thinking about captain john price being built like this
oh… (18+, gn!reader)
in my humblest of opinions, the ‘strong dad bod’ is one of the sexiest fucking builds a man can have and i can’t stop thinking about them
especially if price had one *screams into my pillow like an idiot*
can you imagine how obsessed he’d be with draping his body over yours ?? like if you’re at the kitchen counter, or standing on your toes to reach something on a high shelf, price would be smushing himself right up against your back
big arms wrapping around your torso, large hands splayed over the softness of your belly, the warm mounds of his pectorals and stomach pressed firmly against your back
he’d tuck his head against your shoulder and kiss your neck and the side of your face, pushing more of his weight onto you
such a good hugger, so warm and cozy and safe <3 would also be used as a human weighted blanket and i’d hope to god he’d trap me beneath him oh my god
imagine running your hands up and down the smooth, fatty ridges of muscle that took up most of his abdomen and arms. the hair too !! ugh i’d just pet him for hours like a little cat lol
*sarah paulson voice* THE HORNY IS ESCAPING !!!
thinking about the feel of this kind of body draped over your back as he fucked you hard into the mattress, both of his hands on your hips and keeping you pinned so that he could rut into you like a man starved
mmm or his large hands wrapped around your legs and keeping them bent up towards your head while he drills into you, his own soft tummy rubbing against yours
price with a muscly dad bod like this would make you put your legs over his wide shoulders while he’s eating you out, one hand on the pudge of your lower stomach and the other squeezing the flesh of your arse
god his cock would be so fucking thick like don’t even get me started 😭
he’d stretch you open so well too, make you come almost one too many times before he’s easing himself into you and stretching you open with a moan of your name
or or you’d ride him and constantly running your hands and/or nails up and down the soft dips of his body, moaning as his cock hit so deep and almost made you come within mere seconds of sinking down onto his cock lmao
i’m so horny for price and this type of body oh my god i just can’t
How the other soldiers interact with Android!reader is so sweet 🥹🥹 I can’t help imagining the other ways they’d try to humanize and interact with us. Price setting out an extra plate and cup in the safe house, even if they stay empty, just to let Engine know that it’s welcome at the table. Johnny putting stickers (or even magnets??) when he can get away with it. Kyle always making sure Reader’s clothing and hair are in order, because even if it’s not ‘real’, he can still let it have dignity (and care)… AWW
Anon, you might be onto something and this is honestly cute as fuck.
I can imagine Johnny actually making the stickers he puts on them - draws them on his leave, goes through dozen options before he comes back with a grin and three pages of sticker packs. Johnny is always the first to visit you in the 'box', because he can and because you seem to like him there.
Because he likes that you like him there.
"Made ye something. Had some sleepless nights so..." He shrugs, sitting on the floor, legs criss-cross, showing off the stickers he drew while he could. Colourful and bright, he shows them off proudly. Shares that they won't peel away during combat because they are waterproof but if anything he has more. "Where do ye want them?" Johnny asks, looking back up at you, craines his neck as you twist in the wires to see the glossy drawings better.
"Will they hold onto metal as well?" You ask, instead of answering simple 'yes, sir, right away, sir, please proceed, sir' like you are itching to, red light flashing in your brain.
Only synthetic skin routinely gets ripped during deployments and sergeant put significant effort into making these.
"Donnae ken." Soap shares earnestly, tone cheerful as he tugs the cables out of the sockets to get you down.
Well, that's reassuring.
He doesn't account for which cables help your whole weight and almost gets you dropped on the floors, catching your body in the last moment - eyes panicked and shiny, chest deflating with a grunt because you are no feather.
Because Johnny forgot that you are a two hundred pound machine made to rip through concrete, but you blink at him - twice - your eyes shiny and not with panic, but with something else. Led lights, probably.
Laughter, maybe, Johnny thinks, heat crawling up his neck. Ghost will absolutely have his hide if there is a scratch on you because Soap got clumsy.
"Sir?" You start slowly, legs dangling over his right shoulder and Johnny can feel his arms embarassingly tremble from overextension. Oh, he is hitting the gym ASAP, this is pure humiliation, you've hiked with him on your back through snow-covered mountain and he can't hold you for two minutes. "Sir, you can let me down." You add when he doesn't respond and Johnny nods, face pink and Lord, thank you that Kyle is still on his way.
He'd never let Soap live it down.
"So...where can I stick them on you?" He clears his throat, letting you stand on your own, faced with another uncomfortable reality of being shorter than you like that. On the second though, fuck his arms, he could have just strained himself a little more so you'd have look up at him instead.
"Wherever you want, sir. Just not over the vents or outlets." You tilt your head when he immediately reaches for your face, pulling you even lower so he can stick the first sticker on. "And avoid my eyes, please. I need to see to remain as efficient as possible."
Johnny huffs out air at that, mumbles something about not meaning to poke you in the eye and focuses entirely on getting to work.
He works his way from the top to the bottom, finishing up all three sheets by the time you two are done.
There is an explosion on your shoulder and a skull on the side of your neck, and the gun on your hip and the birds on your legs.
There are stars on your stomach that he meticulously arranges in a pattern that he doesn't let you see, knowing full well the analysis will let you pull up the constellation immediately.
Johnny drew cats and paws, sketched down the thistle and even a unicorn's head, which he proudly attaches all over your right forearm.
The rectangal of Saltire he places right on your left shoulder, adding below a stag.
There is a dark 'Taskforce 141' that he doesn't know where to put until the very last moment, almost making the two of you late to appear for the meeting of the whole group.
As soon as Johnny steps in the mass hall with you in tow, Ghost stretches his neck, glancing back to ask something and stops himself.
There is a shiny golden star right in the middle of your forehead.
Johnny is beaming so wide, that Simon has to do a double take - swipes his thumb over the sticker, feels the edges of it as it refuses to get peeled off as he tries to catch onto it with his nail.
"Is it something obscene, sir?" You ask him after a beat, still letting him turn your face from side to side, inspecting any other possible additions.
Simon looks back at the golden star and the horrible handwriting of Johnny's that right in the middle of it says 'good job'.
"Do you have any more of these?" He probes instead of answering, tugs at the sleeve of what, he is pretty sure, is Garrick's jacket.
Look at you getting pampered left and right.
"I'm afraid it would not be very appropriate to undress in the mass hall." You respond, watching how Simon lights up, eyebrows flying up and for a moment his eyes are the same as the sun-dried wood is.
Warm.
"I want to see them later." Simon shares, honestly and this is as close as he is getting to asking for permission.
"All of them?" You clarify in a tone that makes him lean in, eyes unblinking and too sharp.
"Affirmative." Ghost nods after a beat, ignoring Soap's comment about being a dog.
You nod slowly, head twitching in his grip when Kyle gets distracted exactly for a moment to fix up your collar. His long fingers are warm when he grazes the side of your neck.
"The lad can watch too." Is also not a question, but still feels like one because Simon has the communication style that is more robotic than your own. "After dinner. My room."
You are silent for a moment, vents humming to cool down the systems and you know that Kyle is looking at the back of your head, his heartrate spiking up when you talk again.
Yeah, maybe you are getting pampered more often nowadays.
"Affirmative, sir." You say and Simon doesn't lean in any closer, only because there is simply no space to fill.
When his palm casually slides under your jacket, rubs at synthetic skin, there is a moment's pause that Gaz catches immediately.
Murmurs "excuse me, love", his own palm grazing your lower back too - finds the outline of another sticker there.
"Mate, have you given Engine a tramp stamp?" Is breathed out so flabbergasted, that Price coughs in his tea so hard, his bead gets wet.
When you glance back at Johnny, he does his best to pretend that the food he is staring down right now is the most interesting thing in the world. And his ears are pink
On my jealous/insecure GhostKyle x Reader agenda today in avian!au.
Allow me to offer you, painfully jealous Kyle because he seems to do everything right and you still seem to gravitate more to Simon than to him.
Yes, of course, you chase targets with Kyle and you share nest with him and you nestle in the embrace of his wings.
But he is gone for a few hours working and when he gets back Ghost already has you all cooped up in his lap, glaring at anyone who comes close and might distract you.
Ghost isn’t hungry, he is starved for attention and you give him plenty of it even if his hands grow out of his ass and he couldn’t make a proper nest to save his bloody life.
Annoys the shit out of Kyle sometimes.
Especially when he is tired and jittery and just wanted to cuddle you too.
Thinking even more about Simon actually clicking his tongue at Kyle once when the lad tries to nuzzle at your neck too, because that’s apparently ‘Ghost’s’ spot and apparently off limits, which is infuriating because all these time when Ghost hogged you to himself Kyle never said a word.
Kyle who catches Ghost actually cooing (who knew the man even could) for you once and doesn’t know what to do with humiliating jealousy that burns through him because you melt into the lieutenant immediately and this is not fucking fair, Kyle has been trying harder and Kyle has been doing more and Kyle wants you to melt into him like that too.
Only Kyle can hardly coo like a dove, Kyle can’t make the same soft sounds and can’t make himself soothe you like Simon does without even trying.
Bloody pathetic to get so jealous over such a small thing that his lieutenant can do, but Kyle has been trying so hard and he just wants you to acknowledge him like you do Ghost.
Not like he is some pestering bird that you tolerate but like he is a mate too.
Like he is your flock as much as you are his.
We haven’t circled back to hybrid aus for a long time, let’s fix that.
Consider this — avian!141 with gn!Reader.
Rooster!Johnny who has always been the biggest presence in the room, who grins too wide when he notices you picking up his shimmering feathers because you like what you see, don’t you?
Colourful plumage on his chest shifts from orange to dark red to almost black, soft feathers cushioning your head when he wraps you in his wings, huffing out air with laughter.
Rooster!Johnny likes his flock and likes his mates, but don’t you remember how territorial chickens are, m’eudail? He could just keep you all to himself, away from the rest and be happy to have all of your attention to himself. All the compliments and all the touches and all the love.
Would you like that? Tell him you like Johnny the best and then you can pluck another feather straight out of him, ‘kay?
Peacock!Price who hates the bloody tail and the staring it always brings, because he is not some show off.
Peacock!Price who is used to fold it down and keep it close because you can’t exactly be flashy in his line of work if you don’t want a mercenary to wait for you in your shower when you get back home.
But you stare at him, stubborn and brilliant, arms crossed over the chest and fucking hell, he didn’t want to impress someone that badly since he was a green lad.
And maybe that’s why his whole fucking monstrosity of a tail fans out — glimmers with the dozens of ‘eyes’, iridescent and embarrassingly obvious.
The worst thing is — he can’t make it stop, not when you look at it with such awe, because the bloody bird in him is stronger, because he is a weak man and wanted your eyes on him for entirely too long.
“Want a feather?” Price tilts his head, eyes heavy and heat climbing up his face when you quickly blink and look him back in the eyes. Actually dazed at the sight of his tail. “Can give you one. Evening, my bunk.” It is not a question or even an offer, but you bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling too hard and something in his chest is spilling warm and satisfied.
Maybe there are some perks in having this stupid thing.
Eagle!Kyle who likes following you around whenever he has time, who spots you at gym and helps you at gun range. Pokes and prods until you grumble ‘fuck off, Garrick’, his grin widening — his claws graze your skin through the shirt when he pats your arm and has the nerve to huff out ‘easy, mate’.
Eagle!Kyle who has the time of his life chasing you through the building during escape trainings, he is faster than you’d like him to be and quieter than people give him credit for. Kyle catches you 9 times out of 10, but in that 1 time he doesn’t, you’d think Christmas came early with how wide he is smiling.
Sweaty and tired, you both are covered in cement dust and scratches from where you took a tumble through the ruined floors.
Eagle!Kyle comes to your bunk more often than others realise, he brings his pillows and blanket — nestles next to you, ignoring the attempts to point out that it’s not a nest for him to construct with you. Kyle tucks you under his side, claws tracing the skin of your lower back when he slips his palm under your T-shirt. Strokes your back up and down, his wing draped over your shoulders to keep you close and warm.
Kyle knows that you will be out cold in a matter of minutes. Kyle knows that with how much you let him get away with, he’s got to be your favourite.
Mourning Dove!Simon who keeps watching you cuddle Johnny and gawk at Price and nest with Kyle.
Simon no longer has his wings, not after torture and almost dying, he doesn’t take his mask off and he rarely is in anything other than black clothes covering as much skin as possible.
Mourning dove!Simon doesn’t like pity and doesn’t like the uncomfortable vulnerability. He doesn’t like you having this much power.
He doesn’t like that out of the whole flock he can offer the least.
Simon’s feathers are very few nowadays, he isn’t plucking them out to win your favour and can’t offer you a chance to pick out the loose ones.
Simon can’t fly and can’t wrap you in his wings, can’t keep you all cocooned and warm.
Simon Riley doesn’t really tell you that he is even an avian hybrid, because really, with how deficient he is, it’s probably best you think that he isn’t.
Saves him the pity, the questions and the slimy disgust inside his own chest when he stares at the bathroom mirror and wants to pluck the remaining feathers out for good.
But dove parts of him still resurface when you sit between his legs, back pressed to his chest — head tilted so he can nose at your neck. It’s a subconscious thing at first when he starts nuzzling you there, less so when he rolls the mask up to mouth at your skin.
Barely a nibble, but you still make these short sighs, melting into him and wings he no longer has itch to clap against the back of the couch.
The quiet soft cooing his throat vibrates with when you put away your book and look at him, don’t catch him off guard only because he doesn’t notice them. Simon is too focused on your lips, his arms wrapping around your torso, nose nudges your cheek so you’d tilt your head more.
So he can catch your lips and then let go, nosing at your neck again, chest rumbling when you grow restless.
Mourning dove!Simon is shite at making nests so he lets you do it yourself and just weaves himself into it, content to have you as a weighted blanket — his chest tight when you nose at his neck too.
Doves mate for a very long time and here you are, courting him back like you actually mean it. Like you understand what he is now without the parts that made him appealing, that made him someone, that made him Simon.
There is only Ghost left and yet, you nibble at the skin on his neck, just to glance back up immediately.
You are waiting for him to coo again, he realises slowly, jaw pressed together tightly because do you know what it means or do you just think it’s fun?
But the dove in him has been starved for this, the dove in him likes you as much as Simon does and the dove in him isn’t insecure.
“Can I ask something?” You mumble in a vulnerably space under his jaw one evening.
Could rip the meat out there and he’d bleed out in a matter of minutes, Simon thinks lazily, his fingers slowly tapping against your ribs.
He doesn’t answer but just makes a low questioning hum, too tired after a long mission. Too happy to have you in the nest and you this affectionate.
“Are you a pigeon?” You ask after a beat and Simon stares up at the ceiling for a long moment, some avian pride in him offended because do you think he is a flying rat, love? Is that so? So you don’t like him, that’s what he heard?
“Do I look that awful?” He asks in return, palm now lying on your ribs, up close to your heart so he can feel it rather than know it is there and still beating.
“No, you are rather handsome.” You are so deadpan that is difficult to say whether you are pulling his leg so just to be sure, Simon scoffs and doesn’t say anything. “So not a pigeon?” You try again after a moment and he just makes a short noncommittal sound.
You guessed what kind of eagle Kyle is on the first go and then you assumed Ghost a pigeon? Seems like maybe you don’t like him enough to put in some real effort.
Mourning dove!Simon doesn’t really want to admit to his hybrid half. It doesn’t matter anymore in any case.
Simon is hardly anything other than what he is right now.
What’s the point of discussing the irony of his species’ name? What difference is it going to make if you know what he is no longer and never will be?
“I like your cooing.” You say suddenly and Ghost pauses, glancing down at you, his thumb slowly stroking the skin against your rib cage.
“Don’t be daft, luv, I don’t coo.” Simon says because he never did, only you nose at his throat again and it fucking vibrates with another soft cooing sound.
“Then I really like your not-cooing, l.t.” You breathe out in his skin and he can hear the smile in your voice.
Simon can feel it when you nibble at his stubble, enjoying yourself so obviously the bloody cooing gets only louder.
Mourning dove!Simon may no longer have wings or abundance of beautiful feathers, he might even not know a thing about making a proper nest.
Mourning dove!Simon can hardly call himself an actual dove nowadays, but maybe there are still parts that he can let you see.
And seems like you still want him with or without them.
I tortured @nightunite so you guys should suffer too a bit. On the same avian!141 theme, let’s talk more about mourning dove!Simon.
Imagine mourning dove Simon who was so distressed after surviving that torture that he started plucking his feathers out and they didn’t grow back so now he is stuck with the shame + self-loathing + ‘I did this to myself’ mentality that eats at him.
Because he is a bird and he really wanted to be enough to attract a mate once, but he doesn’t have what it takes anymore and he cannot compete with anyone from the TaskForce because they are all these majestic birds and he is losing more feathers the older he gets.
