of passionate kisses. Everything felt incredible, in ways that you couldn’t comprehend — it was ecstasy, it was pure bliss.

The pinnacle of your pleasure was dancing upon the precipice, feeling his thrusts become a touch invigorated. Even still, he never once devolved to roughness, never strayed from his sluggish pace, made to feel all of you.

Wanton moans and low, thunderous groans echoed between you, inhabiting the warmth that crackled there, foreheads nestled together. Perspiration licked across your frame, permeating against your spine as your legs squeezed him like a vice.

As you called his name, Cregan grunted, the sound sudden and intense, attempting to restrain himself for just a moment long — and he was exceedingly unlucky. His hips urged forward once more, cock pulsing with an incessant ache as he spilled himself inside of you.

There was certainly intent behind it, filling your womb with his seed, desiring to see you round, lovely and full. Even if it did not take, he suspected that the opportunities would present themselves in the future. A shudder passed through his spine, feeling your cunt clench around him.

It was your release that followed suit, a white-hot tidal wave of ecstasy that made you see stars, moaning against his mouth as he cradled you close. Your interlocked fingers had tightened, bodies still craving one another, insurmountable heat making you delirious.

Seed oozed from your cunt, a sticky smattering that painted both your womb and inner thighs, your own nectar intermingled. Cregan heaved an exhale, letting his brow press snug to yours, mouth connecting in a tender kiss.

As his gaze found yours, you felt your features simmer with warmth, breath beginning to still as you regained your composure. The moment had stretched for an eternity, content to bask within his presence, lips curling into a demure smile.

The young wolf was wholly enamored, furrowed brows beginning to slack as he turned, bringing you with him. As he laid down, he let you rest atop him, bodies molding together as if they were two puzzle pieces, intended to fit.

Cregan himself seemed caught in the afterglow, dazzled by you, by all of this — unexpectedly so. A thick, muscled arm wrapped around you, palm splayed across the small of your back as he felt you shift, head nestled atop his chest.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He uttered, his worry thinly-veiled as he cradled you close, concerned that he’d caused you harm. “I apologize if I did — I did not realize …” Cregan trailed off, features painted with a scarlet pallor.

Admittedly, you would be sore — with your maidenhead surrendered, the ache between your legs was both pleasant and painful. “You did not,” You assured, letting out an awkward clearing of your throat. “Do you wish for me to go to my own chambers, now?”

Bewildered, Cregan’s head perked up just enough, head canting to one side. “Why would I have you leave?” He questioned, noticing the way you became embarrassed, as if you had said something completely foul.

“My own mother never shared chambers with my father,” You prompted, flustered as Cregan shook his head, bringing you closer, as if that were even a possibility. Already flush together, flesh to flesh, heart to heart, there was not a sliver of space to be found. “I only thought …”

“I understand,” His Northern timbre was soothing, reassuring as he caressed along your spine, pressing a chaste kiss to your crown. “I would prefer it if you stayed here — though, should you tire of me, I will accommodate you.” Cregan rumbled, nearly smirking at your fit of giggles.

“I do not think I will tire of you — not anytime soon, as it stands.” You mused, and that seemed to amuse your Lord-husband, who let out a brief huff as he soon swaddled you both within the furs.

No longer did you fear the Northern chill.

[pinkslipshit]

18+

it's no fun, admitting you find the chase exhilarating. playing nice, when jason wants nothing to do with you. the flowers must've sent him right over the edge; you let the calls, all five of them, go to voicemail. maybe you'll call him back tomorrow, maybe you won't.

that's the thing about you, the thing jason might hate the most: your shitty fucking attitude. maybe that's exactly what gets him going, too, how hot you get him, hot enough for jason race to your apartment from the other side of town, nearly break the fucking door down.

"think you're cute?" smiling, you can't help. he couldn't possibly expect you not to, not when he's being such a baby, not when he's so fucking hard it's straining something painful against the denim of his blue jeans, "you tell me you never want to see me again, so what the fuck is this, huh?"

"an apology," you tut, condescending, knowing it'll piss him off, "what're you doing standing outside, anyway?"

jason allows you to pull him inside by the collar of his shirt, sneering like he might actually do something for once, stand up to you, "i missed you, baby," all for it to fade away easy, when you say those three little words.

he heels easy, like a big dog, "don' lie to me," jason's eyelids droop, flutter, "don't." you laugh, easy, it all comes so fucking easy, palming his crotch, breaking his fucking heart, "i'm not, jason, baby, please... when have i ever lied to you?"

sitting him down on the couch, you straddle jason's lap. how he thinks to let you lie like this, you don't know; you suspect he's not thinking at all, not when you're being so sweet, so nice, letting him hump your hand, "missed you too." "yeah?"

jason moans, sweet and girly, "so much. so much." there's no letting him off easy, there never is, not when you're forcing him to open his bleary eyes, "you're mine, aren't you, jason? you'll never leave me, because you love this. you love me."

his hands crowd your waist, as jason discovers climax with a deep, guttural groan. he ruts into your crotch, before you're forcing him to come to a still. it comes as easy to you, as it does him, release, soaking your flimsy shorts in a sticky patch of slick, "i love you, jason."

jason cups your neck, bringing you to the safe harbor of his awaiting arms with a shaky sigh. he's warm, always warm, smelling of smoke and gunpowder, notes of something musky. "don't lie to me, baby. don't wanna hear it."

[honeysucklewatr]

keep it on | jason todd

filthy smut with some plot | spookylist | masterlist

Synopsis: Jason’s been telling her for weeks to avoid taking the alleyway shortcut on her way home from work. Alas, she doesn’t listen, and Jason, being the ever-caring boyfriend, follows her. To teach her a lesson, of course, he tries to scare her, but little does he know, she loooves a man in a mask.

a/n: This was more filthy than anything I’ve ever written (…and posted). I apologize (no, I don’t).

Gotham was always a dangerous place.

She knew that, of course.

After finishing her shift at the local diner, she walked down the roadside, careful to stay in the line of sight of others. But it was nearly midnight, and the streets were deserted because people were too afraid to walk at night amid the petty crimes.

Jason told her time and time again to be careful where she walks at night and to call him if she had any problems or even felt worried. He was always worried about her walking home.

Not like Jason takes good care of himself, cause she was sure he didn't even know how to properly. Hell, before they met, he would hardly take care of even gunshot wounds, telling her, "Babe, it's literally just a graze."

She sighs at the thought just as the autumn breeze pushes her hair from the sides of her face. Approaching the alleyway that cuts her five minutes towards her shared apartment with Jason, she contemplates it.

Before dating Jason, she would always walk through this path, not caring for what consequences it might bring because, like she told Jason, “I carry pepper spray.” Jason wasn’t amused by her singular defence and started putting handguns around her apartment to have “real protection,” as he calls it. He stopped doing that when he just slowly moved so much of his stuff into her apartment that he never left.

Her foot reaches the entrance of the alleyway, and she hesitates again, hearing his voice in her head, sternly saying her name.

“Do not take that damn alleyway if I’m not with you. I’m fucking serious.”

Squinting at the light barely illuminating the path, she clicks her tongue. She was so tired, it couldn’t hurt to take it just this once, right?

“Ah fuck it, whatever.” lowly muttering to herself as she swings her purse and walks into the alley.

It spanned the entirety of three apartment buildings and was lit up by two flickering lights coming from either end of the pathway. The middle of the passage was barely lit up.

As she approached the middle of the path, the sound of glass breaking from behind her made her jump. The light from the entrance she just used was shattered; now, the only other light came from the end of the pathway. Trying to focus her eyes on the entrance, she slowly walks backward, squinting her eyes for any figures in the shadows.

Thump.

Her back makes contact with something hard and plated. She turns to face it, the figure, and lo and behold— it’s the Red Hood, her boyfriend.

Her Jason.

“Shit Jay, you scared me.” He puts a hand to her arm, steadying her and taking her purse from her hand.

Her eyes shamelessly dropped, the illumination of his hard abs protruding through his suit. The ambient lighting of the alleyway highlighted every part of him perfectly, the dips of his suit looking like they were straining against him. Like they were aching and his movements seemed as if it was moments away from ripping through it.

A tiny smirk forms on her face, and she presses her legs together tightly.

But he was clearly too fuming to notice. She could practically see the annoyance through his mask, the black and red suit on his chest rising and falling.

“You should be fucking scared!” voice muffled and rough through the mask, “why would you walk through here alone! I told you to be in semi-public areas at the very least!”

Holding her hands up as if in surrender, “Alright, fine, you did tell me,” eyes ghosting over his red mask as her bottom lip was caught between her teeth. He was so hot, all suited up and worked up, but she knew she shouldn't say it now. At least not yet.

He’s shaking his head, pulling her closer to him, chests pressing against each other, “yeah, I did as you didn’t listen to me. It’s like you don’t care about your own safety sometimes.”

“Well, I got a big bad boyfriend patrolling the streets at night, why should I be afraid?” batting her pretty lashes, clearly teasing him.

He softens just a bit, just for her, letting out a half-chuckle and half-scoff, “I’m not always gonna be around for that. Tonight is Exhibit A; you could have gotten seriously hurt.”

Feeling entirely bold, she leans further into him, face just over his masked one.

“Well, maybe I want you to.” A knowing grin plastered on her face.

He stammers and says her name, “Did you get into my Fifty Shades stash? Look, babe, I only read those cause you know I like to be informed.”

She laughs at his miscalculation, “No, Jason, I didn’t read those—" shaking her head in a double-take, "wait, you read those?”

"Uh— cause I like to read and it was on sale at Indigo— Whatever, that’s not the point!”

Giggling, she puts a hand to his chest, the plate beneath her hand hard, “Okay, fine, sure it’s not. But it doesn’t change how good you look in your suit, Red Hood.”

He relaxes his rising chest from next to her, “You mean you like me when I look like this?”

She nods, grazing her fingertips across his chest and up his shoulders, “Yeah, baby, you’re the Hood for everyone but me. Why don’t you keep your mask on when we fuck sometimes?”

Choking on his spit, his hands gripping her hips tighter, “Jesus, you can't just say things like that, you’re gonna make me cum in my pants like a damn virgin. Don’t be saying things you don’t mean.”

Immediately, she responds, running her pointer finger along the waistband of his suit and tugging, “Oh, I meant it. I want you to keep it on for me.”

He stills for a moment before pouncing, hands working like this was routine. Pressing into her like this was what he was made for. She didn’t even realize when he’d unbuttoned her blouse til he was groping her through her bra.

“That’s more like it,” she giggles, watching his eager hands move over her chest.

He chuckles as he squeezes her breast and coaxes a sharp gasp from her. His hand clamps over her mouth, still gloved.

“Bite these off, I wanna feel you.” Pulling his hand away just enough so that she could bite and drag the leather off.

She works slowly, taking her time before letting the glove fall to the ground.

“You’re a damn temptation, you know that?” pushing her up against the brick wall. The shock of the cold made her gasp as his hands moved diligently, pulling her skirt up to her hips, “You wanted me to take you like this all along? Why didn’t you just say it sooner, pretty girl?”

Before she could even get a word in, he was hiking her legs up around his waist, keeping her flush against the brick. His ungloved hand spans up her back, grazing over her spine and sending shivers up.

One thing about Jason Todd was that once he knew what buttons to press, he’d be sure he touched them every time.

“I love you, babe,” he murmurs as his hands reach down to the ruined lace between her legs and run his thick digits through it.

He groans like it hurts as he ruts himself against her just once, letting her know he's there. She’s at a loss for words already, his hard bulge pressing against her stomach.

“Holy shit, you’re soaked already.” he rasps.

“Y—yeah,” pressing her head against the wall and looking up to the sky like it could help her somehow.

He chuckled back at her reaction, watching her face. The sound made his smug smile unmistakable beneath the red mask, as his thick finger spreads her wetness.

“God, I love you,” pushing just past the first knuckle into her.

"You keep, fuck, saying that." She's struggling to find the words in this position. His thumb rubbing at her sensitive nub, and he gasps with her, as though he was holding himself back.

“I know, but I can’t take my time with this babe, you're so—” his finger pushing all the way inside and past her wet folds.

She lets out a heavy sigh, quickly turning into a sharp whine as he pumps his digit into her. Another finger joins his middle one, and she leans her head into his neck. She’s gripping his shoulders for dear life.

“Oh. oh. my god, Jason,” moans becoming increasingly high-pitched.

His fingers were working deep within her like he just couldn’t wait. He hums at her as his thumb was rubbing desperate, tight circles against her clit. The pressure was building and building and—

He suddenly pulls his hand from her, and she whines at the loss.

His fingers move up between them, like he’s about to put it in his mouth, but he grunts at the realization that his mask doesn’t let him. Face inches away from hers, he brings his fingers, covered in her slick, to her mouth.

“Suck.”

Without a second thought, she so willingly does, parting her lips and wrapping them around his fingers as he pushes them just a little further than necessary. Because she knew what would make him lose it, she moans against his fingers with her eyes never leaving his. He groans through the mask, rough through his modulator.

“Fuuuck me— you’re so hot,” the sound that leaves him almost a moan. He’s pulling his fingers from her mouth and fumbling with his pants, yanking them down just to his knees, not wanting to waste any more time.

“Me? Jay, if you keep that mask on, I’ll let you do anything to me,” she rasps, watching his impatience boil over as he shoves his boxers down just enough to let his hard length slap against his stomach.

Hiking her legs up further, he hums in agreement. “Anything, huh?”

She whines at the feeling of him against her, grinding into him impatiently. “Y-yes, anything, Jay, please.”

At that confirmation, a hiss leaves him as he rubs the angry red tip through her folds. He was so fucking thick and hard, grunting through every inch he pressed into her. Her legs wraps fully around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back.

“Yeah, baby, yeah, my little slut. Make more noise. Let Gotham hear you sing for me, sweet girl.”

Her lips part in an O as he continues, rutting himself into her faster. Leaning down so his voice was right neck to her ear and whispering to her like it was secret.

"I am going to fucking ruin you for anyone else."

The sound of his heavy breathing muffling through the modulator made her moan, nodding her head in agreement and surrender. His filthy words with the anonymity of his mask make the heat rise in her stomach, fluttering between them like a vice. Clamping down on him and driving him to move further into her. He was so big, but the stretch was so glorious. The proximity between them, with the barrier of his mask, was making it all the more hot.

With one swift move, he pulls her hips down into his and bottoms out. The stretch was heavenly as he held her there for a moment before moving again. This time, without any buildup, just pure lust and desire, snapping his hips into hers on a mission. He’s groaning beautifully beneath his mask, the sound music to her ears.

Looking down and watching himself thrust in and out of her, a complete and utter moaning mess as he holds her against the wall.

“I’m sorry, baby,” thrusting into her, tits bouncing against him, “you just feel so fucking ngh—” movements growing rougher, “good, ah—shit—.”

Her moans are pornographic at this point, reaching the back of his head and pulling the bit of exposed hair poking out. Yanking his head back so he would watch her and she could see him.

See the Red Hood.

It’s like he understands what she’s doing and thrusts back in a little rougher, coaxing a cry of pleasure from her.

“Jason,” she whines as he holds her there against the alleyway, which he had told her not to go through. The sounds of skin against skin and filthy wetness surround them as he works himself harder.

"F—fuck, if you keep pulling my hair like that, I might just forget to p—pull out," choking on his moans like it was all just too much for him.

Like he wasn't the one rearranging her guts and reaching parts of her she didn't even know were possible. He was hitting every button that had been dying to be hit.

Now she’s pulling him into her further, ankles digging into his back dimples.

Sex with Jason was always good, and he was so accommodating for her, always getting her off first. But this? This was otherworldly. This was Jason and the Hood. This was her boyfriend, and the vigilante unhinged, and it was so fucking good.

She cries out again, the tension too much and finally, finally, the dam overflows. The rubber band of her orgasm snapped, walls fluttering around him. The feeling of her tightening around him, squeezing him while her other hand was still clutching his hair, it was all too much. His body spasms, and he spills hot inside her, as he pants like he'd run a damn marathon.

A few lazy rolls of his hips, and he pushes it all back inside, as if sealing a promise and secret that was only for the two of them.

The sound of his heavy breathing and chest rising against hers felt more domesticated this time, as though this time, she got every piece of him. Saw him for all he was: protector, lover, vigilante.

And fuck, Jason was so fucking beautiful. So damn gorgeous and chiselled that it felt sickening and cruel to have his face covered up like this.

Suddenly, she wanted to see just how ruined he was.

Her diligent fingers reach up and push his mask up just enough to uncover his lips, sweat dripping down the side of his cheek. She kisses him hungrily as he breathes heavily into her. He hums into her lips, still fully seated inside her. Slowly, he pulls away, a wad of spit between them from just how feral this encounter was.

“Now, you’ll have another thing to remind you of this alleyway, and then you’ll stay away, yeah?” peering down at her still through the whites of his mask, condensation dripping from it.

The only exposed part of his face, his lips, were plump and pink as he gulped in breaths of air. She chuckles breathlessly, legs still wrapped around him.

“If anything, I’ll be taking it more often.”

@herejustforbuckybarnes @thewitchhofoz @sebastians-love @onlyjunisworld @houseofhyde @letterstoangel @your-everyday-weirdo @flockoff-featherface @bratsoldier @wandanatissuperior @glorpalicious @little-letti @metal-armed-muse @emmaiscool22 @yyiikes @mamacocha9 @taylordaughter @heldbybarnes @mfstargrll @sakiigami @ultrahoney @skitwantstaste @winterdvil tag, you’re it;)

[cosmictheo]

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 | adrian chase

( gif credits to @castledevil )

—summary: you despise adrian, and adrian adores you. it's as simple as that. until he saves your life. —pairing: adrian chase x female!reader —word count: 4.3k —warnings: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), smitten!adrian, descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, oral sex (female receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, adrian being THE consent king, some porn with some plot, body worship, pussy pronouns, praise kink, sub!adrian, adrian being a slut for the reader as he should be, blood, killing, shooting, mentions of injuries, yk usual peacemaker stuff

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

The first time you saw Adrian Chase, you thought it was a joke. No, not a joke in the sense that it wasn't real, but a joke that fate had pulled on you. The man in the Vigilante suit, who sang hair metal ballads in the car and dropped facts about owls mid-mission, was your new teammate.

Peacemaker trusted him, and you trusted Peacemaker, so naturally you really had no choice but to work with him.

His first reaction? Big, bright eyes flashing through his mask, and a fall to his knees at the sight of you snapping some criminal's neck.

Your first reaction? A sigh and a look that promised doom.

You, who were used to discipline and seriousness, couldn't understand how someone like him could be part of such an important operation. He had literally been one of the people who had saved the world from being dominated by a bunch of alien bugs.

He, for his part, looked at you as if you were the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life.

He smiled at you in that silly, genuine way that got on your nerves. He talked nonstop about things you didn't care about, his life as a vigilante, his intimate friendship with Peacemaker, his passion for birds.

“Did you know that owls can turn their heads all the way around?” he asked you one day while you were on patrol. “They can turn them like 270 degrees in a circle without moving their shoulders. Can you imagine if I could do that?”

You ignored him and kept looking through your binoculars. “I'm not in the mood to talk about birds, Adrian,” you said, your voice as cold as usual.

He didn't give up and tried to rotate his neck, very awkwardly due to his mask. “I could just rotate my neck like this and—”

“Adrian, please shut up,” you interrupted him, finally turning your head so you could look at him. “We have work to do. Stop being a fucking freak for a minute.”

He fell silent, and for a moment, you felt a little bad. But then you thought about all the times he had pissed you off, and you got over it. 

Still, it was strange. 

Despite your constant rejections, your constant unkind looks, he always came back. He always smiled at you. He always offered you one of his homemade cookies —which, much to your chagrin, were incredibly good.