That’s lot of shame to unpack there.
And imagine younger post-torture Simon cooing to himself as a self-soothing thing because that’s what he used to do to calm down Tommy when they were kids.
Only Tommy is no longer there and Simon’s back really really hurts and he can’t feel his wings at all (he doesn’t know yet he no longer has them).
Simon who still hates when someone pats his back because the phantom urge to flap his wings is always there.
Gets only stronger when Reader comes around because he can never admit how envious he is of Kyle’s wingspan or Soap’s feathers.
He can’t admit even to himself that he is even more jealous of Price who have been to hell and back, and yet he still has that bloody tail, still has his pretty feathers, still has the wings.
And Simon has nothing.
Thinking about Simon who gets attached to Reader the first out of the entire TaskForce and spends a lot of time beating around the bush because he doesn’t know how to go about it.
Does he have the right to court them like a dove when he isn’t even a real dove anymore?
Would they even pay any attention to him?
Simon who is painfully jealous when Reader starts collecting all the feathers they get after preening Johnny because the lad shines like a new coin and you are so excited to have new shiny feathers.
And it is so fucking childish, but Simon wants so badly to have his plumage back so you can inspect his feathers with the same kind of awe.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Soap kicks off his boots, humming as he dumps the groceries on the counter. "Babe?" he calls out to thin air. Crickets. Just his own echo and a sinking feeling. His phone buzzes. Your name. He stares at the screen like it's cursed. "Wait-NO. OH SHIT." He picks up, already halfway out the door. "I LEFT YOU IN THE FROZEN PEAS." You're swearing. Rightfully. He's in his car breaking every speed limit like it's a rescue mission. When he finds you arms crossed in front of the checkout lane, he skids to a stop, flings the door open, and blurts, "I PANICKED.I THOUGHT YOU GOT IN THE TRUNK." Never lives it down.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Ghost unlocks the front door, drops the bags, and sighs into silence. Strange. You're usually chatting by now. He checks the Living room. Bedroom. Bathroom. His brows furrow. Then his phone rings. Your tone is deadly. "Care to explain why I'm sitting next to a vending machine at the store?" There's a beat of silence. "...Fuck." He turns right around. Doesn't say much, but floors it all the way back. When he finally pulls up and sees you tapping your foot with arms crossed, he gets out, sheepish. "...I thought you were quiet." You stare. He slips his mask up just enough to kiss your forehead. "I'm an idiot. Get in."
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Gaz is halfway through unpacking snacks when he realizes: he bought your snack but not you. The call comes in just as he drops a pack of Oreos. You don't even speak- just breathe. Menacingly. "Oh no," he whispers. "I'm the worst boyfriend ever." He rushes back, coat half on, shoe untied, muttering apologies to the wind. When he pulls up, you're sitting on the curb sipping from a juice box with murder in your eyes. "You left me." "I know!" he gasps. "I got distracted by the new flavor of crisps!" You don't respond. You just get in and buckle your seatbelt like a disappointed mother. He brings you takeout for penance.
John Price
Price is already halfway through making tea at home when your call comes in. He glances at the caller ID, confused." Everything alright?" "No," you hiss, "I'm still at aisle seven!" He freezes, slowly turns to look at the front door like it might reverse time. "Bloody hell." He mutters a curse and sprints back out the door like he' s back on deployment. When he pulls up to the store, you're standing there with the most unimpressed look he's ever seen. "You left me." "Temporarily," he tries. You raise a brow. He sighs, opens the passenger door, and places your tea in the cupholder. "Next time, you drive."
Gary "Roach" Sanderson
Roach is at home, fully stretched out on the couch, blanket on, snacks in hand, and halfway into a movie when his phone buzzes. He picks up with a chirp. You're silent. Then you whisper, "You forgot me." His jaw drops. He flips off the blanket, stumbles off the couch, and yelps, "WAIT WAIT WAIT I THOUGHT YOU WENT TO THE BATHROOM!" He's out the door in less than a minute, hair wild, keys half in hand. When he screeches into the parking lot, you're staring at him like the apocalypse just arrived. He jumps out, nearly tackles you in apology. "I'LL BUY YOU ALL THE CANDY. DON'T HATE ME?"
Nikolai
Nikolai is humming cheerfully, humming some old Russian folk song, flipping through radio stations when your name lights up on his phone. "Ah, my dove," he answers, still smiling. "Miss me already?" "I'm in the damn cereal aisle, Kolya." His smile freezes. "... You are not in the car?" The silence is deafening. He does a U-turn on a sidewalk. When he pulls up, you're there with a basket full of bread, unimpressed. He hops out, dramátically throws himself to his knees. Forgive me. I was so enchanted by your grocery choices, I assumed you had flown home by magic." You roll your eyes. He buys you pastries. All of them.
Alejandro Vargas
Alejandro saunters into the kitchen! whistling, grabs a drink, and looks around. Empty. He frowns. Then his phone rings." Alejandro," you say dangerously calm," where the hell am I right now?" His eyes go wide. "No. Nononono. No way." He's out the door like a hurricane, muttering apologies to every deity he can think of. He screeches into the store parking lot in record time, spotting you waving a baguette like a warning flag. "Mi amor," he breathes. "I am the biggest idiot in all of Mexico." "Agreed." He tosses you into a bridal carry dramatically. "Forgive me. I was bewitched by fruit prices." "Shut up and drive."
Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra
Rudy is the sweetest, which is exactly why it breaks him when your voice crackles through the speaker, "Rudy. You left me." "No ...no I didn't!" he gasps. "You were RIGHT THERE-I thought you went to the car!" You're quiet. He's panicking. "I'll be there in three minutes-don't move!" He drives like the damn store is under attack. When he pulls up, you're standing under the neon lights Looking like divine judgment. "Mi amor, I'm so, so sorry," he blurts, holding your face, checking for frostbite even though it's 70 degrees. You sigh. "You owe me dinner." He nods rapidly. "Two.No, four."
Valeria Garza
Valeria is on the couch sipping wine when you call. "What?" she answers. "Still in line," you growl. There's a long pause. She blinks." No estás aquí...?" Slowly, she lowers her wine glass. "Mierda." She hangs up, flings her coat on, and drives back like she's chasing someone. When she finds you by the self-checkout, she strides in like she owns the store. "They should've stopped me from leaving," she mutters. You glare." They?" "The cashier. The universe. You, for not jumping in front of the car." She loads your groceries, scowling. But later that night, there's your favorite dessert. And a muttered apology. Kind of.
Keegan Russ
Keegan locks the door, drops the bags on the counter, shrugs off his jacket-and pauses. Something's... off. Too quiet. Too empty. Then his phone buzzes, and your voice cuts in:" Hey. Know what's funny? I'm still in the store. "There's a long pause. Then a dry, barely audible"...Fuck." He doesn't even respond- just turns right around and bolts. When he picks you up, he doesn't say much, but the way he opens the door and won't meet your eyes says everything. Later, back home, he makes you tea, triple checks the house for you every 5 minutes, and deadpans, "I should get a leash for you." You throw a sock at him.
König
König walks into the house humming softly, groceries in hand, nervous energy fading- until he realizes he's alone. Alone. He left the most important person in his life somewhere. Panic sets in. His phone rings and he scrambles to answer. "Schatz?" Your icy tone slices through him: "You forgot me." His whole soul deflates. "I-I thought you were behind me! I didn't even scheiße!" He drives like he's in a race against guilt, murmuring anxious apologies the whole way. When he finds you, he fumbles to open the door, practically vibrating. "Please don't be mad." You glare, get in. Later, he doesn't leave your side for the entire night.
Nikto
Nikto is already on the couch when your call comes in. "Hello?" he answers blankly. "Guess who you left next to the deli counter." A pause."...Fuck." He doesn't even say goodbye -just hangs up and storms out of the house like someone just lit it on fire. When he pulls into the lot, you're leaning against the wall with the driest expression imaginable. "Took your time." "I was halfway through putting milk away." "And you didn't wonder why it was so quiet?" "I liked the quiet." You smack him with a baguette. He lets you. On the ride home, he mutters, "Next time, I'm buying a tracker for you." You grin. "Try me."
Krueger
Krueger enters the house like a ghost, silent and precise, unpacks the groceries and realizes... you're not here. His phone rings. Your voice is deadpan: "Did I vanish, or are you missing something?" He stares at the fridge. "Shit." He's back in the car in seconds, no words, just a growing hurricane of self- directed curses. When he sees you at the store entrance, arms crossed, he parks and walks up slowly. "I counted every single item. Forgot the one that matters." "That's cheesy," you huff. "You're lucky you're pretty." He doesn't argue. He loads your bag into the trunk, quietly buckles you in, and steals a kiss on your temple. "Never again."
Philip Graves
Graves is all cocky grin and country charm until you call and hit him with, "Guess who you abandoned in the pasta aisle?" He laughs, thinking you're joking. Then silence. Then your unamused "You're at home, aren' t you?" And his soul leaves his body. "BABY FM ON MY WAY RIGHT NOW." He speeds like he's in a NASCAR race, screeches into the parking lot, leaps out of the car like it's a rescue op. "I thought you were in the passenger seat!" You just squint at him, arms folded. I was grabbing parmesan."" That's on me Later, he plasters on puppy eyes, makes dinner, and grovels so sweetly you forgive him.
Farah Karim
Farah is already organizing the pantry when she realizes your shoes aren't by the door. She freezes. "No...." Her phone rings. "Farah," you say, "You left me." She's already grabbing her keys. "I thought you were right behind me shit, I'm so sorry, are you okay?" You're fine. You're mostly annoyed. When she pulls up, she's apologizing before she even gets out of the car. "Totally my fault. No excuses. Please climb in before I sit in public shame." You give her a hard time... for about five minutes. Later that night, she double-checks everything. Holds you longer than usual. "Next time," she murmurs, "I'll tie a string to your wrist."
Hadir Karim
Hadir has just kicked his feet up when the phone rings. "Hey-wait, why are you calling?" "Because I'm still sitting at the store." He blinks. "...What?" Then chokes. "I thought you went to grab something else! I- I left because I thought you were shit!" He runs to the car, no shoes, hoodie half-on, yelling at himself the whole way. When he finds you outside the store glaring like a deity of vengeance, he cringes. "Listen, mi amor, I made a mistake. A huge one. A biblical-level mistake." You don't respond. He drives you home in apologetic silence, and later, you find your favorite dessert in the fridge. No note. Just guilt-snacks.
Alex Keller
Alex has already poured himself a drink and flopped on the couch when your name pops up. He grins as he answers. "Miss me already? "No, dumbass, you left me in the goddamn store." His face freezes in horror. "Wait. Waitwaitwait. I LEFT YOU?" You hear a loud crash. "I JUST DROPPED THE ICE TRAY. I'M ON MY WAY." When he picks you up, you're fuming. "You waved at me on the way out!"" THOUGHT YOU WERE WAVING GOODBYE!" He practically body-blocks the cart you're
holding. On the ride home, he insists you sit shotgun while he plays your favorite music and begs for forgiveness in increasingly dramatic accents.
Kate Laswell
Laswell is scrolling emails and sipping coffee when she notices the eerie stillness. Then she realizes-no footsteps. No voice. No you. Her phone buzzes. "Kate." "Yes?" "I'm still at the store." She slowly lowers her mug. "...I am officially a terrible person." She picks up her keys, all business, but when she sees you waiting at the curb with narrowed eyes, she chuckles. "In my defense, I assumed you were in the car because you're always in the car." You scoff. She opens the door. "You can be mad on the way home, but at least do it where there's heating." Later, she gives you a smirk and says, "Never again. Scout's honor.
Vladimir Makarov
Makarov sets the groceries down, leans against the counter, and lights a cigarette- completely unaware. Your call comes in." Where the fuck am I, Makarov?" He exhales. ...Still at the store, I take it." "DING DING DING." He chuckles. "Consider it survival training." "Consider yourself single." He's in the car in five seconds flat. When he sees you, arms crossed, staring him down like you might throw him into traffic, he shrugs. "You didn't text lassumed you could teleport. You slam the passenger door harder than needed. "Idiot." He only grins." But I came back, didn't I?" You hate how fast he gets forgiven.
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Lyonel Baratheon x wife!reader x Dunk
Rating: Explicit (MDNI)
WC: 3.5 k
AKOTSK Masterlist
Requests Open
Tags/Warnings: Threesome, bi!Lyonel, bi!Dunk, mentions of past Lyonel/Beesbury, anal, oral, fingering, nipple piercings, polyamory, bathing, everyone loves Dunk, no beta we die like Beesbury
A/n: Happy Pride! This won the poll, and I love bisexual Lyonel. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to any tag lists.
Summary: Ser Duncan accepts your husband's offer to join him at Storm's End, and a deep bond blossoms between the three of you.
A chilly wind picked up, making you wrap your burgundy cloak tighter around you. The litter was prepared, caravans readied, and everyone was eager to depart, but Lyonel lingered for a bit longer.
"My lord, we should ready to depart," Raymont said. He was Lyonel's youngest cousin who served as his squire. He was a good lad and kept everything organized and on time, an attribute that was not your beloved husband's strongest suit.
"A few more minutes, then we can go," Lyonel said, leaning on his antler crutch. You rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, knowing he still held hope that Ser Duncan might join him.
Time passed, and the hedge knight did not show, making your husband sigh heavily.
"Let us go." The disappointed look in his dark eyes nearly crushed you. His lips gently brushed across your cheek, standing close as you mounted your horse.
"Ser Lyonel!" a deep voice bellowed across the field, and the party turned to look. Over the grassy hill rode Ser Duncan atop his huge brown destrier, which the older, brown stot following behind.
A grin broke across Lyonel's face. "Good lad, you decided to join me after all."
Dunk nodded, his face still bruised and swollen with his left arm in a sling. "I've had enough of princes, m'lord."
"Ride alongside my wife and me. We must be going, or Raymont will have all our heads," Lyonel said, clapping the horse's flank. He mounted a black palfrey, having lost his destrier in the Trial at the hands of Prince Maekar Targaryen.
The little took off, departing for Storm's End, where new adventures awaited.
Everyone was feeling sore and tired by the time they arrived at the castle. You rolled your shoulders as the household servants bustled around, and you instructed them to start preparing hot baths and a room for Dunk. Lyonel had his arms full with Roslyn and Jocelyn, fussing over the dark haired girls and showering them with attention. Their wide, dark eyes peered at Dunk curiously.
"Come and introduce yourselves, my darlings," you smiled, extended your hands out to them, and brought them closer. Roslyn was the elder, and Jocelyn was younger by three years. Lyonel adored them equally, even if they were constantly trying to get him to name a favorite.
"Miladies," Dunk said, giving a small bow, and the girls giggled.
"We will spend time together before supper. I must settle our guest in," you told them, kissing the top of each of their silky, dark heads.
"You and Ser Lyonel are kind for hosting me, milady," he said, towering over you, even bigger than your good husband. "Your daughters are as beautiful as you."
"Thank you, and we are happy to have you. My husband is quite fond of you, Ser, understandably so," you said, showing him to his quarters after winding up the stone staircase leading to the drum tower.
"You are kind to say so, milady," he said, ducking his head while his cheeks pinkened.
You escorted him into the quarters, where a steaming bath awaited him. "I will send in some of the stewards to help attend to you."
"No need for the fuss, I can handle it, I'm certain," he insisted.
"You are injured."
"It's alright."
You placed a hand on your hip. "You are as stubborn as my husband, it seems. Then let me assist you."
"N…no! That….you are a lady!"
"Very astute, Ser Duncan. I can assure you the sight of your cock will not make me faint. I've been surrounded by too many of my husband's men to pale at one."
His jaw dropped. How he yearned for the touch of a woman, yet how could he ask such a thing from a noble married lady?
You could see the hesitation all over his face. "I assure you, it will not upset my husband in any way. I have tended to many of his men over the years, plus we don't want the water to get cold."
The men who were more than simple companions. Beesbury had been one, and you knew his death tolled on Lyonel. Guilt swirled inside him, but who else would have rallied to aid in the Trial other than the dear man? The man who would have followed Lyonel to the ends of the world, and for whom Lyonel would have done the same. Over the return to Storm's End, which took a little over a fortnight, you saw the bond deepen between Lyonel and Dunk, but you did not begrudge it. Lyonel had always been honest with you about where his desires lay, and it only made you love him more. He was a good husband, a good father, and gave you freedoms along with whatever you desired, so you could not deny him of his true nature. You only asked for his honesty regarding the trysts, which he always honored.
"I…thank you, milady," Dunk murmured, and it was charming to watch such a large man attempt to make himself small.