He extended that extra special treatment to you and only you.

Adrian treated you as if you were the most important person in the world. And that, in a twisted way, made you feel like you were the freak in the situation. He adored you.

Although, deep down, you found him ridiculously cute. He was damn attractive when he shut his mouth and obeyed you in everything.

You would never accept it, of course.

Chris, on his part, tried way too hard to make you like him. Every time you guys hung out, he would mention how good of a friend Adrian was, how good he was at killing people, as if that would somehow impress you—which it did, of course—and how big his dick was.

He literally just mentioned it like that, without further explanation or any context, as if it were a piece of information you would be interested in knowing.

He took special care to pair you with Adrian for assignments, leave you alone together, send you to buy food for Eagly together. He was a kind of fucked-up Cupid.

“I don't need to know that,” you would say with disgust, trying very hard not to envision Adrian's dick.

And Chris would just nod his head, leaning in close to you as if he were revealing a top secret, “You need to know, dude. Honestly, I don't think Adrian likes sex that much. But his dick is big, I can assure you that.”

You didn't even want to know how he even knew that.

You didn't even like Adrian that way.

At least that's what you thought.

Until now.

You were on a regular night of surveillance; preventing a crime of some criminal gang that you had been tracking.

Everything was going well until the hallways filled with armed men, and a flurry of bullets struck near you. 

Before you could react, one of the masked men shot you in the shoulder.

You feel a sharp pain that shoots through your entire arm, and then blood began to flow.

“Shit!” you cry out, retreating.

Adrian, who had insisted —begged— to accompany you that night, turn around when he hears the scream. You can scarcely see how his eyes panic, desperately searching for you through all the chaos.

He moves faster than you had ever seen him move before.

Then, he throws himself on top of you, covering you with his body, and drags you to a safe corner behind a wall of boxes.

“You're bleeding!” he gasps, his voice tinged with panic.

The pain makes you grit your teeth and the way he looks at you knocks you off balance. “I'm fine, it's just a scratch.”

“It's not fucking a scratch!” he snaps, tearing off a piece of his suit to cover the wound. “You got fucking shot, Lynx!”

The use of your vigilante name makes you finally look at him, dragging your gaze away from your bleeding wound. You can see the concern in his eyes through his mask, and he doesn't have to take it off for you to know that his lips are pursed in a pout.

His touch is gentle and careful, which surprises you. The adrenaline prevents you from thinking clearly. You'd never imagine that Adrian would be so... gentle.

While he is bandaging your wound, another man peers down the hallway. Adrian pushes you further back. 

“Stay here!” he whispers, and without a second thought, he stands up to confront him.

The shooting intensifies and then you hear the sound of a chainsaw igniting, followed by a flood of screams of pain.

Just a couple of minutes later, Adrian appears in your field of vision, his suit covered in blood.

He looks so fucking hot that you couldn't even suppress the thought, in all the haze of hurt you are feeling.

“We have to get out of here,” Adrian claims, returning to your side. “you need a doctor.”

​You shook your head, the pain throbbing in your shoulder. “My car is a couple of blocks away. We can go there, but no doctors.”

He looks at you disapprovingly for a moment before sighing and help you up, supporting your weight against him. Together, you sneak out of the market, leaving the entire criminal gang slaughtered behind and the owner of the store with a horrified look on his face, calling the police.

When you reach your car, you struggle to open the door. Adrian gently pushes you aside and does it for you.

You sit in the passenger seat, feeling the sting in your shoulder with every movement.

“Where are we going?” Adrian asks, starting the engine right after you toss him the keys.

“My house,” you reply. It is the closest and safest option, although the idea of being alone with him makes you uneasy.

Adrian already knew your address, of course; he had been there several times, showing up with his homemade cookies, sometimes with new weapons to show you, and other times with clues about some criminal you were hunting.

The journey is silent, except for the sound of the engine, some Frank Sinatra album playing on the stereo and your ragged breathing. Adrian glances at you from time to time, his eyes displaying full concern once he takes off his mask and throws it on the back seat. You don't dare look at him directly, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and confusion.

“Frank Sinatra?” he inquires a in a teasing, incredulous tone, without looking at you. This time, it is you the one staring at him, at his side profile, the line of his strong jaw, the curve of his nose, the way his eyelashes barely brush his cheekbones with each blink. Looking at the undercut of his hairstyle makes your stomach turn. He certainly is so cute. “The most ruthless assassin I know listens to Frank Sinatra?”

He looked odd without his glasses, maybe even more gorgeous, which was ridiculously beyond belief that it was possible for him to be.

“I'm not a ruthless assassin,” you mumble, looking away from him and feeling your cheeks flush, suddenly hot all over. You assume it is because your body is starting to healing itself. Or at least that's what you want to believe. “And Sinatra is a classic.”

“He is, I guess.” Adrian snorts softly, looking at you for a couple of seconds before shifting his gaze back to the road ahead. “For old people.”

“What?” you ask, looking at him again, your eyes trailing over the bend of his nose from his side profile, feeling a heat spread up from the lower part of your belly as you picture all the things you could do with that nose. You clear your throat, trying to snap out of your trance and snap back to reality. “I’m not old.”

A smile curls on his lips as he turns his head to look at you again, his eyes gleaming under the subdued lights inside the car. His gaze is soft, and caring, and warm.

But even so, Adrian seems a little flustered and nervous, overwhelmed by your presence right next to him, your scent, your breath, your voice. You.

When you arrive at your house, he helps you walk up the stairs at the entrance, holding you firmly. Once inside, he guides you to the sofa, always holding you close to him and handling you with care, touching only the necessary parts. He does not allow his hand to wander.

“I'll go get the first aid kit,” he says, already moving toward the bathroom.

You lie back on the sofa, feeling tired and in pain. He returns with the first aid kit and kneels down in front of you, carefully opening the supplies.

He removes the makeshift bandage from his suit, his gaze fixed on the wound.

“I'm sorry,” he utters softly, with evident guilt in his voice. “If only I had been quicker...”

“Don't be silly,” you interrupt him, trying to keep yout voice quiet. “It wasn't your fault. And in fact, you prevented any more bullets from hitting me. So...” your voice trails off and you blush lightly, “you saved my life, Adrian.”

He looks you in the eyes, and for the first time, there is not a trace of his usual antics. Only concern and a tenderness that makes you feel vulnerable.

And he doesn't encounter the usual coldness and detachment in your gaze; no, this time he finds softness and closeness.

“And it's already healing. So don't be dramatic,” you add, trying to brush off the real gravity of everything you just said to him.

“Sometimes I forget you have those creepy powers,” he says softly, looking up at you from his spot right in front of your knees. “It’s so fucking cool... and scary as shit. And hot.”

Still, Adrian disinfects the wound with steady but gentle hands, bandaging it again with clean gauze. Every touch is delicate, every movement calculated. His closeness, his scent, his gaze, the soft expression on his face... everything blurs your mind and leaves you dizzy.

You feel vulnerable, but strangely safe by his side.

When he finish, his hands go down to your knees and linger there. The sheer heaviness of his touch and the way he looks at you as he kneels in front of you makes you gulp.

At that moment, you just know that his feelings for you are real. He really likes you. And he had put himself in danger to protect you.

A cold fear ran through you as you thought about what could have happened.

Suddenly, you realize you don't want to live in a world where you couldn't hear his off-key singing or his comments about birds.

“There you go,” he finishes treating your wound with a smile, his fingers caressing your collarbone before he pulls away from you.

Driven by a feeling you've never experienced before and profiting from his closeness, you take his chin in one hand, look him straight in the eyes, and kiss him.

Surprised, he just stands very still for a moment, then closes his eyes and kisses you back with a passion that makes you feel like you had never kissed anyone in your life.

Adrian kisses you as if he had been waiting and dreaming for this moment his whole lifetime.

When you separate from each other, Adrian's breathing is heavy, and yours isn't much better.

His thumbs caress your cheeks and his eyes drifts down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, with a silent question. He don't need to say it out loud really.

Adrian leans up again, close to you, this time deliberately slowly, his lips brush yours, his nose affectionately caressing yours, before deepening the kiss.

His kiss is hungrier now, more desperate. His hands moves from your cheeks to your waist, barely lifting himself up a little so he could be closer to you.

Both of you know it.

It isn't just a kiss; it is a declaration, a release of all the tension that had built up between you through all this time.

“This is only because you saved my life,” you whisper in between kisses, attempting to convince yourself more than him.

Adrian is ecstatic, kissing you as if there were no tomorrow, hungry and desperate, like a lion that had just been released from a cage.

A smile curved his lips, reddened from so many kisses, murmuring against your mouth, “I'll save you every fucking day then, if this is how you'll repay me.”

You try to suppress a smirk, your arms around his neck pulling him up, closer to you. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Shut me up,” he challenges you.

And you shut him up with a kiss, letting yourself be carried away by the thrill of the moment and your instincts, your body acting on its own, controlled by a carnal desire that you had tried so hard to suppress.

Until now.

“Let's go to my room.”

Adrian obeys instantly, picking you up as he stands up and carrying you to your room, without even taking his mouth off yours. It is the perfect excuse to press you against him, his hands running over your thighs and backside, grinding against you with every step he takes.

“Can I touch you everywhere?” he asks, desperate and pleading, detaching himself from you for just a moment, his hands holding you under your thighs, pressing you against him and making you feel the prominent bulge in his crotch.

“I thought you already are,” you reply, panting for air, your hands around his neck, your fingers lacing through his hair.

His voice lowers sheepishly, very uncharacteristically in him, “I'm a gentleman. Consent is very important.”

You offer him a little sincere smile, kissing him again, “Yes, Adrian. You can touch me everywhere.”

He gently lays you down on the bed, positioning himself directly above you, his lips moving down your jawline, pressing a wet trail of kisses across your neck.

“Fuck yeah,” he hisses against your skin, right after placing a love bite near the junction of your neck and shoulder—the one uninjured. “You don’t know how much I’ve dreamed of having you just like this.”

His mouth suck, his teeth nibble, his lips press kisses, claiming your skin as his own.

“You feel much better than any dream.”

“Adrian,” you moan out his name, arching your back as you feel his mouth reach your collarbone.

He pauses for a moment, lifting his head to look at you, allowing you to see his fully dilated pupils. “Can I take this off?”

You nod instantly, biting your lower lip.

His hands settle on the fabric of your suit on your chest, frantically opening it and tearing it apart, always careful not to cause further damage to your wound.

That makes you gasp.

“Adrian!” you disapprovingly shout his name.

But he is mesmerized by your tits, which bounce free once he ripped your suit open, your nipples perking up at the feel of the cool air in the room.

“Motherfucker,” he curses, leaning down further to kiss one of your breasts, making you sigh. “You're not wearing a bra under this suit?”

“No panties either,” you confess with a hiss, closing your eyes when you feel his wet tongue leisurely flick one of your nipples.

“You're such a freak,” he whispers against your skin, mesmerized. “You act like a good girl, but you're so bad, hm? You do bad things like this and still act like little Miss Perfect.”

You bite down on your lower lip, holding back a moan as he sucks on the nipple, his fingers playing with the other, giving both of your tits his undivided attention.

“Adrian...”

“If you keep saying my fucking name like that, I'm gonna cum,” he rasps against the warm skin between your breasts, moistening it with his saliva. 

He begins to descend further through your body, kissing your stomach, marking your skin with kisses, bites, and hickies. He is opening your suit as he roams your body, igniting your skin and sending shivers throughout your spine.

Adrian pulls your ruined suit down over your legs so he could remove it completely, taking advantage of the opportunity to kiss your knees and ankles before moving back up.

“Did you know this would happen?” he asks against the skin of your inner thigh, forcing your legs apart when you try to close them, suddenly feeling embarrassed by the way he looks down at you, adoringly. “Or you'd go for someone else?”

You try to smile through all the desire, offering him a crooked, lazy smile, “Don't be jealous.”

He gaze at you with eyes hazy with desire as he pulls himself up and begins to take off his suit with trembling, clumsy fingers.

“I'm not fucking jealous,” he mumbles, watching the way your eyes drift down his body, passing over the width of his shoulders, his pecs, his abs. 

“You're staring,” then he remarks the obvious, trying to conceal the way he puff out his chest to look even bigger. With the movement, a silver chain hanging around his neck shimmered under the dim light of the room.

“So are you,” you snap back in a broken whisper, feeling your cheeks flush. 

And of course you are cheking him out.

He is fucking ripped. 

And so big that even his bulge under the fabric of his white briefs looked massive once he strips off the lower part of his suit.

He is so hard that it looks painful.

So what you had been hearing was real, so fucking real.

“Can I eat you out?” Still, he asks, eager to make you feel good, as he shook his head, causing a couple of curls to fall messily across his forehead. “You're so fucking beautiful, holy shit. I need to taste you or I'll actually have a stroke.”

Adrian return to his position between your legs, his hands delicately caressing your thighs as he waits patiently for your response, your consent.

You look down at him with half-closed eyes, your head clouded by the desire to reach any kind of pleasure.

He is carefully placing your legs on his shoulders, staring in awe at your pussy, dripping wet and so ready for him, when you click your tongue, “Can you stop talking and just get to it, Chase?” 

“So mean even when I got you fucking-- dripping for me,” he quietly says, looking up at you once more just before nestling between your legs and leaning close to your cunt, his warm breath and the raspy tone of his voice makes you clench around nothing. And he just gawked, smiling as joyfully as if he were standing at the gates of heaven, wide open for him, “Pussy is so pretty too, look at her— fuck, you're soaking wet for me, baby"

The pet name makes you swoon and fucking fold. 

“Adrian—” 

Your voice chokes off as you feel his tongue trace your slit, scooping up all the arousal that is leaking out of your hole and savoring it as if it were the most delicious meal he had ever tasted in his entire life.

The sounds of his mouth slurping and licking your pussy flood the room, so filthy and messy that it makes you feel a heat wave from head to toe.

You can't control the way your body yields to him, as if your whole life had been longing just for this moment, as if tailor-made for him.

A righteous and sloppy suck on your clit has you promptly reduced to a trembling, whimpering mess.

One of your hands lands on his head, fingers sinking into his curly locks and pulling them, drawing a hoarse groan from deep within his throat.

The vibration against your cunt has you rolling your eyes back.

“You smell so good,” he hums into your splashing pussy, which is throbbing harder and faster, your heartbeat pulsing right against his lips. He can feel it. “Cum on my tongue, baby. I want to drink everything this pretty pussy has to give me—”

But your hand on his head tugs him back, detaching him from your clenching hole.

He looks up from between your legs with squinted eyes, his lips, drenched with your own arousal, curl into a pout.

He looks so pussy drunk and pathetic for you that you could cum just by watching him looking like that.

“Oh, baby, don’t be mean now—”

You interrupt him, your thumb lazily stroking curls away from his forehead, “I want to cum around your dick, Adrian.”

Your words leave him dumbstruck for a few seconds. And the next second, he's peeling off his briefs as fast as a flash, and the next he's climbing on top of you, nice and slow.

He leans down to kiss you, preventing you from staring in awe at his dick, now held in his own hand, so hard and angry red that it has you drooling, “Holy motherfuck, that has to be the hottest shit I’ve ever heard in my entire fucking life.”

“Put it in, Adrian,” you whine, begging for him, squeezing your eyes closed and arching your back for him, looking for any kind of friction that helps you gett off, “Please, baby—”

The pet name rolls off your tongue so naturally, lace with so much pleasure and warmth that it had an immediate effect on Adrian, who fucking whimpers, kissing your lips sloppily.

Even so, he has the strength to stop and look you in the eyes, all flustered, “I didn't bring any condoms— fuck”

“No? Why?” you ask in a choked, whiny voice.

He looks at you with a face that conveys puzzlement and hopelessness, “Because I’m on patrol. I’m supposed to be fighting, not fucking—”

You interrupt him again, kissing him once more and staring straight into his eyes, “Fuck me raw, Adrian. I don't care. But fuck me now.”

And he can actually feel himself melting against your body, you can sense how he's trembling right under your fingertips, squeezing his shoulders as he presses his forehead against yours.

He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of your skin, pumping himself as he lines up the plump tip of his cock at your entrance, teasing it along the wet folds.

“I'll be gentle,” he promises, breathing shakily, though his hips tremble as if he might lose control at any second.

“Don't be,” you correct him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. “Fuck me. Hard.”

The growl he lets out when he hears you has something animalistic, primitive about it. Adrian finally pushes himself inside you with a slow but powerful movement,deeply carving a way into you.

“God, you're so tight...” he cries out, his eyes tightly shut, as if the pleasure is too much to process. He's only halfway inside your squeezing pussy. “So fucking warm— I'm gonna cum, damn it—”

“Don't even think about it,” you cut him off, digging your nails into his shoulders to force him to open his eyes and look at you. “Hold it for me, yeah?”

Your words set him on fire. Adrian begins to move, erratically at first, then with more force, each thrust slamming you against the bed. You you scratch his back, pull his hair, grasping any part of him you can hold on to, as the wet sound and rhythmic thrusts fill the room.

“So pretty...” he hiss in a broken voice, choking on his own whimpers and kissing you between each word, his hungry mouth tracing your neck and jaw, drooling on your skin. “So pretty for me— fuck, sweetheart.”

He's so dizzy with you, overwhelmed that everything is you, everything around him. Adrian is in love, thrusting into you with a force that makes you gasp, moving with raw desperation, as if his whole world depended on making you feel good. Your moans mingle with his panting, with the dull thuds of his skin against yours, with the creaking of the poor bed shaking under you.

Your legs squeeze him closer to you, trapping him inside, and when your nails dig into his back, Adrian almost splits the air in two with his broken moans.

“Can I— Can I cum n-now?” he asks like the good boy he is.

“Do it,” you whisper, already losing yourself on the edge of climax. “Cum for me, baby”

“W-where?”

“Inside,” you whine, frantically gasping for breath, feeling like the world is shrinking and slipping away from you with every thrust Adrian pushes into you, the tip of his cock hitting that spongy spot over and over. “Mhm! --Fill me up”

The rhythm becomes wild and brutal until your orgasm overwhelms you, making you cry out his name against his mouth. Your walls squeeze him tightly and Adrian can't hold back any longer, spilling inside you with an agonizing moan, torn apart by pleasure.

The sounds of your two fluids mixing inside you are so obscene that they make you tremble.

Adrian stays right there, trembling, and still cumming inside you, twitching occasionally, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing as if you had been running for your lives.

“Holy fuck, babe,” he groans, cracking his eyes open to look at you, a goofy, lazy smile curving his lips. “We made a fucking mess.”

Very carefully, he pulls out of you and your pussy squelches, gaping and oozing with your mixed cums.

“Look at that” he coos, lifting himself slightly off you so he can look down, gazing at your abused pussy in awe.

“Adrian—”

Too late, he already has one hand reaching down between your bodies, swiping his index finger through your folds, scooping up the fluids and plunging them back into your cunt, making you pant from the overstimulation.

When he makes sure that not a single drop of his cum is wasted outside of you, he brings his hand back up, holding it to his mouth to savor the remains left on his finger, making eye contact with you as he sucks his index finger.

“Delicious” he delights, leaning down to kiss you, making you savor the mixture of the two of you together through his lips.

“You're so weird,” you whisper against his mouth, kissing him again.

Adrian flops down next to you on the bed, letting out a sigh he had been holding in his lungs.

“And yet my cum is still inside you,” he replies, smiling contentedly. His smile suddenly fades, as if he's come back to reality. “Wait, can you get pregnant from this?”

You snort softly at his worried face, your hand gently brushing his still-flushed cheek.

“People usually get pregnant like this,” he nuzzles close to your caress, looking at you in awe as you talk. “That’s why you have to go to the pharmacy and buy me the Plan B pill.”