You moved closer to help him undress, carefully removing the sling. The bruises and face swelling had gone down, but you would make a poultice for him later that evening. The blush spread down his cheeks toward his neck as you tenderly and methodically removed his clothing. You didn't let your eyes linger, not wishing to make him any more uncomfortable than he already was. He got into the bath on his own, groaning as he sank into the hot water.
"Seven Hells," he sighed.
You chuckled. "Yes, a hot bath can solve nearly all issues." You dipped the sponge into the water before lathering it with soap, starting with Duncan's broad back, careful of his injured shoulder. His wounds were healing nicely, but you would give them a thorough examination after the bath.
Soft sighs toppled from his mouth as you massaged his scalp. You closed your eyes, getting lost in the movements, remembering two summers ago as you tended to Humfrey and Lyonel in the bathhouse after the Lannisport tourney. Helping to wash the dirt and blood from them, the sweet kisses they left on your skin, the way their fingers curled inside you, the heat from their bodies as they enveloped you between them. Lyonel instructing Humfrey how to suckle your nipples. The hazy image of Lyonel's cock buried inside Humfrey as the honey mustached man gripped the stone's edge. A blurred memory from days past.
"There we are, Ser Dunk, clean as fresh linen," you smiled, noting the thin film of grime that coated the bathwater.
"I feel like a new man, thank you again, milady," he grinned, those blue eyes meeting your gaze.
"I've had the steward lay out some of my father in law's clothing for you. The dear man departed years ago, but he was almost as big as you. I can have my seamstress alter them if need be. I could arrange for supper to be brought to your rooms, but you are welcome to join us in the Round Hall if you wish."
"I would like that, milady. You've been most kind."
"'Tis my pleasure, Ser Duncan. I will leave you to rest."
He reached out, squeezing your hand. His touch lingered on your skin, like flames crackling over your fingertips. You found solace in your private quarters, where the ladies helped tend to and bathe you, dressing you in a rich golden dress embossed with vibrant purple grapes.
"Please arrange for an Arbor red this evening," you told them. You yearned for a taste of home.
Lyonel found you warming by the fire, embroidery hoop in your lap and half asleep. A gentle hand landed on your shoulder. The familiar scent of leather and musk wafted under your nose.
"Duncan is settling in nicely," he commented, studying you with his dark eyes. "You are to thank for that."
Your hand curled around his fingers. "I enjoy him, as do you, I suspect."
"You've always been perceptive, clever girl."
He pulled his fingers from your grip before kneeling in front of you. The firelight caught in the flecks of gold hidden in those dark eyes. How fitting they were for a Baratheon man. He drew your hands toward his mouth, placing soft kisses upon them. His beard made your skin prickle.
"Does it upset you?" Warm mouth spreading heat over your skin.
"Lyonel, if it truly upset me, I wouldn't have married you all those years ago," you smiled.
"You have never felt neglected?"
"Never," you assured him. "I know you would give them up if I asked, but I only wish for your happiness as I know you do for mine."
"The Gods truly blessed me with you," he whispered before laying his head in your lap. You lazily dragged your fingers through his curls, remembering when you laboured with Roslyn and how he had ridden through the night to return to Storm's End to be by your side. He didn't want you to be alone or miss the birth of his first child. You'd never forget the proud look on his face as he held her in his arms. The bonny babe wrapped in a gold cloth.
"All this will be yours one day," he whispered to her.
"I am sorry about Beesbury," you whispered, "I know how special he was to you."
"He was a good man, a fine man, and he is with the Gods now."
"I promised our girls I would spend time with them before supper," you hummed, gently massaging his scalp as you had done with Ser Duncan earlier.
"Ah, well, do not keep our little lasses waiting," he smiled, rolling to his feet.
"Go and visit with Dunk; he would be happy for your company." You rose, pulling Lyonel's face down and kissing him softly.
Supper was a warm affair, with your daughters transfixed by Duncan's endless appetite.
"You will be well fed here, Ser Duncan," Jocelyn said.
"I have no doubt, milady," he chuckled.
The girls entertained Dunk with their dancing once supper ended, and you knew that he would be favoured in these halls.
Many moons passed, bringing the three of you closer into an intricately woven web. While you had cared for Beesbury, participating in the occasional dalliance, you had never truly fallen for one of your husband's paramours. But there was something different about Dunk. He was pure hearted, a knight of the people. It was hardly surprising how he won over the hearts of many at Ashford, even the departed Prince Baelor. Your daughters took it upon themselves to teach him letters, helping him to read and write, and never poking fun at him. He doted upon them, constantly parading around the castle with them tossed over his shoulders as if they weighed nothing more than a simple bag of flour. Most of his days were spent with Lyonel in the training yard, and the hedge knight picked up skills easily. He was stalwart.
You came to welcome the shy smiles he would toss your way. The way those blue eyes would sparkle. The rosy flush that clung to his cheeks and neck. The rough feeling of his hand beneath yours when he would help you to stand or dismount from your horse. It all made your heart skip a beat.
You couldn't ignore the hushed whispers between him and Lyonel. The swollen lips of your husband as he crawled into your bed. The all too familiar bite marks marring Dunk's pale shoulder when he undressed, the colors of your husband's house falling around his feet. A strange jealousy began to bloom deep inside your belly, but you did not wish for it to fester and cause you to rot.
"Will you share him with me?" you whispered to Lyonel one evening.
"Hmm?" Lyonel hummed, half asleep next to you.
"Dunk. I wish you to share him with me," you stated more clearly.
"Truly?" He shifted to face you.
"Yes, please. I have never asked for much, but might I partake with you?"
"If that is what you desire." He grazed his knuckles down your cheek. "I could never deny you."
And so it began.
Dunk was green, eager to please both you and Lyonel. That head, hair kissed by fire, disappearing between your thighs with your legs tossed over his broad shoulders. Once hesitant in the beginning, his movements grew bolder until he knew exactly how to trace his tongue over your swollen pearl. The sweet reward of your release, soaking his tongue, was all he needed to show him that he had done a wonderful job.
There were the nights that he and Lyonel entangled. Two valiant warriors curved together, melding into each other. The hedge knight's weight wedged on top of the Laughing Storm, cock buried deep inside. Sweet sweat beading down your husband's neck and forehead while Dunk set a gentle pace.
The best nights were when the three of you intertwined. Each man's mouth wrapped around your breasts, making you writhe and drip with pleasure. Taking your time stroking their cocks until the flesh stiffened and leaked. Your body learned to bend and adjust in ways you never thought possible, learning to accommodate two cocks buried inside your willing, eager cunt.
The only strict rule was that Dunk could not finish inside you. Lyonel could not risk you becoming the topic of cruel gossip or feeling shamed should a child emerge from the union. Neither you nor Dunk could argue with such logic.
The storm raged outside, heavy rain falling like pellets against the castle walls. In your chambers, the fire roared in the hearth, bathing the room in an amber glow. Various flickering candles were scattered across the room. Red and gold silks were draped over the canopy of your bed. Three golden goblets were filled to the brim with crisp Arbor white, and a silver platter filled with plump red grapes, almonds dipped in honey, ripe red cherries, cups of sweet cream, and halved figs sat in the middle of the bed. All this helped to create a cozy, yet sultry atmosphere.
You wore only a gauzy, thin robe, but the two men coupling you and the roaring fire staved off the cold. Lyonel wore nothing at all apart from two golden rings threaded with a golden chain through his nipples, and Dunk was just in his thin breeches. There was still a shyness that lingered beneath his surface, only furthering the endearment you and Lyonel held for him. You dipped your finger into the sweet cream, gently licking it away. Dunk lay on his back, slipping almonds one by one into his mouth with the sticky honey lingering on his fingers.
You crawled toward him, straddling his thick chest and lifting his hand to your mouth. Slowly, you suckled the honey from each fingertip. You would never get over how big he was. His cock swelled against the curve of your arse. Lyonel watched through heavy-lidded eyes, white wine dribbling down the corners of his mouth as he indulged one thirst.
"Open her up for me, Ser Dunk," he whispered huskily.
You gasped as Dunk maneuvered your body with ease, bracing you against his chest while using his large hands to spread your thighs wide.
"The sight of that cunt would make the most skilled of sailors crash right into the rocks," Lyonel mused, reaching down to stroke his cock. "They would beg to drown in it."
"I agree, milord. 'Tis a thing of beauty," Dunk hummed. One of his hands slipped down your belly to cup you between your legs before skimming his fingers over your flesh. His middle one sank deep inside you.
"We are men of good taste, are we not?" Lyonel smirked. With hazy vision, you watched Lyonel coat two of his fingers in oil.
Dunk nodded, nuzzling your shoulder while Lyonel positioned himself between your thighs. "Very good taste, milord."
Dunk's finger buried inside you made warmth flutter through your belly, spreading lower like slow dripping honey. Like the honey lingering on your tongue from his fingers. You whimpered when the digit was removed, leaving you longing for something to clench around. He tilted you back, keeping you against his bare, warm chest as more of you was exposed to Lyonel's eyes.
"Deep breath, my darling," Lyonel murmured before kissing your belly. His hot kiss lingered on your skin, burning an invisible mark that was soothed away by Dunk's palm. You inhaled slowly, filling your lungs as Lyonel's fingers aligned with your puckered arsehole. The slip of the oil allowed them easy entrance into the tight ring. "You wished to know what it felt like."
Ah, yes, you had been curious as a cock had never filled you there, yet it seemed to bring Lyonel and Dunk great pleasure. Just two nights ago, Dunk had spread Lyonel's cheeks wide and delved his tongue between the crevice. Meaty fingers digging into your husband's plush arse while the hedge knight devoured him. Curiosity had gotten the better of you, and you wished to experience it. It was not unpleasant once adjusted to the feeling. A feeling of being stuffed impossibly full.
"You're doing so well, milady," Dunk whispered into your ear, the praise enveloping you like a warm robe. The wisps of the one you were currently wearing clung to your perspiring skin. You groaned when Dunk rolled the stiff, aching flesh between the rough pads of his fingers.
With two fingers still buried in your arse, Lyonel lowered his mouth to your cunt. You twitched in Dunk's grasp while your good husband suckled and lapped at your swollen pearl. His fingers curved upward, sinking in deeper and hitting a pleasure spot inside you. Thick, pleasurable moans spilled wantonly from your parted mouth as you tumbled into an intense release.
"Dear Gods, woman, you do intend to drown me," Lyonel said with a wide grin, the aftermath of your release clinging to his beard and mouth. Gently, he withdrew his fingers before standing to wash his hands at the basin. Dunk stroked your body, peeling the thin covering away from your body.
"May I, milady?"
"What a sweet lad to ask," Lyonel teased.
"Leave him be," you chided. "Please, Ser Duncan, you may."
He kept you braced against his chest, your legs hooked over his wide thighs, before plunging two fingers into your sopping cunt.
"Ah!" you gasped, clenching around them. You felt Lyonel's hand on your cheek, thumb sliding between your lips.
"Open."
You obeyed, parting your mouth wide. The white wine trickled into your mouth, splashing against your tongue and quenching your thirst with the crisp taste of citrus. You sputtered softly, closing your mouth and feeling a thin stream run down the corners of your lips, then dribble down your neck. Dunk's free hand massaged your breasts, and soon your toes curled as you toppled into another peak. Heat prickled across your body, chest heaving softly in the aftermath, and you felt as if you could melt into Dunk's chest. The two men moved you carefully, settling you against the golden pillows with Lyonel hand feeding you cherries dipped in sweet cream while Dunk wiped you down with a wet cloth.
"How are you feeling, sweet wife?" Lyonel asked, tucking a stand of hair behind your ear.
"Very well, mayhaps a bit tired," you smiled. The juice from the cherries stained your lips.
"Then rest." His hand rubbed your hip and thigh. "Do you mind if Ser Duncan attends to me?"
You shook your head, stroking Dunk's face as one cheek pressed against your thigh. "Not at all. I will merely enjoy the show."
"The Gods truly broke the mold with you, good lady wife," Lyonel whispered.
"Never forget it," you quipped playfully before tugging on the golden chain between the piercings, eliciting a soft hiss from him, then helped Dunk from his breeches.
He left you with a searing kiss before turning his attentions to Dunk. You hugged a pillow against your naked body as you watched Dunk dribble and smear oil between your husband's cheeks. Lyonel stretched like a lithe panther on his belly.
"Milord," Dunk whispered, pressing a kiss to the back of Lyonel's neck. His hand tangled in the damp mess of Lyonel's curls as he lined up his cock. You squeezed the pillow tighter against your belly while watching Dunk's leaking, engorged cock sink deep into your husband, disappearing between his pert arse.
They kept his position for a while before switching to another, with Lyonel's legs braced against Dunk's shoulders and the Laughing Storm's knees nearly to his ears. The golden chain was clasped between Dunk's teeth as he rolled his hips, driving himself deeper into Lyonel. It was truly a beautiful sight to behold. The heat and desire between them bled heavily through the room. Lyonel left a sticky, pearlescent mess over Dunk's belly while the hedge knight's spend leaked from your husband's puffy hole. You tended to them after, wiping them down and kissing them before the three of you curled together.
You had never intended to love another, but Dunk was special, and you would welcome him into your heart and bed. Just as you knew Lyonel had.
pls i know dragon hybrid maekar is a fierce boi but i cant help headcanon that he likes to nuzzle you like that hotd scene of sunfyre and aegon II. strangely wishing he would be a pet but my cat would absolutely hate him..
do you have a furry (or non-furry) friend at home too nene?
dragon hybrid!maekar does this more than you think and for multiple reasons. to get your attention, to catch a whiff of your scent, just for contact alone, or to coax you into touching him. the latter takes a lot out of him, because admitting that he needs more, even quietly, makes him embarrassed. but you always indulge him, which stripped him of the thoughts of shame and weakness and urges him to shamelessly demand your touch.
as soon as your hands are on him, that rumbly sound vibrates against his chest cavity like a switch being turned on—it's a purr, but he will never admit it—and he melts and nuzzles into every inch of skin he can reach, nosing and sniffing and scenting until he's satisfied, and he never is. your dragon husband can stay like that for hours on end, just pressed against you and allowing you to pamper him with affection and touch. his tail curls behind him slowly, overly pleased, and his wings untuck slightly from his back, twitching in delight.
a/n: this was such a cute ask aaaa thank you for this sweet anon!!! sadly, i do not anymore! i used to have a chonky orange cat years ago that i adopted from the street!! but now i need to know about ur cat!! i love cats sooooo much!!!
just can't get enough of these men ugh. also sorry for the format, i didn't know how to make it seem a proper chat conversation (any tips will be most welcome)
Includes: modern!Baelor x f!reader // modern!Maekar x f!reader
Warning(s): modernAU, +18 MDNI, sexting,
It started, as things with Baelor often did, with something entirely innocent.
He had texted you a photo of a page from a book — a passage he had found and thought you would find interesting, which he did occasionally now, with the easy frequency of someone who had stopped managing the impulse to share things with you — and you had responded and a conversation had started and it had been a perfectly normal Tuesday evening exchange about the historiography of late Byzantine administrative structures until—
Until you had not been able to help yourself.
I keep thinking about last week, you sent. Specifically the kitchen counter.
A pause.
Longer than his usual response time.
I think about it also, he sent back. Frequently.
You smiled at your phone.
How frequently, you sent.
Another pause.
More than is probably productive, he sent. I was in a meeting this afternoon and spent approximately ten minutes thinking about the sound you made when I— and then it stopped and you could see the three dots and then they disappeared and then appeared again and then: that was not a sentence I intended to finish in a text message.
Finish it, you sent.
That seems inadvisable, he sent.
Baelor, you sent.
A pause.
The sound you made, he sent, when I put my mouth on your throat. I have been thinking about that specifically.
You stared at your phone.
Just that? you sent.
No, he sent back, and the single word had a quality to it even in text. Not just that.
Tell me, you sent.
The three dots appeared and stayed for longer than usual this time, which meant he was writing something and reconsidering and rewriting, which was so Baelor that you smiled at the ceiling of your flat while you waited.
I think about the way you felt, he sent finally. Specifically the way you felt when I was inside you. The sounds you made. The way you said my name. A pause and then another message immediately after: I think about what you look like when you come. I have replayed that in considerable detail.
Your mouth had gone slightly dry.
Considerable detail, you sent.
I have a good memory, he sent. It is currently working against me.
How so, you sent.
I am sitting in my study, he sent, trying to read, and instead I am thinking about putting you on this desk.
You put your phone down and screeched.
Picked it up again.
Tell me what you'd do, you sent.
The three dots.
I would start, he sent, with your throat. Specifically the place where your neck meets your shoulder. I have been thinking about that place with a frequency that I find somewhat consuming. Another message: Then lower. I would take my time. I was not thorough enough last week and I intend to correct that.