“Did you know that swans mate for life?” he asks afterwards, out of fucking nowhere, pressing a soft kiss on your fingers cradling his cheek as he snuggles closer to you. “And that they die of love if their partner dies?”

“What’s your point?” you inquire back, looking at him with curious, gentle eyes.

It's the first time you are showing genuine interest in his bird facts. And he is so happy he could burst with excitement.

“We're like swans, babe,” Adrian replies in an obvious tone, affectionately intertwining his feet with yours. “Well, at least I feel like a swan. If you left me after this, I'd kill myself.”

[chaseadrian]

here the whole time

it's been the longest winter of your life, the longest time of your life, and when you decide to try and reunite the group for a weekend trip in the woods, Adrian is the only one on board. he already calls you every day, a weekend alone might not be the worst thing in the world. maybe. [MASTERLIST]

pairing: adrian chase x f!reader tags: 18+ ONLY, explicit, friends to lovers, weekend getaway, nip slip, light angst to mega fluff, caught masturbating, handjobs, blowjobs, adrian's a munch, facesitting, unprotected sex, happy ending, lowkey caught word count: 7.1k+ a/n: it's been a long two years. bye love u.

Nerves rattle your prickled skin as you trudge up to the old cabin, feet crunching days old snow. It wasn’t that you were necessarily scared to be in a cabin—alone, in the woods—with Adrian, just that you were scared to be in a cabin, alone in the woods—with Adrian. In the best of times, the team was a family of shelter dogs learning how to play for the first time, and sure, he was by far the least intimidating, but you were skittish anyway. Shelter dog and all that.

Things had gone mostly radio silent since Leota’s press conference, small concessions like a coffee with Chris here, beer with Harcourt there, phone calls and phone calls and phone calls with Adrian always. That was something you could count on, and as the weather chilled he ended up being the only one to jump aboard your pathetic reunion plans. Nothing seemed to be going right for anyone, and as the frosted door handle shot ice up your wrist, this seemed like just another thing gone wrong.

The cabin is quiet, lofted ceilings echoing your entrance, resounding silence feeling sinister in the quieting sunset. You’d discovered this defunct safe house a few years prior, coordinates on some outdated documents from an agency that ceased to exist in the revitalization of ARGUS and scuffle of superhuman bureaucracy. Once or twice a year you’d drop in to make sure it was, in fact, still safe. Sometimes you needed the weekend. When the world felt disorienting, this could right the ship.

You roll dusty sheets off and away from the furniture, revealing plump Tuscan Revival couches with tasseled pillows and wrought-iron tables inlaid with beige mosaics. It was a lovely little ritual, uncovering this time capsule, hearing the generator hum to life, figuring out the water pump yet again.

Stepping into the hot shower was a well earned reward, steam clouding the room, settling the tension in your shoulders. You cut past the sick swirl of disappointment in your stomach, knowing the team seemed disinterested in what felt, to you, like a huge gesture. The sensation curdled into a kind of warm seasickness when you thought instead about Adrian, the hours upon hours you must’ve spent listening to him on the phone.

“You call your mom this much?” You’d asked him once, eyes skirting a book you’d read before.

“No, why would I?” He laughed, “I see her at dinner every day.”

It wasn’t exactly a surprise, he did work a meager food service job and you’re certain those paychecks went straight to the Vigilante arsenal. Still, the shameless admission got your attention back to the conversation.

“Aw, wait, you live with your mom?”

“Yes.” Point blank, almost mocking as he continued, “All my Vigilante stuff is there. What, am I supposed to transport heavy artillery to an apartment? That’s real smart thinking.”

“No, no.” You chuckled, “It’s sweet, actually, but is it the safest thing for her?”

“Did you hear me? Heavy. Artillery.” He raised his voice, leaving a beat between words, “I think there’s something wrong with your connection. I’m gonna hang up and call you back.”

“No—”

The memory made you laugh out loud in the shower, and you floated in and out of similar distinct conversations. The first time he made an objective statement about your good looks, when he seemed to know exactly what book you were reading for the fifth time, the surprise breadsticks left outside your bedroom window and the phone call that followed, feigned ignorance. You didn’t even have to pay attention half the time, but the longer your call history got, the more attentive you became without really meaning to. There was communion, companionship, conversations about nothing and here you stood, stomach flipping in anticipation over a weekend face to face after so long apart.

You were counting on the others to ease relations, neither you nor Adrian could be called socially adept in any scenario—he too chatty, you too sparse. Still, it was nice he came through, you supposed, no matter how harrowing his full attention may end up being. Nerves shake away the nice memories, and you turn the heat up, zoning out in the scalding stream until it turns cold.

Water pools on the floor as you step onto the stone tiling, terry cloth bathrobe loose around your shoulders, shaking moisture from your hair like a wet dog. You toss your dirty t-shirt on the puddle, scuffing your feet on the sleeves to dry them before daring to step foot on the decades old carpet. Who knew what kind of random viscera you’d pick up walking around here with damp feet.

The hallway upstairs looks out over the living room, and you lean on the loft balcony rail, head on your forearms. It was still quiet, snow falling in gentle wafts as the last slats of sunlight overlaid the house in golden stripes. A still moment like this was always inevitably interrupted by Adrian calling, and you instinctively turn your phone in your hand. You weren’t sure when he meant to arrive, and the safe house cell jammers kept you from even checking in.

What used to be peace now felt like loneliness without his voice as the punctuation.

—

You make your way to the bedroom closet where you’d left your bags, singing under your breath. It was probably overkill, the amount you’d packed, for just a weekend, but there was something about dutifully filling the dresser each time. A little sense of permanence where you’d scarcely ever find it, making this place something of a secret home.

You’re just squishing down the last of your shirts when a voice startles you.

“Wow, you’re being so responsible.”

You spot movement behind you in the mirror of the closet door.

“Jesus Christ, Adrian.” Turning to face him, you pull the lapel of the robe shut, crossing your arms, “Why didn’t you announce yourself sooner?”

He slides off the bed to walk over, shrugging, “You’re always telling me to stop interrupting you, I dunno. Hey, that was a nice little song you were singing. Cascada?”

“What? No, not every song is Cascada.” You search his face for any sign of faltering, some guilt, anything other than his immovable ease. There was nothing, just a pleasant smile and an indestructible sparkle in his eyes.

“You like Cascada, though.”

“Sure, but like, just the one song.” Running a hand through your damp hair, you catch a couple knots and turn away from Adrian to work on them in the mirror.

“Should I get into pajamas too?” He puts his hands on his hips, nodding in your direction. “I did only pack my sleep boxers, though.”

“Sleep boxers?” It was a lot easier to look at him through the mirror, to pretend your attention was split. You’re not sure you had the bandwidth to handle full force Adrian right now.

“Uh, yeah, sleep boxers. You think I fight crime in the same underwear I go to sleep in? That’s gross.” He tugs off his long sleeve polo, undershirt jumping up his torso, having come untucked as he stretches to wrest the buttoned collar over his head. Your eyes flit to the curve of his pelvis in the mirror, and you yank too quickly on a knot, hissing to yourself.

It did annoy you that he could be so ridiculous and still look...like that.

“I—just leave the undershirt on. It’s not strip poker in here.”

He laughs, a hand over his belly, “That would be some high stakes, one round and you’re donezo.” A pout overtook his lips, “Peacemaker would love it.”

You turn to leave the bedroom, shoving your hands in the pockets of the robe, “Yeah, well, they’re all too busy, apparently.”

Adrian trails behind you, “Have you heard from anyone lately? Adebayo let me bring her dog a hat last week, but there was yelling and she wouldn’t let me inside.”

“I—” You freeze in your tracks, and Adrian brushes against you as he stops short. You knew things were bumpy with her and Keeya, but they seemed to be on the right track when you’d seen her last. But then, when was the last time you’d seen her? You shake your head, continuing down the spiral stairs to the living room, “I haven’t seen anyone in a few weeks. Economos texts me which, is nice, but he’s obviously stuck at Belle Reve.”

“Tell me about it. He hasn’t answered five of my calls in the last two weeks.”

“Oh,” There was a sting, knowing Adrian’s attention wasn’t entirely yours, that perhaps Economos was a better sounding board for his nagging, if you were still trying to convince yourself that’s what it was, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m learning all these cool new things, and if you don’t answer, and Economos doesn’t answer, I’m just memorizing facts for what?”

“For the betterment of the self?”

“Yeah, right.” He laughs, and you spin on your heels at the base of the stairs to flick the mop of curls on his forehead.

“Whatever, at least your hair’s evolving. Looks good.”

“It does?” His heel slips off the last step, and you reach out for each other, your hand finding the base of his bicep, his hand clasped on your shoulder.

Adrian’s lifts his gaze from the floor to you, his mouth stretching from a startled ‘o’ to an incredulous smile, “Woah, imagine I just died.”

“You wouldn’t have died.” Taking your hand away, you roll your eyes.

“How would you know? Half a million people die from head height falls every year around the world.”

“Seems like bullshit.”

He raises his hands defensively, “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

“See, now me shooting you? Much more plausible.”

“Me? What’d I do?”

You give him a firm shove square on the torso, “I’m just messing around. Come on, I need a drink.”

—

Six beers and one pair of sleep boxers later, you’re both stretched out on your respective love-seats, three decks of cards dumped in a pile on the coffee table between you.

“Do you have uhhh 8?”

“Go fish.”

“Fuck.” Adrian has his wrist propped on the edge of the coffee table with his cards splayed, he’s laying on his back, and he strains to reach into the pile with his free hand, “We should just go back to playing War, Go Fish is just a game of chance.”

The night hadn’t been as awkward as you anticipated. You jumped between card games, Adrian rattling on about his coworker’s recent promotion, his latest busts, and all the times his mom asked to meet you. Two or three times you’d overheard her in the background of your phone calls, “Is it that girl?” She’d say, sweet motherly voice, and Adrian’s impatient response, “Yes, mom, stop.”

It was flattering to be “That Girl” to his mom, even if you were far from it currently and unlikely to ever be so. Adrian never talked about sex in his own words, only parroted anecdotes from Chris, who was apt to embellish. Even if, big if, there was some part of you that was curious about him from a non-platonic angle, it didn’t seem like that part of life crossed his mind. At least, not in regard to you.

The best you could hope for, the best you could achieve, was right now. Tipsy on a comfortable couch, the ego boost of winning something low stakes, and Adrian’s eager attention.

“War took two hours, no. Any queens?”

He grumbles, handing over three cards and following your hand as you lay out another set of four.

“Sevens?”

He hands over a card, “Maybe the team didn’t want to come because they didn’t want to just drink beer and get smoked in card games.”

“Hmph.” The statement burst your content bubble, and you throw your hand of cards in the pile, “If this is so boring for you, you can go back to Evergreen.”

Pushing up on the heel of your palm, you take your beer to the kitchen and slide onto a barstool. It’s lukewarm by now, but you take a swig and try to ignore the resurgence of disappointment. Try, at the very least, to let yourself settle into apathy.

“What? No!” Adrian leaps over the armrest of the couch, “I’m not bored, I just know those guys can be sore losers, sometimes. But not me, this is fun.”

“Look, Adrian, you don’t have to lie.” You rest an elbow on the back of the stool, spinning to face him. “Things are bad, I think, for everyone. I thought, maybe, this would be what we needed to get everyone back on their feet. Beer, stupid card games, time together. But you’re the only one who showed up, so, you’re just stuck here with me and really, you don’t have to be.”

“The last thing I am is stuck, I have all weather tires, and I called out of work to be here.” He speaks plain, as always, and you feel like a prick for putting your own insecurities on his intentions.

You’ve seen, more than once, how willing he is to build bridges with people who’ve pulled the rug out from under him. It’s a betrayal on your part to presume he’d ever be disingenuous with his interest, with his time. He won’t hold it against you, which only serves to turn your hurt to shame.

“I bet the other guys would be here if they could. Like, Economos, yeah he missed five of my phone calls but then he sent me pictures of five cool birds he saw.”

You mull in silence. You didn’t want to feel placated so easily. It was confusing and frustrating that you could bare a bit of your heart and have him treat it so kindly.

“I guess...maybe, I’m just more lonely than I thought without them.”

“Yeah, it was nice to be part of a bona fide superhero team. I gotta be honest—and don’t tell Peacemaker I said this—those corporate weirdos in the Justice Gang just seem like freaks.”

“Isn’t he like, trying to join them?”

Adrian laughs, leaning toward you and bracing himself on the stool next to you, “He has an audition in six months.”

“Audition?”

You both laugh into each other, your hand coming up to cover your face, Adrian readjusting his glasses as they slide down his nose.

Everything feels easy in this moment, whatever small hurt that blurred your brain has instead faded to a light delirium. Beer and nerves and the sight of Adrian’s wide smile all that you seem to need.

He straightens up, clearing his throat, trying to hide his grin, “I didn’t think I would ever say this, but it’s good Peacemaker isn’t here. I think he’s great in pretty much every single way, but he doesn’t respond well to playful banter like you and me.”

You sat in the statement for as long as was reasonable. ‘Like you and me.’

How nice, you thought, to have a mutual dynamic. So often you were just bouncing Adrian’s words back at him, deflecting his attempts at deeper conversation with cavalier witticisms and sometimes downright mocking. It was a pleasant surprise to know it’d become its own entity between you two, unique marker of the friendship you had apparently built. For a long time, you only ever thought of your connection to Adrian as part of the larger team that was the ‘11th Street Kids.’

You were grateful that missed phone calls weren’t ever held against you, that he showed up when it counted, that he seemed entirely unfazed by the moments when you really just had nothing to say at all. This was your easiest relationship to maintain, but you never wanted to use that as an excuse to take him for granted. It was some kind of accomplishment, you realized, having a relationship with him that existed independent of anyone else.

“I’m still gonna give him shit next time I see him.” You run a hand through your hair, hopping off the stool, “Wanna get back to the game? We can play War if you really want to.”

Adrian’s eyes flit to your chest, “Your robe is open. Is that on purpose?”

You cross your arms over your chest, “No!”

He looks from your chest to your face and back again.

“Why on Earth would I have my tits out right now? Stop staring.”

“I don’t know!” He takes a step back in defense, eyebrows raised, eyes closed.

You hasten to re-tie the robe, pulling the lapel as shut as you can get it, “That was real egregious, Adrian.”

“Hey, I’m a feminist! Your boobs are totally sick and all but it’s no different to me than when Pea—”

“You know what, on second thought it’s like 2 am, that’s call time for me. Goodnight, Adrian.”

“Wh—”

“Goodnight!”

You’re already to the base of the stairs by the time he opens his eyes again.

—

You were far from tired, the thick red comforter swishing against your body as you try and fail to settle into the mattress. The silk pillowcases frizz up the back of your hair, and the fan whirs off beat above you. The robe lay discarded beside the bed, abandoned in favor of a soft tee and basketball shorts you’ve had since high school.

You’d taken a moment in the mirror after shucking the robe, pondering your figure. Could your tits be called sick? You never would’ve used that word, or, really any word. Sometimes you looked in the mirror and made note of a deepened smile line, a rough patch of skin at the crown of your cheekbone, the ebb and flow of muscle tone over your time in and out of the field. Flattery descriptions of a body that did its job never seemed useful to you.

Sick, though, that was kinda nice.

Kinda nice coming from Adrian, his innate ability to speak to what he believed to be objective fact. Nuance and subjectivity weren’t his forte—anything he said was the universal truth as far as he was concerned. So, great, cool, your boobs were sick.

His voice wouldn’t leave you alone when you slid into bed. The brief, flickering giddiness before he realized it was just a slip up, the weight of his eyes as they pulled to your chest.

This lifestyle wasn’t conducive to long term connections. Sure, you could pull up to a bar and take care of yourself with some stranger, but to be seen in that way by someone you had an established relationship with was entirely alien to you. To look in the mirror and know Adrian’s truth was that you were attractive, that you had worthwhile tits, and more than anything that these things never seemed to eclipse your foundation, it left you with a strange marriage of discomfort and satisfaction.

You’d seen the way Chris’ attraction to Harcourt colored their dynamic in the team, and even though she’d come around to some sort of acceptance, it was still a steady through-line nobody could ignore. The last thing you wanted was for some overt sexual fascination to change the way people treated you.

It was a fear that one day they could, but a comfort that Adrian, at least, never would.

Hours passes in similar form, tossing and turning in half-sleep, listening to the faint music from the living room. Beer bottles clink every once in a while, and when the beer bottles quiet they’re replaced by the early birds waking up outside your window.

Sunlight can’t penetrate the thick Venetian curtains in the room, but you’ve given up on real sleep at this point.

Rolling out of bed, you duck behind the curtains and stare into the winter dawn. The snow is a pale blue, trees fading into the distance. There’s a robin perched on Adrian’s car, its orange belly bright against the powdered roof, head tilting before it flits off into the tree line.

The allure of fresh coffee pulls you from the bedroom, and you drag your feet down the hallway, admiring the steady snowfall from the lofted windows, a hazy glow cascading over morning shadows.

And then, less than a whisper from the living room below, “Fuck.”

You duck down to peer through the railing, squinting as your eyes searched for the source of the muted muttering below.

Adrian’s silhouette was faint, facing away from you and carved out by the thin highlight of damp biceps, a knit throw obscuring his waist. You can see the slow up-down underneath, one of his legs pulled up and to the side, his knee resting on the lip of the coffee table.

You grip the railing on either side of your head, crouching on your tip toes, stunned by the sight. His moans die as they reach his throat, but the choked whimpers shoot warmth through your body. It felt good—right—to be seeing him like this. A small intrusion, but harmless if he never knew, harmless if you kept it to yourself. Burned the image into your brain, kept it tucked away in your chest, in your stomach, between your legs. You fixate on the way he presses a hand through his mess of hair, the curve of his hips, up, into his hand, and the way he sounds when he says—

...Your name.

You slip and drop to your knees, bones knocking on the iron, and Adrian shoots up on the couch, sitting against the back and looking around. Fuck, alright, well, it’s fine. That’s one slip for each of you this weekend, one’s allowed. Tit for tat, might as well have some fun with it.

“Having fun?” You stand up and cup your hands around your mouth, leaning forward on the railing.

“Fun? No, what, you just startled me awake, you’re lucky you’re not an intruder.” He yawns and stretches on the couch, reaching for his glasses as you climb down the stairs.

“Yeah, talk about lucky.” Propping an elbow on the banister, you stare at him in the dark. There’s a bulb of sweat rolling down the side of his face, his curls stick to his forehead, and the blanket bunches over his waist. He knots a hand further into his lap, throwing his other arm back over the couch.

“Quite a sight first thing in the morning, I thought you might’ve been in trouble, what with the way you were calling my name.” You prod, relishing the flipped script, markedly one of the first times you can recall having him at a disadvantage. He was bad at being dishonest, cues of truth writ in his body language.

“No I wasn’t, I said...” He trails off, working his mouth into a few different rhymes and abandoning each one, “Hey, you should’ve knocked.”

He felt awkward for once in his life, and you swallowed the power like a stone, smooth and hard and weighty in your abdomen as you poked at him, “Oh yeah? On what wood?”

Excitement swirling in your head, you cross the living room to kneel in front of him, resting back on your heels, edge of the coffee table pressing into your spine.

“I—whoa,” His arm falls from the back cushion as his eyes follow you, vice grip on the blanket loosening, “Is this on purpose?”

You nod, and Adrian pushes up on his knuckles, posture straightening against the cushion, the pale glow sculpting every tendon in his neck.

Pushing up on your toes, you knit your fingers into the blanket and tug it down his lap.

He watches with innate curiosity, but you shy away from the eye contact, leaning down to his thighs to press kisses to either knee. His breath catches, and he re-situates a hand on the couch, fingertips digging into the suede upholstery.