Not thorough enough, you sent. Baelor you made me come twice.
I'm aware, he sent. I have specific intentions regarding three.
You made a sound in the privacy of your flat that you were glad no one could hear.
You can't just say that, you sent.
I just did, he sent, with a composure that translated remarkably well into text. You feel extraordinary, he sent, and the shift in tense — present, immediate — made something clench low in your stomach. I think about how you feel around me and I lose significant portions of whatever I was doing. This afternoon it was a budget meeting. I cannot tell you what was decided.
What were you thinking specifically, you sent.
Specifically, he sent, how tight you are. How wet you were. The sounds you make when I go deep. A pause. I think about your hands in my hair. I think about the marks you left on my throat. I think about the way you said my name when you came the second time. Another pause, shorter. I think about it and I am hard and I am sitting in my study trying to read Procopius and it is not going well.
Touch yourself, you sent.
A longer pause than any of the others.
That is, he sent, not something I have done while texting someone before.
First time for everything, you sent.
You are a terrible influence, he sent. And then, after a brief pause: I am touching myself. I want you to know that I find this situation faintly absurd and also that I cannot currently bring myself to stop.
You laughed and then immediately stopped laughing because the image of Baelor in his study with Procopius open on his desk and his hand in his lap because of your text messages was doing things to you that you needed to address.
Tell me what you're thinking, you sent.
You, he sent. Specifically you on this desk. Specifically the sounds you would make. A longer pause — you figured how difficult it'd be for him to reply while he was pumping his cock in his hand. Specifically what your face looks like when you come. Another long pause: I think about that most. Your face. The way you look at me. A longer pause and then: I think about the way you said my name. I think about it constantly. You have no idea what your voice does to me.
Baelor, you sent.
There, he sent immediately. Exactly that. God.
Are you close, you sent.
Yes, he sent. Tell me something.
I think about your hands, you sent. I think about how large they are. I think about the tattoo on your ribs. I think about the sounds you make and the fact that nobody else has ever heard them.
A pause.
Nobody else, he sent back, rough even in text, something stripped in it.
Nobody, you sent. They're mine.
The pause that followed was brief.
Yes, he sent. And then nothing for two minutes and then: that was somewhat more intense than I anticipated for a Tuesday evening.
You laughed properly this time while looking at your phone like an idiot.
Good? you sent.
Come over, he sent. Please.
Baelor it's eleven pm, you sent.
I'm aware, he sent. Come over anyway. A pause. I have specific intentions and a desk and considerably more patience than I demonstrated last week.
You were already looking for your keys.
I'll be there in twenty, you sent.
I'll make tea, he sent, and you could feel the composure returning in real time and found you did not mind because the composure was never really the point, the point was what was underneath it, and you had standing access to that now.
Baelor, you sent, at the door.
Yes, he sent.
The desk, you sent. Don't change your mind about the desk.
A pause.
I have a very good memory, he sent. I don't change my mind about things I've thought about in considerable detail.
You jumped in the place you stood a few times and locked your door behind you.
It started with a photo.
Not an explicit one. Just — you, at a friend's birthday, in a dress that you had purchased with complete innocence and had worn with complete innocence and had sent to Maekar because he had asked what you were doing that evening and you had said out, here's proof and attached the photo without thinking about it.
His response took four minutes.
When are you home
You stared at the message with the incipient smile of someone who had got exactly what they were looking for.
Why???, you decided to play oblivious.
When are you home, he sent again.
That's not an answer to my question, you sent.
Couple of hours tops, he sent. And keep that dress.
You looked at your phone with a full smile now.
What about the dress???, you sent.
Don't, he sent.
Don't what, you sent.
You know what, he sent.
You did know what. You smiled at your phone in the middle of your friend's birthday party and sent back: I genuinely don't know what you mean.
A pause that felt pointed even through a screen.
The dress, he sent, is a problem.
How so, you sent.
I've been looking at that photo, he sent, for four minutes.
And? you sent.
And I'm going to be thinking about taking it off you, he sent, for the next couple of hours.
You excused yourself from the conversation you had been having and went to find somewhere slightly more private. Daeron looked at you somewhat confused, but when he noticed the way you were biting your lip, he just rolled his eyes and laughed.
Just thinking about it? you sent.
For now, he sent.
Tell me more, you sent.
A pause.
You first, he sent.
You looked at that for a moment.
I think about your hands, you sent. Specifically how they feel on my hips.
The response came fast: yeah
I think about your mouth, you sent.
Where, he sent.
Everywhere, you sent. Specifically my throat.
I left a mark last time, he sent.
I know, you sent. I liked it.
A pause that felt like him recalibrating.
How much, he sent.
Enough that I wore my hair up the next day so people could see it, you sent.
The pause was longer this time.
Christ, he sent.
Your turn, you sent.
The dress, he sent. Specifically what's under it.
What do you think is under it, you sent.
Not my mouth, he sent, and the three words landed with the flat certainty of everything he said and did things to you that three words had no business doing.
Maekar, you sent.
Come home, he sent.
I'm at a party, you sent.
I know, he sent. Come home anyway.
That's very demanding, you sent.
Yes, he sent.
You laughed.
Tell me what you're going to do when I get there, you sent.
A pause.
The dress comes off first, he sent. Slowly. I'm going to take my time. And then immediately: Last time I didn't take enough time. Another message: I've been thinking about that.
What specifically, you sent.
Tasting you, he sent, four words, blunt and direct and landing like a physical thing. Properly. Without the wall and the edging. A pause. Just you on my bed and my mouth on your pussy and nowhere to be.
You were gripping your phone considerably harder than the situation strictly required.
That's very specific, you sent.
I think specifically, he sent.
What else, you sent.
You on top, he sent. Like last time. I keep thinking about that. A pause that felt like him deciding something. The way you looked. The sounds you made. I think about that when I'm trying to sleep.
Does it work? you sent. For sleeping?
No, he sent. The opposite.
Are you hard, you sent.
Yes, he sent, as if it were an obvious question. Have been since the photo.
Touch yourself, you sent.
A pause.
I'm not doing that over text, he sent.
Why not, you sent.
Because, he sent, when I come I want to feel your pussy around me. I'm not settling for my own hand when I can have you.
You stopped, put your phone down for a second, looked at the sky above you, took a deep breath and tried not to scream in public.
Maekar, you sent.
Come home, he sent. I'll be here.
I have to say goodbye to a few people, you sent.
Fine, he sent. And then: wear the dress.
You being you, decided to rile Maekar a bit more just because he hadn't comply with your request of touching himself. Also because it was terribly fun to imagine him fuming at home, hard and not able to reprimand you for now.
You attached another photograph, one that a friend had taken that same day of Daeron and you laughing together earlier that afternoon, his arm around your waist in a friendly manner.
Maekar didn't answer for a whole minute. Then:
Tell Daeron to move his hand, he sent.
You laughed. Why??? He's your son.
I know who the fuck he is, he sent. Tell him to move his hand.
We were just— you did not get time to finish the message.
You're mine. He knows that. Get your coat and come here.
You would have screamed if you remembered how to breathe, which you did not.
Already getting my coat, you sent.
Good, he sent. I am having some words with Daeron tomorrow.
A pause.
And then one more message, sent with the flat directness of a man who said what he meant and meant what he said:
I'm going to make you forget your own name.
You said goodbye to approximately four people simultaneously, Daeron included, and left.
Yeah, so maybe there's a bit of personal projection here. Can you blame me tho?
John "Soap" MacTavish
Soap wakes up, stretches, reaches for you- and hits cold sheets. He blinks. You're not in the kitchen. Not in the bathroom. Not anywhere. His first instinct is: you're gone. Fully, completely, left-in-the-night gone. Panic chokes him. He checks his phone-no messages. His heart sinks. He starts pacing, nearly dialing Ghost for backup when the door swings open. You walk in casually, holding a bag of milk and eggs. He stares. "I thought you LEFT ME!" you blink. "I went to buy cereal="" You abandoned me for cereal!" He full-body tackles you into a hug. "Next time I'm comin' with. I don't care if I'm in my boxers."
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Ghost is eerily quiet as he searches the house. You're not in bed. Not in the kitchen. Not on the porch. Your phone's gone, but you didn't say a word. His chest tightens. Thoughts spiral: Did something happen? Did you... leave him? He clenches his jaw, eyes cold, trying to suppress the old fear of abandonment. Just as he's reaching for his keys to search the streets, the front door creaks. You walk in with a fresh loaf of bread. He doesn't say anything at first-just pins you with a look. "Next time," he growls lowly, pulling you into a crushing embrace, "tell me. I thought you were never coming back."
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Gaz is brushing his teeth when he realizes the house is too quiet. Towel slung over his shoulder, he calls your name once. Twice. No answer. He checks every room, the garage, even under the blanket pile. Nothing. Dread seeps in. Did he say something wrong last night? He checks his phone-no texts. His hand hovers over the call button when the door swings open and you waltz in holding coffee and a croissant. "Morning!" you chirp. Kyle just gapes. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" He yanks you into a bear hug. "Next time, even a post-it would save me five years of stress."
John Price
Price wakes to silence. Not unusual. But the empty side of the bed is cold. No coffee brewed. No note. Just... gone. His instincts scream. He calls your name once-nothing. Checks the windows. Garage. Backyard. He' s halfway into his boots when your car rolls up outside. You hop out, humming, holding a newspaper and a breakfast sandwich." Morning!" Price doesn't even reply-just marches over, wraps you in his arms, and presses a firm kiss to your temple. "You scared the hell out of me." You blink. "I went to grab your favorite scone--" "Next time, just wake me up, love. Don't go ghost on a soldier."
Gary "Roach" Sanderson
Roach doesn't even notice at first. He's playing with your cat, half-asleep, when he realizes... where's your voice? Your warmth? He checks the bathroom-empty. Checks the fridge-you didn't even take breakfast. He starts to panic. Did something happen? Are you mad? Did you just... leave? Anxiety tangles in his chest. He's on the
verge of texting your best friend when you waltz in with a bouquet of sunflowers and a muffin. "Surprise!" He almost deflates. "I thought you left me for good over burnt toast or something!" You laugh. "I left to get you muffins." He tackles you with kisses anyway. "Muffin accepted. Heart rate recovering."
Nikolai
Nikolai wakes up late-rare for him. He yawns, stretches, and immediately notices your absence. "Milaya?" Silence. He checks the bathroom, the garden, even your secret snack stash. His smile fades. A thousand what-ifs hit him like bullets. Had he said something wrong? Pushed too hard? He's just reaching for his coat when you stroll in, casually sipping tea and holding a pack of that weird chocolate he loves. "I ran to the market." He just stares. Then pulls you close, presses his face into your shoulder. "I thought you vanished like a ghost." "Kolya, I was gone twenty minutes." "Exactly. Too long." Now he demands a tracker.
Alejandro Vargas
Alejandro wakes up alone and instantly panics. You always snuggle in, steal his side of the bed, mumble nonsense into his neck. But now? Cold sheets. Quiet kitchen. No note. His heart thunders. He thinks: Did I dream you? Is this my punishment? Then the front door creaks open. You appear, cheerful, holding tamales and a cold drink. "You were still sleeping, sol-" "I thought you left forever," he blurts, wrapping his arms around you like a lifeline. You laugh against his chest. "I just got food!" "Never. Again. You wake me up or I follow you barefoot into traffic. Your choice."
Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra
Rudy is the quiet type-but when he wakes and finds your side of the bed empty, the panic starts slow and sharp. He checks everywhere. No signs. The house echoes with absence. He stares at the front door. Did you... leave him? His chest tightens until your voice calls out, "I brought empanadas!" He turns, heart still pounding, and sees you smiling with a food bag in hand. "I thought you were craving them." He exhales shakily. "I was craving you." You soften. He pulls you into a long hug, murmuring into your hair, "I thought I was waking up to goodbye."
Valeria Garza
Valeria wakes up annoyed. First at the sun, then at your empty side of the bed. "Where the fuck are they?" she mutters, stomping through the house. No note. No sound. Her anger turns to panic far too quickly.She storms out the front door only for you to pull up with a full cart of groceries and a cheeky smile. "Surprise breakfast!" "Are you insane? "she hisses. "I nearly blew up the house thinking you ran off!" "I was gone fifteen minutes." "Long enough to plan a murder- suicide pact with my feelings." You snort. She kisses you anyway."Next time, I'm installing surveillance."
Keegan Russ
Keegan notices your absence the second he reaches for his morning coffee and your mug is untouched. Your keys are gone. You didn't say anything. No text. He tries not to overreact-maybe you went for a walk-but every passing minute adds weight to the pit forming in his stomach. He checks your location, sees "grocery store," but still-he knows how quickly things can change. When you come back, humming and holding a bundle of fruit, he meets you at the door, eyes shadowed. "You didn't tell me." You blink, caught off guard. "I didn't want to wake you." "Next time.... please do. I thought l lost you."
König
König wakes slowly, reaching instinctively for you. The space is cold. He calls softly- nothing. Anxiety grips him like a vice. He checks the house, heart thudding louder with every room. Then the silence starts
screaming. No note. No message. Just... gone. His mind spirals: maybe he was too much. Maybe you left without a word. When you walk in, holding a bouquet of his favorite bakery rolls, he nearly collapses in relief. "I went to get breakfast," you explain. He doesn't say anything-just hugs you, burying his face in your shoulder. Later, in a whisper, he murmurs, "Don't disappear. Please. Even if it's just for bread."
Nikto
Nikto is used to loss. That's what makes the fear snap like a trap when he realizes you're not in the house. You didn't say a word. Left your side of the bed cold. The silence feels accusatory. He paces like a caged animal. Then your name appears on his phone-bank ATM. You're just running errands. But he doesn't relax until he sees you walk back in. "Why didn't you tell me? " he growls. You arch a brow. "I was gone thirty minutes." "Enough time to vanish forever." You sigh. He pulls you close with a scowl and a kiss to your hair. "Next time. Say something."
Krueger
Krueger doesn't panic like others. He shuts down-sharp, silent. You're gone, no message. The house is too still. He waits twenty minutes. Thirty. That's all it takes for him to start assuming the worst. But then the lock clicks, and you walk in holding cleaning supplies and fresh croissants. "Surprise-I thought we could spring clean." He stares at you. "You didn't say anything." "I didn't think you'd notice." You expect a scolding. Instead, he steps forward, cups your cheek gently, and says, "I always notice you. Always." You swallow. Later, you find him dusting the bookshelf with your playlist playing softly in the background.
Philip Graves
Graves wakes to birds chirping and the distant hum of traffic-and no you. At first, he thinks you're in the kitchen. Then the bathroom. Then the backyard. When all options fail, he starts panicking like a man late to the most important mission of his life. He calls once- no answer. Twice. Nothing. Then you walk in like nothing happened, holding hardware store bags. "Surprise, I fixed the squeaky door! "You barely finish the sentence before you're pulled into his arms. "You don't disappear on a man like that," he grumbles. "You nearly gave me a damn heart attack." You smirk. "I'm fine." "And now you're grounded."
Alex Keller
Alex stretches, yawns, and rolls over-right into a pillow instead of your chest. Weird. You always sleep in. He checks the kitchen. Nothing. His smile fades. You're nowhere. He calls out, heart rate climbing. Still nothing. He's mid-shoe when you swing the door open, humming, carrying iced coffee and groceries. "Morning!" "Where were you?!" he blurts. "I thought I got dumped while dreaming!" You blink. "I wanted to surprise you with donuts!" "You surprised me with abandonment." He scoffs, yanks you into a hug. "You're not allowed to go places alone. Even the donut shop." "You'll follow me to the bathroom at this rate." Correct."
Farah Karim
Farah is a light sleeper, so waking up to an empty bed already has alarms blaring. She checks her phone. Nothing from you. She's dressed and out the door in five minutes, scanning the neighborhood like she's tracking a fugitive. Just as she's about to call your entire contact list, you stroll up with a tote full of fruit and a grin. "You were out of oranges." She freezes. "You didn't leave a note." "You were sleeping." She doesn't scold, not really.Just walks over, rests her forehead to yours, and murmurs, "Next time, wake me up. I'd rather go with you even if it's just for oranges."
Hadir Karim
Hadir wakes to birds and light and a quiet he doesn't trust. He checks your side of the bed. Cold. House? Empty. Car? Gone. No message. His pulse spikes, mind jumping to conclusions faster than reason can catch up. He's about to call when you waltz in with a grin and a bag of takeout. "I thought I'd surprise you!" "You did. I thought I was being ghosted in real time." You laugh, but he's serious-hands trembling as they cradle your waist. "Next time," he murmurs, eyes intense, "let me worry about you with you in the car." You promise. He doesn't let go for hours.
Kate Laswell
Kate notices your absence immediately. The house is always full of your sound- your humming, your clutter, your warm presence. Now? Just quiet. She checks every room. Nothing. Her jaw tightens. Her hands shake. Was she too late? Did you just... leave? Then the front door opens, and you breeze in, cheeks flushed, holding a little box. "I went to the post office!" She exhales like she's been holding her breath for hours. "Jesus, Y/N." "I brought you that rare tea you love?" "You almost brought me an early funeral." She pulls you into her arms, voice soft. "Don't ever go missing like that again."
Vladimir Makarov
Makarov doesn't panic when you're gone. He gets quiet. Cold. Calculating. He assumes the worst, because that's all life has taught him. He checks your drawers. Clothes still here. He checks your phone tracker-offline.He nearly snaps. Then the door opens and you walk in, humming, holding two steaming paper cups. "I went out for coffee," you say cheerfully. He doesn't answer. He just strides over, yanks you into a crushing kiss, then stares at you like he's memorizing your face. "Say goodbye next time," he growls. "I was about to level the whole block." You blink." ...It was coffee, not war." He glares. Same thing to him.
part 3 (2 here) of the modernAU drabble in which we jump these sexy men. if this isn't a disorder classified in psychology manuals, then there's nothing wrong with it. period.
Includes: modern!Baelor x f!reader // modern!Maekar x f!reader
Warning(s): modernAU, +18 MDNI, explicit sexual content, implied age gap, I gave them tattoos whoops. Baelor: kinda friends-to-lovers (?), mutual pining, praise kink, fingering, nipple play, PinV sex. Maekar: brat tamer Maekar, dom/sub undertones, edging, PinV sex.
The text exchange with Valarr took approximately four minutes and was, you felt, one of your better performances.
going over to yours to drop something off for your dad
His response came fast.
oh I'm out with kiera actually, won't be back til late. can it wait?
You looked at the book on your kitchen table. A first edition — not ancient, not priceless, but specific. The kind of specific that required knowing what someone was looking for, and you had known what Baelor was looking for since the bookshop three weeks ago when he had mentioned it in passing, the particular rueful tone of someone who had been searching for something for a while and had mostly made peace with the search.
You had found it in a secondhand shop two streets from your flat on a Tuesday and had stood in the aisle for approximately thirty seconds before buying it.
that's even better 🥴
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
wait
are you
OH MY GOD
please tell me you're not about to
he's my DAD
You were already putting your coat on.
I don't know what you're talking about
I'm just dropping off a book
YOU BOUGHT HIM A BOOK
it's just a book Valarr
people don't just buy specific books for people they're JUST dropping books off for
I genuinely have no idea what you mean
I am begging you
have a good one with Kiera
You sent your final text, and turned your phone face down in your bag and left before he could respond.
Your phone buzzed four times on the tube.
You did not look at it.
Baelor answered the door in reading glasses.
Just one pair, which was almost worse — there was something about one pair of glasses that was considerably more devastating than two, something about the specificity of it, the domesticity of a man who had been sitting reading in his own house on a weekday evening and had answered the door without thinking to take them off. He was also in a dark grey jumper that was doing things it had no business doing and had clearly not been expecting anyone because the composed public quality was not fully assembled — just him, in his jumper and his glasses, looking at you on his doorstep with an expression that moved from surprised to warm in about two seconds.
"I found something," you said, and held out the book.
He looked at it.
You watched the recognition arrive — the specific title, the edition, the fact of it existing in your hand on his doorstep — move through his expression in stages. He took it with the careful automatic reverence he gave books he considered important and turned it over and looked at the back and then looked at you.
"Where did you find this," he said.
"Shop near mine. Tuesday." You shrugged. "You mentioned it at the bookshop."
"I mentioned it once."
"You mentioned it specifically," you said. "The 1987 Ashgate edition. You said it was difficult to find secondhand."
He looked at the book. Looked at you. Opened his mouth and appeared to reconsider what he had been going to say and said instead: "Come in. I'll make tea."
His kitchen was warm and slightly cluttered in the specific way of a house that was lived in thoroughly rather than managed for appearance — papers on the table, a second book open and face-down on the counter which made you want to say something about spines but you restrained yourself, a mug that had clearly been there long enough to be architectural.
He filled the kettle with the focused attention he brought to small tasks and you sat at the kitchen table and watched him and thought about what you were going to do and felt, underneath the planning of it, the warm uncomplicated fact of how much you liked being in this kitchen.
"The 1987 edition has the corrected footnotes," he said, to the kettle. "The original 1983 printing had an error in the bibliography that propagated through most of the secondary literature for about a decade before anyone caught it."
"That's genuinely horrifying," you said.
"It is." He turned around and leaned against the counter while the kettle worked and looked at you with the glasses and the jumper and the warm composure of a man in his own kitchen on a weekday evening. "How did you know which edition to look for?"
"You were very specific about it," you said.
"I wasn't trying to —" He stopped. "I didn't expect you to actually look."
"I wasn't not looking," you said.
A brief pause in which he appeared to process the grammar of that and arrive at the implication and choose, carefully, not to follow it all the way to its conclusion.
The kettle boiled.
He made tea.
You were on your second cup when you said it.
"Can I say something without it being weird," you said.
He looked at you over his mug. "Probably depends on the thing."
"I find it really attractive," you said, "when someone is genuinely obsessed with something. Like intellectually obsessed. The way you talked about Byzantine iconoclasm in the café — I find that really attractive."
The mug lowered slightly.
"Right," he said, in the tone of a man who was not sure where to file this information.
"History nerds specifically," you continued. "There's something about someone who cares that much about something that's just—" you let the sentence do its work without finishing it.
Baelor looked at you with the expression of a man who had received information he was attempting to process through several different frameworks simultaneously and was finding the process slower than usual.
"That's—" he started.
"And the glasses," you said.
He stopped.
"Men in glasses," you said. "I have a thing. I'm aware it's not a particularly original thing but it's a consistent thing."
His hand moved very slightly toward the glasses and then stopped, which was the best thing you had ever seen another person do, the specific gesture of a man who had momentarily considered taking them off and had caught himself and now needed somewhere to look that was not your face.
He looked at his tea.
"You should probably—" he started.
"You're very attractive," you said. "I've thought so for a while. Since before the café, actually."
The kitchen was very quiet.
Baelor set his mug down with the careful precision of a man performing an action slowly enough to buy time for his thoughts to catch up with the situation. He looked at the table. Then at you. Then at the table again.
"You're Valarr's friend," he said.
"I know."
"You're—" He stopped. Started again. "This is complicated."
"I know," you said. "I've thought about the complicated."
"And?"
"And I'm still sitting in your kitchen on a Tuesday evening having told you I find you attractive." You looked at him steadily. "So."
He looked at you.
The composure was there but it was doing less than usual — the edges of it uneven in the specific way you had first noticed in the bookshop aisle. His jaw moved once. He opened his mouth to say something.
You leaned across the table and kissed him.
Not tentatively. You had been thinking about this for three weeks and tentative had not featured in any version of the thinking. You kissed him with the clear intention of someone who had made a decision and was implementing it, and felt in the first half second the specific quality of his absolute stillness — the shock of it, the composure going offline all at once — and then in the second half second the moment he stopped being still.
He made a sound against your mouth.
Low and involuntary and nothing like the curator or the composed man in the doorway with his book. Just a sound, pulled out of him by the simple fact of your lips against his, and then his hand came up and caught the back of your neck and he kissed you back and every careful principled argument that had been assembling itself somewhere in his head simply didn't.
He pulled back after a moment. Breathing slightly uneven. Looking at you from very close with the glasses slightly displaced and an expression that was trying to locate the counterargument and finding nothing available.
"I was going to say—" he started.
"Was it a good reason?" you said.
A pause.
"I can't currently remember what it was," he said.
"That's probably fine then," you said, and kissed him again.
This time he did not pull back.
This time his hand slid from the back of your neck into your hair and he kissed you like a man who had found the counterargument and assessed it and decided it was insufficient, thorough and unhurried in the way he did everything, and you made a sound against his mouth that he swallowed and responded to immediately.
At some point the table stopped being between you.
There was a period of rearrangement that involved chairs and the brief navigation of the table's corner and his hands at your waist — and then you were against the kitchen counter and he was in front of you with his hands braced on either side and was looking at you with the glasses still on and the jumper and the expression of a man whose counterargument had not returned and did not appear to be coming back.
"On the counter," you said.
His brow furrowed slightly. "What about—"
You put your hands on his shoulders and pushed yourself up onto it. Something happened in his expression.
"Oh," he said quietly.
"Yes," you smiled and bit your lip.
He kissed you again and this time it was different — the composure fully gone, replaced by something more direct and more urgent and considerably less managed, his hands sliding from the counter to your thighs with a purposefulness that made your breath catch. You pulled at the jumper and he shifted to help you get it off and you pushed it up over his head and threw it somewhere and then—
You stopped.
His ribs. The left side. Dark ink against warm skin, the letters precise and deliberate and clearly old enough to have settled into him like they had always been there.
Γνῶθι σεαυτόν.
You stared at it for a moment. Then you looked up at him.
Something in his expression had shifted — a different quality of vulnerability, not the composure being stripped away but something more specific, the particular exposure of something private being seen for the first time by someone he had not planned to show it to and found he did not mind showing it to.
"How long have you had that," you said.
"Twenty years," he said. "Approximately."
"Know thyself," you said softly.
Something moved in his face. "You read Greek?"
"My grandmother," you said. "She had opinions about a lot of things."
He looked at you for a moment with that expression — the unguarded one, the one that kept arriving and staying longer each time — and then you reached out and traced the letters with your fingertips, following the curve of them against his ribs, and felt him exhale sharply at the contact.
You then pressed your lips to it.
The sound that left him was low and immediate and completely unmanaged, his hand flying into your hair, and you felt him shudder under your mouth and filed the knowledge away with the specific satisfaction of someone who had found something important and intended to return to it.
"You are going to be the end of me," he said roughly. To the ceiling.
"Not yet," you said, and pulled him back.
This time when he kissed you it was with the full unmanaged weight of someone who had stopped looking for the counterargument and had no intention of finding it. His hands worked at your shirt with a focus that was no longer patient in the unhurried sense but patient in the specific sense of a man doing something he intended to do thoroughly, and your shirt ended up somewhere and his hands were on your skin and he exhaled against your mouth like the contact had knocked something out of him.
"God," he said quietly. Not to you. To the situation. To the fact of his hands on your waist and yours on his chest and the kitchen warm around you.
"Still thinking about that counterargument?" you said.
"There is no such thing in my brain anymore," he said, and kissed your jaw and then your throat and you tipped your head back and felt his mouth open against your neck — warm and deliberate — and then he did something and you gasped and felt his teeth and his mouth and then the specific bloom of pressure that meant—
He pulled back. Looked at your neck, then looked at your face.
"I'm—" he started, the composure making one last valiant attempt to reassemble itself. "I didn't mean to — I should—"
You grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him down and bit his throat.
Not hard. But deliberate. Specific. In the exact register of what he had just done to you, your mouth open against the warm skin of his neck, your teeth grazing the muscle there, and you felt the full body shudder that went through him and heard the sound — low and rough and dragged from somewhere he had not given it permission to come from — and when you pulled back his expression had nothing of the apology left in it.
Just — gone. All of it. The composure, the apology, the counterargument, the curator.
"Right," he said. His voice was wrecked. "Alright."
The bra went somewhere. His hands cupped your breasts with a directness that made you arch into him immediately and he made a sound at that — low and immediate and specifically responsive, like your body's reactions were doing something to him that he had no management available for.
"You're—" he started.
"Tell me," you said.
Something shifted in his expression. The specific thing he had with praise that you suspected was right there, sitting just under the surface, and you had put your finger directly on it and he knew it and was not even slightly trying to deflect anymore.
"Beautiful," he said, rough and specific, his hands moving. "I've — since the café. Since the bookshop. I kept thinking about—" his mouth dropped to your collarbone and the sentence dissolved into the warm press of his lips against your skin— "this. Exactly this. Whether you'd—" he kissed across your chest— "whether you'd make sounds. What sounds you'd make."
"And?" you managed.
"Better," he said against your skin. "So much better than whatever I—"
He kissed your breast and his tongue found your nipple and the sound you made was immediate and unguarded and he groaned against you — a genuine moan, low and resonant, vibrating through his chest into yours — in direct and unmistakable response to the sound you had made, like your pleasure had a direct line to something in him that bypassed every system he had.
"There," he breathed. "God — there—"
"Baelor—"
"I know," he said. "I know, I—" another moan, lower, as you shifted against him— "you have no idea what you sound like. What you feel like. I've been — Fuck, I've been trying not to think about this for weeks and it's—"
His hands found your jeans.
He dealt with your jeans and your underwear with hands that were steady and purposeful and not entirely in his control — the steadiness of focus rather than composure, the focus of a man doing something he had thought about and intended to do properly. His fingers found your clit and you grabbed his shoulder and made a sound that echoed off the kitchen tiles and he moaned in response — low and broken and entirely involuntary, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"You're so wet," he said, rough. Wondering. Like the fact of it was doing something specific to him. "God. Already — I've barely—"
"The hickey helped," you said.
A sound that was almost a laugh and almost not. His fingers moved and your hips rolled forward and the almost-laugh dissolved into something lower and more wrecked. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, against your throat, and did it again — the deliberate press of his mouth to the mark he had already left, tongue tracing it — and the sound you made was embarrassingly immediate.
"Baelor," you said.
"Mm," he said, not stopping.
"If you keep doing that I'm going to—"
"I know," he said. Warm. Certain. His fingers working with the focused attentiveness of a man who had decided this was worth studying thoroughly. "That's the idea."
He learned you quickly and used what he learned without mercy — the specific pressure that made your hips roll, the rhythm that made your breathing go ragged, the precise application of his thumb that made you clench around his fingers and made him moan against your throat like your body's responses were the best thing he had ever encountered and he intended to catalogue every one.
"You feel—" he started.
"Tell me," you said again, because you had found the thing and you were not letting go of it.
His breath caught. "Perfect," he said, low and rough and deliberate. "You feel perfect. Every time you clench like that — every time you make that sound — I can't—" a low moan as you did it again— "I've been thinking about having you like this since — fuck, since before I should have been and I can't—"
"Don't stop," you said.
"I'm not stopping," he said.
He didn't stop.
You came with his fingers inside you and his mouth on the hickey he had left on your neck and his voice in your ear saying your name and then saying perfect, exactly that, god, you're— in a low broken stream that your brain was going to be replaying for a very long time, and he held you through every shudder of it with his free hand spanning your lower back, steady and certain, and the sounds he made while you came apart around his fingers suggested that your orgasm was doing as much to him as it was to you.
He was hard against your thigh and had been for a while and the specific evidence of it when you reached for him made him say your name in a way that had clearly been waiting to sound like that.
You got his boxers out of the way.
He made a sound that came from somewhere deep and his hips pressed forward into your hand involuntarily and he made another sound at that, lower, his forehead dropping to your shoulder while you wrapped your hand around his cock and felt him twitch and felt him breathe and felt the specific shudder that went through him when you moved your hand.
"Christ," he said.
"Good?" you teased.
"Don't be smug," he answered, voice completely destroyed.
"I'm not being smug," you said. "I'm asking."
"Yes," he said. "Obviously yes. You feel — your hand feels—" he made a sound that interrupted whatever he had been going to say and you filed the sound somewhere permanent. "I need to—" He stopped. Gathered himself with visible effort. "If you keep doing that this is going to be embarrassingly short and I have — I have specific intentions."
"Specific intentions," you repeated.
"I'm a thorough person," he said roughly.
You released him. He exhaled shakily.
Then he was between your thighs and positioned and looking at you with the glasses still on — crooked, both lenses catching the kitchen light — and the hickey you had left on his throat and the tattoo on his ribs and the completely dismantled expression of a man who had retired the counterargument and every system downstream of it.
He pushed inside.
The sound he made was—
Long. Low. Broken entirely open, dragged from somewhere below every layer of management he had ever built, arriving with the helpless totality of something that had been contained for too long and had finally, completely, stopped being contained. His head dropped forward to your chest. His jaw was working and his eyes were closed and he stayed there for a moment just — breathing, or attempting to, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
"Baelor," you said softly.
"Give me a moment," he said. His voice was unrecognisable as the café voice or the bookshop voice or any voice you had previously catalogued. "You feel — Christ, you feel — I need a moment or I'm going to—"
"Take your time," you said.
"I intend to," he said, and then he moved and you both made sounds simultaneously and the intentions became very clear.