“It’s okay, Adrian.” You grab his hand, bringing it to your lips and pressing his thumb against your bottom lip, teeth parting as his other fingers situate against your chin and he pushes into your mouth. The pad of his thumb presses into your tongue, and he shudders as you bite down, scraping back over his skin.

Before you can move, Adrian hunches forward to meet your lips with his, swallowing your mouth in a furious kiss. It’s messy, teeth bumping, noses smashed, but it settles into a firm wash of sloppy tongues and exalted breath. His hand curls around the back of your neck, fixing into your hair, and he gives you a slight tug upward.

You climb into his lap, breaking the kiss to hover over him, admiring the glossy, far-away look on his face. The hand against your neck grazes down your back, playing at the hem of your shirt.

“Can I see your tits again?” He traces a finger from the base of your spine around front to your bellybutton, grabbing at your hip on the way.

“Go on.” You settle onto his thighs as he pulls the shirt over your head, his mouth ducking to envelope your nipple, free hand palming over the other. His tongue circles the prickled skin, groans vibrating from his throat, breath hot and sticky as he leaves behind wet kisses.

“Fuck, fuck.” Adrian mutters, sucking a hickey between your breasts, “Thank you, this is so—”

“Sick?” You finish for him with a laugh, and he slides forward, slotting your bodies together. A quiet yelp escapes your lips, and Adrian spatters kisses up your neck, whispering behind your ear.

“Helpful.” He kisses the base of your jaw, his hips hitching against you, hands firm on your hips, “I can picture you clearly now.”

You let your head fall back a moment, grinding down onto his pelvis, shivering as his mouth drags down your throat. If ever there was a second that you had him at your mercy, it was long gone by now.

“It really was an accident.” You slip a hand between your bodies, pawing the erection over his boxers, fabric slick with precum sticking to your palm.

“Oh, I believe you.” He spreads his legs further, sliding one out from under you, gently prodding you to get comfortable over his thigh.

Bracing yourself with one foot on the carpet, you drive your forehead into his, fingers wrapping around his erection as he encourages you to grind into him. Your nails dig into the couch behind him, the rhythm of your hand on his shaft faltering as heat builds in your cunt.

Adrian pries two fingers into your mouth, sliding to the back of your throat. Spit pools over your tongue, slicking up his fingers as he pulls them out and closes his hand over yours, forcing you to keep rhythm on his cock.

You let your eyes flutter closed, let yourself fall into his shoulder, rutting against him until you can feel the fabric of your underwear soaking through. You bite down into his neck, and he cries out in surprise.

“Shit, sorry, did that hurt?” You pull back, running a thumb over the mark.

“Yeah,” He nods, but the grip on your hand tightens, “It was really hot, though. Just, lemme—” He yanks his shirt over his head, hand coming back to grab at the back of your neck, guiding you back in, “There. Full access.”

You kiss at his cheek, nipping the corner of his jaw, pausing your own pleasure to focus on how taut he grows under your hand. His Adam’s apple hums beneath your lips, and as you regain a steady rhythm both his hands find home on either side of your face, bringing you back to his lips. His thumbs crest over your cheekbones, tongue breaking into your mouth, all spit and hungry kisses and the firm knotting of fingers and strands of hair.

Squeezing the base of his shaft, you swallow down his heady moans, bringing your hand up to the underside of his tip, thumb flicking over leaking precum to slick up the bulb of his cock. Adrian chases your mouth as you force yourself back from the kiss, and the desperate parting of his lips lights up your body with a giddiness you’re not sure you’ve ever felt before. You placate with a thumb in his mouth, yanking the boxers down and away as you drop to your knees.

His eyebrows knit as he closes his lips around your thumb and you close your mouth around him, sliding your lips down to his base and licking stripes back up the length of his shaft, salt and sweat on your tongue, free hand coasting up his abdomen. The muscles flex beneath your palm, and you moan onto his cock, bobbing slowly as he loses his composure entirely.

You can feel him struggling to hold back, letting your thumb fall from his mouth with a string of expletives. His hands stay at his sides, white knuckles cratering the suede fabric.

A pit forms in your stomach at the absence of his touch, the part of you that admired his attempt at chivalry was overwritten by furious need. Your cunt aches, a breeze in the cabin cooling the marks and moisture he’d left behind on your tits. Chill wanting eats at your entire body. You swirl your tongue over his head, feeling him up, hot flesh straining over tense muscle.

“Hey, um, I’m—if you, fuck.” Adrian sputters, and a hand comes to the side of your face, encouraging you to pull away.

You meet his eyes, sinking down.

Warmth floods your mouth, and you can feel his cock jumping with the succession of his orgasm, waves of cum hitting the back of your throat.

Adrian pushes you onto the floor between the couch and the coffee table, cloaking you with his body like a weighted blanket, kissing into your mouth with renewed vigor. He mutters little platitudes between each kiss as he works his way down your body, you’re gorgeous and fuck, that was hot and scores more that you’re too dizzy to comprehend.

He pulls at your shorts, kissing at your hips when you hitch up to get them off, hands grazing back up your legs after he’s thrown the shorts off into the abyss.

This is more attention than you ever anticipated getting this weekend, even if sex was on your mind from the outset. Adrian liked to look at you, he talked a lot, and it was the most pleasant surprise that this attentiveness extended to the way his lips lingered over your body, the way he splayed his fingers out over your stomach and cupped you with his free hand, circling your entrance before a quiet, accidental ‘please’ from you concentrated the full spectrum of his focus to making you plead.

He latches his mouth to your cunt, lapping up your slit, saliva pooling on his fingers as he works you inside. It’s slow, almost torturous the way he presses his tongue against you. Subtle flicks of his tongue that just nick the nerves of your clit have you impatient, arching up into him. You knot your hands in his hair and fruitlessly signal your desperation. All you feel is the hard resistance of his teeth as he smiles up at you, pursing his lips to suck kisses between your folds.

“Fuck, Adrian, I need more.” You choke out, the back of your head falling heavy on the floor, a dull ache pale in comparison to the antifreeze in your veins. The shitty carpet yanks at your hair, and you stop pushing at Adrian’s head, opting instead to tug on the curly strands. “Please.”

A soft hum escapes his lips, and he circles the tip of his tongue over your clit, moving down as he presses it flatter against you. He breaks to nip kisses on your inner thighs, hands squeezing up your calves, “Would you sit on my face?”

“Anything.” You’ve given up the pretense of casual by now, if this ends up being just a one time thing fuck if you aren’t going to get everything you want out of it.

Adrian lays with his head nearly against the base of the couch, everything below the waist hiding underneath the coffee table, “C’mon.” He pats the cushion, a satisfied, dopey smile on his face, “Rest your head.”

You lean up on your elbows, laughing, out of breath, “What a considerate lay.”

It’s impossible to stop yourself from bowing down to kiss him as you crawl over, hand soft on his chest, heart jumping as he covers it with his own. This feels like an intimacy you aren’t used to, and you both settle into minutes of kissing, letting yourselves build from slow, languid kisses to exchanging the same air until you’re both gasping and he’s prodding you up to his face.

Sinking onto his mouth, you stretch your arms out over the suede, resting your head against your bicep.

He curls his arms around the back of your thighs and forces your full weight onto him, rocking your hips back and forth over the wet pressure of his mouth.

Your thighs buckle, hands scraping at the couch for something, anything to grab onto, and finding a throw pillow to dig your nails into. You bite the curve of the cushion, taking Adrian’s cue to ride his tongue. Grinding onto him, he groans and you crane your neck to see him tentatively stroke his tired erection.

“Don’t—” You try to speak between moans, but Adrian makes up the difference when you slow your hips, his nose prodding at you, a mess of saliva and arousal and you’re powerless to comprehend anything but the knot of pleasure that ties itself around your organs.

Breathing shallow, stomach flipping, you choke on whimpers. Where you falter, Adrian flourishes, both hands firm again on you, elbows spreading your legs apart, fingers splayed on either side of your hips. He drives you down, and you couldn’t decipher what he was doing with his mouth if you tried, but you know it sends rockets through you one after another.

Cacophonous moans crash over one another as your orgasm erupts into a cascade of shocks through your body. You can feel Adrian humming against you, his hands combing over your abdomen. He slides them around your back, tracing your shoulder blades, soft caresses converse to the filthy work from his mouth. He supports your weight when you start to lean away from him, his forearms a warm pillar of relief, fingertips curling over the slope of your neck.

Your breathing hitches, and Adrian keeps you on his tongue until you’re squirming away from his touch, the sensation curdling in your body, only an ache between your legs now. You fall away from him to the side, a leg splayed over his torso while you regain your composure, gaze fixed on the wobbling ceiling fan.

Adrian wriggles out and up next to you, pressing chaste kisses to the side of your breast before he flops onto his back, your shoulders sticking together, “I’m probably going to be hard for like, the entire morning, now.” There’s disbelief in his voice, no indication that you should necessarily do anything about this for him, just amazement to have experienced it at all.

Turning, you crane your neck up to kiss him, swallowing the whimper of surprise that falls from his lips as your hand coasts down his body and back onto his shaft.

“All that and you think I don’t want you to fuck me?” You tut, squeezing at his base, thumbing his head, making quick work to get his cock as hard as you had before.

“I didn’t want to get my hopes up.” He stutters, frozen underneath you.

You laugh into his mouth, and he reaches a hand up to your jawline, smiling with you before giving a quick pinch to your chin. His body envelopes you, knee slotting against your cunt, his other leg hooking underneath to spread you open.

“Oh!” Adrian hovers above you with a hand on either side of your head, “Do you need a condom?”

Leaning up on your elbows, you peck at his mouth, “If you need one, but I’m not fussed either way.” Grazing your teeth along his jaw, you bite into the sinew of his neck and suck a harsh hickey into the skin, whispering against him, “You can cum inside me for all I fucking care, Adrian.”

He buckles toward you, erection brushing the curve of your stomach, that beautiful, glossy look in his eyes once again.