He fucked you slowly at first, with the specific deliberateness of a man who had said he was thorough and intended to prove it, and made sounds that you were going to think about for the rest of your life — low and continuous and arriving one after another with complete disregard for composure or management or anything else he had previously used to keep himself contained. Every movement produced something from him. Every time you clenched around his cock he moaned — properly, openly, the sound resonating through his chest into yours.
"You feel—" he said, against your throat. A low moan interrupted him. "God. Every time you — when you do that — I can't — you're so—"
"Tell me," you said.
His breath caught.
"Perfect," rough and specific and chosen with the care of a man who selected words deliberately. "You feel perfect. Your pussy feels — god — every time you clench I can feel exactly—" another moan, longer this time, as you did it intentionally— "there. Exactly there. You have no idea — I've been trying not to think about this and it's so much — you're so much better than—"
"Than what," you managed.
"Anything I—" he started, and his hips found a rhythm that interrupted the sentence and made you grab his shoulder and hold on.
He fucked you on his kitchen counter with his hands on your hips and his glasses crooked and the Greek tattoo on his ribs catching the light and made sounds that belonged to nobody you had met before this evening — unguarded and unrestrained and arriving in response to everything, your sounds, your movements, your hands in his hair, every time you said his name which you did frequently and with purpose because of what it did to him.
"Say my name, please," he said at one point, breathlessly, against your jaw.
"Baelor," you said, deliberate.
The moan that left him at that was long and low and you felt it everywhere.
"God," he said. "Again."
You obliged.
"Fuck," he said, and his rhythm deepened and you stopped being able to say anything coherent for a while.
You came a second time somewhere in the middle of it, which you had not planned for but which arrived with the inevitability of something that had been building since the kitchen wall and the edging and the hickey and the tattoo and all of it, clenching around him with his name on your lips and your nails in his shoulder, and the sound he made at the feel of it—
Was the most undone thing you had ever heard from another person.
A long low broken moan that he pressed into your throat and that shook through his entire chest and that had absolutely nothing of the museum curator or the composed man on the doorstep in it — just Baelor, stripped entirely down, making sounds he had never made in front of another person because nobody had ever gotten past the composure far enough to find them.
"You feel so good," he said, rough and wrecked and honest. "When you come around my cock — fuck — I can feel everything — you feel so—"
"Baelor," you said, and pulled him closer.
He came shortly after with your name and then perfect and then something that was not quite a word pressed into your throat, shuddering through him completely, his hands holding you like you were the thing he was anchored to and he intended to stay anchored.
The kitchen was quiet after.
Both of you breathing.
His forehead against yours.
The glasses — still on, still crooked — catching the kitchen light in a way that made you feel something specific in your chest that you were choosing not to examine until you were in a better position to handle it.
You reached up and straightened them.
He looked at you.
The expression on his face was entirely, completely undone and entirely, completely unbothered about being undone, which was new from a man who had been managing his expression for as long as you had known him.
He reached up and touched the hickey on your neck. Lightly. Just his fingertips.
"I should probably—" he started.
"Don't apologise," you said.
He looked at you. You tilted your head and traced the one you had left on his throat. Something in his expression did something entirely unmanageable.
"Fair point," he laughed.
Your phone was in your bag. Valarr had sent approximately seventeen messages. You did not check your phone.
You traced the tattoo on his ribs instead and felt him exhale slowly against your hair.
Know thyself.
You thought, with the warm certainty of someone who had just watched a man find out something true about himself on his own kitchen counter, that he was getting there.
(i'm truly sorry i did not find a gif that vibed with the vibes)
Daeron was, by any reasonable metric, completely gone.
You had established this approximately forty five minutes ago when he had attempted to explain to you why the Fibonacci sequence was secretly a conspiracy and had made, briefly and alarmingly, a compelling case. Since then he had progressed through several distinct phases — philosophical, then mournful, then inexplicably delighted by a lamppost — and had arrived at the current phase which was primarily characterised by his inability to walk in a straight line and his arm around your shoulders being the only thing keeping him approximately vertical.
"You are," you told him, dragging him up the front path, "an absolute disaster."
"I am having," he said, with great dignity, "a very good evening."
"You can barely walk."
"I'm walking fine."
"Daeron. I am carrying you."
"That's very kind of you," he said, and attempted to pat your head and got your ear instead.
You rang the doorbell with your elbow.
The door opened after about thirty seconds and Maekar stood there in a dark t-shirt and jeans with the expression of a man who had been doing something else and had come to the door expecting approximately anything other than this specific situation.
He took in Daeron.
Daeron, to his credit, attempted to stand up straight. He managed about forty percent of upright before gravity reasserted itself and he leaned back onto your shoulder.
"Hi dad," he said.
The silence that followed had considerable weight.
"For the love of—" Maekar started, and then said several other things in rapid succession that were not appropriate for general audiences and that you were filing away for later because the specific combination and delivery was genuinely impressive.
"He's fine," you said. "Just drunk."
"He's absolutely hammered," Maekar said flatly.
"Okay he's absolutely hammered," you conceded. "But fine. He didn't do anything stupid, he just had about four drinks too many and started explaining mathematics to strangers."
Something moved through Maekar's expression that was exasperation and reluctant parental resignation in equal measure. He held the door open. "Get him in."
Getting Daeron up the stairs was a collaborative project.
You had his left side and Maekar had his right and Daeron contributed by providing commentary on the staircase, which he found architecturally interesting, and by stopping twice to make points about things that had not been raised.
"Dad," he said, at the second landing, with the abrupt subject change of the extremely drunk.
"What," said Maekar, in the tone of a man concentrating on a task.
"She thinks you're really sexy," Daeron said, conversationally, then turning his face to you. "That's the thing you said, right?"
You stopped walking.
"Keep moving," Maekar said, apparently to both of you.
"Like, really sexy," Daeron continued to you, with the relentless honesty of someone for whom the filter between brain and mouth had completely dissolved. "You told me. After the pipe thing. You were like Daeron— wait no that's me. You were like your dad is—"
"Daeron," you said, through your teeth.
"What? It's a compliment. I'm sure dad will take the compliment."
"I'm going to fucking kill you," you told him pleasantly.
"You're literally carrying me, you're not going to—"
"I will drop you on this landing."
"But you said—" Daeron started.
"He's fine," you said loudly, to Maekar, who was — you checked — focused entirely on navigating Daeron through the bedroom door with the focused efficiency of a man who was too irritated at his son to be processing anything else. His jaw was set in the specific way of someone managing several feelings at once and prioritising the most immediate one, which appeared to be get this man horizontal before he falls over.
Good.
Fine.
He had not heard. Or had heard and dismissed it because Daeron was drunk and Daeron said things and the more pressing concern was the logistics.
You were going with that.
You got Daeron onto his bed with the cooperative efficiency of two people who had identified a shared goal and were pursuing it without further conversation. He landed with the boneless satisfaction of someone whose relationship with gravity had become philosophical rather than practical, made a sound of profound contentment, and was asleep within approximately ninety seconds.
You both stood at the foot of his bed looking at him.
"He'll be fine," you said. "Water and paracetamol in the morning."
"I know," Maekar said, in the flat tone of a man who had done this before with various combinations of his six children. He reached down to pull the duvet up and his t-shirt rode up at the back—
You saw it.
Just the bottom edge of it — the tail, curling at the base of his spine, scales rendered in deep red and black with the fine detail of something that had taken serious time and serious money and serious commitment. The colour was extraordinary even in the low light of Daeron's bedroom, vivid and deliberate, and it disappeared back under the t-shirt when he straightened but it was too late.
You had seen it.
You were thinking about what was above it.
"Right," Maekar said, turning around and finding you with an expression that was still mostly parental irritation and some baseline tiredness and not whatever your face was currently doing. "Tea? Or I've got whisky if you need it after that."
"Whisky," you said immediately.
His kitchen was warm and quiet and he poured two glasses with the economical ease of someone who knew his own kitchen and did not need to perform anything in it, and you sat at the table and took the glass he set in front of you and felt the whisky do its immediate work and thought about the tail of a dragon at the base of his spine.
"He's an idiot," Maekar said, sitting across from you.
"He's your idiot," you said.
Something that was almost the almost-smile. "Unfortunately."
You drank your whisky. He drank his.
The kitchen was quiet in the specific way of two people who had just performed a task together and had not yet decided what happened next.
You were happy tipsy — the warm uncomplicated kind, the kind that made you feel slightly more yourself than usual rather than less — and the whisky was good and Maekar was sitting across from you in his t-shirt with the dragon underneath it and you had been thinking about this for weeks and Daeron had, drunk and disastrously, already said half of it anyway.
"He wasn't wrong, by the way," you said.
Maekar looked at you over his glass. "About what."
"What he said on the stairs."
A pause. The quality of Maekar's stillness shifted slightly — not the irritated-at-Daeron stillness, something more attentive than that.
"He said a lot of things on the stairs," Maekar said. "He said the banister was load-bearing in an interesting way."
"The other thing," you said. "I think you heard."
He looked at you, eyes doing that funny thing they do when they grow darker. You looked back.
"You're Daeron's age," he said.
You rolled your eyes. "You're not that old."
"I have six children."
"I know. I've met them. They're fine." You swirled the whisky. "That's not actually a reason not to."
"It's a context."
"Still not a reason, is it?."
His jaw tightened slightly. He set his glass down. "You should probably—"
"Probably what?" you said, and tilted your head, and watched him clock the tone and reassess.
There was a beat.
"Don't," he said. Flatly. The specific flat of a man who has identified a dynamic and is issuing an early warning.
"Don't what?" you said, with the complete innocence of someone who knew exactly what.
His eyes narrowed fractionally.
"You're being a brat," he said.
"I'm asking a question."
"You're being a brat," he said again, and this time it was not a warning exactly, it was something else — something that had arrived from a different place, lower and more specific — "and you know it."
You smiled at him over your glass.
Something shifted in Maekar's expression with the finality of a decision being made.
He stood up.
He crossed to your side of the table with the direct purposeful movement that characterised everything he did physically and you stood because sitting while he was standing felt suddenly like a tactical disadvantage and then you were both standing in his kitchen at a distance that was not a distance anymore and he was looking at you with those violet eyes that had stopped being the grumpy-at-everything eyes and had become something considerably more focused.
"Last chance," he said. Not a threat. Just — information, delivered with the flat certainty of a man who meant what he said.
"I don't buy it" you said staring directly at him.
He kissed you.
Not the way you had imagined it — you had imagined it various ways over various weeks — but harder than any of the imaginings, more immediate, with the specific quality of a man who had been holding something at arm's length for too long and had decided, definitively, to stop. His hand came up and caught your jaw and he kissed you like punctuation, like a full stop at the end of something, and you kissed him back with equal fervour and felt his other hand find your waist and pull you in and the size of him was—
There. Immediate. Real. His hands spanning you, his chest against yours, the specific overwhelming quality of being pulled against someone that much larger and feeling it in every nerve.
He broke the kiss and looked at you.
"Still being a brat?" he said, low.
"Oh, abso-fucking-lutely," you laughed.
His jaw moved. "Right."
His hands moved to your hips and walked you backward with a calm deliberateness that left you no input into the direction of travel, and your back met the kitchen wall with a solidity that was not rough but was very definite, and Maekar braced one hand beside your head and looked at you with the expression of a man who had made several decisions and was implementing them in order.
"Maekar—"
"You wanted to be a brat," he said. "Fine."
His other hand slid down your stomach and your breath caught.
"You can be a brat," he said, his mouth dropping to your throat, "and I'll teach you what happens."
His fingers found the waistband of your jeans and dealt with the button with one hand and the efficiency of someone who was not performing patience because he had the real thing, and then his hand was inside your underwear and finding your clit with a directness that made you grab his shoulder and make a sound that was embarrassingly immediate.
"There," he said, against your throat. Not pleased exactly — satisfied, in the specific way of someone whose assessment has been confirmed. "That's it."
His fingers moved and you stopped being able to think about much else.
He was — thorough. That was the word. In the way the garden spreadsheet had been thorough, in the way the pipeline had been thorough — focused and attentive and completely committed to the task with a patience that was somehow more intense than urgency would have been. He learned what made you gasp and returned to it. He learned what made your hips roll forward and used it deliberately. He paid attention with the same quality of attention he had given the raised bed and the isolation valve except directed entirely at your clit and it was — a lot. It was a frankly unreasonable amount.
"You're close," he said, low. Not a question.
"Yes," you managed. "Yes, keep—"
He stopped.
You made a sound.
"What—" you whined.
"Told you," he said, against your jaw. Calm. Completely, infuriatingly calm. "Brats don't get to come that easily."
"Maekar—"
"Mm."
"That's not—"
"Not what?" he said, and his fingers moved again, barely, just enough, and you grabbed his shirt with both hands.
"Not fair," you said.
"No," he agreed, and did it again — built you up with that focused relentless patience, got you to the edge with the specific efficiency of someone who knew exactly where the edge was and had decided to park you there indefinitely, and then stopped again.
The sound you made was not dignified.
He made a low noise against your throat that was the closest thing to satisfied you had heard from him and you were furious about how much you liked it.
"Maekar," you said, with feeling.
"When you're ready to stop being difficult," he said pleasantly.
"I am not being—"
"You walked into my kitchen at midnight and told me you knew exactly what you were doing," he said, pulling back enough to look at your face. His eyes were dark and completely focused and there was nothing grumpy-at-inanimate-objects about his expression now, just — direct, and certain, and very specifically aimed at you. "You were being difficult on purpose."
"Maybe," you managed.
"So." He tilted his head. The movement was so deliberate it made something in your stomach clench. "Consequences."
He edged you a third time against the kitchen wall.
By the end of it you were gripping his shirt with both fists and making sounds that had nothing to do with dignity and he was pressing his mouth to your temple and saying there, that's it, stay there in a low voice that was simultaneously the hottest thing you had ever heard and the most aggravating and when he stopped for the third time you actually whined.
"Please," you said when he removed his hand from your jeans entirely.
"Please what?" he said.
"Please, you absolute—"
He picked you up.
Not with ceremony, not with warning — simply put his hands under your thighs and lifted you off the floor with the casual ease of someone for whom this was not a significant physical undertaking and carried you out of the kitchen while you were still processing the fact that you were no longer on the ground.
"I hate you," you informed him.
"No you don't," he scoffed, and sat down on the sofa with you in his lap.
The living room was dark except for the light coming through from the hall and Maekar was solid and warm underneath you and you were straddling him and looking at each other and the aggravation had transmuted into something else entirely in the twenty seconds it had taken to get from the kitchen wall to here.
He kissed you again.
Slower this time. His hands on your hips, thumbs tracing small movements against the fabric, and you kissed him back and felt the kiss change as it went — finding its own depth, its own pace — and then you were pulling at his t-shirt and he lifted his arms and you got it over his head and threw it somewhere in the dark and—
You stopped.
The dragon covered his entire back. You could only see the front of him from where you sat but the tail curled around his ribs on the left side and there were scales at his collarbone and it was — in the living room dark with the hall light catching the colour — extraordinary. Deep red and black and the fine detail of something built over years, the kind of tattoo that had been added to incrementally, that had grown with him.
"How," you said.
"How what," he said.
"This." You traced the scales at his ribs. Felt him breathe in. "How does nobody know about this."
"People know," he said. "They just don't see it unless I—" he stopped, because you had leaned forward and pressed your mouth to the scales at his collarbone and his sentence dissolved.
"Unless you what?" you said against his skin.
"You're still being a brat," he said, low.
"Yes," you smiled, and kissed across his collarbone to the scales on his ribs and felt him exhale sharply, his hands tightening on your hips, and heard the low sound he made that was different from the gruff default and considerably better.
You pulled back and looked at him.
"Your turn," he said.
He dealt with your shirt with the same one-handed efficiency as before and unclipped your bra and looked at you with the direct thoroughness he brought to things he was assessing seriously, which should not have been as effective as it was.
You laughed at the way he was staring at you. "That look is getting dangerously close to a compliment."
"And you're getting dangerously close to being pleased about it," he said back, this time the smile almost coming fully to his face.
"Says the man who hasn't looked away from my tits."
"If I had looked away, we both know you'd be disappointed," he said, which was so flat and so Maekar that you laughed, and he watched you laugh with that fractional almost-smile and then pulled you in and kissed you and his hands were everywhere and you stopped laughing about anything.
Clothes ended up in various parts of the living room over the next several minutes — yours, his, everything — with the mutual efficiency of two people who had both been thinking about this and were done with the intermediary steps. His jeans went somewhere near the coffee table. Your underwear ended up on the arm of the sofa.
You were straddling him again, properly now, and he was looking up at you with those dark focused eyes and his hands were on your hips and the size of him was — there. Present. Impossible to be casual about.
"Well?" he said.
"Well what?" you mimicked.
"You wanted to be a brat," he said, low. The almost-smile at the corner of his mouth, barely there, completely deliberate. "Show me."
You held his gaze.
"You're a brat too, you know," you smirked.
"I know," he answered. "So show me."
You sank down onto him slowly and the sound he made was — long and low and entirely without the management of any of his usual composure, his head going back briefly, his jaw clenching, his hands gripping your hips with a pressure that was going to leave something and that you were entirely fine with.
"Fuck," he said. Rough. Genuine.
"That good?" you breathed, because turnabout was fair play and because you wanted to hear what he did with it.
His jaw tightened. His eyes, which had closed briefly, opened and found yours. "Don't push it."
"I'm just asking," you chirped sweetly, and moved, and the sound that left him then was—
Not managed at all.
You rode him with his hands on your hips and his eyes on your face and the low continuous sounds he was making against every instinct to contain them, and it was — the power of it, the specific pleasure of being the one setting the pace while he sat there and took it and made those sounds — was something you had not anticipated and intended to revisit extensively.
"You feel—" he started, low.
"Tell me," you said.
His jaw worked. His fingers dug into your hips. "You feel—" the words seemed to cost him, dragged out by the combination of the movement and something else, something more fundamental— "good. Christ, you feel—" he stopped. Made a sound. Started again. "Perfect. Exactly—" his hips rose to meet yours and you both made sounds simultaneously— "exactly what I—"
"What you what?" you said.
"Thought about," he managed roughly. "For weeks. Christ."
That was the most words you had ever heard Maekar say in a single emotional direction and you filed it somewhere permanent and moved again and felt his entire body respond.
One of his hands left your hip and found your clit.
"Oh—" you started.
"You're going to come," he stated, low and flat and completely certain. "And then you're going to come again. And we're going to see—" his thumb moved and you grabbed his shoulder— "how difficult you feel like being after that."
"Maekar—"
"Yeah," he said. The almost-smile. Devastating. "Yeah."
His thumb worked your clit with the same focused patience he had employed against the kitchen wall except now there was no stopping, no edging, just — direct and relentless and entirely committed, and you rode him and felt everything build simultaneously and heard his sounds and felt his hands and looked at the dragon scales on his ribs and came with his name in your mouth and your nails in his shoulder and everything clenching around him and the sound he made when you did—
Was the best thing you had ever heard from another person.
Low and rough and entirely wrecked, his head dropping back, his hands gripping you like you were the only fixed point available.
"Again," he said roughly. "You can—"
"I literally just—"
"Again," he insisted, and his thumb was still moving and you found out he was right.
You came a second time somewhere shortly after with less warning and more intensity and said something that you would have been embarrassed about if you had had any available capacity for embarrassment, which you did not, and Maekar said your name and then said there, exactly— and followed you over the edge with a roughness and a totality that shook through him completely and left you both in the specific stillness of people who have just dismantled something and are taking stock of the wreckage.
The living room was quiet. Your forehead was against his. His hands had moved from your hips to your back, large and warm and spanning you completely, holding rather than gripping.
"Still being a brat?" he teased.
His voice was completely wrecked.
"Ask me in a minute and we'll see," you said.
The almost-smile. Full this time. Real. Directed entirely at you in the dark living room with the dragon on his ribs and his hands on your back and the evidence of your underwear on the arm of the sofa somewhere to your left.
"Tea," he asked eventually.
"Yeah," you said.
"Then you're staying." Not a question. The flat certainty of a man making a reasonable determination.
"Feel like you'll need me again that much?" you teased.
He looked at you.
"Brat," he scoffed.
"You love it," you said.
He said nothing, but the almost-smile stayed.
The text came at half eleven the following morning.
You were in Maekar's kitchen drinking coffee while he read the paper with the focused attention of someone who had entirely recovered their composure and was pretending the living room situation had not occurred, which was belied only by the coffee he had made you without being asked and the way his hand had rested briefly on the small of your back when he passed.
Your phone lit up.
so daeron targaryen here
your best friend???
who you dragged home last night???
and who apparently passed out in his room while something was happening on his sofa????
i have no memory of the stairs but apparently i said some things
anyway
i need you to know that i heard you last night
specifically i heard you say [and then a direct quote of the thing you had said while riding his father that you were not going to repeat even internally]
i just want you to know that i will never recover
ever
are you okay? are you alive? do you need extraction?
You looked at the message for a moment.
You looked at Maekar, who was reading his paper with his coffee and his recovered composure and that fucking hot dragon underneath his t-shirt.
You typed back.
get used to it i'll pay for your therapist x
And then you added an emoji that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Daeron's response was a string of increasingly unhinged capitalisation followed by what appeared to be genuine laughter rendered in text.
i literally cannot believe you
okay fair enough
is he making you coffee tho
You looked at the coffee.
yes why
He waited a few seconds to reply.
good
he only makes coffee for people he likes. he made mum coffee every morning for fifteen years
daeron
I'm just saying
daeron
okay okay I'm going back to sleep my head is KILLING me
drink your water
Three dots. None. Three dots again.
yes mum
also oh my god I cannot believe you rode my
You turned your phone face down on the table. Maekar looked up from his paper.
"Daeron?"
"Daeron," you confirmed.
He looked at you for a moment with those violet eyes and the recovered composure and the almost-smile sitting at the very corner of his mouth.
"How bad?" he asked.
"He'll be fine," you said. "Mostly horrified."
"Good," Maekar said, and returned to his paper. "He should have kept his mouth shut on the stairs."
You laughed and picked up your coffee.
Outside the morning continued with its business entirely indifferent to the fact that you were sitting in Maekar Targaryen's kitchen the morning after, drinking coffee he had made without being asked, while he read his paper and pretended to be completely normal about it.
You were both completely normal about it.
You were both, underneath the completely normal, not even slightly normal about it.
A.N.: listen i had a very productive day and couldn't stop writing. also, there's a little ✨extra✨ coming tomorrow (if i can proofread it). how do y'all feel about sexting Baelor and Maekar???
summary — aerion shames the family, you take it upon yourself to make him regret it.
content tags — MDNI!! targcest, reader is maekar's firstborn daughter and eldest of maekarlings, her only redeeming quality is her pure love for her family (not counting aerion, she does love him dearly though!!), weird family dynamics (naturally), duncan catches strays, BAELOR LIVES!!!! english is not my first language good luck NSFW WARNING: p-in-v sex, facesitting, dacryphilia (if u squint), choking, overstimulation, cockgrinding, pronebone, degradation, aerion is submissive during 99.8% of this fic but still manages to have a good time somehow.
author's note — sorry for the delay, anxiety was consuming my existence. I had a fucking blast writing this though, as always it's not betaread at all so tell me if you spot any mistakes, felt like a whore writing this...
It's been weeks since you've spoken to him last. He did not deserve to be near you. Not after what he's done.
Nearly getting your uncle killed, embarrassing himself, embarrassing the family, embarrassing you, he was a disgrace, and you've told him as much when you forbid him from sharing your bed.
It was laughable how he thought he could do whatever he liked and get away with it, but you weren't like your father, you weren't going to simply slap him on the wrist and let him continue on with his bullshit.
You fucking warned him that the trial of seven was a senseless thing to do—you wanted every bone in that backwater hedge knight's limbs ground into dust for daring to hurt him, you did—but you told him it was stupid, cowardly even, to rally up every warrior around to help him take down that hedge knight instead of facing him alone.
But he smirked at you, the smirk of a smug idiot who was about to bite off more than he could chew, and he said: "Worry not, sister, I will have him fight no other, and he will yield to me."
You've never heard a bigger load of horse-shit in your life. He delivered nothing of what he promised.
Your father aided him — breaking his first promise.
The hedge knight did not yield, instead beating Aerion down into surrender despite his severe wounds — and away it all shattered, his promises to you, his dignity, and your family's reputation.
He's wronged you, your uncle, your father—everyone—for making you appear so… so mad and weak that you would lose all composure from a made-up insult borne out of a mediocre performance of an even more mediocre tale that had nothing to do with you.
It was beyond you how he could have found it insulting.
Tullies ate fish all the fucking time did they not? Starks have killed countless dogs—oh… excuse you… they have killed wolves before—so what was the fucking problem?
Not to mention, that puppet show was obviously a farce, everyone knew dragonfire could melt down the strongest of metals, to depict some lowly knight actually managing to slay a dragon was clear-cut humor, he should've laughed, obviously it was a comedy.
If only he did just that. It would have saved everyone a whole lot of pain, headaches or otherwise.
But that was a while ago—now, you had to deal with a new set of pains. You missed him, egotistical annoying brat that he was, but he was yours, your handsome brother and dearest love.
It was hard to get used to, you used to be inseparable, never one without the other, he gladdened you as much as he aggravated you, and he aggravated you as much as he made you feel so damn good. You thought you could go without his cock and his filthy tongue, but your body couldn't help it — it couldn't help but call to it's other half.
Touching yourself was not enough, your fingers could never reach the spots his own did, they didn't make you feel the pleasure you felt when you rode his face, not even your best pillows got emulate the feeling of his mouth devouring you.
You needed him so badly, you needed him to fill the emptiness inside you—but he should be begging for you to fuck him, he should be grovelling for your forgiveness, a princess shouldn't have to demand it, this obedience is to be expected, it should be given freely.
But he refused — his pride wounded from everything, from his loss at ashford and your casting aside of him.
Well… he can pout and sulk all he wants, he cannot keep acting this way forever. One way or another he will give in, you could see it in the way he stared at you, no matter how hardheaded he acted he could never hide his true feelings from you.
His eyes were not as deceptive as he believed them to be, you were certain he would crumble eventually.
For now, you had a castle to run in your brother's stead before your father comes home from King's landing. When he gave the reigns to Daeron, he must have hoped it would teach him how to be a lord, make him more serious—it didn't, sadly.
You were hoping for it too, you were tired of seeing him like this, but you supposed some things can't be helped, so you took his place, and honestly, the management of it wasn't as difficult as you thought it would be, it wasn't the problem.
The problem lied with managing it AND your siblings together.
Daeron's issue lied with his tendency to sneak off unauthorized to pleasure houses and inns, if not, he would be too deep in his cups to do anything he's bid, thus the predicament you were in.
And Daella… there was no problem with Daella, she was an angel who can do no wrong. She's been rather helpful in fact, reading out the gist of any important letter to you.
Rhae though? She was running you ragged with her demands, unhappy with how you didn't agree to her every order request, unhappy that your father left, demanding you send her to King's landing with him.
Your simple, humble and calm response was: absolutely fucking not? In these conditions? The roads were dangerous and you told her as much.
After a few minutes of her pouts and tearful eyes that you knew to be fake because you practically taught her those tricks (not on purpose, of course, she was very perceptive and cunning, a fact you were proud of), you compromised with a promise of gifts, whatever she wanted, she accepted but not without a final demand of sending a raven to father, to tell him to hurry up home.
Aerion… Oh Aerion...
He's become a even more of a nightmare.
Terrorizing the servants and his squires, he's even been messing with Daeron and your sisters too.
You've had to deal with the cook saying he wants to quit, serve somewhere else, because he cannot deal with Aerion's picky eating and devilish behavior.
Perhaps you should have taken his tongue for what he said, one does not quite need a tongue to cook, now do they? any one of his little assistants can do the tasting for him.
The idea was tempting, yes, but you didn't know what your father would do to Daeron if he found out about it, the man was your mother's favorite cook, so with a twitching eye you talked him down, gave him gold for his trouble and promised to reprimand Aerion for it.
With Daeron, Aerion thought it funny to replace the wine of his flask with vinegar, this you had to find out through Daella, because Daeron left soon after—again.
No sooner than a few hours, both Daella and Rhae came to you with their angry tears in their eyes and clashing voices clamoring for your help, claiming Aerion took the heads off their dolls—that was the final straw.
You were definitely going to kill him. It was one thing to pout around like a child—but doing that? He was just asking for it.
Thankfully, being what you two were — you knew exactly how to get to him.
It did not take long before Aerion nearly broke down the doors to your bedchambers, out of breath like he ran all the way from Volantis.
He marched up to your desk.
"Is it true?" Aerion asked, eyes wild and searching.
"There are many things going on—you must be specific, Aerion." You said monotonously, focused on the letter in your hand, unaware of the clenched fist the lack of 'my' before his name caused.
"Your betrothal to Daeron? Is it true?" He asked, stepping behind the desk to stand beside you.
"Father thought it was time to revisit the idea–" you began until Aerion snatched the letter from your hand and looked over it, eyes frantically scanning the page for anything confirming his fears — it was a letter from Egg, detailing his days in King's landing.
"That hedge knight who our Egg is squiring for is practically assured to be a Kingsguard, can you believe it?" you couldn't help but laugh, a sardonic but nonetheless melodious sound that calmed his nerves a touch, despite everything.
Your smile fell along with his heart as you stood chest to chest, nose to nose, and he had to use every ounce of control not to kiss you right there.
"He's taken Egg from us—a hedge knight who's not worthy of mentoring a prince of Egg's calibre, yet here we are."
He could hear the accusation in your tone.
This is all your fault, you should have killed the hedge knight when you had the chance.
"You cannot blame me for Aegon's foolishness–"
"No, I cannot," you smiled with no warmth. "because he's done nothing wrong, he's only a child, the foolish one is you, brother," the title you used to say sweetly rolled off your tongue like venom.
"I've done nothing wrong," he said quietly, provoking you to take his jaw in hand, your fingers digging into his cheek.
"How long do you plan to act recklessly?" You asked, eyes steadily moving between his glistening ones. "How long until you act like a man?"
"I am–"
You shushed him, finally closing your eyes in frustration and disappointment, opening them with a deep breath and a look of utter exasperation.
"What you are — is an idiot."
Aerion shrank into himself — you've never spoken or looked at him like that before, you've been upset with him in the past, but never so scathingly.
Was this the end?
You could see the apple of his throat move as he gulped.
"Will you marry Daeron?" He asked shakily.
A moment of silence passes.
"Do you truly need me to answer?" You replied, voice steady and unfaltering.
Aerion took your hand off his jaw and placed upon his chest, his heart beat harder at your touch as if screaming to be cradled in your hand.
"You cannot—you promised me you wouldn't," he pleaded.
"You promised me many things too, Aerion, what's one broken promise of mine against the mountainous heap you keep adding to time after time?"
You snatched your hand out of his grip and stepped away. "I've grown tired of it, Aerion, you refuse to change, you refuse to listen to me, you refuse to apologize for your mistakes — and I refuse to deal with your shit anymore."
Aerion felt a harrowing cold tear through him.
This cannot be the end of it—you were meant to be together forever, you promised him.
You promised him that night he's heard father speak to you the first time of this betrothal between you and Daeron.
"This is tradition as old as our house, you would be better off with him than anyone else, Daeron is blood of your blood—your brother." Father said.
It felt all too unfair and cruel to Aerion, why should Daeron have any right to wed you when he hardly spared you any attention?
He should have been the firstborn son—not Daeron.
He should have been the one marrying you—not Daeron.
He was the son that was the measure of excellence, he was the better warrior, the better son—father knew it, Daeron knew it—and you knew it.
Yet he was not considered solely because he was second-born. Because tradition bid it so.
Well fuck tradition and fuck anyone who stands in his way. His sister belongs to him only.
But then you said: "I will think about it."
What is there to think about?
Did he not give you enough? He dedicated everything he had to you, he never let any harm befall you, he never gave his body nor heart to anyone but you, no matter how many whores tried to get him into bed with them, no matter how many ladies clattered to the front of the stands in hopes that he would ask for their favor—none of them could have his heart rushing, none of them could make blood rush to his cock on the sight of them alone like you did—he would always choose you.
Would Daeron do any of that for you?
What did Daeron ever do except bring shame to this family? To you?
Naturally, Aerion confronted you on it.
To say he confronted you was an over exaggeration. It was more of a plea than anything else. He softly whispered into your neck not to marry Daeron, to not leave him.
You simply laughed and held him closer, promised him that would never happen. Told him that you only wished not to make father suspicious when he questioned why you didn't refuse the betrothal outright. That answer didn't satisfy him at all, but he said nothing and pressed you tighter to him anyway.
Aerion would rather you just demanded to marry him instead. He knew that father would listen to you if you asked. He didn't understand why you haven't brought it up yourself.
He's asked for your hand before, multiple times. But every single time he's been denied and forced to endure endless farcical courtships brought on by the King. Only good thing that came out of them was your possessiveness, you were always more ravenous for him when his attention was threatened to be taken away, not that he would ever dare give it to anyone else.
What he'd give to go back to that night.
When he was courting lady whatever-her-name-was—you spent hours on end making love to him, marking him in places no clothing of his could cover up, so the woman can see he could never be hers and back off.