You skate an arm around to his back, guiding his weight onto you, hips hitching up as you reach down and grab him. You slide the slick bulb of his cock along your cunt to line it up at your entrance.

As he fucks into you for the first time, Adrian tries to meet you with a kiss, but the sensation is overwhelming for you both, moans mingling in the space of your failed kiss, his hand coming around to cradle the back of your head.

The pressure in your cunt is overwhelming, every thrust hitting you with renewed sensation. He ruts against you, free hand on your hip, whining into your mouth as you tug on his hair.

“God, Adrian, you feel fucking ridiculously good.”

“I like—fuck,” He kisses your cheekbone, muttering, “I like how my name sounds when you say it.”

Overwhelmed as you may be, in this moment you feel safe more than anything. His hand cradling the back of your head, lips making their way over your face, the eager acceptance of your need and moreover the gentle encouragement of your affection. You would be lucky to have Adrian’s attention all the time, to be the person he always looked at like this.

He broke the moment to replace his cradling hand with a throw pillow from the couch, arms hooking underneath your thighs to hike you off the ground and fuck you on his knees. His eyes rake down your body, fixating on the way your tits bounce and the pout of your open lips.

You admire the glistening sweat on his abdomen, the tendons in his neck straining, glasses askew on his face. It’s a struggle keeping your eyes open, every pulse of pressure driving your head back into the pillow, screwing them shut, but you furrow your eyebrows to meet Adrian’s stuttering gaze.

“Kiss me.” You plead, and Adrian darts down to satisfy you, moaning as you wrap your legs around his lower back, hands on his shoulder blades holding your bodies together.

It’s never been so intoxicating before, kissing someone. Sex was sex historically, and kissing felt like a necessary introduction to casual intimacy where history didn’t exist as a crutch. With Adrian, this was every pause at the end of a conversation, all the times you let your touch linger as you stitched him up, one and a billion more moments of his eyes on you and yours on his and the rest of the world blurry in what felt, at the time, like nothing more than your usual social confusion. For so long, clarity felt like something you would earn when you figured him out, a well deserved reward for making strides toward camaraderie.

And clarity did come.

With his mouth on yours and the feverish bucking of his hips, you found yourself crashing into another hot white light, sensation burning behind your eyes, fuzzing your brain. You clamor for him, for the heat of your bodies together, for the security of his arms around you as spasms courses through you in electric waves.

Adrian obliges, sliding his hands underneath your neck and behind your back as you arch upward into the orgasm.

“I—ah,” He slows, “I can cum inside you? Really?” The words fall out of his mouth into a jumble of syllables, and he jolts as you whine an affirmative into his mouth.

“Yes, Adrian, please, please.”

Fatigue is creeping into your body, the lack of sleep catching up to the moment. Your grip on Adrian goes slack, but as he careens into his orgasm you card fingers through his hair, offering soothing platitudes as he fills you. There you go, and good boy, Adrian, and you feel so, so nice.

He settles onto your chest, arm heavy over your stomach, leaning into your touch as you smooth your fingers over the back of his hair, working out dried knots in the curls.

“That was...” You pause, bringing a hand up to comb through your hair and Adrian high fives you.

“Badass, definitely.” He presses a kiss to your chest.

“Yeah.” You laugh, yanking the discarded blanket over your bodies, “Totally badass.”

“This was a good idea. We always have great conversations, and it was sweet that you wanted to do a whole weekend of them, but you certainly can’t do that over the phone.”

“Well, you can do a version of it.”

“Yeah, but it’s not as fun.”

“Definitely not.” Pausing, you look down at him, “Does that mean you, um, want to...hang out more?”

“I would love that, I’d also be down to have sex more.”

You scoot to meet his face, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips, “Yes, I’m sure we can make that work.”

“Good, cause those are once in a lifetime tits, I’m not even sure my memory would do them justice.”

Laughing, you wipe exhaustion from your eyes, “I didn’t sleep at all last night, I’m gonna make coffee.”

Adrian sits up next to you, stretching his arms up, “I have sugar packets in my car. I’ll grab them.”

“Don’t worry about it, I have sugar and cream.”

“Mmm,” He grazes a knuckle over your cheekbone, shaking his head, “They just taste better in the packets.”

“Suit yourself.”

You both yank on clothing, and Adrian runs a hand over the indents left on your skin from the harsh carpet, shuddering at the texture.

As he trudges out the front door in a big winter coat, you hear a muffled, “Oh, hey guys!” from outside.

You tip toe to the door frame to peer out, expecting him to be greeting a squirrel or maybe a flock of birds by his car.

“Look who made it!” Adrian notices you as you notice them.

The entire team, sans Economos, sitting irate with their collars buttoned halfway up their faces.

Harcourt is the first to get up, “You guys having fun yet?” she says as she turns to offer Adebayo a hand.

Everyone stands in silence for a beat before Leota takes one step forward to embrace you in a loose hug, giving you a stilted pat on the back. She wipes her hand on her coat, forcing her lips into a smile.

“Surprise?”

[scarletttries]

Adrian Chase/ Vigilante Masterlist (Peacemaker)

Author’s note: I’ve been having a bit of trouble with tags lately so just resharing my different character masterlists :) Also I am rewatching peacemaker so please send me your Vigilante thoughts!

Comfort my Characters: a warm hug for Adrian (x) - Fluff

Write A Kiss: a kiss because the world is ending (x) - Fluff

Countdown to Midnight (x) - Smut

Speaking Volumes (x) - Smut, little bit of angst

Do you wanna taste it (x) - Smut, possessive Adrian

A Rare Night Off (x) - Smut

Three and a Half Date Nights: Date One (x) - Smut

Three and a Half Date Nights: Date Two (x) - Fluff

Three and a Half Date Nights: Date Three (x) - Smut

Three and a Half Date Nights: Date Three and a Half (x) - Smut

Message In a Bottle (x) - Fluff

Butterfly Fly Away (x) - Fluff, Angst

Till Death Do Us Part (x) - Fluff, Angst

Cry Baby (x) - Fluff, Angst

Bubble Trouble (x) - Smut

Consider Me Your Sexy Alarm Clock (x) - Smut

Do You Wanna Taste It (x) - Smut ( Plus Follow Up Comment (x) )

NSFW Alphabet (x) - Smut

The Punishment I Deserve (x) - Smut

NSFW Headcanon: Orgasm Denial (x) - Smut

NSFW Headcanon: Bites and Scratches (x) - Smut

Short posts:

Adrian overhears you telling Harcourt how badly you want him (x)

You distract Adrian when a guy at a bar buys you a drink (x)

Adrian calling you his best friend in the bedroom (x)

Adrian who you need to remind to breathe (x)

Reblogs always appreciated!

Like my Vigilante posting and want to support me and my writing? Then please buy me a Kofi ❤️

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

clark smut with reader that can’t focus while they fuck🙏

very much relatable. thanks for requesting 💌

CHATTERBOX 18+ ⸻ CLARK KENT

clark kent x fem!reader

WORD COUNT. 658 WARNINGS. 18+ only! general filth, pinv, reader can’t turn her brain off and clark being cute and teasing about it. mdni

Turning off your mind is always quite the struggle, it's never quite as easy as you hope it to be. It's like there's no off switch, your brain always seeming to be a rapid pingponging of thoughts, no matter the situation. 

Even now, when your mind should be empty, sole focus supposed to be on Clark with the way he looks and smells and sounds and feels; your brain is drifting back to a conversation you had in passing with someone at the train station, and then to the paper shopping list you made and lost soon after. 

Clark pulls his face out from the crook of your neck, lifting his head to get a better view of you below, your brows scrunched — but not in bliss like they usually are at a time like this, but instead focus. 

He lowers slightly, pressing a kiss to your lips. "Penny for your thoughts," he whispers against your mouth, the tip of his nose skimming yours. 

"I never found that shopping list."

"I did," he smiles lazily, a dopey grin tugging on the corners of his mouth. He presses another kiss to your lips, and the unrushed motion of his hips into yours subside, a lull occurring in the gentle fucking he's giving you. "It's on the fridge."

"You found it?" you ask, eyes ardently softening as you peer up to him. You slip your hands from around his shoulders and up to his neck, palms settling either side of it. "Where was it?"

"Next to your phone."

"You found my phone?" you ask, elated tone genuine.

"I did," Clark chuckles softly and shakes his head, the act small, like he finds the exchange endearing. He presses another kiss to your lips and another and another, searing warm acts of affection across your cheek, along your jaw and then down your throat. "Was by your shoes next to the front door."

You slide one hand up the short dark hair at the back of his neck, grazing your fingers along his scalp until you settle them around the crown of his head. You shake your head slightly, baffled by your own inanity. 

When he thinks your mind to be clear, he resumes the motion he had halted a few moments prior; hips winding into you, cock retracting and pushing back into you in a steady, easy rhythm.

Though that's the case, and Clark should've known that. But really, he got just too ahead of himself.

"Did you know lemons float—"

"But limes sink," he finishes off your fact, an entertained smile lining his lips — temporarily halting the small littering of kisses at the base of your throat. "I did know that."

"Did I tell you that before?" 

"You did," he nods and lifts his head, lining it back up with yours. "But I don't mind it," he kisses the tip of your nose, blue eyes gentle on you below.

"Did I turn the oven off?"

"No," he brings a hand to hold the side of your head, keeping you there. He chuckles. "I did."

"What time tomorrow—"

He dips in to sear a kiss to your lips, disrupting your question as he knew this to be a futile game with you. Clark knew of your inability to shut down your brain, and while he loved your natural inquisitive nature, he knew you needed a little bit of help quietening the contents swirling in your mind. If anything he was doing you a favour.

"No more questions," he shushes you softly, cooing into your mouth. "Focus on me," he whispers, timing it with a slightly more deliberate roll of his hips — cock sinking in that bit deeper.

And as he predicted, a whiney noise falls from between your lips, the blissed sound hindering the chance for you to ask anymore questions. And so he does it again, knocking another airy gasp from you; further disabling the thinking centre within your brain. 

⎯ ☆ ⎯