That all felt so far away now.
Aerion would do anything to make you love him like that again.
He would beg you until the end of time if he had to, no matter how many shades of black and blue his knees turned.
You paused in your steps when he pulled you back by your hand, and you turned to scold him only to find air where his face should have been, your eyes flit down to find him on his knees.
He looked beautiful like this, you thought, and you almost forgave him for just looking up at you like that with his pretty eyes wet with guilt and want, they looked like crystalline lilacs from the shine of his tears.
He called your name desperately, breathlessly. "My love, please…"
"Please what?" You said, fingers loose, refusing to reciprocate his tight grip and give him what he wanted, not yet, he didn't deserve it.
"Please don't leave me," he begged. "I'm sorry, I know now that I did wrong—I'll never do it again," your fingers tightened around his hand, making his breath hitch.
"You'll be good?" You caressed his face with your knuckles, content when his eyes fluttered shut at the faintest touch of your skin.
"To me?" Aerion nodded.
You cradled his face in your hand, narrowing your eyes with a look. "To them?"
"Yes," he said. "I'll never mess with them again, I promise."
You keep your gaze locked to his face, tracing his skin and wiping away his tears with your thumb, you took a second to take in the way he responded to your touch.
Aerion breathed deeply when your thumb swiped at his lips, he licked at it and opened his mouth to take it in, looking up at you with heavy eyes.
"Already so needy," you mused as you entertained yourself with the thought of pushing it in deeper, see if he can handle it, but you decided on something else.
Aerion nearly fell forward when you pulled away, he hadn't realized how much he leaned into your hand.
He was halfway off his knees when you spoke up again.
"Stay there," you commanded, and he obeyed without thinking.
The forceful screech of the chair as it dragged should have made him cringe, but the hunger and anticipation of what the sound meant was far louder than it could ever be.
You stood between him and the chair, satisfied at the sight of his hungry eyes as he watched your nightgown slip off—he felt an odd feeling of jealousy—he envied the silk as it caressed your beautiful skin on it's way to the floor.
"You still remember how to make use of your mouth, yes?" You asked, pushing your hips forward as you sat.
Aerion crawled close and pressed his face into your stomach, trailing open mouthed kisses up your body, all while fondling what he could get his hands on. You suppressed a call of his name from the feeling of his palm rubbing at your cunt.
He let out a groan when he took your breast into his mouth, rolling his tongue on and around your nipple, and you laughed, a sound broken by pleasure.
"You've missed me, huh?" You asked, nails scraping at the nape of his neck, you haven't forgotten how he loved it when you did that.
Aerion's only response was a wordless hum, still preoccupied with mouthing and licking at your breasts. You gripped at his hair and pulled him back, the hand that rubbed at you paused from the sudden movement.
He looked as if he was in a daze, those lilac irises of his were so shadowed by his pupils you would think his eyes were black. You looked down hungrily at his lips, the mess of his drool kept them wet and glistened for you—he looked ruined and you haven't even started yet.
"Use your words when I speak to you." You said, making him stand on his knees to get his face closer to yours.
"Yes," he said and tried to join your lips with his, whimpering when you tugged at his hair and looked down at him expectantly.
"I missed you, sister." He confessed.
"I missed you too, brother," you replied mirthfully. "that wasn't so hard now was it?"
You pulled him by his collar into a kiss and your noses clashed at your eager movement. Aerion ignored the pain of his knees and wrapped his arms around you, lost in the taste of your lips and tongue.
He could taste the blood on your lips, skin torn from ceaseless biting and dryness borne from stress and dehydration. You savored the sting that came from him licking at your wounds.
You felt like he should match you, so you bit at his bottom lip until you could taste his blood on your tongue.
Aerion moaned into your mouth, the sound a mix of pleasure and pain.
In his hazy mind, he swore this was you claiming him in an oath of blood, binding your soul to his — because what else could this ever be? did your blood not mix with his in this kiss?
You separated against your wills, drawing breath with your heads resting against one another. Not for long of course, Aerion greedy man that he was, nips, sucks and bites at your throat and you let him before your mind broke free from it's daze and you pushed him off.
"Aerion!" you shouted, scolding. "I told you—no biting."
He doesn't get the chance to whine over it before you push his head down to where you want him, and he doesn't waste time, mouthing and licking at your cunt like a man starved.
You sighed in pleasure at the way he lapped up and down at you, you placed your legs on his shoulder to draw him in deeper. The new angle raised your pleasure higher, but to a point — the movements of his tongue and mouth slowed, his grip on your thighs lost their pressure.
It was when he let out a groan that you realized one of his hands were missing, the movements of his arm gave it all away.
You take his jaw in your hand, lowering yourself to press your nose to his.
"And who gave you leave to touch yourself?" You asked, searching his eyes and finding no shame in them—you expected no less of him.
"A dragon does not need leave to do what he wants," he said quietly, causing you to scoff.
You dive down slow and he closes his eyes, thinking you would kiss him, but you press your lips close to his ears instead.
"It seems you've forgotten something in our time apart," you whispered, sending shivers down his spine. "you were never the dragon here."
"Get on the bed." You commanded, already on your feet.
In mere minutes, he was undressed and on his back with you crawling on top of him. His cock pinned down to his stomach under your weight, but you would not have him inside you yet.
"Keep your hands on me." You told him, and Aerion didn't need to be told twice as he immediately grabbed at your hips, urging you to move.
You rocked your hips back and forth, smirking at the moans he let out.
"Look at you, not even inside me and already you're so close," you teased, rolling a finger at his leaking tip and making his hips buck up into you, and his fingers dig painfully into your flesh.
"Please…"
A pained sound left you with a laugh, you took his hands off and pinned them above his head with one of your own on his wrists, the other wraps around his throat tight.
"No begging," you said, breath wafting over his face as you take his away. "you'll take what I give you."
Aerion could feel himself coming dangerously close to the edge, his vision darkening at the edges from the lack of air but he could not care less—he could die from the pleasure before the suffocation gets him.
It only took a minute before you drove him off the edge, a minute of your cunt moving effortlessly from the wetness dripping out of you. Aerion's jaw fell slack with a cry as ropes of hot cum spill on his stomach in waves, his hands clenching and unclenching from the strength of his release.
You don't slow your hips even then, your eyes locked on his expression—his cheeks flushed, tearful eyes unfocused as if in another place, but it was his tongue that got you, calling your name over and over like you could bring him salvation.
With a hushed curse you reach sweet, sweet release—finally!
His wrists would surely be bruised by the end of this from how tight your grip was you rutted on his softened cock, your slickness smearing all over him.
You loosen your grip and give him a moment to catch his breath, smiling when he kept his hands above his head, either too tired to care or too fucked out to be aware.
"Hey," you call softly, and at the caress of your hand on his face, his eyes finally found yours. "you good for one more?"
Aerion mouthes his response.
"Speak," you told him.
"Yes!" he rasped out, pleading at you with his eyes and spilled tears. "yes—again."
You smiled down at him.
"I still haven't gotten to cum on your mouth," you said crawling higher over his body and hovering above his face.
"Let's fix that, shall we?" and with that you press down on his face, immediately feeling his tongue licking up against you.
Aerion wastes no time in lapping up your slick like he was drinking down the most delicious nectar, and to him nothing ever tasted as good.
Nothing ever sounded as good as your moans either—he could feel his cock hardening again, it hurt so badly.
He couldn't wait until you let him inside you, but for now he'll let you use him as much as you wanted. He would let you cum a thousand times on his mouth if it meant you would forgive him and never entertain the thought of having another man as your lover.
You grind yourself on his face, soft whimpers leaving your beautiful lips.
"Aerion," you moaned, the sound music to his ears and an enabler to make him work you to your breaking point even harder. "you're doing so well—fuck!"
Still so sensitive from your earlier release, you reach your limit faster than you expected.
Aerion gripped you down onto his face by your hips when you tried to squirm away from him, making you ride off your high.
You laid down beside him, exhausted from all of it, and you feel his arms wrap around you, holding you close to him.
A hardness presses against you, and despite yourself you feel an aching want—you need to feel him inside you, it's been too long.
"Again," you breathe out, pushing him away and turning on your stomach, using a pillow to raise your hips up for him, too tired to hold them up yourself.
"As you wish, my love," Aerion said, grin in his voice, it annoyed you but it was endearing all the same.
Aerion lined himself up, cock practically twitching with glee, and he bottomed out inside you in one swift and hard movement, knocking the breath out of you.
"Fuck," he cursed in your ear and a breathy laugh left him. "you feel even better than I remember."
He finally began to move, drawing back until just the tip remained—then he thrust in hard and deep.
You were certain he grew bigger during your separation, it felt like he was splitting you with every inch of him. Maybe you really did go insane.
If you didn't then his cock surely would have you lose your mind. He picked up the pace, moving in and out like a madman, your velvety walls clinging to him with every thrust as if trying to draw him in deeper.
The bedchamber was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and a filthy cacophony of sounds—the loud slap of skin on skin, the lewd moans and cries—there would be no doubt to any passerby to what you were doing.
You knew for a fact every single servant knew of your dirty little secret, you recalled a time that one of the guards stationed outside your chambers closed the door on you midst lovemaking—it was a wonder to you both how your father never knew—but all were wise to shut their mouths, not even the maester had the audacity to do anything other than make you moon-tea when you bid him to.
Aerion was close, you could tell from his erratic thrusts, his whimpers, his stuttering pace, changing from slow to fast, back to slow again.
He was losing control.
"Aerion," you whined. "don't falter on me now–mmh–fuck me harder!"
He nodded with a groan, the pleasure making him forget that you couldn't see him, then rutted faster at your command, making your vision go white.
"Yes—that's it, Aerion—so good." You praised, and he could swear he almost came from that alone.
He felt your walls spasm hard around him, and he knew that you came then, mindlessly repeating his name over and over again, that was enough for him to follow you and reach his own release.
Aerion kept moving anyway, making sure you take it all, make you milk him for all he was worth, and maybe this time he'll convince you not to drink moontea, but maybe you would come to that decision yourself.
Maybe you'd realize that there was no one else that deserved to have a babe off you.
No one else that could be your husband except for him—your favorite brother.
Imagine being childhood friends and ex lovers with Daeron. When he comes to visit you to meet your new fiancé Stan, Daeron can’t help but flirt with you. To all of your surprises, it turns Stan on to see Daeron play with you right in front of him
Daeron: *kissing down the side of your neck*
Y/N: “Da-Daeron! St-stop! Stan is my fiancé!”
Stan: “I don’t mind” *squirming in his seat and pushing down on his hard dick*
Daeron: “Aaaaww, hear that, my sweet girl?” *one hand grabbing at your breast while the other pushes up your short night gown* “Sweet little Stan doesn’t mind”
Daeron: “Stan, you want to watch me fuck your sweet little love?”
Stan, moaning, whimpering and squirming in his seat: “Ye-yes”
Imagine waking up and feeling the wet heat of Daeron’s mouth between your thighs. He’s in no hurry—lazy, indulgent strokes of his tongue gliding through your folds, gently sucking and licking like he has all the time in the world. His hips roll lazily against the mattress, grinding his hard cock into the sheets with quiet, needy little thrusts as he moans softly into your cunt.
Bertie and the "i'm too old to feel sexy" wont leave my mind
Would you write something where younger new wife!reader makes baelor feel sexy 👀👀
TOO OLD—modern!Baelor Targaryen
modern!Baelor x younger!wife!reader
content: Baelor declares he is too old to feel sexy, but you think that is utter nonsense.
words: 1.1k
cw: MDNI 18+ sexual references, alcohol, age gap, not proofread as I wrote this on a break from writing my paper, lmk if I missed any
a/n: since i haven’t written shit all week here’s a small baelor fic
Baelor’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel looking to enter for the fifth time. It was monthly girls night, and even the gentleman he had offered to drop you all off and to pick you up once you were ready to leave no matter the time.
He had thought this part of his life was over, especially the older one, but then he had met you. Despite being old enough to more than likely be your father you had been instantly attracted to him.
Also you never did accept when he had tried to be proper turning you down due to the age difference between the pair of you.
You who could still run on four hours of sleep, were in the prime of your life, and could fall and not feel the consequences for the next week. You had wanted him, and the thought still perplexed him, but you learned not to question it any more.
You had texted saying that you and your friends would be out in less than a minute. That was five minutes ago, and he was beginning to worry. He let out a sigh, pulling his keys from ignition before making his way into the bar.
It wasn’t that crowded allowing him to easily spot you and your two friends perched against the bar talking to the female bartender. You had a bright grin on your face, your hands moving widely as he took in your appearance.
You wore a pair of jeans shorts fitted with a black top. It was nothing widely inappropriate, but the small v neck that curved down to your chest still managed to make his mouth water slightly.
Your friend, Alice, a red head around the same age as you poked you in the ribs nodding her head toward him causing you to spin around. Your face lit up further, which he did not know was possible and he felt as if he was standing outside in the hot weather at the warmth that spread through him.
“Baelor!” you exclaimed, practically running into him as you stumbled less than gracefully toward him.
He reacted quickly, arms wrapping around you to stabilize you as you stared up at him. You pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before dragging him back to the bartender that you had been talking to moments before.
“Oh, meet my new friend Cara! This is my sexy husband I was telling you about,” you gushed grinning up at him as you had won something grand, but he felt as if there was a winner from the pair of you it was definitely him.
He let out a laugh shaking his head, “I am too old to feel sexy.”
Your reaction was immediate. You looked almost offended, and he would have laughed, but he was trying to take you seriously, but was miserably failing.
“Alice! Margaret!” you called, causing your friends to turn toward the pair of you.
“Isn’t Baelor sexy?”
“Extemely! We love Dilfs!” Margaret exclaimed, her words sounding even more slurred than yours, but still just as genuine.
“Yes! You are rocking the salt and pepper!” Alice added in agreement, before they returned to paying their tabs.
A blush spread across Baelor’s cheeks. He opened his mouth a few times, gaping as if he was a fish out of water. “See! You are sexy! You will probably still be in a nursing home being sexy!”
Your laughter filled the air as you moved cupping either side of his cheeks and before he could react your mouth was on his. His hands gravitated toward your hips pulling you flush against him, as he allowed the kiss to progress further into what he was usually comfortable with in public.
But you had just fed his ego, you were gorgeous, and he had such a hard time telling you. He was sure that if you had asked for it he would buy you the city if it was a wish of yours.
“I love you,” you muttered against his mouth, finally needing to pull away for breath. Your chest rising and falling rapdiy against his own as your hand moved to trail across the grey in his beard that you had told him on numerous occasions drove you wild.
“I love you,” he replied, back staring down at you with a fond expression.
“You are the sexiest old man ever,” you then declared, a wide drunken grin filling your beautiful lips as you stared up at him like he had hung the moon.
And you meant, because not only was he good looking, but he was caring. He was generous, and he was an amazing husband.
Your amazing husband.
“Whatver you say, my love,” he told you press to the top of your head. He looked to your two friends who had finished paying, causing him to look down at you, “Have you paid yet?”
“Nope,” you replied, popping the p as you tucked yourself under his arm.
“I got it,” he then assured you, despite you having made no move to gather your own wallet.
You let out a small laugh, pulling yourself from him to face the bartender, “Sexy and is going to pay my tab!” you gushed once more looking at Cara as Baelor fished his wallet from his pocket.
“Can we go get ice cream somewhere, Bae?” you then asked, but he knew you already knew exactly what he would say.
“Of course,” he replied automatically, handing the woman his card to pay off your tab for the evening.
Your eyes lit up, “See! Sexy!”
He handed Cara his card as he turned toward you, “Because I am buying you ice cream.”
“Oh, you are anyways. The ice cream is just an added bonus,” you then moved toward him pushing yourself up on your tip toes causing him to duck his head down toward you, “And when we get home I am going to show you just how sexy you are and how wet I am thinking of you,” you told him nipping his ear lobe.
His eyes widened as he had to look away from you, forcing out a cough as he tried to urge his cock not to harden in his brief, but it was already too late.
He had never driven to get home so fast before, and you made good on your word.
Got the inspo from a TikTok comments section talking about how they got proposed to mixed in with some original thoughts 🤍🤍
Daeron - gets down on both knees and just says please while crying
Valarr- has a whole thing planned but knocks on your chamber doors in the middle of the night and drops to one knee holding the ring out
Aerion- forgets to actually propose and asks why you haven’t started planning the wedding yet
Maekar - you are sat in the gardens waiting for Maekar when the children come running out with Maekar behind them shouting. “Wait I have a plan! This isn’t the plan!” When they reach you one of the children gives you the ring while Maekar shouts “you have to say yes!”
Baelor- forgets his speech and just gets down on one knee before asking you to love him forever
